The engineer found his little garrison holding the fort at the Poquette
Carry camp--and confining their attentions wholly to holding the fort.
Not an ax blow had been struck since his hurried departure.
“We didn't work no more,” explained one of the men, “because we'd give
up all idea of seein you ag'in. Of course we reckoned that a new boss
would prob'ly be comin' along pretty quick and we thought we'd wait and
find out just what he wanted us to do.”
“Well, it will be the same old boss and the same old plan,” replied
Parker curtly. The idea that the men had considered him such easy prey
made him indignant. “You'll consider after this that I'm the Colonel
Gideon Ward of this six-mile stretch here.”
“I reckon there won't be any real Gid Ward any more,” said the man.
“Feller went through here last night, hi-larrup for 'lection, to git a
doc for Gid. Seems he got caught out and froze up somehow--tho I never
s'picioned that weather would have any effect on the old sanup. P'rhaps
you've been hearin' all about how it happened? Feller wouldn't stop long
enough to explain to us.” The man's gaze was full of inquisitiveness and
the others crowded around to listen.
But with self-repression truly admirable Parker told them that he had no
news to give out concerning Colonel Ward, of any nature whatsoever.
He ordered the driver of the tote-team to whip up and rode away toward
Sunkhaze, leaving the men gaping after him.
He observed the same reticence at the settlement, tho he was received
with a demonstration that was something like an ovation.
Although his better sense told him that the men were justified in
preserving neutrality at the time of the raid, yet he could not rid
himself of the very human feeling of resentment because they had
surrendered him so readily into the hands of his adversaries. But the
chief influence that prompted silence was the fear lest details of his
mishap and the reasons therefor would get into the newspapers to the
annoyance of his employers.
“I am back and the work is going on just as tho nothing had happened,”
he said to the men who crowded into the office of the tavern to
congratulate him. “Matters have been straightened out and the less talk
that's made the better.”
But the postmaster, presuming on more intimate acquaintance, followed
him up to his room, where his effects had been carefully preserved for
him.
“I reckoned you'd get back some time,” said Dodge. “I've predicted that
much. But, I swanny, I didn't look for you to come back with your tail
over the dasher, as you've done. That is, I didn't look for you to come
that way not until that feller blew in here to telegraft for a doctor
for old Gid. Then I see that it was him that was got done up instead of
you. But speakin' of telegraftin', there ain't no word gone out from
here as yit about the hoorah--not a word.”
“Do you mean that Sunkhaze has kept the Swamp Swogon affair and my
kidnapping quiet?” demanded Parker, his face lighting up. He had been
fearing what might have gone out to the world about the affair.
“A good many was all of a to-do to telegraft it to the sheriff and to
your bosses,” said the postmaster calmly. “But it seemed better to me to
wait a while. I says, 'Look here, neighbors, it's goin' to be some time
before the sheriff can git his crowd together and git at Ward--and even
then there'll be politics to consider. The sheriff won't move anyway
till he gits the word of the Lumbermen's Association. And it'll probably
happen by that time that the young man will show up here again. All
we'll git out of it hereabouts is a black eye in the newspapers--it
bein' held up that Sunkhaze ain't a safe place to settle in. And all
that truck--you know! Furthermore, from things you've dropped to me,
Mr. Parker, I knew you were playin' kind of a lone hand and a quiet game
here. My old father used to say, 'Run hard when you run, but don't start
so sudden that you stub your toe and tumble down.' So in your case I
just took the responsibility and held the thing back.”
The postmaster's eyes were searching Parker's face for signal of
approbation.
The engineer went to him and shook his hand with hearty emphasis.
“You've got a level head, Mr. Postmaster,” he said, delightedly. “We'll
start exactly where we left off and so far as I am concerned the place
will never get a bad name from me. In return for your frankness and your
service to me, I'll give you a hint as to what happened to Colonel Ward.
I know you won't abuse my confidence.”
When he had finished, the postmaster said earnestly, “Mr. Parker,
however much old Gid Ward owes you, you owe Josh Ward a good deal more.
He ain't a man to dun for his pay. But if he ever does ask you to square
the account you won't be the man I take you for if you don't settle. If
you feel that you owe me anything for the little service I've done you
and your bus'ness, just take and add it to the Josh Ward account. Of all
the men on earth I pity that man the most.”
There were tears in Dodge's eyes when he stumbled down the tavern
stairs.
One cheerful moment for Parker had been when the postmaster informed
him of Sunkhaze's equilibrium in the matter of news-monging But a more
cheerful moment was when Mank, his foreman, standing with him on the
ice above the submerged Swogon told him that a sandbar made out into the
lake at that point and that the locomotive was probably lodged on the
bar, only a little way below the surface.
When they had sawed the ice and sounded they found this to be true. As
soon as a broad square of ice had been removed they saw her, all her
outlines clear against the white sand. The sunken sleds were equally in
evidence. It was not a diver's job, then, as Parker, in his worryings,
had feared. On the thick ice surrounding the whole there was solid
foothold for the raising apparatus and Parker's crew set at work with
good cheer.
