HOW THE POSTMASTER SAW A GHOST
On the day when Philip fell into the avalanche, although it was likely
to break away from the face of the mountain at any moment and come
thundering down on the rocks below, not a single person came to the
office to watch with the postmaster, who went outside from time to time
and gazed up into the mist, and then, with a sigh of relief, returned
to his arm-chair before the fireplace. In better weather he would have
had plenty of gossiping company, for avalanche day was quite the
liveliest day in his calendar. Despite the rain which kept pattering
on the low roof, he hoped that the snow and ice would hold fast to the
rock until the sun came again; but nevertheless his old ears were
constantly on the alert for the crash which he feared.
On many a January day, in the years that were past, he had occupied his
favorite chair in the warm sun against the east wall of the office,
surrounded by his neighbors, watching the glittering mass, and noting
the small fragments of ice which broke away from time to time before
the final crash. He had heard nothing yet, and as the gloomy afternoon
wore on he began to be almost certain that he was not to lose his
holiday, after all.
The postmaster, though living so much alone, had a way of talking to
himself, and on this occasion he was more talkative than ever, because
of the uneasiness he felt.
"Hit's a quare thing," he said, getting up and kicking the logs into a
blaze, and then sitting down again in his sheepskin-cushioned chair.
"Hit's plumb quare."
By way of making these solitary talks more sociable, the old man had
developed a clever habit of talking in dialogue, imagining himself for
the time in the company of some congenial spirit, for whom he spoke as
well as for himself. On this particular occasion his imaginary
companion was a mountain woman for whom he had felt a sentimental
regard years before, but to whom he had never told his love.
"_What's quare, 'Manuel_? Why, look here, 'Liz'beth; I've sorted the
mail here more 'n thirty year, watchin' the avalanches fall off yonder
mounting, an' in all that time I've never set my foot onto the top of
hit. _Most of us on this side hain't, 'Manuel; an' since the bridge
rotted away an' tumbled into the gorge, there ain't no way o' gittin'
thar_. 'Liz'beth, I'm nat'rally a venturesome man, though I never
showed it to you, 'Liz'beth, when I ought to. That's what ye didn't.
I'm a venturesome man; an' this here is what I've made up my mind to,
'Liz'beth Hough. I'm detarmined to see the top o' that mounting afore
I'm a year older; an' I've set the time, 'Liz'beth--nothin' personal in
that, but meanin' that when the dogwood blossoms in the spring I'm
goin' to find some way to git up thar. _How'll ye do hit, 'Manuel_?
Hit's likely I'll fall a tree across the gorge. _Don't do hit,
'Manuel_. Why not?"
The postmaster looked wise, and put out his hand as if he were
playfully touching his imaginary companion under the chin. "Why not,
'Liz'beth? _Because folks do say that the old man that lived up thar
was murdered, an' that his spirit has took the form of a harnt, an'
brings bad luck to such as goes up thar to disturb him._"
The postmaster rose and kicked the fire impatiently. "Bah! I'm a bold
man, 'Liz'beth, past occasions notwithstandin'. I'm sot an' detarmined
to do hit when the dogwood-trees blossom out, an' I'm 'lowin' you'll
come an' tend the office, 'Liz'beth, while I'm gone."
The postmaster stood with his back to the fire, looking down over his
left shoulder to where the imaginary form of Elizabeth sat.
"You'll come an' spell me, will ye, 'Liz'beth? You allus was a
'commodatin' woman. No, there ain't nothin' for ye to-day--not so much
as a paper. Don't be in a hurry. This here idee of explorin' that
mounting has took a powerful hold on me, sure. Nothin' that you can
say will prevent me from so doin'. Well, if you must go, 'Liz'beth, I
s'pose hit's high time I was gittin' my supper. After I wash the
dishes, I 'low to walk across to the big road an' see if there's any
tracks. Good-by, 'Liz'beth. _Good-by, 'Manuel._"
The postmaster was silent while he raked out a bed of coals and set the
three-legged iron skillet over the very hottest place. Then he mixed
some Indian meal with milk and a pinch of salt, and having patted it
down in the skillet, he put on the cover, and filled the rim with more
coals and some burning embers. After he had buried a potato in the
ashes, and set the coffee down to warm over, he broke out again:
"I couldn't 'a' been mistaken about there bein' nothin' for 'Liz'beth.
I sort o' spoke at random, knowin' that the last letter she got was in
'68, month o' May." Then he stepped back so as to look through the
letter-boxes, which were before the south window. "There's nothin' in
H except a linch-pin, an' I 'low that oughter be in L--no, that's for
Riley Hooper. Hello! hit's clearin'. There'll be a moon to-night, an'
nothin' 's goin' to drap afore to-morrow."
After he had eaten, and put away the supper-things, the postmaster took
down his rifle from the rack over the door, and stepped out into the
clearing.
