Old Jerry drove his route that morning in a numbed, trancelike
fashion; or, rather, he sat there upon the worn-out leather seat with
the reins looped over the dash, staring straight ahead of him, and
allowed the fat old mare to take her own pace. It was she who made the
customary stops; he merely dug absent-mindedly beneath the seat
whenever she fell to cropping grass at the roadside, and searched
mechanically for the proper packet of mail. And twice he was called
back to correct mistakes which he admitted were his own with an
humbleness that was alarming to the complainant. In all the days of
his service he had never before failed to plead extenuating
circumstances for any slip that might occur--and to plead with much
heat and staccato eloquence. But then, too, in all those years no day
had ever equalled the bitter awakening of that morning.
As he reviewed it all, again and again, Old Jerry began to understand
that it was not the public rebuff which had hurt so much; for there
was that one of the night previous, when the Judge had cut him off in
the middle of his eager corroboration of Jed The Red's history, which
had not left a trace of a sting twelve hours later. It was more than
wounded vanity, although hurt pride was still struggling for a place
in his emotions against a shamed, overwhelming realization of his own
trifling importance, which could not hold its own against the first
interloper, even after years of entrenchment. Judge Maynard's first
thrill had been staged without a hitch; he had paved the way for the
personal triumph which he meant to achieve that night, but he had
accomplished it only at a cost--the loyalty of him who had been, after
all, his stanchest supporter.
From that moment Old Jerry's defection from the ranks must be dated,
for it was in those bitter hours which followed the yellow-wheeled
buckboard's early morning flight down the main street that the old man
woke to the fact that his admiration for the Judge was made of
anything but immortal stuff. He weighed the Judge in the balance that
morning, and half forgot his own woe in marveling at the discrepancies
which he discovered.
Self-deceit may or may not be easy of accomplishment. Maybe it is
merely a matter of temperament and circumstance, after all. But it is
a certainty that the first peep at one's own soul is always the most
startling--the most illuminating, always hardest of all to bear. And
once stripped of that one garment of grandeur, which he had conjured
out of his own great hunger for attention, Old Jerry found a
ruthless, half-savage joy in tearing aside veil after veil, until he
found himself gazing straight back into the eyes of his own
spirit--until he saw the pitiful old fraud he really was, naked there
before him.
Just as well as though he had been a party to it he understood the
Judge's crafty exhibition of Young Denny's maimed face that morning;
he knew without a trace of doubt just what the Judge, in his ominous
silence, had meant to insinuate, and what the verdict would be that
night around the Tavern stove. What he could not understand quite was
why all of them were so easy to convince--so ready to believe--when
only the night before they had sat and heard the Judge's recital of
Jed The Red's intimate history for the benefit of the newspaper man
from the metropolis which, to name it charitably, had been anything
but a literal translation of facts.
Groping back for one single peg upon which to hang the fabric of their
oft-reiterated prophesy was alarmingly profitless. There had been
nothing, not even one little slip, since Old Denny Bolton's passing on
that bad night, years before. And from that realization he fell to
pondering with less leadenness of spirit upon what the real facts
could be which lay behind Young Denny's sudden transformation. For
that also was too real--too evident--for any eyes to overlook.
It was not until long after the hour which witnessed the return flight
of the yellow-wheeled buckboard through the village street, leaving
behind an even busier hum of conjecture than before, that he awoke to
a realization that his opportunity for a solution of the riddle was at
least better than that of the wrangling group that had turned traitor
before the post-office steps.
Long before he reached the top of the grade that ran up to the bleak
house alone on the crest, he was leaning out of his seat, trying to
penetrate the double gloom of rain and twilight; but not until he had
reined in his horse was he positive that there was no shadowy figure
standing there waiting for his arrival.
He could not quite understand the sensation which the boy's absence
waked in him at that instant. Days afterward he knew it had been
lonesomeness--a rather bewildering loneliness--for no matter what his
reception chanced to be along the way, Young Denny's greeting had been
infallibly regular.
And another emotion far less difficult to understand began to stir
within him as he sat motionless for a time scanning the shapeless bulk
of the place, entirely dark save for a single light in the rear room.
For the first time he saw how utterly apart from the rest of the town
those unpainted old farm buildings were--how utterly isolated. The
twinkling lights of the village were mere pin-points in the distance.
Each thick shadow beneath the eaves of the house was blacker than he
had ever noticed before. Even the soft swish of the rain as it seeped
from the sodden shingles, even the very familiar complaint of loose
nails lifted by the wind under the clapboards, set his heart pumping
faster. All in an instant his sensation-hungry old brain seized upon
each detail that was as old as he himself and manufactured, right
there on the spot, a sinister something--a something of unaccountable
dread, which sent a delightful shiver up and down his thin, bony, old
back.
