Once to Every Man

“Wasn’t at all curious, then, about this?” he inquired, with a whimsical twist to the words.

He touched his chin with the tips of his fingers. Old Jerry’s treacherous lips flew open in his eagerness, and then closed barely in time upon the admission that had almost betrayed him.

He was sorry now, too, that he had even lingered to make his apology. That disturbing glint was flaring brighter than ever in Young Denny’s eyes. Merely because he was afraid to turn his back to pass out, Old Jerry stood and watched with beadily attentive eyes while the boy crossed and took a lantern from its peg on the wall behind the stove and turned up the wick and lighted it. That unexplained preparation was as fascinating to watch as its purport was veiled.

“You must be just a little curious about it–just a little bit?” Denny insisted gravely. “I thought you’d be–and all the others, too. That’s why I was waiting for you–that and something in particular that I did want to ask you, after I’d made you understand.”

If the first part of his statement was still tinged with mirth, the second could not possibly have been any more direct or earnest. Without further explanation, one hand grasping his visitor’s thin shoulder, he urged him outside and across the yard in the direction of the black bulk of the barn. The rain was still coming down steadily, but neither of them noticed it at that moment. Old Jerry would have balked at the yawning barn door but for that same hand which was directing him and urging him on. His apprehension had now turned to actual fright which bordered close on panic, and he heard the boy’s voice as though it came from a great distance.

“–two or three things I’d like to have you understand and get straight,” Denny was repeating slowly, “so that–so that if I asked you, you could see that–someone else got them straight, too.”

Old Jerry was in no mental condition to realize that that last statement was untinged by any lurking sarcasm. He was able to think of but one thing.

The hand upon his shoulder had loosened its grip. Slowly the little man turned–turned with infinite caution, and what he considered was a very capable attitude of self-defense. And for a moment he refused to believe his own eyes–refused to believe that, in place of the threat of sudden death which he had expected, Young Denny was merely standing there before him, pointing with his free hand at a dark, almost damp stain upon the dusty woodwork behind the stalls. It flashed through his brain then that Denny Bolton had not merely gone the way of the other Boltons–it was not the jug alone that had stood in the kitchen corner, but something far worse than that.

“I got to humor him,” he told himself, although he was shivering uncontrollably. “I got to keep a grip on myself and kinda humor him.” And aloud, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, he murmured:

“What–what is it?”

“Couldn’t you guess–if you had to?”

Denny made the suggestion with appalling calm. Old Jerry clenched his teeth to still their chattering.

“Maybe I could–maybe I could;” and his voice was a little stronger. “I–I’d say it was blood, I reckon, if anyone asked me.”

Without a word the boy set the lantern down and walked across the barn to lay one hand upon the flank of the nervous animal in the nearest stall.

“That’s what it is,” he stated slowly; and again he touched the wound on his chin gingerly. “From this,” he went on. “I came in last night to feed–and I–I forgot to speak to Tom here, and it was dark. He–he laced out and caught me–and that’s where I landed, there against the wall.”

The servant of the “Gov’mint” nodded his comprehension–he nodded it volubly, with deep bows that would have done credit to a dancing master, lest his comprehensions seem in the least bit veiled with doubt. He even clicked his tongue sympathetically, just as the plump newspaper man had done.

“Quite a tap–quite a tap!” he said as soothingly as his uncertain tongue would permit; but he took care to keep a safe distance between himself and his guide when Denny stooped and lifted the lantern and led the way outside.

Now that he was free from that detaining hand upon his shoulder, he contemplated the advisability of a sudden dash for the buggy and flight behind the fat white mare. Nothing but the weakened condition of his own knees and a lack of confidence in her ability to carry him clear kept him from acting instantly upon that impulse. And then the summoning voice of the great blurred figure which had been zigzagging across the grass before him checked him at the very moment of decision.

Young Denny had stopped beside a sapling that stood in a direct line with the kitchen window, and was pointing down at a heap of broken crockery that lay at its foot.

“And if anyone was to ask you,” he was deliberately inquiring, “what do you suppose you would say that had been?”

