Martin Frisbie and his nephew Raymond Stetson, or Ray, were cutting
boughs and carrying them to two tents standing in the mouth of a
bush-choked opening into the forest. In front of this Angie, Martin's
wife, was placing tin dishes, knives, and forks, upon a low table of
boards. Upon the bank of a broad, slow-running stream, two canoes were
drawn out, and halfway between these and the table a camp-fire burnt.
Here Levi, Martin's guide for many trips into this wilderness, was also
occupied, intently watching two pails depending from bending wambecks,
a coffee-pot hanging from another, and two frying-pans, whose sputtering
contents gave forth an enticing odor.
Twilight was just falling, the river murmured in low melody, and a few
rods above a small rill entered it, adding a more musical tinkle.
Soon Levi deftly swung one of the pails away from the flame with a
hook-stick and speared a potato with a fork.
"Supper ready," he called; and then as the rest seated themselves at
the table, he advanced, carrying the pail of steaming potatoes on the
hooked stick and the frying-pan in his other hand.
The meal had scarce begun when a crackling in the undergrowth back of
the tent was heard, and on the instant there emerged a girl. Her clothing
was in shreds, her face and hands were black with mud, streaks of blood
showed across cheek and chin, and her eyes were fierce and sunken.
"For God's sake give me suthin' to eat," she said, looking from one
to another of the astonished group. "I'm damn near starved--only a
bite," she added, sinking to her knees and extending her hands. "I
hain't eat nothin' but roots 'n' berries for three days."
Angie was the first to recover. "Here," she said, hastily extending
her plate, "take this."
Without a word the starved creature grasped it and began eating as only a
desperate, hungry animal would, while the group watched her.
"Don't hurry so," exclaimed Martin, whose wits had now returned.
"Here, take this cup of coffee."
Soon the food vanished and then the girl arose. "Sit down again, my poor
child," entreated Angie, who had observed the strange scene with moist
eyes, "and tell us who you are and where you came from."
"My name's Chip," answered the girl, bluntly, "an' I'm runnin'
away from Tim's Place, 'cause dad sold me to Pete Bolduc."
"Sold--you--to--Pete--Bolduc," exclaimed Angie, looking at her
wide-eyed. "What do you mean?"
"He did, sartin," answered the girl, laconically. "I heerd 'em
makin' the bargain, 'n' I fetched three hundred dollars."
Martin and his wife exchanged glances.
"Well, and then what?" continued Angie.
"Wal, then I waited a spell, till they'd turned in," explained
the girl, "and then I lit out. I knowed 'twas sixty miles to the
settlement, but 'twas moonlight 'n' I chanced it. I've had an awful
time, though, the spites hev chased me all the way. I was jist makin' a
nestle when I seed yer light, an' I crept through the brush 'n'
peeked. I seen ye wa'n't nobody from Tim's Place, 'n' then I cum
out. I guess you've saved my life. I was gittin' dizzy."
It was a brief, blunt story whose directness bespoke truth; but it
revealed such a pigsty state of morality at this Tim's Place that the
little group of astonished listeners could scarce finish supper or
cease watching this much-soiled girl.
"And so your name is Chip," queried Angie at last. "Chip what?"
"Chip McGuire," answered the waif, quickly; "only my real name ain't
Chip, it's Vera; but they've allus called me Chip at Tim's Place."
"And your father sold you to this man?"
"He did, 'n' he's a damn bad man," replied Chip, readily. "He
killed somebody once, an' he don't show up often. I hate him!"
"You mustn't use swear words," returned Angie, "it's not nice."
The girl looked abashed. "I guess you'd cuss if you'd been sold to
such a nasty-looking man as Pete," she responded. "He chaws terbaccer
'n' lets it drizzle on his chin, 'n' he hain't but one eye."
Angie smiled, while Martin stared at the girl with increased
astonishment. He knew who this McGuire was, and something of his
history, and that Tim's Place was a hillside clearing far up the
river, inhabited by an Irish family devoted to the raising of
potatoes. He had halted there once, long enough to observe its somewhat
slothful condition, and to buy pork and potatoes; but this tale was a
revelation, and the girl herself a greater one.
This oasis in the wilderness was fully forty miles above here, its only
connection with civilization was a seldom-used log road which only an
experienced woodsman could follow, and how this mere child had dared it,
was a marvel.
But there she was, squat on the ground and watching them with big black,
pleading eyes. There was but one thing to do, to care for her now,
as humanity insisted, and Angie made the first move. It was in the
direction of cleanliness; for entering the tent, she soon appeared with
some of her own extra clothing, soap, and towels, and bade the girl
follow her up the river a few rods.
The moon was shining clearly above the tree-tops, the camp-fire burned
brightly, and Martin, Ray, and Levi were lounging near it when the two
returned, and in one an astonishing transformation had taken place.
Angie had gone away with a girl of ten in respect to clothing, her skirt
evidently made of gunny cloth and reaching but little below her knees,
and for a waist, what was once a man's red flannel shirt, and both in
rags. Soiled with black mud, and bleeding, she was an object pitiable
beyond words; she returned a young lady, almost, in stature, her face
shining and rosy, and her eyes so tender with gratitude that they were
pathetic.
Another change had also come with cleanliness and clothing--a sudden
bashfulness. It was some time ere she could be made to talk again,
but finally that wore away and then her story came. What a tale it
was--scarce credible.
At first were growing terrors as she plunged deeper and deeper into
the shadowy forest, the brush and logs that tripped her, the mud holes
she wallowed through, the ever increasing horrors of this flight, the
blood-chilling cries of night prowlers, the gathering darkness while
she waited on the bridge, the awful moment when she saw two yellow eyes
watching her, not twenty feet away, her screams of agonized fear, and
then time that seemed eternity, while she expected the next moment to
feel the fangs of a hungry panther.
