FIDGETTY LOU MAKES A DISCOVERY
The first gleam of the morning sun awakened the wounded man. Its beams
fell full upon the red locks of Louisa, and shone upon her round face
now pale from her vigil. She had not discarded the pistol, though she
was weary and heavy-eyed. As the man’s gaze was directed to the girl
keeping watch he regarded her with interest. “What’s your name?” he
presently snapped out.
“Louisa Sparks,” she answered, collecting her scattered thoughts.
The man turned his head sharply though the effort made him wince with
pain. He uttered an exclamation under his breath. “Where you from?” was
his second question.
“Kentucky, though I don’t know as it’s any business of yours. Here,
shut up and stop asking me questions. I don’t want to talk to you.”
A grim smile appeared on the man’s face as he continued to regard the
girl by his side.
“You seem to be mighty pleased about something,” said Louisa, looking
at him disgustedly.
He gave a husky sort of chuckle. “You ain’t asked my name,” he said
presently.
“I don’t want to know it. ’Tain’t nothing to me who you are.”
“You’d just as well know. Ever happen to know or hear of anybody named
Cyrus Sparks, old Cy Sparks?”
Louisa started, the don’t care expression leaving her face. She leaned
eagerly forward and gazed at the man intently. Then she arose and
softly closed the door. “Are you any kin of mine?” she asked. “If you
are I’m ashamed of you.”
“I rather guess you’ll have to own me,” was the reply. “I shouldn’t
wonder if I was your dad.”
Louisa shrank back. “What do you mean? My father died fifteen years
ago; my mother told me so.”
“Your mother was Louisa Ricketts, wa’n’t she?”
“That was her name before she was married.”
“Thought so. You ain’t onlike her. I reckon I’m your dad all right.”
“I tell you he’s dead.” Louisa spoke passionately. “I should think my
mother ought to know.”
“I rather think your dad knows better. To be sure he let her think so.
Wa’n’t no place fur her an’ the young ’un down here with Injuns as
thick as blackberries, and he jest let her think that-away, you see.”
Louisa’s head jerked excitedly. “You bad, wicked old man. I disown ye,
I do. My father was a hero. He died for Texas. He was a brave, good
man. I’ll not give him up for an old horse thief. You’re lying. Them
that steals would just as liefs lie, too, and I don’t believe one word
of it. You’re trying to fool me. Your name may be Cyrus Sparks, but
you’re no kin of mine.”
“Let me see,” said the man, moving uneasily. “I reckon I kin prove my
right to the name all right, and I reckon I kin prove my right to my
darter, too.”
“Your right to me?” Louisa gazed at him with startled eyes.
“Yes. You ain’t twenty-one yet and I reckon a father has some claim on
his darter.”
“Not if he has deserted her and left her an orphin to be bound out to
strangers.”
“Now, you don’t tell me it was that-away.” The man turned his sharp
old eyes upon her. “When did yer mother die? Pore Louisy, she was a
good sort, and I hadn’t oughter hev left her. Seems as if I must hev
ben a wuthless kind of fellow. That’s why I didn’t go back. I left her
and the young un when things looked pretty bad for me, pretty bad. I
wrote to her right reg’lar an’ I’d kep’ on a-writin’ if I hadn’t heerd
she was dead and the young un, too. Yes, you needn’t doubt it. I did
hear that and believed it too, so I says to myself: what’s the use
of goin’ back? I ain’t nobody to welcome me; and as I was beginnin’
to git together a little property I thought I’d as well stay whar I
was. I can’t see I was to blame. Now, look-a-here; your name is Louisa
Sparks. Your mother was Louisa Ricketts, daughter of old Sol Ricketts
and Martha his wife. You was born Jinooary, eighteen hundred and
twenty-seven; yer dad lef’ home fur Texas when you was about three year
old and your mother went to her folks. Your dad was red-headed; look at
my red head. He was son of Jeremiah Sparks and Laviny his wife. That’s
me. Now ain’t I giving ye family history all straight?”
Louisa sat silently listening, and after waiting a minute for a
response the man went on. “Your mother had fa’r skin, brown ha’r an’
eyes. She was a fine figger, but a leetle tetchy in disposition. She
was fond of me, yes, Lou was, and I was good to her, ain’t she said
so?” Louisa nodded silently.
