VIOLA GWYN
They stepped outside the cabin, into the fresh, brisk gale that
was blowing. A gibbous moon hung in the eastern star-specked sky.
Scurrying moonlit clouds off in the west sped northward on the
sweep of the inconstant wind, which had shifted within the hour. A
light shone dimly through the square little window of the bedroom.
Kenneth's imagination penetrated to sacred precincts beyond the
solid logs: he pictured her in the other frock, moving gracefully
before the fascinated eyes of the settler's wife, proud as a peacock
and yet as gay as the lark.
"Women like to talk," observed Striker, with a sidelong glance at
the lighted window. He led the way to the opposite end of the cabin
and pointed off into the night. "Lafayette's off in yan direction.
There's a big stretch of open prairie in between, once you git
out'n these woods, an' further on there's more timber. The town's
down in a sort of valley, shaped somethin' like a saucer, with hills
on all sides an' the river cuttin' straight through the middle.
Considerable buildin' goin' on this spring. There's talk of the
Baptists an' the Methodists puttin' up new churches an' havin'
regular preachers instead of the circuit riders. But you'll see
all this fer yourself when you git there. Plenty of licker to be
had at Sol Hamer's grocery,--mostly Mononga-Durkee whisky,--in case
you git the Wabash shakes or suddenly feel homesick."
"I drink very little," said Kenneth.
"Well, you'll soon git over that," prophesied his host. "Everybody
does. A spell of aguer like we have along the river every fall an'
winter an' spring will make you mighty thankful fer Sol Hamer's
medicine, an' by the time summer comes you'll be able to stand
more'n you ever thought you could stand. What worries me is how
the women manage to git along without it. You see big strong men
goin' around shakin' their teeth out an' docterin' day an' night
at Sol's, but I'll be doggoned if you ever see a woman takin' it.
Seems as if they'd ruther shake theirselves to death than tetch a
drop o' whisky."
"You would not have them otherwise, would you?"
"Why, if I ever caught my wife takin' a swaller o' whisky, I'd--well,
by gosh, I don't know what I would do. First place, I'd think the
world was comin' to an end, and second place, I guess I'd be glad
it was. No, sirree, I don't want to see whisky goin' down a woman's
gullet. But that don't explain how they come to git along without
it when they've got the aguer. They won't even take it when a
rattlesnake bites 'em. Sooner die. An' in spite of all that, they
bring he-children into the world that can't git over a skeeter bite
unless they drink a pint or two of whisky. Well, I guess we better
go to roost, Mr. Gwynne. Must be nine o'clock. Everything's all
right out at the barn an' the chicken coops. Wolves an' foxes an'
weasels visit us sometimes at night, but I got things fixed so's
they go away hungry. In the day time, Eliza's got an ole musket
o' mine standin' in the kitchen to skeer the hawks away, an' I got
a rifle in the settin' room fer whatever varmint comes along at
night,--includin' hoss-thieves an' setch-like."
"Horse-thieves?"
"Yep. Why, only last month a set of hoss-thieves from down the
river went through the Wea plains an' stole sixteen yearlin' colts,
drove 'em down to the river, loaded 'em on a flat-boat an' got away
without losin' a hair. Done it on a Sunday night, too."
It was a few minutes past nine when Kenneth followed his host
up the ladder and through the trap-door into the stuffy attic. He
carried his rough riding-boots, which Zachariah had cleaned and
greased with a piece of bacon-rind.
"I'll leave the ladder here," said Striker, depositing the candlestick
on the floor. "So's I c'n stick my head in here in the mornin' an'
rouse you up. There's your straw-tick over yander, an' I'll fotch
your blankets up in a minute or two. I reckon you'll have to crawl
on your hands an' knees; this attic wasn't built fer full-size
men."
"I will be all right," his guest assured him. "Beggars cannot be
choosers. A place to lay my head, a roof to keep the rain off, and
a generous host--what more can the wayfarer ask?"
The clapboard roof was a scant three feet above the dusty floor
of the attic. Stooping, the young man made his way to the bed-tick
near the little window. He did not sniff with scorn at his humble
surroundings. He had travelled long and far and he had slept in
worse places than this. He was drawing off his boots when Striker
again stuck his head and shoulders through the opening and laid
his roll of blankets on the floor.
