A Breath of Prairie and other stories Part 5

V

The bright afternoon sun of late October shone slantingly on the train of weathered wagons that stretched out like an uncoiling spring from the group collected in front of the little farm-house. From near and afar the neighbors had gathered; and now, falling slowly into line, they formed a chain a full quarter-mile in length.

Guy Landers was glad that at last it was over and they were out in the sunshine once more. He turned into the carefully reserved place at the head of the procession with almost a sense of relief. He was tired, fiercely tired, of the well-meant but insistent pity which dogged him with a tenacity that drove him desperate. They would not even allow him to think.

He rode alone on the front seat of the open wagon. Behind him, his mother and Jim sat stiffly, hand in hand. They gazed dully at the black thing ahead, and sobbed softly, now singly, now together.

Both--himself as well--were dressed in complete black; old musty black, gotten out of the dark, hurriedly, and with the close smell of the closet still upon it. Even the horses conformed to the sober shade. They had been supplied by a neighbor on account of their sombre color.

A heavy black ta.s.sel swung back and forth with the motion of the uneven road just ahead of the horses' heads, and Landers sat watching it idly. He even caught himself counting the vibrations, as though it were a pendulum, dividing the beats into minutes. Very slow time it was; but somehow it did not surprise him. It all conformed so perfectly with the brown, quiet prairie, and the sun shining, slanting and sleepy.

The swinging ta.s.sel grew indistinct, and the _patter_, _patter_, _patter_ of the teams behind came as from a distance. He closed his eyes, and the events of the past two days drifted through his mind.

Already they seemed indistinct, as a dream. He wondered dully that they could be true and yet seem so foreign to his life, now. He even began to doubt their verity, and opened his eyes slowly, half expecting to see the cool, green campus, and the big college buildings. The slanting sunlight met him full in the face, and the black pendant swung monotonously, from side to side, as before. He wearily closed his eyes again.

Only two days since he had heard the taunting "Dance, freshy!" of the seniors, and felt the mighty rush of the freshman hosts; since the "rah, rah, rah, Landers!" had shook the old amphitheatre and the dozens of welcoming hands had greeted him; and then--the darkness--the hesitating leave-taking of the building, and the lingering walk across the deserted campus toward his room--the walk he knew so well he would take no more. A brief time of waiting--a blank--and then the bitter, thumping ride across two States toward his home, when he could only think, and think, and try to adjust himself--and fail; and at last the end. And again, at the little station, when he felt the touch of his mother's hand, and heard her choking "Guy, my boy--" that spoke so much of love and of trust; when he heard his own voice answering cheerily, with a firmness which surprised him even then, speaking that which all through the long ride he had known he must speak--but could not: "It's all right, mother; don't worry; I'll not leave you again!"--it all came back to him now, and he lived it over again and again.

The big, black ta.s.sel danced tantalizingly in front of him. Yes, he had said that he would never leave again. He dully repeated the words now to himself: "never again." It was so fitting; quite in accordance with the rest of the black pageant. His dream of life, his new-felt ambitions--all were dead, dead, like his father before him, where the black plume nodded.

They pa.s.sed up through the little town and the shop-keepers came out to look. Some were in their shirt sleeves; the butcher had his white ap.r.o.n tucked up around his belt. They gathered together in twos and groups, nodding toward the procession, their lips moving as in pantomime. One man walked out to the crossing, counting aloud as the teams went by. "One, two, three, four, five, six--" he intoned. To him it was all a thing to amuse, like a circus parade,--interesting in proportion to its length.

Landers looked almost curiously at the stolid shopmen. It required no flush of inspiration to tell him that but a few years of this life were necessary to make him as impa.s.sive as they. He who had sworn to make the world move would be contentedly sitting on an empty goods box, diligently numbering a pa.s.sing procession!

The biting humor of the thought appealed to him. He smiled grimly to himself.

VI

Once more on an early evening, a man turned out from a weather-stained prairie farm-house, through the frosted gra.s.s, arriving presently at the dusty public road. As before, he walked slowly along between the tall cottonwoods; but not, as on a memorable former occasion, because it would be for the last time. He was tired, tired with that absolute abandon of youth that sees no hope in the future, and has no philosophy to support it. Only thirty odd days since he went that way before! That many years would not add more to his life in the future.

Unconsciously he searched along the way for the landmarks he had watched with so much interest the past summer. He found the nest where the quail had reared their brood, empty now, and covered thick with the scattered dust of pa.s.sing teams. Forgetful that he was weary he climbed well up the bole of a s.h.a.ggy old friend, to peep in at the opening of a deserted woodp.e.c.k.e.r's home. He came to the big tree at whose roots, on that other night he remembered so well, he had thrown himself hopelessly. With a stolid sort of curiosity he looked down at the spot. Yes, there was the place. A few fallen leaves were scattered upon the earth where his body had pressed tightly against the tree-trunk, and there were the hollows where his clenched hands had found hold. A dull rebellion crept over him as he looked. It had been needless to torture him so!

