BILL PEEPS UNDER THE SURFACE
The surprises of the night were not yet over for Big Brother Bill. It
almost seemed as if a lifetime of surprises were to be crowded into
his first night in the valley of Leaping Creek.
Still thoroughly moist, he finally reached home to find his brother
there, waiting for him.
Of course, the big man promptly blundered.
Charlie was in the living room, sitting in a dilapidated rocking
chair. An unopen book was in his lap, and his dark, clever face was
turned toward the single window the room possessed, as the heavy tread
of Bill sounded on the veranda.
It was obvious he was still laboring under the influence of the
drink; it was also obvious, though less apparent, that he was laboring
under an emotion, which unusually disturbed him. His eyes were shining
with a gleaming light which might have expressed anger, excitement,
or even simply the effect of his libations. Whatever it was, Bill
recognized, without appreciating its meaning, a definite change from
the man he had so cordially greeted earlier in the day; a recognition
which made his blundering now, more hopelessly than ever, an
expression of his utter lack of discretion.
"Say, Charlie, boy," he cried, as he entered the little room, filling
it almost to overflowing with his robust personality, "I've chased
half over the valley looking for you. Then I saw you at the old pine
and shouted, and you sort of faded away. I thought I'd 'got' 'em. What
with that, and then falling into the river, and one or two minor, but
more or less unpleasant accidents, I've had one awful time. Say, this
valley's got me beat to death."
The simplicity of the man was monumental. No one else could have
looked upon that slight figure, huddled down in the big old rocker,
without having experienced a feeling of restraint; no one could have
observed the drawn, frowning brows, and the hard lines about the still
somewhat sensual mouth, without using an added caution in approaching
him. There were fires stirring behind Charlie's dark eyes which were
certainly ominous.
Now, as he listened to his brother's greeting, swift anger leaped into
them. His words came sharply, and almost without restraint. Big
Brother Bill was confronted by another side of his nature, a side of
which he had no knowledge whatever.
"You always were a damned fool," Charlie cried, starting heatedly
forward in his chair. "I told you I was going out. If you had any sort
of horse sense you'd have understood I wasn't in need of a wet-nurse.
What the devil do you want smelling out my trail as if you were one of
the police?" Then he suddenly broke into an unpleasant laugh. "You
came here in Fyles's company. Maybe you caught the police infection
from him."
Bill stared in wide-eyed astonishment at the harsh injustice of the
attack. For one second his blood ran hot, and a wild desire to
retaliate leaped. But the moment passed. Though he was not fully aware
of Charlie's condition, something of it now forced itself upon him,
and his big-hearted regret saved him from his more rampant feelings.
He sat himself on the edge of the table.
"Easy, Charlie," he said quietly, "you're kind of talking recklessly.
I'm no wet-nurse to anybody. Certainly it's not my wish to interfere
with you. I'm--sorry if I've hurt you. I just looked around to tell
you my adventures, I'm no--spy."
Charlie rose from his seat. He stood swaying slightly. The sight of
this outward sign of his drunken condition smote the good-natured Bill
to the heart. It was nothing new to him in his erring brother. He had
seen it all before, years ago, so many, many times. But through all
these years apart he had hoped for that belated reforming which meant
so much. He had hoped and believed it had set in. Now he knew, and his
last hopes were dashed. Kate Seton had warned him, but her warning had
not touched him as the exhibition he now beheld did. Why, why had
Charlie done this thing, and done it to-night--their first night
together in the new world? He could have cried out in his bitterness
of disappointment.
As he looked upon the man's unsteady poise he felt as though he could
have picked him up in his two strong hands and shaken sober senses
into him.
But Charlie's mood had changed at the sound of the big man's regrets.
They had penetrated the mists of alcohol, and stirred a belated
contrition.
"I don't want any apologies from you, Bill," he said thickly. "Guess
I'm not worth it. You couldn't spy on a soul. It's not that----." He
broke off, and it became evident to the other that he was making a
supreme effort at concentration. "You saw me at the pine?" he suddenly
inquired.
Bill nodded. He had no desire to say anything more now. He felt sick
with himself, with everything. He almost regretted his own coming to
the valley at all. For a moment his optimism was utterly obscured.
Added to what he now beheld, all that Kate Seton had said was
revolving in his brain, an oppressive cloud depriving him of every joy
the reunion with his brother had inspired. The two thoughts paramount,
and all pervading, were suggested by the words "drunkard" and "crook."
Nor, in that moment of terrible disappointment, would they be denied.
Charlie sat down in his chair again, and, to the onlooker, his
movement was almost involuntary.
