The sight of a human habitation, even if it was a rude log cabin with a
mud chimney at one end, was a very gratifying one to Grégoire.
He had come out of Natchitoches parish, and had been riding a great
part of the day through the big lonesome parish of Sabine. He was not
following the regular Texas road, but, led by his erratic fancy, was
pushing toward the Sabine River by circuitous paths through the rolling
pine forests.
As he approached the cabin in the clearing, he discerned behind a
palisade of pine saplings an old negro man chopping wood.
"Howdy, Uncle," called out the young fellow, reining his horse. The
negro looked up in blank amazement at so unexpected an apparition,
but he only answered: "How you do, suh," accompanying his speech by a
series of polite nods.
"Who lives yere?"
"Hit's Mas' Bud Aiken w'at live' heah, suh."
"Well, if Mr. Bud Aiken c'n afford to hire a man to chop his wood, I
reckon he won't grudge me a bite o' suppa an' a couple hours' res' on
his gall'ry. W'at you say, ole man?"
"I say dit Mas' Bud Aiken don't hires me to chop 'ood. Ef I don't chop
dis heah, his wife got it to do. Dat w'y I chops 'ood, suh. Go right
'long in, suh; you g'me fine Mas' Bud some'eres roun', ef he ain't
drunk an' gone to bed."
Grégoire, glad to stretch his legs, dismounted, and led his horse
into the small inclosure which surrounded the cabin. An unkempt,
vicious-looking little Texas pony stopped nibbling the stubble there
to look maliciously at him and his fine sleek horse, as they passed
by. Back of the hut, and running plumb up against the pine wood, was a
small, ragged specimen of a cotton-field.
Grégoire was rather undersized, with a square, well-knit figure, upon
which his clothes sat well and easily. His corduroy trousers were
thrust into the legs of his boots; he wore a blue flannel shirt; his
coat was thrown across the saddle. In his keen black eyes had come a
puzzled expression, and he tugged thoughtfully at the brown moustache
that lightly shaded his upper lip.
He was trying to recall when and under what circumstances he had before
heard the name of Bud Aiken. But Bud Aiken himself saved Grégoire the
trouble of further speculation on the subject. He appeared suddenly in
the small doorway, which his big body quite filled; and then Grégoire
remembered. This was the disreputable so-called "Texan" who a year ago
had run away with and married Baptiste Choupic's pretty daughter, 'Tite
Reine, yonder on Bayou Pierre, in Natchitoches parish. A vivid picture
of the girl as he remembered her appeared to him: her trim rounded
figure; her piquant face with its saucy black coquettish eyes; her
little exacting, imperious ways that had obtained for her the nickname
of 'Tite Reine, little queen. Grégoire had known her at the 'Cadian
balls that he sometimes had the hardihood to attend.
These pleasing recollections of 'Tite Reine lent a warmth that might
otherwise have been lacking to Grégoire's manner, when he greeted her
husband.
"I hope I fine you well, Mr. Aiken," he exclaimed cordially, as he
approached and extended his hand.
"You find me damn' porely, suh; but you 've got the better o' me, ef I
may so say."
He was a big good-looking brute, with a straw-colored "horse-shoe"
moustache quite concealing his mouth, and a several days' growth of
stubble on his rugged face. He was fond of reiterating that women's
admiration had wrecked his life, quite forgetting to mention the early
and sustained influence of "Pike's Magnolia" and other brands, and
wholly ignoring certain inborn propensities capable of wrecking unaided
any ordinary existence. He had been lying down, and looked frouzy and
half asleep.
"Ef I may so say, you've got the better o' me, Mr.--er"--
"Santien, Grégoire Santien. I have the pleasure o' knowin' the lady you
married, suh; an' I think I met you befo',--some-w'ere o' 'nother,"
Grégoire added vaguely.
"Oh," drawled Aiken, waking up, "one o' them Red River Sanchuns!" and
his face brightened at the prospect before him of enjoying the society
of one of the Santien boys. "Mortimer!" he called in ringing chest
tones worthy a commander at the head of his troop. The negro had
rested his axe and appeared to be listening to their talk, though he
was too far to hear what they said.
"Mortimer, come along here an' take my frien' Mr. Sanchun's hoss. Git
a move thar, git a move!" Then turning toward the entrance of the
cabin he called back through the open door: "Rain!" it was his way of
pronouncing 'Tite Reine's name. "Rain!" he cried again peremptorily;
and turning to Grégoire: "she's 'tendin' to some or other housekeepin'
truck." 'Tite Reine was back in the yard feeding the solitary pig which
they owned, and which Aiken had mysteriously driven up a few days
before, saying he had bought it at Many.
