The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories Part 4

We didn't wait long, for the boy knew his business, And soon he came backward, loading and running, Like a man who was busy but wouldn't be hurried Beyond his own gait, if he stopped there forever.

As he pa.s.sed our two covers I piped him a whistle; And he stopped in his tracks, and with low, pleasant laughter, Stood there in full view coolly capping the nipples.

I have shot on each Gulf, both Southern and Northern.

I have trailed the long trail between either ocean.

Brave men I have seen, both in good and in evil, But never a braver than the man called Jack Whitcomb.

Well, why describe it? Call it scrimmage or battle, It was done in a minute, or it may be a dozen.

It came like a whirlwind, and we three were in it As men are in whirlwinds. It came like the thunder, With a crash and a roar and a long running rumble Dying down into silence. There were dead and some wounded, And a few lucky knaves that fled wildly backward; And Henry and I, when it pa.s.sed, were left standing By the body of him whose name was Jack Whitcomb, Who lay as he fell, when headlong he tumbled, His rifle still clinched and both barrels smoking.

I have seen in my life many wounds made by bullets, And a good many gashes by spear-points and arrows.

I have learned in my trailing a good many simples Which have power to keep men from crossing the river Before the Lord calls with voice that is certain.

And the wound that we found on Jack Whitcomb's body, Though ugly and deep, was not beyond curing.

We cleansed and we stanched it and fought a brave battle With death, for his life, and we won. For Jack mended.

We made a canoe and we bore him far southward.

A hundred good miles down the river we boated, Till we came to his house of huge logs, strongly builded, Beneath the big pines on the bank of a rapid, Which under it flowed its soft rush of brown water.

'Twas a place to bring peace to a heart that was troubled, If peace might be found this side of the silence Which brings peace to all that know sorrow in living.

Yes, we boated him down to his home by the rapids.

His home? No, rather his house let us call it.

For how can a house be a home with naught in it?

In house that is home must be love, warm and human, A voice that is sweet, a heart that is gentle, A soul that is true, and beside these a cradle That prattles and coos; and the quick-falling patter Of little white feet that run hither and thither.

To his house, and not to his home, then, we brought him, For certainly nothing and no one was in it, Save himself and a dog, a bed and a table, Some chairs, a few books, and a--Picture.

And this was the story that he told us in dying.

The man might have lived, beyond doubt, had he cared to.

But he didn't. No motive, he said. And he had none, As we felt later on, when he told us his story.

So he died without word or sign. And in silence We stood and saw him go forth on his journey Without speaking a word, without a hand lifted To hold or to stop him, for we did not feel certain What was wisdom for one who went forth in such fashion.

Perhaps it was best he should go and be over With pain, loss and trouble for ever and ever.

Henry says, it were well we should all of us go When life has no aim and no hope; and no doing Remains to be done; and days are but eating And drinking and breathing, only these and no more.

But before he went forth he gave me a message.

"I loved her," so his story began. Henry, You remember the look on his face as he said it, As he lay with his eyes fixed fast on the Picture?

"She was strong, and she drew me as life draws the young And as death draws the old. I could not resist her.

She was vital with force, to attract and to hold.

She raced me a race for my life, and she won it.

I was man, not a boy, and I loved as man loves When the forces of life are in him full-flooded As rivers in meadows, when they flow to the sedges.

Did she love me? Perhaps. Who can tell? She was woman, And hence she was dark as the night, and as hidden!

Who could find her? Who the depth of her nature Might measure? I tried but could not. Then boldly I spake--spake as man speaks but once unto woman.

True and straight did I say it man fashion.

But she drew back offended; she shrank from my praying, And with coldness of tone and suspicion dismissed me.

Had a man shown a t.i.the of that look in his eye, On his face, he or I would have died on the instant.

But what can a man do, when scorned by a woman?

So I left her.

I need not say more. My life it was ended.

It wasn't worth living;--I am made in that fashion.

So I came to the woods. Where else when in trouble Can man go and find what he needs, consolation?

Go you down to her house, in the city, John Norton, To the house where she lives, and give her this message.

Word for word let her hear it,--say where you left me.

There's gold in that box to pay your expenses.

Word for word as I tell you, nor say a word further."

Then he bade us good-by, and marched away bravely, As a man on a trail that is somewhat uncertain.

And under the pines on the bank of the rapids We buried the man whom the woods called--Jack Whitcomb, And the picture he loved we placed on his bosom.

