And the Twilight
“Guess I’ll step through the oak ridge here and look in on Bill Paisley
for a minute or so,” said Jim Peeler, as the three found the path
leading to the creek.
“He’s singin’ his old pet song,” smiled Gloss. “Hark, can’t you hear
him?”
Upon the tree-fringe of Rond Eau a red disk of a sun was dripping gold
and amethyst glory and all the wild-wood was full of life and harmony.
From the thickets the hardiest of the song-birds were bidding good-by to
the wood. It was their last night in the old nesting-place.
Mingled with the symphony came Paisley’s voice, trilling happily:
“_Massar’s gone away, de darkey say, ‘Ho, ho!’_
_Mus’ be now dat de kingdom’s comin’_
_I’ de year ob jubiloo._”
“He’s a happy beggar,” chuckled Declute. “He’s a happy beggar, is Bill,
and the biggest-hearted, softest-hearted baby of a man as ever lived.”
“God built some big things,” said Peeler: “that,” waving a hand toward
the mellow glory above; “this,” looking about him; “an’ Bill. Yes, He
built Bill, and nobody has ever spoiled His work.”
“And nobody can spoil His work,” said Gloss gently, “dear old Bill.”
“Run along, children,” laughed Peeler, “I’ve got my pockets full of
things that Paisley sent to town for. Silk thread, silk cloth—three
dollars a yard; look here.” He tapped one of his large, bulging pockets.
“Bill’s gone into the dressmakin’ business, it seems.”
Gloss clasped her brown hands and her eyes danced.
“Oh,” she begged, “won’t you let me come too? I want to see all those
things. I surely do.”
“Tut, tut,” scolded Peeler, screwing up his face, “that wouldn’t do at
all. I’m tellin’ too much. I’m a poor hand at keepin’ secrets.”
He plunged among the trees, his face frowning and his eyes laughing, and
when he had put one of the wide ridges between himself and Gloss he
clapped his hands and laughed like a boy.
“She don’t know that Bill is gettin’ all this costly finery for her.
Bless her,” he murmured, wiping his eyes, “she don’t suspect a
thing—not a thing. God bless her dear heart. Ah, but all the silver-fox
hides in all this big woods couldn’t make a coat good enough for our
girl, let alone six as Bill has. But it’s Bill’s little wish,” he added;
“it’s just Bill’s little wish. And Bill’s one of God’s big men.”
Bill scarcely looked his part on this particular evening. Peeler found
him sitting just outside his home, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows,
and his sinewy arms shining with bear-oil. Across his seamed face were a
number of greasy smears, left there by brushing away a troublesome
mosquito. Between his teeth he gripped a short clay pipe. At his feet
lay a pile of traps, tangled together and red with rust.
“Got back, eh?” he grinned as Peeler approached. “Get them things, Jim?”
“Sure, Bill,” and Peeler commenced emptying his pockets.
“Jim,” said Paisley, “I guess I’d best have your good wife help me out
on this coat. I thought maybe she’d do the linin’. Suppose she would?”
“Do I suppose? Wall, I do better,” answered Peeler, “I _know_ she will.”
“Then don’t empty out till you get home. I’ll drop over to-morrow night.
I’ve got to get these traps in shape if I’m goin’ to do any trappin’
this season. Who’d you see over at Bridgetown, Jim?”
“Just a few that Declute wants over to his loggin’,” answered Peeler,
seating himself on a bench, “an’ that man Smythe who keeps the store.”
“What do you think o’ that feller?”
Paisley made a dip for the pan of bear-oil and started scrubbing another
trap.
“Well, I don’t just think I’m takin’ to him much,” replied Peeler. “I
don’t like the way he has of shiftin’ his eyes, and he always seems to
be expectin’ somebody. He sort of makes me nervous. He tried to find out
all about every person that lives here, but I wasn’t sayin’ much.
Somehow I wish Tom Gray hadn’t sold out his store to this feller, Bill.
I don’t know why, but I can’t take to him.”
“Pshaw,” grunted Paisley, “I guess we’re all too quick at takin’
dislikes. I’ll own I feel purty much the same as you. Did he tell you
that he was hand in hand with Watson? I haven’t ever seen Watson yet,
but I’m anxious to meet him.”
