A MAN MEETS A MAN
Along the Clove road plodded a man with a battered face and a torn
shirt, toting a pack and a gun. The face was not so much disfigured
as it had been awhile ago, for it had just been laved in the cold,
clear water of Coxing Kill; but it still bore obvious marks of
conflict, chief of which was a pair of puffy eyes ringed by darkening
discolorations. The rent shirt gaped at every stride, disregarded by
its wearer, who swung along as if careless of the opinions of others.
Judging from his gait, he knew where he was going and purposed to reach
his destination before early sundown should cut off the light from his
ridge-flanked road.
Behind him, perhaps a quarter-mile back, another man was riding in the
same direction on the same road. A big-framed, eagle-nosed, long-jawed
old man he was, with white mustache drooping around his mouth and
ragged wisps of snowy hair sticking out from under his nondescript felt
hat. His shoulders, though humped up as he lounged forward on the reins
lying loosely along the back of a white horse, were wide and bulky; and
the gnarled hands holding those reins were corded with sinew. Seventy
if a day, he still looked powerful enough to handle many a man of
half his years; and the direct gaze of his steely blue eyes betokened
fearlessness of heart, simplicity of nature, and honesty of soul.
Neither of the two men saw the other. Between them intervened windings
of the tree-lined road; the tramping man cast no glance behind, and the
one following was not looking for him. Each in his own little cloud of
dust, the pair ambled on and drew steadily nearer to a dingy house,
behind which a man and a woman were harvesting corn.
At the swinging approach of the pack-bearer the couple halted their
toil and squinted at him. He waved a jaunty hand. Neither of the
harvesters answered the friendly gesture. In slouching attitudes they
stood, wooden-faced, watching him pass. With a careless smile he looked
them over, then turned his gaze forward and ignored them.
Had he been let alone, he would have passed without a word and speedily
forgotten them. But, though the couple made no threatening move, they
had animals which did. With a sudden bound three dogs appeared from
nowhere and silently rushed at him.
They were treacherous-looking mongrel beasts, and their teeth gleamed
wickedly as they came. The man halted--took one comprehensive
look--stepped back and lifted his gun.
“Call ’em off!” he barked. “Call ’em or bury ’em!”
A shrill shriek of command burst from the woman. A sour snarl broke
from the man. At the sound of the shrewish voice and the menace of the
gun the dogs slowed abruptly. But they growled, and they did not turn
back.
“Call ’em off, I said!” commanded the man behind the gun. “When I say
off I mean off! Drive them back and tie them up!”
Instead, the man advanced, muttering. His brown face, of distinctly
negro cast, was ugly; and he still gripped his corn-knife--an
abbreviated scythe, short-handled, which would be a fearful weapon at
close quarters. The dogs, emboldened by his approach, began slipping
forward again.
“You can keep back too,” the stranger warned. “This gun is likely to
scatter right at you. Take those beasts away quick if you want them to
live. I won’t say it again.”
“Shoot them dawgs an’ ye won’t git fur from here,” the other snarled
throatily. But he paused, and at the cessation of his steps the brutes
also stopped. The woman still stood in the corn.
Just then the white horse and its white-haired driver came jogging
around a bushy turn. The old man sat up with sudden energy,
involuntarily jerking at the reins. The horse stopped.
One swift survey the old man took. Then his right hand shot to the
whip-socket, and with awkward speed he clambered out into the road.
“Nat!” he yelled explosively. “Git them dawgs in or I’ll give the hull
pack o’ ye a-hidin’! Shoot ’em if ye want, stranger--they ain’t none of
’em no good!”
Douglas, his finger already tightening on one trigger, held his fire
and flicked a glance sidewise to see what sort of man was coming. He
found the old fellow running nimbly toward him, reversing his whip so
that its heavy butt was foremost. At that instant the man Nat, his eyes
glinting viciously, hissed at the dogs.
“Look ou-u-ut!” yelled the oncoming driver.
In the nick of time Douglas turned his eyes back--just as a dog left
the ground in a fang-grinning leap. The other two were crouching. The
blond man jerked his gun a little downward to meet the rising body.
The dog’s breast struck against the muzzles. Teeth clashed in a fierce
snap. From the gun burst a muffled roar. The dog was blown backward.
Under the impact of dog and powder-recoil Douglas staggered. But he
gave no ground and lost no time. His second finger released the other
hidden hammer at an upshooting shape. In a crashing flare another hairy
form whirled over and flopped to earth.
At the same instant teeth stung his left side. A sudden weight on his
shirt yanked him almost off balance. Under his arm he found the wicked
face of the third hound. Then a black streak appeared on that dog’s
head, a resounding thwack hit Douglas’ ears, and the beast dangled
limp, held up only by its teeth, which were caught in the cloth.
“I told ye, Nat--I told ye!” panted the old man, whose whip-butt had
knocked out that third dog. “I been tellin’ ye right ’long---- Git
back, ye yeller hound!”
