[Illustration: 9097]
ILLER accompanied Alan to the door. Old Trabue stood in front of his
office in his shirt-sleeves, his battered silk hat on the back part of
his head. He was fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan and freely using
his handkerchief on his brow. He bowed cordially to Alan and came
towards him.
“I want to ask you,” he began, “as Pole Baker any way of raisin' money?”
“Not that I know of,” laughed Alan. “I don't know whether he's got a
clear title to the shirt on his back. He owes everybody out our way. My
father is supplying him on time now.”
“That was my impression,” said Trabue. “He wanted me to defend 'im the
other day, but he couldn't satisfy me about the fee, an' I let him go.
He first said he could give me a lien on a mule, but he finally admitted
that it wasn't his.”
“He's not in trouble, is he?” exclaimed Alan, suddenly recalling Mrs.
Baker's uneasiness.
Trabue looked at Miller, who stood leaning in the doorway, and laughed.
“Well, I reckon he might call it that. That chap owned the town two days
ago. He got blind, stavin' drunk, an' wanted to whip us from one end o'
the place to the other. The marshals are afraid of 'im, for they know
he 'll shoot at the drop of a hat, an' the butt of it was stickin' out o'
his hippocket in plain sight. Was you thar, Rayburn? Well, it was better
'n a circus. Day before yesterday thar was a sort o' street temperance
lecturer in front o' the Johnston House, speakin' on a dry-goods box.
He had a lot o' gaudy pictures illustratin' the appearance of a drinkin'
man' s stomach an' liver, compared to one in a healthy condition. He was
a sort of a snide faker, out fer what he could git dropped in a hat, an'
Pole was sober enough to git on to his game. Pole stood thar with the
rest, jest about able to stand, an' that was all. Finally, when the
feller got warmed up an' got to screechin', Pole begun to deny what he
was sayin'. As fast as he'd make a statement Pole would flatly deny it.
The feller on the box didn't know what a tough customer he had to handle
or he'd 'a' gone slow. As it was, he p'inted a finger o' scorn at Pole
an' helt 'im up fer a example. Pole wasn't sober by a long shot, but
you'd 'a' thought he was, fer he was as steady as a post. He kept
grinnin', as cool as a cucumber, an' sayin', 'Now you know yo' re
a-lyin', stranger--jest a-lyin' to get a few dimes drapped in yore hat.
You know nobody's stomach don't look like that durn chromo. You never
seed inside of a drinkin' man, an' yo' re the biggest liar that ever
walked the earth.' This made the crowd laugh at the little, dried-up
feller, an' he got as mad as Old Nick. He begun to tell Pole his liver
was swelled from too much whiskey, an' that he'd bet he was jest the
sort to beat his wife. Most of us thought that ud make Pole jump on 'im,
but he seemed to enjoy naggin' the feller too much to sp'ile it by
a fight. A nigger boy had been carryin' round a bell and a sign
advertisin' Webb's auction sale, an' stopped to see the fun. Pole
heerd the tinkle of the bell, an' tuck it an' begun to ring it in the
lecturer's face. The harder the feller spoke the harder Pole rung. It
was the damnedest racket ever heerd on a public square. Part of the
crowd--the good church folks--begun to say it was a disgrace to the town
to allow a stranger to be treated that away, sence thar was no law agin
public speakin' in the streets. They was in fer callin' a halt, but
all the rest--the drinkin' men, an' I frankly state I was one--secretly
hoped Pole would ring 'im down. When the pore devil finally won I felt
like yellin' hooray, fer I glory in the pluck even of a dare-devil, if
he's a North Georgian an' white. The lecturer had to stop without his
collection, an' went off to the council chamber swearin' agin the town
fer allowin' him to be treated that away. Thar wasn't anything fer the
mayor to do but order Pole's arrest, but it took four men--two regulars
and two deputized men--to accomplish it.
