THE SICK MAN
Jim McAllister and Noel fed Sherwood with milk, dosed him with
quinine, bathed his hand with a hot solution of boric powder and
touched it with iodine, placed hot compresses on his arm and
bandaged him generously if not scientifically. He responded
encouragingly to the treatment. It was easy to see that the pain in
his arm had lessened. For a few hours of the afternoon he appeared
to be cooler and felt cooler, lay awake without gabbling and slept
without muttering and tossing. Once he recognized Noel Sabattis and
spoke to him by name; and Noel patted his head and told him not to
worry about anything for everything was going fine.
Sherwood was delirious during the night but not to the extent of the
night before. In the morning he showed marked improvement, took his
bitter dose of quinine as if he knew that it was good for him, drank
an egg beaten up in milk, spoke affectionately to the red dogs and
then to Jim McAllister, in puzzled tones, with something of
recognition and more of fear and suspicion in his eyes.
“What are you going to do with me?” he asked.
“Take you home, Dick, and get a doctor for you,” replied Jim.
“What’s the idea?”
“I’m Jim McAllister. I live with my sister and young Ben O’Dell and
your little girl—all one family—at O’Dell’s Point. And that’s where
Noel and I mean to take you to. That’s the idea. So there’s nothing
for you to worry about.”
“Where’s Louis Balenger?”
“You don’t have to worry about him any more. He’s dead.”
“Yes, I remember that. Noel and I buried him. You remember that,
Noel? He was dead, wasn’t he?”
“Yep, he won’t never move no more,” replied the Maliseet.
“Did I shoot him?” asked the sick man.
“No, you didn’t,” said Jim sternly. “You weren’t anywheres near him
when he was shot; and if you hadn’t been sickening with fever you
wouldn’t of run away. Balenger was shot by a man from Quebec and Ben
O’Dell is hunting him this very minute.”
“Who’s Ben O’Dell?”
“He’s John’s son. Now you quit talking and take a rest.”
“I was at John’s funeral. You didn’t know it but I was there. No one
knew it, for I was ashamed to show myself. He was my friend. He was
my company commander once.”
“I know all about that, Dick. But you mustn’t talk any more now. Yer
a sick man.”
Sherwood fell asleep. Jim and Noel made a stretcher of two poles,
crosspieces and a pair of blankets; at ten o’clock they broke camp.
They made a mile in slow time, then set the stretcher down and fed
their patient. They marched again, walking with the utmost care, but
Sherwood soon became excited and they had to halt, make a fire and
bathe and dress his hand and arm. Again they dosed him and fed him.
They rested until long past noon. They thought him to be asleep when
they raised the stretcher for the third time, but he awoke
instantly.
“Leave me alone!” he cried. “You can’t fool me! I know you. You set
a trap for me.”
They kept on.
“That trap wasn’t set for you, Dick,” said McAllister over his
shoulder. “That was a mistake.”
“I didn’t shoot Balenger, honest I didn’t!” pleaded Sherwood. “I was
going to—if I had the nerve—but I didn’t do it. I was scared—afraid
they’d hang me and Marion would starve—that’s why I ran. But you set
a trap for me—and caught me—and now you’ve got me.”
“Nobody catch you!” cried Noel. “You all safe now. Jim an’ me take
you to Marion. You sick an’ crazy, dat’s all. Go to sleep. Shut up!”
He was quiet for a time but again broke out in terrified ravings
before they had gone far. They had to set him down to quiet him.
Again they built a fire, boiled the kettle, applied hot compresses
to his arm. They fed him a hot drink and he went to sleep. But Jim
saw that it would be dangerous to try to carry him farther that day,
that all the traveling must be done in the morning when the fever
was at its lowest. They had already covered about four of the eight
miles. Old Noel rubbed his arms and said he had never before
traveled such hard miles.
