By the time the start was made Mr. Hoonover had cooled down somewhat. He
went in front, of course, in his capacity as guide, but all along the
two and a half miles drive he was constantly jerking about in his seat
to look back and shout some question or remark to the man in his wake.
Thus before their destination was reached he had proven, in tones loud
enough for all the countryside to hear, that the man who had attacked
him was indeed part negro, that he himself always lived at peace with
his neighbours, and that from this day forward he intended to go
"loaded" for Marston. The garrulity of the old farmer annoyed Glenning
somewhat, who had his own forebodings as to the result of the
unfortunate encounter on the street, and he replied to Mr. Hoonover's
demonstrations only by a nod of the head, or a smile. So busy was that
gentleman looking behind to see that his remarks were heard, that his
horse drew him almost in front of the Scribbenses before he knew it.
When he suddenly discovered his proximity to the infected shack, and
realized that his horse was moving in a slow jog, he tightened his reins
and began to belabour his beast with the staff he held. As he dashed at
a gallop past the dreaded spot he shouted some unintelligible
communication wildly over his shoulder, and was out of sight before
Glenning drew up at a broken down stake-and-rider fence skirting the
road. He looked about him as he got out and hitched his horse. The spot
seemed the abomination of desolation. The by-road was rutty and not
kept; deep sluices showed on either side of it, where no effort had been
made to check the ravages of heavy rains. A worthless species of grass
grew in sickly clumps, dust-covered. Blackberry vines, sassafras and
sumac bushes made one inextricable tangle of vegetation along the zigzag
fence. There was a gap in the fence which served for a gate. John went
through, then stopped for a moment. Not from fear at entering the
stricken place. He had no bodily fear, nor ever had. But the awful
loneliness of the spot weighed upon him. Low hills, bush-dotted and
gullied, arose on every side except the southern one, where a small
field, untilled and marshy, lay along a creek bed, now nearly dry.
Beyond this, and perhaps half a mile away, on higher ground, was a
rather pretentious looking farmhouse which he guessed, rightly, to be
the home of Mr. Hoonover. The miserable log shanty facing him was
pitiful in its decay and loneliness. The ground all about it was bare,
and a few stunted, shrivelled cedars stood at one side. The chinking had
fallen from the stick-and-mud chimney, and it looked like the torso of
some giant skeleton. The door was shut; the one window darkened from the
inside by what appeared to be a ragged quilt. A lean brown cur lay by
the rotten log serving for a door step, too lazy or too near dead from
starvation to lift its voice at the intrusion of a stranger. The dog
was the only sign of life. All the rest, was silence, poverty,
desolation. No birds sang here; not even the shrilling of an insect cut
the great stillness. A feeling almost of awe came over John Glenning,
standing there alone in the strong sunlight, vigorous, assertive,
confident of his power to do. He scarcely wondered that Doctor Kale had
refused the case. But he was glad he had taken it. Not alone to get a
start in the community, for this was a beginning at practice which most
men would not value, but here was a fellow being, sick, friendless and
helpless. He would save him if he could, although the pauper's life
could scarcely be of use to anyone, and he would be better off dead.
John's grip tightened on the handle of his medicine case and he walked
briskly and firmly to the door, and knocked. The cur arose and slunk a
few paces to one side, then lay down again, with his yellow eyes fixed
on the man. The door was opened a crack, and a rasping female voice
said:
"Go 'way. My man's got the small-pox!"
"I'm the doctor," answered Glenning; "let me in."
There was a moment's hesitation, during which a brief argument took
place between the woman and some one else inside, then the door was
grudgingly opened wide enough for John to enter, when it was promptly
closed.
"Thar he is," said the woman. "Go to 'im; he's purty bad."
The sudden transition from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the
cabin made it impossible for Glenning to see distinctly. He was vaguely
conscious of the presence of a number of persons, and he could barely
discern the outlines of a figure stretched on a bunk in a corner.
"All of you'll die if you don't have light and air," he announced,
almost harshly, and striding to the window, removed the flimsy curtain.
Then he turned abruptly to the woman who stood with mouth agape in the
middle of the room. "Open the door!" he commanded; "let some air in
here!"
She was a slatternly creature of uncertain age, her stooped shoulders
and lined face showing her kinship with want and all physical suffering.
She looked with curious intentness at the tall young man who seemed to
so fill the small room, and did his bidding.