For a while he waited and debated with himself, not at all certain
now that he was as keen for a solution of the riddle of that cut
which had adorned Young Denny's chin as he had been. And yet, even
while he hesitated, feeding his imagination upon the choicest of
premonitory tit-bits, he knew he meant to go ahead. He was magnifying
the unfathomed peril that existed in his erratic, hair-trigger old
brain alone merely for the sake of the complacent pride which
resulted therefrom--pride in the contemplation of his own intrepid
dare-deviltry.
He could scarcely have put into words just what reception he had
imagined was awaiting him; but, whatever it might have been, Young
Denny's greeting was full as startling. A worn, dusty, shapeless
leather bag stood agape upon the table before the window, and Denny
Bolton paused over the half-folded garment in his hands to wheel
sharply toward the newcomer as the door creaked open.
For one uncomfortable moment the old adventurer waited in vain for any
light of welcome, or even recognition, to flash up in the boy's steady
scrutiny. Then the vaguest of smiles began to twitch at the corners of
Denny's lips. He laid the coat back upon the table and stepped forward
a pace.
"Hello!--Here at last, are you?" he saluted. "Aren't you pretty late
tonight?"
Old Jerry swallowed hard at the cheery ease of the words, but his
fluttery heart began to pump even faster than when he had sat outside
in the buggy debating the advisability of his further advance. That
warning premonition had not been a footless thing, after all, for this
self-certain, vaguely amused person who stood steadily contemplating
him was not the Denny Bolton he had known twenty-four hours
before--not from any angle or viewpoint.
Behind the simulated cheer of his greeting there was something else
which Old Jerry found disturbingly new and hard to place. In his
perplexity the wordless accusation that morning had been correct at
that. And Young Denny was smiling widely at him now--smiling openly.
The old man shuffled his feet and shifted his gaze from the open wound
upon the boy's face as though he feared his suspicion might be read in
his eyes. Then he answered Denny's question.
"I--I cal'late I be late--maybe a little," he admitted.
Denny nodded briskly.
"More than a little," he corrected. "I expected you to be along even
earlier today! An hour or two, at least."
Even while he was speaking Young Denny turned back to the packing of
the big bag on the table. Old Jerry stood there, still shifting from
one foot to the other, considering in growing wonder that silent
preparation, and waiting patiently for a further explanation of what
it meant. At last, when he could no longer endure the suspense, he
broke that silence himself.
"Packin' up for a little trip, be you?" he ventured mildly.
There was no progress made or satisfaction gained from Young Denny's
short nod. Again the little man bore it as long as he was able.
"Figurin' on bein' gone quite a spell?" he ventured again.
And again the big-shouldered figure nodded a silent affirmative. Old
Jerry drew himself up with an air of injured dignity at that
inhospitable slight; he even took one step backward toward the door;
but that one step, in the face of his consuming curiosity, was as far
as he could force himself to go.
"I--I kinda thought you might be leavin'. Why, I--kinda suspicioned it
this morning when I seen you ridin' townward with the Jedge."
The boy stuffed the last article into the bulging bag and turned. Old
Jerry almost believed that the lack of comprehension in Young Denny's
eyes was real until he caught again that hint of amusement behind it.
But when Denny started toward him suddenly, without so much as a word,
the old man retreated just as suddenly, almost apprehensively, before
him.
"You say you was expectin' me," he faltered unsteadily, "but--but if
there wa'n't anything special you wanted to see me about, I--I reckon
I better be joggin' along. I just kinda dropped in, late's it was, to
tell you there wa'n't no mail, and to say--to tell you----"
He stopped abruptly. He didn't like the looks of Denny Bolton's eyes.
They were different than he had ever seen them before. If their
inscrutability was not actually terrifying, Old Jerry's active
imagination at that moment made it so. And never before had he noted
how huge the boy's body was in comparison with his own weazened frame.
He groped stealthily behind him and found the door catch. The cool
touch of the metal helped him a little.
"I--I may be a trifle late--jest a trifle," he hurried on, "but I been
hustlin' to git here--that is, ever sense about five o'clock, or
thereabouts. There's been something I been wantin' to tell you. I--I
jest wanted to say that I hoped it wa'n't anything I might have said
or--or kinda hinted at, maybe, nights down to the Tavern, that's druv
you out. That's a mighty mean, gossipy crowd down there, anyway,
always kinda leadin' a man along till he gits to oversteppin' hisself
a little."