"I was there," he said, a moment later, passing one hand across his
frowning brows as though to clear away the cobwebs impeding the
machinery of his thought. "Why--why didn't you come and speak to me? I
was just--around."
Again Bill's eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"I hollered to you," he said. "When you heard me you just--vanished."
Again Charlie smoothed his brow.
"Yes--I'd forgotten. It was you hollered, eh! You see, I didn't know
it was you."
Bill sat swinging one leg thoughtfully. A sort of bewilderment was
getting hold of him.
"You didn't recognize my voice?" he asked. Then he added thoughtfully,
"No--and it might have been Fyles, or the other policemen. They were
there."
Charlie suddenly sat up. His hands were grasping the arms of the
rocker.
"The police were there--with you?" he demanded. "What--what were they
doing there--with you?"
The sharp questions, flung at him so quickly, so soberly, suddenly
lifted Bill out of his vain and moody regrets.
In spite of all Kate had told him, in spite of her assurance that
Fyles, and all the valley, believed Charlie to be the head of the
smuggling gang, the full significance of Fyles's presence in the
neighborhood of the pine had not penetrated to his slow understanding
before. Now an added light was thrown upon the matter in a flash of
greater understanding. Fyles was not watching any chance crook. He was
watching Charlie, and he knew it was Charlie, and the assurance of
Charlie's identity extracted from him, Bill, had been a simple blind.
What a fool he had made of himself. Kate was right. The harm he had
done now became appalling.
He promptly became absorbed in a strongly restrained excitement. He
leaned forward and talked rapidly. He had forgotten Charlie's
condition, he had forgotten everything but the danger threatening.
"Here, Charlie," he cried, "I'll tell you just all that happened after
I left here, when you went out. Guess it's a long yarn, but I think
you need to know it for your own safety."
Charlie leaned back in his chair and nodded.
"Go ahead," he said. Then he closed his eyes as Bill rushed into his
narrative.
The big man told it all as far as it concerned his first meeting with
the Setons, his subsequent visit to the saloon, and, afterwards, his
meeting with Fyles. The only thing he kept to himself was his final
meeting with Kate Seton.
At the end of this story Charlie reopened his eyes, and, to any one
more observant than Big Brother Bill, it was plain that his condition
had improved. A keen light was shining in them, a light of interest
and perfectly clear understanding.
"Thanks, Bill," he said, "I'm glad you've told me all that." Then he
rose from his chair, and his movements had become more certain, more
definite. "Guess I'll get off to bed. It's no use discussing all this.
It can lead nowhere. Still, there is one thing I'd like to say before
we quit. I'm glad, I'm so mighty glad you've come along out here to
join me I can't just say it all to you. I'm ready to tumble headlong
into any schemes you've got in your head. But there's things in my
life I've got to work out in my own way. Things I can't and don't want
to talk about. Maybe I'll often be doing things that seem queer to
you. But I want to do 'em, and intend to do 'em. Drink is not one
of 'em. You'll find I'm a night bird, too. But, again, my night
wanderings are my own. You'll hear folks say all sorts of things about
me. You'll see Fyles very busy. Well, it's up to you to listen or not.
All I say is don't fight my battles. I can fight them in my own way.
Two of us are liable to mess them all up. Get me? I live my life, and
you can share as much in it as you like, except in that--well, that
part of it I need to keep to myself. There's just one thing I promise
you, Fyles'll never get me inside any penitentiary. I promise you
that, sure, because I know from your manner that's the trouble in the
back of your silly old head. Good night."
He passed out of the room without giving the astonished Bill any
opportunity to do more than respond to his "good night." Anyway, the
latter had nothing else to say. He was too taken aback, too painfully
startled at the tacit admission to all the charges he had been warned
the people and police of Leaping Creek were making against his
brother. What could he say? What could he do? Nothing--simply nothing.
He remained where he was against the table. He had forgotten his wet
clothes. He had forgotten everything in the overwhelming nature of
his painful feelings. His own beliefs, Kate's loyally expressed
convictions, had been utterly negatived. It was all true. All
painfully, dreadfully true. Charlie was not only a drunkard still, but
the "crook" he was supposed to be. He was a whisky-runner. He was
against the law. His ultimate goal was the penitentiary. Good God, the
thought was appalling! This was where drink had led him. This was the
end of his spoiled and wayward brother's career. What a cruel waste of
a promising life. His good-natured, gentle-hearted brother. The boy he
had always admired and loved in those early days. It was cruel,
terrible. By his own admission he was against the law, a "crook,"
and--the penitentiary was looming.