Old Jerry knew! He knew without one chance for doubt; but never before had the truth seemed more overwhelmingly dreadful or surcharged with peril. A dozen diplomatic evasions flashed through his mind, and were all condemned as inadequate for that crisis. He knew that candor was his safest course.

“Why, I–I’d say it looked mighty like a–a broken jug,” he quavered, with elaborate interest. “Jest a common, ordinary jug that’s kinda got broke, somehow. Yes, sir-e-e, all broke up, as you might say!”

His shrill cackle of a voice caught in his throat, and grew husky, and then broke entirely. Even Young Denny, absorbed as he was in his methodical exhibition of all the evidence, became suddenly aware that the little figure beside him was swallowing hard–swallowing with great, noisy gulps, and he lifted the lantern until the yellow light fell full upon the twitching face below him, illuminating every feature. And he stared hard at all that the light revealed, for Old Jerry’s face was very white.

“Jest a little, no-account jug that’s got busted,” the shrill, bodiless voice went chattering on, while its owner recoiled from the light. “Busted all to pieces from hittin’ into a tree!” And then, reassuringly, on a desperate impulse: “But don’t you go to worryin’ over it–don’t you worry one mite! I’m goin’ to fix it for you. Old Jerry’s a-goin’ to fix it for you in the morning, so’s it’ll be just as good as new! You run right along in now. It’s kinda wet out here–and–and I got to be gittin’ along toward home.”

Absolute silence followed the promise. Young Denny only lowered the lantern–and then lifted it and stared, and lowered it once more.

“Fix it!” he echoed, his voice heavy with wonder. “Fix it?”

Then he noted, too, the chattering teeth and meager, trembling body, and he thought he understood.

“You’d better come along in,” he ordered peremptorily. “You come along inside. I’ll rake up the fire and you can warm up a bit. I–I didn’t think, keeping you out here in the rain. Why, you’ll feel better after you’ve had a little rest. You ought not to be out all day in weather like this, anyway. You’re too–too–”

He was going to say too old, but a quick thought saved him. Old Jerry did not want to accompany him; he would have done almost anything else with a light heart; but that big hand had fallen again upon his shoulder, and there was no choice left him.

Young Denny clicked the door shut before them and pulled a chair up before the stove with businesslike haste. After he had stuffed the fire-box full of fresh fuel and the flame was roaring up the pipe, he turned once more and stood, hands resting on his hips, staring down at the small figure slumped deep in its seat.

“I didn’t understand,” he apologized again, his voice very sober. “I–I ought to have remembered that maybe you’d be tired out and wet, too. But I didn’t–I was just thinking of how I could best show you–these things–so’s you’d understand them. You’re feeling better now?”

Furtively, from the corners of his eyes, Old Jerry had been watching every move while the boy built up the fire. And now, while Denny stood over him talking so gravely, his head came slowly around until his eyes were full upon that face; until he was able to see clearly, there in the better light of that room, all the solicitude that had softened the hard lines of the lean jaw. It was hard to believe, after all that he had passed through, and yet he knew that it could not be possible–he knew that that voice could not belong to any man who had been nursing a maniacal vengeance behind a cunningly calm exterior.

There was no light of madness in those eyes which were studying him so steadily–studying him with unconcealed anxiety. Old Jerry could not have told how it had come about; but there in the light, with four good solid walls about him, he realized that a miracle had taken place. Little by little his slack body began to stiffen; little by little he raised himself. Once he sighed, a sigh of deeper thankfulness than Young Denny could ever comprehend, for Young Denny did not know the awfulness of the peril through which he had just passed.

“Godfrey” he thought, and the exclamation was so poignantly real within him that it took audible form without his knowledge. “Godfrey ’Lisha, but that was a close call! That’s about as narrer a squeak as I’ll ever hev, I reckon.”

And he wanted to laugh. An almost hysterical fit of laughter straggled for utterance. Only because the situation was too precious to squander, only because he would have sacrificed both arms before confessing the terror which had been shaking him by the throat, was he able to stifle it. Instead, he removed his drenched and battered hat and passed one fluttering hand across his forehead, with just the shade of unsteadiness for which the affair called.

