Old Betsy
Daft Davie lived with an aged grandmother in a small hut close to the
edge of the bay. She was a very old woman. Her features were rugged and
piercing; and she hated everything in the world, except, indeed, it were
Davie, and on him she lavished very little love. It was thought among
the Bushwhackers that she sometimes beat the daft child. Nobody knew for
certain. The old woman gave little attention to his going or his coming.
The death of her daughter and only child had crippled her reason. There
was a path worn between the hut and the knoll beneath the walnut. Old
Betsy’s life was linked to a tragedy just as her home was linked to an
old, old grave by the path that was kept trodden both winter and summer.
The people feared Betsy, and respected her. It was said that she was
versed in witchcraft and was in league with the devil. The Bushwhackers
brought her meat and roots and such other necessities as she required,
but she never thanked them. Perhaps they were doing it all for the
child. In their rough way they pitied the boy; some of them even showed
him a sort of animal affection. Old Betsy spoke to no one, unless it was
to curse them, and she went abroad only when the sun was hidden, to
gather the herbs she brewed into nauseous evil-smelling decoctions.
Twice, only, in nine years, had she visited the homes of those who were
kind to her.
Once Peeler lay yellow and swollen, dying from the bite of a snake.
Betsy had hobbled into the house, her iron-gray hair hanging about her
shoulders, wet with the falling rain. Without so much as a word she had
forced a black liquid between the trapper’s set teeth and had gone
before Bill Paisley or Big McTavish, who were with the dying man, could
recover from their surprise. Peeler got well, and the Bushwhackers
whispered among themselves in superstitious awe. They laid the miracle
to old Betsy’s witchcraft. One other time a child lay ill with a high
fever. Old Betsy visited the home of the child and all night long sat
beside the little sufferer. The child grew well and strong.
“Witchcraft,” whispered the Bushwhackers.
If Betsy was aware that she was looked upon as being in league with the
Evil One, she gave no sign: it bothered her none whatever. She stayed
within the dark confines of her hut, smoked Canada-Green tobacco in a
clay pipe, and blasphemed to her heart’s content.
To Daft Davie she paid not the slightest attention. But often when the
child lay sleeping she would bend over him, holding the feeble
rush-light close to his face to scan it with knotted brows working, as
she poured maledictions upon the cause of the ushering into this world
of a crippled soul that had never quite learned rest. If she thought the
power the child exercised over the birds and animals of the wood
strange, she gave no evidence of it. She had become inured to having the
squirrels and birds frisk and flutter about in the open spot before her
door, playing fantastic games with the wee yellow-haired child, who
rolled about upon the greensward and gibbered to them.
Once in the dusk, along the path to the grave, old Betsy found a ruffed
grouse lying drunk and helpless. He had eaten too freely of the purple
poke-berry. She picked the bird up and carried him to her hut, and there
held him until he slept off his intoxication. He fought frantically to
get away until Davie came in and, taking the grouse from her, talked to
it in his own way, and it settled on his shoulder and hid its head
beneath his long curls. From that time the old woman realised that the
daft child was also one of the wild things of the wood.
The powdery white-frost lay like a blanket upon the unprotected glades
of the wood and the yellow-drab leaves were being shaken and wafted
earthward in the first swaying gust of morning wind, when Boy McTavish
emerged from the timber and stood gazing toward the lone hut against the
tangle of brown sumach. The setter shook himself and looked up into his
master’s face.
“Joe,” said the boy in a whisper, “you stay here. I’m goin’ up, witch or
no witch. It’s got to be done.”
The dog squatted down among the frost-blackened ferns, and Boy slowly
crossed the open and knocked at the door. It opened quickly, and there
stood the gaunt, bent woman, her gray hair falling down about her
shoulders, her black eyes blazing with a fury.
“Betsy,” said Boy chokingly, “ma’s awful sick. We think she won’t live
till noon. I just thought I’d tell you.”
He turned away as the door slammed with a bang, and with a sigh plunged
into the hard timber. He walked quickly across two ridges, then,
turning, followed a third down to the edge of the creek. There he
halted.
