While the days were passing and Mary-Clare and Northrup, with the book
between them as a shield, fought their battle and won their victory,
they had taken small heed of the undercurrent that was not merely
carrying them on, but bearing others, also.
Northrup was comfortably conscious of Aunt Polly and old Peter, at the
days' ends. The sense of going home to them was distinctly a joy, a
fitting and safe interlude.
Noreen and Jan-an supplied the light-comedy touch, for the two were
capable of supplying no end of fun when there were hours that could
not be utilized in work or devoted to that thrilling occupation of
walking the trails with Mary-Clare.
The real, sordid tragedy element played small part in the autumn idyl,
but it was developing none the less.
Larry on the Point was showing more patient persistence than one could
have expected. He went about Maclin's business with his usual
reticence and devotion; occasionally he was away for a few days; when
he was at home in Peneluna's shack he was a quiet, rather pathetic
figure of a man at loose ends, but casting no slurs. It was that
pacific attitude of his that got on the nerves of his doubters and
those who believed they understood him.
Peneluna, torn between her loyalty to Mary-Clare and the decency she
felt called upon to show the old doctor's son, was becoming irritable
and jerky. Jan-an shrank from her and whimpered:
"What have I done? Ain't I fetching and carrying for him?"--she nodded
heavily toward Larry's abiding place. "Ain't I watching and telling
yer all that he does? Writing and tearing up what he writes! Ain't I
showing you his scraps what don't get burned? Ain't I acting square?"
Peneluna softened.
"Yes, you are!" she admitted. "But I declare, after finding nothing
agin him, one gets to wondering if there _is_ anything agin him. I
don't like suspecting my feller creatures."
"Suspectin' ain't like murdering!" Jan-an blurted out.
"If you don't stop talking like that, Jan-an----" But Peneluna paused,
for she saw the frightened look creeping into Jan-an's dull eyes.
It was while the Point was agitated about Larry that Twombley brought
forth his gun and took to cleaning it and fondling it by his doorway.
This action of Twombley's fascinated Jan-an.
"What yer going to shoot?" she asked.
"Ducks, maybe." Twombley leered pleasantly.
"I wish yer wouldn't."
"Why, Jan-an?"
"Ducks ain't so used to it as chickens. I hate to see flying things as
_can_ fly popped over."
At this Twombley laughed aloud.
"All right, girl, I'll hunt up something else to aim at--something
that's used to it. I ain't saying I'll hit anything, but aimin' and
finding out how steady yer hand is ain't lacking in sport."
So Twombley erected a target and enlivened and startled the Point by
his practise. Maclin, after a few weeks of absence from the Point,
called occasionally on his private agent and he was displeased by
Twombley's new amusement.
"What in thunder are you up to?" he asked.
"Not much--yet!" Twombley admitted. "Don't hit the hole more than once
out of four."
"But the noise is bad for folks, Twombley."
"They like it," Twombley broke in. "Makes 'em jump and know they're
alive. It's like fleas on dogs."
"When I'm talking business with Rivers," Twombley insisted, "I hate
the racket."
"All right, when I see you there, I'll hold off."
But Maclin did not want always to be seen at the shack. It was one
thing to stroll down to the Point, now and again, with that air of
having made mistakes in the past and greeting the Pointers pleasantly,
and quite another to find out, secretly, just what progress Larry was
making in his interests and knowing what Larry was doing with his long
days and nights.
So, after a fortnight of consideration, Maclin walked with Rivers from
the mines one night determined to spend several hours in the shack and
"use his eyes." Larry did not seem particularly pleased with this
intention and paused several times on the rough, dusky road, giving
Maclin an opportunity to bid him good-night. But Maclin stuck like the
little brown devil-pitchforks that decorated the trousers of both men
as they strode on the woodside of the road.
"I'm like a rat in a hole," Larry confided, despairing of shaking
Maclin off. "I wish to God you'd send me away somewhere--overseas, if
you can. You once promised that."
Maclin's eyes contracted, but it was too dark for Rivers to notice.
"Too late, just now, Rivers. That hell of a time they're having over
there keeps peaceful folks to their own waters."
"Sometimes"--Larry grew moody--"I've thought I'd like to tumble into
that mess and either----"
"What?" Abruptly Maclin caught Rivers up.
"Oh! go under or--come to the top." This was to laugh--so both men
laughed.
Laughing and talking in undertones, they came to the dark shack and
Larry, irritated at his inability to drop Maclin, unlocked the door
and went in, followed by his unwelcome guest.
"What in thunder do you lock this old rookery up for?" Maclin asked,
stumbling over a chair.
"I've got a notion lately that folks peep and pry. I've seen
footprints around the house."
"Well, why shouldn't they pry and tramp about? The Point's getting
dippy. And that blasted gun of Twombley's! See here, Rivers!"
