The next morning I was on my pony and up to Mitch's house at seven, and
whistled and whistled. By and by one of the girls came out and said
Mitch had staid all night at Charley King's and wasn't home yet. So I
went over there; but he and Charley was up and gone already. Mrs. King
came to the door, came out and stood by the pony and petted him and said
I had pretty eyes, same as before. Then she said Charley and Mitch had
gone somewhere. She didn't know where. So I rode off and rode around a
bit and then I started for the farm, thinkin' that Mitch had treated me
mean--and why would he for Rosencrantz or Guildenstern? whichever
Charley King was. I was sure Mitch would turn up and the next day
grandpa was goin' to town early to be home by three o'clock, and he said
he'd bring Mitch out if he could find him.
My uncle now was in a mood to go camping to Blue Lake. So we got the
tent out and began to mend it where it needed it, and fix the ropes. We
took the guns and cleaned 'em, and I helped my uncle load a lot of
shells. We set aside some pie plates and cups and did a lot of tinkerin'
around. Grandma didn't want us to go. She was afraid we'd get drowned or
shoot ourselves, or that a storm would come up and we'd get struck by
lightning.
In the afternoon old Washington Engle came and he and grandpa sat under
the maple trees and talked old times, even about Indians, for they had
been in the Black Hawk War together, and they had seen the country grow
from buffalo grass to blue grass and clover. I sat there listenin'; and
pretty soon a buggy pulled up and somebody called in a loud voice and
laughed. It was John Armstrong and Aunt Caroline. They had drove over to
visit; and John had brought his fiddle to play some of the old things
for grandma--some of the things he had played years before when Aunt
Mary was sick and grandma was takin' care of her. Grandpa liked gospel
tunes, like "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," but grandma liked "Rocky Road to
Jordan" and "The Speckled Hen"; and John could play these and couldn't
play religious tunes worth a cent. And John told stories as before; and
he told about a man at Oakford who never had any money and always wanted
drinks. So he took a jug and filled it half full of water and went to
Porky Jim Thomas' saloon and asked for a half a gallon of alcohol, and
Porky Jim poured it in. Then this man said to Porky Jim, "Charge it,
please," and Porky Jim says: "Why, you ain't got a cent, and you never
pay anybody." So he took up the jug and poured out what he had poured in
and told the man to take the jug and go. And he did and had, of course,
a half gallon all mixed. John laughed terribly at his own story--the
women didn't laugh, nor grandpa. My uncle did, and I that's all.
Then Aunt Caroline helped grandma get supper and we had a lot of fun and
they drove home.
The next day grandpa started early for Petersburg, so as to be back by
three o'clock for something. And my uncle and me was getting ready
because we was goin' to drive to Blue Lake that night, pitch the camp,
and fish while it was quiet. So we had to grease the wagon and do a lot
of things. And grandpa was to bring Mitch.
Three o'clock looked like it never would come. But at last about three I
saw the white horses on the far hill, and then I saw them pulling hard
and slow up the near hill and I could see grandpa now but couldn't see
Mitch; and I watched and looked. Then I thought he was hid under the
seat; or had dropped off to walk and come in later and fool me.
Grandpa drove in the lot. His face was set. He looked serious. He didn't
look at me. He held the lines and looked straight ahead. I climbed on
the carriage and says, "Where's Mitch?" Just then my uncle came up to
unhitch the horses. My grandpa threw him the lines and grandpa got out
of the carriage. Then he said, speaking really to my uncle and not to
me:
"Mitchie Miller was killed this afternoon on the railroad."
"Grandpa!" I cried. "Grandpa!"
My grandfather's eyes were purple--they had grown deep and almost
terrible to see. And he said: "Yes, son," and hurried toward the house.
I went to the barn. I saddled and bridled my pony. I leaped into the
saddle and struck my heels into the pony's flanks, and away I went in a
run all the way to Petersburg--six miles and not a pause or a let up.