“The trial was the richest thing I ever attended. Pole had sobered up
jest enough to be witty, an' he had no more respect fer Bill Barrett's
court than he had fer the lecturer's platform. Him an' Barrett used to
fish an' hunt together when they was boys, an' Pole kept callin' him
Bill. It was Bill this an' Bill that; an' as Barrett had only been
in office a month, he hardly knew how to rise to his proper dignity,
especially when he saw the crowd was laughin' at his predicament. When
I declined to defend 'im, Pole attempted to read the law on the case
to Barrett an' show whar he was right. Barrett let 'im talk because he
didn't know how to stop 'im, an' Pole made the best defence I ever heerd
from a unlettered man. It kept the crowd in a roar. For a while I swear
it looked like Pole was goin' to cleer hisse'f, but Barrett had to do
his duty, an' so he fined Pole thirty dollars, or in default thereof to
break rock on the streets fer ten days. You ort to 'a' heerd Pole snort.
'Looky heer, Bill!' he said, 'you know as well as yo're a-settin' cocked
up thar, makin' folks say 'yore honor' ever' breath they draw, that I
ain't a-goin' to break no rock in that br'ilin' sun fer ten day 'ca'se
I beat that skunk at his own game!'
“You 'll have to do it if you don't pay out,” Barrett told 'im.
“'Well, I jest won't pay out, an' I won't break rock nuther,' Pole
said. 'You've heerd about the feller that could lead a hoss to water but
couldn't make 'im drink, hain't you? Well, I'm the hoss.'
“Yesterday was Pole's fust day on the street. They put a ball an' chain
to one of his ankles an' sent 'im out with the nigger gang, but all
day yesterday an' to-day he hain't worked a lick. He's as stubborn as
a mule. Thar's been a crowd around 'im all the time. You kin see 'im
standin' up as straight as a post in the middle of the street from one
end of it to the other. I'm sorter sorry fer 'im; he looks like he's
ashamed at bottom, but don't want to give in. The funniest thing about
the whole thing is that Pole seems to know more about the law than the
mayor. He says unless they force him to work in the specified ten days
they can't hold him any longer, an' that if they attempt to flog 'im
he 'll kill the first man that lays hands on him. I think Bill Barrett
likes him too well to have 'im whipped, an' the whole town is guyin'
him, an' axin' 'im why he don't make Pole set in.”
Alan went down the street to see Pole. He found him seated on a large
stone, a long-handled rock-hammer at his feet. He looked up from under
his broad-brimmed hat, and a crestfallen look came into his big, brown
eyes.
“I'm sorry to see this, Pole,” said Alan.
Pole stood up at his full height, the chain clanking as he rose. “They
hain't treated me right about this matter, Alan Bishop,” he said, half
resentfully, half as if he recognized his own error. “Bill knows he
hain't done the fair thing. I know I was full, but I jest wanted to have
my fun. That don't justify him in puttin' me out heer with these niggers
fer folks to gap' at, an' he knows it. He ain't a friend right. Me 'n'
him has slep' together on the same pile o' leaves, an' I've let 'im pull
down on a squirrel when I could 'a' knocket it from its perch; an' I've
lent 'im my pointer an' gun many an' many a time. But he's showed what
he is! He's got the wrong sow by the yeer, though, fer ef he keeps
me heer till Christmas I 'll never crack a rock, unless I do it by
accidentally step-pin' on it. Mark my words, Alan Bishop, thar 'll be
trouble out o' this.”
“Don't talk that way, Pole,” said Alan. “You've broken the law and they
had to punish you for it. If they hadn't they would have made themselves
ridiculous. Why didn't you send me word you were in trouble, Pole?”
The fellow hung his head, and then he blurted out:
“Beca'se I knowed you would make a fool o' yorese'f an' try to pay me
out. Damn it, Alan Bishop, this ain't no business o' yore'n!”
“I 'll make it my business,” said Alan. “How much is your fine? You ought
to have sent me word.”
“Sent you hell, Alan Bishop,” growled the prisoner. “When I send you
word to he'p me out of a scrape that whiskey got me into I 'll do it
after I've decently cut my throat. I _say!_--when you've plead with me
like you have to quit the durn stuff!”
