I have seen some mighty quick changes brought about by flood o’
circumstances breakin’ on a man all of a sudden—ol’ Cast Steel
Judson, himself, had melted and run into a new mold the night o’
Barbie’s weddin’—but I never saw such a complete change as had took
place in The since I’d first seen him. He loved devilment then, like a
bear loves honey; while now he had swung back with the pendulem clear
to the other side, until he was more unworldly ’n the Friar himself.
It wasn’t what he said ’at made a feller feel funny inside, it was his
eyes. His eyes were all the time tryin’ to tell things ’at his tongue
couldn’t frame up, and it acted like brakes on a feller’s breathin’
apparatus.
I asked the Friar about it one evenin’ while we were walkin’ back
through the ravine. He walked along with his brows wrinkled a few
minutes, and then said: “You see, Happy, the whole human race is made
up o’ millions of individuals, and each one is some alike and some
different. A man goes through childhood, youth, his fightin’ period,
and old age; and the race has to do the same thing.
“Now, ages ago when the childhood o’ the race began, folks were
downright primitive; they used stone axes, skins for clothing, and ate
raw flesh. They were fierce, impulsive, passionate, just like children
are if you watch ’em close enough; but they lived close to nature,
just like the children do, and their bodies were vigorous, and their
minds were like dry sponges, ready to absorb whatever fell upon ’em.
“The outdoor man of to-day is still primitive; he delights in his
dissipations, and recklessness, but the grim, set face which he wears,
is a mask. The rich, pure air is all the time washin’ his body clean,
his active life keeps his nerves sound and accurate, and his heart is
like the heart of a little child—hungry for good or evil, and needin’
a guiding hand all the time.
“In the mornin’ a child is so full o’ life that words don’t mean much
to him; but when the play o’ the day is over, he comes home, through
the twilight shadows, bruised an’ disappointed an’ purty well tired
out. All day long he’s waged his little wars; but now he is mighty
glad to pillow his head close to his mother’s heart; and then it is
that the seeds o’ gentleness are easiest sprouted. This is the
twilight time for Promotheus.”
We didn’t have anything more to say on this walk; but we both had
plenty to think of. It allus seemed to me that in some curious way,
the Friar, himself, was better ’n his own religion. His religion made
badness a feller’s own fault; but after gettin’ to know the Friar, it
allus made ya feel more like takin’ some share in the other feller’s
sin, than like pointin’ your finger at him and sayin’ he never was any
good, nohow.
A couple o’ days after this, the doctor told us that the sands were
runnin’ mighty low in The’s hour-glass, and it wouldn’t be long to the
end; but still we couldn’t believe it. He didn’t look bad, nor he
didn’t suffer; and we had seen him come back from the grave almost,
that time at Olaf’s when Horace had claimed his life, and had saved
him in spite of himself.
Then again, the doctor had missed it on Janet, and we were all hopin’
he’d get slipped up on again; but The himself seemed to side with the
doctor, and Olaf took one long look, an’ then shut his lips tight an’
shook his head. The said he wanted to live, and had done all he could
to get a clinch on life; but that it was slippin’ away from him drop
by drop, and he couldn’t stay with us much longer.
He seemed to want us about him, so we dropped in and sat beside him as
long as we could keep cheerful. All through the afternoon he lay with
a serious, gentle smile on his lips, but the sadness was mostly gone,
even from his eyes. I closed my own eyes as I sat beside him, and
called up the picture o’ Badger-face the day he had wanted to lynch
Olaf. Then I opened my eyes and looked at the real Promotheus, and I
understood what the Friar meant by bein’ born again.
I spoke o’ this to ol’ Tank Williams, and he fired up at me as though
I had poured red pepper in the nose of a sleepin’ cripple. “You’re a
nice one, you are!” sez he. “I’d sooner fill myself with alcohol and
die in a stupor than to call up The’s past at such a time as this. You
ought to be ashamed o’ yourself.”
The’ was no way to make Tank see what I meant so I sent him in to set
with The a while, and took a little walk up the ravine. Every step I
took brought some memory o’ the time The and Horace and I had first
started to find out about the woman; and it wasn’t long before I was
ready to turn back.
Janet was quite strong by this time, though she still had to wear a
bandage; and after supper, the Friar took her in to see Promotheus. He
had told her all about him, and she was mighty sorry to think ’at his
end was near. She didn’t recall havin’ been kind to him when he was
playin’ cripple; but the Friar had told her about this, too. Horace
had told the Friar about what Ty had said, and it had cut him purty
deep; but he had braced up better ’n we expected. We didn’t any of us
know what effect bringin’ Janet in sight o’ Ty would have, and when
she came into the mess-hall, we watched purty close.
