THE MAN IN THE BUNK
The sun was on the edge of the western hills when he got back to Mrs.
Conley. She expressed relief at seeing him and wonder at seeing him so
soon. He built up the fire, melted snow and made tea. He also fried a
little bacon and bread. Between them they emptied tea-kettle and
frying-pan; and the woman was greatly revived by the food and drink.
The woman led the way northward and westward to her home. The distance
struck Young Dan as being nearer seven miles than five. The small window
of the cabin glowed a dim yellow. Mrs. Conley pushed open the door and
entered without waiting to remove her snowshoes. Young Dan kicked off
his snowshoes and had a foot on the threshold when he heard an
unpleasant voice shout from somewhere within, demanding to know where
the woman had been and why she had stayed away so long and why she
hadn’t brought some food home with her. A few oaths gave color to the
questions.
Young Dan crossed the threshold, kicked the door shut with a heel and
lowered his pack to the floor. In one comprehensive glance he saw the
woman stooped to two clinging children, a man lying in a bunk, a failing
fire on a rough hearth, a smoky lantern on a table and a worn bear-skin
on the floor. He had never seen a less cheering interior.
The man in the bunk sat up and stared at Young Dan. His shoulders looked
very broad in the dim light.
“Who’s thar?” he exclaimed. “Who’s that?”
“Ye needn’t be scart,” said the woman, with a tang of scorn in her
voice. “It’s a feller from the camp over on Right Prong. He’s fetched in
some grub for us, in the kindness of his heart.”
The man immediately lay back without another word.
Young Dan felt indignant, so much so that his indignation amounted to
anger—anger that felt like a lump of something uncomfortably hard and
hot in his chest. He wanted to say something sharp to the big fellow in
the bunk—but he didn’t know what to say. So, without a word, he untied
his blanket, filled an arm with the packages of food and carried all to
the table.
“No water and no wood,” said Mrs. Conley, looking at the bunk.
Young Dan went outside and found a small pile of wood beside the door,
under a roof of snow. He carried an armful into the shack; and as he
laid the sticks beside the hearth he noticed how irregularly and
unskilfully the severed ends were cut. Even a sick man accustomed to the
use of an axe would not have hacked the wood so clumsily. He knew it was
not the work of the man in the bunk. He then took up an empty pail and
enquired the whereabouts of the water-hole. Mrs. Conley told him that
there was a spring just back of the shack and a path leading to it which
he couldn’t miss. She was right; and in a minute he was back with the
water. As he set the pail down on a bench near the door he looked at the
man in the bunk, the hot spot of anger and indignation still glowing in
his chest. The man’s eyes met his for a moment—but he saw more than the
fellow’s eyes. He crossed the narrow floor to the bunk.
“What’s the matter with you, anyhow?” he asked.
“Matter with me, d’ye say?” returned the fellow in the blankets. “I’m
sick, that’s what’s the matter. Can’t ye see?”
Young Dan stooped swiftly and drew a high-shouldered, square-faced black
bottle from beneath the edge of the bunk. There was a sound of clinking
glass as he brought it forth as if it were in contact with receptacles
of a like nature and material. He held it aloft.
“Yes, I can see all right,” he cried. “And I guess I’ve got hold of a
few doses of your medicine.”
“Well, what of it?” demanded the other, his voice at once savage and
anxious.
Young Dan returned the bottle to its place; and in so doing he caught
sight of some other articles of interest beneath the bunk. More bottles
were there, both full and empty—but there were other things of even
greater interest to the youth. He stood up, however, without word or
sign of comment.
Mrs. Conley, who was busily engaged in feeding the children with
condensed milk diluted with hot water, paid keen attention to Young
Dan’s words and actions, but said nothing.
Young Dan moved away from the bunk and bestowed a brief but enquiring
glance upon the worn bear-skin on the floor. That article had struck him
as looking queer, somehow or other, when he had first set eyes on it;
and now he knew it to be queer. It had grown on a big animal and had
evidently been a fine pelt in its day. The big, wide head was there—not
the skull, but the complete skin of head, to the tip of the nose. Yes,
the head was all there—but all four paws were missing!
Young Dan turned again to the man in the bunk. “Say the word, and I’ll
get a doctor in to see you,” he said. “Or we’ll haul you out on a sled,
if you ain’t too sick to be shifted about a bit.”
“I don’t want no cussed doctor p’isonin’ me,” cried the invalid. “Mind
yer own business, will ye, an’ leave me be to look after mine? I’m able
for it, without yer help.”
“All right,” retorted Young Dan, his voice shaking with anger and scorn.
“Well, then, look after yer own business if you’re so able. Get out of
bed and get to work. I know all I need to about you. I know enough about
you to run you out of these woods and into jail; and that’s the
identical thing I intend to do if you don’t get busy. So cut out the gin
and the bunk and cut into the wood-pile. D’ye get me?”
The man did not answer. The woman continued to feed the children in
silence. Young Dan glared at the bunk a little longer, then fetched his
snowshoes and put them on, and took up his rifle, axe and blanket.
“I’m off,” he said. “But I’ll be back in a few days, to see how you’re
working, Jim Conley. I’ve got your measure, and don’t you forget it!
Goodnight to you, m’am.”
He had not gone far from the miserable cabin before the woman came
running after him. He halted.
“What is it ye know about him?” she asked, anxiously.
“I can guess more’n I know, but I reckon what I know is plenty,” he
replied. “He broke into my Uncle Bill Tangler’s camp a few months back
an’ stole some grub, with the paws an’ claws of a big bear on his hands
an’ feet. Guess he reckoned he was smart.”
“How d’ye know that?”
“I’d figgered out it wasn’t a bear long ago; and to-night I spied the
skinned paws under the bunk. It was easy.”
“Jim wasn’t in the woods when that happened,” she whispered. “It was me
broke into the camp an’ stole the grub. It was me who cut the paws off
that old skin an’ used ’em to fool ye with. Jim was away out to the
settlements that day.”
“You, ma’am!”
“That’s Gospel-true. The babies and me hadn’t a bite to eat but some
rusty pork. We needed the food bad. It was the first time I ever stole
anything.”
“Then why didn’t you upset the molasses jug, like a bear would do? A
bear would of upset it an’ then licked the molasses off the floor. If
you’d done it that way, m’am—upset the jug, I mean—I wouldn’t of
suspicioned the thief wasn’t a bear; and so I wouldn’t of examined the
shutter and spotted how the staple had been pried off with the blade of
an axe; and so I wouldn’t of taken any stock in the old paws under the
bunk.”
“I took enough molasses to fill the bottle I had along with me. I hadn’t
the heart to upset the jug an’ waste what I didn’t want. But I kinder
thought that’s what a bear would do.”
“Well, that’s all right, anyhow,” said Young Dan. “I don’t blame you a
mite for rustlin’ grub for your babies; but if you don’t make that big
bluffer get to work, I’ll land him in jail or bust tryin’—and you can
bet I won’t bust, m’am!”
[Illustration]