At this point of the conversation Jeff Dukes, a man of medium size,
dressed in dark-blue uniform, with a nickel-plated badge shaped like a
shield and bearing the words “Marshal No. 2,” came directly towards them
from a stone-cutter's shop near by.
“Look heer, Bishop,” he said, dictatorially, “whar'd you git the right
to talk to that man?”
Alan looked surprised. “Am I breaking the law, too?”
“You are, ef you hain't got a permit from the mayor in yore pocket.”
“Well, I have no permit,” replied Alan, with a good-natured smile. “Have
you got another ball an' chain handy?”
The officer frowned off his inclination to treat the matter as a jest.
“You ort to have more sense than that,” he said, crustily. “Pole's put
out heer to work his time out, an' ef everybody in town is allowed to
laugh an' joke with him he'd crack about as many rocks as you or me.”
“You are a durn liar, Jeff Dukes,” said Pole, angrily. “You are a-makin'
that up to humiliate me furder. You know no law like that never was
inforced. Ef I ever git you out in Pea Vine Destrict I 'll knock a dent
in that egg-shaped head o' yor'n, an' make them eyes look two ways fer
Sunday. You know a gentleman like Alan Bishop wouldn't notice you under
ordinary circumstances, an' so you trump up that excuse to git his
attention.”
The two men glared at each other, but Pole seemed to get the best of
that sort of combat, for the officer only growled.
“You can insult a man when you are under arrest,” he said, “beca'se you
know I am under bond to keep the peace. But I'm not afeerd of you.”
“They tell me you are afeerd o' sperits, though,” retorted the prisoner.
“They tell me a little nigger boy that was shot when a passle o' skunks
went to whip his daddy fer vagrancy stands at the foot o' yore bed ever'
night. Oh, I know what I'm a-talkin' about!”
“Yes, you know a lots,” said the man, sullenly, as his eyes fell.
To avoid encouraging the disputants further, Alan walked suddenly away.
The marshal took willing advantage of the opportunity and followed him.
“I could make a case agin you,” he said, catching up, “but I know you
didn't mean to violate the ordinance.”
“No, of course I didn't,” said Alan; “but I want to know if that fellow
could be released if I paid his fine.”
“You are not fool enough to do it, are you?”
“That's what I am.”
“Have you got the money in yore pocket?” The officer was laughing, as if
at a good joke.
“I have.”
“Well”--the marshal laughed again as he swung his short club round by a
string that fastened it to his wrist--“well, you come with me, an' I 'll
show you a man that wants thirty dollars wuss than any man I know of. I
don't believe Bill Barrett has slept a wink sence this thing happened.
He 'll be tickled to death to git off so easy. The town has devilled the
life out of him. He don't go by whar Pole's at work--I mean, whar he
ain't at work--fer Pole yells at 'im whenever he sees 'im.”
That night when Alan reached home he sent a servant over to tell Mrs.
Baker that Pole was all right and that he'd be home soon. He had eaten
his supper and had gone up-stairs to go to bed when he heard his name
called outside. Going to a window and looking out, he recognized Pole
Baker standing at the gate in the clear moonlight.
“Alan,” he said, softly, “come down heer a minute. I want to see you.”
Alan went down and joined him. For a moment Pole stood leaning against
the fence, his eyes hidden by his broad-brimmed slouch hat.
“Did you want to see me, Pole?” Alan asked.
“Yes, I did,” the fellow swallowed. He made a motion as if to reach out
his hand, but refrained. Then he looked straight into Alan's face.
“I couldn't go to sleep till I'd said some 'n' to you,” he began, with
another gulp. “I laid down an' made a try at it, but it wasn't no go.
