War Tactics
Paisley paddled slowly across the creek, drew his skiff into the willow
bushes, and picking up his rifle, walked along the edge of the creek
until he reached the bay. It slept gray and cold beneath the moon, and
all about its tranquil waters a ragged tree-frame stood spiral-like and
shadowy—a disheveled cloud in an open blotch of sky. Paisley gazed
across the bay, his face fixed and his whole attitude one of protest.
“They want to take this away from us,” he mused,”—all this. And the
d—— villains want to steal _her_ away from all this. Well, let them
try.”
He turned, lifting his head to catch the low night-calls that floated
from the far-away corridors of the deep wood. The forest was breathing
its nocturnal song—a hushed chant, interspersed with the notes of the
wild things that roamed and fed and voiced their gladness after the
manner of their kind. The shrill bark of a fox sounded from nether
swales, and away beyond a lynx wailed sadly like a lost child. A little
way into the thicket a brood of partridges huddled, peeping with
plaintive voices.
“I guess they can’t understand very well what all this means to us.”
Paisley turned and strode on through the scanty wood-fringe along the
Eau shore until he came to an open spot of nearly two acres. A dim light
twinkled from the window of a log-house, and a couple of dogs came
forward with fierce yappings which changed to whines of welcome as they
recognized the visitor. The door of the house flew open, and a woman,
whose frame filled the doorway completely, sent a scolding command out
to the dogs.
“David and Goliath,” she commanded, “come in here t’ once er I’ll break
your no-account backs with this poker.”
“Night, Mrs. Declute,” called Paisley. “Ander in?”
“Ander,” rasped the woman, “be you hum? ’Cause if you be, Bill Paisley
wants t’ know it.”
The huge form was nudged aside and Declute’s grinning face peered out
into the night.
“Come right on in, Bill,” invited the lord and master. An ironwood pole
leaned against the house, and on it hung a splendid specimen of buck
newly killed. On the floor of the house lay a smaller deer already
skinned, and now being dissected by the trapper. Three children of
various sizes sat about the carcass, each munching a piece of corncake
from a chubby fist.
“How’s the babies, marm?” asked Paisley, carefully stepping through and
over the wide-eyed little Declutes and sitting down on a stool near the
fireplace. “Ander, two deer in an afternoon ain’t such bad luck, eh?”
“I hit another,” cried Ander, “bigger’n th’ one outside. Shot about an
inch too high, though. But I trailed him down an’ I’ll get him in th’
mornin’. Might have killed a doe, too. Had a good chance, but I didn’t
take it.”
“Zaccheus has got a tetch of p’isin-ivy,” said the woman. “That’s what
makes him squirm so uneasy like. I’m treatin’ it with sassafras ’ile an’
potash. How’ve you been yourself, Bill?”
“Feedin’ and sleepin’ like a babe, thankee,” replied Paisley. “What I
dropped round for was to find out just what you folks think of the way
them town-fellers are actin’. Did Hallibut or Watson make you any offer
for your timber?”
“Wall, yes, they did,” answered Ander slowly. “Offered me three hundred
dollars for the big stuff on my place only a day or two ago. Said that
you and McTavish and Peeler and most of the others had taken an offer
they made you for yours, and I said t’ the feller, ‘If th’ other chaps
see it that way I guess I’ll see it that way, too.’ I’m to take my deed
t’ Bridgetown when I tote these furs over next Saturday, an’ they’re
goin’ to give me another deed and the money.”
“Who did you see?” asked Paisley.
“That storekeeper Smythe. He says, says he, ‘The money’ll be ready fer
you when you come, an’,’ says he, ‘don’t tell any o’ your neebors,
’cause we’re payin’ you more’n we are them, an’ they won’t like it.’”
“I don’t take t’ this way they have of wantin’ Ander t’ keep dark,” said
the woman. “I ain’t takin’ kind like t’ lettin’ the timber go anyway. We
don’t really need that money. Ander he makes enough outin trappin’ and
shootin’ fer our wants, and if they come in here what are they goin’ t’
do t’ our property? That’s what I want to know.”
Paisley bit off a piece of tobacco and shrugged his shoulders.
“Ander,” he asked, watching the trapper roll up the green hide, “how
much did you make in furs and deer-meat last fall and winter?”