Jim was tired and anxious, but more anxious than tired. His anxiety
was for the farm and his sister and the little girl almost as much
as for the sick man. He was afraid of old Tim Hood, though he didn’t
admit it frankly even to himself. But Hood had always been a tricky
character as well as a spiteful one and he had held a grudge against
the O’Dells for many years; yesterday, when the old fellow’s eyes
had met his for an instant after the humiliating adventure with Red
Chief, Jim had seen danger there. So after drinking a mug of tea he
continued on his way, promising to return some time during the
night. He took one of the rifles and Red Lily with him.
Jim reached home in time for supper. The last load of grain was in,
but Bear and Sacobie and Mrs. Sacobie had not yet taken their
departure. He asked all three to remain until after breakfast next
morning, which they gladly agreed to do; and then, without his
sister’s knowledge, he arranged with the men that one should stand
guard on the barns all night and one on the house. He told them that
he had caught Tim Hood in the woods with a loaded rifle and disarmed
him and that the old man was mad enough for anything. Hood was not
popular with the Indians or any other poor and needy folk on the
river, so Jim knew that the watch would be well kept.
He didn’t say a word about Mel Lunt. He wasn’t worrying about the
constable, knowing that his worst faults were stupidity and
professional vanity. That Lunt would try to get even with him was
very likely, but by means and methods within the law—to the best of
Mel’s knowledge and belief, at least. He would probably make another
effort to arrest Sherwood if he was able to obtain a warrant through
the blundering of his superiors at Woodstock; and he was sure to try
to get a warrant for Jim’s arrest. But Jim didn’t worry about
anything Mel Lunt might do. Old Hood was the man he feared.
Jim managed a few minutes of private conversation with his sister,
and they decided that if Sherwood should reach the house next day
the little girl should be kept in ignorance of his identity—at least
until medical care had cured him of his wild delirium. They believed
that Doctor Scott and good nursing would accomplish this in a day or
two. Little Marion was not of a prying disposition. To tell her that
the sick man in the big spare room was not to be disturbed would be
enough. The big spare room was so far from Mrs. O’Dell’s room, in
one corner of which Marion occupied a small bed, that there would be
no danger of poor Sherwood’s humiliating and pitiful and cruelly
illuminating fever talk reaching the child’s ears.
Jim spent a few minutes with the little girl before she went to bed.
She took him to the library, set the lamp on the floor, sat down
beside it and pulled a portfolio of old colored prints out from
under one of the bookcases. She had discovered it a few days ago.
The prints were of hunting scenes—of men in red coats and white
breeches riding tall horses after red foxes, flying over green
hedges, tumbling into blue brooks, but always streaming after the
black and liver and white dogs who streamed after the fox.
“My dad once told me about that,” said Marion. “He used to do it
before he came out to this country, whenever he wasn’t soldiering.”
“Rough on the fox,” said Uncle Jim. “Worse than trapping him, I
guess. Why didn’t they shoot him and be done with it?”
“That’s what I said to dad,” replied Marion. “But he said it wasn’t
so, for as soon as the fox felt tired he jumped into a hole in the
ground and then the hunt was finished. They must have chased foxes a
great many years in England, for I am sure these pictures are a
great deal older than dad.”
“Sure thing, much older,” agreed Jim. “Those pictures were bought in
London by Ben’s great-grandfather.”
The little girl returned the portfolio to its place and drew forth a
shallow box of polished mahogany.
“Have you seen these, Uncle Jim?” she asked.
McAllister smiled. He had seen the contents of the box, but he also
saw what she was up to. She was entertaining him in the hope that by
so doing she might be allowed to sit up a few minutes past her usual
bedtime.
“I don’t mind seeing them again,” he said.
She raised the lid of the box and disclosed to view two short brown
pistols beautifully inlaid with silver about the grip and lock, a
little metal flask, a cluster of bullets, a little ramrod, a lot of
paper wads and dozens of tiny metal caps. All these curious articles
lay on dark-green felt, the pistols in a central position, each of
the different sorts of munitions in its own little compartment. The
barrels of the pistols were short but large of bore.
