When Sandy had departed down The Way he felt weak and stricken. All
the fervour and exhilaration were gone; there was no turning back, and
he could not stand still. The walk to The Forge could easily be made
before morning, with time to sleep on the way, so there was nothing to
do but forget his misery and travel on. The storm, too, emphasized the
necessity for this. On beyond there was a deserted cabin by the trail;
he could sleep there in comparative comfort; under the falling roof
there surely must be one dry spot large enough to shelter a thin, tired
boy.
A crash of thunder caused Sandy to rush forward. He had the childish
fear that many country children have of the extremes of Nature, and
superstition swayed his every thought. Gathering his loose coat about
him and clutching his money close, he made for The Way, and ran with
all the strength remaining in him, for the deserted cabin.
Flash and splintering noise surrounded him. His eyes were blinded by
the blue-red lightning; his ears were aching from the thunder's shock.
Once he stood still, unable to suffer longer--for his nerves were
paralyzed with fear, and at that pause a fork of vivid flame darted
from the blackness and ran like the finger of a maniac down the side of
a tall tree. The stroke was so near that the boy did not heed the
crash that followed immediately; he saw the wood and earth fly and he
shuddered as he looked. That was the bolt that ended the life of Jim
the negro, but Sandy never knew.
In unconsciousness the boy waited for, he knew not what! He was dead,
yet alive, unable to move or feel, yet standing and seeing. Then his
blood began to flow once more, and sinking to his knees he wept as he
had not since the night when Mary drove him from the cabin to the shed
to sleep! Wet and trembling, he finally found strength and courage to
go on, but a loneliness of soul and mind almost overcame him. He
raised his aching eyes and saw the clouds parting; he heard the rising
wind complaining in the tall trees and shaking the water down upon him.
At that moment a star broke through the scudding masses of rolling
blackness--one kindly eye of light, and at the same instant something
touched his body with thrilling familiarity. He groped and felt in the
lower darkness, then--because he had never been taught to pray--Sandy
Morley bent his head over the wet and shaggy body of Bob, the collie,
and laughed and sobbed from sheer gratitude and joy!
Stealthily the faithful creature had followed his friend. Life had
taught him, even in his puppy days, to curb his inclinations. Where
Sandy was, there was always happiness, but it was generally seasoned
with danger, and Bob took no chances.
"Good dog! dear old fellow!"
Bob licked the caressing hands fondly. Never before had such
appreciation been shown him even by the one who was lavishly bestowing
it now; Bob did not seek to understand, he merely accepted and snuggled
closer.
Sandy knew a later parting with the dog was inevitable, but human
nature could not contemplate it then, so he bade Bob follow on and,
with regained courage and determination, the two plodded down The
Appointed Way with firmer tread. The shed was reached, and nestling
close in a protected corner, they slept for several hours with no dream
to disturb or frighten them. The storm passed; the stars shone out,
and a new moon crept up from the east. At four o'clock Sandy started
up and began the readjustment of life. Bob was lying across his legs
and breathing evenly. The warmth had been grateful even if the weight
had been a burden, and a sense of joy flooded the boy as he patted the
dear, faithful head.
A few minutes later the two were again on the road. Breakfast would
have been acceptable, but both boy and dog had learned that food was
not a vital necessity for the day's beginning. A cup of warming fluid
would have set Sandy up wonderfully, for his throat was sore and his
bones ached, but The Forge was not a great distance away and it was a
new sensation to have a pocket full of money.
"Bob, when we get there you and I will fill up--I swear it, Bob!"
The collie resented the oath. He was willing to share and share alike,
and between friends surely there was no need for such emphasis.
A soaked wood road on an early August morning is not a cheering place,
and the travellers plodded on with weakening limbs and heavy hearts.
Sandy comforted himself by the thought that food would set him up, but
as he thought this his stomach rejected the idea with sickening
insistence. The more he thought of food the more his head ached and
his throat throbbed. Bob, unhampered by physical claims, jogged along
cheerfully. He was used to hope deferred, and he was appreciative of
the company he was in, and the absence of rough words and well-aimed
kicks and blows.
The few miles of The Way seemed doubled on the moist August morning;
the rising sun merely drew more dampness from the sodden earth; it did
not dry it; but at last Sandy saw the opening ahead which marked the
clearing around Smith Crothers' factory, he heard the buzzing and
warning of machinery--at first he thought it was the strange sensation
that was gaining force in his head, but presently he righted things and
plucked up courage. Two miles beyond the factory: two miles of lighter
woodland and then the sharp little hill at whose foot The Forge lay!
