The Man Thou Gavest.

by Harriet T. Comstock.

CHAPTER I

The pa.s.sengers, one by one, left the train but Truedale took no heed. He was the only one left at last, but he was not aware of it, and then, just as the darkness outside caught his attention, the train stopped so suddenly that it nearly threw him from his seat.

"Accident?" he asked the conductor. "No, sah! Pine Cone station. I reckon the engineer come mighty nigh forgetting--he generally does at the end. The tracks stop here. You look mighty peaked; some one expecting yo'?"

"I've been ill. My doctor ordered me to the hills. Yes: some one will meet me." Truedale did not resent the interest the man showed; he was grateful.

"Well, sah, if yo' man doesn't show up--an' sometimes they don't, owing to bad roads--you can come back with us after we load up with the wood.

I live down the track five miles; we lie thar fur the night. Yo' don't look equal to taking to yo' two standing feet."

The entire train force of three men went to gather fuel for the return trip and, dejectedly, Truedale sat down in the gloom and silence to await events.

No human being materialized and Truedale gave himself up to gloomy thoughts. Evidently he must return on the train and to-morrow morning take to--just then a spark like a falling star attracted his attention and to his surprise he saw, not a dozen feet away, a tall lank man leaning against a tree in an att.i.tude so adhesive that he might have been a fungus growth or sprig of destroying mistletoe. It never occurred to Truedale that this indifferent onlooker could be interested in him, but he might be utilized in the emergency, so he saluted cordially.

"h.e.l.lo, friend!"

By the upward and downward curve of the glowing pipe bowl, Truedale concluded the man was nodding.

"I'm waiting for Jim White."

"So?" The one word came through the darkness without interest.

"Do you happen to know him?"

"Sorter."

"Could you--get me to his place?"

"I reckon. That's what I come ter do."

"I--I had a trunk sent on ahead; perhaps it is in that shed?"

"It's up to--to Jim's place. Can you ride behind me on the mare?

Travelling is tarnation bad."

Once they were on the mare's back, conversation dragged, then died a natural death. Truedale felt as if he were living a bit of anti-war romance as he jogged along behind his guide, his grip knocking unpleasantly against his leg as the way got rougher.

It was nine o'clock when, in a little clearing close by the trail, the lights of a cabin shone cheerily and the mare stopped short and definitely.

"I hope White is at home!" Truedale was worn to the verge of exhaustion.

"I be Jim White!" The man dismounted and stood ready to a.s.sist his guest.

"Welcome, stranger. Any one old Doc McPherson sends here brings his welcome with him."

About a fortnight later, Conning Truedale stretched his long legs out toward Jim White's roaring fire of pine knots and cones. It was a fierce and furious fire but the night was sharp and cold. There was no other light in the room than that of the fire--nor was any needed.

Jim sat by the table cleaning a gun. Truedale was taking account of himself. He held his long, brown hand up to the blaze; it was as steady as that of a statue! He had walked ten miles that day and felt exhilarated. Night brought sleep, meal time--and often in between times--brought appet.i.te. He had made an immense gain in health.

"How long have I been here, Jim?" he asked in a slow, calm voice.

"Come Thursday, three weeks!" When Jim was most laconic he was often inwardly bursting with desire for conversation. After a silence Conning spoke again:

"Say, Jim, are there any other people in this mountain range, except you and me?"

"Ugh! just bristlin' with folks! Getting too darned thick. That's why I've got ter get into the deep woods. I just naturally hate folks except in small doses. Why"--here Jim put the gun down upon the table--"five mile back, up on Lone Dome, is the Greyson's, and it ain't nine miles to Jed Martin's place. Miss Lois Ann's is a matter o' sixteen miles; what do you call population if them figures don't prove it?"

Something had evidently disturbed White's ideas of isolation and independence--it would all come out later. Truedale knew his man fairly well by that time; at least he thought he did. Again Jim took up his gun and Con thought lazily that he must get over to his shack. He occupied a small cabin--Dr. McPherson's property for sleeping purposes.