“Ben showed me these,” she said. “He told me all about how to load
them. They are very, very old. You don’t just put a cartridge in,
like you do with a rifle or shotgun, but you ram the bullets and
powder and wads down the muzzles, with that little stick and then
put those little caps on, the same way Noel Sabattis does with his
duck gun. I’ve seen Noel put the caps on his gun, but dad’s was like
a rifle. Noel’s duck gun must be very old.”
“Yes, but it’s still of more use than those pistols ever were,”
replied Jim, thinking of the good work the Maliseet’s great weapon
had done only yesterday and of the purpose for which the little
dueling pistols had been so beautifully and carefully made in the
ignorant days of the gay youth of one of Ben O’Dell’s kind but
conventional ancestors.
“What were the little pistols used for, Uncle Jim?” asked Marion.
“Well, you see, in the old days it wasn’t all clover being a man of
high family,” he said. “It had its drawbacks. You were a man of
mark, for sure. If a man is sassy to you nowadays, calls you names
or anything like that, all you got to do is sass him back or kick
him if you can; and all he can do is kick back—and that’s all there
is to it, no matter who you are or who yer grandfather used to be.
But in the old days when these pistols were made it was different.
If a man was rude to you then—said he didn’t like the way yer nose
stuck out of yer face or that the soldiers in yer regiment all had
flat feet or maybe got real nasty and called you a liar—you had to
throw a glassful of port wine or sherry wine into his face. Then it
was up to him to ask you, as polite as pie, to fight a duel with
him. And you had to do it or yer friends would say you weren’t a
gentleman—and that was considered a rough thing to say about a man
in those days. So you had to do it, even if the law was against it.
That’s what those little pistols were for.”
[Illustration: “‘TO SHOOT GENTLEMEN WITH?’ ASKED THE LITTLE GIRL IN AN
AWE-STRUCK WHISPER.”]
“To shoot gentlemen with?” asked the little girl in an awe-struck
whisper.
“Yes—but they’d hit almost any kind of man if they were aimed
right.”
“And have these ones done that—shot people, Uncle Jim?”
“I guess they never shot anybody very seriously, dear. The O’Dell
who owned them was a kind man, like all the O’Dells before and
since, and brave as a lion and steady as a rock and a dead-sure
shot. So whenever he was fussed and tricked into proving he was a
gentleman—which everybody knew already—by fighting with a fool, he’d
shoot the other lad in the hand that held the pistol—or the elbow or
maybe the shoulder. It wasn’t long before folks quit being rude to
him.”
Just then Mrs. O’Dell entered the library. Marion closed the box,
shoved it back beneath the bookcase and kissed McAllister good
night.
Jim posted Sol Bear and Gabe Sacobie, charged them to keep a sharp
lookout and armed them with sled stakes. Enthusiastic Indians were
not to be trusted with explosive weapons on such a job as this at
night. And he left Red Lily with them. With two good Indians and a
red dog outside and a squaw and another red dog in the kitchen he
felt that old Tim Hood would not accomplish any very serious damage
no matter how spiteful and reckless he might be feeling. Then he set
out for the spot in the wilderness, due north and four miles away,
where he had left the sick man and Noel Sabattis and Red Chief.
Jim might have spared himself these elaborate precautions had he
known that Tim Hood’s cowardice was still in excess of his rage. The
old fellow still agreed with Mel Lunt, the thrice foiled but ever
hopeful, that the safest and quickest way of getting in the first
return blow at Jim McAllister was through the unfortunate Sherwood.
So he continued to work with Lunt, to support the might and majesty
of the law as interpreted by that persistent local constable. The
O’Dell barns were not threatened that night. Sol and Gabe twirled
their sled stakes in vain and at last fell asleep at their posts.
Jim found the camp without much difficulty. Sherwood was sleeping
then but Noel said that he had been awake and raving for hours. Jim
slept for an hour, then bathed and dressed the sick man’s hand and
arm, with Noel’s assistance, dosed him with quinine and a full mug
of cold water. All was quiet after that until about three o’clock,
when Sherwood’s restlessness again awoke the others. Again they
applied hot compresses to his arm and gave him water to drink and
tucked his blankets securely around him.
