SUNNY OAK TRIES HIS HAND
In the meantime Sunny Oak was executing his orders with a care for
detail quite remarkable in a man of his excessive indolence. It was a
curious fact, and one that told a great deal of his own character, as
well as that of the gambler. His implicit obedience to Wild Bill's
orders was born of a deeper knowledge of that individual than was
possessed by most of his comrades in Suffering Creek. Maybe Minky, who
was Bill's most intimate friend, would have understood. But then Sunny
Oak possessed no such privilege. He knew Bill through sheer
observation, which had taught him to listen when the gambler spoke as
he would listen to a man in high authority over him--or to a man who,
without scruple, held him helpless under an irresistible threat. Which
power it was inspired his obedience he did not pause to consider. He
simply accepted the fact that when Bill ordered he preferred to
obey--it was so much easier.
"Hoboe"--the local term for one suffering from his indolent malady--as
he was, Sunny Oak was a man of some character. Originally this cloak
of indolence in which he wrapped himself had been assumed for some
subtle reason of his own. It was not the actual man. But so long had
he worn it now that he had almost forgotten the real attributes
enshrouded in its folds. As a matter of fact, he was very much a man,
and a "live" man, too. He really possessed an extraordinary energy
when he chose to exercise it. But it was generally his habit to push
his interest aside for the easier course of indifference. However, his
capacity was none the less there.
His other possessions, too, were excellent in their way, although he
had encouraged the germ of rust in a deplorable degree. His
good-nature would not be denied, and was obvious to all. But an
extremely alert mind, an infinite resource of keen, well-trained
thought, a profound love of the beautiful, a more commonplace physical
courage supported by the rarer moral courage, he contrived to keep
well hidden from the vulgar gaze.
These were some of the features so long concealed under the folds of
his cloak of indolence that even he had almost forgotten their
existence. Thus it was, in all seriousness, he cried out bitterly in
protest when an attempt was made to lift the covering and lay bare the
man beneath it. And his lamentations were perfectly genuine.
After leaving the store with a sack of provisions over his shoulder he
grumbled his way across the dumps to Scipio's house. He cursed the
weight he was forced to carry, and anathematized the man who had
driven him to so bestir himself. He lamented over this waste of his
precious energies, he consigned Scipio and his children to eternity,
and metaphorically hurled Jessie headlong to the depths of the
uttermost abyss of the nether-world. But he went on. In spite of his
foulest language and vilest epithets, it was his full intention to do
his best for the children.
What he found on entering Scipio's hut set his small eyes twinkling
again. His unclean face creased up into a grin, and, softly tiptoeing
to a far corner of the room, he deposited his sack with the greatest
care. Then he stood up, and his eyes fixed themselves on a curious
heap under the table. It was a tumbled pile of pale blue, dirty white,
with a four-legged dash of yellow. And out of the heap he made the
forms of two small sleeping children, each hugging in their arms an
extremity of a yellow cur pup, also sound asleep, in the shaft of
sunlight which flooded in through the open doorway.
Sunny rubbed his eyes and thought hard, nor did he find the process
irksome. From the miserable camp pup he glanced at the grubby face of
Jamie. Then his eyes passed on to Vada's pretty but equally dirty
features. And swift action at once followed his thought. He glanced at
the dying fire in the cookstove, and saw the small clothes hanging on
the chair in front of it. He felt them; they were quite dry. Then he
tried the kettle on the stove; it still had water in it. Then he went
to the fuel-box; yes, there was fuel.
Now with his fingers he replenished the fire, and noiselessly
re-filled the kettle. Then he removed the clothes and put the chair
aside. The children still slept on. He further investigated the
resources of Scipio's _menage_. He found a wash-bowl and soap and a
towel, three things he rarely sought for any purposes of his own.
Then, after looking into the cupboard, he shook his head. It was
deplorably bare of all but uncleanliness. And it was the former that
caused his headshake, not the latter. With some pride he re-stocked
the shelves with the liberal purchases he had made at Bill's expense.
He had provided everything that a man's mind could conceive as being
necessary for the interior of healthy childhood. True, he had made no
provision for a yellow pup.