The sky was not yet free from rolling clouds, which were drifting into
the east across the face of the great full moon that hung directly over
the mountain. Stretching away to the seamed rock where the avalanche
hung was a wide old field, broken by rocks and bristling with girdled
trees, whose dead limbs wriggled upward and outward like the hundred
hands of Briareus. The postmaster kept to the foot-worn trail,
shuffling over the wet leaves, and glancing up now and then at the
granite front of old Whiteside with great satisfaction, not only
because the avalanche was safe for the night, but because he loved to
think that whatever secrets the mountain held would be his when the
dogwood-blossoms came in the spring.
He went as far as the big road, and finding plenty of fresh tracks, he
kept on in the direction of Cashiers until he came to a cabin where the
bright warm light glowed through the chinks between the logs and
through the cracks about the chimney as if the place were on fire. By
the merry laughter he heard and the scraping of a violin he knew that a
frolic was going on, and he chuckled to think that he had in his pocket
a certain letter which would be a convenient excuse for dropping in on
the revelers.
The postmaster must have been welcome in his own social person over and
above the favor of the letter he brought, for it was hard upon twelve
o'clock when he came out and took his way homeward, feeling jollier
than he had felt for many a day, and carrying a cake in a paper parcel
under his arm for the coming festivities at the office.
"Who'd 'a' thought," he said, turning to look back at the lighted
cabin, where the revelry was at its height, "that I'd 'a' been dancin'
a figger this night on the puncheons with 'Liz'beth Hough? Hit sort o'
took all the boldness out o' me when she come over an' asted me. I
don't 'low any other human could 'a' cowed me that-a-way. I'm a bold
man under ordinary conditions prevailin' an' takin' place. I ain't
easy to skeer," he continued as he resumed his walk, "leastways where
men is concarned."
It was cold now, and still, and the wrinkled mud on the road was
curdled with frost. The moon was well over to the west range. The
last cloud had disappeared, and the stars were like jewels in the sky
through the bare limbs of the trees. He was in such a rare state of
exhilaration that he was more talkative than ever, and kept up a
running conversation with first one neighbor and then another, until
his cheerful dialogue, which had brought him to the border of his own
field and in sight of the office, was rudely interrupted by the
"too-hoot" of an owl somewhere among the girdled trees.
"Shet up," said the postmaster, carefully laying the cake down on the
leaves, and cocking his rifle. "Good night, Riley. Linch-pin's come;
twelve cents postage stamped on the tag. _Good night, 'Manuel_. I
must tend to this sassy critter, interruptin' of his betters. Where be
ye, anyway? Know enough to hold yer tongue, don't ye'? I'll let ye
know I'm a bold man, leastways--" and with that he fired his gun at
random. In the windless night the sharp report seemed to strike
against the granite mountain and be thrown back like a ball of sound,
to go bounding across the Cove, rolling into the distance.
The postmaster reloaded his gun and eased the lock down upon a fresh
cap before he took up the cake, muttering at the owl, and then
chuckling to think that he had silenced his rival.
He turned out of the trail to a little knoll which commanded a clear
view of the granite mountain, streaked down with black storm-stains
that looked like huge banners fluttering out from the shining mass of
snow and ice clinging to the crest.
The postmaster gazed upward for some minutes, and then moved on in
silence toward the office, under the girdled trees. The avalanche was
uppermost in his mind, however, and before he had gone far he stopped
on another place of vantage to take a last fond look.
"Freezin' tighter an' tighter every blessed minute," he began. "When
the dogwood-trees blossom in the spring-time, old rock, I'll let ye
know I'm a bold--"
He never finished the sentence.
The cake and the rifle fell to the ground, and the postmaster's jaw
dropped on its hinges. Cold chills ran up his back and blew like a
wind through his hair, while the blood seemed to throb in his ears. He
was powerless to speak. He could only gaze with his bulging eyes at
the small figure which rose slowly from the roots of the great icicles
and then stood motionless and black against the snow. It looked to be
a figure, so small and far away in the uncertain moonlight, and yet it
stood where no living man could possibly be. His first conviction was
that he saw the spirit of the old man of the mountain, who, for one
reason or another, was believed to rest uneasily in his grave; and when
the small object began to thresh the air with its arms like the wings
of a windmill, he had no further doubt that it was the dreadful "harnt"
of whom 'Liz'beth had warned him. With a howl he turned and fled over
the field in the direction of the office, and as he ran the owl resumed
its dismal note--"Too-hoo, too-hoot." As many times as he fell down he
clambered upon his feet again, and ran on, never daring to look back at
the "harnt" waving its ghostly arms above the roots of the great
icicles. He thought his time had come, for he had heard that men never
lived who had once seen the dead; and all the time, as he ran, the
mocking cry of the owl resounded through the woods.