“I can’t just make up my mind to do anythin’, Joe,” he said, bending and
patting the dog. “I ought to build a turkey-trap or two, ’cause it’s the
beech-nut season now, and the turkeys’ll be here in a day or so. But it
does seem as though I ought to be home with her.”
He shouldered his rifle and moved slowly along. Where the ridge met the
margin of the creek Boy paused again and glanced about him with narrowed
eyes.
“Hah, this is a good place for a trap, Joe,” he said. “We’ll build one
or two anyway. Then we’ll get back.”
He stood his rifle up against a tree and unbuckled his belt. Then he
stopped and gazed at the dog blankly.
“Well, now, if we didn’t forget the ax,” he exclaimed. “Can’t build a
turkey-trap without an ax, pup.”
“Here, I’ll lend you mine, Boy.”
Bill Paisley, a gun on his shoulder and a wild gobbler hanging from one
hand, threw his ax down on the moss and grunted:
“Hickory, but I’m some tired. Had quite a job of it, I can tell you.
Built four traps myself this mornin’. Better get yours all up to-day,
Boy, ’cause the turkeys are takin’ to the hardwood fast. Seen eight big
flock this mornin’. Only got one crack, though, ’cause I wanted to get
my traps up. Why, what’s the matter, Boy, you look sort of used up?”
Boy looked away.
“You know the mornin’ after the bee, Bill, how when we got back home we
found that ma had been took bad; and you know what we’ve been kind of
expectin’ since?” he said catchingly. “Well, we think it’ll happen right
soon.”
Paisley dropped his gun and tackled a dead tree with the ax.
“I made my logs about ten foot long,” he said; “reckon you’d best make
yours same length.”
“Ten by six ought to be about right,” answered Boy.
Paisley chopped the tree through and paced off ten feet. He raised his
ax, then let it gently down again.
“Boy,” he said, “it’s a hard thing. How soon?”
“We reckon sometime to-day.”
Paisley spit on his hands and resumed work.
“I’m goin’ to put up four pens for you, and what you better do is get
back home. Don’t say anythin’ to me or I’ll knock your head off. Now,
you strike the back trail and when I get the traps up I’ll be with you.
Here, take this turkey.”
Boy picked up the turkey, then stood awkwardly brushing his face with
his doeskin sleeve.
“Bill, I’m much obliged.”
Paisley snorted.
“I’m goin’ to put your mark on these pens—two narrow notches an’ one
wide one, ain’t it?”
Boy nodded.
“Well, get along then and don’t stand there botherin’ me. I’m goin’ to
build one up in—but never mind now. I’ll come back with you and show
you. Get along.”
For an hour and a half after Boy had gone Paisley worked fast and
furious. Building a turkey-trap was no easy job for one man, for a
turkey-trap was practically a diminutive log-house with a narrow
ground-door and a well-built roof of tough, heavy timbers, strong enough
to hold a horse from within or a turkey-loving brown bear from without.
When pen number one was finished, Paisley stood back and grinned
commendingly.
“Purty good trap, that,” he said, speaking aloud, as was the habit of
most Bushwhackers. “Don’t it beat all how foolish a turkey is, now! Just
think of ’em follerin’ up a trail of beech-nuts or chaff and enterin’
that little log-house with their heads down and findin’ they’re inside,
not seein’ the door they went in by at all.”
He laughed quietly and felt for his pipe.
“Just as soon as they find they’re trapped, up goes their heads and they
never see nothin’ but the roof after that. The scareder a turkey is, the
higher up goes its head. I’ll bet my winter’s tobaccer that this trap is
good for five at least.”
He sat down on a log and lit his pipe.
“Well, well,” he sighed, “what’ll Boy and Big Mac do without that little
mother? What’ll they do?”
He pulled viciously at his short pipe and then sprang up and gripped his
ax again. Then he stood still, looking away through the woods with
unseeing eyes.
“That’s it,” he said huskily. “What’ll _she_ do?—that’s it.”
He tramped slowly onward and found another slope on a narrow ridge.
“I’ll build the other three; close in here,” he told himself, and
started to work.
