“Whose war it, then?”
“Dunno edzac’ly,” cried the blithe Binwell.
“Waal, now, that ain’t fair!” protested Skimpy, indignantly. “I’m goin’
right down ter the Cove, and tell.”
“Naw, ye won’t! Naw, ye won’t!” exclaimed the undismayed Binwell. “Ef ye
do, ye’ll git jailed quick’n never war seen.”
“I ain’t done nothin’,” cried Skimpy, recoiling.
“Ain’t ye! Tote a man’s ladder up the mounting, over ter the Carliny
side, an’ tumble it down ’mongst the pine tops, whar he’d hev ter make
another ter reach it. Mebbe the constable an’ old Greeps, ez be jestice
o’ the peace, don’t ’low ez that’s suthin’, but I reckon they will!”
Skimpy was silent in acute dismay. Into what danger, what wrong-doing,
had he not thrust himself by his disobedience! He looked at the grinning
face, flushed by the fading remnant of the roseate sunset, feeling that
he was in Binwell’s power, wondering what he should do, how he should be
liberated from the toils spread for him.
“See now, Skimp,” said Binwell beguilingly, and the poor boy’s heart
leaped up at the kindly tone, for he sought to put the best construction
on Jerry Binwell’s intentions, if only to calm his own despair and
distress. “I could jes’ take ye under my arm—so,” he tucked Skimpy’s
head under his arm and lightly lifted him high off his feet—“an’ strong
ez I be I could fling ye off’n that bluff half down that thar gorge; thar
wouldn’t be enough o’ ye lef’ ter pick up on a shovel; an’ that would
keep ye from tellin’ tales on me, I reckon.” He swung the boy perilously
close to the edge of the precipice, then set him gently on his feet. “But
I don’t want ter hurt ye, an’ I ain’t goin’ ter do it. I know ye air a
plumb honer’ble, good sorter boy, an’ ain’t goin’ ter make a tale-tell o’
yerse’f, even if ye wouldn’t git jailed. I wouldn’t trest no boy I ever
see but you-uns. I wouldn’t trest Ike Guyther fur nuthin’. I war goin’
ter tell you-uns all ’bout’n it ennyways, even ’fore I fund that thar
ladder. An’ then ye kin jedge whether I be right or wrong.”
Skimpy, eager to be reassured, felt his heart lighten with the words. He
strained his credulity to believe in Jerry Binwell. Surely he had not
done so very wrong; there might be no harm in the man, after all. He drew
a deep breath of relief, and then picked up his hat which had fallen
from his head when Jerry Binwell was illustrating the terrible fate he
might decree for the lad if he chose. The man was closely studying his
face when their eyes met once more, but Binwell said simply that they had
better go after Obadiah’s fiddle or night would overtake them before they
found it.
He talked as they went.
“Ye see, Skimpy,” he said, “my tongue don’t lay holt nat’rally ter the
words, kase I hev got some things ter tell ez I ain’t right proud on.”
He glanced down at the wondering, upturned face, with its eyes wide
with anticipation, and its mouth opening as if to swallow, without the
customary grain of salt, any big tale which might be told.
“Ye hearn old Corbin say, yander at the store that day, ez I run durin’
the War. An’ I h’isted him up on the beam fur shamin’ me ’fore all them
folks. Waal, I oughtn’t ter done it, kase ’twar true—_jes’ one time_! I
felt powerful ’shamed ter hear ’bout it ag’in—plumb bowed down.”
The crafty eyes scanning Skimpy’s ingenuous face saw that he was
sympathetic.
“War ain’t a healthy bizness, nohow,” continued Jerry. “But thar air lots
o’ men, ez run heap more’n me, ez don’t hev it fetched up ag’in ’em every
day. Lots o’ runnin’ war done in the War—but folks nowadays ginerally
talks ’bout thar fightin’. Some nimble fellers showed their heels in them
times—folks ez live right hyar in the Cove. But I be the only one ez hev
got ter hear ’bout it in these days. It’s kase I’m pore, Skimp. Ef I hed
a good cabin an’ right smart cornfield, an’ consider’ble head o’ stock,
ye wouldn’t hear ’bout my runnin’ that time.”
Cynicism is eminently infectious. Skimpy wagged his head significantly.
“You wouldn’t indeed!” the gesture seemed to say.
“They don’t like me jes’ kase I’m pore. An’ kase I’m pore they call
me shif’less. I hev hed a heap o’ trouble; sech truck ez I hed I war
obleeged ter spen’ fur doctors’ ’tendance on my wife, ez war ailin’
always, an’ arter all she died at last.”