The postmaster was staggering and breathless when he reached his door,
and once inside, he shoved the wooden bolt, and leaned against the
table in the center of the room. Only a few glimmering coals lighted
the ashes between the iron fire-dogs. Just enough moonlight struggled
through the grimy south window to show the glazed boxes, holding a
paper here and an uncalled-for letter there, while the unused places
were stuffed with bunches of twine, and heaps of nails, and strings of
onions, and quite the dustiest litter of odds and ends filled the
compartments X, Y, and Z. As the old man raised his eyes and glared
around the shadowy walls, there was something which caught a fleck of
moonlight high up on the chimney, but that was only the perforated
cross of the churn-dasher thrust between the logs. In the north
window, over opposite to the letter-boxes, his eyes fell on a
wide-mouthed bottle, from whose top two dead stalks of geraniums
drooped over to the shoulders of the bottle, and then spread out to
right and left against the glass. With a shiver of fear, he supported
himself over to his arm-chair, and sank down with his back to the
object, which reminded him of the "harnt" flinging its arms against the
snow on the mountain.
The postmaster had not yet found his voice. Perhaps he feared to break
the death-like stillness of the room, heavy with the sooty odor of the
fireplace. For some moments he heard nothing but his own heavy
breathing, and then a dull clatter, like some hard object striking on
wood, came from behind the house. Instead of being startled at hearing
this noise, the postmaster got upon his feet, and shuffled across the
floor and out through a creaking door into a lean-to, where the
moonlight poured through the loose log wall and lay in spots and
stripes on the old brindle plow-steer, which was still grinding his
crumpled horns against the wooden rack above his manger.
"I've seen hit, Buck! I've seen hit. The harnt!--the harnt!"
The postmaster's voice had come at last, and as he spoke he leaned on
the shoulders of the ox, whose cold wet nose sought his groping hand.
"I hain't got long to stay. I've seen what 't ain't good to see, an'
live. I hope ye'll git a good master when I'm gone, Buck. Tell
'Liz'beth that I died a-blessin' of her name, with all the boldness
took clean out of me. Cut off in my sins," he moaned, throwing his
arms about the neck of the ox, "for seein' a harnt unbeknownst, an' hit
strikin' out desperit at Jo-siah, or whoever did the murder, an' not
keerin' for the avalanche no more 'n you keer for a hickory gad. Whoa,
Buck, whoa," and as he spoke he patted the animal on the neck. "I'm
a-goin' to stay 'long o' you, Buck, this whole endurin' night. I'm
afeard to go back into the office."
The postmaster trembled where he stood, and a ray of moonlight, coming
through a knot-hole in the slab roof, fell full on his ashen face and
glaring eyes. He spoke no more for a time, except an occasional
caressing word to soothe the uneasy ox, which sidled about and grated
his horns against the wooden stanchions. Then, when he grew weary in
that position, he climbed over into the long manger and crouched down
on the corn-shucks, where he could see the mild eyes of the ox, and the
spots and stripes of moonlight on his tough hide. Gradually he grew
calmer, and tried to put the gruesome sight he had seen out of his mind.
"I never knowed before ye was sech good company, Buck. You've got eyes
like a woman, an' a heap more patience. I'll never strike ye another
blow, an' if I live to see to-morrow I'll write ye a letter, an' put
hit in B box, expressin' my brotherly feelin's in language more fitter
than I'm able to do now."
The postmaster continued to mutter caressingly to his dumb companion,
until the bars and spots of moonlight began to fade, leaving the ox in
obscurity, which was the time when Philip reached the upper bank and
sank down on the snow, after hearing the telescope strike on the rocks
in the Cove; and both men must have fallen asleep at about the same
time.
It was mid-forenoon when the postmaster awoke, and a man was standing
over him, shaking his shoulder. The man was coming home from, the
frolic at the cabin, and finding the front door bolted, had come around
to the shed. He had the cake and the gun, which he had found in the
field.
"What in the name o' sense are ye doin' here at this time o' day,
'Manuel? Come outen that manger."
The postmaster obeyed in a dazed sort of way, and when he was on his
feet he shook the straws and bits of corn-husks from his clothing, the
old brindle ox looking at the two men with his mild eyes from his place
in the corner.
"What made ye drap these things out in the field, 'Manuel?" said the
man.
"Come into the office, Jonas," said the postmaster, leading the way;
and then he told the other of the fearful sight he had seen.
The sun was warm after the rain, and soon others began to come,--men
and women,--and he told his story again and again, to the awe and
amazement of his simple listeners.
"I seen a quare streak down the long bank, as I came through the
woods," said one man; "I did sure." And then they all went out into
the field where the gun and the cake had been found. Sure enough,
there was a dull line plainly to be seen on the smooth crust of the
snow. They all agreed that this was the track of the "harnt," who had
amused himself in the night-time by climbing up and sliding down on the
face of the avalanche.
The story spread through the settlements, and no man was bold enough
thereafter to think of bridging the gorge to get upon the haunted
mountain.