BARRY LAPELLE
So this was Barry Lapelle. This was the wild rake who might yet
become his brother-in-law, and whose sprightly enterprise had been
frustrated by a woman who had, herself, stolen away in the dark of
a far-off night.
As they rode slowly along, side by side, into the thick of the
forest, Kenneth found himself studying the lover's face. He looked
for the signs of the reckless dissipated life he was supposed
to have led,--and found them not. Lapelle's eyes were bright and
clear, his skin unblemished, his hand steady, his infrequent smile
distinctly engaging. The slight, disdainful twist never left the
corner of his mouth, however. It lurked there as a constant reminder
to all the world that he, Barry Lapelle, was a devil of a fellow
and was proud of it. While he was affable, there was no disguising
the fact that he was also condescending. Unquestionably he was
arrogant, domineering, even pompous at times, absolutely sure of
himself.
He spoke with a slight drawl, in a mellow, agreeable voice, and
with meticulous regard for the King's English,--an educated youth
who had enjoyed advantages and associations uncommon to young men
of the frontier. His untanned face testified to a life of ease and
comfort, spent in sheltered places and not in the staining open,
where sun and wind laid bronze upon the skin. A lordly fellow, decided
Kenneth, and forthwith took a keen dislike for him. Nevertheless,
it was not difficult to account for Viola's interest in him; nor,
to a certain extent, the folly which led her to undertake the exploit
of the night before. Barry Lapelle would have his way with women.
"You come from Kentucky, Mr. Gwynne," Lapelle was saying. "I
am from Louisiana. My father came up to St. Louis a few years ago
after establishing a line of steamboats between Terre Haute and the
gulf. Two of our company's boats come as far north as Lafayette,
so I spend considerable of my time there at this season of the
year. You will find, sir, a number of Kentucky and Virginia people
in this part of the state. Splendid stock, some of them. I understand
you have spent several years in the East, at college and in pursuit
of your study of the law."
"Principally in New York and Philadelphia," responded the other,
subduing a smile. "My fame seems to have preceded me, Mr. Lapelle.
Even in remote parts of the country I find my arrival anticipated.
The farmer with whom I spent the night was thoroughly familiar with
my affairs."
"You are an object of interest to every one in this section," said
Lapelle, indifferently. "Where did you spend the night?"
"At the farm of a man named Striker,--Phineas Striker."
Lapelle started. His body appeared to stiffen in the saddle.
"Phineas Striker?" he exclaimed, with a swift, searching look into
the speaker's eyes. Suddenly a flush mantled his cheek. "You were
at Phineas Striker's last night?"
"Yes. We had lost our way and came to his place just before the
storm," said Kenneth, watching his companion narrowly. Lapelle's
face was a study. Doubt, indecision, even dismay, were expressed
in swift succession.
"Then you must have met,--but no, it isn't likely," he said, in
some confusion.
Kenneth hesitated a moment, enjoying the other's discomfiture. Then
he said: "I met no one there except my sister, who also happened
to be spending the night with the Strikers."
The colour faded from Lapelle's face, leaving it a sickly white.
"Were you in any way responsible for--well, for her departure, Mr.
Gwynne?" he demanded, his eyes flaming with swift, sudden anger.
"I was not aware of her departure until I arose this morning, Mr.
Lapelle. Striker informed me that she went away before sunrise."
For a moment Lapelle glared at him suspiciously, and then gave vent
to a short, contemptuous laugh.
"A thousand apologies," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I might
have known you would not be consulted."
"I never laid eyes on my half-sister until last night," said
Kenneth, determined to hold his temper. "It is not likely that she
would have asked the advice of a total stranger, is it? Especially
in so simple a matter as going home when she felt like it."
Lapelle shrugged his shoulders again. "I quite forgot that you are
a lawyer, Mr. Gwynne," he said, drily. "Is it your purpose to hang
out your shingle in the town of Lafayette?"
"My plans are indefinite."
"You could do worse, I assure you. The town is bound to grow. It
will be an important town in a very few years." And so the subject
uppermost in the minds of both was summarily dismissed.
They came at last to the point where a road branched off to the
right. The stillness was intense. There was no sign of either
human or animal life in the depths of this wide, primeval forest.
"Follow this road," said Lapelle, pointing straight ahead. "It will
take you into the town. You will find the bridge over Durkee's Run
somewhat shaky after the rain, but it is safe. I must leave you
here. I shall no doubt see you at Johnson's Inn, in case you intend
to stop there. Good morning, sir."
He lifted his hat and, touching the spirited mare with the gad, rode
swiftly away. A few hundred feet ahead he overtook his mud-spattered
friend and the two of them were soon lost to sight among the trees.
Kenneth fell into profound cogitation. Evidently Lapelle had waited
at the edge of the forest for a report of some description from the
farmhouse belonging to Rachel Carter. In all probability Viola was
still at the farm with her mother, and either she had sent a message
to her lover or had received one from him. Or, it was possible,
Lapelle had despatched his man to the farmhouse to ascertain
whether the girl was there, or had been hurried on into the town
by her mother. In any case, the disgruntled lover was not content
to acknowledge himself thwarted or even discouraged by the
miscarriage of his plans of the night just ended. Kenneth found
himself wondering if the incomprehensible Viola would prove herself
to be equally determined. If so, they would triumph over opposition
and be married, whether or no. He was conscious of an astounding,
almost unbelievable desire to stand with Rachel Carter in her hour
of trouble.