“He made four hundred and three dollars,” answered the wife proudly.
“Well, then, let me tell you somethin’.” Paisley tapped the stalk of his
rifle impressively with his knuckles. “Just as soon as you take Smythe’s
money your trappin’ days and all other days are over here, for all time.
They’ll have you just where they’ve been tryin’ to get the rest of us.
Once they get hold of your deed you can whistle. This land is worth
thousands more’n they offer you, and they know it. What has Hallibut’s
mill done for the ma’sh-trappin’? I guess you know. They’ll drive the
furs off and they’ll drive you’n me off, and they want to do just that,
too.”
Declute arose from the floor.
“If I thort that——” he commenced; but his wife broke in:
“If you thort! Just as if you could thunk, you thick-head you. Didn’t I
tell you that I suspicioned them fellers, and don’t Bill Paisley here
know? Don’t he allars know? Shet right up, Ander, an’ don’t you try an’
think. You had no right to act without seein’ Bill here an’ Big Mac,
anyway.”
“But I wasn’t goin’ to, Rachel,” drawled Declute. “I war goin’ over to
Big Mac’s this very night, lookin’ in on Bill on the way over. Don’t you
get too danged crusty, wife.”
The ponderous woman waved a hand toward the progeny on the floor.
“You, David an’ Moses an’ Zaccheus,” she commanded, “scramble out o’ th’
road instantly, I’m wantin’ to get over t’ th’ cubboard.”
There was a hurried scramble out of the way, and the mother rolled
across the room and secured a paper from an inner recess of the
home-built cupboard.
“Bill Paisley,” she said, passing the paper over to the visitor, “you be
goin’ to keep this here deed for me an’ Ander—ain’t I right, Ander?”
she nodded, the corner of her mouth drawn down warningly.
“If you say so, ma—in course,” consented Ander.
“Good idea,” grinned Paisley, folding the paper and placing it in his
pocket. “Now, Ander, after you’ve finished cuttin’ up that carcass,
suppose you come along with me and we’ll look in on the rest of the
Bushwhackers and see if we can’t get their deeds, too.”
Declute glanced at his spouse. She nodded, and with much alacrity the
little man arose.
“Don’t know as I’ll be much of a help to you, Bill,” he laughed, “but
I’ll go along anyway.”
It was midnight when Paisley opened the door of the McTavish home and
with a voiceless laugh waved the bundle of deeds above his head. The
candle was burning dimly; the fire in the wide fireplace was almost
dead. Boy sat before it alone, looking thoughtfully into its depths.
Paisley crossed over to him and placed the deeds in his hand.
“They can’t get the timber without the deeds,” he chuckled, “and to get
the deeds I guess they’ll have to get us, eh?”
Boy caught his friend’s hand and pressed it. He tried to speak, and,
noting his feelings, Paisley drew forth his pipe and filled it as he
gave, in an undertone, an account of his great night’s work.
“I guess all the Bushwhackers’ll have reason to thank you, Bill,” said
Boy. “I ain’t sure that they all feel like I do about holdin’ this,” he
swept his arm about him and a glow came into his eyes. “It’s been a lot
to me—a lot. Nobody can guess what it would mean to me to see this
woods crippled. Somehow I haven’t been just myself since they started it
over there. I can’t sleep like I used to. I know it’s foolish, but that
saw gets buzzin’ in my dreams and I’m fightin’, fightin’ all night long
for _this_, Bill, this woods and all it holds. I was thinkin’ that I’d
come over and see you, when you stepped in. Bill, we don’t ever say
much, us Bushwhackers; but to-night I couldn’t help but be glad me and
you have always been what we have to each other. Some things come over
me lately that grip tight hold of me and hold me without hurtin’, and I
seem to like the feelin’, too. It’s like frost that kills without
hurtin’. If I wasn’t strong I’d think I was gettin’ sick.”
There came from the inner room a voice mumbling in troubled sleep. Boy
lifted his head and smiled.
“It was your name she called, Boy,” whispered Paisley wonderingly.
“Ma says she often calls out that way,” said Boy. “Sometimes it’s my
name and sometimes it’s dad’s. Gloss dreams a lot, I guess.”
Paisley noted the smile that drifted across his friend’s face, and he
nodded his head up and down slowly.
