Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
[Illustration: "I shall get married when and where I please,--and
to whom I please, Mr. Gwynne."]
VIOLA GWYN
BY George Barr McCutcheon
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE--THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER
I SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT
II THE STRANGE YOUNG WOMAN
III SOMETHING ABOUT CLOTHES, AND MEN, AND CATS
IV VIOLA GWYN
V REFLECTIONS AND AN ENCOUNTER
VI BARRY LAPELLE
VII THE END OF THE LONG ROAD
VIII RACHEL CARTER
IX BROTHER AND SISTER
X MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
XI A ROADSIDE MEETING
XII ISAAC STAIN APPEARS BY NIGHT
XIII THE GRACIOUS ENEMY
XIV A MAN FROM DOWN THE RIVER
XV THE LANDING OF THE "PAUL REVERE"
XVI CONCERNING TEMPESTS AND INDIANS
XVII REVELATIONS
XVIII RACHEL DELIVERS A MESSAGE
XIX LAPELLE SHOWS HIS TEETH
XX THE BLOW
XXI THE AFFAIR AT HAWK'S CABIN
XXII THE PRISONERS
XXIII CHALLENGE AND RETORT
XXIV IN AN UPSTAIRS ROOM
XXV MINDA CARTER
XXVI THE FLIGHT OF MARTIN HAWK
XXVII THE TRIAL OF MOLL HAWK
XXVIII THE TRYSTING PLACE OF THOUGHTS
XXIX THE ENDING
PROLOGUE
THE BEGINNING
Kenneth Gwynne was five years old when his father ran away with
Rachel Carter, a widow. This was in the spring of 1812, and in
the fall his mother died. His grandparents brought him up to hate
Rachel Carter, an evil woman.
She was his mother's friend and she had slain her with the viper's
tooth. From the day that his questioning intelligence seized upon
the truth that had been so carefully withheld from him by his
broken-hearted mother and those who spoke behind the hand when
he was near,--from that day he hated Rachel Carter with all his
hot and outraged heart. He came to think of her as the embodiment
of all that was evil,--for those were the days when there was no
middle-ground for sin and women were either white or scarlet.
He rejoiced in the belief that in good time Rachel Carter would come
to roast in the everlasting fires of hell, grovelling and wailing
at the feet of Satan, the while his lovely mother looked down
upon her in pity,--even then he wondered if such a thing were
possible,--from her seat beside God in His Heaven. He had no doubts
about this. Hell and heaven were real to him, and all sinners went
below. On the other hand, his father would be permitted to repent and
would instantly go to heaven. It was inconceivable that his big,
strong, well-beloved father should go to the bad place. But Mrs. Carter
would! Nothing could save her! God would not pay any attention to
her if she tried to repent; He would know it was only "make-believe"
if she got down on her knees and prayed for forgiveness. He was
convinced that Rachel Carter could not fool God. Besides, would
not his mother be there to remind Him in case He could not exactly
remember what Rachel Carter had done? And were there not dozens of
good, honest people in the village who would probably be in Heaven
by that time and ready to stand before the throne and bear witness
that she was a bad woman?
No, Rachel Carter could never get into Heaven. He was glad.
No matter if the Scriptures did say all that about the sinner who
repents, he did not believe that God would let her in. He supported
this belief by the profoundly childish contention that if God let
EVERYBODY in, then there would be no use having a hell at all. What
was the use of being good all your life if the bad people could
get into Heaven at the last minute by telling God they were sorry
and never would do anything bad again as long as they lived? And
was not God the wisest Being in all the world? He knew EVERYTHING!
He knew all about Rachel Carter. She would go to the bad place and
stay there forever, even after the "resurrection" and the end of
the world by fire in 1883, a calamity to which he looked forward
with grave concern and no little trepidation at the thoughtful age
of six.
At first they told him his father had gone off as a soldier to
fight against the Indians and the British. He knew that a war was
going on. Men with guns were drilling in the pasture up beyond
his grandfather's house, and there was talk of Indian "massacrees,"
and Simon Girty's warriors, and British red-coats, and the awful
things that happened to little boys who disobeyed their elders
and went swimming, or berrying, or told even the teeniest kind of
fibs. He overheard his grandfather and the neighbours discussing
a battle on Lake Erie, and rejoiced with them over the report of
a great victory for "our side." Vaguely he had grasped the news of
a horrible battle on the Tippecanoe River, far away in the wilderness
to the north and west, in which millions of Indians were slain,
and he wondered how many of them his father had killed with his
rifle,--a weapon so big and long that he came less than half way
up the barrel when he stood beside it.
His father was a great shot. Everybody said so. He could kill wild
turkeys a million miles away as easy as rolling off a log, and deer,
and catamounts, and squirrels, and herons, and everything. So his
father must have killed heaps of Indians and red-coats and renegades.
He put this daily question to his mother: "How many do you s'pose
Pa has killed by this time, Ma?"
And then, in the fall, his mother went away and left him. They did
not tell him she had gone to the war. He would not have believed
them if they had, for she was too sick to go. She had been in bed
for a long, long time; the doctor came to see her every day, and
finally the preacher. He hated both of them, especially the latter,
who prayed so loudly and so vehemently that his mother must have
been terribly disturbed. Why should every one caution him to be
quiet and not make a noise because it disturbed mother, and yet say
nothing when that old preacher went right into her room and yelled
same as he always did in church? He was very bitter about it,
and longed for his father to come home with his rifle and shoot
everybody, including his grandfather who had "switched" him severely
and unjustly because he threw stones at Parson Hook's saddle horse
while the good man was offering up petitions from the sick room.
He went to the "burying," and was more impressed by the fact that
nearly all of the men who rode or drove to the graveyard down in
the "hollow" carried rifles and pistols than he was by the strange
solemnity of the occasion, for, while he realized in a vague,
mistrustful way that his mother was to be put under the ground,
his trust clung resolutely to God's promise, accepted in its most
literal sense, that the dead shall rise again and that "ye shall
be born again." That was what the preacher said,--and he had cried
a little when the streaming-eyed clergyman took him on his knee
and whispered that all was well with his dear mother and that he
would meet her one day in that beautiful land beyond the River.