By this time the kettle was boiling, and it served him as a signal. In
a harsh, untuneful voice he began to chant an old coon-ditty. The
effect of his music was instantaneous as regards the more sensitive
ears of the pup. Its eyes opened, and it lifted its head alertly.
Then, with a quick wriggle, he sat up on his hind quarters, and,
throwing his lean, half-grown muzzle in the air, set up such a howl of
dismay that Sunny's melody became entirely lost in a jangle of
discords. He caught up his empty sack and flung it at the wailing
pup's head. It missed its aim, and in a moment the twins had joined in
their yellow friend's lament.
Sunny never quite understood the real cause of that dismal
protest--whether it was the sight of him, his doleful singing, or the
flinging of the sack. All he knew was that it was very dreadful, and
must be stopped as quickly as possible. So, to that end, he began to
cajole the children, while he surreptitiously let fly a kick at the
pup.
"Say, you bonny kids, you ain't scairt o' poor Sunny Oak," he cried,
while a streak of yellow flashed in the sunlight and vanished through
the door, a departure which brought with it renewed efforts from the
weeping children. "It's jest Sunny Oak wot nobody'll let rest," he
went on coaxingly. "He's come along to feed you supper. Say," he
cried, laboring hard for inspiration, "it's such a bully supper.
Ther's molasses, an' candy, an'--an' lob-ster!"
Whether it was the smacking of his lips as he dwelt on the last word,
or whether it was merely the fact that their fright was passing,
matters little; anyhow, the cries of the twins died out as suddenly as
they began, and their eyes, big and round, gazed wonderingly up at
Sunny's unkempt face.
"Who's you, ugly man?" asked Vada at last, her brain working more
quickly than her brother's.
"'Ess--ug'y man," added Jamie unmeaningly.
Sunny's hand went up to his face, and he scratched amongst his sparse
beard as though to test the accuracy of the accusation. Then he
grinned sheepishly.
"Guess I'm jest an ugly fairy that wants to be kind to two lonesome
kiddies," he beamed.
"O--oh! You'se a fairy?" said Vada doubtfully.
"'Ess," nodded Jamie, thrilling with wonderment, and eyeing him
critically.
Elated with his success, Sunny went on warmly--
"Yep. Jest a fairy, an' I bro't a heap o' good grub fer you kiddies t'
eat."
But Vada's small brain was following out its own train of thought, and
passed the food question by.
"Awful ugly," she said, half to herself.
"'Ess," muttered Jamie abstractedly.
"Mebbe," said Sunny, with a laugh. "Wal, if you crawl right out o'
there an' git around, I got things fixed so we'll hev' a bully time."
But his proposition hadn't the effect he hoped. Instead of moving,
Jamie suddenly beat his head with his little clenched fists.
"Me wants yaller pup," he cried, and forthwith howled afresh.
Again Sunny realized his helplessness, and, glancing about for further
inspiration, caught sight of an inquiring yellow head peering
furtively in through the doorway.
"Why, ther' he is," he cried, vainly hoping to pacify the child. Then
he began at once a clumsy encouragement of the dog. "Here, you yeller
feller," he cried, flicking his fingers coaxingly. "Come along! Gee,
you're a pretty feller. Hi! come along here."
But the dog made no attempt to move, and Sunny began to lose patience.
"Come along, pups," he cried, with increasing force. "Come on, you
miser'ble rat. Don't stan' ther' waggin' your fool tail like a
whisk-broom. Say, you yaller cur, I'll--" He started to fetch the
creature, but in a twinkling it had fled, to the accompaniment of a
fresh outburst from Jamie.
"I tho't you was a fairy," protested Vada. "Fairies ken do most
anything. You're jest an ugly ole man."
Sunny stood up and drew the back of his hand across his perspiring
forehead. He was worried. The fairy business was played out, and he
felt that he must begin again. Children were by no means as easy to
handle as he had thought. He racked his brains, and suddenly bethought
him of another move.
In spite of Jamie's whimpering, he went to the cupboard and produced a
tin of molasses. This he carefully opened in full view of Vada's
questioning eyes. Jamie had also become silent, watching him intently.