A busy day lay before Sandy. He must eat--the thought now was positive
agony--buy some necessary clothing and get into touch with some
inspired fellow creature who could give him information about
Massachusetts. Over and over Sandy repeated the magic word. For
nearly a year it had lain dormant in his consciousness. It was his
earthly heaven; the paradise of his longings and desires, but now it
had suddenly taken on earthly meaning and proportions. How was he to
get there? Had he money enough to carry him to that wonderland where
one could exchange work for an education?
So absorbed was the half-sick boy with the problem of his near future
that he passed Crothers' factory unheedingly, and was well down the
last sharp little hill before he realized it. A fever was gaining
control over him and making him light-headed and care-free.
Massachusetts lost its agonizing doubts--everything appeared to be
coming to him; even the inevitable parting with Bob became vague and
blurred. Why not take Bob along with him? Why not, indeed?
And so boy and dog, muddy and fagged, came to the end of the hill, to
the edge of the town and the first house, known as Stagg's Place, where
room and board could be obtained for a consideration!
Sandy, with that growing nausea, made his way toward it, and Bob, with
his sixth sense serving him well, pricked up his ears, put on more
style of carriage and estimated his chances at the back door. But at
that critical moment an excited old gentleman dashed out of Stagg's
Place and gripping a walking stick madly waved it on high. Spying
Sandy he sensed probable help.
"Boy!" he shouted lustily, "stop that man! It's--it's life or death.
Stop him! Send him back and I'll give you a dollar."
Sandy rallied his last remnants of strength and turned about. Off in
the distance he saw the mounted postman jogging on his way toward the
village and he dashed ahead! Bob, with his smouldering puppy nature
coming unexpectedly to his help, scampered on, crazily barking and
yelping as he had never permitted himself to do in the guarded past.
The postman, at last, heard the commotion and stopped short.
"You are to go back!" Sandy panted; "it's life or--death."
The horse was turned about and in the mud raised by the retreating
hoofs the boy and dog followed wearily.
Whatever the matter was that had caused the confusion, it was adjusted
by the time Sandy again reached the house. The old gentleman,
muttering about a weak leg and a degenerate rascal, was sitting on the
piazza fanning himself with a panama hat, while a thin, eager-eyed
woman urged him to calm himself before worse harm was done.
"The Lord will provide, Levi," she was saying, as Sandy and his dog
approached. "His ways are not our ways, but we might as well give
credit where credit is due. His leadings are generally clearer sighted
than ours be, having--as you might say--wider scope to scan." Then she
glanced at the dirty, worn pair on the steps.
"Shoo!" she ejaculated, but neither dog nor boy stirred.
"What do you want?" she next asked.
"What--he said he would--give!" and then to complicate matters Sandy
rolled over in a huddled heap and fainted dead away! Bob, bereft and
frightened, hovered over him, emitting yelps and howls that shattered
the summer calm.
The Markhams only took their meals at Stagg's Place; a small cottage
near by was their lodging rooms, and to that Levi Markham ordered two
coloured boys to carry the prostrate Sandy.
An hour later Matilda Markham sat beside the couch in the shaded
living-room and looked thoughtfully upon the form stretched thereon.
From outside the voice of her brother came appealing to all that was
reasonable and sensible in Bob.
"Of course you can see your master, my good fellow. Just be patient,
patient!"
Levi Markham liked all animals, and something about Bob's rugged
ugliness and faithfulness called forth his admiration and sympathy.
"Come, come, old fellow, eat and drink. He's safe enough inside. You
know well, you rascal, that he _is_ inside!"
Bob blinked confidingly, but he would not touch the food which stood
alluringly near at hand in a shining tin plate.
Sandy had recovered from his faint, but he was strangely weak and an
inner stillness bound him speechless and immovable. He lay
there--thinking, thinking! He knew a woman was beside him watching his
every breath; he heard Bob outside and the sternly kind voice talking
to him. But nothing mattered. Yes, one thing did matter. The money
was in his pocket and Massachusetts was still in the near future!
Miss Matilda, by the process known only to her sex, had labelled and
classified the boy on the sofa.
"He's what these shiftless negroes call quality," she pondered.
"Filthy and worn to the bone as he is--he is quality or I miss my
guess! Now what on earth has brought him to this pass?"
