For many minutes there had been no sound but the monotonous drumming of
the rain on the roof of the coach, the swishing of wheels through the
gravelly mud, and the momentary clatter of hoofs upon some rocky outcrop
in the road. Conversation had ceased; the light-hearted young editor in
the front seat, more than suspected of dangerous levity, had relapsed
into silence since the heavy man in the middle seat had taken to
regarding the ceiling with ostentatious resignation, and the thin female
beside him had averted her respectable bonnet. An occasional lurch of
the coach brought down a fringe of raindrops from its eaves that filmed
the windows and shut out the sodden prospect already darkening into
night. There had been a momentary relief in their hurried dash through
Summit Springs, and the spectacle of certain newly arrived County
Delegates crowding the veranda of its one hotel; but that was now three
miles behind. The young editor's sole resource was to occasionally steal
a glance at the face of the one passenger who seemed to be in sympathy
with him, but who was too far away for easy conversation. It was the
half-amused, half-perplexed face of a young man who had been for
some time regarding him from a remote corner of the coach with an odd
mingling of admiring yet cogitating interest, which, however, had never
extended to any further encouragement than a faint sad smile. Even this
at last faded out in the growing darkness; the powerful coach lamps on
either side that flashed on the wayside objects gave no light to the
interior. Everybody was slowly falling asleep. Suddenly everybody woke
up to find that the coach was apparently standing still! When it had
stopped no one knew! The young editor lowered his window. The coach lamp
on that side was missing, but nothing was to be seen. In the distance
there appeared to be a faint splashing.
“Well,” called out an impatient voice from the box above; “what do you
make it?” It was the authoritative accents of Yuba Bill, the driver, and
everybody listened eagerly for the reply.
It came faintly from the distance and the splashing. “Almost four feet
here, and deepening as you go.”
“Dead water?”
“No--back water from the Fork.”
There was a general movement towards the doors and windows. The
splashing came nearer. Then a light flashed on the trees, the windows,
and--two feet of yellow water peacefully flowing beneath them! The thin
female gave a slight scream.
“There's no danger,” said the Expressman, now wading towards them with
the coach lamp in his hand. “But we'll have to pull round out of it and
go back to the Springs. There's no getting past this break to-night.”
“Why didn't you let us know this before,” said the heavy man indignantly
from the window.
“Jim,” said the driver with that slow deliberation which instantly
enforced complete attention.
“Yes, Bill.”
“Have you got a spare copy of that reg'lar bulletin that the Stage
Kempany issoos every ten minutes to each passenger to tell 'em where we
are, how far it is to the next place, and wots the state o' the weather
gin'rally?”
“No!” said the Expressman grimly, as he climbed to the box, “there's not
one left. Why?”
“Cos the Emperor of Chiny's inside wantin' one! Hoop! Keep your seats
down there! G'lang!” the whip cracked, there was a desperate splashing,
a backward and forward jolting of the coach, the glistening wet flanks
and tossing heads of the leaders seen for a moment opposite the windows,
a sickening swirl of the whole body of the vehicle as if parting from
its axles, a long straight dragging pull, and--presently the welcome
sound of hoofs once more beating the firmer ground.
“Hi! Hold up--driver!”
It was the editor's quiet friend who was leaning from the window.
“Isn't Wilkes's ranch just off here?”
“Yes, half a mile along the ridge, I reckon,” returned the driver
shortly.
“Well, if you're not going on to-night, I'd get off and stop there.”
“I reckon your head's level, stranger,” said Bill approvingly; “for
they're about chock full at the Springs' House.”
To descend, the passenger was obliged to pass out by the middle seat
and before the young editor. As he did so he cast a shy look on him and,
leaning over, said hesitatingly, in a lower voice: “I don't think you
will be able to get in at the Springs Hotel. If--if--you care to come
with me to--to--the ranch, I can take care of you.”
The young editor--a man of action--paused for an instant only. Then
seizing his bag, he said promptly: “Thank you,” and followed his
newly-found friend to the ground. The whip cracked, the coach rolled
away.
“You know Wilkes?” he said.
“Ye-ee-s. He's my father.”
“Ah,” said the editor cheerfully, “then you're going home?”
“Yes.”