“Guess I’ll be hittin’ the back trail,” he said rising, “and you best go
to bed, Boy. I’ll come over to-morrow as we arranged and help you set
your traps in the runs. It’s goin’ to freeze right soon, and trappin’ is
on from now. Declute got a couple of deer this afternoon, so we’ll just
take a whack at ’em ourselves toward night to-morrow.”
“You’d better stay and sleep with me, Bill,” said Boy. “Somehow I’d like
to have you, and we could make an early start in the mornin’.”
“Oh, I’ll hoof it along back, I guess,” laughed Paisley.
He was wondering whether he ought to tell Boy what he had learned
concerning Watson and Simpson. He glanced at Boy and his lips closed
tight.
“He’d kill ’em both,” he thought, “—I’ll watch them fellers myself.”
With his hands on the latch of the door he glanced back. Boy was seated
before the dead fire, his chin on his hand and the bundle of deeds
pressed against his cheek. Paisley leaned his rifle against the wall and
unstrapped his powder-horn. Then he came back and put his hands on Boy’s
shoulders.
“I’d best stay, I guess,” he grinned, “and show you how a real
Bushwhacker should sleep. It strikes me, Boy, that you’re lookin’ some
lonesome and need company. Glad Ander Declute’s goin’ to have a
loggin’-bee. It’ll stir us all up.”
He sat down on a stool and started to unlace his moccasins, whistling an
old tune beneath his breath. Boy arose and, walking to the window, gazed
out across his kingdom. An owl was hooting from a distant thicket. Down
in the deep shadow a fox called, and from the sheep-corral came the soft
bleating of a late lamb. The chickens in the coop stirred and voiced
their uneasiness. Outside on a well-worn spot a dog stretched himself,
arose and sniffed the breeze, then assumed his former position.
Boy turned to the long cupboard near the hearth.
“Seems I can’t be myself these days,” he said. “I forgot that you might
be hungry after your tramp about to-night. Set up, Bill, and have a bit
of turkey.”
He placed the carcass of a cold fowl on the table, and from the
milk-house outside fetched bread and butter. Paisley drew his stool up
to the table.
“Ain’t you eatin’?” he asked.
“Not hungry,” answered Boy. “Seems I ain’t like anythin’ I used to be
any more. All day long I’ve been thinkin’ about a lot of no-count things
that happened years ago. Little things I’ve done and seen here in the
bush. How I tramped with Davie ’cross the ridges and down through the
wild blackberry patches. Why, Bill, it seems, some nights, when I’m
lyin’ awake, that I can see everythin’ just as plain as I saw it then.
Last night I was listenin’ to the rushes sweepin’ against my skiff. My
oar was poked in a bog and my boat-painter was tied to it. I was
trollin’ with a live minnie, and the creek was a clear bottle-green. The
pond-lily roots lay there six feet below me, and the bass swam in and
out—you know how they did before the mill was up, Bill?”
Paisley nodded and looked back over his shoulder. His mouth was full of
turkey and bread.
“And as they’ll do again,” he asserted in muffled tones of conviction.
“I was gettin’ strikes and playin’ bass,” smiled Boy; “playin’ and
landin’ ’em and enjoyin’ it all. Davie was there, and Gloss was there.
We all talked and laughed together. It was real, I tell you, Bill. It
wasn’t a dream, ’cause my eyes was wide open. That sort of thing scares
me. I don’t understand it.”
Paisley put his hand on Boy’s knee.
“I know what’s doin’ it all,” he said. “I know just what’s doin’ it all.
You’re worryin’. That’s what you’re doin’. You shouldn’t, ’cause
Hallibut and his gang ain’t goin’ to get this bush, not by a danged
sight. You’re thinkin’ that you won’t fish no more like you used to;
that you and Davie won’t tramp together no more in your own little
world. But you will. You’ll always own it, Boy. You take old Bill’s word
for it, you ain’t got nothin’ to worry yourself sick about.”
“Somehow I feel sort of helpless,” sighed Boy. “Maybe I’m a coward,
’cause I feel like hidin’; only the fight in me makes me keep to the
open. You’ve seen a young partridge when you walked upon him
unexpected-like. The little beggar just grabs a leaf and turns over on
his back, holdin’ the leaf over him. You and me know where he is,
because we see that leaf movin’ after a time; but nobody who ain’t a
Bushwhacker could find him, Bill.”