He was very lonely after that. His "granny" tucked him in his big
feather bed every night, and listened to his little prayer, but she
was not the same as mother. She did not kiss him in the same way,
nor did her hand feel like mother's when she smoothed his rumpled
hair or buttoned his flannel nightgown about his neck or closed
his eyes playfully with her fingers before she went away with the
candle. Yet he adored her. She was sweet and gentle, she told such
wonderful fairy tales to him, and she always smiled at him. He
wondered a great deal. Why was it that she did not FEEL the same
as mother? He was deeply puzzled. Was it because her hair was grey?
His grandfather lived in the biggest house in town. It
had an "upstairs,"--a real "upstairs,"--not just an attic. And
his grandfather was a very important person. Everybody called him
"Squire"; sometimes they said "your honour"; most people touched
their hats to him. When his father went off to the war, he and his
mother came to live at "grandpa's house." The cabin in which he was
born was at the other end of the street, fully half-a-mile away,
out beyond the grist mill. It had but three rooms and no "upstairs"
at all except the place under the roof where they kept the dried
apples, and the walnuts and hickory nuts, some old saddle-bags and
boxes, and his discarded cradle. You had to climb up a ladder and
through a square hole in the ceiling to get into this place, and
you would have to be very careful not to stand up straight or you
would bump your head,--unless you were exactly in the middle, where
the ridge-pole was.
He remembered that it was a very long walk to "grandpa's house"; he
used to get very tired and his father would lift him up and place
him on his shoulder; from this lofty, even perilous, height he could
look down upon the top of his mother's bonnet,--a most astonishing
view and one that filled him with glee.
His father was the biggest man in all the world, there could be no
doubt about that. Why, he was bigger even than grandpa, or Doctor
Flint, or the parson, or Mr. Carter, who lived in the cabin next door
and was Minda's father. For the matter of that, he was, himself, a
great deal bigger than Minda, who was only two years old and could
not say anywhere near as many words as he could say--and did not
know her ABC's, or the Golden Rule, or who George Washington was.
And his father was ever so much taller than his mother. He was tall
enough to be her father or her grandfather; why, she did not come
up to his shoulder when she walked beside him. He was a million
times bigger than she was. He was bigger than anybody else in all
the world.
The little border town in Kentucky, despite its population of
less than a thousand, was the biggest city in the world. There was
no doubt about that either in Kenneth's loyal little mind. It was
bigger than Philadelphia--(he called it Fil-LEF-ily),--where his
mother used to live when she was a little girl, or Massashooshoo,
where Minda's father and mother comed from.
He was secretly distressed by the superior physical proportions of
his "Auntie" Rachel. There was no denying the fact that she was a
great deal taller than his mother. He had an abiding faith, however,
that some day his mother would grow up and be lots taller than
Minda's mother. He challenged his toddling playmate to deny that
his mother would be as big as hers some day, a lofty taunt that
left Minda quite unmoved.
Nevertheless, he was very fond of "Auntie" Rachel. She was good
to him. She gave him cakes and crullers and spread maple sugar on
many a surreptitious piece of bread and butter, and she had a jolly
way of laughing, and she never told him to wash his hands or face,
no matter how dirty they were. In that one respect, at least, she
was much nicer than his mother. He liked Mr. Carter, too. In fact, he
liked everybody except old Boose, the tin pedlar, who took little
boys out into the woods and left them for the wolves to eat if they
were not very, very good.
He was four when they brought Mr. Carter home in a wagon one day.
Some men carried him into the house, and Aunt Rachel cried, and
his mother went over and stayed a long, long time with her, and
his father got on his horse and rode off as fast as he could go
for Doctor Flint, and he was not allowed to go outside the house
all day,--or old Boose would get him.
Then, one day, he saw "Auntie" Rachel all dressed in black, and he
was frightened. He ran away crying. She looked so tall and scary,---like
the witches Biddy Shay whispered about when his grandma was not
around,--the witches and hags that flew up to the sky on broomsticks
and never came out except at night.
His father did the "chores" for '"Auntie" Rachel for a long time,
because Mr. Carter was not there to attend to them.
There came a day when the buds were fresh on the twigs, and the
grass was very green, and the birds that had been gone for a long
time were singing again in the trees, and it was not raining. So he
went down the road to play in Minda's yard. He called to her, but
she did not appear. No one appeared. The house was silent. "Auntie"
Rachel was not there. Even the dogs were gone, and Mr. Carter's
horses and his wagon. He could not understand. Only yesterday he
had played in the barn with Minda.
Then his grandma came hurrying through the trees from his own home,
where she had been with grandpa and Uncle Fred and Uncle Dan since
breakfast time. She took him up in her arms and told him that Minda
was gone. He had never seen his grandma look so stern and angry.
Biddy Shay had been there all morning too, and several of the
neighbours. He wondered if it could be the Sabbath, and yet that
did not seem possible, because it was only two days since he went
to Sunday school, and yesterday his mother had done the washing.
She always washed on Monday and ironed on Tuesday. This must be
Tuesday, but maybe he was wrong about that. She was not ironing,
so it could not be Tuesday. He was very much bewildered.
His mother was in the bedroom with grandpa and Aunt Hettie, and he
was not allowed to go in to see her. Uncle Fred and Uncle Dan were
very solemn and scowling so terribly that he was afraid to go near
them.
He remembered that his mother had cried while she was cooking
breakfast, and sat down a great many times to rest her head on her
arms. She had cried a good deal lately, because of the headache, she
always said. And right after breakfast she had put on her bonnet
and shawl, telling him to stay in the house till she came back
from grandpa's. Then she had gone away, leaving him all alone until
Biddy Shay came, all out of breath, and began to clear the table
and wash the dishes, all the while talking to herself in a way that
he was sure God would not like, and probably would send her to the
bad place for it when she died.
After a while all of the men went out to the barn-lot, where their
horses were tethered. Uncle Fred and Uncle Dan had their rifles.
He stood at the kitchen window and watched them with wide, excited
eyes. Were they going off to kill Indians, or bears, or cattymunks?
They all talked at once, especially his uncles,--and they swore,
too. Then his grandpa stood in front of them and spoke very loudly,
pointing his finger at them. He heard him say, over and over again:
"Let them go, I say! I tell you, let them go!"