The man continued. “Mebbe ef I’d stayed things might hev been
diff’rent, but, no, I reckon I never could hev done as well as I’m
a-doin’ here. Now, I dare say ye ain’t got a scrap of yer dad’s
writin’? Ef ye hev and I could git my hands free I’d show ye my fist so
ye could compare the two, ef ye don’t believe me.” Then suddenly. “Why,
shucks, gal, what on airth do ye reckon I’d want to claim a strange
gal fer? Ye ain’t so purty; ye ain’t no fortin; ye ain’t no prospicks.
What on airth would I be tellin’ ye all this fer ef I didn’t hev some
natrel affection and wanted ye jest because yer my own flesh an’ blood?
Now, look-a-here, you come to yer dad. He ain’t so terble po’ly off,
and maybe he’ll git together sompin’ more to leave ye, and ye won’t be
destitute when he’s gone.”
Louisa helplessly twisted her fingers together. She began to believe
the man was speaking the truth, but it was hard to readjust her
attitude of mind. The father of her affections was a hero, a soldier,
one whom she reverenced and whose name was enshrined with that of her
mother in a fragrant memory. How could she accept this old man, horse
thief and perhaps worse? “But my father was a soldier, an honorable man
who died for Texas,” she quavered, her beliefs dying hard.
“Well, if I didn’t die for Texas, I’m like to die of her,” remarked
Cyrus, “especially ef I don’t git out of this. I was a soldier all
right an’ shed my blood. I was reported dead. That’s all true enough.”
“But now--now you are a horse thief.” Louisa spoke with passionate
reproach.
“Who says I am?” said Cyrus coolly.
“I do. Why, you can’t deny it. Didn’t we catch you in the very act of
stealing our horses?”
“Whose horse did ye see me takin’ away? Was it yourn?”
“No, it wasn’t mine.”
“Was it either of them other gals’?”
“No, not theirs.”
“Was it John Ross’s then?”
“No.”
“Then whose was it, and what right had anybody here to claim it?”
“It belongs to Steve Hayward.”
“And where’s Steve Hayward?”
“No one knows.”
“Then how do ye know the horse is his? Why gal, yer ’way off. Thet
horse is mine. I bought him off of Steve Hayward and he got away from
my place, broke loose and came back here. I didn’t hear of it till a
bit ago. I been a-lookin’ fer thet hoss fer weeks an’ months. I suppose
it might hev been better if I hed come up and claimed him, but I heerd
thar wa’n’t anybody but you gals about, and I knew how women folks is,
so rather than make any trouble I thought I’d jest come in quiet like
an’ he’p myself to my own.”
“But those other men, those who were with you,” said Louisa bewildered
by this unexpected defense, “they surely did steal three of Mr. John’s
horses.”
“Lord, you can’t expect me to be accountable for what other men do.
They came along to be company an’ the temptation was too great. One
pore old wounded man couldn’t hold ’em back when they had once made up
their minds. It was as much as my life was worth to battle with two
great, powerful men. They knowed nobody was here to foller ’em and they
saw a chanst of bettering therselves. I couldn’t do nothin’, yet here I
lay takin’ the brunt of it all.”
All this was amazing to Louisa. She hardly knew what to believe. He
spoke so plausibly, in such an injured tone, that she began to feel
herself in the wrong.
“Moreover,” Cyrus Sparks went on, “I’d like to know what right any one
has to Stephen Hayward’s property. Ef he’s dead an’ gone why don’t his
heirs come forrard? Ef he ain’t got no heirs one has as much right as
another and I can’t see that I’d be any more stealin’ than John Ross
is. ’Tain’t his, and if it ain’t mine whose is it? Not John Ross’s.”
This logic added to Louisa’s bewilderment. She felt as if the world
were suddenly turned upside down. All her preconceived ideas were
overthrown and she looked at the man in helpless amazement.
“Now, you see then, I’m the fellow that’s got the law on my side. I’m
taking peaceable possession of my property and first thing I get a
bullet in me.” He edged nearer Louisa. “Now, I ain’t goin’ to be hard
on nobody, especially on no women folks. You just leave me loose an’
come go home with me and I’ll promise not to prosecute none of ’em. I
see that little gal don’t know she was actin’ agin the law and I’d hate
to see her in jail, so I’ll keep quiet if you will. What d’ye say? Is
it a bargain?”
Poor Louisa, this turning of the tables was too much for her loyalty
and she murmured a faint: “Yes.”
