The Go-Between
A big man, past middle age, and seated astride a small white horse, came
picking his way between the huge beech and maple trees, down through the
quiet morning of the woods. He had shaggy red brows and a big mouth that
drooped at the corners. The little eyes, flashing sideways in search of
the blaze on the trees, were sharp and calculating. Where the ridge
sloped to the valley he reined up.
“Must be somewhere about here,” he mused aloud. “Don’t know how I can
miss seeing McTavish if he happens to be outside—land knows he’s big
enough to see.—Hello, who are you?”
Something animated in the shape of a boy had stirred from a log directly
in the path. Leaping out it stood before the rider—a boy with long
yellow curls and big brown eyes. The old white horse shied, and the boy
rocked backward and forward on the path, voicing low, plaintive sounds.
As the rider watched him a small animal crept from the thicket and
climbed upon the lad’s shoulder. The horse reared, and the boy, lifting
his brown arms, began to wave them to and fro. At the same time he broke
into a wild, tuneless chant, the words of which were unintelligible to
the wondering observer. It was a shrill, weird note, fluted and varying
like the call of a panther. Suddenly boy and animal vanished as though
the Wild had reached forward and gathered them into its arms.
“Heavens!” shuddered the man, and struck the horse sharply with his
spurs. Where the trail curved off abruptly to the valley he reined up
once more, and, turning about, looked back.
“Well, I’ll be shot!” he soliloquized. “No matter where you find the
Creator’s handiwork and beauty you’ll find His imperfections, too. Ugh!
how those big eyes did probe me! It’s enough to make a saint shiver, let
alone a chap who has climbed up as I have—not caring who I have tramped
on.”
He shivered again, and felt in his pocket for his pipe. His hand brought
forth a leather wallet. A hard smile warped his mouth as he opened the
wallet and drew out a small photograph. It was the likeness of a young
woman with sweet face and great eyes. He tapped the likeness and a lock
of brown hair leaped out like a snake and twined about his finger. He
brushed it back with a shudder, and, snapping the case, put it back in
his pocket.
“I’ll find that Big McTavish and get this deal closed,” he mused as he
rode along.
The horse stumbled and a grouse whizzed along the trail, passing close
to the man’s head, with a thundering, nerve-wracking sound. He sat erect
and sank his spurs into the old gray’s heaving flank.
“Get epp, you lazy old bag of bones,” he commanded. “Let’s find that big
innocent and get hold of his deed. We’ll give him a dollar or so to see
us back along that lonesome trail. I wouldn’t go back along that spooky
path for all old Hallibut’s money. I’ve seen enough snakes and wolves
and bears since two o’clock this morning to last me a lifetime. And that
last animal—that crazy boy!—ugh!”
He slashed the old mare into a faster walk and sat huddled up and
pondering until a twist in the path brought an open glade into view. The
buzz of a saw and the pant of a weary engine came to his ears like
welcome music.
“Totherside,” he chuckled. “Let’s see, Bushwhackers’ Place lies just
across from it. But there’s the creek. Guess I’ll have to ride down to
the narrows.”
Finally, with much grumbling, he reached the farther side of the creek,
and, pulling in his horse, he gazed about him.
“Ha, look at that for timber!” he exulted. “And to think that Smythe and
I will have control——”
He did not finish the sentence aloud, but sat nodding his head up and
down. Very soon he drew up before the long log-house. Big McTavish
stepped out and pointed to a log-building in a grove of butternuts.
“Put your horse in there,” he invited.
“I will, and more,” agreed the arrival. “I’ll enjoy a bite of bread and
a slice of dried venison or anything else your larder affords. I’m
hungry as old Nick.”
“You’re welcome to the best we have,” replied McTavish. “You’re Mr.
Watson, I suppose. Am I right?”
“Watson I am—Robert W. O. Watson, that’s me. I’m pretty well known
through these parts; that is to say, better maybe a little east of here.