He wondered why his father was not there, if there was any fighting
to be done. His father was a great fighter. He was the bestest shot
in all the world. He could kill an Injin a million miles away, or
a squirrel, or a groundhog. So he asked Biddy Shay.
"Ast me no questions and I'll tell ye no lies," was all the answer
he got from Biddy.
The next day he went up to grandpa's with his mother to stay, and
Uncle Fred told him that his pa had gone off to the war. He believed
this, for were not the rifle, the powder horn and the shot flask
missing from the pegs over the fireplace, and was not Bob, the very
fastest horse in all the world, gone from the barn? He was vastly
thrilled. His father would shoot millions and millions of Injins,
and they would have a house full of scalps and tommyhawks and bows
and arrers.
But he was troubled about Minda. Uncle Fred, driven to corner by
persistent inquiry, finally confessed that Minda also had gone to
the war, and at last report had killed several extremely ferocious
redskins. Despite this very notable achievement, Kenneth was troubled.
In the first place, Minda was a baby, and always screamed when she
heard a gun go off; in the second place, she always fell down when
she tried to run and squalled like everything if he did not wait
for her; in the third place, Injins always beat little girls' heads
off against a tree if they caught 'em.
Moreover, Uncle Dan, upon being consulted, declared that a
good-sized Injin could swaller Minda in one gulp if he happened to
be 'specially hungry,--or in a hurry. Uncle Dan also appeared to
be very much surprised when he heard that she had gone off to the
war. He said that Uncle Fred ought to be ashamed of himself; and
the next time he asked Uncle Fred about Minda he was considerably
relieved to hear that his little playmate had given up fighting
altogether and was living quite peaceably in a house made of a
pumpkin over yonder where the sun went down at night.
It was not until sometime after his mother went away,--after the
long-to-be-remembered "fooneral," with its hymns, and weeping, and
praying,--that he heard the grown-ups talking about the war being
over. The redcoats were thrashed and there was much boasting and
bragging among the men of the settlement. Strange men appeared on
the street, and other men slapped their backs and shook hands with
them and shouted loudly and happily at them. In time, he came to
understand that these were the citizens who had gone off to fight
in the war and were now home again, all safe and sound. He began
to watch for his father. He would know him a million miles off, he
was so big, and he had the biggest rifle in the world.
"Do you s'pose Pa will know how to find me, grandma?" he would
inquire. "'Cause, you see, I don't live where I used to."
And his grandmother, beset with this and similar questions from
one day's end to the other, would become very busy over what she
was doing at the time and tell him not to pester her. He did not
like to ask his grandfather. He was so stern,--even when he was
sitting all alone on the porch and was not busy at all.
Then one day he saw his grandparents talking together on the porch.
Aunt Hettie was with them, but she was not talking. She was just
looking at him as he played down by the watering trough. He distinctly
heard his grandma say:
"I think he ought to be told, Richard. It's a sin to let him go
on thinking---" The rest of the sentence was lost to him when she
suddenly lowered her voice. They were all looking at him.
Presently his grandfather called to him, and beckoned with his
finger. He marched up to the porch with his little bow and arrow.
Grandma turned to go into the house, and Aunt Hettie hurried away.
"Don't be afraid, Granny," he sang out. "I won't shoot you. 'Sides,
I've only got one arrer, Aunt Hettie."
His grandfather took him on his knee, and then and there told him
the truth about his father. He spoke very slowly and did not say
any of those great big words that he always used when he was with
grown-up people, or even with the darkies.
"Now, pay strict attention, Kenneth. You must understand everything I
say to you. Do you hear? Your father is never coming home. We told
you he had gone to the war. We thought it was best to let you think
so. It is time for you to know the truth. You are always asking
questions about him. After this, when you want to know about your
father, you must come to me. I will tell you. Do not bother your
grandma. You make her unhappy when you ask questions. You see, your
Ma was once her little girl and mine. She used to be as little as
you are. Your Pa was her husband. You know what a husband is, don't
you?"
"Yes, sir," said Kenneth, wide-eyed. "It's a boy's father."
"You are nearly six years old. Quite a man, my lad." He paused to
look searchingly into the child's face, his bushy eyebrows meeting
in a frown.
"The devil of it is," he burst out, "you are the living image of
your father. You are going to grow up to look like him." He groaned
audibly, spat viciously over his shoulder, and went on in a strange,
hard voice. "Do you know what it is to steal? It means taking
something that belongs to somebody else."
"Yes, sir. 'Thou shalt not steal.' It's in the Bible."
"Well, you know that Indians and gipsies steal little boys, don't
you? It is the very worst kind of stealing, because it breaks the
boy's mother's heart. It sometimes kills them. Now, suppose that
somebody stole a husband. A husband is a boy's father, as you say.
Your father was a husband. He was your dear mother's husband. You
loved your mother very, very much, didn't you? Don't cry, lad,--there,
there, now! Be a little man. Now, listen. Somebody stole your
mother's husband. She loved him better than anything in the world.
She loved him, I guess, even better than she loved you, Kenneth.
She just couldn't live without him. Do you see? That is why she
died and went away. She is in Heaven now. Now, let me hear you say
this after me: My mother died because somebody stole her husband
away from her."
"'My mother died because somebody stoled her husband away from
her,'" repeated the boy, slowly.
"You will never forget that, will you?"
"No,--sir."
"Say this: My mother's heart was broken and so she died."
"'My mother's heart was broken and she--and so she died.'"
"You will never forget that either, will you, Kenneth?"
"No, sir."
"Now, I am going to tell you who stole your mother's husband away
from her. You know who your mother's husband was, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. My Pa."
"One night,--the night before you came up here to live--your Auntie
Rachel,--that is what you called her, isn't it? Well, she was not
your real aunt. She was your neighbour,--just as Mr. Collins over
there is my neighbour,--and she was your mother's friend. Well,
that night she stole your Pa from your Ma, and took him away with
her,--far, far away, and she never let him come back again. She
took him away in the night, away from your mother and you forever
and forever. She---"
"But Pa was bigger'n she was," interrupted Kenneth, frowning. "Why
didn't he kill her and get away?"
