That night Jim patrolled the mill in the place of the watchman whose
resignation he had accepted in front of the fire-room door. Through the
long, dark hours he had time and quiet for reflection. His mind was
stimulated by the occurrences of the day; he was aware of a clarity of
vision, a straightness of thought, a satisfying concentration. His
problem, in all its intricate difficulties, lay plain before him. He
fancied he had read astutely his enemies’ plans; his own plans began to
take form.
Against Welliver and the Clothespin Club he would have to defend himself
by business makeshifts and financial strategy. Them he did not
underestimate nor did he exaggerate their menace. To defend himself
against Moran his best course was to attack. It would now become his
business to seek for a point of weakness, and there to deliver his first
blow.
It was common talk that Moran was reaching out ambitiously. His former
holdings had been considerable; now the affairs which he seemed to
control were of magnitude. He had traveled from the one to the other in
a short space, a space so short that Jim felt sure it had not been
sufficient to multiply his fortune. It forced itself upon Jim that Moran
must have spread himself out thinly to cover so much ground. In that
case there must be a point where he had spread himself with dangerous
thinness. That area, Jim thought, he must find. There, he said to
himself, he must strike.
It was daylight when he left the mill and trudged wearily toward his bed
at the widow’s. On his way he met John Beam, who regarded him with
amazement.
“Up kind of early, ain’t you?” asked Beam.
“No, just a bit late to bed,” Jim said, with a grin of boyishness. “By
the way, you’ll have to get a new watchman to take Kowterski’s place. I
took it last night.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“When he left,” said Jim, a trifle grimly, “I thought of advising him to
go to the dentist’s.”
He looked down at his bruised, abrased knuckles. Beam’s eyes followed
his employer’s and the man grinned with sudden comprehension.
“It was him, eh?” he asked.
Jim nodded. “I won’t be down till afternoon.”
Beam walked on his way, chuckling. Presently he encountered Nels Nelson
and recounted what he had learned, with certain amendments and surmises
of his own, ending with a special word regarding Jim.
“Some boss,” he said, delightedly. “I’ve had a few bosses, but Sudden
Jim he’s the boy for my money.” Which would have pleased Jim exceedingly
had he overheard it.
Jim devoured the breakfast the widow had ready for him, and went off to
bed. He went to sleep with the satisfying consciousness that it was now
open warfare between him and Moran. What he had done last night was both
a declaration of war and an eloquent expression of his opinion of the
man. He knew Moran would be able to translate it correctly.
It was after one o’clock when Jim awoke, but he found the widow had kept
his dinner warm for him.
“’S my experience,” she said, severely, “that folks gits more for their
money sleepin’ nights than daytimes.”
“I was behaving myself, Mrs. Stickney. Honestly I was. At regular rates
I earned two dollars watching in the mill.”
“I was kind of disap’inted in you when you didn’t come home at all. But,
‘Boys will be boys,’ says I, ‘which won’t prevent my speakin’ my mind to
him if he hain’t ready with a good excuse, which mostly young men is
ready with and ain’t usually believed; but what kin a body do about
it?’”
“I hope you’ll do nothing rash,” Jim said, with specious soberness. “You
won’t put me out in the street, will you?”
“If it had been any of my husbands I’ll bet I’d ’a’ knowed the reason
why,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen, with an aggrieved air.
Jim went out smiling; somehow the widow’s threatened scolding put him in
a better humor with the world. It was good to know that somebody in
Diversity had a real, friendly, motherly interest in him.
His way led past Zaanan Frame’s office. Zaanan was standing on the step.
“Afternoon,” said the old justice. “Hain’t much battered up as I kin
see.”
“I’m practically intact,” Jim said, gaily.
“Folks round town has it there was consid’able trouble to the mill last
night. You was reported laid up in bed with grievous injuries.
Calc’lated I’d come round to see you.”
“Nothing much. I just took Moran down to point out a circumstance to
him.”
“Moran? What’s he got to do with it?”
“Why,” said Jim, “I met him when I got back to town and invited him down
to the mill with me. I—er—rid myself of Mr. Kowterski in his presence
and left him to think it over. Haven’t seen him since.”
“He hain’t got any misgivin’s as to how you stand then, eh? You kind of
rubbed his face in it, didn’t you? Leetle bit abrupt, wasn’t you?”
“If there’s going to be a fight,” said Jim, “I want it to be a fight. No
sneaking under cover.”
“Call to mind that British general—what’s his name?
Bradley—Bradish—some sich thing. Didn’t pay no heed to a young feller
named Washington when he was goin’ to fight the Injuns. He come right
out bold to fight like you’re aimin’ to do. But did the Injuns? Wa-al,
accounts says not. They done consid’able sneaking and prowlin’ under
cover, and this general got all chawed up.”
“I didn’t want the man to think I was a fool.”
“Um! Shows you’re young, Jim. Hain’t no better way of gittin’ a strangle
holt on to a feller than by lettin’ him think you’re a fool. The s’prise
of findin’ out sudden that you hain’t comes nigh to chokin’ him.”
