The Beginning of the Harvest
The things Lightning discovered at McFardell’s homestead and later
learned in Hartspool instantly suggested headlong action. He wanted to
fling everything to the winds and get after the “gopher police-scab”
with his old guns primed and a supply of bullets in his pockets.
But there was something, some subtle claim that was infinitely
stronger, holding him back. He felt he would be serving Molly better by
remaining at her call on the farm. Since that hour or so of meditation
in the shade of his wagon at McFardell’s there had steadily grown up
within him a conviction that, whatever his devotion might prompt in
Molly’s defence, his place must be near her all the time now. He felt
that never in all her young life had Molly had so great a need of him.
The thing he learned in Hartspool of Andy McFardell while his team
was being shod came from the township’s best-informed gossip. Barney,
at Lightning’s first introduction of the subject, was only too ready
to pour out an opinion that never at any moment brooked disguise. He
nodded a toast at the old cattleman, at whose expense he was drinking,
swallowed his modest “two fingers” of Rye, set his glass in the
water-trough under the counter, and, leaning forward against the bar,
with arms folded upon it, let loose his story.
“That junk?” he said contemptuously, with a laugh that failed to
reach his shrewd eyes. “Wal, the only thing makes me feel good about
_that_ is he’s stung McCrae, the implement boy around hyar, good an’
plenty. That guy McFardell’s a shyster. But it don’t make me feel
more bad about him that he’s stung McCrae. I ain’t no kind o’ use fer
the machinery bosses o’ this country. It ain’t I’ve a grouch against
machinery. It’s their ways o’ tradin’. There’s folk reckon to close
down every darn liquor joint in the whole of this blamed continent. I
tell you right hyar our trade couldn’t harm a louse compared with the
‘crop mortgage’ system o’ pushing machinery on to crazy guys o’ new
settlers who don’t know better.”
He shrugged his burly shoulders, and his eyes snapped. “He’s lit out,
as I guessed he would. An’ he was slick over it, too. He drove in at
dark, nigh three weeks back, an’ his wagon was full up of his fool
kit. I didn’t see him, but I got the story good. He’d sold one of his
plugs, an’ his two lousy cows, an’ his wagon, before he got in. He drew
his stuff fer that. Then he held a sort o’ auction amongst the boys he
was used to playin’ ‘stud’ with for his outfit. The thing I make out
is they acted white by him. They handed him better money than I would.
Anyway, he got away with it, an’ then wrote out a piece tellin’ McCrae
where to collect up the machinery he’d stocked him with, and he could
snatch his land for the money owin’. That he passed in through the mail
office. And come mornin’ he’d quit Hartspool with his saddle-horse, an’
he ain’t bin around sence.”
Lightning drained his second glass of Rye, and set it empty on the bar.
“Quit the territory?” he inquired simply.
“Maybe. Can’t say.” Barney was wiping glasses, which seemed to be a
habit with him in the absence of any more amusing occupation. “He ain’t
bin around, anyway. An’ seein’ he’s the sort o’ shyster he is, why, I
guess he’d be right here on the bum till his dollars ran out--if he was
around.”
“You reckon he’s beat it,” mused Lightning, fingering his empty glass.
Then he looked up. “You best pass that bottle again. I’m feelin’ kind
o’ mean.”
Barney laughed with his twinkling eyes this time.
“I ain’t ever known you to feel any other way when you blow along into
this burg, Lightning,” he said amiably. “Hev this one on me. You’re the
sort of boy I like gettin’ around. You get an’ elegant souse down your
spine, an’ quit. That’s how a boy should take his liquor.”
He filled up the old man’s glass with raw spirit, and Lightning’s
feelings warmed towards him.
“Do I reckon he’s beat it?” Barney went on, putting the bottle away.
“Surely I do. An’ if you ask me, I’d say he’s begun the hoboe trail.