This place is kind of off the map, you know. Just give the lazy skate
anything that’s handy,” he growled, referring to the patient steed that
stood with drooping head and sanctimonious air, “but you needn’t be in
any hurry to feed her. She’s Smythe’s horse and used to waiting.”
“I always see that my oxen get their meals same as I do,” said Big
McTavish. “I wouldn’t feel just like eatin’ unless they had their
fodder, too. We’ll step inside and I’ll have Gloss fix you up a meal.
She’s down at the spring now gettin’ the cream ready for the churnin’,
but she’ll be back direct.”
As they crossed from the stable a small form flitted by them and
vanished among the trees. Watson gasped and he clutched McTavish’s arm.
“That’s him,” he cried; “that’s the crazy boy I met a couple of miles
away. How did he get here this soon, do you suppose?”
“Oh, that’s Daft Davie,” smiled McTavish. “Nobody knows exactly when
he’ll turn up. He runs like a deer and is as shy as the wild things he
plays among.”
“Plays among?” repeated the other. He followed McTavish into the house
and sat down heavily on a stool. “What do you mean by ‘plays among’?”
“I mean that he moves among the wild things and they are not scared of
him same as they are of you and me or anybody else. They do say that he
can fondle the cubs of bears, and wolf-kittens. I’ve seen him playin’
with a big snake, myself,—not a poisonous one, of course. Seems as
though Davie can pick out the things that are harmful quick enough.
Nobody pays any attention to him much in Bushwhackers’ Place, but leaves
him to himself, knowin’ that God’ll protect the soul He didn’t give
over-much reasonin’ power to.”
“Humph,” grunted the other, “I see you’re a pious man, McTavish—pious,
God-fearing, and honest. Good plan to work along that line. Had a good
bringing up myself. Mother’s prayers, early teaching, and that sort of
thing have a lot to do with making a big man. My mother is largely—I
should say was largely—responsible for my success. She’s dead now, poor
old lady. Of course, a fellow who climbs has a right to some credit
himself, I suppose. Made up your mind, I can see, to swap this forsaken
wilderness for a piece of cultivated land,” he said, abruptly opening
the subject nearest his heart and fixing on the big man his little
pig-eyes.
“Aha, I thought you would, McTavish. Says I to Smythe this morning:
‘Smythe, it doesn’t seem to me that this is a very good piece of
business judgment on our part; but,’ says I, ‘Smythe, we must consider
others rather than ourselves in this matter. McTavish now,’ says I, ‘he
has a couple of youngsters growing up, and they should secure an
education such as the Clearview school can give them, and if that’s the
case, we can’t blind our eyes to our duty as Christian men.’ Smythe is a
good Christian man and just that soft-hearted that it’s no wonder my
words affected him. He says: ‘Mr. Watson, money is not everything. Go
forth on an errand of mercy, and offer Mr. McTavish of Bushwhackers’
Place one bright and fertile hundred acres of loam in Clearview in
exchange for his bit of wilderness.’—His very words, McTavish. So I
wrote you briefly in order to break the good news gently, and now I am
before you to perform an act which, believe me, gives me as much
pleasure, in a sense, as it does you. I have all the necessary papers,
and although the journey has been a trying one, I will not complain. I
have been five hours in the saddle and have endured a cowardly nigger as
guide as far as the Triple Elms. Seems like, between loneliness and
mosquitoes, I’m just about fagged out. They are a d—I mean they are a
hanged nuisance, mosquitoes.”
While his guest unburdened himself, Big McTavish steeped strong tea, and
fried strips of bacon. Gloss had not yet returned from the spring. The
savory smell of the frying meat whetted Watson’s appetite, and he needed
no second invitation to “set up and eat hearty.” He ate wolfishly, his
little eyes darting from his food to the face of McTavish, his heavy
jaws working, and the muscles of his throat contracting with boa-like
elasticity, as he gulped down huge mouthfuls of meat and bread. At last
he pushed his chair back from the table and wiped his mouth on the back
of his hand.
