THE WIDOW'S MITE
"I see ye from the windy," said the old woman, "an' I sez, quick as
winkin', there goes the sheriff a-lookin' for whoever shot Amos
Hammond, sez I. So I lights out an' takes a short cut an' tops the
fences like a breechy steer, an' here I be."
"How's that?" exclaimed old Hercules. "Someone shoot Amos Hammond?"
"Aye, he got a pepperin' with partridge shot," returned Widow Wilson
brightly. "But I wisht it had been buckshot," she added, yet more
brightly.
"Ye're right, Mrs. Wilson," said the sheriff. "An' I may's well be
open an' above-board about it in this company, now's ye've mentioned
it. Amos Hammond ain't hurt serious, but he's most scart to death,
an' he charges James Todhunter with the shootin'."
"What's that?" cried old Hercules. "Amos Hammond's a liar an' a
fool! Jim shoot a man? Only a liar would say it an' only a fool
would believe it! I know that lad. We all know 'im in this house.
Ye're barkin' up the wrong tree, Sheriff. Ain't I right, Flora?"
But Flora didn't answer. She sat with bowed head and averted face.
Her hands were clasped in her lap, and the knuckles were white as
ivory.
"Reckon yer right this time," said old Archie McKim. "Right in part,
anyhow. Jim's quality. If he was desperate enough to shoot a man
he'd use a bullet an' have a proper duel. He ain't the kind to pump
no partridge shot into any man."
"Aye, that's right," said Widow Wilson, with her clear, smiling
glance still upon the long arm of the law. "That young gentleman
didn't shoot Amos Hammond. It was me shot 'im. An' who's got a
better right to shoot that flinty-hearted weasel, I'd like to know?
Ye didn't reckon the poor old widdy woman had the spunk to up an'
fire off a gun, did ye now? I borrowed the ca'tridges from the young
gentleman--I know a gentleman when I see 'im, an' always did--an'
told 'im how I was huntin' rabbits. So he driv off to the village
an' I waited round in the woods an' kep' an eye on the road, for I
knew Amos Hammond was up-river at his dirty work. I waited till he
come drivin' down the road, an' then I see the young gentleman
a-drivin' home. Hammond, he pulls up fair in the middle of the track
an' starts right in sassin' the lad an' miscallin' this house. Out
hops Mr. Todhunter an' jerks Amos Hammond down from his seat an'
slaps his face an' drags 'im round an' scrudges his face in the snow
an' then heaves 'im up into the sleigh again. Then he jumps into his
pung an' drives off up the glen. 'That's good,' sez I to meself,
'but it ain't enough. There be more a-comin' to 'im, even afore he's
smit by the wrath o' God. He's been cheatin' an' lyin' an'
slanderin' an' persecutin' all these years,' sez I to meself--an' so
I ups an' shoots a shoot into his dirty carcass."
"_You_ did it?" cried Flora, turning a bloodless face and stricken
eyes upon the old woman.
"Sure I done it; an' I wisht it was buckshot," replied the brisk old
dame.
The girl got out of her chair clumsily, crossed the kitchen with
bowed head and vanished up the back stairs. The others gazed after
her, some anxiously, all inquiringly.
"She needn't feel that bad for me," said Mrs. Wilson. "It's real
sweet of her, bless her heart, but I ain't worryin'."
"Ain't ye tryin' to play a joke on us, ma'am?" asked the sheriff.
"The joke was on Amos Hammond, if it was a joke," replied the widow
cheerily.
"Maybe ye've imagined it all in yer own mind, ma'am."
"In my own mind? It would have been buckshot, an' he'd be dead now,
if that was the way of it!"
"Ye ain't yerself to-day, ma'am. Yer troubles have got onto yer
brain. Yer thoughts have got the better of yer judgment, so to
speak."
"What d'ye mean by that, Bruce Hart? Be ye tryin' to make me out a
loony? Well, ye best quit right now! My troubles have nigh broke my
heart, but my mind's as good as ever it was an' I know what I'm
about. Take me along to Amos Hammond, an' ye'll soon see whether I
be cracked or sane. I'll tell 'im how it was me who shot 'im, an'
why; an' if he puts the law onto me, then I'll tell the jedge why I
done it. But he won't put the law onto me, never fear! Where'd he
be then, him an' his psalm-singin', if I was to git up in front of a
jedge an' jury an' tell all I know about 'im? All ye got to do's
take me to 'im an' see if he dare make a charge agin me. Do ye
dooty, Sheriff!"
Old Hercules began to chuckle and slap his knee.
"She be right," he exclaimed. "Dead right. She knows what she's
about; an' she knowed what she was about when she pulled the trigger.
She got Amos Hammond by the short hair, whatever way ye take it!
Fetch her back here as soon's she's had her little say to Amos.
There be a plate an' a chair an' a bed for her under this roof as
long as she wants to use 'em."
Twenty minutes later, the sheriff and the cheerful widow drove
amiably off together. Ten minutes after that, Flora left the house,
stealthily by way of the seldom-used front door. She carried a pack
and a shotgun and snowshoes, and was clothed for both warmth and
action. She made a cautious detour of the farmstead before pausing
to slip her feet into the toe-straps of the snowshoes and tie the
leather thongs. The two dogs came leaping and yelping about her;
and, after a moment's hesitation, she decided to let them accompany
her. Then she and the enthusiastic dogs struck westward in Jim
Todhunter's tracks. A light drift of snow had obliterated the tracks
in open places, but in the lee of thickets and in the woods they were
deep and plain.
Flora carried food, blankets, and a belt ax in her pack. She
traveled at a good pace for half an hour, after which the weight of
the pack began to tell on her, but she held anxiously on her way.
The sun went down behind the black forests of the west, and a rind of
new moon and many white stars did their best to replace it; and the
girl hoisted the pack higher and continued to advance. Soon after
the setting of the sun, a wind started up and set the dry snow
running in open places and awoke many weird voices among the harsh
spires of the spruces and in the crowns of tall pines. Flora was
glad that she had allowed the dogs to come along with her. The dogs
ceased their hunting of rabbits to right and left after the sun went
down and kept to the trail of Jim's snowshoes. The trail was all in
the forest now, under shaking branches, in a whispering gloom pierced
here and there by a rift of pale shine.
Flora was not accustomed to carrying a pack and she had to drop it at
last. She made a shelter in the heart of a thicket of young firs,
built a good fire, cut small boughs for her bed, fed the dogs, ate
her own cold supper and rolled herself in three double blankets. But
several hours passed before sleep came to her. It was her first
night in the woods and, warm as she was, she shivered continually,
and a creeping chill played on the nape of her neck at every rush and
whisper and sly footfall of wind and wood and frosty snow. But her
conscience disturbed her even more than her fears. At last she fell
asleep, with a big dog curled on either side.
It was close upon supper time when Mrs. Ducat went to Flora's room
and discovered her absence. A note on the dressing table said:
"I have gone to look for Jim. Don't worry."
The grandfathers toddled forth and took a look around by
lantern-light but the tracks of the snowshoes were already drifted
full. They agreed that both Jim and the girl had gone north and
that, as they had plenty of grub, there was nothing to worry about.