“Ye see,” continued Cyrus pressing his advantage, “I ain’t got no
witnesses nor no writin’ to prove I bought that hoss often Steve, but
ef he was here he’d tell ye it was all right. Now, as I ain’t got no
guarantee, an’ nobody knows about the transaction, these fellers about
here might think I really did try to steal him and you know what would
happen ef ye give me up. You know I wouldn’t stand no kind of chanst;
I’d git strung up instid of dyin’ fer my country or in my bed like an
honest man. You’d hate to hev ’em say your dad died like a horse thief,
now wouldn’t ye, Lou? An’ him innercent, too.”
“Oh, it would be dreadful,” murmured Louisa.
“Thought you’d feel as I do about it. So then, I’ll be generous an’
not press my claim to the hoss, not yet, anyhow. I’ll jest leave him
here for the present, and if Steve never comes back to prove my word is
true, why let these people keep him fer what they’ve done fer you.”
This speech struck a responsive chord in Louisa’s breast. She loved
the Ross family one and all. The dreadful possibilities that Cyrus had
suggested filled her with alarm. She had little knowledge of the world
and of the workings of the law. She believed the man to be really her
father. It was true that she had neither beauty nor fortune, then why
indeed should he wish to claim her if not from fatherly affection?
True he did not fulfil her ideal, but the fact was here to face. She
ought to believe him innocent till he was proved guilty. If his story
were true he was not to be greatly censured. She began to feel a faint
stirring of filial affection and to respond to his desire that his home
should be hers. She had always so boldly announced that she was going
to Texas for her father’s sake and now had come a greater opportunity
to prove it than she had ever dreamed of. After all, why was it not
a great thing for the poor orphan girl? Fidgetty Lou to possess the
protection of a father, to live under his roof, and some day to be
an heiress! Why, it was like a novel. The man’s story appeared more
and more plausible as she gave herself over to these thoughts, and at
length she had persuaded herself that it would be absolutely wicked to
yield up her own father to the authorities. If Steve should one day
reappear and vouch for his story, and she had failed to save her father
from an ignominious death what remorse would be hers. She leaned over
and began to unfasten the bandages which bound hands and feet, then
helped the man rise. He was not an attractive personality and Louisa
did not feel a return of that sudden stirring of affection, but as the
man staggered slightly she put out her strong arm to steady him.
“Little onsteady on the pins,” he remarked. “You’ll be a prop to your
old dad in his declinin’ years, won’t you, Lou? Ye shan’t lose by it.
To think of that little squeak of a gal doin’ up Cy Sparks, this-a way
gits me. Jest leave me set down and get me a drop of somethin’ or other
an’ I’ll be all right. I’ve got out of worse scrapes than this--when I
was in the army,” he added. “Now you’ll get me home, won’t ye?”
“Now? To-day?”
“Why yes, the sooner the better.”
“I’ll have to make some explanation to Miss Tina and Alison.”
“Yes, yes, of course, or else they might----”
“Or else they might set the neighbors on your track. I think Pedro may
have gone already.”
“Then let’s hurry and light out. These here Texans are so suspicious,
always so impatient. They won’t listen to reason, and even if you was
to tell ’em you was my darter they wouldn’t listen to it. My, my, but
I’m goin’ to take comfort in my child. All these years a pore, lonely
man, thinkin’ all he loved was dead an’ gone; it’s a great change for
Cyrus Sparks, I tell ye. Go tell ’em, Louisy, an’ let’s git off before
there’s trouble. I’ll keep clost fer a few days an’ nobody will be the
wiser. I wouldn’t have a ha’r of that gal’s head in danger, though she
did come near to making an end of me, an’ so I’ll keep clost.”
Louisa’s fears being sufficiently aroused she rushed to where Christine
and Alison were. Now that it was light they had given over their watch,
had despatched Pedro for Bud Haley and were preparing to get breakfast
when Louisa appeared with her astounding tale. She told it in such a
way as to carry conviction and although both sisters begged her not to
leave them till more could be proved, she declared it was her duty and
so worked upon their sympathies that they hurried her departure, and
within a half hour Cyrus Sparks, with his daughter mounted behind him
upon his horse, started forth.
Alison and Christine watched them out of sight and then turned back
to the house which seemed lonely without Louisa’s cheerful presence.
“We mustn’t let any one know that Louisa has gone, not just yet,” said
Christine. “They might suspect that our prisoner was her father. We’ll
try and keep her going a secret for a few days and must simply say that
our prisoner escaped while Pedro was gone.”
“I hate to have any one think we couldn’t guard him any better than
that,” said Alison.
“We’ll have to let them think so for Louisa’s sake. Poor Lou, she
was so upset, and I don’t wonder. It certainly is a most remarkable
episode. I must confess I don’t admire the looks of Cyrus Sparks.”