His thoughts went back, as they had done more than once that
morning, to Viola's artful account of his own father. He had felt
sorry for her during and after the recital and now, with the truth
revealed to him, he was even more concerned than before,--for he
saw unhappiness ahead of her if she married this fellow Lapelle.
He went even farther back and recalled his own caustic opinions
of certain young rakes he had known in the East, wherein he had
invariably asseverated that if he "had a sister he would sooner
see her dead than married to that rascal." Well,--here he was with
a sister,--and what was he to do about it?
Zachariah, observing the dark frown upon his master's face, and
receiving no answer to a thrice repeated question, fell silent
except for the almost inaudible hymn with which he invited consolation.
From afar in the thick wood now came the occasional report of a
gun, proof that hunters were abroad. Many times Kenneth was roused
from his reverie by the boom and whiz of pheasants, or the ring of
a woodman's axe, or the lively scurrying of ground squirrels across
his path. They forded three creeks before emerging upon a boggy,
open space, covered with a mass of flattened, wind-broken reeds
and swamp grass, in the centre of which lay a wide, still bayou
partially fringed by willows with the first sickly signs of spring
upon them in the shape of timid mole-ear leaves. Beyond the bridge
over the canal-like stream which fed the bayou was a ridge of hills
along whose base the road wound with tortuous indecision.
The first log cabin they had seen since entering the wood nestled
among the scrub oaks of the hill hard by. The front wall of the hut
was literally covered with the pegged-up skins of foxes, raccoons
and what were described to Kenneth as the hides of "linxes," but
which, in reality, were from the catamount. A tall, bewhiskered
man, smoking a corncob pipe, leaned upon the rail fence, regarding
the strangers with lazy interest.
Kenneth drew rein and inquired how far it was to Lafayette.
"'Bout two mile an' a half," replied the man. "My name is Stain,
Isaac Stain. I reckon you must be Mister Kenneth Gwynne. I heerd
you'd be along this way some time this mornin'."
"I suppose Mr. Lapelle informed you that I was coming along behind,"
said Kenneth, smiling.
"'Twuzn't Barry Lapelle as told me. I hain't seen him to-day."
"Didn't he pass here within the hour?"
"Nope," was the laconic response.
"I met him back along the road. He was coming this way."
"Must 'a' changed his mind."
"He probably took another road."
"There hain't no other road. I reckon he turned off into the wood
an' 'lowed you to pass," said Mr. Stain slowly.
"But he was in great haste to reach town. He may have passed when
you were not--"
"He didn't pass this place unless he was astraddle of an eagle er
somethin' like that," declared the other, grinning. "An' even then
he'd have to be flyin' purty doggone high ef I couldn't see him.
Nope. I guess he took to the woods, Mr. Gwynne, for one reason er
'nother,--an' it must ha' been a mighty good reason, 'cause from
what I know about Barry Lapelle he allus knows which way he's goin'
to leap long before he leaps. He's sorter like a painter in that
way."
Kenneth, knowing that he meant panther when he said painter, was
properly impressed.
"It is very strange," he said, frowning. It was suddenly revealed
to him that if Lapelle had tricked him it was because the messenger
had brought word from Viola, at the farmhouse, and that the baffled
lovers might even now be laying fresh plans to outwit the girl's
mother. This fear was instantly dissipated by the next remark of
Isaac Stain.
"Nope. It wuzn't him that told me about you, pardner. It wuz Violy
Gwyn. She went by here with her ma, jes' as I wuz startin' off to
look at my traps,--'long about seven o'clock, I reckon,--headed
for town. She sez to me, sez she: 'Ike, there'll be a young man
an' a darkey boy come ridin' this way some time this forenoon an'
I want you to give him a message for me.' 'With pleasure,' sez I;
'anything you ask,' sez I. 'Well,' sez she, 'it's this. Fust you
ask him ef his name is Kenneth Gwynne, an 'ef he sez it is, then
you look an' see ef he is a tall feller an' very good-lookin',
without a beard, an' wearin' a blue cape, an' when you see that he
answers that description, why, you tell him to come an' see me as
soon as he gits to town. Tell him it's very important.' 'All right,'
sez I, 'I'll tell him.'"
"Where was her mother all this time?"
"Settin' right there in the buggy beside her, holdin' the reins.
Where else would she be?"
"Did she say anything about my coming to see her daughter?"
"Nope. She never said anythin' 'cept 'Good mornin', Ike,' an' I
sez 'Good mornin', Mrs. Gwyn.' She don't talk much, she don't. You
see, she's in mournin' fer her husband. I guess he wuz your pa,
wuzn't he?"
"Yes," said Kenneth briefly. "Was there anything else?"