He came in sight of the familiar little farm-house and turned in slowly at the break between the trees. It was growing dark now, but the odor of tobacco was on the air, and looking closely, he could catch the gleam from a glowing pipe-bowl in the doorway. He pa.s.sed his hand across his brow, almost doubting--it was all so like--before--

A light step came tapping quickly down the pathway toward him. "Guy!"

a voice called softly. "Guy, is that you?"

The voice was quite near him now, and he stopped short, a big maple above him.

"Yes, Faith."

She came up close, peering into the shadow.

"Guy--" she repeated, "Guy, where are you?"

He reached out and clasped her hand; then again, and took both hands.

Her breath came quickly. Slowly his arm slipped about her waist, she struggling a little against her own will; then her head fell forward on his breast, and he could feel her whole body tremble.

The man looked out through the rifts in the half-naked trees; into the sky, clear and sparkling beyond; on his face an expression of sadness, of joy, of abandon--all blended indescribably.

Two soft arms crept gently about his neck, and a ma.s.s of fluffy hair caressed his face.

"Oh! Guy! Guy!" sobbed the girl, "it's wicked, I know, but I'm so glad--so glad--"

THE DOMINANT IMPULSE

I

Calmar Bye was a writer. That is to say, writing was his vocation and his recreation as well.

As yet, unfortunately, he had been unable to find publishers; but for that deficiency no reasonable person could hold him responsible. He had tried them all--and repeatedly. A certain expressman now smiled when he saw the long, slim figure approaching with a package under his arm, which from frequent reappearances had become easily recognizable; but as a person becomes accustomed to a physical deformity, Calmar Bye had ceased to notice banter.

Of but one thing in his life he was positively certain; and that was if Nature had fashioned him for any purpose in particular, it was to do the very thing he was doing now. The reason for this certainty was that he could do nothing else with even moderate satisfaction. He had tried, frequently, to break away, and had even succeeded for a month at a time in an endeavor to avoid writing a word; but inevitably there came a relapse and a more desperate debauch in literature. Try as he might he could not avoid the temptation. An incident, a trifle out of the ordinary in his commonplace life, a sudden thrill at the reading of another man's story, a night of insomnia, and resolution was in tatters, and shortly thereafter Calmar Bye's pencil would be coursing with redoubled vigor over a sheet of virgin paper.

To be sure, Calmar did other things besides write. Being a normal man with a normal appet.i.te, he could not successfully evade the demands of animal existence, and when his finances became unbearably low, he would proceed to their improvement by whatever means came first to hand. Book-keeping, clerical work, stenography--anything was grist for his mill at such times, and for a period he would work without rest.

No better a.s.sistant could be found anywhere--until he had satisfied his few creditors and established a small surplus of his own. Then, presto, change!--and on the surface reappeared Bye, the long, slender, blue-eyed, dreaming, dawdling, irresponsible writer.

Being what he was, the tenor of Calmar's life was markedly uneven. At times the l.u.s.t to write, the spirit of inspiration, as he would have explained to himself in the privacy of his own study, would come upon him strong, and for hours or days life would be a joyous thing, his fellow-men dear brothers of a happy family, the obvious unhappiness and injustice about him not reality, but mere comedy being enacted for his particular delectation.

Then at last, his work finished, would come inevitable reaction. The product of his hand and brain, completed, seemed inadequate and commonplace. He would smile grimly as with dogged persistence he started this latest child of his fancy out along the trail so thickly bestrewn with the skeletons of elder offspring. In measure, as badinage had previously pa.s.sed him harmlessly by, it now cut deeply.

No one in the entire town thought him a more complete failure than he considered himself. Skies, from being sunny, grew suddenly sodden; not a tenement or alley but thrust obtrusively forward its tale of misery.

"Think of me," he confided to his friend Bob Wilson one evening as during his transit through a particularly dismal slough of despond they in company were busily engaged in blazing the trail with empty bottles; "One such as I, a man of thirty and of good health, without a dollar or the prospect of a dollar, an income or the prospect of an income, a home or the prospect of a home, following a cold scent like the one I am now on!" He snapped his finger against the rim of his thin drinking gla.s.s until it rang merrily.

"The idea, again, of a man such as I, untravelled, penniless, self-educated, thinking to compete with others who journey the world over to secure material, and who have spent a fortune in preparation for this particular work." He excitedly drained the contents of the gla.s.s.

"It's preposterous, childlike!"--he brought the frail trifle down to the table with an emphasis which was all but its destruction--"imbecile!

I tell you I'm going to quit.

"Quit for good," he repeated at the expression on the other's face.

Bob Wilson scrutinized his companion with a critical eye.

"Waiter," he said, speaking over his shoulder, "waiter, kindly tax our credit further to the extent of a couple of Havanas."

"Yes, sah," acknowledged the waiter.

Silence fell; but Bob's observation of his friend continued.

"So you are going to quit the fight?" he commented at last.

"I am,"--decidedly.

Wilson lit his cigar.