Grégoire could hear her calling out as she approached: "I'm comin',
Bud. Yere I come. W'at you want, Bud?" breathlessly, as she appeared
in the door frame and looked out upon the narrow sloping gallery where
stood the two men. She seemed to Grégoire to have changed a good deal.
She was thinner, and her eyes were larger, with an alert, uneasy look
in them; he fancied the startled expression came from seeing him there
unexpectedly. She wore cleanly homespun garments, the same she had
brought with her from Bayou Pierre; but her shoes were in shreds. She
uttered only a low, smothered exclamation when she saw Grégoire.
"Well, is that all you got to say to my frien' Mr. Sanchun? That's
the way with them Cajuns," Aiken offered apologetically to his guest;
"ain't got sense enough to know a white man when they see one."
Grégoire took her hand.
"I'm mighty glad to see you, 'Tite Heine," he said from his heart.
She had for some reason been unable to speak; now she panted somewhat
hysterically:--
"You mus' escuse me, Mista Grégoire. It's the truth I did n' know you
firs', stan'in' up there." A deep flush had supplanted the former
pallor of her face, and her eyes shone with tears and ill-concealed
excitement.
"I thought you all lived yonda in Grant," remarked Grégoire carelessly,
making talk for the purpose of diverting Aiken's attention away from
his wife's evident embarrassment, which he himself was at a loss to
understand.
"Why, we did live a right smart while in Grant; but Grant ain't no
parish to make a livin' in. Then I tried Winn and Caddo a spell; they
was n't no better. But I tell you, suh, Sabine's a damn' sight worse
than any of 'em. Why, a man can't git a drink o' whiskey here without
going out of the parish fer it, or across into Texas. I'm fixin' to
sell out an' try Vernon."
Bud Aiken's household belongings surely would not count for much in
the contemplated "selling out." The one room that constituted his home
was extremely bare of furnishing,--a cheap bed, a pine table, and a
few chairs, that was all. On a rough shelf were some paper parcels
representing the larder. The mud daubing had fallen out here and there
from between the logs of the cabin; and into the largest of these
apertures had been thrust pieces of ragged bagging and wisps of cotton.
A tin basin outside on the gallery offered the only bathing facilities
to be seen. Notwithstanding these drawbacks, Grégoire announced his
intention of passing the night with Aiken.
"I'm jus' goin' to ask the privilege o' layin' down yere on yo' gall'ry
to-night, Mr. Aiken. My hoss ain't in firs'-class trim; an' a night's
res' ain't goin' to hurt him o' me either." He had begun by declaring
his intention of pushing on across the Sabine, but an imploring look
from 'Tite Reine's eyes had stayed the words upon his lips. Never had
he seen in a woman's eyes a look of such heartbroken entreaty. He
resolved on the instant to know the meaning of it before setting foot
on Texas soil. Grégoire had never learned to steel his heart against a
woman's eyes, no matter what language they spoke.
An old patchwork quilt folded double and a moss pillow which 'Tite
Reine gave him out on the gallery made a bed that was, after all, not
too uncomfortable for a young fellow of rugged habits.
Grégoire slept quite soundly after he laid down upon his improvised bed
at nine o'clock. He was awakened toward the middle of the night by some
one gently shaking him. It was 'Tite Reine stooping over him; he could
see her plainly, for the moon was shining. She had not removed the
clothing she had worn during the day; but her feet were bare and looked
wonderfully small and white. He arose on his elbow, wide awake at once.
"W'y, 'Tite Reine! w'at the devil you mean? w'ere's yo' husban'?"
"The house kin fall on 'im, 'ten goin' wake up Bud w'en he's sleepin';
he drink' too much." Now that she had aroused Grégoire, she stood up,
and sinking her face in her bended arm like a child, began to cry
softly. In an instant he was on his feet.
"My God, 'Tite Reine! w'at's the matta? you got to tell me w'at's the
matta." He could no longer recognize the imperious 'Tite Reine, whose
will had been the law in her father's household. He led her to the edge
of the low gallery and there they sat down.
Grégoire loved women. He liked their nearness, their atmosphere; the
tones of their voices and the things they said; their ways of moving
and turning about; the brushing of their garments when they passed
him by pleased him. He was fleeing now from the pain that a woman had
inflicted upon him. When any overpowering sorrow came to Grégoire he
felt a singular longing to cross the Sabine River and lose himself in
Texas. He had done this once before when his home, the old Santien
place, had gone into the hands of creditors. The sight of 'Tite Reine's
distress now moved him painfully.