“Anyhow, it’s done,” said Jim.
“No argyin’ that p’int. I notice Moran didn’t leave town this mornin’
like he calc’lated to. What you figgerin’ on next? Looks like you run on
to some facts up the River Road.”
“I’m going to look for some more facts.”
“What kind of facts, son?”
“Moran’s got a thin spot. I want to find it.”
“Um! Thin spot. Calc’late I understand you. Figger he’s been spreadin’
his butter so thin that the bread won’t be covered enough somewheres,
eh? Maybe so. Maybe so. Ever see a map of the Diversity Hardwood
Company’s holdin’s?”
“No.”
“I got one. Had the Register of Deeds fix it up for me, thinkin’ it
might come in handy.”
Zaanan went to a cupboard and brought out a rolled map which he spread
on the table. It was marked off in sections. Those owned by the company
were blocked in with red ink.
“Nigh forty-five thousand acres,” said Zaanan.
Jim bent over the map. The Diversity Company’s property ran in two
irregular, serrated strips. Between the two portions was a sort of
strait nowhere marked with red.
“They’re cut in two,” said Jim. “Who owns the stuff between? Timbered,
is it?”
“As good hardwood as ever growed. B’longs to old Louis Le Bar. Run
between twenty and twenty-five thousand to the acre. And that’s
consid’able hardwood, son.”
“Logically the company ought to own it.”
“Logically it wants to, but old Louis won’t sell. Anyhow, he wouldn’t.”
Zaanan emphasized the last word significantly. Jim looked across the
table into the old man’s twinkling eyes, shrewd, kindly eyes belonging
to a man who had learned humankind by scores of years of meeting with
them in their adversities. Zaanan said no more, but rolled up his map.
“I take it,” said Jim, “that you’ve shown me a fact. One of the kind I
was looking for.”
“Folks says Opportunity knocks on a feller’s door,” said Zaanan. “Maybe
so, but more times it goes sneakin’ past his house quiet in the dark.
And sometimes it’s hard to catch as a greased pig.”
“Much obliged,” Jim said. “Where will I find Le Bar?”
“Stiddy, now. Stiddy. Before you pick up that animile be sure it’s a cat
and not a skunk. You’re one of them pouncin’ kind of young men. This
here’s a time to study first and jump afterward.”
Then an unusual thing happened. Dolf Springer burst in without knocking.
He was excited, greatly excited, or he never would have ventured, for
Zaanan’s office was sacred.
“Judge,” he panted, “what d’you think? They’ve up and done it. Didn’t
b’lieve they’d dast, but they did dast. They’ve up and announced Peleg
Goodwin to run ag’in you for justice of the peace.”
Zaanan eyed his henchman. “Git a breath, Dolf. Git a breath. Like’s not
you’ll suffocate. Hum! Peleg, eh?” He turned to Jim. “Seem like old
times,” he said; “hain’t had no opposition for the nomination in more ’n
twenty year. Peleg Goodwin, deacon by perfession.”
“I told you,” said Jim.
Zaanan peered at him briefly and grunted.
“I hain’t so young as I was wunst,” he said. “Maybe my powers is
flaggin’. Maybe this here is a spontaneous uprisin’ of the folks,
thinkin’ maybe it’s time I was put on the shelf. But, son, I don’t
hanker to go on no shelf—anyhow, not to make room for Peleg. But it was
bound to come some day. Folks likes change, and I’ve been mighty
permanent.”
The old man leaned back in his chair and looked beyond Jim and Dolf;
forgot them as his thoughts carried him back over the years. When he
spoke it was not to them, it was to the people, to his people, whom he
had served and ruled for more than a quarter of a century.
“Yes, folks,” says he, “what some of you is sayin’ is correct. I
calc’late I’m a boss. But if you was to look at my bank account or
search out my property you’d see I wasn’t that kind of a boss. I’ve run
things in this county ’cause I was more fitted to run ’em than you. I’d
have liked it if you’d ’a’ had the spunk and gumption to run things
yourselves. I’ve let you try it sometimes, and then had to clean up the
mess.
“Don’t think, folks, that all these years has been pleasure for me, nor
what I’d ’a’ picked out to do. No, siree! When I was younger there was
things I had ambitions about. I wanted to git somewheres and be
somethin’. But I hain’t had no time. I hain’t had no time to spare to
look after Zaanan Frame, owin’ to matters of yourn that was always
pressin’. Diversity wa’n’t no heaven when I took holt of it, but now
it’s a good place for man to live. I’ve made the laws respected and
obeyed; since I’ve been justice one man’s had as much chance in this
county as another.
“The days and nights I might ’a’ spent buildin’ up Zaanan Frame I’ve
spent buildin’ up you. But I guess you’re tired of it. If it was a good
man and a true man and a man worthy of trust I calc’late I could step
out of the way. There’s times when I git mighty tired. But not for
Peleg. Dolf,” he said, sharply, “I guess we’ll have to show Peleg and
the feller that’s puttin’ him up to this some real politics.”
