The last day of the trial was so different from that of Tessibel's
dreams! Again she must cross the dark Hoghole trestle alone on her way
to the hut. But the singing in her heart when she left the Rectory took
away the pain of her loneliness. Frederick Graves had said that she had
done right in coming to him and asking prayers for "Daddy Skinner." Her
faith in the student carried her above the material things of the earth,
more than her absolute faith in God, for like women, Tessibel lived and
had faith through the man of her choice.
It was nearly midnight when she passed Kennedy's wheat field in which
capered Pete, the brindle bulldog. She called to him softly, pronouncing
his name twice in loving resonance, which brought a low, pleased howl
from the coarse throat of the dog. But the exhausted squatter-girl did
not wait to touch the long, red tongue as Pete thrust his nose through
the fence. She passed quickly down the lane to her father's hut. Turning
the corner of the mud cellar, she saw dimly a man's form leaning against
the shanty door. Her eyes were accustomed to marking correctly through
the darkness, and it took Tess but a moment to ascertain that the
lounging figure was Ben Letts.
In an instant, the first real fear she had ever felt swept over her and
she drew back into the shadows. As a child she had fled from this man
because he tantalized her; as a woman she dreaded him more than any
reptile that came from the earth.
The man, hearing footsteps, raised his head; the silence continuing, he
dropped it again, thinking he had been mistaken, and resumed his former
position of waiting.
Tessibel wondered if she should go bravely forward--insist that the
shanty was hers, and that he should go away. The mud cellar was between
her and the waiting man, and as she peered closer to see if Ben were
still there one brilliant tangle of hair fell over her shoulder. Ben
Letts caught the movement and Tessibel knew it.
Alert as a young deer, she turned and fled back up the lane. Daddy's
boots impeded her speed and one after the other she kicked them off. She
could hear the man running after her, shouting his rage into her
tingling ears. He was gaining upon the girl and commanded her to stop.
"If I get my claws on ye once," he growled, "it'll be bad for ye."
Tessibel heard and flew faster. There was no one to help her and her
only salvation lay in her own two sturdy little legs and bruised feet.
She reached the tracks but did not dare run the ties--she might trip in
the darkness, and nothing could save her from her enemy. Her eyes,
strained with convulsive fright, lifted one moment to the sky, and her
glance fell directly upon the giant pine whose branches formed the image
of her fantastic God. Her lips fell apart with a gasp--she fancied her
Deity sent her an assurance of aid.
"Goddy--Goddy," was her petition, "for the love of yer Christ ... and
the student."
Suddenly out upon the air rang the voice of one of Tessibel's friends.
The brindle bulldog from Kennedy's farm had heard the unequal race. With
short tail raised, his fat neck bristling with stubby hair, he started
for the tracks, as Tess did for the fence when she heard his growl. As
the girl came on and on, the dog bounded along the ground toward her.
Tess opened her lips and spoke sharply--and a pleased bark came in
response.
God had heard and answered her. One wild leap in the air, and the sound
of tearing clothes as her already tattered skirt came in contact with
the barbed wire--and Tess was crouching down in the safe-keeping of the
brindle bull. The dog whirled frantically around, licking her face. Fear
weakened her tongue--she could not speak--only little spasmodic sobs
burst from the parted lips. She caught the huge dog to her breast and
waited.
Ben Letts was on the tracks; she could hear his big chest heaving with
fast-coming breath. He halted on the other side of the fence.
Pete scented an enemy and straightened out his strong muscles like whip
cords, a hoarse growl coming from between his jaws.
Ben leaned over the fence with an oath.
"Ye'd better come away from him," he grunted threateningly. "Ye air
thinking the brute can save ye--but I'll put a bullet through his pate."
Tessibel knew that the man had no rifle with him; and by the time he
could get one she and the dog would be far away. Her mind worked fast
under the pressure.
"What do you want, Ben Letts?" she demanded.
"I just wanted to talk to yer," wheedled the man. "Come over the fence,
will ye?"
"Ye can talk to me here," sullenly replied Tess. "I don't want to hear
none of yer dum gab."
"It air somethin' nice--it air candy," feigned Ben. Then the tones
hardened in the coarse voice, and he ended:
"Ye can't stay always with the brute."
"To-night I can, and in the day I ain't afeared--I don't want no candy."
The brindle bulldog lifted his head again and sent a low snarl in the
direction of the fisherman--Ben in his rage had come too close to the
fence. The animal's warning sent him back. Months before, Pete had
buried his teeth in the man's hand and Ben would bear the marks to his
grave.