"Do yo' know," Jim broke in suddenly; "yo' mind me of a burr runnin'

wild in a flock of sheep--gatherin' as yo' go. Yo' sho are a miracle!

Now old Doc McPherson was like a shadder when he headed this way--but he took longer gatherin', owin' to age an' natural defects o' build. Your frame was picked right close, but a kind o' flabby layer of gristle and fat hung ter him an' wasn't a good foundation to build on."

Conning gave a delighted laugh. Once Jim White began to talk of his own volition his discourse flowed on until hunger or weariness overtook him.

His silences had the same quality--it was the way Jim began that mattered.

"When I first took ter handlin' yo' for ole Doc McPherson, I kinder hated ter take my eyes off yo' fearin' yo' might slip out, but Gawd! yo'

can grapple fo' yo' self now and--I plain hanker fur the sticks."

"The sticks?" This was a new expression.

"Woods!" Jim vouchsafed (he despised the stupidity that required interpretation of perfectly plain English), "deep woods! What with Burke Lawson suspected of bein' nigh, an' my duty as sheriff consarnin' him hittin' me in the face, I've studied it out that it will be a mighty reasonable trick fur this here officer of the law to be somewhere else till Burke settles with his friends an' foes, or takes himself off, 'fore he's strung up or shot up."

Truedale turned his chair about and faced Jim.

"Do you know," he said, "you've mentioned more names in the last ten minutes than you've mentioned in all the weeks I've been here? You give me a mental cramp. Why, I thought you and I had these hills to ourselves; instead we're threatened on every side, and yet I haven't seen a soul on my tramps. Where do they keep themselves? What has this Burke Lawson done, to stir the people?"

"You don't call your santers real tramps, do you? Why folks is as thick as ticks up here, though they don't knock elbows like what they do where you c.u.m from. They don't holler out ter 'tract yer attention, neither.

But they're here."

"Let's hear more of Burke Lawson." Truedale gripped _him_ from the seething ma.s.s of humanity portrayed by White, as the one promising most colour and interest. "Just where does Burke live?"

"Burke? Gawd! Burke don't live anywhere. He is a born floater. He scrooges around a place and raises the devil, then he just naturally floats off. But he nearly always comes back. Since the trap-settin' a time back, he has been mighty scarce in these parts; but any day he may turn up."

"The trap, eh? What about that?" With this Truedale turned about again, for Jim, having finished his work on the gun, had placed the weapon on its pegs on the wall and had drawn near the fire. He ran his hand through his crisp, gray hair until it stood on end and gave him a peculiarly bristling appearance. He was about to enjoy himself. He was as keen for gossip as any cabin woman of the hills, but Jim was an artist about sharing his knowledge. However, once he decided to share, he shared royally.

"I've been kinder waitin' fur yo' to show some interest in us-all," he began, "it's a plain sign of yo' gettin' on. I writ the same to old Doc McPherson yesterday! 'When he takes to noticin',' I writ, 'he's on the mend.'"

Conning laughed good naturedly. "Oh! I'm on the mend, all right," he said.

"Now as to that trap business," Jim took up the story, "I'll have to go back some and tell yo' about the Greysons and Jed Martin--they all be linked like sa.s.sages. Pete Greyson lives up to Lone Dome. Pete came from stock; he ain't trash by a long come, but he can act like it! Pete's forbears drank wine and talked like lords; Pete has ter rely on mountain dew and that accounts fur the difference in his goin's-on; but once he's sober, he's quality--is Pete. Pete's got two darters--Marg an'

Nella-Rose. Old Doc McPherson use' ter call 'em types, whatever that means. Marg is a type, sure and sartin, but Nella-Rose is a little no-count--that's what I say. But blame it all, it's Nella-Rose as has set the mountains goin', so far as I can see. Fellers come courtin' Marg and they just slip through her fingers an' Nella-Rose gets 'em. She don't want 'em 'cept to play with and torment Marg. Gawd! how them two gals do get each other edgy. Round about Lone Dome they call Nella-Rose the doney-gal--that meaning 'sweetheart'; she's responsible for more trouble than a b'ar with a sore head, or Burke Lawson on a tear."