It mostly starts that way. Dollars an’ a hoss. Later, no hoss. Then
the freight cars. An’ when he can’t ‘jump’ them he’ll need to pad the
railroad ties. That’s him. A sure hoboe.”
Lightning shook his head decidedly.
“Guess he won’t finish that way,” he said.
“How then? Penitentiary?”
Lightning drained his glass again, and the spirit stirred his blood and
lit his eyes fiercely.
“No. It won’t be penitentiary either,” he cried emphatically.
Barney eyed the old man shrewdly.
“Guess McCrae ain’t the only boy he’s stung,” he laughed.
Lightning moved away a little unsteadily.
“I don’t know who he’s stung,” he retorted coldly, “but I’ll need to
sleep right here to-night. I’m pulling out come mornin’.”
Barney nodded.
“That’s all right, boy. Be good.”
And he laughed at the old man’s back as Lightning passed out on his way
to the shoeing-smith.
Blanche had visited the farm in Lightning’s absence. And the news
greeted him on his arrival home. His return seemed to gladden Molly,
in spite of herself. She told him Blanche’s visit was in the way of a
sort of farewell. She had come to tell her that she was not likely to
visit her again for some time; that she would be up in the hills with
her men-folk on a vacation, and did not quite know when she would quit
them. Molly told him she seemed sad because she was going to be in the
hills. But she said she would come again to see her when opportunity
offered.
Lightning yearned to ask if she had confided her trouble to this woman
friend, but discretion forbade. Instead, he asked other questions of a
casual nature. Did she stop around long? And he learned that Blanche
had eaten at the house and then taken her departure.
It was not until he was alone in his bunk-house that night that he
realised a curiously significant thing about Blanche’s visit. She must
have passed him on the trail from Hartspool. She was living somewhere
around Hartspool. She must have been coming to the farm while he was
leaving it. Yet they had not met. He had not seen a sign of her. Then
a further thought occurred to him. Why had he so completely forgotten
her when he was in Hartspool? No doubt Barney Lake could have told him
just who she was and all about her. It was idiotic that he had made no
inquiry. And he fell into his customary deep slumber cursing himself.
But matters relating to Blanche quickly faded out of his mind. Molly
absorbed his whole concern. There was no improvement in her. She worked
from daylight to dark. She ate clearly because she must. Her laugh was
a thing he had forgotten. She was so changed--so utterly changed.
Her attitude towards him was pathetic in its gentleness. Sometimes
there was a display of submissiveness which literally distracted
him. As the weeks passed he realised, too, that her strength was
failing her. She grew weary so easily. The labours with fork and
hoe, which had once been child’s play to her, not only became effort,
but effort she could no longer sustain. And he knew by the signs that
she was steadily becoming sick, not only in mind, but also in body.
Time and youth were no longer her allies. And he was haunted by the
danger-signal, which, with every passing day, he saw drawing nearer.
Lightning had not the temperament to stand by indefinitely without
making an effort. And so it came about that on one memorable evening,
after a day of more than usual anxiety, just as he was leaving his
bunk-house he precipitated things with his sympathy.
“Say, Molly, gal,” he said, no longer able to restrain the impulse,
“you ain’t lookin’ good. An’, mebbe, you ain’t feelin’ good. I kind of
see them pore mean cheeks o’ yours gettin’ thin like paper. An’ you
ain’t got the grit you had for the work around the farm. The oats is
comin’ ripe. We’ll need to be cuttin’ come a week. Now, I bin thinkin’.
The season’s good. Ther’ ain’t no rain about. Ther’ ain’t no sort o’
hurry. Wal, I don’t see you need to worry with that harvest. You sure
don’t. I ken do it lone-handed easy. You lie up. You set around. An’
when them cheeks has filled right out, an’ the colour’s got back to
’em----”
But the old man broke off, aghast at the result of his effort. Molly’s
reply came in the midst of it. It was a repetition of that breakdown on
the night of the party. She burst into a flood of tears, and fled from
the room.