The lids were drawn close over Sandy's eyes; his thin face was pinched
and wan, and the tan had faded mysteriously from the smooth skin. A
dignity rested on brow and mouth, and the work-stained, folded hands
were delicate and full of character. Sandford Morley had come to the
parting of the ways and he had resigned himself to the inevitable. His
helplessness put forth an appeal that reached through his sordid misery
to the emotions of Matilda Markham. She adored boys--they were her one
enthusiasm but, like her brother, the more she felt the less she
permitted herself to show. "She knew her duty"--none better; "but she
did not intend to have her feelings joggled in the broad light of day
for curious folks to witness!"
So she watched Sandy now with her heart painfully in evidence.
"There's a bruise on his left cheek," mused Miss Matilda; "like as not
he hit it against something." It was the effect of the last blow Mary
Morley was ever to deal him, but of course the watcher in the orderly
cottage could not imagine so outrageous a thing as that.
"He's got real nice hair if it wasn't so matted. I daresay it would
curl if it had half a chance." Justice called for pity and protection,
and while waiting to see what was best to do next, Matilda heeded
inspiration.
"You awake?" she whispered. Sandy gave a weak nod. "Want something to
eat? No? A drink of water, maybe? No? Very well, lie still and drop
off to sleep again. You'll feel better presently, and can tell us
about yourself, then brother will send you home."
The room was dim, but Matilda's eyes were keen, and she saw two large
tears roll from under the closed lids and down upon the thin cheeks.
Because of her understanding of boys, Matilda did not interfere with
those mute tokens of weak surrender. Better the traces on the dirty
skin than a later misunderstanding, but as the tears took their way a
childless woman's pity and tenderness was following them mutely.
"You can't sleep? Well now, never mind. Just don't fuss." Then
inspiration came again.
"Maybe you'd like to see your dog, he's just outside. He won't eat or
drink and his nose is everlastingly pointed to the door."
At this Sandy's eyes opened so suddenly and so wide that Matilda
Markham started. She had never seen such large eyes in any human boy's
face and they were such strange, yearning eyes.
"You _do_ want your dog?"
"Yes, ma'am! oh, yes!"
Without a word more, Matilda strode to the door.
"Brother," she said; "we want that dog here!"
Bob leaped up and followed his instincts. He made no noise or cry, he
simply went to the low couch, and snuggled his rough head against the
shoulder pressed on the pillow.
Matilda Markham could not bear the sight. It made her afraid of
herself. Her brother, above all people, must not think her emotional.
She knew what he thought of emotional women--he not only believed them
incapable, but he mistrusted their moral natures. She walked out to
the porch and sat grimly down in a rocker and swayed back and forth
energetically.
"It's real hot," she vouchsafed presently. "This is a terrible shut-in
place. I haven't any use for mountains unless you can get on the
toppest peak."
"Has that boy explained himself?" asked Levi Markham, also swaying to
and fro in his rocker. Matilda shook her head.
"What do you think we ought to do? I've been inquiring a bit and I
find there is no police station nor hospital nearer than twenty-five
miles. I asked the man at Stagg's what they did when men were injured
in the factory, and he looked at me as if he thought I was a fool!
'They don't do anything to them,' he confided. It's an evil hole,
Matilda. I never saw a place in my life that needed capital and human
intelligence more. And what about this boy? He must belong somewhere,
I suppose."
"I think he's pretty sick, brother; I guess we'll have to turn to and
supply what the town lacks in ambulances and hospitals. He's burning
up with fever, and he has a real wild light in his eyes."
"What do you mean, Matilda?"
"Well, brother, not to mince matters, I think if you undress him I'll
turn to and clean him up some. After that we'll put him to bed in the
little room off the dining-room and send for a doctor. I suppose they
have a doctor somewhere around here, haven't they?"
Levi puckered up his lips and frowned.
"I've questioned about that, too," he admitted. "There is a
doctor--goes horseback with saddle bags and medicine chest on a circuit
covering acres and acres. Kind of a medical bully; brings people into
the world and hustles them out. Doses and cuts them according to his
lights. He's off on a stabbing case back among the hills--some still,
they say, has let itself loose. He will be back when he patches up the
worst and turns the rest over to the authorities. Matilda!"
Miss Markham started.
"Yes, brother."
"I don't want any one to see or know about that boy until after we've
seen the doctor. He looks badly used and starved to me, and I never
turn a dumb brute off when its luck is against it, until I know what
I'm turning it to. You get a tub of hot water ready and I'll tackle
the lad now."