“And like him, you naturally want to lay low, eh, Boy?”
“Yes, as though I want to cover up; not because I’m scared, but ’cause
it seems the natural thing to do. Then I get over that feelin’, and the
next thing I know I’m carryin’ my rifle at full cock and keepin’ a
lookout. I don’t know how this is goin’ to end, Bill, I sure don’t.”
Paisley stood up.
“Boy,” he said earnestly, “you’d best be careful what you do. Don’t you
fire first. I ain’t advisin’ you to leave your rifle on the rack, but
you know that us Bushwhackers don’t shoot to scare. Ammunition’s too
scarce for that. If you was to kill one of Hallibut’s gang now, it would
make things bad for us all.”
“The traps ain’t set and the rats have left their houses,” said Boy
drearily. “All along the creek are dead runs, and there’s no use
trappin’ there. The ducks have left our shores and they’ve gone to the
Point grounds. There’s nothin’ here, Bill, but the clash and buzz and
whistle of that mill. The turkeys don’t come on the ridges like they
used to; the deer stay back in the swamplands; and all through this
woods them sounds are chasin’ the fur and game farther back. And now he
is goin’ to send his schooner in here. Think of it, Bill. He’s goin’ to
sail across the bay and up Lee Creek for his lumber. Old Noah was here
this mornin’ and he told me. He’s goin’ to work for Hallibut, too, and I
can’t understand that.”
“What’s the old Injun goin’ to do!” grinned Paisley. “He can’t
work—he’s too old.”
“He’s goin’ to watch the boat. It looks as if Hallibut’s afraid we’ll
burn her. I don’t know why he should think that, but Noah says it’s
better for him to be on the boat than anybody else. And he’s right. He
didn’t tell me much—you know what a silent old feller he is. But I know
he’s been over to see Hallibut. Noah isn’t against us: he thinks too
much of Gloss for that, but there’s somethin’ he knows that we don’t
know. I see him watchin’ Gloss a lot. I’d give a good deal to know just
what’s in his mind, Bill.”
“Why, there’s nothin’ in his mind. Hallibut said, ‘Old Injun, do you
want a job standin’ watch on my boat when I send her down among the
Bushwhackers!’ and Noah he says, ‘Much good.’ Noah knows that he can
watch Hallibut that way better than we can watch him. Of course, I don’t
mean to say Noah would be traitor to any man he worked for—we both know
he wouldn’t. But he’s there to watch things for us as well as Hallibut,
Boy.”
“Colonel Hallibut’s comin’ for more than his own,” said Boy gloomily.
Paisley stretched his long arms.
“Well,” he laughed, “I’ve picked posies when bees have been workin’
among ’em. They didn’t molest me any—not then. Once, though, I dusted a
little chap with flour and trailed him down to his tree. I was hungry
for honey and wanted to hog it. When I started to cut down that bee-tree
I found Mr. Bee, who was quite a good feller among the posies, somethin’
of a hell-terror when it come to protectin’ his own. It learned me a
lesson. Now, when I hanker for honey, I get a piece of maple-sugar and
eat that. We can’t stop Hallibut from comin’ up Lee Creek, but we can
stop him from hoggin’ our homesteads out of us; so we won’t worry no
more. Come on to bed, Boy. Mornin’ will come right soon, and we’ve a lot
of traps to set.”
Boy picked up the candle and led the way to the loft.
“My, but it’s a grand place to stretch yourself out and enjoy rest,
this,” said Paisley, stooping low to keep from bumping his head on the
roof. “You should sleep like a baby up here, Boy. You sure should.”
“I used to,” said Boy. “Maybe I’ll be able to again. It’s restful all
right, Bill, to lie here and listen to the rain patterin’ on the roof.
And in the summer the leaves play little tunes on the thatches. Once Joe
chased a wild-cat across the open and he treed up here. I tried to scare
him away, but every time I struck the roof on the inside he would spit
and snarl out there on the outside. I had to get up and shoot him at
last.”
“Sure,” said Bill dreamily.
He had stretched himself out on the willow bed, and already healthy
sleep was wooing him and leading him from the late day into strange
by-paths of dreams which he never remembered.