He dug his finger into the sticky contents and drew it out. Then he
licked his finger with tremendous enjoyment.
"Bully," he muttered, apparently ignoring the children.
Instantly Vada was on her knees, crawling from under the table,
followed closely by her faithful shadow. She came cautiously up to
Sunny's side and stood up.
"M'lasses?" she inquired, and her eyes spoke volumes.
"O-oh!" muttered Jamie, scrambling to his feet beside her holding up
one fat hand.
Sunny, without replying, allowed them to dip their fingers into the
pot and taste the molasses. He felt that the moment was critical, and
he would not risk words which might easily set them scuttling back to
their stronghold.
His strategy was successful. Up came the hands again, and he knew he
had won their confidence. He allowed them another dip into the pot,
and then began the business in hand.
"We'll save the rest fer bimeby," he said decidedly. "Meanwhiles we'll
fix things right."
"Wot things?" inquired Vada.
"M'lasses," said Jamie, with tearful eyes.
Again Sunny felt the crisis, but he carried the situation with a firm
hand.
"Bimeby, laddie," he said cheerfully. "Meanwhiles we'll jest have a
wash all round."
And forthwith he set the wash-bowl ready and filled it with warm
water. Then, after some consideration and trouble, having discovered a
rag which had been used in the household "wash-up," and a piece of
soap, he prepared to start on little Vada. But she instantly
protested.
"You first, Mister Fairy," she said cheerfully. "My poppa allus washes
first. Then we has his water."
"'Ess," agreed Jamie.
And, to his disgust, Sunny was forced to an unwilling ablution, which,
by strategy, he had hoped to escape. However, the ordeal was manfully
borne, and his reward was quite worth his trouble. Vada promptly
exclaimed when she saw his face emerge from the dirty towel, shining
with grease off the house-flannel.
"You'se a fairy, sure," she cried, clapping her hands and dancing
about gleefully. "On'y fairies can change theirselves. You'se a
pretty, pretty man--now. Now, Jamie dear. You next," she added, with
feminine assurance. And with clumsy but willing enough hands Sunny Oak
contrived to cleanse his charges.
By the time his task was accomplished perfect good-will reigned all
round, and the climax was reached when the yellow pup returned of its
own accord, and was promptly hugged to Jamie's affectionate little
bosom.
The next thing was to prepare the children's supper. This was a far
more serious matter for the loafer. But he finally achieved it, having
learnt, by the process of cross-questioning the girl, what was usual
and therefore expected. However, it was not without some difficulty
that he succeeded in providing an adequate meal, which consisted of
bread and milk, with bread and molasses as a sort of dessert. For
himself, he was forced to fare off a tin of lobster and tea. Still,
his difficulties were not of much consequence so long as the children
were satisfied. And any bother to himself was his own fault, in having
relied for a moment on Sandy Joyce's ideas of a menu.
Supper over and the table cleared, he decided on further catechizing
little Vada on points that still were a mystery to him. So, with Jamie
busy on the floor endeavoring to solve the mystery of the pup's
wagging tail, he lit his pipe and took Vada on his knee. He
endeavored to recall incidents of his own childhood; to remember
something of his own early routine. But somehow nothing was very
clear.
He had washed the children and given them food. Those things seemed to
him to be perfectly sound. Well, what next? It was a little difficult.
He glanced at the sun. Surely bed would be quite in order. Bed--ah,
yes, that was a happy thought. He remembered now, when he was young he
always used to get himself into trouble purposely so they would send
him to bed. But with this thought came the regretful recollection that
his predilection for bed was quickly discovered, and his further
penalties took the form of the buckle end of his father's waist-belt.
However, he put the proposition with much tact.
"Say, kiddies," he began, "how soon does your momma put you to bed?"
Vada shook her wise little head.
"Momma don't. Poppa does."
"And when's that?" he inquired, driving at his point deliberately.
"When momma says."
Vada was fastening and unfastening the man's dirty waistcoat with
great interest.
"An' when does your momma say it?" Sunny persisted.
"When poppa's done the chores."
"Ah!"
He felt himself on the wrong tack, and cast about for a fresh line of
argument.