"Eliza jist stuck her head out to tell me to shut this trap-door,
so's my snorin' won't keep you awake. I fergot all about my snorin'.
Like as not if I left this door open the whole danged roof would
be lifted right off'm the cabin 'fore I'd been asleep five minutes.
Well, good night. I'll call you in the mornin' bright an' early."
The trap-door was slowly lowered into place as the shaggy head and
broad shoulders of the settler disappeared. The young man heard the
scraping of the ladder as it was being removed to a place against
the wall.
He pried open the tight little window, letting a draft of fresh air
rush into the stifling attic. Then he sat on the edge of the tick
for a few minutes, ruminating, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on the
sputtering, imperilled candle. Finally he shook his head, sighed,
and began to unstrap his roll of blankets. He had decided to remove
only his coat and waistcoat. The sharp, staccato barking of a fox
up in the woods fell upon his ears. He paused to listen. Then came
the faraway, unmistakable howl of a wolf, the solemn, familiar hoot
of the wilderness owl and the raucous call of the great night heron.
But there was no sound from the farmyard. He said his prayers--he
never forgot to say the prayer his mother had taught him--blew out
the candle, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and was soon fast
asleep.
He did not know what time it was when he was aroused by the barking
of Striker's dogs, loud, furious barking and ugly growls, signifying
the presence in the immediate neighbourhood of the house of some
intruder, man or beast. Shaking off the sleep that held him, he
crept to the window and looked out. The moon was gone and the stars
had almost faded from the inky black dome. He guessed the hour
with the acute instinct of one to whom the vagaries of night have
become familiar through long understanding. It would now be about
three o'clock in the morning, with the creeping dawn an hour and
a half away.
Suddenly his gaze fell upon a light moving among the trees some
distance from the cabin. It appeared and disappeared, like a jack
o' lantern, but always it moved southward, obscured every few feet
by an intervening trunk or a clump of brush. As he watched the
bobbing light, he heard some one stirring in the room below. Then
the cabin door creaked on its rusty hinges and almost immediately
a jumble of subdued hoarse voices came up to him. He felt for his
pistols and realized with something of a shock that he had left them
in the kitchen with Zachariah. For the first time in his travels
he had neglected to place them beside his bed.
The dogs, admonished by a sharp word or two, ceased their barking.
This reassured him, for they would obey no one except Phineas
Striker. Whoever was at the cabin door, there was no longer any
question in his mind as to the peaceful nature of the visit. He
crept over to the trap-door and cautiously attempted to lift it
an inch or so, the better to hear what was going on, but try as he
would he could not budge the covering. The murmur of voices went on
for a few minutes longer, and then he heard the soft, light pad of
feet on the floor below; sibilant, penetrating whispers; a suppressed
feminine ejaculation followed by the low laugh of a man, a laugh
that might well have been described as a chuckle.
For a long time he lay there listening to the confused sound of
whispers, the stealthy shuffling of feet, the quiet opening and
closing of a door, and then there was silence.
Several minutes passed. He stole back to the window. The light in
the forest had vanished. Just as he was on the point of crawling
into bed again, another sound struck his ear: the unmistakable
rattle of wagon wheels on their axles, the straining of harness,
the rasp of tug chains,--quite near at hand. The clack-clack of
the hubs gradually diminished as the heavy vehicle made its slow,
tortuous way off through the ruts and mire of the road. Presently
the front door of the cabin squealed on its hinges, the latch
snapped and the bolt fell carefully into place.
He could not go to sleep again. His brain was awake and active,
filled with unanswered questions, beset by endless speculation.
The first faint sign of dawn, creeping through the window, found
him watching eagerly, impatiently for its appearance. The presence
of a wagon, even at that black hour of the night, while perhaps
unusual, was readily to be accounted for in more ways than one, none
of them possessing a sinister significance. A neighbouring farmer
making an early start for town stopping to carry out some friendly
commission for Phineas Striker; a settler calling for assistance
in the case of illness at his home; hunters on their way to the
marshes for wild ducks and geese; or even guardians of the law in
search of malefactors. But the mysterious light in the woods,--that
was something not so easily to be explained.
