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[Illustration: "Do you think I am the sort of girl who would sell
herself for anything--even for the justice I might think was yours?"]
THE MAN THOU GAVEST
BY
HARRIET T. COMSTOCK
AUTHOR OF JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS, A SON OF THE HILLS, ETC.
FRONTISPIECE BY E.F. WARD
DEDICATION
_I dedicate this book of mine to the lovely spot where most of it was
written_
THE MACDOWELL COLONY PETERBOROUGH NEW HAMPSHIRE
AND
"TO HER WHO UNDERSTANDS"
Deep in the pine woods is the little Studio where work is made supremely
possible. Around the house the birds and trees sing together and no
disturbing thing is permitted to trespass.
Within, like a tangible Presence, an atmosphere of loved labour; good
will and high hopes greet the coming guests and speed the parting.
Little Studio in the pine woods, my appreciation and affection are
yours!
HARRIET T. COMSTOCK
THE MAN THOU GAVEST
CHAPTER I
The passengers, one by one, left the train but Truedale took no heed. He
was the only one left at last, but he was not aware of it, and then,
just as the darkness outside caught his attention, the train stopped so
suddenly that it nearly threw him from his seat.
"Accident?" he asked the conductor. "No, sah! Pine Cone station. I
reckon the engineer come mighty nigh forgetting--he generally does at
the end. The tracks stop here. You look mighty peaked; some one
expecting yo'?"
"I've been ill. My doctor ordered me to the hills. Yes: some one will
meet me." Truedale did not resent the interest the man showed; he was
grateful.
"Well, sah, if yo' man doesn't show up--an' sometimes they don't, owing
to bad roads--you can come back with us after we load up with the wood.
I live down the track five miles; we lie thar fur the night. Yo' don't
look equal to taking to yo' two standing feet."
The entire train force of three men went to gather fuel for the return
trip and, dejectedly, Truedale sat down in the gloom and silence to
await events.
No human being materialized and Truedale gave himself up to gloomy
thoughts. Evidently he must return on the train and to-morrow morning
take to--just then a spark like a falling star attracted his attention
and to his surprise he saw, not a dozen feet away, a tall lank man
leaning against a tree in an attitude so adhesive that he might have
been a fungus growth or sprig of destroying mistletoe. It never occurred
to Truedale that this indifferent onlooker could be interested in him,
but he might be utilized in the emergency, so he saluted cordially.
"Hello, friend!"
By the upward and downward curve of the glowing pipe bowl, Truedale
concluded the man was nodding.
"I'm waiting for Jim White."
"So?" The one word came through the darkness without interest.
"Do you happen to know him?"
"Sorter."
"Could you--get me to his place?"
"I reckon. That's what I come ter do."
"I--I had a trunk sent on ahead; perhaps it is in that shed?"
"It's up to--to Jim's place. Can you ride behind me on the mare?
Travelling is tarnation bad."
Once they were on the mare's back, conversation dragged, then died a
natural death. Truedale felt as if he were living a bit of anti-war
romance as he jogged along behind his guide, his grip knocking
unpleasantly against his leg as the way got rougher.
It was nine o'clock when, in a little clearing close by the trail, the
lights of a cabin shone cheerily and the mare stopped short and
definitely.
"I hope White is at home!" Truedale was worn to the verge of exhaustion.
"I be Jim White!" The man dismounted and stood ready to assist his
guest.
"Welcome, stranger. Any one old Doc McPherson sends here brings his
welcome with him."
About a fortnight later, Conning Truedale stretched his long legs out
toward Jim White's roaring fire of pine knots and cones. It was a fierce
and furious fire but the night was sharp and cold. There was no other
light in the room than that of the fire--nor was any needed.
Jim sat by the table cleaning a gun. Truedale was taking account of
himself. He held his long, brown hand up to the blaze; it was as steady
as that of a statue! He had walked ten miles that day and felt
exhilarated. Night brought sleep, meal time--and often in between
times--brought appetite. He had made an immense gain in health.
"How long have I been here, Jim?" he asked in a slow, calm voice.
"Come Thursday, three weeks!" When Jim was most laconic he was often
inwardly bursting with desire for conversation. After a silence Conning
spoke again:
"Say, Jim, are there any other people in this mountain range, except you
and me?"