Ty sat propped up, with his clenched hand restin’ outside the blanket,
and an expression on his face like that of a trapped mountain-lion. He
glared up at her as she came near; but she only looked at him with
pity in her eyes, and she didn’t seem to recognize him, at all—just
looked at him as though he was a perfect stranger which she was sorry
for, and Tank, who was settin’ next me, gave me a nudge in my short
ribs, which was about as delicate as though it had come from the hind
foot of a mule. “Well?” I whispered. “What do ya mean by that?”
“Couldn’t ya see ’at she didn’t know him?” sez Tank.
“That’s nothin’,” sez I. “He knew her all right.”
“Yes, but Great Scott,” sez he, “a man can’t claim that a woman’s his
wife if she don’t know him, can he?”
“Pshaw,” sez I, “if you’d settle things that way, the’ wouldn’t be any
married people left. The’ ain’t one woman in fifty ’at knows her
husband, and the’ ain’t any men at all who know their wives.”
“You’re just dodgin’ the question,” sez Tank. “I claim that if a man
marries a woman when she’s out of her mind, he ain’t got any claim on
her when she gets back into her mind again.”
“Look here, Tank,” sez I; “you’ve never had much experience with the
world, ’cause every time you went where experience was to be had, you
got too intoxicated to take notice; but I’m tellin’ you the truth when
I say that if women didn’t sometimes get out o’ their right minds,
they wouldn’t get married at all.”
“Aw, shut up,” sez Tank.
Janet had gone over to Promotheus, and was smoothin’ his forehead. She
had a beautiful, shapely hand, and it made me feel a little wishful to
watch her. The lay perfectly still, and his sensations must ’a’ been
peculiar. Ty Jones didn’t even look at ’em. He kept his brows scowled
down and his gaze out the south window.
Presently Janet turned and walked out to the porch. It was an
unusually warm night, and she sat there alone, while the Friar came
back to The. Horace had gone off by himself to get a grip on his
feelin’s; but he came in about nine o’clock, and went up and took
The’s hand. “Well,” sez he, “have you finally got over your nonsense?
I have a lot o’ plans I want to carry out, and you know I can’t have
you loafin’ much longer.”
Nothin’ suited The so well as to have a little joke put at him; but he
didn’t have any come-back to this. He caught at his breath a time or
two, and then said: “I can’t do it, this time, Horace. I hate to
disappoint ya—I’ve been countin’ on what a good time we were goin’ to
have—up there in the hills—but I can’t come back this time—I,
can’t, quite, make it.”
He ended with a little gurgle and sank back on the pillow. Horace
shook him a little and then flew for the doctor, who was on the porch
o’ the old cabin. They were back in half a minute, Horace pushin’ the
doctor before him; and we all held our breaths when he felt The’s
pulse. The doctor squirted somethin’ into The’s arm, and after a bit,
he opened his eyes with a long sigh, and when he saw Horace bendin’
over him, he smiled.
“I mighty near slipped away that time,” sez he. “It’s not goin’ to be
hard, Horace; and I don’t want you to worry. I feel as comfortable as
if I was sleepin’ on a cloud, and there isn’t one, single thing to
grieve about. I’ve been like one o’ those hard little apples which
take so long to ripen. I’ve hung up on a high bough and the rains beat
on me, and the sun shone on me, and the winds shook me about, and the
birds pecked at me until at last just the right sort o’ weather came
along and I became softer and softer, and riper and riper, until now
my hold on the stem begins to weaken. Purty soon a little gust’ll come
along and shake me down on the green grass; but this is all right,
this is perfectly natural, and I don’t want you to feel bad about it.
“I own up now, that I’ve been afraid o’ death all my life; but this
has passed. I don’t suffer a bit; but I’m tired, just that pleasant
weariness a feller feels when his last pipe has been smoked, and the
glow o’ the camp fire begins to form those queer pictures, in which
the doin’s o’ that day mingle with the doin’s of other days. I’m
liable to drop off to sleep at any moment, now; and I’d like—I’d kind
o’ like to shake hands with the boys before I go.”
Well, this gave Horace something to do, and he was mighty glad to do
it. After we had all shaken hands with The, he marched up the
prisoners, even to the Chink, and they all shook hands, too; and by
this time Prometheus was purty tired; but he did look unusual
contented. He glanced across at Ty; but Ty had turned his face to the
wall, and The gave a little sigh, settled down into the pillow again,
and closed his eyes. Horace backed around until The couldn’t see him,
and shook his fist at Ty, good and earnest.
Purty soon a regular grin came to The’s face, and he opened his eyes
and looked at the Friar with a twinkle in ’em. “Friar Tuck,” sez he,
“I don’t know as I ever mentioned it before, but I’ll confess now that
I’m right glad I didn’t lynch you for stealin’ those hosses.” He lay
there smilin’ a minute, and then held out his hand. “Good-bye,
Horace,” he said in a firm voice.