It was the first declaration of his own shortcomings that he had ever
voiced, an humble confession that was more than half apology born of
that afternoon's travail of spirit; but somehow it rang hopelessly
inadequate in his own ears at that minute. And yet Young Denny's head
came swiftly forward at the words; his eyes narrowed and he frowned as
though he were trying to believe he had heard correctly. Then he
laughed--laughed softly--and Old Jerry knew what that laugh meant. The
boy didn't believe even when he had heard; and his slow-drawled,
half-satirical question more than confirmed that suspicion.
"Wasn't at all curious, then, about this?" he inquired, with a
whimsical twist to the words.
He touched his chin with the tips of his fingers. Old Jerry's
treacherous lips flew open in his eagerness, and then closed barely
in time upon the admission that had almost betrayed him.
He was sorry now, too, that he had even lingered to make his apology.
That disturbing glint was flaring brighter than ever in Young Denny's
eyes. Merely because he was afraid to turn his back to pass out, Old
Jerry stood and watched with beadily attentive eyes while the boy
crossed and took a lantern from its peg on the wall behind the stove
and turned up the wick and lighted it. That unexplained preparation
was as fascinating to watch as its purport was veiled.
"You must be just a little curious about it--just a little bit?" Denny
insisted gravely. "I thought you'd be--and all the others, too. That's
why I was waiting for you--that and something in particular that I did
want to ask you, after I'd made you understand."
If the first part of his statement was still tinged with mirth, the
second could not possibly have been any more direct or earnest.
Without further explanation, one hand grasping his visitor's thin
shoulder, he urged him outside and across the yard in the direction of
the black bulk of the barn. The rain was still coming down steadily,
but neither of them noticed it at that moment. Old Jerry would have
balked at the yawning barn door but for that same hand which was
directing him and urging him on. His apprehension had now turned to
actual fright which bordered close on panic, and he heard the boy's
voice as though it came from a great distance.
"----two or three things I'd like to have you understand and get
straight," Denny was repeating slowly, "so that--so that if I asked
you, you could see that--someone else got them straight, too."
Old Jerry was in no mental condition to realize that that last
statement was untinged by any lurking sarcasm. He was able to think of
but one thing.
The hand upon his shoulder had loosened its grip. Slowly the little
man turned--turned with infinite caution, and what he considered was a
very capable attitude of self-defense. And for a moment he refused to
believe his own eyes--refused to believe that, in place of the threat
of sudden death which he had expected, Young Denny was merely standing
there before him, pointing with his free hand at a dark, almost damp
stain upon the dusty woodwork behind the stalls. It flashed through
his brain then that Denny Bolton had not merely gone the way of the
other Boltons--it was not the jug alone that had stood in the kitchen
corner, but something far worse than that.
"I got to humor him," he told himself, although he was shivering
uncontrollably. "I got to keep a grip on myself and kinda humor him."
And aloud, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, he
murmured:
"What--what is it?"
"Couldn't you guess--if you had to?"
Denny made the suggestion with appalling calm. Old Jerry clenched his
teeth to still their chattering.
"Maybe I could--maybe I could;" and his voice was a little stronger.
"I--I'd say it was blood, I reckon, if anyone asked me."
Without a word the boy set the lantern down and walked across the barn
to lay one hand upon the flank of the nervous animal in the nearest
stall.
"That's what it is," he stated slowly; and again he touched the wound
on his chin gingerly. "From this," he went on. "I came in last night
to feed--and I--I forgot to speak to Tom here, and it was dark. He--he
laced out and caught me--and that's where I landed, there against the
wall."
The servant of the "Gov'mint" nodded his comprehension--he nodded it
volubly, with deep bows that would have done credit to a dancing
master, lest his comprehensions seem in the least bit veiled with
doubt. He even clicked his tongue sympathetically, just as the plump
newspaper man had done.
"Quite a tap--quite a tap!" he said as soothingly as his uncertain
tongue would permit; but he took care to keep a safe distance between
himself and his guide when Denny stooped and lifted the lantern and
led the way outside.
Now that he was free from that detaining hand upon his shoulder, he
contemplated the advisability of a sudden dash for the buggy and
flight behind the fat white mare. Nothing but the weakened condition
of his own knees and a lack of confidence in her ability to carry him
clear kept him from acting instantly upon that impulse. And then the
summoning voice of the great blurred figure which had been zigzagging
across the grass before him checked him at the very moment of
decision.
Young Denny had stopped beside a sapling that stood in a direct line
with the kitchen window, and was pointing down at a heap of broken
crockery that lay at its foot.
"And if anyone was to ask you," he was deliberately inquiring, "what
do you suppose you would say that had been?"
Old Jerry knew! He knew without one chance for doubt; but never before
had the truth seemed more overwhelmingly dreadful or surcharged with
peril. A dozen diplomatic evasions flashed through his mind, and were
all condemned as inadequate for that crisis. He knew that candor was
his safest course.