It was quite light in the open, and the stranger, after a moment's
survey of the prospect,--a survey that, however, seemed to be
characterized by his previous hesitation,--said: “This way,” crossed
the road, and began to follow a quite plain but long disused wagon track
along the slope. His manner was still so embarrassed that the young
editor, after gayly repeating his thanks for his companion's thoughtful
courtesy, followed him in silence. At the end of ten minutes they had
reached some cultivated fields and orchards; the stranger brightened,
although still with a preoccupied air, quickened his pace, and then
suddenly stopped. When the editor reached his side he was gazing with
apparently still greater perplexity upon the level, half obliterated,
and blackened foundations of what had been a large farmhouse.
“Why, it's been burnt down!” he said thoughtfully.
The editor stared at him! Burnt down it certainly had been, but by no
means recently. Grasses were already springing up from the charred
beams in the cellar, vines were trailing over the fallen chimneys,
excavations, already old, had been made among the ruins. “When were you
here last?” the editor asked abruptly.
“Five years ago,” said the stranger abstractedly.
“Five years!--and you knew nothing of THIS?”
“No. I was in Tahiti, Australia, Japan, and China all the time.”
“And you never heard from home?”
“No. You see I quo'led with the old man, and ran away.”
“And you didn't write to tell them you were coming?”
“No.” He hesitated, and then added: “Never thought o' coming till I saw
YOU.”
“Me!”
“Yes; you and--the high water.”
“Do you mean to say,” said the young editor sharply, “that you brought
ME--an utter stranger to you--out of that coach to claim the hospitality
of a father you had quarreled with--hadn't seen for five years and
didn't know if he would receive you?”
“Yes,--you see that's just WHY I did it. You see, I reckoned my chances
would be better to see him along with a cheerful, chipper fellow
like you. I didn't, of course, kalkilate on this,” he added, pointing
dejectedly to the ruins.
The editor gasped; then a sudden conception of the unrivaled absurdity
of the situation flashed upon him,--of his passively following the
amiable idiot at his side in order to contemplate, by the falling rain
and lonely night, a heap of sodden ruins, while the coach was speeding
to Summit Springs and shelter, and, above all, the reason WHY he was
invited,--until, putting down his bag, he leaned upon his stick, and
laughed until the tears came to his eyes.
At which his companion visibly brightened. “I told you so,” he said
cheerfully; “I knew you'd be able to take it--and the old man--in THAT
WAY, and that would have fetched him round.”
“For Heaven's sake! don't talk any more,” said the editor, wiping his
eyes, “but try to remember if you ever had any neighbors about here
where we can stay tonight. We can't walk to Summit Springs, and we can't
camp out on these ruins.”
“There didn't use to be anybody nearer than the Springs.”
“But that was five years ago, you say,” said the editor impatiently;
“and although your father probably moved away after the house burned
down, the country's been thickly settled since then. That field has been
lately planted. There must be another house beyond. Let's follow the
trail a little farther.”
They tramped along in silence, this time the editor leading. Presently
he stopped. “There's a house--in there--among the trees,” he said,
pointing. “Whose is it?”
The stranger shook his head dubiously. Although apparently unaffected by
any sentimental consideration of his father's misfortune, the spectacle
of the blackened ruins of the homestead had evidently shaken his
preconceived plans. “It wasn't there in MY time,” he said musingly.
“But it IS there in OUR time,” responded the editor briskly, “and I
propose to go there. From what you have told me of your father--even if
his house were still standing--our chances of getting supper and a bed
from him would be doubtful! I suppose,” he continued as they moved on
together, “you left him in anger--five years ago?”
“Ye-es.”
“Did he say anything as you left?”
“I don't remember anything particular that he SAID.”
“Well, what did he DO?”
“Shot at me from the window!”
“Ah!” said the young editor softly. Nevertheless they walked on for some
time in silence. Gradually a white picket fence came into view at right
angles with the trail, and a man appeared walking leisurely along what
seemed to be the regularly traveled road, beside it. The editor, who had
taken matters in his own hands, without speaking to his companion, ran
quickly forward and accosted the stranger, briefly stating that he had
left the stage-coach with a companion, because it was stopped by high
water, and asked, without entering into further details, to be directed
to some place where they could pass the night. The man quite as briefly
directed him to the house among the trees, which he said was his own,
and then leisurely pursued his way along the road. The young editor
ran back to his companion, who had halted in the dripping shadow of a
sycamore, and recounted his good fortune.
“I didn't,” he added, “say anything about your father. You can make
inquiries yourself later.”
“I reckon there won't be much need of that,” returned his companion.
“You didn't take much note o' that man, did you?”
“Not much,” said the editor.
“Well, THAT'S MY FATHER, and I reckon that new house must be his.”