"Ugh! just bristlin' with folks! Getting too darned thick. That's why
I've got ter get into the deep woods. I just naturally hate folks except
in small doses. Why"--here Jim put the gun down upon the table--"five
mile back, up on Lone Dome, is the Greyson's, and it ain't nine miles to
Jed Martin's place. Miss Lois Ann's is a matter o' sixteen miles; what
do you call population if them figures don't prove it?"
Something had evidently disturbed White's ideas of isolation and
independence--it would all come out later. Truedale knew his man fairly
well by that time; at least he thought he did. Again Jim took up his gun
and Con thought lazily that he must get over to his shack. He occupied a
small cabin--Dr. McPherson's property for sleeping purposes.
"Do yo' know," Jim broke in suddenly; "yo' mind me of a burr runnin'
wild in a flock of sheep--gatherin' as yo' go. Yo' sho are a miracle!
Now old Doc McPherson was like a shadder when he headed this way--but he
took longer gatherin', owin' to age an' natural defects o' build. Your
frame was picked right close, but a kind o' flabby layer of gristle and
fat hung ter him an' wasn't a good foundation to build on."
Conning gave a delighted laugh. Once Jim White began to talk of his own
volition his discourse flowed on until hunger or weariness overtook him.
His silences had the same quality--it was the way Jim began that
mattered.
"When I first took ter handlin' yo' for ole Doc McPherson, I kinder
hated ter take my eyes off yo' fearin' yo' might slip out, but Gawd! yo'
can grapple fo' yo' self now and--I plain hanker fur the sticks."
"The sticks?" This was a new expression.
"Woods!" Jim vouchsafed (he despised the stupidity that required
interpretation of perfectly plain English), "deep woods! What with Burke
Lawson suspected of bein' nigh, an' my duty as sheriff consarnin' him
hittin' me in the face, I've studied it out that it will be a mighty
reasonable trick fur this here officer of the law to be somewhere else
till Burke settles with his friends an' foes, or takes himself off,
'fore he's strung up or shot up."
Truedale turned his chair about and faced Jim.
"Do you know," he said, "you've mentioned more names in the last ten
minutes than you've mentioned in all the weeks I've been here? You give
me a mental cramp. Why, I thought you and I had these hills to
ourselves; instead we're threatened on every side, and yet I haven't
seen a soul on my tramps. Where do they keep themselves? What has this
Burke Lawson done, to stir the people?"
"You don't call your santers real tramps, do you? Why folks is as thick
as ticks up here, though they don't knock elbows like what they do where
you cum from. They don't holler out ter 'tract yer attention, neither.
But they're here."
"Let's hear more of Burke Lawson." Truedale gripped _him_ from the
seething mass of humanity portrayed by White, as the one promising most
colour and interest. "Just where does Burke live?"
"Burke? Gawd! Burke don't live anywhere. He is a born floater. He
scrooges around a place and raises the devil, then he just naturally
floats off. But he nearly always comes back. Since the trap-settin' a
time back, he has been mighty scarce in these parts; but any day he may
turn up."
"The trap, eh? What about that?" With this Truedale turned about again,
for Jim, having finished his work on the gun, had placed the weapon on
its pegs on the wall and had drawn near the fire. He ran his hand
through his crisp, gray hair until it stood on end and gave him a
peculiarly bristling appearance. He was about to enjoy himself. He was
as keen for gossip as any cabin woman of the hills, but Jim was an
artist about sharing his knowledge. However, once he decided to share,
he shared royally.
"I've been kinder waitin' fur yo' to show some interest in us-all," he
began, "it's a plain sign of yo' gettin' on. I writ the same to old Doc
McPherson yesterday! 'When he takes to noticin',' I writ, 'he's on the
mend.'"
Conning laughed good naturedly. "Oh! I'm on the mend, all right," he
said.
"Now as to that trap business," Jim took up the story, "I'll have to go
back some and tell yo' about the Greysons and Jed Martin--they all be
linked like sassages. Pete Greyson lives up to Lone Dome. Pete came from
stock; he ain't trash by a long come, but he can act like it! Pete's
forbears drank wine and talked like lords; Pete has ter rely on mountain
dew and that accounts fur the difference in his goin's-on; but once he's
sober, he's quality--is Pete. Pete's got two darters--Marg an'
Nella-Rose. Old Doc McPherson use' ter call 'em types, whatever that
means. Marg is a type, sure and sartin, but Nella-Rose is a little
no-count--that's what I say. But blame it all, it's Nella-Rose as has
set the mountains goin', so far as I can see. Fellers come courtin' Marg
and they just slip through her fingers an' Nella-Rose gets 'em. She
don't want 'em 'cept to play with and torment Marg. Gawd! how them two
gals do get each other edgy. Round about Lone Dome they call Nella-Rose
the doney-gal--that meaning 'sweetheart'; she's responsible for more
trouble than a b'ar with a sore head, or Burke Lawson on a tear."