"Guess you kiddies like bed some," he hazarded doubtfully.
"Me like m'lasses," piped Jamie, who had managed to get the pup's tail
over his shoulder, and was hanging on to it with both hands. Vada
shrieked as the pup began to yelp.
"Oh, look at Jamie," she cried. "He's pulling Dougal's tail right out.
You're a naughty, naughty boy."
"Not naughty," protested Jamie, pulling harder.
Sunny reached down and released the mongrel, who promptly turned round
and licked the boy's face. Jamie fought him with his little clenched
fists, and finally began to cry.
Again Sunny went to the rescue, and with some difficulty peace was
restored. Then he went back to his subject.
"Guess we'll hev to go to bed right now," he suggested, with an air of
authority.
"Momma ain't back," said Vada, her eyes round and wondering.
"She'll be right along presently," lied Sunny.
"'Ess," declared Jamie, "an'--an'--we go find 'piders an'--an' bugs."
Vada nodded.
"Lots an' lots."
"That's to-morrow," said Sunny, taking his cue wonderingly.
"Poppa ain't back neither," protested Vada.
"He's gone visitin'," said Sunny. "Maybe he'll be late. Guess he's
havin' a hand at poker down at the store."
Sunny was getting uncomfortably hot. Lies came easily enough to him in
the ordinary way, but with these poor children it was somehow
different.
"Poppa don't play poker," defended Vada. "On'y wicked men does."
"'Ess," agreed Jamie.
"That's so." Sunny felt himself on dangerous ground.
He smoked on thoughtfully for some moments. He felt that a desperate
move was required, and considered how best to make it. Finally he
resolved that he must assert his authority. So, setting Vada on the
ground, he stood up.
"Bed," he said, with a great assumption of finality.
Vada's eyes rolled ominously, and a pucker came to her little sunburnt
brow. Jamie offered no preliminary, but howled at once. And when,
after the slightest hesitation, Vada joined in his lament, Sunny's
distress became pitiable. However, he managed to ease his feelings by
several well-directed mental curses at Wild Bill's head, and all those
others concerned in reducing him to his present position. And with
this silently furious outburst there came a brain-wave of great
magnitude.
"First in bed sure gets most m'lasses," he cried, darting to the
cupboard door and holding the well-smeared pot up above his head.
The children's cries ceased, and for a second they stood staring up at
him. Then, like a pair of rabbits, they turned and ran for the
bedroom, vanishing behind the curtain amidst shrieking excitement.
Sunny followed them with the molasses and a handful of crackers.
They were both on the bed when he passed into the room, huddling down
under a couple of cotton blankets. The man glanced round him. On the
other side of the room was the big bed where their father and mother
slept. Both beds were unmade, and the room was littered with feminine
garments in a manner that suggested the mother's hasty flight.
Hardened as he was, the sight and all it suggested depressed him. But
he was not allowed much time for reflection. Two childish voices
shrieked at him at once.
"Me first!" they cried in one breath.
And Sunny ladled them out molasses and crackers to their hearts'
content. When they had eaten all he thought good for them Vada
scrambled to her knees.
"Prayers," she said, and clasped her hands before her face.
Jamie wobbled up to her side and imitated her. And Sunny stood by
listening wonderingly to something that brought back a world of
recollection to him. It brought him more. It laid before him a mental
picture of his present manhood which somehow nauseated him. But he
stood his ground till the final "Amens," then he hustled the twins
almost roughly into the blankets, and, having extracted a promise from
them not to leave the bed again until he returned, hurried out of the
room.
He stood for a moment in the living-room. He was in a doubt that
almost confused him. Mechanically he looked at the stove. The fire was
quite safe. The window was secure. Then he moved to the door. There
was a lock to it and a key. He passed out, and, locking the door
behind him, removed the key.
"Gee!" he exclaimed, drinking in a breath of the evening air, "five
minutes more o' that an' I'd 'a' bin singin' funeral hymns over my
past life. Gee!"
* * * * *
Ten minutes later he was in Wild Bill's hut down at the camp, and had
finished his account of his adventures.