It was seven that evening when the doctor returned from the hills and
was told the "folks from the North" wanted to see him. He did not
hurry himself. He rested, ate, and changed his clothes and then
sauntered down the road to the cottage. Sandy, the worst of him, as
Matilda explained, lay in a comatose state on the narrow, immaculate
bed with Bob, now fed and comforted, on the floor beside him.
"That's Morley's boy from Lost Hollow," the doctor drawled, as he gazed
upon the restless form. "At first I wasn't sure. I never saw him
clean before. As I passed through The Hollow to-day Morley came out
and told me the news. The boy's left home; he's going to get an
education somehow--the father said he had saved money."
"There's nearly thirty-one dollars in his pants' pocket," Matilda broke
in accurately.
"He comes of good stock back about the time of the Revolution. Running
to seed since. It's mighty odd how blood bursts out now and again.
This fellow's mother came from The Forge--a pretty creature--died when
he was born. Took me thirty-six hours to bring him into life--but I
couldn't save the mother. The father is a degenerate--the only sign of
decency I ever noticed in him is his thought about this boy. Looks
like a tussle for Sandy Morley now, I reckon. What you want to do
about it? If he lives, which he likely enough won't, he's going to be
a right smart bit of care."
Levi looked at Matilda and Matilda looked at Levi, and then they both
looked at Sandy. "Massachusetts!" moaned the boy, tossing about
restlessly--"I'm going to get there, I tell you! Mass--massa--chu----"
The voice trailed off miserably and Bob was alert at once.
"I never cast a beast out----" began Levi.
"Not to mention a human boy," added Matilda.
"We're going to see him through or--out, doctor."
The impassive face of the doctor gave no intimation as to his emotions.
He took out his medicine bottles and forthwith began to complicate
Sandy's chances in the hand-to-hand struggle.
An old black woman, famed for her charms and nursing, was secured by
Matilda Markham to assist in the care of Sandy Morley.
"I shall keep an eye on the witch," Matilda warned her brother, "but
she has a sense about nursing that can be relied upon."
And so the battle was on. Gossip about the boy was killed at the
bedroom door. No one became interested or cared. The doctor, after a
week or two, chancing upon Martin Morley on The Way, told him of
Sandy's good fortune.
"Morley, if there's a bit of the man in you," he advised, "let go that
boy and leave him to his opportunity. You've almost killed him, body
and soul, among you, now; whether it be life or death, let him have a
try for the clean thing. It's all you can do for him--forget him!"
And Martin, with bowed head, acquiesced.
"If he dies----" he faltered.
"I'll let you know," the doctor replied.
But Morley never heard of Sandy's death and the summer merged into
autumn, and the cold and shadow settled upon The Hollow. When winter
drove the mountain folks indoors to closer contact, bad air and poor
food, it drove the devil in with them and hard times followed. But
before the grip of winter clutched the hills, Sandy decided that in
spite of the odds against him he would make another attempt to reach
Massachusetts.
A mere shadow of a boy was he when, in late September, Matilda Markham
got him out on the piazza one morning and, having tucked him up well in
blankets, remarked enlighteningly, "There!"
All the fineness in Sandy had been emphasized during the weeks of
sickness. As the bad food, the bruises and tan had disappeared--and
what little flesh which his poor body possessed--the native delicacy
and dignity grew and grew.
The people of The Forge, taking small interest in the Mountain Whites,
for whom they had a contempt, merely relegated Sandy to "Luck with the
Yankee who was dickering about a factory site."
As for Sandy himself he had wandered too near the perilous edge of
things to be very keen as to his present and future. Often he lay with
closed eyes and thought back to Lost Hollow. The actual distance
between him and the only home he had ever known was short but, to a
community that spoke of Sheridan's Ride as if it had occurred but the
day before, and which slunk and shrank from moving out of its shadows,
The Forge was a "right smart way off" and, besides, no one but Martin
knew of the circumstances surrounding Sandy; and Martin, to the best of
his ability, was doing the only thing he could do for his boy. Often
on the long weary tramps in the woods he yearned to get a glimpse of
things, but the rough doctor's warnings and suggestions held him back.
"Mart Morley, keep your clutches off that lad. You've nearly put an
end to him. Give others a try now."
So with a courage and self-denial no one knew or suspected, Martin kept
to the hills and made ready for winter as best he could. He and Molly,
when the mood seized her, gathered wood and piled it carelessly by the
cabin door. It seemed a goodly pile while the days were still warm and
fine, but Martin, with a groan, realized how small the accumulation
really was with the long, black months lying before.