"Ye don't b'long in Mac'n, do ye?" she asked. "'Pears to me I've never
saw ye before."
"I belong there now," replied John, shortly. "Came several days ago."
His quick eyes were taking in the meagre appointments of the room, and
its occupants, as he was walking towards the sick man in his corner. The
place seemed swarming with children of all ages and both sexes; they
were thick as rats in a corn-bin. He could not believe all of them the
offsprings of this destitute pair, and he voiced his idea as he knelt by
the pallet.
"What are all these children doing here? Send them home. Don't you know
they're in danger?"
"They _air_ home, thank ye!" rasped the woman, in quick defense of her
brood. "They're _our'n_, I'd hev ye know, ever' blessed one, 'n' they've
got more right here than you hev, ef you _air_ a doctor!"
"No offense!" mumbled Glenning, taking the hairy wrist which listlessly
lay on the ragged counterpane and feeling for the pulse with tips of
practiced fingers.
The children had huddled like sheep against the wall furthest away, a
tattered, unkempt crew of misbegotten humanity; terrible fruit of a
union of ignorance and brute passion. They said not a word, but clung to
each other as though menaced by some visible danger. The woman stood in
the center of the floor, also silent, her hands clasped under her dirty
apron, and her stringy neck outstretched as she watched the doctor. The
thing under Glenning's hand must have been made by God, but it hardly
looked it. It would not have looked it in health, and in the grip of a
loathsome disease it was doubly repulsive. The man's figure was thin and
bony. He lay sick in his shirt and trousers, for he had no night
clothes, to say nothing of underwear, which in all probability he had
never known. His shoes were off, and his feet, knotty, and grimy with
the ground-in dirt of many months, stuck from under the narrow coverlet
which lay over him. His soiled shirt was open at the throat--a throat
presenting alternate ridge and hollow, and covered scantily with
colorless hair. His face was gaunt; his teeth broken and
tobacco-stained; his nose twisted oddly. His hair was a sandy mop. His
eyes were cunning and treacherous. His face was already marked with dull
red spots, and he was burning with fever.
Glenning's face was solemn.
"How long have you been sick?" he asked.
"Two weeks off 'n' on, I reck'n," answered the man.
"How long have you been in bed?"
"Tuk bed yistiddy."
"You should have been in bed ten days, at least. You're pretty sick, my
man."
A shadow of alarm flashed over the bestial countenance.
"I won't _die_, doc, will I? Yo' don't mean I'm gunta _die_!"
In his eagerness he grasped the sleeve of the figure kneeling beside
him.
"You've _got_ to cyore 'im, doc!" wailed the woman. "I can't live
'ithout my man!"
She walked about wringing her hands.
"You've waited too long before seeking help," continued John, getting to
his feet. "There's a chance for you--a slim one, but I'll do what I
can."
He found a rickety chair, and sat down gingerly.
The older children began to snuffle, and the younger ones burst out
crying and ran to their mother, hiding their dirty faces in her dirtier
clothes.
"Small chance in this reeking hole for a man with small-pox," mused
Glenning, then he looked at Mrs. Scribbens, and said:
"That man should have a bath, first of all, from head to foot; a
_scrubbing_. Can you give it to him?"
"I 'low I kin," responded the woman, briskly, "but weuns ain't much on
the wash. Will lye soap do, doc?"
John cast a look at the sick man, and guessed at the texture of his
skin.
"Yes, lye soap will do, but have your water hot, and rinse him off well
when you're through. I'm going to leave some medicine which I want you
to give him through the night."
Mrs. Scribbens disappeared out a door in the rear which led to the back
premises, and busied herself making a fire under a large iron kettle
which hung from a blackened limb, itself supported by two forked sticks
sunk in the ground. The numerous progeny trooped after her _en masse_,
vaguely sensing an omen of evil in the presence of the doctor, and
turning, like little wild things, to their best friend and protector.
Glenning had his case on his knees, rapidly preparing the doses to be
given that night. There was a slight movement from the pallet, and a
terror-laden voice called----
"Doc!"
John turned his head.
"Doc, fur hones'! Tell me! Don't be skeered it'll finish me right off.
Now, while the woman 'n' the chil'n 're gone, tell me!"
