A SUDDEN RESOLUTION.
The storm did not abate. All day long it raged around the cabin, and
the four prisoners talked, ate, and drank without grumbling at their
captivity. When bedtime approached, Lucas addressed 'Tilda Jane in an
apologetic manner. "Ye see we ain't used to havin' leetle gals, an'
I'm afeard we can't make you very comfy, as my ole woman says, but
we'll do the best we kin. This room's all we've got, but I'm goin'
to try to make it two. See here," and rising, he went to one of the
rough bunks built against the wall opposite the fire; "I'm a-goin' to
drape ye off a place for yourself and dog," and, hanging a blanket on
a hook by the fireplace, he called loudly for a nail to drive in the
logs across the corner.
The two boys, who were playing cards at the table, jumped up, and
presently 'Tilda Jane had a snug corner to herself. Lucas had
dragged out one of the fragrant fir beds from one of the bunks. The
rustling of the evergreen inside reminded her of her narrow straw bed
at the orphanage, and drawing the blanket over her, she nestled down
and patiently waited for her friends to seek their equally fragrant
couches. She was very sleepy, but she must not drop off until she had
said her prayers. It never occurred to her to repeat them to herself.
She must get up and say them aloud, and upon her knees.
After some time there was silence outside her screen, except for the
heavy breathing of the sleepers, and the slow, deliberate crackling
of the fire over the fresh wood heaped upon it by Lucas.
She crept quietly from her bed and knelt down. "Dear Father in
heaven, I thank thee for saving my life. I might 'a' been dead at
this minute if thou hadst not sent that good dog to find me. Please
make me a better girl for being saved. I'll take good care o' that
old man if thou wilt let me find him. Bless the red-haired man that
owns this cabin. I guess he is a good man, Lord, but if he kills
deer, wilt thou not lay on his heart a coal from thy altar? If he
was a deer, he would not like to be killed. Bless him, dear Father
in heaven, an' his two boys, an' bless me an' Gippie an' Poacher
an' keep us safe for evermore,--an' bless the lady-boards, an' the
matron, an' all the little orphans, an' let them find good homes an'
get out o' the 'sylum,--Lord, I will write them a letter as soon as I
get settled, an' confess what is wickedness, an' what ain't. I don't
want to be a bad little girl. I want to live straight, an' go to
heaven when I die, but I'm sorry I had to begin in a 'sylum. It ain't
a place for children what likes animiles. For Jesus' sake, Amen."
With a relieved sigh, 'Tilda Jane crept back to bed and went to
sleep, quite unaware that her petition had awakened Lucas, who slept
as lightly as a cat. She had waked him, and now he could not go to
sleep. For a long time he lay motionless in his bunk, then softly
getting up, he seated himself on one of the boxes before the fire,
and let his head sink on his hands.
Years ago he had had a deeply religious mother. One who would rise
at dead of night and pray earnestly for her children. 'Tilda Jane's
childish prayer had brought back this mother from her grave. What a
good woman she had been! The dying wind, sobbing and sighing without,
called to mind the camp-meetings that he used to attend when he was
a boy. Churches were few and far between, and it was the event of
the year for the scattered religious people to gather together under
the pines for out-of-door services. He could hear the women singing
now,--the weird sound of their voices floated down the chimney.
Surely he was among them again,--that good, religious crowd.
He shook himself, muttered an impatient exclamation, and went back to
bed. No, they were mostly dead, his mother was in heaven, and he was
a hard, impenitent man. But his children--something ought to be done
about them. This little girl had stirred these old memories--Zebedee
and Joe must quit this life, and, with a snarl of determination
on his brow, he turned over and fell into a profound and resolved
slumber.
Early the next morning 'Tilda Jane heard some one stirring quietly
about the cabin. She peeped from behind the screen, and found that
it was the father of the boys. He was making coffee, and taking
dishes from a shelf to set them on the small table. He was also
frying meat.
'Tilda Jane did not like to venture out until the boys had made
their toilet, which they presently did by springing from their beds,
drawing on their boots, and smoothing their thick locks with a piece
of comb that reposed on a small shelf near a broken looking-glass.
When they had finished, she piped through the screen, "Will you
please gimme a lend o' the comb?"
It was politely handed to her, and in a short time she made her
appearance.
"Ho--deer's meat!" said Joe, sniffing joyfully. "Where'd you get it,
pop?"
"Found half a carcass leanin' agin the door this mornin'," he said,
briefly.
"Some o' the boys must 'a' left it on their way out," remarked
Zebedee. "Hard blow to travel in. Gimme some, pop."
Lucas had settled himself at the table, and was eating with every
appearance of enjoyment.
"Nop," he said, pausing, and speaking with his mouth full. "That thar
is for you an' the leetle gal."
