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Scipio stood in the doorway of his hut with a hopelessly dazed look in
his pale eyes and a perplexed frown upon his brow. He had just
returned from Minky's store, whither he had been to fetch his twins
home. He had brought them with him, leading them, one in each hand.
And at sight of their mother they had torn themselves free from their
father's detaining hands and rushed at her.
Jessie, strangely subdued, but with a wonderful light of happiness in
her eyes, was in the midst of "turning out" the bedroom. She had spent
the whole morning cleaning and garnishing with a vigor, with a
heartwhole enjoyment, such as never in all her married life had she
displayed before. And now, as the children rushed at her, their piping
voices shrieking their joyous greeting, she hugged them to her bosom
as though she would squeeze their precious lives out of them. She
laughed and cried at the same time in a way that only women in the
throes of unspeakable joy can. Her words, too, were incoherent, as
incoherent as the babble of the children themselves. It was a sight of
mother-love rarely to be witnessed, a sight which, under normal
conditions, must have filled the simple heart of Scipio with a joy and
happiness quite beyond words.
But just now it left him untouched, and as he silently looked on he
passed one hand helplessly across his forehead. He pushed his hat back
so that his stubby fingers could rake amongst his yellow hair. And
Jessie, suddenly looking up from the two heads nestling so close
against her bosom, realized the trouble in her husband's face. Her
realization came with a swiftness that would have been impossible in
those old days of discontent.
"Why, Zip," she cried, starting to her feet and coming quickly towards
him, "what--what's the matter? What's wrong?"
But the little man only shook his head dazedly, and his eyes wandered
from her face to the two silently staring children, and then to the
table so carefully laid for the midday meal.
"Here, sit down," Jessie hurried on, darting towards a chair and
setting it for him beside the stove. "You're sick, sure," she
declared, peering into his pale face, as he silently, almost
helplessly, obeyed her. "It's the sun," she went on. "That's what it
is--driving in the sun all yesterday. It's--it's been too much for
you."
Again the man passed a hand across his brow. But this time he shook
his head.
"'Tain't the sun, Jess," he said vaguely. "It's--it's oil!"
For a moment the woman stared. Then she turned to the gaping twins,
and hustled them out of the room to play. Poor Zip's head had suddenly
gone wrong, she believed, and--
But as she came back from the door she found that he had risen from
the chair in which she had set him, and was standing looking at her,
and through her, and beyond her, as though she were not there at all.
And in an instant she was at his side, with an arm thrown protectingly
about his shoulders.
"Tell me, Zip--oh, tell me, dear, what's wrong? Surely--surely, after
all that has gone--Oh, tell me! Don't keep me in suspense. Is--is it
James?" she finished up in a terrified whisper.
The mention of that detested name had instant effect. Scipio's face
cleared, and the dazed look of his eyes vanished as if by magic. He
shook his head.
"James is dead," he said simply. And Jessie breathed a sigh of such
relief that even he observed it, and it gladdened him. "Yes," he went
on, "James is sure dead. Wild Bill done him up and his whole gang. But
Bill's gone, too."
"Bill, too?" Jessie murmured.
Scipio nodded; and perplexity stole over his face again.
"Yes. I--I don't seem to understand. Y'see, he done James up, an'--an'
James done him up--sort o' mutual. Y'see, they told me the rights of
it, but--but ther's so many things I--I don't seem to got room for
them all in my head. It seems, too, that Bill had quite a piece of
money. An' he's kind of given it to the kids. I--I don't--"
"How much?" demanded the practical feminine.
"Seventy thousand dollars," replied the bewildered man.
"Seventy thou--Who told you?"
"Why--Minky. Said he'd got it all. But--but that ain't the worst."
"Worst?"
Jessie was smiling now--smiling with that motherly, protecting
confidence so wonderfully womanly.
Scipio nodded; and his eyes sought hers for encouragement.
"Ther's the oil, millions an' millions of it--gallons, I mean."
"Oil? Millions of gallons? Oh, Zip, do--do be sensible."
Jessie stood before him, and his worried look seemed to have found a
reflection upon her handsome face.
"It isn't me. It ain't my fault. It sure ain't, Jess," he declared
wistfully. "I've seen it. It's there. My pore claim's jest drowned
with it. I'll never find that gold now--not if I was to pump a year.
It's just bubbling up an' up out o' the bowels of the earth, an'--an'
Minky says I'll have to set up pumps an' things, an' he's goin' to
help me. So is Sunny Oak, an' Toby, an' Sandy, an' he sez we'll find
the gold sure if we pump the oil. Sez it's there, an' I'll be rich as
Rockefeller an' all them millionaires. But I can't seem to see it, if
the gold's drownded in that messy, smelly oil. Maybe you ken see.
You're quicker'n me. You--"
But Jessie never let him finish.
"Oil?" she cried, her eyes swimming with tears of joy and gentle
affection for the simple soul so incapable of grasping anything but
his own single purpose. "Oil?" she cried. "Oh, Zip, don't you
understand? Don't you see? It's oil--coal-oil. You've been searching
for gold and found oil. And there's millions of dollars in coal-oil."
But the little man's face dropped.
"Seems a pity," he said dispiritedly. "I could 'a' swore ther' was
gold there--I sure could. I'd have found it, too--if the oil hadn't
washed us out. Bill thought so, too; an' Bill was right smart. Guess
we'll find it, though, after we pumped the oil."
Suddenly the woman reached out both arms and laid her hands upon his
diminutive shoulders. Her eyes had grown very tender.
"Zip," she cried gently, "Zip, I think God has been very good to me.
He's been kinder to me than He has been to you. You deserve His
goodness; I don't. And yet He's given me a man with a heart of--of
gold. He's given me a man whose love I have trampled under-foot and
flung away. He's given me a man who, by his own simple honesty, his
goodness, has shown me the road to perfect happiness. He's given me
all this in return for a sin that can never be wiped out--"
But suddenly Scipio freed himself from the gentle grasp of her
restraining hands, and caught her in his arms.
"Don't you--don't you to say it, Jess," he cried, all his great love
shining in his eyes. His perplexity and regret were all gone now, and
only had he thought of his love. "Don't you to say nuthin' against
yourself. You're my wife--my Jessie. An' as long as I've got life I
don't want nothin' else--but my Jessie. Say, gal, I do love you."
"And--and--oh, if you can only believe me, Zip, I love you."
The man reached up and drew the woman's face down to his, and kissed
her on the lips.
"It don't matter 'bout not finding that gold now," he cried, and
kissed her again.
"No, it--"
"Say, momma, ain't it dinner yet?"
"Ess, me want din-din."
The man and woman sprang guiltily apart before the wondering eyes of
their children, and the next moment both of the small creatures were
caught up and hugged in loving arms.
"Why, sure, kiddies," cried Scipio, his face wreathed in happy smiles.
"Momma's got dinner all fixed--so come right along."
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Twins of Suffering Creek, by Ridgwell Cullum