The old Squire was silent for a moment. "It is not fair for me to
put all the blame on Rachel Carter. Your father was willing to go.
He did not kill Rachel Carter. Together he and Rachel Carter killed
your mother. But Rachel Carter was more guilty than he was. She was
a woman and she stole what belonged in the sight of God to another
woman. She was a bad woman. If she had been a good woman she would
not have stolen your father away from your mother. So now you know
that your Pa did not go to the war. He went away with Rachel Carter
and left your mother to die of a broken heart. He went off into
the wilderness with that bad, evil woman. Your mother was unhappy.
She died. She is under the ground up in the graveyard, all alone.
Rachel Carter put her there, Kenneth. I cannot ask you to hate
your father. It would not be right. He is your father in spite of
everything. You know what the Good Book says? 'Honour thy father
and--' how does the rest of it go, my lad?"
"'Honour thy father and thy mother that thou days may be long upon
thou earth,'" murmured Kenneth, bravely.
"When you are a little older you will realize that your father did
not honour his father and mother, and then you may understand more
than you do now. But you may hate Rachel Carter. You MUST hate her.
She killed your mother. She stole your father. She made an orphan
of you. She destroyed the home where you used to live. As you
grow older I will try to tell you how she did all these things.
You would not understand now. There is one of the Ten Commandments
that you do not understand,--I mean one in particular. It is enough
for you to know the meaning of the one that says 'Thou shalt not
steal.' You must not be unhappy over what I have told you. Everything
will be all right with you. You will be safe here with granny and
me. But you must no longer believe that your father went to the
war like other men in the village. If he were MY son, I would---"
"Don't say it, Richard," cried Kenneth's grandma, from the doorway
behind them. "Don't ever say that to him."
CHAPTER I
SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT
Night was falling as two horsemen drew rein in front of a cabin
at the edge of a clearing in the far-reaching sombre forest.
Their approach across the stump-strewn tract had been heralded by
the barking of dogs,--two bristling beasts that came out upon the
muddy, deep-rutted road to greet them with furious inhospitality.
A man stood partially revealed in the doorway. His left arm and
shoulder were screened from view by the jamb, his head was bent
forward as he peered intently through narrowed eyes at the strangers
in the road.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he called out.
"Friends. How far is it to the tavern at Clark's Point?"
"Clark's Point is three miles back," replied the settler. "I guess
you must have passed it without seein' it," he added drily. "If
it happened to be rainin' when you come through you'd have missed
seein' it fer the raindrops. Where you bound fer?"
"Lafayette. I guess we're off the right road. We took the left turn
four or five miles back."
"You'd ought to have kept straight on. Come 'ere, Shep! You, Pete!
Down with ye!"
The two dogs, still bristling, slunk off in the direction of the
squat log barn. A woman appeared behind the man and stared out
over his shoulder. From the tall stone chimney at the back of the
cabin rose the blue smoke of the kitchen fire, to be whirled away
on the wind that was guiding the storm out of the rumbling north.
There was a dull, wavering glow in the room behind her. At one of
the two small windows gleamed a candle-light.
"What's takin' you to Clark's Point? There ain't no tavern there.
There ain't nothin' there but a hitch-post and a waterin'-trough.
Oh, yes, I forgot. Right behind the hitch-post is Jake Stone's
store and a couple of ash-hoppers and a town-hall, but you wouldn't
notice 'em if you happened to be on the wrong side of the post.
Mebby it's Middleton you're lookin' fer."
"I am looking for a place to put up for the night, friend. We met
a man back yonder, half an hour ago, who said the nearest tavern
was at Clark's Point."
"What fer sort of lookin' man was he?"
"Tall fellow with red whiskers, riding a grey horse."
"That was Jake Stone hisself. Beats all how that feller tries to
advertise his town. He says it beats Crawfordsville and Lafayette
all to smash, an' it's only three or four months old. Which way
was he goin'?"
"I suppose you'd call it south. I've lost my bearings, you see."
"That's it. He was on his way down to Attica to get drunk. They
say Attica's goin' to be the biggest town on the Wabash. Did I ask
you what your name was, stranger?"
"My name is Gwynne. I left Crawfordsville this morning, hoping to
reach Lafayette before night. But the road is so heavy we couldn't---"
"Been rainin' steady for nearly two weeks," interrupted the settler.
"Hub-deep everywhere. It's a good twenty-five or thirty mile from
Crawfordsville to Lafayette. Looks like more rain, too. I think
she'll be on us in about two minutes. I guess mebby we c'n find a
place fer you to sleep to-night, and we c'n give you somethin' fer
man an' beast. If you'll jest ride around here to the barn, we'll
put the hosses up an' feed 'em, and--Eliza, set out a couple more
plates, an' double the rations all around." His left arm and hand
came into view. "Set this here gun back in the corner, Eliza. I
guess I ain't goin' to need it. Gimme my hat, too, will ye?"
As the woman drew back from the door, a third figure came up behind
the man and took her place. The horseman down at the roadside,
fifty feet away, made out the figure of a woman. She touched the
man's arm and he turned as he was in the act of stepping down from
the door-log. She spoke to him in a low voice that failed to reach
the ears of the travellers.
The man shook his head slowly, and then called out:
"I didn't jist ketch your name, mister. The wind's makin' such a
noise I--Say it again, will ye?"
"My name is Kenneth Gwynne. Get it?" shouted the horseman. "And
this is my servant, Zachariah."
The man in the door bent his head, without taking his eyes from the
horseman, while the woman murmured something in his ear, something
that caused him to straighten up suddenly.
"Where do you come from?" he inquired, after a moment's hesitation.
"My home is in Kentucky. I live at---"
"Kentucky, eh? Well, that's a good place to come from. I guess
you're all right, stranger." He turned to speak to his companion.
A few words passed between them, and then she drew back into
the room. The woman called Eliza came up with the man's hat and a
lighted lantern. She closed the door after him as he stepped out
into the yard.
"'Round this way," he called out, making off toward the corner of
the cabin. "Don't mind the dogs. They won't bite, long as I'm here."