It was past noon before the traps were finished. Then Paisley, wiping
his streaming brow with his hand, tramped slowly across toward
McTavish’s. Above him was the old-gold of late autumn. Around him rang
the cheerful voices of jay, high-holder, and cock-of-the-woods. Here and
there a yellow splash of sunshine fell through the trees and painted
golden patches upon the dead leaves. But Paisley saw or heard none of
this. He kept repeating in his mind the question:
“What’ll she do?—what’ll little Gloss do?”
As Paisley was about to leave the timber for the path along the creek
his acute ear caught the sound of a paddle dipping the water lightly,
and peering-through the trees he saw two men in a skiff strike the near
shore and glance stealthily about them.
Paisley’s eyes narrowed and his heavy jaw set.
“Teacher’s spendin’ his Saturday hollerday, I suppose,” he muttered.
“Well, I’m waitin’ here to see just what he’s goin’ to do, and learn who
that big man is with him.”
The men in the skiff stood up and, stepping ashore, pulled the boat up
after them.
Bill Paisley’s muscles began to bunch beneath his deerskin jacket. It
was with the greatest difficulty that he restrained himself from
launching forth and giving the visitors a lesson. But he held himself in
check, feeling that he might learn something of far more benefit to his
friends and himself than this gratification of desire would prove.
The men were speaking in hushed accents, but the bushman’s ear caught
every word. As he listened his big hands clenched and his blue eyes
darkened.
“It won’t do to go up too close, I tell you, Watson,” Simpson was
saying. “They’ve got a dog that would like to tear me to pieces; and as
for that Boy, I’d rather face a nest of rattlesnakes any time than him.”
“Bah!” jeered the other; “scared, eh? You’ve got a lot of yellow in you,
Simpson.”
“You needn’t talk,” said the school-teacher reddening. “It was worse
than mere cowardice that got you into this pickle I’m trying to get you
out of. And see here, I don’t want any more of your gibes or I’ll let
you go to thunder and get out of the thing the best way you can.”
“Oh, say, now,” said the other with a forced laugh, “this won’t do, my
boy. We mus’n’t quarrel, you and I. Remember, the Colonel is to give you
your price if we can grab her to-night. We’ll have the horses across in
Twin Elm swale yonder, and get her away before these idiots surmise
anything.”
Simpson shuddered.
“See here, Watson,” he said, “I guess you understand I’m not doing this
for money; all I want is the girl. If we pull this thing off to-night,
I’m away and she goes with me.”
Watson laughed discomfitingly.
“Well, I don’t blame you for not wanting to stay here. It’s not very
healthy for you. All we want you to do before you go is to help us get
hold of the girl, and of course it’s understood she’s yours.”
The two turned up the path, and Paisley lay low and let them pass. Then
he plunged into the wood. As the plotters warily turned the bend in the
path they came unexpectedly upon Paisley, aimlessly sauntering in the
opposite direction.
“You gents got a pass?” he asked, laying his rifle on the ground.
“No, sir,” replied Watson, “and what’s more, we don’t need one.”
“Oh, you don’t eh?—well, then, you had better both get.”
He pointed across the creek and Watson’s purple face flushed a deeper
shade.
“Look here,” he commanded, “we’re your friends. We want to do you
Bushwhackers a favor. Is this any way to treat us, sir?”
“We’re not needin’ friends,” returned Paisley. “Now, you chaps get while
you’re able to walk.”
“We’ll go when we’re ready, not before,” growled the agent, putting
himself on the defensive.
Paisley’s long right arm shot forward and Watson’s burly form executed a
half somersault on the moss. Simpson sprang in, but Paisley’s hand
gripped him by the windpipe.
“So you must learn your lesson, too, eh?” he said grimly, and sent the
teacher to earth with a straight left from the shoulder.
Watson struggled erect with a groan.
“You’ve broken my arm,” he moaned. “You’ll pay for this. Nobody can
assault Thomas W. O. Watson with impunity, sir. When Colonel Hallibut
has you Bushwhackers cornered you will need me, and what if I should
remember this—this assault, then?”
“We’re not afraid of Colonel Hallibut,” said Paisley quietly. “If
Hallibut corners us we’ll be willin’ to stay in the corner. I say, when
he corners us we’ll be willin’—understand? Now, you fellers better be
gettin’ across to your own territory, ’cause I feel my muscle swellin’
again.”