"Say," he finished up peevishly, "ther's things a feller can do, an'
things he sure can't. I tell you right here I ain't learned how to
cluck to my chicks, an' I ain't never scratched a worm in my life. I
'low I'm too old to git busy that ways now. If you're goin' to raise
them kids fer Zip while he's away, it'll need a committee o' us
fellers. It's more'n one feller's job--much more. It needs a wummin."
Bill listened patiently until his deputy had aired his final
grievance. His fierce eyes had in them a peculiar twinkle that was
quite lost on Sunny in his present mood. However, when the injured man
had finished his tale of woe the gambler stretched his long legs out,
and lolled back in his chair with a fresh chew of tobacco in his
mouth.
"You ain't done too bad," he said judicially. "That m'lasses racket
was a heap smart. Though--say, you'll get around ther' come sun-up
to-morrer, an' you'll fix 'em right all day. Maybe Zip'll be back
later. Anyways, you'll fix 'em."
"Not on your life--" began Sunny, in fierce rebellion. But Bill cut
him short.
"You'll do it, Sunny," he cried, "an' don't you make no mistake."
The man's manner was irresistibly threatening, and Sunny was beaten
back into moody silence. But if looks could have killed, Bill's
chances of life were small indeed.
"Guess you're off duty now," the gambler went on icily. "You're off
duty till--sun-up. You're free to get drunk, or--what in hell you
like."
Sunny rose from his seat. His rebellious eyes were fiercely alight as
he regarded his master.
"May your soul rot!" he cried venomously. And with this final impotent
explosion he slouched out of the hut.
"Dessay it will," Bill called after him amiably. "But it ain't started
yet."
But his jibe was quite lost on the angry Sunny, for he had left him
with the haste of a man driven to fear of whither his anger might
carry him.
Left alone, Wild Bill chuckled. He liked Sunny, but despised his mode
of life with all the arrogant superiority of a man of great force,
even if of indifferent morals. He had no patience with a weakened
manhood. With him it was only strength that counted. Morality was only
for those who had not the courage to face a mysterious future
unflinchingly. The future concerned him not at all. He had no fears of
anybody or anything, either human or superhuman. Death offered him no
more terrors than Life. And whichever was his portion he was ready to
accept it unquestioningly, unprotestingly.
He allowed the hoboe time to get well clear of his shack. Then he
stood up and began to pace the room thoughtfully. A desperate frown
depressed his brows until they met over the bridge of his large thin
nose. Something was working swiftly, even passionately, in his brain,
and it was evident that his thoughts were more than unpleasant to
himself. As the moments passed his strides became more aggressive, and
his movements were accompanied by gesticulations of a threatening
nature with his clenched fists.
At last he paused in his walk, and dropped again into his chair. Here
he sat for a long while. Then, of a sudden, he lifted his head and
glanced swiftly about his bare room. Finally he sprang to his feet and
crushed his slouch hat on his head, and, crossing over to the oil-lamp
on the table, blew it out. Then he passed out into the night, slamming
and locking the door behind him.
The night was dark, and the moon would not rise for at least another
hour. The air was still laden with the heat of the long summer's day,
and it hummed with the music of stirring insect life. He strode along
the trail past the store. He glanced at the lighted windows longingly,
for he had an appointment for a game in there that night. But he
passed on.
As he came to the camp dumps he paused for a moment to take his
bearings. Then he continued his way with long, decided strides, and in
a few minutes the dim outline of Scipio's house loomed up before him.
He came close up, and walked slowly round it. At one window he paused,
listening. There was not a sound to be heard outside. At the window of
the bedroom he listened a long time. No, he could not even hear the
children breathing.
At last he reached the door which Sunny had locked. He cautiously
tried the handle, and the sound brought a whimper from the yellow pup
within. He cursed the animal softly under his breath and waited,
hoping the wretched creature would settle down again. He heard it
snuff at the foot of the door, and then the soft patter of its feet
died away, and he knew that the poor thing had satisfied itself that
all was well.
He smiled, and sat down at the foot of the door. And, with his knees
drawn up into his arms, he prepared for his long vigil. It was the
posting of the night sentry over Scipio's twins.