THE CAGE OPENS
Before Harold's day of freedom came Mary was called home by a telegram
from her father. She longed to see Harold before she left, but she was
too much hurried to seek out Jack, the loyal go-between, and dared not
send a letter by any other hands. She went away without sending him a
word of good-by.
So it happened that the last week of Harold's captivity was spent in
loneliness and bitter sorrow, and even when Jack came he brought very
little information concerning Mary's flight, and Harold was bitter and
accusing.
"Why didn't she write to me? Why didn't she come to see me?"
Jack pleaded for her as well as he was able. "She hadn't time, maybe."
Harold refused to accept this explanation. "If she had cared for me,
she'd have sent me word--she could take time for that."
No letter came in the days which followed, and at last he put her out of
his heart and turned his face to the sunset land which now called to
the sad heart within him with imperious voice. Out there he could forget
all his hurts.
On the morning when the jailer opened the door for him to leave the iron
corridor in which he had spent so many months, his father met him, and
the white face of the boy made the father's heart contract. Harold's
cheeks were plump and boyish, but there was a look in his face which
made him seem a youth of twenty.
The family stood in the jailer's parlor to receive him, and he submitted
to their caresses with cold dignity. His manner plainly expressed this
feeling: "You are all strangers to me." But he turned to Jack and
gripped his hand hard. "Now for the plains!"
Side by side the father and son passed out into the sunshine. The boy
drew an audible breath, as if in sudden, keen pain. Around him lay the
bare, brown earth of March. The sun was warm and a subtle odor of lately
uncovered sward was in the air. The wind, soft, warm, and steady, blew
from the west. Here and there a patch of grass, faintly green, showed
where sullen snow banks had lately lain. And the sky! Filled with clouds
almost as fleecy and as white as June, the sky covered him, and when he
raised his eyes to it he saw a triangular flock of geese sweeping to
the northwest, serene and apparently effortless.
He could not speak--did not wish to hear any speech but that of Nature,
and the father seemed to comprehend his son's mood, for he, too, walked
in silence.
The people of the village knew that Harold was to return to freedom that
day, and with one excuse or another they came to the doors to see him
pass. Some of them were genuinely sympathetic, and bowed and smiled,
intending to say, "Let by-gones be by-gones," but to their greetings
Harold remained blankly unresponsive. Jack would gladly have walked with
Harold, but out of consideration for the father fell into step behind.
The girls--some of them--had the grace to weep when they saw Harold's
sad face. Others tittered and said: "Ain't he awful pale." For the most
part, the citizens considered his punishment sufficient, and were
disposed to give him another chance. To them, Harold, by his manner,
intended to reply: "I don't want any favors. I won't accept any chance
from you. I despise you and I don't want to see you again."
He looked upon the earth and the sky rather than upon the faces of his
fellows. His natural love of Nature had been intensified by his
captivity, while a bitter contempt and suspicion of all men and women
had grown up in his mind. He entered his father's house with reluctance
and loathing.
The day was one of preparation. Jack had carried out, so far as he well
could, the captive's wishes. His gun, his clothing, and his valise were
ready for him, and Mrs. Excell had washed and ironed all his linen with
scrupulous care. His sister Maud had made a little "housewife" for him,
and filled it with buttons and needles and thread, a gift he did not
value, even from her.
"I'm going out West to herd cattle, not to cobble trousers," he said
contemptuously.
Jack had a report to make. "Harry, I've found a chance for you," he said
when they were alone. "There was a man moving to Colorado here on
Saturday. He said he could use you, but of course I had to tell him you
couldn't go for a few days. He's just about to Roseville now. I'll tell
you what you do. You get on the train and go to Roseville--I'll let you
have the money--and you strike him when he comes through. His name is
Pratt. He's a tall old chap, talks queer. Of course he may have a hand
now, but anyway you must get out o' here. He wouldn't take you if he
knew you'd been in jail."
"Aren't you going?" asked Harold sharply.
Jack looked uneasy. "Not now, Harry. You see, I want to graduate, I'm so
near through. It wouldn't do to quit now. I'll stay till fall. I'll get
to Uncle John's place about the time you do."
Harold said no more, but his face darkened with disappointment.
The call to dinner brought them all together once more, and the
minister's grace became a short prayer for the safety of his son, broken
again and again by the weakness of his own voice and by the sobs of Maud
and Mrs. Excell. Harold sat with rigid face, fixed in a frown. The meal
proceeded in sad silence, for each member of the family felt that Harold
was leaving them never to return.
Jack's plan was determined upon, and after dinner he went to hitch up
his horse to take Harry out to the farm. The family sat in painful
suspense for a few moments after Jack went out, and then Mr. Excell
said:
"My son, we have never been friends, and the time is past when I can
expect to win your love and confidence, but I hope you will not go away
with any bitterness in your heart toward me." He waited a moment for his
son to speak, but Harold continued silent, which again confused and
pained the father, but he went on: "In proof of what I say I want to
offer you some money to buy a horse and saddle when you need them."
"I don't need any money," said Harold, a little touched by the affection
in his father's voice. "I can earn all the money I need."
"Perhaps so, but a little money might be useful at the start. You will
need a horse if you herd cattle."
"I'll get my own horse--you'll need all you can earn," said Harold in
reply.
Mr. Excell's tone changed. "What makes you say that, Harold? What do you
mean?"
"Oh, I didn't mean anything in particular."
"Have you heard of the faction which is growing up in the church against
me?"