A beam of pity struggled to the brown, tired eyes of the man sitting
above him. After all this was his brother--this thing in its filth and
misery and callousness had had a soul breathed into it by a common God
years ago. Should he not feel compassion for anyone whose feet had come
so near the brink of the Valley of the Shadow? He did feel compassion;
the wave which swept him as the pleading, untaught tones came to him was
almost protecting. His brother! Though one's feet had never left the
shallows, and the other's, not long before, had fared through strange
and awful deeps where dreadful monsters lurked in the guise of innocence
and beauty so rare that it was blasting.
With a quick movement John leaned down and took the hard, seamed hand.
"You haven't got even chances," he said. "I can't promise anything but
this: I'll do for you what I'd do for the richest man in Macon!"
"I never heerd sich talk!" exclaimed Scribbens. "What sort o' man air
ye?"
"A pretty poor sort, but I've studied medicine mighty hard. You've got
to pull like blazes to get through. Can you do it. Keep a stout heart, I
mean, and believe all the time you're coming out all right?"
"I dunno. I hurt pow'ful, 'n' I'm burnt to scorchin'."
A paroxysm of abject fear seized him, and he pulled the quilt, full of
holes, up over his head to hide the wild expression on his face. He lay
there and shook with dread--dread of dying--dread of the vast unknown,
and of the punishment he felt surely was awaiting him. John went on with
his work. The packages were done up and the medicine case snapped to and
placed on the floor. Still the coverlet was convulsed with erratic
movements. Directly the man jerked the quilt from his face, showing it
all a-sweat with anguish.
"Doc!" he groaned. "I can't! I can't go this way! It mought be
tonight--in the dark! I feel cur'is! D'ye think I'll go tonight?"
"I think not, Scribbens--cheer up! You're not that sick yet."
"But ye can't tell!" persisted Dink. "Th' ketchin' small-pox is orful.
I've heerd uv it before. It gits ye w'en ye're not watchin'. 'N' say,
doc, I've got somethin' to tell--"
He raised himself on a sharp elbow and glanced dreadfully at the back
door.
"'Fore the woman gits back. 'Tain't wuth while to bother 'bout a
preacher ur a priest. I've never j'ined a church--ain't Cath'lic--ain't
nothin'. But I've got to tell somebody. It'll make it easier. I'm goin'
to tell you, doc."
He fell back, and his hands strayed about nervously over his breast.
"Tell me if you wish," said Glenning, gently; "if it will help you."
"Oh, it will, doc! It's been eatin' on me ever' since I done it. I's
never shore 'nough bad till that man made me bad. I'm always been pore
as a dawg, 'n' wuthless, 'n' no 'count fur nothin'. I've stole,
sometimes, w'en the kids was hongry, but that don't bother me none. Them
that I got frum never missed some cawn ur a chick'n now'n then. 'Tain't
that, doc."
He stopped again, breathing fast. It was hard for him to lay bare the
story of his wrong-doing.
"I heer ye tell th' woman that ye come a few days ago," he resumed, in a
steadier tone. "Then ye don't know many folks 'bout here, I reck'n. But
thar's some mighty bad uns, 'n' I reck'n Devil Marston's the wust. I
'low yo's heerd uv how a stable wuz burned a few nights ago, at the
aidge o' town? Thar wuz a hoss in that stable, 'n' some feller ur
'nother drug 'im out. It wuz Major Dudley's. Thar's a good man, doc.
He's give to me w'en I'd go to 'im with a tale o' no work 'n' hongry
kids at home, 'n' maybe he wuz hongry at the same time, fur all his big
house he's nigh bad off as I am. But his hoss's a wonder, 'n' Devil
Marston's got some hisself whut kin run some. He comes to me one day,
Marston did, 'n' shows me a ten-dollar greenback, 'n' said he'd give it
to me ef I'd take some powders he had with 'im, all wropped up, 'n' slip
in 'n' put that stuff in th' hoss's feed. I knowed it wuz wrong, doc. I
knowed it wuz p'izen, but I tuk it, 'n' the money, too, 'n' that night I
slipped in 'n' done whut he tol' me to do. The nex' day he come to me
b'ilin' mad, 'n' 'lowed I'd tricked 'im. He said the hoss's still alive,
'cause he'd saw 'im, 'n' that I'd took 'is money 'n' didn't do whut I'd
said I'd do. But he lied, doc, 'cause I toted fa'r. But he tore up
snakes, and said he's gunta hosswhip me, 'n' come put nigh hittin' me.