"Why, I--I'd say it looked mighty like a--a broken jug," he quavered,
with elaborate interest. "Jest a common, ordinary jug that's kinda
got broke, somehow. Yes, sir-e-e, all broke up, as you might say!"
His shrill cackle of a voice caught in his throat, and grew husky, and
then broke entirely. Even Young Denny, absorbed as he was in his
methodical exhibition of all the evidence, became suddenly aware that
the little figure beside him was swallowing hard--swallowing with
great, noisy gulps, and he lifted the lantern until the yellow light
fell full upon the twitching face below him, illuminating every
feature. And he stared hard at all that the light revealed, for Old
Jerry's face was very white.
"Jest a little, no-account jug that's got busted," the shrill,
bodiless voice went chattering on, while its owner recoiled from the
light. "Busted all to pieces from hittin' into a tree!" And then,
reassuringly, on a desperate impulse: "But don't you go to worryin'
over it--don't you worry one mite! I'm goin' to fix it for you. Old
Jerry's a-goin' to fix it for you in the morning, so's it'll be just
as good as new! You run right along in now. It's kinda wet out
here--and--and I got to be gittin' along toward home."
Absolute silence followed the promise. Young Denny only lowered the
lantern--and then lifted it and stared, and lowered it once more.
"Fix it!" he echoed, his voice heavy with wonder. "Fix it?"
Then he noted, too, the chattering teeth and meager, trembling body,
and he thought he understood.
"You'd better come along in," he ordered peremptorily. "You come along
inside. I'll rake up the fire and you can warm up a bit. I--I didn't
think, keeping you out here in the rain. Why, you'll feel better after
you've had a little rest. You ought not to be out all day in weather
like this, anyway. You're too--too----"
He was going to say too old, but a quick thought saved him. Old Jerry
did not want to accompany him; he would have done almost anything else
with a light heart; but that big hand had fallen again upon his
shoulder, and there was no choice left him.
Young Denny clicked the door shut before them and pulled a chair up
before the stove with businesslike haste. After he had stuffed the
fire-box full of fresh fuel and the flame was roaring up the pipe, he
turned once more and stood, hands resting on his hips, staring down at
the small figure slumped deep in its seat.
"I didn't understand," he apologized again, his voice very sober.
"I--I ought to have remembered that maybe you'd be tired out and wet,
too. But I didn't--I was just thinking of how I could best show
you--these things--so's you'd understand them. You're feeling better
now?"
Furtively, from the corners of his eyes, Old Jerry had been watching
every move while the boy built up the fire. And now, while Denny stood
over him talking so gravely, his head came slowly around until his
eyes were full upon that face; until he was able to see clearly, there
in the better light of that room, all the solicitude that had softened
the hard lines of the lean jaw. It was hard to believe, after all that
he had passed through, and yet he knew that it could not be
possible--he knew that that voice could not belong to any man who had
been nursing a maniacal vengeance behind a cunningly calm exterior.
There was no light of madness in those eyes which were studying him
so steadily--studying him with unconcealed anxiety. Old Jerry could
not have told how it had come about; but there in the light, with
four good solid walls about him, he realized that a miracle had
taken place. Little by little his slack body began to stiffen;
little by little he raised himself. Once he sighed, a sigh of
deeper thankfulness than Young Denny could ever comprehend, for
Young Denny did not know the awfulness of the peril through which
he had just passed.
"Godfrey" he thought, and the exclamation was so poignantly real
within him that it took audible form without his knowledge. "Godfrey
'Lisha, but that was a close call! That's about as narrer a squeak as
I'll ever hev, I reckon."
And he wanted to laugh. An almost hysterical fit of laughter
straggled for utterance. Only because the situation was too precious
to squander, only because he would have sacrificed both arms before
confessing the terror which had been shaking him by the throat, was he
able to stifle it. Instead, he removed his drenched and battered hat
and passed one fluttering hand across his forehead, with just the
shade of unsteadiness for which the affair called.
"Yes, I'm a-feelin' better now," he sighed. "Godfrey, yes, I'm a sight
better already! Must 'a' been just a little touch of faintness, maybe.
I'm kinda subject to them spells when I've been overworked. And I hev
been a little mite druv up today--druv to the limit, if the truth's
told. Things ain't been goin' as smooth's they might. Why--why, they
ain't nobody'd believe what's been crowded into this day, even if I
was to tell 'em!"
He filled his lungs again and shoved both feet closer to the oven
door.
"But that fire feels real nice," he finished; "real nice and
comfortin', somehow. And maybe I could stop just a minute." The old
hungry light of curiosity was kindling again, brighter than ever
before, in the beady little eyes. "As you was remarkin', back a
stretch, you'd been a-waitin' for me to come along. Was they--was they
something you wanted to see me about?"