Horace had been doin’ uncommon well up to now; but he couldn’t stand
this. He threw himself on the bed, took both o’ The’s hands and looked
down into his face. “Promotheus, Prometheus,” he called to him in a
shakin’ voice. “Don’t give up! You can win if you fight a while
longer. Remember that day in the desert, when I wanted to lie down and
end it all. You said you didn’t take any stock in such nonsense; and
you picked me up and carried me over the molten copper, while queer
things came out o’ the air and clutched at us. You reached the
water-hole that time, Promotheus, and you can do it again, if you just
use all your might.”
Promotheus opened his eyes and his jagged, gnarly teeth showed in a
smile, weak and trembly, but still game to the last line of it.
“Nope,” he said so low we could hardly hear him, “I’m Promotheus, all
right. I hung on as long as I could; but the vultures have finished my
liver at last, Horace—they have finally finished it. I hate to leave
you; but I’ll have to be goin’ soon. The’s only one thing I ask of
ya—don’t send a single one o’ the boys to the pen. They don’t know
what the world really is; but shuttin’ ’em out of it won’t ever teach
’em. If the’s anything you can do to give ’em a little start, it would
be a mighty good thing—a mighty good thing.” His voice was gettin’
awful weak, an’ he’d have to rest every few words.
“And Ty Jones, too,” he went on, “Ty was square with me in the old
days. Try to make him understand what it was ’at turned me again’ him;
and if the’s any way to make things easier for Ty, I want you to have
it done. Ty had a lot o’ tough times, himself, before he turned all
the hard part of his nature outside. Don’t bear him any malice,
Horace. Seventy times seven, the Friar sez we ought to forgive, and
that many’ll last a long time, if a feller don’t take offence too
easy. The’s a lot o’ things I don’t understand; but some way it seems
to me that if I could just go out feelin’ I had squared things with
Ty, I’d be a leetle mite easier in my mind.”
Horace stepped to Ty’s bed and shook him by the arm. “Did you hear
what he said?” he demanded. “You know he’s achin’ to have you speak to
him decent. Why don’t ya speak to him?”
Ty looked cold and stony into Horace’s eyes, and then took his left
hand and pushed Horace’s grip from off his arm. Horace stood lookin’
at Ty with his fist clinched. The turned and saw it and a troubled
look came into his face.
“Friar Tuck,” he said, “you meant it, didn’t ya—that about forgivin’
seventy times seven?”
“I did,” sez the Friar, his voice ringin’ out clear and strong in
spite of its bein’ low pitched. “Be at peace, Promotheus, the laws of
man are at war with the laws of God; but they’re bound to lose in the
end. I want you to know that I forgive Ty Jones as fully as you
do—and I shall do everything in my power to square things up with
him.”
The held out his hand to the Friar, and they clasped in a
comrade-grip. “I can trust you,” he said; “and I know you’ll do all
you can to make Horace see it that way, too.”
“I forgive him, too, you big goose!” cried Horace. “I promise you that
I’ll do all I can for him—on your account. Though I must say—but no,
I mean it, Promotheus. I forgive him from my heart, and I’ll be as
good a friend to him as I can.”
“Now, let the little gust o’ wind come,” sez The. “I’m perfectly ripe
and ready for it, now.”
The’ was silence for several minutes; and then Promotheus said in a
faint voice: “Friar, I wish you’d sing to me. All my life I’ve longed
to hear a cradle-song, a regular baby cradle-song. I know it’s a
damn-fool notion; but I never had it so strong as I’ve got it now—and
I wish you’d sing one to me. My mother was a widow, mostly. She
cleaned out offices at night to earn enough to keep us alive. She
sacrificed her life for me, but I couldn’t understand this then.
“Night after night I used to creep in from the street through dirty,
stinkin’ halls, and cry myself to sleep. An achin’ came into my heart
then which hasn’t never quite left it; and it was this lonesomeness
’at finally made me run away—leavin’ her to face it out—all by
herself.
“My blood has turned to water, I reckon, and I feel like a baby
to-night. I don’t suffer, understand; I feel as though I was a little
chap again, and that my mother didn’t have to work; but was holdin’ me
on her lap. She did hold me that way once—the time the ambulance
brought my old man home—but she couldn’t sing then. It seems to me
that if you’d just sing me a regular cradle-song—I could slip away
into pleasant dreams.”
The Friar cleared his throat a time or two before he found his voice;
and then he said in a low tone: “I used to sleep in a store-box,
Promotheus, when I was a lad—and I know exactly what you feel. I’ll
sing you a cradle-song, a song for little children of all ages. It is
a great privilege to be a little child, Promotheus, and—and I wish
you pleasant dreams.”