The square little aperture was clearly defined against the greying
sky before he distinguished signs of activity in the room below.
Striker was up and moving about. He could hear him stacking logs
in the fireplace, and presently there came up to him the welcome
crackle of kindling-wood ablaze. A door opened and a gruff voice
spoke. The settler was routing Zachariah out of his slumbers.
Far off in some unknown, remote land a rooster crowed,--the day's
champion, the first of all to greet the rising sun. Almost instantly,
a cock in Striker's barnyard awoke in confusion and dismay, and
sent up a hurried, raucous cock-a-doodle-doo,--too late by half
a minute to claim the honours of the day, but still a valiant
challenger. Then other chanticleers, big and little, sounded their
clarion call,--and the day was born.
Kenneth, despite his longing for this very hour to come, now perversely
wished to sleep. A belated but beatific drowsiness seized him. He
was only half-conscious of the noise that attended the lifting of
the trap-door.
"Wake up! Time to git up," a distant voice was calling, and he
suddenly opened his eyes very wide and found himself staring at a
shaggy, unkempt head sticking up out of the floor, rendered grim
and terrifying by the fitful play of a ruddy light from the depths
below. For a second he was bewildered.
"That you, Striker?" he mumbled.
"Yep,--it's me. Time to git up. Five o'clock. Breakfass'll soon be
ready. You c'n wash up out at the well. Sleep well?"
"Passably. I was awakened some time in the night by your visitors."
He was sitting up on the edge of the tick, drawing on his boots.
Striker was silent for a moment.
"Thought maybe you'd be disturbed, spite of all we could do to be
as quiet as possible. People from a farm 'tother side of the plains."
The head disappeared, and in a very few minutes Gwynne, carrying
his coat and waistcoat, descended the ladder into the presence of
a roaring fire. He shot a glance at the closed bedroom door, and
then hastily made his way out of the cabin and around to the well.
Eliza was preparing breakfast. In the grey half-light he made out
Striker and Zachariah moving about the barnlot. A rough but clean
towel hung across the board wall of the well, while a fresh bucket
of water stood on the shelf inside, its chain hanging limply from
the towering end of the "h'isting pole."
As he completed his ablutions, the darkey boy approached.
"Good morning, Zachariah," he spluttered, over the edge of the
towel. "Did you sleep well?"
"No, suh, Marse Kenneth, Ah slep' powerful porely. Ah don't reckon
Ah had mah eyes close' more'n fifteen seconds all night long, suh."
His master peered at him. Zachariah's eyes were not yet thoroughly
open.
"You mean you did not have them open more than fifteen seconds,
you rascal. Why, you were asleep and snoring by nine o'clock."
"Yas, suh, yas, suh,--but Ah done got 'em wide open ag'in 'side o'
no time. Ah jes' couldn't holp worryin', Marse Kenneth, 'bout you
all. Ah sez to mahself, ef Marse Kenneth he ain' got no fitten
place to lay his weary haid--"
"Oh, then you were not kept awake by noises or--by the by, did you
hear any noises?"
"Noises? No, SUH! Dis yere cabin hit was like a grave. Thass what
kep' me awake, mos' likely. Ah reckon Ah is used to noises. Ah jes'
couldn't go to sleep widdout 'em, Marse Kenneth. Wuzzen't even a
cricket er a--"
His master's hearty laugh caused him to cut his speech short. A
wary glance out of the corner of his eye satisfied him that it was
now time to change the subject.
"Done fed de hosses, suh, an' mos' ready to packen up fo' de juhney,
suh. Yas, SUH! Ev'thing all hunky-dory jes' soon as Marse Kenneth
done had his breakfuss. YAS, suh! Yas, SUH!"
They ate breakfast by candle-light, Striker and Eliza and Kenneth.
There was no sign of the beautiful and exasperating girl. Phineas
was strangely glum and preoccupied, his wife too busy with her
flap-jacks to take even the slightest interest in the desultory
conversation.