The wind was wailing through the stripped trees behind the
house,--a sombre, limitless wall of trees that seemed to close in
with smothering relentlessness about the lonely cabin and its raw
field of stumps. The angry, low-lying clouds and the hastening
dusk of an early April day had by this time cast the gloom of
semi-darkness over the scene. Spasmodic bursts of lightning laid
thin dull, unearthly flares upon the desolate land, and the rumble
of apple-carts filled the ear with promise of disaster. The chickens
had gone to roost; several cows, confined in a pen surrounded by the
customary stockade of poles driven deep into the earth and lashed
together with the bark of the sturdy elm, were huddled in front of
a rude shed; a number of squealing, grunting pigs nosed the cracks
in the rail fence that formed still another pen; three or four pompous
turkey gobblers strutted unhurriedly about the barnlot, while some
of their less theatrical hens perched stiffly, watchfully on the
sides of a clumsy wagon-bed over against the barn. Martins and
chimney-swallows darted above the cabin and out-buildings, swirling
in mad circles, dipping and careening with incredible swiftness.
The gaunt settler conducted the unexpected guests to the barn,
where, after they had dismounted, he assisted in the removal of
the well-filled saddle-bags and rolls from the backs of their jaded
horses.
"Water?" he inquired briefly.
"No, suh," replied Zachariah, blinking as the other held the
lantern up the better to look into his face. Zachariah was a young
negro,--as black as night, with gleaming white teeth which he
revealed in a broad and friendly grin. "Had all dey could drink,
Marster, back yander at de crick."
"You couldn't have forded the Wea this time last week," said the
host, addressing Gwynne. "She's gone down considerable the last
four-five days. Out of the banks last week an' runnin' all over
creation."
"Still pretty high," remarked the other. "Came near to sweeping
Zack's mare downstream but--well, she made it and Zack has turned
black again."
The settler raised his lantern again at the stable door and looked
dubiously at the negro.
"You're from Kentucky, Mr. Gwynne," he said, frowning. "I got to
tell you right here an' now that if this here boy is a slave, you
can't stop here,--an' what's more, you can't stay in this county.
We settled the slavery question in this state quite a spell back,
an' we make it purty hot for people who try to smuggle niggers
across the border. I got to ask you plain an' straight; is this
boy a slave?"
"He is not," replied Gwynne. "He is a free man. If he elects to
leave my service to-morrow, he is at liberty to go. My grandfather
freed all of his slaves shortly before he died, and that was when
Zachariah here was not more than fifteen years of age. He is as
free as I am,--or you, sir. He is my servant, not my slave. I know
the laws of this state, and I intend to abide by them. I expect
to make my home here in Indiana,--in Lafayette, as a matter of
fact. This boy's name is Zachariah Button. Ten years ago he was a
slave. He has with him, sir, the proper credentials to support my
statement,--and his, if he chooses to make one. On at least a dozen
occasions, first in Ohio and then in Indiana, I have been obliged
to convince official and unofficial inquirers that my--"
"That's all right, Mr. Gwynne," cried the settler heartily. "I take
your word for it. If you say he's not a slave, why, he ain't, so
that's the end of it. And it ain't necessary for Zachariah to swear
to it, neither. We can't offer you much in the way of entertainment,
Mr. Gwynne, but what we've got you're welcome to. I came to this
country from Ohio seven years ago, an' I learned a whole lot about
hospitality durin' the journey. I learned how to treat a stranger
in a strange land fer one thing, an' I learned that even a hoss-thief
ain't an ongrateful cuss if you give him a night's lodgin' and a
meal or two."
"I shall be greatly indebted to you, sir. The time will surely
come when I may repay you,--not in money, but in friendship. Pray
do not let us discommode you or your household. I will be satisfied
to sleep on the floor or in the barn, and as for Zachariah, he--"
"The barn is for the hosses to sleep in," interrupted the host,
"and the floor is for the cat. 'Tain't my idee of fairness to allow
human bein's to squat on proppety that rightfully belongs to hosses
an' cats,--so I guess you'll have to sleep in a bed, Mr. Gwynne."
He spoke with a drawl. "Zachariah c'n spread his blankets on the
kitchen floor an' make out somehow. Now, if you'll jist step over
to the well yander, you'll find a wash pan. Eliza,--I mean Mrs.
Striker,--will give you a towel when you're ready. Jest sing out
to her. Here, you, Zachariah, carry this plunder over an' put it
in the kitchen. Mrs. Striker will show you. Be careful of them
rifles of your'n. They go off mighty sudden if you stub your toe.
You'll find a comb and lookin' glass in the settin' room, Mr. Gwynne.
You'll probably want to put a few extry touches on yourself when
I tell you there's an all-fired purty girl spendin' the night with
us. Go along, now. I'll put the feed down fer your hosses an' be
with you in less'n no time."
"You are very kind, Mr.--Did you say Striker?"
"Phineas Striker, sir,--Phin fer short."
"I am prepared and amply able to pay for lodging and food, Mr.
Striker, so do not hesitate to--"
"Save your breath, stranger. I'm as deef as a post. The storm's
goin' to bust in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail, so you'd better
be a leetle spry if you want to git inside afore she comes."
With that he entered the barn door, leading the horses. Gwynne and
his servant hurried through the darkness toward the light in the
kitchen window. The former rapped politely on the door. It was
opened by Mrs. Striker, a tall, comely woman well under thirty,
who favoured the good-looking stranger with a direct and smileless
stare. He removed his tall, sorry-looking beaver.
"Madam, your husband has instructed my servant to leave our belongings
in your kitchen. I fear they are not overly clean, what with mud
and rain, devil-needles and burrs. Your kitchen is as clean as a
pin. Shall I instruct him to return with them to the barn and--"
"Bring them in," she said, melting in spite of herself as she looked
down from the doorstep into his dark, smiling eyes. His strong,
tanned face was beardless, his teeth were white, his abundant brown
hair tousled and boyishly awry,--and there were mud splashes on
his cheek and chin. He was tall and straight and his figure was
shapely, despite the thick blue cape that hung from his shoulders.
"I guess they ain't any dirtier than Phin Striker's boots are
this time o' the year. Put them over here, boy, 'longside o' that
cupboard. Supper'll be ready in ten or fifteen minutes, Mr. Gwynne."