'N' he cussed me some more 'n' pulled out another ten-dollar bill, 'n'
th'owed it at me, 'n' 'lowed that ef I'd go that night 'n' burn the
stable up with the hoss locked in it he'd call it squar. I didn't want
to do it, doc, I sw'ar I didn't, 'cause Major Dudley's been good to me,
but I's skeered not to. That Devil Marston jist looked at me with his
snake eyes 'n' 'lowed that if I failed 'im ag'in he'd come 'n' shoot me
daid. 'N' I went, nigh onto midnight, 'n' I got some straw out'n the
lof'--a hull big armful o' dry straw, 'n' piled it ag'in the door o' the
stable, 'n' sot fire to it. Then I run. I run till I got home, but I saw
the light in the sky, 'n' knowed the hoss wuz gone this time. But the
nex' day I heered o' some feller draggin' 'im out! Then I tuk sick, 'n'
I s'pose it's a jedgment on me fur bein' so wicked. But he _made_ me do
it! He _made_ me! 'Twarn't so much his money, but I's skeered uv 'im.
You don't know Devil Marston, doc. His name's fittin'. 'N' now I feel
better, doc; I sw'ar I do!"
For a moment Glenning sat silent.
"Yes, I know Devil Marston," he said at last, "and he is a bad man. And
I know the Dudleys, too, and I know the man who went in for the colt."
"Ye won't tell, doc, will ye?" asked Scribbens, in sudden alarm. "Ye
won't give me 'way?"
"I'll promise that no harm shall come to you because of the things that
you've told me. But you're a bad man, too, Dink Scribbens--a low down,
dastardly coward!"
The figure below shrank back under the stern, accusing voice.
"I know it! I know it! It's kep' me 'wake ever since I done it!"
He was almost whimpering now, and John realized the utter futility of a
sermon at this time. The arrival of Mrs. Scribbens at this juncture with
her corps of satellites put an end to further confidences. John arose.
"I've het the water!" announced Mrs. Scribbens, standing with a chunk of
lye soap in one hand and a battered and dented tin washpan in the other
from which steam was rising.
"Very well," said Glenning. "Get him clean. Give him one of these when
you have finished, another at midnight, and a third in the morning. Have
you a clock?"
His gaze swept the pitifully bare room and failed to reveal one.
"Humph!" sniffed Mrs. Scribbens. "The roosters crow, don't they? He'll
git his dose at midnight!"
"Keep the children out of doors as much as you can; make each of them
bathe every day and do the same yourself. I'll come back in the morning
and bring something for each of you to take to keep you from catching
the small-pox. Good-day."
The sweet summer afterglow which immediately follows the going down of
the sun was spread mysteriously over all the landscape as John got in
his buggy and began his return trip. The confession to which he had just
given ear did not occupy his mind much. He knew beforehand that it must
have been some creature like this; some degraded, conscienceless,
cast-off devil. Dink Scribbens didn't matter, but Marston did--Marston,
whose heavy figure was beginning already to loom on his life's horizon
portentously. Now, since the occurrence on the streets of Macon a couple
of hours before, he knew that trouble was ahead for him, swift and sure.
Marston hated him well enough before that incident, providing Travers
had delivered his message properly, but now--to be struck on the chest
and almost knocked down! Glenning heard the little voice which always
speaks to us when we are alone saying that he had done right, that his
course all along had been true and proper, and that he had no cause to
regret anything. He must simply keep his eyes open, and at the same time
not let his brain get rusty. Innocent people were in actual distress at
that moment, and the girl of the trusting brown eyes, proud and brave,
would soon be hungry. _Hungry!_ The word stung his brain like something
hot would sting the flesh, and he clicked his teeth and drew up his
lines, urging his horse faster. He was passing a gloomy looking house
set considerably off the road, surrounded by doleful firs and funereal
cedars. It was of brick, square and not ugly, but the shutters to all
windows visible were closed, and the front doors were inhospitably shut.
Some gaunt dogs of ferocious breed were stalking about the yard. He had
not noticed this house when coming out, but he might well have passed it
unseeingly, all of his attention at that time being demanded by Mr.
Hoonover. But instinctively he knew who lived there. The place savoured
of its master; forbidding, grim, merciless. John was not sorry when it
lay behind him.