"A little too early for my fellow-guest to be up and about, I
see," ventured Kenneth at last, taking the bull by the horns. His
curiosity had to be satisfied.
Striker did not look up from his plate. "She's gone. She ain't
here."
"Gone?"
"Yep. Left jist a little while 'fore sun-up."
"Her ma sent for her," volunteered Eliza.
"Sent fer her to come in a hurry," added Striker, trying to be
casual.
"Then it was she who went away in the wagon last night," said the
young man, a note of disappointment in his voice.
"Airly this mornin'," corrected his host. "Jist half an hour or so
'fore sun-up."
"I trust her mother is not ill."
"No tellin'," was Striker's non-committal response.
It was quite apparent to Kenneth that they did not wish to discuss
the matter. He waited a few moments before remarking:
"I saw a light moving through the woods above here,--a lantern,
I took it to be,--just after I was awakened by the barking of the
dogs. I thought at first it was that which set the dogs off on a
rampage."
Striker was looking at him intently under his bushy eyebrows, his
knife poised halfway to his lips. While he could not see Eliza, who
was at the stove behind him, he was struck by the fact that there
was a brief, significant suspension of activity on her part; the
scrape of the "turnover" in the frying-pan ceased abruptly.
"A lantern up in the woods?" said Striker slowly, looking past
Gwynne at Eliza.
"A light. It may not have been a lantern."
"Which way was it movin'?"
"In that direction," indicating the south.
The turning of the flap-jacks in the pan was resumed. Striker
relaxed a little.
"Hunters, I reckon, goin' down stream for wild duck and geese this
mornin'. There's a heap o' ducks an' geese passin' over--"
"See here, Phineas," broke in his wife suddenly, "what's the sense
of sayin' that? You know it wasn't duck hunters. Nobody's out
shooting ducks with the river as high as it is down this way, an'
Mr. Gwynne knows it, if he's got half as much sense as I think he
has."
"When I heard people out in front of the cabin shortly afterward,
I naturally concluded that the lantern belonged to them," remarked
the young man.
"Well, it didn't," said Striker, laying down his knife. "I guess it
won't hurt you to know now somethin' that will be of considerable
interest to you later on. I ain't betrayin' nobody's secret, 'cause
I said I was goin' to tell you the whole story."
"Don't you think you'd better let it come from somebody else, Phin?"
interposed his wife nervously.
"No, I don't, Eliza. 'Cause why? 'Cause I think he'd ort to know.
Maybe he'll be able to put a stop to her foolishness. We didn't know
until long after you went to bed that her real reason fer comin'
here yesterday was to run off an' get married to Barry Lapelle.
She didn't tell you no lies about her clothes an' all that, 'cause
her ma had put her foot down on her takin' off black. They had it
all planned out beforehand, her an' this Lapelle. He was to come
fer her some time before daybreak with a couple of hosses an' they
was to be off before the sun was up on their way to Attica where
they was to be married, an' then go on down the river to his home
in Terry Hut. Me an' Eliza set up all night in that bedroom, tryin'
to coax her out of it. I don't like this Lapelle feller. He's a
handsome cuss, but he's as wild as all get out,--drinks, gambles,
an' all setch. Well, to make a long story short, that was prob'ly
him up yander on the ole Injin trace, with his hosses, waitin' fer
the time to come when they could be off. Her ma must have found
out about their plans, 'cause she come here herself with two of her
hired men an' old Cap'n Scott, a friend of the fam'ly, an' took her
daughter right out from under Barry's nose. It was them you heared
down here last night. I will say this fer the girl, she kinder
made up her mind 'long about midnight that it was a foolish thing
to do, runnin' off like this with Barry, an' like as not when the
time come she'd have backed out."
"She's a mighty headstrong girl," said Eliza. "Sot in her ways an'
sp'iled a good deal by goin' to school down to St. Louis." "Her
mother don't want her to marry Lapelle. She's dead sot ag'inst it.