I've got to say it. I'm heer to swear that ef God, or some 'n' else,
don't show me a way to pay you back fer what you done to-day, I 'll never
draw a satisfied breath. Alan Bishop, yo're a man, _God damn it!_ a man
from yore outside skin to the marrow o' yore bones, an' ef I don't find
some way to prove what I think about you, I 'll jest burn up! I got into
that trouble as thoughtless as I'd play a prank with my baby, an' then
they all come down on me an' begun to try to drive me like a hog out'n
a field with rocks an' sticks, an' the very Old Harry riz in me an'
defied 'em. I reckon thar wasn't anything Bill could do but carry out
the law, an' I knowed it, but I wasn't ready to admit it. Then you come
along an' rendered a verdict in my favor when you needed the money you
did it with. Alan, ef I don't show my appreciation, it 'll be beca'se I
don't live long enough. You never axed me but one thing, an' that was
to quit drinkin' whiskey. I'm goin' to make a try at it, not beca'se
I think that 'll pay you back, but beca'se with a sober head I kin be a
better friend to you ef the chance ever comes my way.”
“I'm glad to hear you say that, Pole,” replied Alan, greatly moved by
the fellow's earnestness. “I believe you can do it. Then your wife and
children--”
“Damn my wife an' children,” snorted Pole. “It's _you_ I'm a-goin' to
work fer--_you_, I say!”
He suddenly turned through the open gate and strode homeward across the
fields. Alan stood looking after him till his tall form was lost in the
hazy moonlight, and then he went up to his bed.
Pole entered the open door of his cabin and began to undress as he sat
on the side of his crude bedstead, made of unbarked poles fastened to
the bare logs in one corner of the room. His wife and children slept on
two beds on the other side of the room.
“Did you see 'im, Pole?” piped up Mrs. Baker from the darkness.
“Yes, I seed 'im. Sally, say, whar's that bottle o' whiskey I had the
last time I was at home?”
There was an ominous silence. Out of it rose the soft breathing of the
children. Then the woman sighed. “Pole, shorely you ain't a-goin' to
begin agin?”
“No, I want to bu'st it into smithereens. I don't want it about--I don't
want to know thar's a drap in the house. I've swore off, an' this time
she sticks. Gi'me that bottle.”
Another silence. Suddenly the woman spoke. “Pole, you've swore off as
many times as a dog has fleas. Often when I feel bad an' sick when you
are off, a drap o' whiskey makes me feel better. I don't want you to
destroy the last bit in the house jest be-ca'se you've tuck this turn,
that may wear off before daylight. The last time you emptied that keg on
the ground an' swore off you got on a spree an' helt the baby over the
well an' threatened to drap 'er in ef I didn't find a bottle, an' you'd
'a' done it, too.”
Pole laughed softly. “I reckon yo' re right, old gal,” he said.
“Besides, ef I can' t--ef I ain't man enough to let up with a bottle
in the house I won't do it without. But the sight or smell of it is hell
itse'f to a lover of the truck. Ef I was to tell you what a little thing
started me on this last spree you'd laugh. I went to git a shave in a
barber shop, an' when the barber finished he soaked my face in bay-rum
an' it got in my mustache. I kept smellin' it all mornin' an' tried to
wipe it off, but she wouldn't wipe. All the time I kept walkin' up an'
down in front o' Luke Sell-more's bar. Finally I said to myself: 'Well,
ef you have to have a bar-room stuck under yore nose all day like a wet
sponge, old man, you mought as well have one whar it 'll taste better,
an' I slid up to the counter.” The woman sighed audibly, but she made no
reply. “Is Billy awake?” Pole suddenly asked.
“No, you know he ain't,” said Mrs. Baker.
“Well, I want to take 'im in my bed.” Pole stood out on the floor in the
sheet of moonlight that fell through the open door.
“I wouldn't, Pole,” said the woman. “The pore little feller's been
toddlin' about after the others, draggin' bresh to the heap tell he's
tired. He drapped to sleep at the table with a piece o' bread in his
mouth.”
“I won't wake 'im, God bless his little heart,” answered Pole, and he
reached down and took the limp child in his arms and pressed him against
the side of his face. He carried him tenderly across the room and laid
down with him. His wife heard him uttering endearing things to the
unconscious child until she fell asleep.