The boys stared at him in undisguised astonishment.
"Fall to," he said, inexorably, "eat your bacon and beans, an' be
thankful you've got 'em. There's many an empty stummick in the woods
this mornin'."
Joe, who was readier of speech than his brother, found his tongue
first. "Ain't you goin' to give us any fresh meat, pop?"
"No, sir-r-r."
"You ain't got loony in the night, pop?"
"Y' don't calklate to eat half a carcass y'rself, do ye?" said
Zebedee, with a feeble attempt at a joke.
"Nop--what I don't eat, I'll lug off in the woods."
"He's loony," said Joe, with resignation, and serving himself with
bacon.
'Tilda Jane was silently eating bread and beans, and to her Lucas
addressed himself. "Leetle gal, the storm's a-goin' to conclude
accordin' to my reckonin'. Kin you foot it out on snow-shoes this
mornin' to the nearest house, do you s'pose?"
"Yes, sir," she said, quietly.
"An' you two boys will keep her comp'ny," said Lucas, turning to his
sons. "I'm a-goin' to march on to Morse's camp."
There was a howl of dismay from Joe. "You give me your word Zebedee
was to go."
"An' I give you my word now that you're to go," said his father,
sternly. "In an hour I'll make tracks. You two wait till the last
flake's settled, then take the leetle gal an' git her out safe an'
sound to William Mercer's. Ask him to hitch up an' take her over to
Nicatoos station, an' I'll settle with him. Then you skedaddle for
home, git out your books, an' to-morrer go to school."
This time there was a simultaneous howl from the boys, and in the
midst of their distress could be heard faintly articulated the words,
"Pop--books--school!"
Lucas turned to 'Tilda Jane. "Yes, we're poachers, leetle gal, an'
when I ask ye to say nothin' about what ye've seen an' heard here, I
know ye'll keep as mum as we do. I'm a poacher, an' I'm goin' to hev
a hard time to give it up. They used to call me king o' the poachers,
till another feller come along smarter nor I was. Anyway, I can't
give it up yet. It's in my blood now, an' men as ole as I be don't
repent easy. It's when ye're young an' squshy that you repents. But
these two cubs o' mine," and he eyed his boys with determination,
"has got to give up evil ways right off. Ye've got to go to school,
sons, an' learn somethin', an' quit poachin', an' hevin' the law
hangin' over ye all the time."
The boys looked ugly and rebellious, and, perceiving it, he went on.
"Come now, none o' that; when ye're respectable, hard-workin' men
ye'll be ashamed o' your father, an' that'll be my punishment if I
don't get out o' this. An' you needn't kick, 'cause I'll lick ye all
to splinters if I ketches one o' you in the woods this spring. Ye've
got to turn right round."
"I'll turn right round an' come back," said Zebedee, bitterly and
furiously.
Lucas got up, took him by the coat collar, and, without a word, led
him outside the cabin.
A few minutes later they returned--both flushed--Lucas grim and
determined, and Zebedee sulky and conquered.
"Air you also cravin' for an argyment?" asked Lucas, ironically, of
Joe.
"I'm cravin' to lick you," said the boy, bursting out into a wild
raving and swearing at him.
"Swearin' when there is ladies present," said his father, seizing him
by the shoulder, and dragging him the way his brother had gone.
'Tilda Jane stopped eating, and sat miserably with downcast eyes.
She felt dimly that she had made trouble in this family, and brought
additional misfortune upon herself, for what kind of escorts would
these whipped boys be?
Lucas's tussle with Joe was a longer one than the former with Zebedee
had been, and not until after some time did he return. Joe hung about
outside for an hour, then he came in, shaking and stamping the snow
from him, and, as if nothing had happened, sat down and finished his
breakfast.
Lucas, meanwhile, had been making preparations for his long tramp.
'Tilda Jane watched him with interest as he took a sack, tied a
potato in each corner, and proceeded to fill it with parcels of
provisions.
When at last he sat down, took off his cow-hide moccasins, and began
to tie on soft moose moccasins, fit for snow-shoeing, he addressed
his two boys.
"When parients tell their children things air to be did, they ought
to be did. When the children raves an' tears, they ought to be
licked, an' when the lickin's over, the reasons come. Air you sighin'
either o' ye to see the inside o' State's prison? Air you, Zebedee?"
"No, sir," said the boy, shortly.
"Air you, Joe?"
Joe, with his mouth full of beans, replied that he was not.
"Wal, that's where you'll land if ye don't quit breakin' State's law.