His smile broadened. He sniffed gratefully. A far more exacting
woman than Eliza Striker would have forgiven this lack of dignity
on his part.
"You will find me ready for it, Mrs. Striker. The smell of side-meat
goes straight to my heart, and nothing in all this world could be
more wonderful than the coffee you are making."
"Go 'long with you!" she cried, vastly pleased, and turned to her
sizzling skillets.
Zachariah deposited the saddle-bags and rolls in the corner and then
returned to the door where he received the long blue cape, gloves
and the towering beaver from his master's hands. He also received
instructions which sent him back to open a bulging saddle-bag and
remove therefrom a pair of soft, almost satiny calf-skin boots. As
he hurried past Mrs. Striker, he held them up for her inspection,
grinning from ear to ear. She gazed in astonishment at the white
and silver ornamented tops, such as were affected by only the most
fastidious dandies of the day and were so rarely seen in this raw,
new land that the beholder could scarce believe her eyes.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed, and then went to the sitting-room
to whisper excitedly to the solitary occupant, who, it so chanced,
was at the moment busily and hastily employed in rearranging her
brown, wind-blown hair before the round-topped little looking-glass
over the fireplace.
"I thought you said you wasn't goin' to see him," observed Mrs.
Striker, after imparting her information. "If you ain't, what are
you fixin' yourself up fer?"
"I have changed my mind, Eliza," said the young lady, loftily. "In
the first place, I am hungry, and in the second place it would not
be right for me to put you to any further trouble about supper.
I shall have supper with the rest of you and not in the bedroom,
after all. How does my hair look?"
"You've got the purtiest hair in all the--"
"How does it look?"
"It would look fine if you NEVER combed it. If I had hair like
your'n, I'd be the proudest woman in--"
"Don't be silly. It's terrible, most of the time."
"Well, it's spick an' span now, if that's what you want to know,"
grumbled Eliza, and vanished, fingering her straight, straw-coloured
hair somewhat resentfully.
Meanwhile, Kenneth Gwynne, having divested himself of his dark
blue "swallow-tail," was washing his face and hands at the well.
The settler approached with the lantern.
"She's comin'," he shouted above the howling wind. "I guess you'd
better dry yourself in the kitchen. Hear her whizzin' through the
trees? Gosh all hemlock! She's goin' to be a snorter, stranger.
Hurry inside!"
They bolted for the door and dashed into the kitchen just as the
deluge came. Phineas Striker, leaning his weight against the door,
closed it and dropped the bolt.
"Whew! She's a reg'lar harricane, that's what she is. Mighty
suddent, too. Been holdin' back fer ten minutes,--an' now she lets
loose with all she's got. Gosh! Jest listen to her!"
The hiss of the torrent on the clapboard roof was deafening, the
little window panes were streaming; a dark, glistening shadow crept
out from the bottom of the door and began to spread; the howling
wind shook the very walls of the staunch cabin, while all about
them roared the ear-splitting cannonade, the crash of splintered
skies, the crackling of musketry, the rending and tearing of all
the garments that clothe the universe.
Eliza Striker, hardy frontierswoman though she was, put her fingers to
her ears and shrank away from the stove,--for she had been taught
that all metal "drew lightning." Her husband busied himself stemming
the stream of water that seeped beneath the door with empty grain
or coffee bags, snatched from the top of a cupboard where they
were stored, evidently for the very purpose to which they were now
being put.
Gwynne stood coatless in the centre of the kitchen, rolling down
his white shirt-sleeves. Behind him cringed Zachariah, holding his
master's boots and coat in his shaking hands, his eyes rolling with
terror, his lips mumbling an unheard appeal for mercy.
The sitting-room door opened suddenly and the other guest of the
house glided into the kitchen. Her eyes were crinkled up as if
with an almost unendurable pain, her fingers were pressed to her
temples, her red lips were parted.
"Goodness!" she gasped, with a hysterical laugh, not born of mirth,
nor of courage, but of the sheerest dismay.
"Don't be skeered," cried Phineas, looking at her over his
shoulder. "She'll soon be over. Long as the roof stays on, we're
all right,--an' I guess she'll stay."
Kenneth Gwynne bowed very low to the newcomer. The dim candle-light
afforded him a most unsatisfactory glimpse of her features. He
took in at a glance, however, her tall, trim figure, the burnished
crown of hair, and the surprisingly modish frock she wore. He had
seen no other like it since leaving the older, more advanced towns
along the Ohio,--not even in the thriving settlements of Wayne and
Madison Counties or in the boastful village of Crawfordsville. He
was startled. In all his journeyings through the land he had seen
no one arrayed like this. It was with difficulty that he overcame
a quite natural impulse to stare at her as if she were some fantastic
curiosity.
The contrast between this surprising creature and the gingham
aproned Eliza was unbelievable. There was but one explanation: She
was the mistress of the house, Eliza the servant. And yet, even
so, how strangely out-of-place, out-of-keeping she was here in the
wilderness.
In some confusion he strode over to lend a hand to Phineas Striker.
The rustle of silk behind him and the quick clatter of heels,
evidenced the fact that the girl had crossed swiftly to Eliza's
side.
Later on he had the opportunity to take in all the details of her
costume, and he did so with a practised, sophisticated eye. It was,
after all, of a fashion two years old, evidence of the slowness
with which the modes reached these outposts of civilization. Here
was a perfect fitting blue frock of the then popular changeable
gros de zane, the skirt very wide, set on the body in large plaits,
one in front, one on each side and two behind. The sleeves also
were wide from shoulder to elbow, where they were tightly fitted
to the lower arm. The ruffles around the neck, which was open and
rather low, and about the wrists were of plain bobinet quilling.
Her slippers were black, with cross-straps. He had seen such frocks
as this, he was reminded, in fashionable Richmond and New York
only a year or so before, but nowhere in the west. Add a Dunstable
straw bonnet with its strings of satin and the frilled pelerine, and
this strange young woman might have just stepped from her carriage
in the most fashionable avenue in the land.
Zachariah, lacking his master's good manners, gazed in open-mouthed
wonder at the lady, forgetting for the moment his fear of the
tempest's wrath. Only the most hair-raising crash of thunder broke
the spell, causing him to close his eyes and resume his supplication.