Mouthing an inarticulate oath, the owner of the dogs himself was now
jumping forward, face convulsed and corn-hook lifted. Whether he was
attacking Douglas or his aged rescuer neither stopped to ascertain.
Both acted. The empty shotgun jabbed for the assailant’s face, the
barrels crunching solidly against his forehead. The whip-butt swung
down with the force of a blackjack on his crown. His eyes rolled, his
legs caved, and he fell.
The young man and the old one swept their surroundings. Two dogs were
fairly blown apart. The third still hung limp from Douglas’ shirt. The
man lay in a queer huddle, his corn-hook sticking in the ground beside
him, where it had fallen on its point. The woman, shrieking with rage,
now was running at them with a similar blade.
“I told ye, Nat,” the old man said harshly, as if the fallen man
could hear him, “if ye didn’t learn them dogs manners or tie ’em up
somebody’d fix ’em. I told ye I’d do it myself the next time they come
for me. Ye can say g’by to this here one too.”
Wherewith he clutched the dangling hound by the scruff of the neck and,
in one wrench, tore it away from Douglas’ shirt. He flung it down,
hopped up, and landed with all his weight on the brute’s neck. Under
his heavy brogans sounded a crack of bones.
“’Lizy, ye better hold yer hosses,” he coolly cautioned the woman, now
close at hand. “I don’t want to handle ye rough, but sure’s God made
little apples I’ll crack ye one ’less’n ye drop that ’ere cawn-hook.
I’m a-warnin’ ye.”
The thin-faced female, whose coarse hair and high cheek-bones hinted
strongly at Indian blood, screamed out again. She burst into a torrent
of vituperation that brought a red wave across the face of the
younger man and a corresponding flush into the leathery cheeks of his
fighting-mate. But she made no attack with the ugly blade in her hand.
Standing over the huddled Nat, her bony bare toes digging at the turf
like the claws of a cat, she vented her fury in language which would
have brought swift physical retaliation if she had been a man. And the
pair stood silent and took it.
“Ye’ll pay for them pups, Eb Wilham--ye’ll pay dear!” she foamed at
the last. “Nat’ll take it outen ye! Him an’ Snake’ll fix ye--an’ ye
too, ye sneakin’ ’tective! Ye mizzable pair o’ sneakers, ye better live
together an’ sleep together an’ watch out fer each other now!”
She bent and squinted at her mate. The two men looked suddenly at each
other. The hillman stared as if seeing the other for the first time.
The newcomer stared straight back, taking his first comprehensive view
of the two-handed old fellow and realizing what the woman’s threat
signified. For a minute old blue eye and young blue eye held straight
and steady. Then on each mouth quirked a smile.
“If you’ve run out of words, I’ll say a few myself,” clipped Douglas,
turning to the woman. “If there’s any more trouble coming from this it
comes to me, not to him. I never saw him before, and he doesn’t know
me. So you can tell your nigger man to take it out on me. As for Snake,
I knocked him cold awhile ago and I can do it again. I’ll be around
here for some time, and anybody wanting the same dose Snake got can
come and get it. That’s all.”
He nodded to the old man and turned away. He took three steps before Eb
Wilham stopped him.
“Hol’ on!” the latter exploded in the abrupt way that seemed habitual.
“I’m a-travelin’ your way. If ye want a ride, set in. ’Lizy, git some
sense. This feller’s right--I dunno him. But I’m a-goin’ to know him
if he’s willin’. An’ as fur’s Nat an’ Snake’s concerned, I been takin’
care o’ myself seventy-three year an’ I figger to keep on doin’ it.
What say, stranger? Walk or ride?”
“Ride, if it doesn’t get you into trouble,” Douglas acquiesced.
“No trouble. Snakes an’ yeller dawgs has bit at me before an’ I ain’t
dead. Chk! Hoss, g’yapalong! G’yap, I tell ye!”
The white horse, sedately cropping grass, took a few last bites, and
came obediently. His master climbed spryly into the weather-beaten
wagon and rolled an equally weather-beaten thumb at the rear. Douglas
heaved his pack in behind and swung himself to the seat beside the
driver.
The sharp-faced female screamed out with a fresh burst of abuse. Old
Eb’s mouth tightened, and he lightly touched the horse with his whip.
The animal jumped in an astonished way and began slowly, heavily
pounding along the road. Woman, man, dogs and house disappeared behind
in a drifting cloud of dust.
“Ain’t no use listenin’ or talkin’ to a mad woman,” Eb barked
conversationally. “Ain’t no use into it at all. Uh--right fine weather
we’re a-havin’, stranger.”
“Right fine,” agreed Douglas. “Aren’t you worried about riding with a
detective, Mr. Wilham?”
The keen eyes shot at him and returned to the horse.
“Not a mite. I ride with who I want to. Folks that’s scairt o’
detectives mostly has some reason to be. I ain’t got no reason.”
“Found--one honest man in the Traps,” laughed Douglas.
“That ain’t nothin’,” Eb retorted. “Folks is mostly honest round here.
Good hard-workin’ fellers. Don’t jedge the rest of us by them Oakses.