By this time Larry had lighted the smelly lamp and closed the door and
locked it.
"You're getting nervous and twisted, Rivers."
The two sat down by the paper-strewn table.
"Well, who wouldn't?" snapped Rivers. "Hiding in this junk,
knowing that your wife----" he paused abruptly, but Maclin nodded
sympathetically. "It's hell, Maclin."
"Sure! Got anything to drink?"
Larry went to the closet and brought out a bottle and glasses.
"This helps!" Maclin said, pouring out the best brand from the Cosey.
The men drained their glasses and became, after a few minutes, more
cheerful. Maclin stretched out his legs--he had to do this in order to
adjust his fat and put his hands in his pockets.
"Larry, I want to tell you that you won't have to hide in your hole
much longer. I'm one too many for that fellow Northrup. I hold the
cards now."
"The devil you do!" Rivers's eyes brightened.
"Yes, sir. He wants the Point, old man, and the Heathcotes gave him
the knowledge that your wife owns it. He's getting her where he can
handle her. Damn shame, I say--using a woman and taking advantage of
her weak side. If we don't act spry he'll get what he wants."
Larry's face flushed a purple-red.
"What do you mean, Maclin? Talk out straight and clear."
"Well, I weigh it this way and that. Northrup might--I hate to use
brutal terms--he might compromise your wife and get her to sell and
shut him up, or he might get her so bedazzled that she'd feel real set
up to negotiate with him. A man like Northrup is pretty flattering to
a woman like your wife, Rivers. You see, she's carrying such a big
cargo of learning and fancy rot that she can't properly sail. That
kind gets stranded _always_, Larry. They just naturally _make_ for
rocks."
Larry had a sensation of choking and loosened his collar, then he
surprised Maclin by turning and lighting a fire in the stove before he
further surprised him by asking, with dangerous calmness:
"What in all that's holy do you--this Northrup--any one, want this
damned Point for?"
Maclin was rarely in a position to fence with Rivers, but he was now.
"Larry, old man, did you ever have in your life an ideal, or what
stands for it, that you would work for, and suffer for?"
"No!" Rivers could not stand delay.
"Well, I have, Larry. I'm an old sentimentalist, when you know me
proper. I took a fancy to you, and while I can't show my feelings as
many can, I have stood by you and you've been a proposition, off and
on. I bought those mines because I saw the chance they offered, and I
shared with you. I've got big men interested. I've let you carry
results to them--but the results are slow, Rivers, and they're getting
restive. I'm afraid some one of them has blabbed and this Northrup is
the result. Why, man, I've got inventions over at the mines that will
revolutionize this rotten, lazy Forest. I wanted to win the folks--but
they wouldn't be won. I wanted to save them in spite of themselves,
but damn 'em, they won't be saved. In a year I could make Heathcote a
rich man, if he'd wake up and _keep_ an inn instead of a kennel. But
I've got to have this Point. I want to build a bridge from here to the
railroad property on the other shore--this is the narrowest part of
the lake; I want to build cottages here, instead of--of rat holes.
I've got to get this Point by hook or crook--and I can't shilly-shally
with this Northrup on to the game."
Suddenly, while he was talking, Maclin's eyes fell upon the untidy
mass of papers on the table. He pulled his fat hands out of his tight
pockets and let them fall like paperweights on the envelopes and
sheets.
"What are these?" he asked.
Larry started guiltily.
"Old letters," he said.
"What you doing with them?" As he spoke Maclin was sorting and
arranging the papers--the old he put to one side; the newer ones on
the other. Some of the new ones were astonishingly good copies of the
old!
"Playing the old game, eh?" Maclin scowled. "I thought you'd had
enough of that, after----"
"For God's sake, Maclin, shut up."
"Been carrying these mementos around with you all these years?"
Maclin was reading a letter of Larry's father--an old one.
"No, I brought them with me from the old house. Mary-Clare had them,
but they were mine." Larry's face was white and set into hard lines.
"Sure, so I see." And Maclin was seeing a great deal.
He saw that Rivers had torn off, where it was possible, half pages
from the old and yellowed letters; these were carefully banded
together, while on fresh sheets of paper, the old letters in part, or
in whole, were cleverly copied.
There was one yellowed half sheet in the old doctor's handwriting
bearing a new form of expression--there was no original of this.
Maclin made sure of that. He read this new form once, twice, three
times.
"If the time should ever come, my girl, when you and Larry could not
agree, he'll give you this letter. It is all I could do for him; it
will prove that I trust you, at every turn, to do the right and just
thing. Stand by Larry, as I have done."
Maclin puffed out his cheeks. They looked like a child's red balloon.
"What in hell!" he ejaculated.
Larry's face was gray. Guilt is always quick to hold up its hands when
it thinks the enemy has the drop on it.