Sherwood awoke again shortly after dawn, hungry, clear of eye and as
sane as you please. He drank fresh milk, a bottle of which Jim had
brought in last night. He recognized Jim and of course he knew Noel
Sabattis. He thanked them for all the trouble they were taking for
him and said that he wasn’t worth it.
“When I made sure Marion was safe and would soon be happy enough to
forget me I didn’t care how soon I pegged out,” he said. “I was ill,
very ill. The sickness had been in me for weeks, I think—I don’t
know how long. I was delirious even in the daytime and my nights
were wide-awake nightmares. All my past haunted me. If I had ever
been unkind to Julie or the baby I’d of gone mad and killed myself.
But I’d never been unkind to them—not intentionally—just weak and a
coward.”
“You a’right now, anyhow,” interrupted Noel. “Marion a’right too.
Take annoder drink.”
Sherwood drank obediently.
“The last night I crawled in,” he continued, “and got my hand in
that trap—well, that finished me! I don’t know how I got the trap
clear of my hand. I don’t know how I got into the woods.”
“My brother Ian set that trap and no one else knew anything about
it,” said Jim. “I guess he didn’t stop to think what he was doing.
Ben and I were away. But Doctor Scott’ll fix yer hand, don’t you
worry.”
“But will I be safe, Jim? From the law?”
“Sure thing! There’s nothing you need fear the law about. I reckon
Ben and Dave Brown know exactly who shot Balenger by this time and
like enough they’ve caught him. But that don’t matter one way or the
other. The police know you didn’t do it. But why didn’t you tell us
you wanted food? Why didn’t you come right in and eat with us?”
“I was ashamed. And I was crazy with fear. I was sick, too—sick with
fever, I suppose. I thought every one was hunting me to hang me and
half the time I thought I’d really shot Balenger. I had a picture in
my mind of just how I did it. But I couldn’t go far away from the
little girl.”
“How was it the dogs never tackled you?” asked Jim.
“Never mind dat!” exclaimed Noel. “Shut up an’ lay quiet! You shut
up too, McAllister! You start him talkin’ crazy ag’in, maybe.”
“Dogs know me, and that red breed better than any,” said Sherwood.
“I think that the red dogs inherited a friendship for me.”
“Maybe so, Dick; but Noel is right. Rest now. Don’t try to think any
more or yer fever’ll be up again. We’ve got four miles to carry you
yet.”
They started after breakfast with Sherwood in the stretcher. They
made the four miles by noon. They set the stretcher down behind a
clump of bushes at the back of the barnyard and Jim went ahead to
warn his sister and get little Marion out of the way. Marion was
given lessons to learn in the library.
Sherwood was unconscious, murmuring, dry of hand and lip and flushed
of brow by the time Jim laid him on the bed in the big spare room.
His appearance shocked Mrs. O’Dell and at sight of his right hand
she turned away to hide her tears. But she dried her tears and set
to work as soon as the men had cut and pulled away Sherwood’s
tattered clothing and placed him between the cool sheets. She gave
the torn hand and swollen arm the most thorough and tender treatment
it had yet received.
The little girl was told of the sick man in the spare room whom
Uncle Jim and Noel Sabattis had found in the woods. She was
cautioned not to play in the hall outside his door or make a noise
in the garden under his windows, for he was very weak and needed
sleep. She was impressed. She questioned old Noel.
“Where did you find him in the woods, Noel?” she asked.
“Way off nort’, layin’ on de moss,” replied Noel. “Red Chief find
’im first.”
“Do you often find sick men lying in the woods?”
“Nope. Sometime.”
“It is a good thing the bears didn’t find him and eat him up.”
“B’ars don’t eat men up.”
“I hope dad isn’t in the woods still. I saw him go into the woods,
away upriver, but he said he would come here for me in a few weeks.”