* * * * *
Lightning was feeling more content than the condition of things seemed
to indicate. He was on the saddle of his binder, ruminating behind the
stout quarters of Jane and Blue Pete while he cut the oat crop. There
was something very satisfying to him in the operation. The season was
good. The air was hot and bracing under a perfect sun. The straw was
sturdy, and not too long. The ear was heavy. Then there had been no
summer storms to “lay” the dancing grain that rustled about him. There
were feed and seed to spare in the crop. There would be many quarters
for the Hartspool market.
These things undoubtedly influenced him, but there were others as well.
Molly had voluntarily fallen in with his suggestion. She had left the
oat harvest entirely to him. She had remained to look after the lighter
affairs of the farm. Then, on this first day of the cutting, Blanche
had arrived on her first visit in two months. He had left her now with
Molly, and somehow he was hoping much from her visit.
She had ridden up to the farm more than usually early, having arrived
just after breakfast. Now it was nearing noon, and a big cut of oats
lay sprawled in sheaves to Lightning’s credit. He meant to cut till
eating-time, and spend the afternoon stooking. His temper was easy as
the machine passed up and down the crop. Jane and Blue Pete were having
a peaceful time, and seemed to approve. From the creek to the bluff,
which shut them out of sight of their barn, they moved on steadily,
comfortably encircling the ever-diminishing patch of standing grain.
He was nearing the woodland bluff when Blanche appeared. She came
through the woods, clearly prepared for departure. It was also obvious
to Lightning that she had come specially to talk to him. Were it not
so she would surely have departed the way she had come, which way lay
farther down the creek, where he had broken the new five acres earlier
in the year.
He drew up his team as he approached the spot at which she was awaiting
him. His eyes betrayed the question in his mind, and his first words
displayed his anxiety.
“Mebbe you ken tell me, ma’am, now you’ve seen her,” he said eagerly.
“I’m figgerin’ that pore kid’s sick. Sick to death. An’ I’m wonderin’.
I feel like it’s right up to me. An’--an’ I heven’t a notion of the
thing I need to do. It ain’t a case o’ salts fer Molly gal’s sickness.
Mebbe her body’s sick. I guess it surely is. But I sort o’ feel it’s
her mind’s the trouble, ma’am. An’ I guess ther’ ain’t no dope merchant
in Hartspool ken fix that. You’re a swell leddy, with knowledge, an’
I guess she’s a woman like you. It’s since ever that party, an’ that
skunk of a boy ain’t showed up.”
Blanche’s eyes were grave as she looked down on the man from her
saddle. She was observing him closely, looking for an answer to the
many questions in her own mind. Apparently her observation satisfied
her, for an indefinable expression slowly eased her gravity.
“She’s sick,” she said. Then she added: “She’s more sick than you
guess.”
The full significance of what she said lay in Blanche’s tone. And
Lightning’s old heart sank within him.
“Meanin’?” he cried anxiously.
Blanche shook her head.
“I’ve never seen such a change in anyone in so short a while,
Lightning,” she said gravely. “And I can’t get her to say a thing. I
just can’t get a word out of her about herself. She laughs. And her
laugh’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard. Oh, she talked about
anything but herself, and she laughed like--like a machine. Maybe
she thought she was getting away with it. She wasn’t. I could see
the trouble lying back of it all like reading an open book. It’s a
bit dreadful. You see, I could see the trouble without being able
to--recognise it. Tell me anything you can--all you know.”
Lightning felt that his hope and faith in this woman had not been
misplaced. She had asked him to do the thing he had long since made up
his mind to do. He intended to tell her the whole story, and began at
once.