“Nor I, but one cannot always judge by appearances, and we must hope
that he will treat her well.”
“If he doesn’t she must come back to us. We’ll ask the boys to look out
for her. Ira Korner will have an eye to all that concerns Louisa, you
may be sure.”
“And if this horrid old war were not going on there would be John and
Neal and Reub to see how matters stand. Come, let’s have our breakfast,
for Pedro will be back directly.”
It was not very long before Pedro with two other men clattered up to
the door and, without ceremony, stalked into the house. “Where’s your
man?” cried Bud Haley.
“Oh,” the girls looked at each other in pretended consternation, “he’s
gone. He got away.”
“The--dickens he did.” Bud looked at Pedro disgustedly. “You said he
was bound. You----”
“He is make fas’. I am see so,” said Pedro, deprecatingly.
“They’re mighty cute, some of these fellows,” put in Blythe Van Dorn, a
curly haired, broad-shouldered youth. “They know a trick or two and can
get out of ’most any tie-up. How long since he got away?”
“A very little while after Pedro left.”
“Where’s Lou?” Bud looked around inquiringly.
“She’s gone after him.”
Bud laughed. “You bet she has. That gal’s got sense. She ain’t skeered
o’ nothin’. Hope she’ll get him. Which way did he go, footback or
horseback?”
“He got his horse from the stable and went off flying,” Alison told
him. “I don’t believe you’d ever catch him now. You’d better stop and
have some breakfast.”
“Can’t do it. We must try to catch up. Maybe we’ll come acrost Lou and
she can tell us which way he went. We can strike his trail easy, I
reckon, and kin spot him before night. We’ll stop on our way back and
get you to identify him if we catch him. What did he look like?”
Alison glanced at Pedro. “He seemed very heavy when we lifted him in.”
Pedro grinned. “No so ’eavy. No larges mans,” he said.
“Oh, I think he was very heavy,” insisted Alison.
“Ole mans,” put in Pedro.
“Oh, no, not so old as you, Pedro; he didn’t look so.”
Pedro shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe is not. Pedro no is so ole. ’E
’ave no so many year as ’e ’ave a looks ole.”
“I reckon that’s about so,” remarked Blythe. “These greasers age mighty
soon. Well, never mind his age, Miss Alison, we’ll follow the trail.”
They were off and the girls despatched Pedro to the performance of the
morning duties while they took up their own tasks. They missed Louisa’s
ready help and the chirruping song with which she enlivened her work,
emphasizing the stirring up of flapjacks, the rolling out of biscuits
or the scouring of a kettle by singing:
“Chirping little cricket
Singing in the thicket,
Chirping do not cease.”
“I certainly do miss the cricket this morning,” said Christine, as she
wrung out the dish-cloth.
Alison smiled and glanced out of the window. “Yes, and I miss seeing
Lou’s blue sunbonnet in the garden patch. Why, Tina, there it comes. It
is Lou, as I live! She’s coming back!”
They flew to the door and beheld Louisa, indeed, plodding up the
road. Seeing the two girls she snatched off her bonnet and waved it.
“I’d know her blessed old red head if I didn’t know her bonnet,” said
Alison. “I must go and meet her.” She ran out into the sunshine. “Oh,
Lou, Lou,” she began before she reached the girl, “we were missing you
so much. How good it is to see you back again. How did it happen that
you came?”
Louisa sat down on the front step and began to fan herself with her
sunbonnet. The day was approaching noon and was warm. She had walked
far and rapidly. “He thought I’d better come back,” she said; “not for
good, but for a little while till this all blows over. I thought I’d
ought to stay and take care of him, but he said he’d an old Mexican
there that was used to doing for him and he’d been worse off. When he
gets better he’ll come for me. I got him safe home. I was afraid he
was going to faint by the way, but he didn’t.”
“Bud and Blythe Van Dorn have gone after him.”
“They won’t catch him. He’s pretty cute and knows how to put ’em off
the track. We went down the road a piece and then we struck off into
the woods till we came to a stream; he walked the horse through that
stream, right down it till we came to another bit of road all trod down
and full of horse’s tracks; he took that till we come to where there
was two roads; then he made me ’light and took off the saddle and hid
it in the bushes; then he gave his horse a cut and sent him galloping
up one of the roads while we took the other and footed it a ways to a
bit of woods; then we crawled through a fence and there we were.”
“What became of the horse?”