Deep twilight had come. The time when vague stars shine shyly, uncertain
whether or not to show their faces. Objects along the roadside were
becoming slightly blurred, and the unsightly things of the garish day
were softened into pleasant lines and tones. The man riding townward
felt the witchery of the hour. It entered into him and lay upon his
soul, speaking of peace. He breathed more gently, and let his horse take
its time. From the gates of the west which had unclosed to receive the
going day, a breeze had surely blown from Paradise. And alone there, in
the soft dusk, two faces rose up before the man. One was fresh,
unfretted, appealing, beautiful, with brown eyes which looked innocence
and trust. The one beside it was crowned with a bewildering glory of
bronze-gold hair, full of sullen splendours, like a stormy sunset; an
oval face of perfect lines and charm ineffable, and winey eyes which
lured. He looked upon the two, and his eyes grew strained; that look of
awful weariness stole over his face, as though the battle were almost
too hard, and he groaned in his throat while a shudder swept him, making
him tremble from head to foot. He was conscious of a sound, far away,
but growing more distinct. _Clickety-clack! Clickety-clack!
Clickety-clack!_ It was a horse on the highway ahead, running fast.
_Clickety-clack! Clickety-clack!_ It was just around the bend in front
of him. In a dull way he drew his horse somewhat to one side. A huge
black shape thundered into view, seemingly of mammoth proportions in the
dim light. Straight to the middle of the road it clung, its hoofs
striking fire at every leap, its rider making no effort to swerve it.
Glenning called, and pulled his horse sharply aside. Horse and rider
swept by, so close that the man's knee brushed John's sleeve. In that
fraction of a second their eyes met, and each recognized the other. But
neither stopped. Marston rode on till his horse drew up quivering at his
gate, and Glenning, a new, strange light in his eyes, drove on towards
town.
Arriving at the livery stable he inquired for Judge Colver. That
gentleman lived in the country, and had gone home. He would have to make
his report in the morning, when the people could be advised by bulletin
of the presence of small-pox in the county, the proper quarantine
established, and measures taken for preventing the disease from
spreading. He suddenly remembered that, in the business of getting
established, he had neglected opening the account at the bank, and had
also forgotten his hotel bill. It was too late to keep his promise to
Dillard that day, so he turned down street towards the hotel, resolving
to settle his bill there. Supper was in progress when he entered the
office, and the place was comparatively empty. He paid his reckoning to
the smiling Jones, and was preparing to leave, when Travers came out of
the passage leading to the hotel bar, and called his name. John turned,
and coldly faced him. The landlord beckoned, and retreated to the
passage. John hesitated a moment, for he desired no further dealings
with this person, but upon second thought he followed. Travers' nervous
manner had returned. He fidgeted, and shifted his weight, and toyed with
his watch chain.
"I want to tell you I have kept my word," he said, in a low, cautious
voice. "You played fair with me, and I have some appreciation. I went
out to Marston's place this morning and told him all about it, to his
face, and I told him what you said, word for word. I did, 'pon my
honor!"
"That's more than I expected," answered Glenning, icily. "But I admire
your pluck. It took a man to do that."
"I did it, doctor, and for a while I thought he was going to kill me.
But he didn't touch me."
"I suppose he made some threats?"
"Yes, he talked mighty ugly about you. I'd advise you to be on your
guard. You'd better carry a gun with you all the time."
"I've never carried a gun, and I don't intend to begin now. I fancy I
can take care of myself without that. Thank you, Mr. Travers. I'm glad
you told me this. Good evening."
He had turned to go, when he heard his name spoken in an agitated
whisper. He stopped, and faced about.
"That ain't all, doctor. You've done me a fine turn, and I want to break
even."
"Well?"
"Marston's just left here. He's been in the bar drinking for an hour or
more, and he's been talkin' mighty reckless. It was about you, and he
boasted he was going to make you sorry you ever came here--that he was
going to run you out of town. He'd just been at the long distance
telephone, and he said he'd found out something, and would know more
tomorrow. He'd been drinking heavily, you know, and didn't care what he
said. He leaves on the early mornin' train. I was standin' close to that
swingin' door, and heard every word he said. He wasn't talkin' to
anybody in particular--just easin' himself. But he'll hurt you if he
can."
Glenning's voice was very low as he asked--
"Where is he going?"
"To Jericho," said Travers.