How blessed the first dawn of morning had seemed, how she ran on and
on, until faint with hunger she halted to eat roots, leaves,
berries--anything to sustain life! The river had been her one boon
of hope and consolation, and even beyond the fear of wild beast had
been the dread of pursuit and capture by this half-breed. When night
came, she had crept into a thicket, covering herself with boughs;
when daylight dawned, she had pushed on again, ever growing weaker and
oft stumbling from faintness.
Hope had almost vanished, her strength had quite left her, the last day
had been a partial blank so far as knowledge of her progress went, but
filled with eerie sights and sounds. From first to last the spites of
Old Tomah had kept her company--by day she heard them, swifter-footed
than she, in the undergrowth; by night they were all about, dodging
behind trees, hopping from limb to limb, and sometimes snapping and
snarling. The one supreme moment of joy, oft referred to, was when she
had seen her rescuers' camp-fire, with human, and possibly friendly,
faces about it.
It was a fantastic, weird, almost spookish tale,--the spectres she had
seen were so real to her that the telling made them seem almost so to
the rest, and beyond that, the girl herself, so like a young witch, with
her shadowy eyes and furtive glances, added to the illusion.
But now came a diversion, for Levi freshened the fire, and at a nod
from Angie, Ray brought forth his banjo. It was his one pet foible, and
it went with him everywhere, and now, with time and place so in accord,
he was glad to exhibit his talent. He was not an expert,--a few jigs and
plantation melodies composed his repertory,--but with the moonlight
glinting through the spruce boughs, the river murmuring near, somehow one
could not fail to catch the quaint humor of "Old Uncle Ned," "Jim
Crack Corn," and the like, and see the two dusky lovers as they floated
down the "Tombigbee River," and feel the pathos of "Nellie Grey"
and "Old Kentucky Home."
Ray sang fairly well and in sympathy with each theme. To Angie and the
rest it was but ordinary; but to this waif, who never before had heard
a banjo or a darky song, it was marvellous. Her face lit up with keen
interest, her eyes grew misty at times, and once two tears stole down
her cheeks.
For an hour Ray was the centre of interest, and then Angie arose.
"Come, Chip," she said pleasantly, "it's time to go to bed, and you
are to share my tent."
"I'd rather not," the girl replied bluntly. "I ain't fit. I kin jist
ez well curl 'longside o' the fire."
But Angie insisted and the girl followed her into the tent.
Here occurred another incident that must be related. Angie, always
devout, and somewhat puritanical, was one who never forgot her nightly
prayer, and now, when ready for slumber, she knelt on the bed of fir
twigs, and by the light of one small candle offered her usual petition,
while Chip watched her with wide and wondering eyes. As might be
expected, that waif was mentioned, and with deep feeling.
"Do ye s'pose God heard ye?" she queried with evident candor, when
Angie ceased.
"Why, certainly," came the earnest answer; "God hears all prayers."
"And do the spites hear 'em?"
"There are no such creatures as 'spites,'" answered Angie,
severely; "you only imagine them, and what this Indian has told you is
superstition."
"But I've seen 'em, hundreds on 'em, big and little," returned the
girl, stoutly.
Angie looked at her with pity.
"Put that notion out of your head, once for all," she said, almost
sternly. "It is only a delusion, and no doubt told to scare you."
And poor Chip, conscious that perhaps she had sinned in speech, said no
more.
For a long time Angie lay sleepless upon her fragrant bed, recalling the
waif's strange story and trying to grasp the depth and breadth of her
life at Tim's Place; also to surmise, if possible, how serious a taint
of evil she had inherited. That her father was vile beyond compare seemed
positive; that her mother might have been scarce better was probable.
No mention, thus far, had been made of her; and so Angie reflected
upon this pitiful child's ancestry and what manner of heritage she had
been blessed or cursed with. Some of her attributes awoke Angie's
admiration. She had shown utter abhorrence of this brutal sale of
herself, a marvellous courage in endeavoring to escape it. She seemed
grateful for what had been done for her, and a partial realization of
her own unfitness for association with refined people. Her speech was no
worse than might be expected from her life at Tim's Place. Doubtless,
she was unable to read or write. And so Angie lay, considering all the
pros and cons of the situation and of this girl's life.
There was also another side to it all, the humane one. They were on
their way out of the wilderness, for a business visit to the nearest
settlement, intending to return to the woods in a few days--and what
was to be done with this child of misfortune?
Most assuredly they must protect her for the present. But was there any
one to whom she could be turned over and cared for? It seemed possible
this brutal buyer of her would follow her out of the woods, to abduct her
if found, and then the moral side of this episode with all its abominable
possibilities occurred to Angie, who was, above all, unselfish and
noble-hearted. Vice, crime, and immorality were horrible to her.
Here was a self-evident duty thrusting itself upon her, and how to meet
it with justice to herself, her husband, and her own conscience, was a
problem. Thus dwelling upon this complex situation, she fell asleep.
The first faint light of morning was stealing into the tent when Angie
felt her companion stir. She had, exhausted as she doubtless was, fallen
asleep almost the moment she lay down; but now she was evidently awake.
Curious to note what she would do, Angie remained with closed eyes and
motionless. From the corner of the tent where she had curled up the night
before, the girl now cautiously crept toward the elder woman. Inch by
inch, upon the bed of boughs, she moved nearer, until Angie, watching
with half-open eyes, saw her head lowered, and felt two soft warm lips
touch her hand.
It was a trifle. It was no more than the act of a cat who rubs herself
against her mistress or a dog who licks his master's hand, and yet it
settled once for all that waif's fate and Angie's indecision.