He told his story with all the close detail which his anxiety had
impressed upon his mind. He told it from the very beginning, when
they had first discovered Andy McFardell was their neighbour, down
to his latest discovery that the man had abandoned his homestead and
disappeared. He lost no opportunity of impressing on Blanche his own
dislike and distrust of the man, and of how he had urged Molly to cut
him out. He gave her frankly to understand that his urging of Molly was
chiefly inspired by his dislike of the man, but was not unsupported
by the things he had learned about him in Hartspool. And Blanche,
listening to the harsh voice and harsher language, felt that she was
being admitted to the innermost thoughts and feelings of a man who is
completely at the end of his resources. There was something almost
terrible in the savage passion of his final words.
“Ma’am,” he said, his body crouched on the binder saddle, his face
raised to hers till the stringy flesh of his throat was drawn like
tight-stretched parchment, his eyes alight and burning like coals of
fire, “ther’s no dirt a boy ken do like settin’ a gal crazy with all
the love in her, an’ quittin’ her cold, an’ lightin’ out to beat it
from the thing he’s done. That feller ain’t a skunk, ma’am. He ain’t
even a yellow cur. Ma’am, ther’s worse things than them. Ther’s things
so mean, so low down, that the only way you ken fix ’em right is to
crush ’em, smash ’em, beat ’em to small pieces, so you can’t rec’nise
’em for the muss they make under your feet. Do you get me? That feller
just needs smashin’ to small meat.”
Blanche had never encountered such concentrated hate and merciless
bitterness. It appalled her. But she was caught by it, and held by the
sense of the primitive that inspired it.
“It’s awful!” she cried. “It’s--it’s just awful! The man’s a--a
scoundrel! He’s--oh, it makes me crazy mad to think of it. It’s----”
She broke off. There was a start of alarm as a thought flashed into her
mind. She turned away from the man who was waiting upon her words, and
her gaze sought the distant hills to the south and west.
There had suddenly come to her a new interpretation of Andy McFardell’s
going. And it was an interpretation that had nothing to do with Molly.
The man had gone, cleared out, vanished. He had not shown up again in
Hartspool. Then, where--where had he gone? _Was_ his going the escape
from Molly they had been thinking it was? She had suddenly remembered
that Andy McFardell had encountered and recognised her brother, Jim.
And Jim was the cause of his original downfall.
“I must be going,” she said awkwardly. Then, realising the abruptness
of her manner: “I’ve stopped around longer than I reckoned.”
“Are you a long piece up in the hills, ma’am?” Lightning asked
uneasily. He was thinking of the possible needs of Molly, and of his
own helplessness.
“Longer than makes it easy riding down here often.” Blanche shook her
head. “It’s rough territory,” she went on, “and there’s no trail. I
couldn’t tell you so you’d understand it right. No. I’ll come along,
though, just when I can. I don’t know. That poor child’s sick--sick.”
The sympathy deepened in her eyes.
“Yes, it’s her mind, Lightning. She’s troubled so she’s right down
sick. And I don’t know what you’re to do. You must watch her, sure. Oh,
yes, you must watch her. And--and if she gets worse, you’ll need to get
right after a doctor, if you can get one in Hartspool. You see, she
won’t say a thing. I can’t quite----”
“No?”
Lightning’s interrogation came curiously. There was something
suggestive in it, something that caught and held the girl, and sent a
wave of panic through her heart.
“No,” she repeated, a little mechanically.
Silence fell between them. The intentness of their regard was for the
thought that was passing in each mind. Maybe even, ill-matched as
they were, yet so bonded in the object of their sympathy, there was
something of thought-transference passing between them. At any rate,
there was no spoken word that could have inspired the sharp-drawn
breath which accompanied the light of panic that had suddenly appeared
in Blanche’s eyes. She seemed about to speak, but no sound came.
Instead, her lips closed tightly, sealing themselves over the thing
that, in an unguarded moment, was almost escaping her.
She lifted her reins and turned her horse. And as the creature moved
Lightning’s voice came low and almost pleading.
“You’ll surely come again, ma’am?” he begged her.
Blanche inclined her head.
“Surely,” she said.
Lightning watched her go. He watched her until she had passed
completely from view. Then he got down and unhooked his team.