“He said somebody would bring him home, and if they didn’t he would
go after him. He’s smart as an Injun, that dad of mine, if he ain’t
much for looks.” Louisa spoke with some pride and it was evident that
she had determined to make the best of it. “No body’ll get him,” she
repeated. “He must have been suffering, too, with that head of his,
but he never stopped going, jest trudged along like a soldier. Said he
reckoned your shot kind of knocked him silly more’n it hurt him. Hero’s
safe here and nobody’ll find any stolen horses on his place even if
they should stop there. ’Tain’t so pretty down there as it is here and
it’s terrible lonely. I reckon I can stand it, though, when I get used
to it. But I am glad to get back and talk it all over with you.”
“And did you walk all the way back?”
Louisa nodded. “Thought it was best. Just followed the road. He told me
how to get here, a short cut. It’s about five miles, I reckon. There,
I’m cooled off, I’ll go in and see about dinner.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Christine. “You’ll just sit there
and rest.”
Late in the afternoon Bud and Blythe, with--whom but Ira Korner?--came
slowly up the road. They had picked up Ira on the way. He had returned
home on a furlough, having been ill, and this was but the second time
he had been out. He kept in the background till Bud had his say, for on
the occasion of his last visit he had gone off in a little huff.
The men found Louisa in a clean frock and apron quietly knitting. “Got
back, did ye?” was Bud’s greeting as he came stamping into the gallery.
“We thought we’d meet up with ye. How far did ye go?”
“Oh, I went a piece down the road and then I came back,” Louisa told
him. “There ain’t no use trying to catch a man on a horse. I’d ought to
have taken Hero and gone after him.”
“So ye might have done--but he’d have got the better of ye, most
likely. A gal, no matter how good her intentions, ain’t no match fer
a full growed man. Well, we trailed him as far as the bayou and there
we lost him. There was a trail further down and we followed that to
the crossroads, but it turned out to be a horse of old Cy Sparks that
got loose somehow and must have gone down to get water. Bill Hatchett
caught him and took him back to Cy. Well, I suppose we’ve seen the last
of John’s horses this trip.”
Louisa knitted on composedly. “Can’t always have luck,” she remarked.
Bud stumped off to find Christine, and Ira sat down on a stump near to
where Louisa had taken her place on the step. “Cy Sparks was makin’ all
sorts of inquiries about you the other day,” he said.
“Was he?” Louisa’s hands trembled and she dropped a stitch.
“Yes, and you said your dad’s name was Cy Sparks, too.”
“So it was.”
“Names runs in families sometimes. Shouldn’t wonder if you’d find out
he’s kin of yours. He’s a queer old dick, Cy is. Folks look at him
suspicious and think he’s up to all sorts of tricks, but nobody ain’t
caught him yet, so I say a good bit of it’s talk. Must have something
to talk about, ye know. Where’s Blythe?”
Louisa jerked her head in the direction of the garden where Alison
stood talking to the young man. “She don’t appear to see you.”
“Humph! that ain’t surprisin’. He’s studyin’ law. Nice boy, but he’s
awful young.”
“Alison ain’t a Methusalem,” returned Louisa.
“No, she ain’t. Young things jest natchelly like to flock together when
spring comes. What ye makin’, Louisa?”
“Jest knittin’ stockin’s. I ain’t one to be idle.”
“No, you ain’t. I took notice to that. You don’t know how many times
when I was down there feedin’ on frijoles and jerked beef I thought of
your cookin’, Louisa, and when I took sick, I swan, if I could hev had
somethin’ you had cooked I believe I’d got right well. I jest y’arned
for a plate of your flapjacks an’ I’m a y’arnin’ yet.”
“Stay to supper an’ you shall have ’em,” said Louisa, rolling up the
stocking she was knitting. Bud and Christine were off to look after
something about the place and Alison was listening to Blythe’s pretty
speeches. He and Neal seemed more like home folks, though both adopted
a certain style of free and easy speech common to the country. Old
Pedro employed himself close by. He did not mean that his charges
should want the influence of his protecting presence, and always stood
guard like a faithful watch-dog. He was puzzled at the escape of the
prisoner, but Hero was safe and it was evident that neither Christine
nor Alison were disposed to investigate further. Indeed, there seemed
no way of their discovering who had stolen the other horses since
their only chance of doing so had vanished with the man who had so
mysteriously broken his bonds and fled. Pedro felt, however, that there
should be a closer watch set and that his young ladies needed a greater
vigilance, for what might they not do after such an attempt at the
offensive as Alison and Louisa had shown?