Conning was becoming vitally interested and showed it, to Jim's
delight; this was a dangerous state for White, he was likely, once
started and flattered, to tell more than was prudent.
"Jed Martin"--Jim gave a chuckle--"has been tossed between them two gals
like a hot corn pone. He'd take Nella-Rose quick enough if she'd have
him, but barrin' her, he hangs to Marg so as ter be nigh Nella-Rose in
any case. And right here Burke Lawson figgers. Burke's got two naturs,
same as old Satan. Marg can play on one and get him plumb riled up to
anythin'; Nella-Rose can twist him around her finger and make him act
like the Second Coming."
Conning called a halt. "What's the Second Coming?" he asked, his eyes
twinkling.
"Meaning?--good as a Bible character," Jim explained huffily. "Gawd,
man! do your own thinkin'. I can't talk an' splanify ter onct."
"Oh! I see. Well, go on, Jim."
"There be times of the moon when I declare that no-count Nella-Rose just
plain seems possessed; has ter do somethin' and does it! Three months
ago, come Saturday, or thereabouts, she took it into her head to worst
Marg at every turn and let it out that she was goin' to round up all the
fellers and take her pick! She had the blazin' face ter come down here
and tell _me_ that! Course Marg knew it, but the two most consarned
didn't--meaning Jed and Burke. Least they suspected--but warn't sure.
Jed meant to get Burke out o' the way so he could have a clear space to
co't Nella-Rose, so he aimed to shoot one o' Burke's feet just enough to
lay him up--Jed is the slow, calculatin' kind and an almighty sure shot.
He reckoned Burke couldn't walk up Lone Dome with a sore foot, so he
laid for him, meanin' afterward to say he was huntin' an' took Burke for
a 'possum. Well, Burke got wind of the plot; I'm thinkin' Marg put a
flea in his ear, anyway he set a trap just by the path leading from the
trail to Lone Dome. Gawd! Jed planted his foot inter it same as if he
meant ter, and what does that Burke do but take a walk with Nella-Rose
right past the place where Jed was caught! 'Corse he was yellin'
somethin' terrible. They helped Jed out and I reckon Nella-Rose was
innocent enough, but Jed writ up the account 'gainst Burke and Burke
floated off for a spell. He ain't floated back yet--not _yet!_ But so
long as Nella-Rose is above ground he'll naturally cum back."
"And Nella-Rose, the little no-count; did she repay Jed, the poor cuss?"
"Nella-Rose don't repay no one--she ain't more'n half real, whatever way
you put it. But just see how this fixes a sheriff, will yo'? Knowing
what I do, I can't jail either o' them chaps with a cl'ar conscience.
Gawd! I'd like to pass a law to cage all females and only let 'em out
with a string to their legs!" Then White laughed reminiscently.
"What now, Jim?"
"Gals!" White fairly spit out the word. "Gals!" There was an eloquent
pause, then more quietly: "Jest when yo' place 'em and hate 'em proper,
they up and do somethin' to melt yo' like snow on Lone Dome in May. I
was harkin' back to the little white hen and Nella-Rose. There ain't
much chance to have a livin' pet up to Greyson's place. Anything fit to
eat is et. Pete drinks the rest. But once Nella-Rose came totin' up here
on a cl'ar, moonlight evenin' with somethin' under her little, old
shawl. 'Jim' she says--wheedlin' and coaxin'--'I want yo' to keep this
here hen fo' me. I'll bring its keep, but I love it, and I can't see
it--killed!' That gal don't never let tears fall--they jest wet her eyes
and make 'em shine. With that she let loose the most owdacious white
bantam and scattered some corn on the floor; then she sat down and
laughed like an imp when the foolish thing hopped up to her and flopped
onter her lap. Well, I kept the sassy little hen--there wasn't anything
else ter do--but one day Marg, she followed Nella-Rose up and when she
saw what was going on, she stamped in and cried out: 'So! yo' can have
playthings while us-all go starved! Yo' can steal what's our'n,--an'
with that she took the bantam and fo' I could say a cuss, she wrung that
chicken's neck right fo' Nella-Rose's eyes!"