"Ye go home, Ben Letts," insisted Tess. "Ye ain't no business here. Go
home to yer mammy."
"I'm a-goin' to stay, just the same," rejoined Ben, sitting down upon
the tracks.
Tessibel wound her arms around the dog's neck, banking the red curls
under her cheek for a pillow. It was good to rest with her friend.
Between the fence wires she could see the branches of the pine tree, its
shadowy arms creating odd figures across the light streaks in the sky.
What a wonderful being the student's God was! He had listened to the cry
of a squatter and had saved her.
"Yer daddy ain't a-comin' home," Ben Letts broke in upon her
meditations.
"He air," retorted Tess. "He air the nextest time I go for him."
"It air a lie," insisted the fisherman, "ye comes with me to the
minister and I'll make yer an hones' woman. Ye'll have to cut that mop
and settle down like a woman should. Do ye hear?... Tessibel, I says an
hones' woman!"
Tessibel shifted her head from Pete's neck and sat up.
"Ye says as how--ye and--me--will go to the minister?"
"Yep."
"And we air to be--married ... eh?"
"Yep."
"How about--the--brat--and--and--and Satisfied's girl?"
Myra's secret had slipped from her. Ben's silence invited her to
proceed.
"Yer brat air sick to his grave, he air," said she mournfully, a tear
settling in her voice, making its sweetness rough, "and Myry air a-dyin'
of a broken heart.... If yer wants to make an hones' woman, make her
one, that air what I says, I does. And ye broke her arm on the ragged
rocks! Ye did! And then yer comes--and talks about bein' hones'," the
musical voice rose to a cry. "Ye can't make a woman hones' for ye ain't
hones' yerself."
Without a sound Ben rose from the tracks, reached for a stone and
whirled it through the fence at Tessibel. The stone missed her, but
struck the dog. Trembling with rage, Pete lifted his great body with a
low, vicious growl.
Tessibel sprang from the ground, whilst another stone hurtled through
the air, catching her curls in its flight. Then she lifted the lower
wire of the barbed fence. Pete crouched, and wiggled his flattened body
through. Ben hadn't expected this--he turned and ran. The skurrying legs
of the dog carried him quickly on after the fisherman. While Ben,
screeching like a great night owl, hooted out his fear of the maddened
dog, and yelled for Tess to call him off.
The girl did not speak, only waited, waited until a louder cry from the
hunted man assured her that Pete had gripped him. Tessibel scarcely
dared breathe; her friend, God's earthly instrument, sent to save her,
and her mortal enemy were in deadly combat.
Ben's cries had ceased, but the listening girl could hear the two bodies
as they turned over and over beyond on the tracks--and rolled into the
ditch. Her feet were nearly frozen but she gathered them under her skirt
and dumbly waited.
Then came no sound--there was nothing but a deathly silence in the dim
shadows near the land.
Would she ever see either Ben or the dog again? There was no danger that
Pete would--
"Ben," she called loudly, leaning over the fence. No answer came from
the deep trench by the railroad bed.
"Pete, Pete, come to Tessibel, come to Tessibel."
Out of the blackness came the dog, his head hanging low, the angry
sparkle in his eyes quenched.
Tess raised the wire once more for Pete's body to wriggle under. The
girl shouted anxiously for Ben but no answer came to her call.
Crouching beside Pete, Tessibel reasoned out a way of escape: if she
took the brindle bulldog to the hut with her, she would be safe from Ben
were he lurking about. She propped the lower wire of the fence high
with a stick so that Pete could reach Kennedy's barn on the hill again
when she sent him home. Together the girl and the bristling Pete slid
silently to the railroad tracks, Tessibel holding tightly to the dog's
collar. Some fifty feet beyond he twisted his heavy neck, set forth his
huge jaw, and refused to move.
Beside the track was a long dark object--it was undeniably,
unquestionably quiet. Tess tugged at the dog's collar and dragged him
resisting from the spot.
Down the lane ran the squatter and the dog with no pause save to pick up
the cowhide boots from the side of the path, where Tess had cast them in
the mad race. She clasped the head of Pete as she opened the hut door.
"Ye can come in, too, Pete," she whispered, lifting the ugly head, "and
go home in the morning."
Tessibel locked the door, but did not light a candle. Slipping her wet
clothes to the floor, she crawled into Daddy's bed, and with the
forgetfulness of youth sank into a sleep.