“Now, Mac,” he said affably, “we’ll just have you sign those papers, and
I’ll turn you over this deed I hold here in exchange for the one you now
have. Says I to Smythe this morning: ‘Smythe, it’s a nice sort of glow a
fellow feels after doing a worthy act, anyway. Think what this will mean
to the McTavishes.’ And do you know he was that soft-hearted he couldn’t
answer me, and stood there swallowing with tears in his eyes.”
“I’m thinkin’ that we won’t make any swap,” said Big McTavish quietly.
“Neither me nor Boy nor any of us care to leave this big woods. We’ve
been here so long we’ve grown into it somehow. You see we’re not
hankerin’ to leave.”
Watson sat up with a jerk, and the pipe he was filling fell to the floor
and broke into a dozen pieces.
“What!” he cried, “do you mean to say, McTavish, that you won’t deal?”
“That’s what I mean,” nodded the big man.
“And you won’t exchange this block of tangled brush for one hundred
acres of good, cultivated land?” Mr. Watson leaned forward. “Are you
sure you realize what you are missing?” he asked impressively.
“All I know is, we’re thankful to God for what we have now,” said Big
McTavish fervently. “We don’t feel like insultin’ Him by tradin’ what
He’s given us, sight and unseen.”
“Oh, come now, McTavish,” blustered Watson, “you must be crazy. Why,
man, you will never get another chance such as the one we offer you.
Besides, you can’t stay here very much longer, anyway. Of course, you’ve
heard what Colonel Hallibut intends to do with you Bushwhackers?”
A deep line appeared between Big McTavish’s eyes.
“We don’t want any trouble with Colonel Hallibut,” he said. “We hear
that he has his eyes on our timber. When he comes after it he’ll find us
here. As for you, Mr. Watson, I wouldn’t take your sand farm as a gift,
thankin’ you just the same.”
“Then why in hell have you been letting me waste my breath on you for
the last hour?” snarled Watson, his face purple.
McTavish stood up.
“That’ll do now,” he warned. “There’s Gloss comin’ up the path, and
swearin’ is somethin’ she has never heard in this house, and before I’ll
have her hear you usin’ cuss-words I’ll cram this down your throat, and
don’t you forget it.”
He lifted a hairy fist, then sat down and resumed his smoking.
Gloss entered the room, singing blithely. Her shapely arms were bare to
the elbows. Her big gray eyes, dancing with life and health, swept the
room and rested wonderingly on Watson. He in turn gazed at the girl, and
an ashy whiteness wiped out the mottled color of his cheeks. He drew
back whispering something under his breath.
“This is Mr. Watson, Gloss,” said Big McTavish.
“Good-morning, sir,” saluted the girl. “I didn’t know that we had a
visitor. I see uncle has got you your breakfast, but surely you’ll enjoy
a glass of fresh buttermilk. I’ll fetch it.”
She slipped from the room, and Watson looked across at Big McTavish.
“That girl,” he asked quickly, “is she your own child?”
The big man looked up, astonishment written on his face.
“No,” he answered, “but she’s just as dear as though she was our own.
Her dyin’ mother sent her to us. Why do you ask that?”
Watson was reaching for his cap and rifle. Perhaps he did not hear the
question. At any rate he did not reply.
Fifteen minutes later he mounted the weary gray horse and without so
much as a word of adieu rode away through the timber.
McTavish stood on the edge of the clearing, his long arms folded, and
watched his visitor disappear. Turning, he found the daft child beside
him.
“Well, Davie,” he said kindly, “hadn’t you best run home now, lad?
You’re all wet with the dew.”
The boy waved his arms above his head and imitated an eagle’s scream.
Then he pointed to the white patch that marked the first blaze of the
long trail.
“You mean the man on the white horse, Davie?” asked McTavish, smiling.
“Yes, lad, I know.”
The boy gazed about him with wide and expressive eyes. Then once more he
waved his arms like an ascending eagle, gave a wild call of victory and
defiance, and, bending, sped swiftly away and was lost in the heavy
shadow.