I went down to her house in the city. A cabin Of stone, brown as tamarack bark, trimmed with olive.

It was high as a pine that stands on a mountain.

The door was as wide as the mouth of a cavern.

At the door stood a man rigged up like a soldier; His face was as solemn as judgment to sinners; He looked at me some, and I looked him all over, Then he suddenly bowed like a half-breed with manners, And told me to enter, and he would call Madame.

The room was as large as a town house where settlers Hold meetings to vote themselves office and wages.

The walls were like caves in far Arizona.

All covered with pictures of houses and battles; Of ships blown onward by gales in mid-ocean; Of children with wings, pretty queer-looking creatures; Of men and of women, and some were half-naked.

But the floor was of oak, which gleamed like a polish; And with mats thick as moss, and with skins it was covered, So I felt quite at home, as there I stood looking, And noting the size and signs of the cabin.

Then, all of a sudden, there came a soft rustle, Like the rustle of leaves when the wind blows in autumn.

And down the wide stairway across the great hall, To the door of the room in which I was standing, Stately and swift, came a woman and entered.

Tall as the tallest. Made firmly, knit firmly Both in form and in limb, but full and well rounded; Dark of eye, dark of face, with hair like a raven, Like the girls of Nevada, where live the old races, Whose blood is as fire, and whose skin is of olive, Whose mouths are as sweet as a fig when it ripens.

Arms bare to the shoulders. Neck and bosom uncovered.

Her gown of white satin gleamed and flowed downward And round her in folds of soft, creamy whiteness.

No ring on her hand, nor in ear. Not a circle Of gold round her throat. One armlet of silver, And one at her wrist loosely clasped, small and slender.

So she entered and stood, and looked me all over.

Then slowly she spake. "Your name, sir, and business?"

"Madame," I said, "in the woods men call me John Norton; John Norton, the Trapper." Then I stopped mighty sudden, For her face it grew white to the lips and the chin, And she swayed as a tree to the stroke of the chopper When he sinks his axe in to the heart and it totters And quivers. So I stopped, stopped quick and stood looking.

Then her dark face it lighted, and she said, speaking quickly: "John Norton, I know you. I know you are honest.

You live in the woods. You are good. I can trust you.

All men, I have heard, come to you in their trouble.

Have you seen in the North, have you met in the woods, Has there come to your cabin a man, tall as you, Brave as you and as tender? A man like to this?"

And out of her gown, from the folds on her bosom, She lifted a locket of pearl-colored velvet, Touched a spring, and I saw, as the lid of it opened, The face of the man I and Henry had buried!

"John Norton," she cried, and her eyes burned like fever.

Her hand shook and trembled, her face was as marble, "Have you seen in the woods man like to this picture?

Speak quick and speak true as to woman in trouble.

For I did him great wrong, I thought he held lightly My fair name and fame; held lightly my honor.

I thought he meant evil, and my heart, filled with anger, Dismissed him in scorn; but I learned, I learned later, He was true, and spake truth and loved me as heaven."

Then I stood and I looked and held my face steady, So it gave her no sign of what I was thinking.

I saw she was honest, and I wished then to spare her, But my word it was pledged, pledged to him in dying, To stand as I stood, face to face with this woman, In her house, in that room, and give her his message.

Beside, not to know is far worse than the knowing At times. So I rallied and told her the message, Word for word, as he charged, the night he lay dying In his house on the bank above the swift rapids.

"Madame," I said, "I have seen man like that picture, Face and form. He was brave as you say. He was tender.

He was true unto death, and he loved you as heaven.

And these are the words that he sent you in dying.

I, a man of the woods, bring you this as last message, From one who now sleeps on the bank of the rapids Of that northern river which pours its brown water To the Lake of St. John from far Mista.s.sinni.

'Tell her, John Norton, I loved her. Loved her in living, With a love that was true, and with same love in dying.

Loved her like a man, like a saint, like a sinner, For time now and time ever. That the one picture She gave me I kept;--living, dying, and after.

That it lies on the breast of the man that you buried; On the breast of the man who living did love her, And that there it will lie until it shall crumble, With heart underneath it, to dust. So tell her.

And in proof that I tell her the truth, and did tell it The night when we met, and I told her I loved her, Give her this, the watch that I wore on the evening We met, and the evening we parted. Let her open And see. With her eyes let her see that I loved her.

So say and no more."