When I got there in a little more than half an hour, I found that they
had Mitch up at the house of Widow Morris. So I went there. He was still
alive--and they let me in. It was terrible. Such a smell of
ether--medicines. Such whisperings--such fullness in the room. The
doctor said we'd have to clear out, some of us. And some left. I staid
long enough to see Mitch. His eyes were closed. His face was yellow--I
could see blood. I turned sick and went out of the room. Just as I got
to the door I heard Mitch say, "Has pa come?" They said, "He's comin',
Mitchie, be patient, he's comin'." Then I stood by the door.
And pretty soon Mrs. Miller came and the girls and my mother and Myrtle
and most every one. It seemed Mr. Miller was away selling atlases, but
would be home soon, maybe, or maybe not till late, and maybe not till
to-morrow. All the girls cried like their hearts would break; and Mrs.
Miller knelt down by the bed, and Mitch says to her, "Where's pa?" And
she says, "He's comin', Mitchie." And then she choked and had to walk
away. They cleared the room now pretty much, and of course Mrs. Miller
allowed me to be in the room if I wanted to, and could stand it. But I
stood by the door, or just inside a little, for Mitch was talkin'.
Finally they let me go to the bedside, and Mitch saw me and says,
"Skeet," and then turned his head kind of over as if he wanted to say
something he couldn't bear to say.
Then Mitch began to talk more. "Don't row so fast," he'd say--"The
river's gettin' swifter. Take the horses from that engine. I'm goin' to
see Tom Sawyer--I can fly to him--fly--fly--fly--Zueline--it's you, is
it?"
Then he kind of woke up and says: "Is Zueline here?" And they said, "No,
but she was comin';" but she wasn't; she was out of town, and probably
wouldn't have come anyway. And then he said--"Get my pa--he must
forgive me before I die."
[Illustration: Mitch Saw Me and Says, "Skeet"]
By this time I knew how Mitch was hurt. He'd been with Charley King and
George Heigold, and they had been flippin' on the train. And Mitch was
ridin' on the side of a car with his foot hangin' down that he had cut
in two, draggin' against the wheel, which he didn't notice because his
foot was numb from being cut in two when he was four or five years old.
So the train gave a lurch and dragged him under; and the wheels cut him
at the hip. It couldn't be amputated by the doctor, and they couldn't
stop the bleedin'.
Then Mitch began to repeat all kinds of poetry from "Hamlet" and things
I didn't know; and he repeated what he had recited to me that day:
"I saw pale kings and warriors too,
Pale princes, death pale were they all.
They said 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall.'"
And he talked about flyin', about treasure, about St. Louis, about Doc
Lyon, and Joe Rainey and the pistol; and once he talked as if he thought
he was testifyin' in court; and he said--"Now we're on the
Mississippi--how fast the boat goes--don't row so fast." But always he'd
come to and say, "Where's my pa?"
And after a bit there was a stir--Mr. Miller came--pushed his way
through. He was pale as ashes, all trembling, out of breath, for he'd
run up the hill. And he came to the bedside, but Mitch was dreaming
again, drifting and dreaming, and talking about boats, about money,
about Hamlet, about treasure, about pale kings and warriors and
death-pale princes. But pretty soon he says, "Where's my pa? Is he never
comin'?"
"I'm here," said Mr. Miller.
Mitch opened his eyes and looked at his father for about a minute and
saw his pa had come. He was pretty weak now and it was hard for him to
speak. But finally he said, "Take my hand--pa." And Mr. Miller took it.
And then nothin' was said for a while. And then Mitch spoke
again--"Forgive me, pa." And Mr. Miller, who was tryin' to keep from
cryin' so as not to worry Mitch, says, "Oh yes, Mitchie." And then Mitch
says: "Say a little prayer, pa." And Mr. Miller knelt by the bed to say
a prayer, and Mitch says--"Not out loud--just to yourself."
So Mr. Miller did, and then Mitch wandered again and he says, "Don't row
so fast." Then there was a terrible stillness. Mitch had died with them
words.
And my friend--my chum, was gone for good.