“You bet!” said Dolf.
“It’s Moran,” Jim said; but the statement was half a question.
“He’s the citizen,” said Zaanan.
“They’ll try to get you in the caucus.”
Zaanan nodded. “Dolf,” said he, “if you was goin’ out to talk about
this, what would you be sayin’?”
“That we was goin’ to roll up our sleeves and lick the pants off’n ’em,”
said Dolf, belligerently.
“Don’t calc’late you’d say I was perty hard hit? Eh? Sort of insinuate
the blow bore down on my threescore and ten year? Nor that there didn’t
seem to be scarcely any fight left in me?”
“Dummed if I—” began Dolf. Then he stopped and looked at Zaanan. “Guess
maybe that’s about what I’d say,” he responded, presently.
“G’-by, Dolf,” said Zaanan.
“G’-by, Judge,” said Dolf.
“Tain’t only me,” said Zaanan, after a time, “it’s the sheriff and the
prosecutor and the circuit judge—the whole kit and b’ilin’ of us. There
won’t be a decent official left in the county. Law and justice’ll be
bought and sold and traded in like so much farm produce.”
“I want to help if I can,” said Jim.
“Calc’late I’ll need what help I kin git. Moran don’t usually start a
job he can’t see his way to finish. I’ll call on you when you’re needed.
Louis Le Bar lives four mile to the west. How’s things at the widder’s?
Do consid’able cacklin’ over you, does she?” He stopped and scratched
his head and appeared to ponder. “Say, young feller,” he said, in a few
moments, “what’s your special grudge ag’in Moran? Tain’t jest his
business dealin’s with you. It’s him you want to git at, ree-gardless.
What’s he done to you?”
“There’s a girl up at Mrs. Stickney’s—” Jim began, slowly.
“Um!” grunted Zaanan, and his eyes twinkled. “Moran hain’t in no
position to cut you out with a girl. He’s got more wife ’n he knows what
to do with now.”
Jim felt himself flushing. He had not connected Marie Ducharme with
himself in the way Zaanan connected her. He had not considered his
hatred of Moran as prompted by jealousy, nor had he looked on Moran as a
rival. It was a new idea to him. He considered it. What interest had he
in Marie? Did he even like her? He had fancied he disliked her for her
sullenness, her rashness, for the bitterness of her temper toward the
world. She was all somber shadows or lurid flame; there was no rosiness
of dawn, no brightness of noontime, no peaceful, pure light as of the
stars.
When Jim had thought of the woman who was to share his life he had
pictured her as bright with star-brightness. He would stand something in
awe of her, yet her brightness would not be cold, aloof—not cold moon
rays. It would be tender, glowing, throbbing, but, above all, pure,
inspiringly pure. Marie knew evil. Her discontent had seen its beckoning
finger; she had felt the persuasive touch of its hand on her arm—and
had not fled in horror. She eyed it cynically, plumbing its
possibilities. Jim’s girl would have felt herself indelibly smirched by
thoughts that Marie gave willing housing to. Withal, what did he think
of her? What was his interest in her? He could not answer. He dared not
answer himself, for he found himself contemplating her with fascination.
There was an appeal to her. Her possibilities were magnificent. He found
himself wishing for her presence, for the sight of her movements of
grace, the sound of her voice, the vivid life desire that lay in her
eyes.
“Moran takes her to the top of a high mountain and shows her the
kingdoms of the world,” he said, in a hard voice. “He offers them to
her.”
“And you’re afraid she’ll accept?”
“She hates Diversity; life discontents her. She is bored. Moran plans
deliberately, adds lure to lure. If he catches her in the mood—”
“Interestin’ girl, eh? Talk intelligent? Good company?”
“She can be if she chooses.”
“Ever try to git her to choose?”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“Huh! Hain’t much in the way of excitement in Diversity, but pleasure’s
where you look for it hard enough. I call to mind enjoyin’ buggy rides.
Ever try to make things pleasant for Marie?”
“No.” Jim said it with a guilty feeling.
“My experience,” said Zaanan, “is that the run of girls prefers a
decent, entertainin’ young man to a bad old one. In gen’ral my notion is
folks’d rather be good than bad, rather pick out right than wrong. Buggy
hire don’t come expensive.” The old fellow eyed Jim with a twinkle.
Jim returned Zaanan’s look; comprehension came to him.
“Judge Frame,” he demanded, “did you send me to Mrs. Stickney’s because
Marie Ducharme was there?” The twinkle in his eye answered Zaanan’s.
“Was I just a checker you were moving in your game?”
“It’s my policy,” said Zaanan, “to git as many young checkers as I could
moved safe into the king row of marriage.”
“But she dislikes me.”
“Hain’t heard you say you was prejudiced ag’in her. Ever ask her if she
disliked you? Um! Better try a few buggy rides first. Kin you drive with
one hand?”
“I believe,” said Jim, “you’d try to regulate the sex of Diversity’s
babies.”
“If I calc’lated it’d benefit the town I dun’no’ but I’d kind of look
into the matter. G’-by, Jim!”