It's a mighty funny way fer the girl to act, when she's so fond of
her mother. I can't understand it in her. All the more reason fer
her to stick to her mother when it's a fact that the old woman
ain't got what you'd call a friend in the whole deestrict. She's a
queer sort of woman,--close an' stingy as all get out, an' as hard
as a hickory log. Never been seen at a church meetin'. She makes
her daughter go whenever there's a meetin', but as fer herself,--no,
sirree. 'Course, I understand why she's so sot ag'inst Barry. She's
purty well off an' the girl will be rich some day."
"Shucks!" exclaimed Eliza. "Barry Lapelle's after her 'cause she's
the purtiest girl him or anybody else has ever seen. He ain't the
only man that's in love with her. They ALL are,--clear from Lafayette
to Terry Hut, an' maybe beyond. Don't you tell me it's her money
he's after, Phin Striker. He's after HER. He's got plenty of money
himself, so they say, so why--"
"I ain't so sure about that," broke in her husband. "There's a lot
of talk about him gamblin' away most everything his father left him.
Lost one of his boats last winter in a poker game up at Lafayette,
an' had to borrer money on some land he's got down the river to
git it back. The packet Paul Revere it was. Used to run on the
Mississippi. I guess she kinder lost her head over him," he went
on musingly. "He's an awful feller with women, so good-lookin' an'
all, an' so different from the farm boys aroun' here. Allus got
good clothes on, an' they say he has fit a couple of duels down
the river. Somehow that allus appeals to young girls. But I can't
understand it in her. She's setch a level-headed girl,--but, then, I
guess they're all alike when a good-lookin' man comes along. Look
at Eliza here. The minute she sot eyes on me she--" "I didn't marry
you, Phin Striker, because you was purty, let me tell you that,"
exclaimed Eliza, witheringly.
Gwynne, who had been listening to all this with a queer sinking of
the heart, interrupted what promised to develop into an acrimonious
wrangle over pre-connubial impressions. He was decidedly upset by
the revelations; a vague dream, barely begun, came to a sharp and
disagreeable end.
"She actually had planned to run away with this man Lapelle?" he
exclaimed, frowning. "It was all arranged?"
"So I take it," said Striker. "She brought some of her personal
trinkets with her, but Eliza never suspected anything queer about
that."
"The fellow must be an arrant scoundrel," declared the young man
angrily. "No gentleman would subject an innocent girl to such--"
"All's well that ends well, as the feller says," interrupted
Striker, arising from the table. "At least fer the present. She
seemed sort of willin' to go home with her ma, so I guess her heart
ain't everlastingly busted. I thought it was best to tell you all
this, Mr. Gwynne, 'cause I got a sneakin' idee you're goin' to
see a lot of that girl, an' maybe you'll turn out to be a source
of help in time o' trouble to her."
"I fail to understand just what you mean, Striker. She is an absolute
stranger to me."
"Well, we'll see what we shall see," said Striker, cryptically.
He opened the kitchen door and called to Zachariah to hurry in and
get his breakfast.
Half an hour later Kenneth and his servant mounted their horses in
the barnyard and prepared to depart. The sun was shining and there
was a taste and tang of spring in the breeze that flouted the faces
of the horsemen.
"Follow this road back to the crossin' an' turn to your left,"
directed Striker, "an' 'fore you know it you'll be in Lay-flat, as
they call it down in Crawfordsville. Remember, you're allus most
welcome here. I reckon we'll see somethin' of each other as time
goes on. It ain't difficult fer honest men to be friends as well
as neighbours in this part of the world. I'm glad you happened my
way last night."
He walked alongside Gwynne's stirrup as they moved down toward the
road.
"Some day," said the young man, "I should like to have a long talk
with you about my father. You knew him well and I--by the way, your
love-lorn friend knew him also."
The other was silent for half a dozen paces, looking straight ahead.
"Yes," said he, with curious deliberation. "She was sayin' as how
she told you a lot about him last night,--what sort of a man he
was, an' all that."
"She told me nothing that--"
"Jist a minute, Mr. Gwynne," said Striker, laying his hand on the
rider's knee. Kenneth drew rein. "I guess maybe you didn't know
who she was talkin' about at the time, but it was your father she
was describin'. We all three knowed somethin' that you didn't know,
an' it's only fair fer me to tell you the truth, now that she's
out of the way. That girl was Viola Gwyn, an' she's your half-sister."