“Sure, he come here for you. Come in two-t’ree days now, maybe.”
“If he was sick and got lost in the woods like the man in the big
spare room, what would happen to him, Noel?”
“What happen to him if he get lost in de woods, hey? Same what
happen to dis feller—me an’ Jim McAllister an’ dese here dogs find
’im. Nobody git lost ’round here widout we find ’im quick an’ fetch
’im home.”
Jim drove away soon after dinner, headed for Woodstock and Doctor
Scott. He reached the town in two hours. He drove to the doctor’s
house, only to learn that the doctor was out in the country,
downriver, and wasn’t expected home for an hour or two.
Jim stabled the mare, treated himself to a big cigar and strolled
along Front Street. He was greeted by several people he knew. Soon
he was greeted by a man he didn’t know but who evidently knew him.
“Yer Jim McAllister, ain’t you?” inquired the stranger, halting
squarely in his path.
The stranger wore the uniform of a policeman. Jim didn’t like his
looks or his voice.
“Christened James,” said Jim, dryly, “and with a handle in front of
it when I’m smoking a fifteen-cent cigar.”
“Yer wanted, Mister James McAllister,” returned the other. “Come
along, cigar an’ all.”
“Who wants me?”
“Sheriff Corker.”
“Lead me to him, sonny. I can do some business with the sheriff
myself. But I’m in a hurry.”
They walked along side by side. The sheriff was not at home.
“We’ll wait,” said the policeman to the sheriff’s cook.
Jim McAllister looked at his watch.
“I guess not,” he said. “We’ll call again, some other day.”
“Guess again,” returned the young man in blue.
“My second guess is the same,” retorted Jim.
“I’ve heard about you, Mr. McAllister. Yer smart, but you ain’t the
only one. I know yer a game warden an’ a big man upriver, but all
that don’t cut no ice to-day. There’s a warrant out for you.”
“You don’t say! Sworn out by Mel Lunt and old Tim Hood, hey? Where
is it, chief?”
“I ain’t the chief. And I ain’t got the warrant. But the sheriff
will know what to do next.”
“If he don’t I can tell him. Mel got two, didn’t he—two warrants?
One was for Richard Sherwood, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Suppose we take a scout around for Sheriff Corker. I’m in a hurry.”
“Guess we best set right here an’ wait for him.”
“What’s yer name?”
“My name? Bill Simpson.”
“Jerry Simpson’s son, from down on Bent Brook.”
“That’s right, Mr. McAllister.”
“I know yer father well. Smart man, Jerry Simpson. You look like
him. Now about the hurry I’m in. There’s a sick man out at the
O’Dell house and I’ve got to get out to him with Doctor Scott. He’s
the man poor Mel Lunt’s got the warrant out for. Mel’s crazy. I’ve
got Mel cold—and old Hood too—for toting rifles and ball ca’tridges
through the woods in close season. There’s nothing against Sherwood
and Dave Brown is up in Quebec now, looking for the man who did the
thing they’re chasing poor Sherwood for. Mel Lunt is making a fool
of Sheriff Corker. You come along with me, Bill, and save the
sheriff’s face—and maybe an innocent man’s life, too. Mel’s fool
enough to drag Sherwood right out of bed, sick an’ all.”
“I’d sure like to do it, Mr. McAllister, but I dassint. I’m on duty
in town all day. If I went with you I’d lose my job.”
“Now that’s too bad, but if you can’t, you can’t. The sheriff will
wish you did when Dave Brown gets back from Quebec. I’ll have to go
by myself, then.”
“Sorry, Mr. McAllister, but I got to keep you right here till the
sheriff comes home. Rules is rules.”
“And reason is reason, Bill—and when a man can’t see reason it’s
time to operate on his eyes.”
There was a brief, sharp scuffle in the sheriff’s front hall. Young
Bill Simpson proved too quick for Jim McAllister. He didn’t hit any
harder than he had to with his official baton—but it was too hard
for Uncle Jim.