"Nothin' to amount to anything. Violy sez, 'When did you get the
linx skins, Ike?' an' I sez, 'Last Friday, Miss Violy,' an' she
sez, 'Ain't they beautiful?' an' I sez--"
"She wants me to come to her house?" broke in Kenneth, his brow
darkening.
"I reckon so."
"Well, I thank you, Mr. Stain. You are very kind to have waited so
long for me to arrive. I--"
"Oh, I'd do a whole lot more'n that fer her," said the hunter
quickly. "You see, I've knowed her ever since she wuz knee-high
to a duck. She wuzn't more'n five or six when I brung her an' her
folks up the Wabash in my perogue, all the way from Vincennes, an'
it wuz me that took her down to St. Louis when she went off to
school--her an' some friends of her pa's. Skinny, gangling sort
of a young 'un she wuz, but let me tell you, as purty as a picter.
I allus said she'd be the purtiest woman in all creation when she
got her growth an' filled out, an', by hokey, I wuz right. Yes,
sir, I used to run a boat on the river down below, but I give it
up quite awhile ago an' come up here to live like a gentleman."
He waved his hand proudly over his acre and a half estate. "I wuz
talkin' to Bill Digby not long ago an' he sez this is a wonderful
location for a town, right here at the fork of two o' the best
fishin' cricks in the state. An' Bill he'd ort to know, 'cause he's
laid out more towns than anybody I know of. The only trouble with
Bill is that as soon as he lays 'em out somebody comes along an'
offers him a hundred dollars er so fer 'em, er a team of hosses,
er a good coon dog, an' he up an' sells. Now, with me, I--Got to
be movin' along, have you? Well, good-bye, an' be a little keerful
when you come to Durkee's Run bridge. It's kinder wobbly."
They were fording a creek some distance beyond Stain's cabin when
Kenneth broke the silence that had followed the conversation with
the hunter by exploding violently:
"Under no circumstances,--and that's all there is to it."
Zachariah, ever ready to seize an opportunity to raise his voice,
either in expostulation or agreement, took this as a generous
opening. He exclaimed with commendable feeling:
"Yas, suh! Undeh no suckemstances! No, suh!"
"It is not even to be thought of," declared his master, frowning
heavily.
"No, suh! We can't even think about it, Marse Kenneth," said
Zachariah, a trifle less decisively.
"So that is the end of it,--absolutely the end."
"Dat's what Ah say,--yas, suh, dat's what Ah say all along, suh!"
His master suddenly turned upon him. "I cannot go to that woman's
house. It is unthinkable, Zachariah."
Zachariah began to see light. "Yo' all got to be mighty car'ful
'bout dese yere strange women, Marse Kenneth. Don' you forget what
done happen in 'at ole Garden of Eden. Dis yere old Eve, she--"
"Still I am greatly relieved to know that she is in town and not
out on the farm. It is a relief, isn't it, Zachariah?"
"Yas, suh,--hit sho'ly am."
They progressed slowly up a long hill and came to an extensive
clearing, over which perhaps half a dozen farmhouses were scattered.
Beyond this open space they entered a narrow strip of wood and,
upon emerging, had their first glimpse of the Wabash River.
Stopping at the brow of the hill, they looked long and curiously
over the valley into which they were about to descend. The panorama
was magnificent. To the left flowed the swollen, turgid river,
high among the willows and sycamores that guarded the low-lying
bank. Far to the north it could be seen, a clayish, ugly monster,
crawling down through the heart of the bowl-like depression. Mile
after mile of sparsely wooded country lay revealed to the gaze of
the travellers, sunken between densely covered ridges, one on either
side of the river. Half a mile beyond where they stood feathery
blue plumes of smoke rose out of the tree tops and, dispersing,
floated away on the breeze,--and there lay the town of Lafayette,
completely hidden from view.
The road wound down the hill and across a clumsily constructed bridge
spanning the Run and thence along the flat shelf that rimmed the
bottom-land, through a maze of wild plum and hazel brush squatting,
as it were, at the feet of the towering forest giants that covered
the hills.
Presently the travellers came upon widely separated cabins
and gardens, and then, after passing through a lofty grove, found
themselves entering the town itself. Signs of life and enterprise
greeted them from all sides. Here, there and everywhere houses were
in process of erection,--log-cabins, frame structures, and even an
occasional brick dwelling-place. Turning into what appeared to be
a well-travelled road,--(he afterwards found it to be Wabash Street),
Kenneth came in the course of a few minutes to the centre of the
town. Here was the little brick courthouse and the jail, standing
in the middle of a square which still contained the stumps of many
of the trees that originally had flourished there. At the southwest
corner of the square was the tavern, a long story and a half log
house,--and it was a welcome sight to Gwynne and his servant, both
of whom were ravenously hungry by this time.
The former observed, with considerable satisfaction, that there were
quite a number of substantial looking buildings about the square,
mostly stores, all of them with hitching-racks along the edge of the
dirt sidewalks. As far as the eye could reach, in every direction,
the muddy streets were lined with trees.
Half a dozen men were standing in front of the tavern when the
newcomers rode up. Kenneth dismounted and threw the reins to his
servant. Landlord Johnson hurried out to greet him.