"Now's your chance to get at the lookin' glass, Mr. Gwynne," said
Striker. "Right there in the sittin'-room. Go ahead; I'll manage
this."
Muttering a word of thanks, the young man turned to leave the room.
He shot a glance at his fellow guest. Her back was toward him, she
had her hands to her ears, and something told him that her eyes
were tightly closed. A particularly loud crash caused her to draw
her pretty shoulders up as if to receive the death-dealing bolt of
lightning. He heard her murmur again:
"Goodness--gracious!"
Eliza suddenly put an arm about her waist and drew the slender,
shivering figure close. As the girl buried her face upon the older
woman's shoulder, the latter cried out:
"Land sakes, child, you'll never get over bein' a baby, will ye?"
To which Phineas Striker added in a great voice: "Nor you, neither,
Eliza. Ef we didn't have company here you'd be crawlin' under the
table or something. She ain't afraid of wild cats or rattlesnakes
or Injins or even spiders," he went on, addressing Gwynne, "but
she's skeered to death of lightnin'. An' as fer that young lady
there, she wouldn't be afeared to walk from here to Lafayette all
alone on the darkest night,--an' look at her now! Skeered out of
her boots by a triflin' little thunderstorm. Why, I wouldn't give
two--"
"My goodness, Phin Striker," broke in his wife, a new note of alarm
in her voice, "I do hope them chickens an' turkeys have got sense
enough to get under something in this downpour. If they ain't, the
whole kit an' boodle of 'em will be drownded, sure as--"
"I never yet see a hen that liked water," interrupted Phineas. "Er
a turkey either. Don't you worry about 'em. You better worry about
that side-meat you're fryin'. Ef my nose is what it ort to be, I'd
say that piece o' meat was bein' burnt to death,--an' that's a lot
wuss than bein' drownded. They say drowndin' is the easiest death--"
"You men clear out o' this kitchen," snapped Eliza. "Out with ye!
You too, Phin Striker. I'll call ye when the table's set. Now, you
go an' set over there in the corner, away from the window, deary,
where the lightnin' can't git at you, an'--You'll find a comb on
the mantel-piece, Mr. Gwynne, an' Phineas will git you a boot-jack
out o' the bedroom if that darkey is too weak to pull your boots
off for you. Don't any of you go trampin' all over the room with
your muddy boots. I've got work enough to do without scrubbin'
floors after a pack of--My land! I do believe it's scorched. An'
the corn-bread must be--"
Phineas, after a doubtful look at the stopped-up door-crack, led
the way into the sitting-room. Zachariah came last with his master's
boots and coat. He was mumbling with suppressed fervour:
"Oh, Lord, jes' lemme hab one mo' chaince,--jes' one mo' chaince.
Good Lord! I been a wicked, ornery nigger,--only jes' gimme jes'
one mo' chaince. I been a wicked,--Yassuh, Marster Kenneth, I got
your boots. Yassuh. Right heah, suh. Oh, Lordy-Lordy! Yassuh,
yassuh!"
Seated in a big wooden rocker before the fireplace, Gwynne stretched
out his long legs one after the other; Zachariah tugged at the
heavy, mud-caked riding-boots, grunting mightily over a task that
gave him sufficient excuse for interjecting sundry irrelevant appeals
for mercy and an occasional reference to his own unworthiness as
a nigger.
The tempest continued with unabated violence. The big, raw-boned
Striker, pulling nervously at his beard, stood near a window
which looked out upon the barn and sheds, plainly revealed in the
blinding, almost uninterrupted flashes of lightning. Such sentences
as these fell from his lips as he turned his face from the bleaching
flares before they ended in mighty crashes: "That struck powerful
nigh,"--or "I seen that one runnin' along the ground like a ball
of fire," or "There goes somethin' near," or "That was a tree jest
back o' the barn, you'll see in the mornin'."
"Dere won't never be any mo'nin'," gulped the unhappy Zachariah,
bending lower to his task, which now had to do with the boot-straps
at the bottoms of his master's trouser-legs. Getting to his feet,
he proceeded, with a well-trained dexterity that even his terror
failed to divert, to draw on the immaculate calf-skin boots with
the gorgeous tops. Then he pulled the trouser-legs down over the
boots, obscuring their upper glory; after which he smoothed out the
wrinkles and fastened the instep straps. Whereupon, Kenneth arose,
stamped severely on the hearth several times to settle his feet
in the snug-fitting boots, and turned to the looking-glass. He was
wielding the comb with extreme care and precision when his host
turned from the window and approached.
"Seems to me you're goin' to a heap o' trouble, friend," he remarked,
surveying the tall, graceful figure with a rather disdainful eye.
"We don't dress up much in these parts, 'cept on Sunday."
"Please do not consider me vain," said the young man, flushing. He
smarted under the implied rebuke,--in fact, he was uncomfortably
aware of ridicule. "My riding-boots were filthy. I--I--Yes, I know,"
he broke in upon himself as Phineas extended one of his own muddy
boots for inspection. "I know, but, you see, I am the unbidden
guest of yourself and Mrs. Striker. The least I can do in return
for your hospitality is to make myself presentable--"
"You'll have to excuse my grinnin', Mr. Gwynne," interrupted the
other. "I didn't mean any offence. It's jest that we ain't used to
good clothes an' servants to pull our boots off an' on, an'--butternut
pants an' so on. We're 'way out here on the edge of the wilderness
where bluejeans is as good as broadcloth or doe-skin, an' a chaw
of tobacco is as good as the state seal fer bindin' a bargain. Lord
bless ye, I don't keer how much you dress up. I guess I might as
well tell ye the only men up at Lafayette who wear as good clothes
as you do are a couple of gamblers that work up an' down the river,
an' Barry Lapelle. I reckon you've heerd of Barry Lapelle. He's
known from one end of the state to the other, an' over in Ohio an'
Kentucky too."
"I have never heard of him."
Striker looked surprised. He glanced at the closed sitting-room
door before continuing.
"Well, he owns a couple steamboats that come up the river. Got 'em
when his father died a couple o' years ago. His home used to be in
Terry Hut, but he's been livin' at Bob Johnson's tavern for a matter
of six months now, workin' up trade fer his boats, I understand.