It was a cold, wet and tedious job, the grappling and the raising, but
his derricks were strong and his rigging plentiful. Moreover, the water
was not deep.
All the material that could not be recovered by the grapples was
duplicated by means of quick replies to wired orders, and the work of
transportation across the lake was successfully completed.
It was well into a warm May, and his men for the last week had been
moving soil and building culverts before the case of Col. Gideon Ward
was brought to Parker's attention in a manner requiring action. One
evening just after dusk his foreman scratched on the flap of the
engineer's tent, in which he was now living at Poquette.
“Come in!” he called.
The canvas was lifted and a man entered. Parker turned the reflector of
his lantern on the visitor.
“Joshua Ward!” he exclaimed, as he started up and seized the old man's
outstretched hand.
He led him to a camp-stool. They looked at each other for a time in
silence. Tears trembled on Joshua's eyelashes, and he passed his knotted
hand over his face before he spoke.
“Mr. Parker,” he said, tremulously, “I've come to bring ye money to
pay for every cent's worth o' damage to property 'an loss o' time an'
everything.” He laid a package in the young man's hand. “Help yourself,”
he quavered. “I'm goin' to trust to your honesty, for I'm certain I can.
Take what's right. Gid and I don't know anythin' about railroads an'
what such things as you lost are worth. All we can do is to show that we
mean to square things the best we can now. Gid's sorry now, Mr. Parker,
he's sorry--sorry--sorry--poor Gid!” The old man sobbed outright.
“Did he--” The young man paused, half-fearing to ask the question.
Joshua again ran his rough palm across his eyes. Then, in dumb grief, he
set the edge of his right hand against his left wrist, the left hand to
the right wrist, and then marked a place on each leg above the ankle.
“All off there, Mr. Parker.” The old man bent his head into his hollowed
palms. Tears trickled through his fingers. There was a long silence. The
young man did not know how to interrupt that pause.
“I'm feedin' an' tendin' him like I used to when he was a baby an' I a
six-year-old. He's at my camp, Mr. Parker. He don't ever want to be seen
agin in the world, he says--only an old, trimmed, dead tree, he says.
Poor old Gid! No matter what he's been, no matter what he's done, you'd
pity him now, Mr. Parker, for the hand o' punishment has fell heavy on
my poor brother.”
The engineer, truly shocked, stood beside Joshua, and placed his hand on
the bowed shoulders.
“Mr. Ward,” he said, with a quiver in his voice, “never will I do
anything to add one drop to the bitterness in the cup that has come to
you and yours.”
“I told Gid, I told Gid,” cried the old man, “that you'd say somethin'
like that! I had to comfort him, you know, Mr. Parker; but I felt that
you, bein' a young man, couldn't make it too hard for us old men. He
ain't the same Gid now. See here, sir!”
With tremulous hands he drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to
Parker. It was a writing giving sole power of attorney to Joshua Ward.
The old man pointed to a witnessed scrawl--a shapeless hieroglyph at the
bottom of the sheet.
“Gid's mark!” he sobbed. “No hands--no hands any more! I feed him, I
tend him like I would a baby, an' the only words he says to me now are
pleasant an' brotherly words.
“An' more'n that, Mr. Parker, I'm on my way down to town. I've got some
errands that are sweet to do--sweet an' bitter, too. There's new fires
been lit in the dark corners of my poor brother's heart. I've got here
a list of the men that Gideon Ward hain't done right by in this
life,--that he's cheated,--an' a list of the widows of the men he hain't
done right by, an' by that power of attorney he's given me the means,
an' he says to me to make it square with them people if it takes every
cent he's worth. It won't cost much for me an' Gid to live at Little
Moxie, Mr. Parker--an' poor Cynthy--”
He looked into vacancy a while and was silent. Then he went on:
“We'll have our last days together, me an' Gid. All these years that
I've lived alone up there the trees an' the winds an' the skies an' the
waves of the lake have been sayin' good things to me. I told Gid about
them voices. He has been too busy all his life to listen before now. But
sittin' there in these days--sit-tin' there, always a-sittin' there, Mr.
Parker! Nothing to do but bend his ear to catch the whispers that come
up out o' the great, deep lungs o' the universe! He has been listenin',
an'”--the old man rose and shook the papers above the head of the
engineer--“God an' the woods have been talkin' the truth to my poor
brother Gideon.”
The old man slept that night in Parker's tent and went on his way at
morning light, and tho the engineer pressed back again into his hands,
unopened, the packet that was proffered, and assured him that no harm
should befall Gideon Ward through complaint or report for which he was
responsible, Parker still felt that somehow there was a balance due old
Joshua Ward on their books of tacit partnership in well-doing;--such was
the honest faith, and patient self-abnegation of the good old man, who
had endured so much for others' sake.