“He was askin’ me about widder Ross,” said Peeler. “Wanted to know how
much property she owned, and all that. Said that he liked her—what he
had seen of her.”
Paisley dropped his trap and stared through the twilight at his friend.
“By gum!” he exclaimed, “what _do_ you think of that?”
“He told me quite a lot of things about Colonel Hallibut,” said Peeler,
coming over and seating himself close beside Paisley. “Bill, it looks as
if Hallibut was bound to scoop us off this place. Smythe says as he is a
bad man to hinder, once he has made up his mind. He says as both him and
Watson is in sympathy with us, and if we’ll only let on we’re agreeable
to leave, that him and Watson’ll see he don’t get hold of the leases.”
Paisley took his pipe from his mouth and laid it on a nearby block.
“Jim,” he said, “I don’t know Smythe very well, but you can bet on
this—the man’s a liar. Him and Watson are hand in hand with old
Hallibut, and it’s my impression they’re all a pack of rascals. Hallibut
threatens to drive us into the bay if we refuse to be reasonable—as he
calls it. I was talkin’ to one of the fellers who runs that mill of his,
this afternoon, and he says Hallibut rides over to Bridgetown most every
day and lays plans with Smythe and Watson. He said as to-day Hallibut
intended goin’ over there. Didn’t see him, I suppose?”
Peeler shook his head.
“No, but I met Watson to-night—him and Simpson.”
“There you are,” cried Paisley; “there you are. Watson intended to come
here to-day, and you can bet that old reprobate Hallibut has a hand in
anything Watson does.”
“Then you think them fellers are goin’ to try some funny work, do you,
Bill?”
“Jim,” answered Paisley, “it’s my opinion that there’s goin’ to be
trouble here soon. Them people have laid plans to get our woods, and of
course we’ll naturally see that they don’t. But what I’m afraid of is
that Boy McTavish is goin’ to kill somebody sure. You know what he’s
like, Jim, so I want to ask you to do this: no matter what you see or
hear, don’t tell Boy. I’ve just about raised him, you might say, and I
know his moods. There’s enough trouble over there at Big Mac’s now. If
we just keep cool everythin’ ’ll come out all right. We’ll keep our eyes
and ears open, and whatever we see and hear we’ll try to meet without
Boy knowin’ anythin’ about it. What d’ye say, Jim?”
“Sure,” answered Peeler. “I think same’s you, Bill. It won’t do to be
too hasty if things come to the worst, which I hope they won’t.”
“Amen to that,” said Paisley fervently. “I trust there’ll be no trouble,
Jim. Old Injun Noah was here to-day, and I could see that somethin’ was
worryin’ him. You know he won’t talk—only to Gloss; so I couldn’t get
anythin’ out of him.”
“When old Noah worries there’s somethin’ in the wind all right,” said
Peeler. “Good old Noah!”
“He stayed here with me quite a time,” said Paisley, “and he never said
a word till he was leavin’. Then he said:
“‘Bushwhacker no shoot, no kill big man. That mean bad, bad for
Bushwhacker. Bushwhacker wait—wait and see.’ And before I could ask him
anythin’ he was gone.”
“He comes mysterious and he goes mysterious,” said Peeler slowly, “but I
reckon he knows even more than we do about old Hallibut and his gang.”
He arose and walked toward the path.
“Will you come over to Big Mac’s, Bill?” he asked.
“Sure, I will.”
Paisley dived into the house, washed his hands and face, threw on a
jacket, and came forth a bright and smiling six feet of manhood.
“I’m wantin’ some to see the little sick woman,” said Peeler, “and hear
Big Mac’s fiddle again.”
“Boy was here this mornin’,” said Bill as the two struck off down the
path, “and he says the ma is awful sick. I guess she won’t be stayin’
long.”
When the men reached the McTavish home night had fallen, and a big moon
was lifting her face from the forest far eastward.
A damp wind off the bay bore on its wings the scent of bog and marsh,
and from high overhead came the wing-songs of inflying wild ducks. From
inside came the music of the fiddle playing “Ye Banks and Braes.”