They penetrated deeper into the wood. They climbed a rocky zigzag path
which led them at times where with their hands they could almost touch
the tops of giant pines. The gray cliffs sprang sheer towards the sky.
Willie Dalzel babbled about his impossible lynx, and they stalked the
mountain-side like chamois-hunters, although no noise of bird or beast
broke the stillness of the hills. Below them Whilomville was spread
out somewhat like the cheap green and black lithograph of the time--"A
Bird's-eye View of Whilomville, N. Y."
[Illustration: THE DALZEL BOY TAKING THE PART OF A BANDIT CHIEF]
In the end the boys reached the top of the mountain and scouted off
among wild and desolate ridges. They were burning with the desire to
slay large animals. They thought continually of elephants, lions,
tigers, crocodiles. They discoursed upon their immaculate conduct in
case such monsters confronted them, and they all lied carefully about
their courage.
The breeze was heavy with the smell of sweet-fern. The pines and
hemlocks sighed as they waved their branches. In the hollows the
leaves of the laurels were lacquered where the sunlight found them. No
matter the weather, it would be impossible to long continue an
expedition of this kind without a fire, and presently they built one,
snapping down for fuel the brittle under-branches of the pines. About
this fire they were willed to conduct a sort of play, the Dalzel boy
taking the part of a bandit chief, and the other boys being his trusty
lieutenants. They stalked to and fro, long-strided, stern yet
devil-may-care, three terrible little figures.
Jimmie had an uncle who made game of him whenever he caught him in
this kind of play, and often this uncle quoted derisively the
following classic: "Once aboard the lugger, Bill, and the girl is
mine. Now to burn the chateau and destroy all evidence of our crime.
But, hark'e, Bill, no wiolence." Wheeling abruptly, he addressed these
dramatic words to his comrades. They were impressed; they decided at
once to be smugglers, and in the most ribald fashion they talked about
carrying off young women.
At last they continued their march through the woods. The smuggling
_motif_ was now grafted fantastically upon the original lynx idea,
which Willie Dalzel refused to abandon at any price.
Once they came upon an innocent bird who happened to be looking
another way at the time. After a great deal of manoevering and big
words, Willie Dalzel reared his fowling-piece and blew this poor thing
into a mere rag of wet feathers, of which he was proud.
Afterwards the other big boy had a turn at another bird. Then it was
plainly Jimmie's chance. The two others had, of course, some thought
of cheating him out of this chance, but of a truth he was timid to
explode such a thunderous weapon, and as soon as they detected this
fear they simply overbore him, and made it clearly understood that if
he refused to shoot he would lose his caste, his scalp-lock, his
girdle, his honor.
They had reached the old death-colored snake-fence which marked the
limits of the upper pasture of the Fleming farm. Under some
hickory-trees the path ran parallel to the fence. Behold! a small
priestly chipmonk came to a rail, and folding his hands on his
abdomen, addressed them in his own tongue. It was Jimmie's shot.
Adjured by the others, he took the gun. His face was stiff with
apprehension. The Dalzel boy was giving forth fine words. "Go ahead.
Aw, don't be afraid. It's nothin' to do. Why, I've done it a million
times. Don't shut both your eyes, now. Jus' keep one open and shut the
other one. He'll get away if you don't watch out. Now you're all
right. Why don't you let'er go? Go ahead."
[Illustration: "THERE WAS A FRIGHTFUL ROAR"]
Jimmie, with his legs braced apart, was in the centre of the path. His
back was greatly bent, owing to the mechanics of supporting the heavy
gun. His companions were screeching in the rear. There was a wait.
Then he pulled trigger. To him there was a frightful roar, his cheek
and his shoulder took a stunning blow, his face felt a hot flush of
fire, and opening his two eyes, he found that he was still alive. He
was not too dazed to instantly adopt a becoming egotism. It had been
the first shot of his life.
But directly after the well-mannered celebration of this victory a
certain cow, which had been grazing in the line of fire, was seen to
break wildly across the pasture, bellowing and bucking. The three
smugglers and lynx-hunters looked at each other out of blanched faces.
Jimmie had hit the cow. The first evidence of his comprehension of
this fact was in the celerity with which he returned the discharged
gun to Willie Dalzel.
They turned to flee. The land was black, as if it had been
overshadowed suddenly with thick storm-clouds, and even as they fled
in their horror a gigantic Swedish farm-hand came from the heavens and
fell upon them, shrieking in eerie triumph. In a twinkle they were
clouted prostrate. The Swede was elate and ferocious in a foreign and
fulsome way. He continued to beat them and yell.
From the ground they raised their dismal appeal. "Oh, please, mister,
we didn't do it! He did it! I didn't do it! We didn't do it! We didn't
mean to do it! Oh, please, mister!"
In these moments of childish terror little lads go half-blind, and it
is possible that few moments of their after-life made them suffer as
they did when the Swede flung them over the fence and marched them
towards the farm-house. They begged like cowards on the scaffold,
and each one was for himself. "Oh, please let me go, mister! I didn't
do it, mister! He did it! Oh, p-l-ease let me go, mister!"
[Illustration: "'I THOUGHT SHE WAS A LYNX'"]
The boyish view belongs to boys alone, and if this tall and knotted
laborer was needlessly without charity, none of the three lads
questioned it. Usually when they were punished they decided that they
deserved it, and the more they were punished the more they were
convinced that they were criminals of a most subterranean type. As to
the hitting of the cow being a pure accident, and therefore not of
necessity a criminal matter, such reading never entered their heads.
When things happened and they were caught, they commonly paid dire
consequences, and they were accustomed to measure the probabilities of
woe utterly by the damage done, and not in any way by the culpability.
The shooting of the cow was plainly heinous, and undoubtedly their
dungeons would be knee-deep in water.
"He did it, mister!" This was a general outcry. Jimmie used it as
often as did the others. As for them, it is certain that they had no
direct thought of betraying their comrade for their own salvation.
They thought themselves guilty because they were caught; when boys
were not caught they might possibly be innocent. But captured boys
were guilty. When they cried out that Jimmie was the culprit, it was
principally a simple expression of terror.
Old Henry Fleming, the owner of the farm, strode across the pasture
towards them. He had in his hand a most cruel whip. This whip he
flourished. At his approach the boys suffered the agonies of the fire
regions. And yet anybody with half an eye could see that the whip in
his hand was a mere accident, and that he was a kind old man--when he
cared.
When he had come near he spoke crisply. "What you boys ben doin' to my
cow?" The tone had deep threat in it. They all answered by saying that
none of them had shot the cow. Their denials were tearful and
clamorous, and they crawled knee by knee. The vision of it was like
three martyrs being dragged towards the stake. Old Fleming stood
there, grim, tight-lipped. After a time he said, "Which boy done it?"