Old Ebenezer Part 33

"But can't you see how she likes it?" Warren spoke up. "Probably it has been six months since they have had a chance to use those cups. We are doing them a favor, I tell you." He shook his head and sighed. "If she comes in here again and looks at me that way I'll know where I stand. Oh, I'm not slow, but I want to be certain."

They heard the old man talking in the kitchen, and then came his heavy tread on the loose and flapping boards of the pa.s.sage-way. The door was cut so low that he had to duck his head. He came in with a stoop, but straightening himself in the majesty of conscious hospitality, he bowed and said: "Gentlemen, you will please walk out to supper."

Lyman began to offer an apology for putting the household to so much trouble. The old man bowed again and said: "We didn't bring no trouble home with us from church, but ruther a pleasure, sir."

CHAPTER XXVI.

OUT IN THE DARK.

Warren argued, the old man urged and the old lady pleaded as she fanned her hot face with her ap.r.o.n, catching it up by the corners, but Lyman was determined to go home. Warren went out with him and together they walked down the dark road, in the cool air of the night and the hot air that lagged over from the heat of the day. There was no moon, but in the sky, which the slowly-moving boughs of over-hanging trees seemed to keep in motion, there was a blizzard of stars. From the dust-covered thickets along the road arose the chirrup of insects, the strange noises that make night lonesome; and a small stream, which in the light has flowed without noise over the slick, blue rocks, was rushing now with a loud gurgle, as if to hurry out of the dark.

"Well, I turn back here," said Warren. "It is a piece of foolishness for you to go. There's no need of it. You haven't anything to do tomorrow that you can't do next day."

"No, but, alone in the woods, I can do a piece of work that would never come within range of me in town."

"I understand. You want to shake everybody and be absolutely alone."

"Yes, absolutely."

"But stay here over night, and if you must, walk in tomorrow. You would be just as much alone then, wouldn't you?"

"No, I am never perfectly alone except in the dark."

"Well, I have worked with you the best I know how; and you see how I'm fixed--got to find out how I stand. But I hate to see you go off in this way alone. Just look how dark it is down yonder. And I am to go back to the light and to sit there and think of you trudging along in the dark. Just think of the light I am going into--the light of that smile."

"And from away out in the woods I may turn to see you blinking in the glare. But I am keeping you. Good night."

"Wait a moment. Now, you won't think hard of me, will you?"

"Hard of you? Not if you go back."

"All right, then. Good night."

Pitt had given Lyman minute directions as to the road he should take, a pathway through the woods and across fields, and leading to the county road at a point not far from the ruined dam. The path was not straight, and in the dark woods he kept it with difficulty, having to pat with his foot to find the hard ground, but in the turned-out fields the way was well-defined and he walked rapidly. Once he crossed a stretch of ripening oats, and in a dip-down where the growth was rank he heard voices and a song--hired men lying out to wear off the effect of a visit to the distillery. He came to the dam much sooner than he had expected, and near the trickling water he sat down upon a rock to rest. An island of willows had grown up in the broad shallow pond. Out from this dark thicket, a great bird flew and with its wings slapped the face of the quiet water, and the frogs hushed and the world was still, save the trickling from the dam, till the frogs began again. For days, there had been in his mind the vague form of a story, and he strove to summon it now, but the forms that came were shadows with no light in their eyes. Throughout all the dark woods this dim web of a plot had not come to him, though he had thought to ponder over it before setting out, but had forgotten it when once on the road. He sent his mind back over the course he had followed, to pick up any little suggestions that might have come to him to be held for a moment and dropped, but there was none. Instead, everywhere in the spread of his mind there was an illuminated spot, shifting, and in the bright spot sat a figure on a rock, a brown head, a face with one freckle, and an impetuous, graceful foot that sometimes stamped in impatience. Into the light there came another figure, strong, ruddy, and with a calico skirt tucked up. One was refinement, the other strength; one nerves, the other muscle. Onward he strode, the road damp from its nearness to the creek. Out upon the higher land he turned, the shale clicking under his feet. He had the feeling that some one was walking slowly behind him, stealing the noise of his footsteps to conceal a stealthier tread, and he smiled at his fear, but he halted to listen. He thought of a poem, "The Stab," and he repeated it as he walked along, and the swift falling of the knife, "Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown," found an echo in his footsteps. He came to the creek wherein the old horse had stood to cool his hot knees; he crossed the foot-log and was about to step down again into the road when he heard the furious galloping of horses and the rattle of a buggy. The team plunged into the creek, not directly at the ford; the buggy struck a rock and flew into fragments; the horses came plunging on, leaving a man in the water. Lyman rushed forward as the horses dashed past him. By the light of the stars he saw the flying fragments of the buggy--saw the water splash where the man fell. The man made no effort to get up, and Lyman thought that surely he must have been killed. But when Lyman reached him he was trying to crawl against the shallow but swift current. Lyman seized him, dragged him to the sh.o.r.e, stretched him upon the ground.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, feeling for his heart. The man muttered something. Lyman struck a match, looked at the man's face, blew out the match, tossed the burnt stem into the road and said to himself: "Of course I had to be the one to find him. Are you hurt, Sawyer?"