"W'at is it, 'Tite Reine? tell me w'at it is," he kept asking her.
She was attempting to dry her eyes on her coarse sleeve. He drew a
handkerchief from his back pocket and dried them for her.
"They all well, yonda?" she asked, haltingly, "my popa? my moma? the
chil'en?" Grégoire knew no more of the Baptiste Choupic family than the
post beside him. Nevertheless he answered: "They all right well, 'Tite
Reine, but they mighty lonesome of you."
"My popa, he got a putty good crop this yea'?"
"He made right smart o' cotton fo' Bayou Pierre."
"He done haul it to the relroad?"
"No, he ain't quite finish pickin'."
"I hope they all ent sole 'Putty Girl'?" she inquired solicitously.
"Well, I should say not! Yo' pa says they ain't anotha piece o'
hossflesh in the pa'ish he'd want to swap fo' 'Putty Girl.'" She turned
to him with vague but fleeting amazement,--"Putty Girl" was a cow!
The autumn night was heavy about them. The black forest seemed to have
drawn nearer; its shadowy depths were filled with the gruesome noises
that inhabit a southern forest at night time.
"Ain't you 'fraid sometimes yere, 'Tite Reine?" Grégoire asked, as he
felt a light shiver run through him at the weirdness of the scene.
"No," she answered promptly, "I ent 'fred o' nothin' 'cep' Bud."
"Then he treats you mean? I thought so!"
"Mista Grégoire," drawing close to him and whispering in his face,
"Bud's killin' me." He clasped her arm, holding her near him, while an
expression of profound pity escaped him. "Nobody don' know, 'cep' Unc'
Mort'mer," she went on. "I tell you, he beats me; my back an' arms--you
ought to see--it's all blue. He would 'a' choke' me to death one day
w'en he was drunk, if Unc' Mort'mer had n' make 'im lef go--with his
axe ov' his head." Grégoire glanced back over his shoulder toward the
room where the man lay sleeping. He was wondering if it would really be
a criminal act to go then and there and shoot the top of Bud Aiken's
head off. He himself would hardly have considered it a crime, but he
was not sure of how others might regard the act.
"That's w'y I wake you up, to tell you," she continued. "Then sometime'
he plague me mos' crazy; he tell me't ent no preacher, it's a Texas
drummer w'at marry him an' me; an' w'en I don' know w'at way to turn no
mo', he say no, it's a Meth'dis' archbishop, an' keep on laughin' 'bout
me, an' I don' know w'at the truth!"
Then again, she told how Bud had induced her to mount the vicious
little mustang "Buckeye," knowing that the little brute would n't carry
a woman; and how it had amused him to witness her distress and terror
when she was thrown to the ground.
"If I would know how to read an' write, an' had some pencil an' paper,
it's long 'go I would wrote to my popa. But it's no pos'-office, it's
no relroad,--nothin' in Sabine. An' you know, Mista Grégoire, Bud say
he's goin' carry me yonda to Vernon, an' fu'ther off yet,--'way yonda,
an' he's goin' turn me loose. Oh, don' leave me yere, Mista Grégoire!
don' leave me behine you!" she entreated, breaking once more into sobs.
"'Tite Reine," he answered, "do you think I'm such a low-down scound'el
as to leave you yere with that"--He finished the sentence mentally, not
wishing to offend the ears of 'Tite Reine.
They talked on a good while after that. She would not return to the
room where her husband lay; the nearness of a friend had already
emboldened her to inward revolt. Grégoire induced her to lie down and
rest upon the quilt that she had given to him for a bed. She did so,
and broken down by fatigue was soon fast asleep.
He stayed seated on the edge of the gallery and began to smoke
cigarettes which he rolled himself of perique tobacco. He might have
gone in and shared Bud Aiken's bed, but preferred to stay there near
'Tite Reine. He watched the two horses, tramping slowly about the lot,
cropping the dewy wet tufts of grass.
Grégoire smoked on. He only stopped when the moon sank down behind
the pine-trees, and the long deep shadow reached out and enveloped
him. Then he could no longer see and follow the filmy smoke from his
cigarette, and he threw it away. Sleep was pressing heavily upon him.
He stretched himself full length upon the rough bare boards of the
gallery and slept until day-break.