Or Snake Sanders. Did ye say ye licked Snake?”
Getting no answer at once, he took another survey of his passenger.
Douglas was staring at the road. So the hard pair behind were “them
Oakses”--the parents of the catamount girl!
“Er--oh, yes. Laid him out on top of that ledge back yonder. Ought to
have thrown him off. But I didn’t.”
The horse thumped out a dozen steps while Eb digested this.
“Ye’re right, stranger. Snake’s a bad ’un. Ye must o’ had a hard
tussle--Snake ain’t easy to handle.” The shrewd eyes took in the
battered face. “Up top o’ Dickabar, hey? Hum!”
He became abstracted. The horse jogged on, steadily eating up distance.
The silence grew strained.
“Mr. Wilham, I’m no detective,” Douglas asserted. “I’m just a rambler
who blundered in here. My name’s Douglas Hampton. I’m not after
anybody, and I’m staying awhile just because I like this country.
I don’t know who started this fool story that I’m a detective, and
I don’t care much. But now I’m here, I’ll stay until I’m ready to
go--unless I get starved out; I haven’t much left to eat. That’s all
there is to it. Believe it or not. It’s true.”
The heavy hoofs beat another measure.
“I believe ye,” aggressively. “I know how ye feel. I’m full o’ that
same kind o’ cussedness myself. There’s some folks round here that’s
ignorant and scairt of any new feller, and there’s some that’s got
reasons besides bein’ ignorant. I ain’t sayin’ who they be; I ain’t
talkin’ ’bout my neighbors even if I don’t like some of ’em. But seein’
it’s gone round that ye’re a detective, ’most everybody’ll believe
it, an’ ye better act accordin’--kind o’ go careful, I mean. Where ye
stayin’? Anywheres special?”
“Up in the rocks last night. Thought I might find a house I could live
in down here. Know of any?”
“Hum. Wal, we’re a-comin’ to a house, but I don’t think ye’d want it.
It’s--uh--kind o’ lonesome. Folks says there’s some funny things into
it. There ’tis now.”
They emerged from a tunnel of trees, and Douglas looked at a house
which he knew must be that of Jake Dalton. It was at the left of the
road, in a clearing rank with uncut grass, behind which rose forest
headed by two giant pines. It was a little box of a place, not more
than twenty feet square; weather-worn, with patched roof and tiny
sagging porch. The small bare windows gaped black and blank at the
forest cordon. The door stood ajar, as if the latest occupant had
left in haste. About it hung an air of abandonment, of desolation, of
forbidding loneliness.
“Looks all right to me,” declared Douglas. “Not very cheerful, but I’ll
try it one night, anyway. Whoa!”
Eb drew the reins. The horse stopped. Douglas got out and lifted his
pack. The old man sat soberly staring at the house.
“I dunno,” he muttered. “I dunno. Stranger, ye better ride on a piece.”
“Where to?”
“Um--I dunno. Mebbe somebody’d sleep ye. I’d do it myself, but I’m
a-goin’ to High Falls an’ I ain’t comin’ back to-night.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it just the same. But I reckon I’ll stop here for
the night. Much obliged to you, Mr. Wilham, for the ride, and more for
helping me against those dogs.”
“’Tain’t nothin’,” was the hasty disclaimer. “Them dawgs ought to
been kilt long ago--I give Nat warnin’ more’n once. An’ don’t call me
Mister. I ain’t used to it. ’Most everybody calls me Uncle Eb.”
“All right, Uncle Eb,” smiled the other.
The bright old eyes dwelt on him, and an answering smile lifted the
white mustache.
“Gorry, ye look funny with them eyes all bunged up,” chuckled Eb.
“Snake’s got a hard fist, ain’t he? I wisht I could been a peewee bird
up into a tree an’ seen that fight. It must of been good. Wal, son, if
ye can lick Snake mebbe ye can handle whatever ye see round this house.
I’ll stop here an’ visit with ye to-morrer, mebbe, when I come back.
Shall I fetch ye some food from High Falls?”
“I wish you would. Lots of it. And some tobacco.”
“Smokin’ or chawin’?”
“Smoking. And for food get whatever comes handy. I’m not fussy.”
He drew out a small wallet. Uncle Eb waved it aside.
“Pay me when ye git yer stuff, boy. I dunno yit what it’ll cost. I’ll
git jest what I’d buy for myself. Then if--if ye ain’t here to-morrer I
can use it to home. G’by. G’yapalong!”
The hoofs hammered again into the sand. In a fresh cloud of dust the
rickety wagon rolled away and was gone among the trees beyond.
Douglas shoved his wallet back into its pocket and stood a minute
eyeing the little house glooming under the solemn pines. Then, reaching
to his pack, he pulled from under its straps his coat. From that
garment he drew two buckshot shells. Coolly he reloaded his gun.
“I reckon I’ll be here to-morrow when you come back, Uncle Eb,” he
muttered. “Now, Mister Ha’nt, let’s get acquainted.”