Simpson struggled painfully from the ground and, followed by the bruised
Watson, lost no time in obeying the order. Paisley watched them until
the rushes on the farther, shore hid them from sight, then he picked up
his rifle and walked on.
“The fools!” he muttered, “they don’t know that I’m on to their game.
The fools! to think they could ever steal Gloss away like that. I’ve
seen that Watson feller’s face before somewhere, but I can’t just say
where. I reckon he won’t ever forget old Bill Paisley, though. No, I
mus’n’t say nothin’ to Boy; not yet. Guess he’s most too hot-headed to
meet them devils at their own game.”
As he rounded the bend in the path there came the shuffle of a footstep
to his ear, and the bent form of an old woman passed him. Her hair was
flying in the breeze, her pitted face worked, and her black orbs
gleamed.
“Old Betsy, as sure as I’m born!” exclaimed Paisley. “It’s the first
time I ever seen her out durin’ daylight. She sure come from Mac’s way,
too. Wonder what’s up. Guess I’ll go and see.”
Half an hour later he entered McTavish’s door. Boy was seated by the
table, and he leaped up when Bill entered.
“She’s better, a lot better, Bill,” he cried in answer to the big man’s
look. “Old Betsy was here, Bill, and she gave ma something to drink,
and——”
His voice faltered, and he turned toward Gloss, who had come from the
bedroom.
“You tell Bill all about it,” he said, and walked out.
Paisley looked at the girl and mentally formed the same words that Boy
had spoken not so long ago:
“She ain’t a girl no more; she’s a woman now.”
Gloss was dressed in a homespun skirt and a jacket of raw deerskin, but
it was the wild beauty of her face with its glorious coloring and great
fawn-like eyes that Paisley saw. Remembering what he had so lately
heard, a great anger swept through the man. The girl noticed his working
face, and she came over to him.
“Bill,” she said, “I’ve known you ever since I can remember, and I never
saw your eyes look like they do now. Are you sick, Bill?”
“Glossie,” said Paisley, “I want to tell you somethin’. You’re not to go
outside this here house until I say you can. You know old Bill, and he
knows somethin’ you don’t know. You promise me right now that you won’t
go out, Glossie.”
The girl looked at him quickly, then slowly removed her cap.
“Bill,” said she, “I sure will do whatever you say, and ask no
questions. I know you so well, Bill—and I won’t go out until you say.
I—I—am some scared——”
She caught her breath and clinched her slender hands, her color rising.
“Girl,” said Bill slowly, “you ain’t got nothin’ to be scared over; but
don’t you forget you’ve promised me. Now, Glossie, tell me about the
ma.”
“Why, Bill,” cried the girl, “it was all so unexpected. Auntie was awful
sick. We all thought she was—was——”
“I know; Boy told me.”
“And this mornin’, just when I was clearin’ the breakfast dishes, who
should walk in but old Betsy. She didn’t look at me, but went right on
in where Granny and auntie were. Granny says she kept mutterin’, and she
heard her say somethin’ about Boy findin’ Daft Davie one time when he
was lost and bringin’ him home. And all the time she was pourin’ some
stuff from a bottle into a cup. Granny says it was the spell she was
sayin’. Anyway, she made auntie take some of the stuff, and, Bill, she
has been asleep and restin’ fine ever since.”
Paisley got up from his chair and took the girl’s face between his
hands.
“Glossie,” he said, patting her cheeks, “your auntie is goin’ to get
well. I ain’t carin’ a darn whether it is witchcraft or no witchcraft.
Guess I better go outside and hunt up Boy and Mac, ’cause I’m goin’ to
holler some soon. Now, don’t you forget your promise, Gloss.”
Paisley stepped out into the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon.
Down in the far end of the potato-patch he saw Big McTavish and Boy
working. Beside them stood Daft Davie, his inseparable companion, the
coon, in his arms. As he watched them he saw the big man bend and pat
the child’s yellow hair, then point toward the house. But Davie shook
his head and pointed eastward.
“He’s tellin’ Mac in his way what maybe I ought to tell him in mine,”
thought Paisley. “But I won’t; anyway, not yet a while.”