He's as wild as a hawk an'--but you'll run across him if you're
goin' to live in Lafayette."
"By the way, what is the population of Lafayette?"
Phineas studied the board ceiling thoughtfully for a moment or two.
"Well, 'cordin' to people who live in Attica she's got about five
hundred. People who live in Crawfordsville give her seven hundred.
Down at Covington an' Williamsport they say she's got about four
hundred an' twelve. When you git to Lafayette Bob Johnson an' the
rest of 'em will tell you she's over two thousand an' growin' so
fast they cain't keep track of her. There's so much lyin' goin' on
about Lafayette that it's impossible to tell jest how big she is.
Countin' in the dogs, I guess she must have a population of between
six hundred and fifty an' three thousand. You see, everybody up
there's got a dog, an' some of 'em two er three. One feller I know
has got seven. But, on the whole, I guess you'll like the place.
It's the head of navigation at high water, an' if they ever build
the Wabash an' Erie Canal they're talkin' about she'll be a regular
seaport, like New York er Boston. 'Pears to me the worst is over,
don't you reckon so?"
Kenneth, having adjusted his stock and white roll-over collar to
suit his most exacting eye, slipped his arms into the coat Zachariah
was holding for him, settled the shoulders with a shrug or two and
a pull at the flaring lapels, smoothed his yellow brocaded waist-coat
carefully, and then, spreading his long, shapely legs and at the
same time the tails of his coat, took a commanding position with
his back to the blazing logs.
"Are you referring to my toilet, Mr. Striker?" he inquired amiably.
"I was talkin' about the storm," explained Phineas hastily. "Take
the boots out to the kitchen, Zachariah. Eliza'll git into your wool
if she ketches you leavin' 'em in here. Yes, sir, she's certainly
lettin' up. Goin' down the river hell-bent. They'll be gettin' her
at Attica 'fore long. Are you plannin' to work the farm yourself,
Mr. Gwynne, or are you goin' to sell er rent on shares?"
Gwynne looked at him in surprise. "You appear to know who I am,
after all, Mr. Striker."
Striker grinned. "I guess everybody in this neck o' the woods has
heerd about you. Dan Bugher,--he's the county recorder,--an' Rube
Kelsey, John Bishop, Larry Stockton, an' a lot more of the folks
up in town, have been lookin' down the Crawfordsville road fer you
ever since your father died last August. You 'pear to be a very
important cuss fer one who ain't never set foot in Indianny before."
"I see," said the other reflectively. "Were you acquainted with my
father, Mr. Striker?"
"Much so as anybody could be. He wasn't much of a hand fer makin'
friends. Stuck purty close to the farm, an' made it about the best
piece o' propetty in the whole valley. I was jest wonderin' whether
you was plannin' to live on the farm er up in town."
"Well, you see, I am a lawyer by profession. I know little or
nothing about farming. My plans are not actually made, however.
A great deal depends on how I find things. Judge Wylie wishes me
to enter into partnership with him, and Providence M. Curry says
there is a splendid chance for me in his office at Crawfordsville.
I shall do nothing until I have gone thoroughly into the matter.
You know the farm, Mr. Striker?"
"Yes. It's not far from here,--five or six mile, I'd say, to
the north an' east. Takes in some of the finest land on the Wea
Plain,--mostly clear, some fine timber, plenty of water, an' about
the best stocked farm anywheres around. Your father was one of the
first to edge up this way ten er twelve year ago, an' he got the
pick o' the new land. He came from some'eres down the river, 'bout
Vincennes er Montezuma er some such place. I reckon you know that
he left another passel of land over this way, close to the Wabash,
an' some propetty up in Lafayette an' some more down in Crawfordsville."
"I have been so informed," said his guest, rather shortly.
"I bought this sixty acre piece offen him two year ago. All timber
when I took hold of it, 'cept seventeen acres out thataway," jerking
his thumb, "along the Middleton road." He hesitated a moment. "You
see, I worked for your father fer a considerable time, as a hand.
That's how he came to sell to me. I got married an' wanted a place of
my own. He said he'd sooner sell to me than let some other feller
cheat the eye-teeth outen me, me bein' a good deal of fool when
it comes to business an' all. Yep, I'd saved up a few dollars, so
I sez what's the sense of me workin' my gizzard out fer somebody
else an' all that, when land's so cheap an' life so doggoned short.
'Course, there's a small mortgage on the place, but I c'n take keer
of that, I reckon."
"Ahem! The mortgage, I fancy, is held by--er--the other heirs to
his property." "You're right. His widder holds it, but she ain't
the kind to press me. She's purty comfortable, what with this land
along the edge o' the plain out here an' a whole section up in the
Grand Prairie neighbourhood, besides half a dozen buildin' lots
in town an' a two story house to live in up there. To say nothin'
of--"
"Come to supper," called out Mrs. Striker from the doorway.
"That's somethin' I'm always ready fer," announced Mr. Striker.
"Winter an' summer, spring an' fall. Step right ahead, Mr.--"
"Just a moment, if you please," said the young man, laying his hand
on the settler's arm. "You will do me a great favour if you refrain
from discussing these matters in the presence of your other
guest to-night. My father, as you doubtless know, meant very
little in my life. I prefer not to discuss him in the presence of
strangers,--especially curious-minded young women."
Phineas looked at him narrowly for an instant, a queer expression
lurking in his eyes.
"Jest as you say, Mr. Gwynne. Not a word in front of strangers. I
don't know as you know it, but up to the time your father's will
was perduced there wasn't a soul in these parts as knowed such a
feller as you wuz on earth. He never spoke of a son, er havin' been
married before, er bein' a widower, er anything like--"
"I am thoroughly convinced of that, Mr. Striker," said Kenneth, a
trifle austerely, and passed on ahead of his host into the kitchen.
"Bring in them two candlesticks, Phin," ordered Mrs. Striker. "We
got to be able to see what each other looks like, an' goodness knows
we cain't with this taller dip I got out here to cook by. 'Tain't
often we have people right out o' the fashion-plates to supper, so
let's have all the light we kin."