Ye ain't either o' ye as clever as I be, but I've got to try to give
it up, too. I've bin feelin' that ye'd git caught some day, and I've
made up my mind, an' I'll hold it to my dyin' day. I'm goin' to crowd
ye out o' this risky game. If I ketch one o' you after deer agin,
I'll give ye up to the warden myself. I swan I will," and he brought
his hand down energetically on the table. "Now you go home an' go to
school with smart boys an' gals till summer vacation, then ye can
tell me what ye think of it. I'll not pretend I'll let ye out of it
if ye don't like it, but I guess ye will. Ye've bin to school before
an' made good progress, an' I asks yer pardon for takin' ye out."
Zebedee listened in quiet resentfulness, but Joe, who possessed a
more volatile disposition, and who having satisfied his hunger was
comparatively good-natured, remarked, "What'll ye do about Poacher,
pop?"
Lucas's face darkened suddenly, and unhappily.
"Come here, ole boy," he said, and when the dog went to him, he bowed
his head for a minute over him. "We've bin good friends--me an' you.
Many's the trap I've led ye in, an' many a time my heart would 'a'
bin sore if ye'd a bin caught. An' now, 'count o' my transgression,
ye're a wanderin' sheep. Ye'll never git back in the fold agin unless
some good sheep leads ye."
"There's somethin' you can't make over," said Zebedee, briefly.
"He'll chase deer as long as he kin wag a leg."
"Leetle gal," said Lucas, suddenly, "would ye like to hev this dog?"
"To have him--that beauty dog!" 'Tilda Jane gasped, confusedly. "Oh,
sir, you'd never give him away."
"I'd most as soon give a child away," said Lucas, "an' I'd never do
it, if it warn't for his habits. Ye're a-goin' to Ciscasset, which is
somethin' of a place, an' a ways from the woods. An' ye'll pet him
an' kinder cherish him, an' keep him from frettin' an' bein' lonely.
My ole woman don't set much store by dogs, an' when I'm workin' in
the tannery he's off doggin' deer by himself. He's nearly got shot
dead. See those ripples in his back? That's where he's bin grazed.
Poacher, ole boy, you've got to go with this leetle gal, if she'll
hev you."
'Tilda Jane hesitated, stammered, looked into the dog's anxious face,
and the boys' protesting ones, and said at last, "But the ole man
where I'm goin', mebbe he'll breach at my havin' two dogs."
"Prob'bly he will," said Lucas, "but you crowd right up to him.
Folks is queer 'bout dogs. Them as don't like 'em don't want to give
'em standin' room on this airth, but you walk right up to 'em an'
say, 'This dog has as good a right to a place on God's footstool as
you hev, an' I'm goin' to see he gits it. If you was more like a
dog yerself, ye'd be more thought of, ye cross-grained, cranky ole
skillingsby'--come you, sons, quit that scowlin'. Do ye know why I'm
givin' that dog to the little gal stid o' you?"
They uttered a brief negative.
"'Cause she knows dog language," said Lucas, dropping his voice to a
whisper, and looking mysteriously over his shoulder, "an' if there
was a deer here, you'd find she knowed deer talk. You, sons, is fond
o' dogs, but not in the style the leetle gal is, or I be. It's a kind
o' smartness at gettin' inside the animal's skin. He don't verily
talk. Ye jist understan' him without talk--leetle gal, what's Poacher
sayin' now?"
"Oh, he don't want to go with me," burst out 'Tilda Jane, with
energy. "He's a sick dog. Look at his eyes an' his droopin' ears. He
don't want you to give him away. He don't want me to take him. Oh, I
can't!" and she buried her face in her hands as if to hide temptation
from her.
"He's got to go," said Lucas, stroking Poacher's head, "an' mind
me, dog," and he put his hand under the dog's jaws and lifted them
so that he could look in his eyes, "no runnin' away from Ciscasset.
Ye stay with that leetle gal. Don't ye come chasin' round here,
'cause if ye do, I'll turn my back on ye for a runaway, an' ye'll
feel worse'n ye do now when we part on speakin' terms. Say, is it a
bargain, ole feller? Call him, leetle gal."
'Tilda Jane was overawed by Lucas's determined manner, and dropping
her hands she ejaculated feebly, "Here, Poacher, Poacher!"
The dog looked at her, then pressed closer to his master, whereupon
Lucas seized a stick by the fireplace, and struck him sharply.
Poacher turned his large brown eyes on him in one despairing,
reproachful glance, then with drooping head sauntered across the room
to the boys.
"Call him," said Lucas to 'Tilda Jane. "Speak up as if ye knew he was
your dog."
"Poacher," she said, in a firm voice, "come here. You're mos' as
unhappy as I be--we'll be unhappy together."
The suffering animal moved slowly toward her, and laid his head on
her lap.
There were tears in his eyes, and the little girl groaned as she
wiped them away.