"Can't you understand?" he whispered through dry lips. "I want to
outwit them. I'm as keen as you, Maclin, and I'm working for you, old
man, working for you! I was going to take this to her--she'll do
anything when she reads that--and I was going to tell her why the old
man stood by me. That would shut her mouth and make her pay."
There is in the shield of every man a weak spot. There was one in the
shield of Maclin's brutal villainy. For a moment he felt positively
virtuous; perhaps the sensation proved the embryo virtue in all.
"Are any of these things real?" he asked with a rough catch in his
voice; "and don't lie to me--it wouldn't be healthy."
"No."
"You got your wife by letting her think your old father wanted it,
wrote about it?"
"Yes. I had to outwit them some way. I was just free and couldn't
choose. They had no right to cut me out."
"Well, by God, you _are_ a rotter, Rivers." The lines at which
criminals balk are confusing. "And she never guessed?"
"No, she'd never seen Father's writing in letters."
Then Maclin's outraged virtue took a curious turn.
"And you never cared for her after you got her?"
"I might have if she'd been the right sort--but she's as hard as flint,
Maclin. A man can't stand her sort and keep his own self-respect."
Maclin indulged in a weak laugh at this and Larry's face burned.
"I might have gone straight if she'd been square, but she wasn't. A
man can't put up with her type. And now--well! She ought to pay now."
Maclin was gripping the loose sheets in his fat, greasy hands.
"Hold on there." Larry pointed. "You're getting them creased and
dirty!"
Again Maclin laughed.
"I'll leave enough copy," he muttered. Then he fixed his little eyes
on his prey while his fat neck wrinkled in the back. His emotion of
virtue flickered and died, he was the alert man of business once more.
"I told you after you got out of prison, Rivers, that I'd never stand
for any more of that counterfeiting stuff. It's too risky, and the
talent can be put to better purpose. I've stood by you, I like you,
and I need you. When we all pony up you'll get your share--I mean when
we build up the Forest, you'll have a fat berth, but you've got to
play a card now for me and play it damn quick. Here, take this gem of
yours"--he tossed Larry's latest production to him--"and go to your
wife to-morrow, and tell her why your old man stood by you; shut her
mouth with that choice bit and then tell her--you want the Point!
You've got her cornered, Rivers. She can't escape. If she tries to,
hurl Northrup at her."
Larry wiped his lips with his hot hand.
"I haven't quite finished this," he muttered; "it will take a day or
two."
"Rivers, if you try any funny work on me----" Maclin looked dangerous.
He felt the fear that comes from not trusting those he must use.
"I'm not going to double-cross you, Maclin."
"Here, take a nifter." Maclin pushed the bottle toward Rivers. "You
look all in," he ventured.
"I am, just about."
"Well, after this piece of business, I'll send you off for as long as
you want to stay. You need a change."
Larry revived after a moment or two and some colour crept into his
cheeks.
"I'm going now," Maclin said, getting up and releasing the tools of
Larry's trade. "Better get a good night's rest and be fresh for
to-morrow. A day or so won't count, so long as we understand the game.
Good-night!"
Outside in the darkness Maclin stood still and listened. His iron
nerves were shaken and he had his moment of far vision. If he
succeeded--well! at that thought Maclin felt his blood run riotously
in his veins. Glory! Glory! His name ringing out into fame.
But!--the cold sweat broke over the fat man standing in the dark.
Still, he would not have been the man he was if he permitted doubt to
linger. He _must_ succeed. Right was back of him; with him. Unyielding
Right. It must succeed.
Maclin strode on, picking his way over the ash heaps and broken
bottles. A pale moon was trying to make itself evident, but piles of
black clouds defeated it at every attempt. The wind was changing.
From afar the chapel bell struck its warning. It rang wildly,
gleefully, then sank into silence only to begin once more. Seeking,
seeking a quarter in which it might rest.
Maclin, head down, plunged into the night and reached the road to the
mines. He saw to it that the road was so bad that no one would use it
except from necessity, but he cursed it now. He all but fell several
times, he thanked God--God indeed!--when the lights of the Cosey Bar
came in sight.
He did not often drink of his public whiskey, or drink with his
foreigners, but he chose to do so to-night. His men welcomed him
thickly--they had been wallowing in beer for hours; the man at the bar
drew forth a bottle of whiskey--he knew Maclin rarely drank beer.
An hour later, Maclin, master of the place and the men, was talking
slowly, encouragingly, in a tongue that they all understood. Their
dull eyes brightened; their heavy faces twitched under excitement that
amounted to inspiration. Now and again they raised their mugs aloft
and muttered something that sounded strangely like prayer.
Dominated by a man and an emotion they were, not the drudging machines
of the mines, but a vital force ready for action.