"You fling me 'n creek?" he muttered, filling the air with the fumes of whisky. "Fling me 'n creek, got me to whip. Tell you that, hah?

Hear what I said? Got me to whip."

"Blackguard, I don't know but I ought to have let you drown."

"Good man to drown me, tell you that," he said, sitting up. "Horses gone?"

"Yes, and your buggy is smashed all to pieces."

"I believe it is. Bring me the pieces, won't you." He leaned over and laughed like an idiot. "Stopped at a distillery, and stopped too long.

Don't take a man long to stop too long at a distillery. What's your name? You ain't Jim, are you? What's your name, anyway; why don't you talk to a feller."

"It won't do to leave him here," said Lyman, looking about as if searching for the light from a house. "Do you think you can walk?" he asked.

"Walk a thousand miles. Hear what I said? Thousand miles. Where do you want to go, Jim?"

"I want to take you to a house."

"Oh, I'm all right. But don't leave me, Jim. Whatever you do, don't leave me. I couldn't get along without you. Hit Bob a crack over the head and addled him so he ain't at himself yet. They took him away round here to his uncle's to keep him out of the way, and I drove out there to see him and stopped at distillery and stayed too long. Ever stay too long, Jim?"

"Do the doctors think that Bob will get well?"

"Yes, in a measure; he won't go round White-Capping any more, though.

But I'll make that all right. I'll meet that feller Lyman and put up his shutters. Sit down."

"No, there's a house up yonder and I'll take you there. You may be injured in some way. Let's see if you can walk. Lean on me. That's it."

"I can't walk fast, Jim. Believe I am hurt some. I'd a drounded out there if it hadn't been for you, Jim. Ah--h. I don't believe I can go on. I'm sick."

"Here, let me get my arm around you so I can hold you up better. Now you're all right. It's only a little way."

They soon came to the house. The barking of dogs brought a man out to the fence. In a few words Lyman told him what had happened. Sawyer was unable to walk further and they took him into the house and put him upon a bed. An excited woman bathed his face, and a barefoot boy, as fleet as a deer, was sent across the creek for a doctor. Lyman waited until he came. He said that Sawyer was badly bruised, but added that he did not appear to be fatally hurt. While they were talking, Sawyer opened his eyes. "Where's Jim?" he inquired.

"Here," said Lyman, stepping forward.

"Merciful G.o.d," the wounded man moaned, and covered his face with his hands. Lyman stepped back, and Sawyer, putting out his hand, with his eyes closed, said to him: "Please don't leave me."

"I will stay until daylight," said Lyman.

"Thank you, sir. Don't leave me."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE REVENGE.

Early the next morning Pitt and his daughter drove to town with Warren. The promise of government seeds had greatly excited the old fellow, and, three times before the breaking of day, did he get up and look out, impatient of the darkness that still lay in the east. Warren gave him the seeds and had gone down to see them off for home before he happened to realize that Lyman was not in the office. He went up stairs and inquired after him. The boy said that he had not come. He sat down in a fear that his friend was lost in the woods, and was thinking of setting out to look for him when Lyman walked in, looking worn and tired.

"Why, what's the matter?" Warren cried. "You look like a whipped rooster."

"I am," said Lyman sitting down. "A prop has been knocked from under me and I have fallen down. For several days I have been nursing a sweet revenge. I said nothing about it, but I was going to knock a man down, tie him and horse-whip him."

"Well, why don't you? Is he gone?"