Bud Aiken's satisfaction was very genuine when he learned that Grégoire
proposed spending the day and another night with him. He had already
recognized in the young creole a spirit not altogether uncongenial to
his own.
'Tite Reine cooked breakfast for them. She made coffee; of course there
was no milk to add to it, but there was sugar. From a meal bag that
stood in the corner of the room she took a measure of meal, and with it
made a pone of corn bread. She fried slices of salt pork. Then Bud sent
her into the field to pick cotton with old Uncle Mortimer. The negro's
cabin was the counterpart of their own, but stood quite a distance away
hidden in the woods. He and Aiken worked the crop on shares.
Early in the day Bud produced a grimy pack of cards from behind a
parcel of sugar on the shelf. Grégoire threw the cards into the fire
and replaced them with a spic and span new "deck" that he took from his
saddle-bags. He also brought forth from the same receptacle a bottle of
whiskey, which he presented to his host, saying that he himself had no
further use for it, as he had "sworn off" since day before yesterday,
when he had made a fool of himself in Cloutierville.
They sat at the pine table smoking and playing cards all the morning,
only desisting when 'Tite Reine came to serve them with the gumbo-filé
that she had come out of the field to cook at noon. She could afford
to treat a guest to chicken gumbo, for she owned a half dozen chickens
that Uncle Mortimer had presented to her at various times. There were
only two spoons, and 'Tite Reine had to wait till the men had finished
before eating her soup. She waited for Grégoire's spoon, though her
husband was the first to get through. It was a very childish whim.
In the afternoon she picked cotton again; and the men played cards,
smoked, and Bud drank.
It was a very long time since Bud Aiken had enjoyed himself so well,
and since he had encountered so sympathetic and appreciative a listener
to the story of his eventful career. The story of 'Tite Reine's fall
from the horse he told with much spirit, mimicking quite skillfully
the way in which she had complained of never being permitted "to teck
a li'le pleasure," whereupon he had kindly suggested horseback riding.
Grégoire enjoyed the story amazingly, which encouraged Aiken to relate
many more of a similar character. As the afternoon wore on, all
formality of address between the two had disappeared: they were "Bud"
and "Grégoire" to each other, and Grégoire had delighted Aiken's soul
by promising to spend a week with him. 'Tite Reine was also touched by
the spirit of recklessness in the air; it moved her to fry two chickens
for supper. She fried them deliciously in bacon fat. After supper she
again arranged Grégoire's bed out on the gallery.
The night fell calm and beautiful, with the delicious odor of the pines
floating upon the air. But the three did not sit up to enjoy it. Before
the stroke of nine, Aiken had already fallen upon his bed unconscious
of everything about him in the heavy drunken sleep that would hold him
fast through the night. It even clutched him more relentlessly than
usual, thanks to Grégoire's free gift of whiskey.
The sun was high when he awoke. He lifted his voice and called
imperiously for 'Tite Reine, wondering that the coffee-pot was not on
the hearth, and marveling still more that he did not hear her voice in
quick response with its, "I'm comin', Bud. Yere I come." He called
again and again. Then he arose and looked out through the back door to
see if she were picking cotton in the field, but she was not there. He
dragged himself to the front entrance. Grégoire's bed was still on the
gallery, but the young fellow was nowhere to be seen.
Uncle Mortimer had come into the yard, not to cut wood this time, but
to pick up the axe which was his own property, and lift it to his
shoulder.
"Mortimer," called out Aiken, "whur's my wife?" at the same time
advancing toward the negro. Mortimer stood still, waiting for him.
"Whur's my wife an' that Frenchman? Speak out, I say, before I send you
to h--l."
Uncle Mortimer never had feared Bud Aiken; and with the trusty axe upon
his shoulder, he felt a double hardihood in the man's presence. The old
fellow passed the back of his black, knotty hand unctuously over his
lips, as though he relished in advance the words that were about to
pass them. He spoke carefully and deliberately:
"Miss Reine," he said, "I reckon she mus' of done struck Natchitoches
pa'ish sometime to'ard de middle o' de night, on dat 'ar swif' hoss o'
Mr. Sanchun's."
Aiken uttered a terrific oath. "Saddle up Buckeye," he yelled, "before
I count twenty, or I 'll rip the black hide off yer. Quick, thar! Thur
ain't nothin' four-footed top o' this earth that Buckeye can't run
down." Uncle Mortimer scratched his head dubiously, as he answered:--
"Yas, Mas' Bud, but you see, Mr. Sanchun, he done cross de Sabine befo'
sun-up on Buckeye."