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Conning; "the young brute! And the other
one--what did she do?"
"She jest looked at me--her eyes swimmin'. Nella-Rose don't talk much
when she's hurt, but she don't forget. I tell yo', young feller, bein' a
sheriff in this settlement ain't no joke. Yo' know folks too well and
see the rights and wrongs more'n is good for plain justice."
"Well?" Jim rose and stretched himself, "yo' won't go on the b'ar hunt
ter-morrer?"
"No, Jim, but I'll walk part of the way with you. When do you start?"
"'Bout two o' the mornin'."
"Then I'll turn in. Good-night, old man! You've given me a great
evening. I feel as if I were suddenly projected into a crowd with human
problems smashing into each other for all they're worth. You cannot
escape, old man; that's the truth. You cannot escape. Life is life no
matter where you find it."
"Now don't git ter talkin' perlite to me," Jim warned. "Old Doc
McPherson's orders was agin perlite conversation. Get a scrabble on yer!
I'll knock yer up 'bout two or thereabouts."
Outside, Truedale stood still and looked at the beauty of the night. The
moon was full and flooded the open space with a radiance which
contrasted sharply with the black shadows and the outlines of the near
and distant peaks.
The silence was so intense that the ear, straining for sound, ached from
the effort. And just then a bewitched hen in White's shed gave a weird
cry and Truedale started. He smiled grimly and thought of the little
no-count and the tragedy of the white bantam. In the shining light
around him he seemed to see her pitiful face as White had described
it--the eyes full of tears but never overflowing, the misery and hate,
the loneliness and impotency.
At two the next morning Jim tapped on Truedale's window with his gun.
"Comin' fur a walk?"
"You bet!" Con was awake at once and alert. Ten minutes later, closing
the doors and windows of his cabin after him, he joined White on the
leaf-strewn path to the woods. He went five miles and then bade his host
good-bye.
"Don't overwork!" grinned Jim sociably. "I'll write to old Doc McPherson
when I git back."
"And when will that be, Jim?"
"I ain't goin' ter predict." White set his lips. "When I stay, I stay,
but once I take ter the woods there ain't no sayin'. I'll fetch fodder
when I cum, and mail, too--but I ain't goin' ter hobble myself when I
take ter the sticks."
Tramping back alone over the wet autumn leaves, Truedale had his first
sense of loneliness since he came. White, he suddenly realized, had
meant to him everything that he needed, but with White unhobbled in the
deep woods, how was he to fill the time? He determined to force himself
to study. He had wedged one solid volume in his trunk, unknown to his
friends. He would brush up his capacity for work--it could not hurt him
now. He was as strong as he had ever been in his life and the prospect
ahead promised greater gains.
Yes, he would study. He would write letters, too--real letters. He had
neglected every one, especially Lynda Kendall. The others did not
matter, but Lynda mattered more than anything. She always would! And
thinking of Lynda reminded him that he had also, in his trunk, the play
upon which he had worked for several years during hours that should have
been devoted to rest. He would get out the play and try to breathe life
into it, now that he himself was living. Lynda had said, when last they
had discussed his work, "It's beautiful, Con; you shall not belittle it.
It is beautiful like a cold, stone thing with rough edges. Sometime you
must smooth it and polish it, and then you must pray over it and believe
in it, and I really think it will repay you. It may not mean anything
but a sure guide to your goal, but you'd be grateful for that, wouldn't
you?" Of course he would be grateful for that! It would mean life to
him--life, not mere existence. He began to hope that Jim White would
stay away a month; what with study, and the play, and the doing for
himself, the time ahead was provided for already!
Stalking noiselessly forward, Truedale came into the clearing, passed
White's shack, and approached his own with a fixed determination. Then
he stopped short. He was positive that he had closed windows and
doors--the caution of the city still clung to him--but now both doors
and windows were set wide to the brilliant autumn day and a curl of
smoke from a lately replenished fire cheerfully rose in the clear, dry
air.
"Well, I'll be--!" and then Truedale quietly slipped to the rear of
the cabin and to a low, sliding window through which he could peer,
unobserved. One glance transfixed him.