Then Friar Tuck drew a deep, full breath, and held it down until all
the quiver had gone from his lips. When he started to sing, his voice
was low an’ soothin’, and full o’ tenderness; and after the first
line, Promotheus gave a little sigh o’ content, nodded his head, and
shut his eyes.
The’ was one tune we every last one of us liked. The Friar generally
sang it to words which began: “Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah”; and he
usually sang it with a swing which was like a call to battle; and this
time he sang the same tune, but soft and close and restful, and the
words he used began: “Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” These words
sound purty flat when ya give ’em cold; but they didn’t sound empty to
us, as we stood lookin’ down at Promotheus. All alone, he had taken
his chance when he took on with Ty Jones; and now he was cashin’ in
this chance and it made us mighty sober.
The Friar finished the first four lines alone, and then the angels
seemed to join in with him. We had all been purty certain that the’
wasn’t nothin’ in the shape of earthly melody fit to hold a candle to
the Friar; but just at this point a new voice joined onto the Friar’s
which sent a thrill through us and made us stop breathin’. A queer,
half frightened look crossed the Friar’s face for a second; but his
voice didn’t waver for a single note. Instead, the’ came a new tone of
thanksgivin’ and confidence in it which took all the sting out o’
death and made it all right and pleasant, like the cool and
restfulness o’ night, after the heat of day.
“All this day Thy hand has led me,
And I thank Thee for Thy care;
Thou hast warmed me, clothed and fed me;
Listen to my evening prayer,”
went on the song and the’ came an expression of wonder and of joy into
The’s tired face.
There are only three little verses to this one, and to fill out the
tune they had to sing the first one over again, soft and low. The
candles threw a soft glow on The’s face which hid the pallor of it and
the rough lines, but brought out all the kindly strength we had come
to be so fond of; and when the music died away, we all sat still for
fear o’ disturbin’ him.
Horace had been settin’ holdin’ one of his hands, and after a bit he
leaned forward and whispered, “Was that what you wanted, Promotheus?”
But the’ wasn’t any reply. The little gust o’ wind had come with the
song—and fully ripe, and soft to the core of his big, warm heart,
Promotheus had loosed his hold on the bough of life, and dropped off
onto the soft, deep grass of eternity.
“Promotheus! Promotheus!” cried Horace, and then covered his face with
his hands and dropped forward upon The’s quiet breast.
“Badger-face,” called a harsh voice, and we looked at Ty Jones and saw
him leanin’ towards The. “Wait, Badger-face, wait—I want to speak to
ya. I want to tell you that I lied to ya. Oh Lord, it’s too late, it’s
too late!” And Ty Jones pressed his hand across his eyes and sank
back.
Horace whirled to tell Ty what he thought of him; but the Friar placed
his big hand on Horace’s shoulder, and pointed down to The’s placid
face. Horace gave a shudderin’ sob, and settled back into his former
position.
Janet Morris crossed the floor to the Friar just then and said to him
in a low tone: “I have found it again—my voice has come back to me.”
Ty Jones took his hand down from his eyes and straightened up and
looked at her. All the eagle had gone from his face, and it looked old
and haggard. “Don’t you really know who I am?” he asked.
She looked at him and shook her head.
“I’m your half-brother,” he said. “I’m Tyrell Jones Morris. Your
mother might have been a good woman, but she was not good to me—she
wasn’t fair; she prejudiced my father again’ me. You were sellin’
tickets at an elevated station in New York when I found you. You
looked a good deal like your mother, for you were weak and sickly. I
didn’t know then, whether I brought you back with me because we had
the same blood in our veins, or because I hated you—and I don’t know
yet. I’m not tellin’ you this now, because I care any thing for you,
or the preacher; but Badger-face was square, and I know now ’at he’d
never have turned again’ me if the rest of ya hadn’t tampered with
him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell him before he died—and that’s why I’m
tellin’ you now.”
I winked my eyes to the boys, and we filed out and went over to the
bunk-shack. We lighted our pipes and sat a long time smokin’ in
silence. One by one they dropped off to bed until only me and ol’ Tank
Williams was left. Tank sat with a sour look on his face, and so
deeply buried in thought that the burnt matches around his stool
looked like a wood pile. “What are ya thinkin’ of, Tank?” I said to
him.
“I’m not kickin’, understand,” sez he; “but it does seem to me that
when all The asked for was a cradle-song, the Friar could ’a’ thought
up somethin’ besides another one o’ those doggone sheep-herder hymns.
The didn’t have any more use for sheep-herders ’n I have.”
This was the real Tank, all right. Once an idee took possession of
him, it rode him rough shod till he keeled over with his tongue
hangin’ out.