The unromantic Skimpy, meditating on the case, felt that at least the
doctors’ bills were at an end.
“An’ now I be homeless, an’ a wanderer, an’ hev my leetle gal ter feed.
Folks actially want ter take her away from me. Ef ’twarn’t fur her, them
Guythers wouldn’t let me stay thar a day.”
Skimpy knew that this was true. Ike had confided so much to him of the
family feeling on the matter.
“An’ now folks in the Cove air a-fixin’ ter drive me out’n it—me an’
little Rosamondy. They can’t set the law onto me, fur I never done
nothin’ ag’in it—so they be a-goin’ ter laff me out’n it. Ye wanter know
whose ladder that is?” he broke off with apparent irrelevance.
Skimpy nodded an eager assent.
“It’s old Corbin’s, I’ll be bound, an’ I’ll tell ye why I ’low sech; no
man but him kin do sech a job. Waal, ye know what he wants it fur? He
wants somebody ez be light an’ handy ter climb up Keedon Bluffs by it ter
them hollows. An’ ye wanter know what fur? Ter git suthin’ ez air hid in
one o’ ’em. An’ ye wanter know what that be?”
Skimpy’s face in the closing dusk might have been cut out of stone, so
white and set it was—such a petrified expectancy upon it. The man’s eyes
glittered as he held his own face nearer and spoke in a hissing whisper,
albeit in the lonely wilderness none could hear his words.
“Some war maps, an’ orders in a box what a courier—thinkin’ he war
a-goin’ ter be captured—hid thar; an’ he war killed afore ever he got
’em ag’in. An’ long o’ ’em air a letter a-tellin’ ’bout me a-runnin’
an’ a-orderin’ me ter be shot fur a deserter. An’ old Corbin, bearin’ a
gredge ag’in me, air a-goin’ ter perduce ’em an’ fairly laff me out’n the
Cove. An’ I ain’t got nowhar ter go.”
“He’s mighty mean!” cried Skimpy, his heart swelling with indignation.
“Waal, I wanter scotch his wheel!” exclaimed Binwell. “I don’t want him
ter do it.”
“How kin ye purvent it?” said Skimpy, briskly. Surely there was no
malice, no mischief on Binwell’s part in this. His spirits had risen to
their normal high pitch.
“Waal, Skimp, I hev been a-studyin’ bout’n it. But till I fund that
ladder—it air too long fur enny mortal place but Keedon Bluffs—an’ made
sure o’ what he war a-doin’ of, I warn’t sati’fied in my mind. Ef ye’ll
holp me—kase I be too bulky nowadays ter creep in one o’ them hollows—ef
I’ll kerry ye down thar will ye snake in an’ git the box? Ye ’feared?”
For Skimpy had drawn back at this proposition. “Naw,” he faltered, but
with an affirmative tendency. He saw Binwell’s teeth and eyes gleam
through the dusk. This man _who ran_ was laughing at him for being afraid
of the great heights of Keedon Bluffs, of the black abysses below!
“We hed better hev tuk the ladder ter climb by,” suggested Skimpy.
“An’ hev old Corbin come along the river bank an’ take it down whilst we
war on it? I’m better’n enny ladder ye ever see, bein’ so strong. Feel
my arm,” he held it out. “Shucks, boy! Fust time I ever see ye, ye war
talkin’ ter Ike ’bout climbin’ down thar ’thout enny holp. But mebbe ef
ye don’t want ter go, Ike will. I hain’t axed him yit. I’d ruther hev
you-uns. But I reckon he ain’t _afeard_.”
In addition to Skimpy’s sympathy for the ostracized Binwell his terror of
being considered a coward was very great. “Naw—I’ll go—I ain’t ’feared;
but I be powerful oneasy an’ troubled bout’n that thar ladder.”
“Waal, arter we git the box—the papers air in it—we’ll go over to yon
side o’ the mounting with a axe, an’ cut down the tree ez cotched the
ladder, an’ tote it back whar we fund it.”
Skimpy’s objections vanished at the prospect of being able to undo soon
the harm he had done. He hoped fervently that old Corbin would not miss
his ladder before it was replaced.
“Hyar’s Obadiah’s fiddle!” exclaimed Binwell, who led the way while the
boy followed through the laurel, grown quite dark now; and when they
emerged into the open woods they beheld the stars glistening in the
shallows of the branch, and many a pensive glimmer came through the bare
boughs, and through the thinning leaves.