Harold hesitated. "Yes--but I wasn't thinking of that particularly." He
betrayed a little interest. "What's the matter with 'em?"
"There has been an element in the church hostile to me from the first,
and during your trial and sentence these persons have used every effort
to spread a feeling against me. How wide it is I can not tell, but I
know it is strong. It may end my work here, for I will not cringe to
them. They will find me iron."
Harold's heart warmed suddenly. Without knowing it the father had again
struck the right note to win his son. "That's right," the boy said,
"don't let 'em tramp on you."
A lump arose in the minister's throat. There was something very sweet in
Harold's sympathy. His eyes smiled, even while they were dim with tears.
He held out his hand and Harold took it.
"Well, now, my son, it's time for you to start. Don't you worry about
me. I am a fighter when I am aroused."
Harold smiled back into his face, and so it was that the two men parted,
for the father, in a flash of insight, understood that no more than this
could be gained; but his heart was lighter than it had been for many
months as he saw his son ride away from his door.
"Write often, Harold," he called after them.
"All right. You let me know how the fight comes out. If they whip you,
come out West," was Harold's reply; then he turned in his seat. "Drive
ahead, Jack; there's no one now but your folks for whom I care."
As they drove out along the muddy lanes the hearts of the two boys
became very tender. Harold, filled with exaltation by every familiar
thing--by the flights of ground sparrows, by the patches of green grass,
by the smell of the wind, by the infrequent boom of the prairie
chickens--talked incessantly.
"What makes me maddest," he broke out, "is to think they've cheated me
out of seeing one fall and one winter. I didn't see the geese fly
south, and now here they are all going north again. Some time I mean to
find out where they go to." He took off his hat. "This wind will mighty
soon take the white out o' me, won't it?" He was very gay. He slapped
his chum on the shoulder and shouted with excitement. "We must keep
going, old man, till we strike the buffalo. They are the sign of wild
country that _is_ wild. I want to get where there ain't any fences."
Jack smiled sadly in reply. Harold knew he listened and so talked on. "I
must work up a big case of sunburn before I strike Mr. Pratt for a job.
Did he have extra horses?"
"'Bout a dozen. His girl was driving the cattle, but he said----"
"Girl? What kind of a girl?"
"Oh, a kind of a tomboy, freckled--chews gum and says 'darn it!' That
kind of a girl."
Harold's face darkened. "I don't like the idea of that girl. She might
have heard something, and then it would go hard with me."
"Don't you worry. The Pratts ain't the kind of people that read
newspapers; they didn't stop here but a day, anyhow."
The sight of Mr. Burns and his wife at the gate moved Harold deeply.
Mrs. Burns came hurrying out: "You blessed boy! Get right down and let
me hug you," and as he leaped down she put her arms around him as if he
were her own son, and Harold's eyes smarted with tears.
"I declare," said Mr. Burns, "you look like a fightin' cock; must feed
you well down there?"
No note of doubt, hesitation, concealment, or shame was in their
greetings and the boy knew it. They all sat around the kitchen, and
chatted and laughed as if no ill thing had ever happened to him. Burns
uttered the only doubtful word when he said: "I don't know about this
running away from things here. I'd be inclined to stay here and fight it
out."
"But it isn't running away, Dad," said Jack. "Harry has always wanted to
go West and now is the first time he has really had the chance."
"That's so," admitted the father. "Still, I'm sorry to see him look like
he was running away."
Mrs. Burns was determined to feed Harry into complete torpor. She put up
enough food in a basket to last him to San Francisco at the shortest.
Even when the boys had entered the buggy she ordered them to wait while
she brought out some sweet melon pickles in a jar to add to the
collection.
"Well, now, good-by," said Harold, reaching down his hand to Mrs.
Burns, who seized it in both hers.
"You poor thing, don't let the Indians scalp ye."
"No danger o' that," he called back.
"Be good to yourself," shouted Burns, and the buggy rolled through the
gate into the west as the red sun was setting and the prairie cocks were
crowing.
The boys talked their plans all over again while the strong young horse
spattered through the mud. Slowly the night fell, and as they rode under
the branches of the oaks, Jack took courage to say:
"I wish Miss Yardwell had been here, Harry."
"It's no use talking about her; she don't care two straws for me; if she
had she would have written to me, at least."
"Her mother may have been dying."
"Even that needn't keep her from letting me know or sending some word.
She didn't care for me--she was just trying to convert me."
"She wasn't the kind of a girl who flirts. By jinks! You should see her
look right through the boys that used to try to walk home with her after
prayer meeting. They never tried it a second time. She's a wonder that
way. One strange thing about her, she never acts like other girls. You
know what I mean? She's different. She's going to be a singer, and
travel around giving concerts--she told me so once."
Harold was disposed to be fair. "I don't want anybody to feel sorry for
me. I suppose she felt that way, and tried to help me." Here he paused
and his voice changed. "But when I'm a cattle king out West and can buy
her the best home in Des Moines--maybe she won't pity me so much.
Anyhow, there's nothing left for me but to emigrate. There's no use
stayin' around here. Out there is the place for me now."
Jack put Harold down at the station and turned over to him all the money
he had in the world. Harold took it, saying:
"Now you'll get this back with interest, old man. I need it now, but I
won't six months from now. I'm going to strike a job before long--don't
you worry."
Their good-by was awkward and constrained, and Harold felt the parting
more keenly than he dared to show. Jack rode away crying--a brother
could not have been more troubled. It seemed that the bitterness of
death was in this good-by.