“Yes, I’m a-feelin’ better now,” he sighed. “Godfrey, yes, I’m a sight better already! Must ’a’ been just a little touch of faintness, maybe. I’m kinda subject to them spells when I’ve been overworked. And I hev been a little mite druv up today–druv to the limit, if the truth’s told. Things ain’t been goin’ as smooth’s they might. Why–why, they ain’t nobody’d believe what’s been crowded into this day, even if I was to tell ’em!”

He filled his lungs again and shoved both feet closer to the oven door.

“But that fire feels real nice,” he finished; “real nice and comfortin’, somehow. And maybe I could stop just a minute.” The old hungry light of curiosity was kindling again, brighter than ever before, in the beady little eyes. “As you was remarkin’, back a stretch, you’d been a-waitin’ for me to come along. Was they–was they something you wanted to see me about?”

CHAPTER X

The perplexed frown still furrowed Young Denny’s forehead. He felt that the fire had wrought a most remarkably swift cure of all that he had feared, but the anxiety faded from his eyes. White head perked forward, balanced a little on one side, birdlike, Old Jerry was waiting for him to pick up the thread which had been broken so long. And now it was the big-shouldered boy who faltered in his words, uncertain just how to begin.

“I–I don’t know just how to ask you,” he started heavily. “I’m–I am going away. I’m figuring on being gone quite a while, I think. First, just after I had decided to go, some time last night, I made up my mind to ask you to take care of the stock till I came back. I thought maybe it wouldn’t be too hard for you–with you coming by at night, anyhow. There’s just the one cow and the team, and the hens to feed. And then I–I got to thinkin’ that maybe, too, you’d be able to do something else for me, if I sort of explained how things were. There–there wasn’t anyone else I could think of who’d be likely to want to do me a favor.”

He paused and licked his lips. And Old Jerry, too, furtively touched his with the tip of his tongue. He was waiting breathlessly, but he managed to nod his head a little, encouragingly, as he leaned closer.

“And that was what I was really waiting for,” the slow voice went on ponderously. “I saw this morning–anybody could have seen–what the Judge meant them all to believe along the street when we drove through. Somehow things have changed in the last twelve hours. I sort of look at some things differently than I did, and so it was funny, just funny to watch him, and I’m not so blind that I don’t know what his story will be tonight down at the Tavern. Not that I care what they say, either. But there is some one who couldn’t help believin’ it–couldn’t believe anything else–after what happened last night.” He stopped, groping for words to finish. “And so I–I waited for you to come,” he went on lamely. “I took you outside and showed you how it really happened, so that–so that you could tell her– the truth.”

He nodded over his shoulder–nodded once out across the valley in the direction of John Anderson’s small drab cottage huddled in the shadow under the hill. And now, once he had fairly begun, all the diffidence, all the self-consciousness went from his voice. It was only big and low and ponderous, as always, as he went back and told the old man, who sat drinking it in, every detail of that night before, when he had stooped and risen and sent the stone jug crashing through the window–when he had turned, with blood dripping from his chin, to find Dryad Anderson there in the doorway, eyes wide with horror and loathing. Not until he had reached that point did Old Jerry move or hint at an interruption.

“But why in time didn’t you tell her yourself?” he asked then. “Why didn’t you explain that old Tom hit you a clip out there in the dark?”

Young Denny’s face burned.

“I–I tried to,” he explained simply. “I–I started toward her, meaning to explain, but I tripped, there on the threshold, and went down on my knees. I must have been a little sick–a little giddy. And when I got up again she–she was gone.”

Old Jerry nodded his head judicially. He sucked in his lips from sheer delight in the thrill of it all, and nodded his head in profound solemnity.

“Jest like a woman–jest like a woman, a-condemnin’ of a man without a bit of mercy! Jest like ’em! I ain’t never been enticed yet into givin’ up my freedom; but many’s the time I’ve said–says I–”

The boy’s set face checked him; made him remember. This was no mimic thing. It was real; too real to need play-acting. And with that thought came recollection. All in a flash it dawned on him that this was no man-created situation; it must have something greater than that behind it.

That morning had seen his passing from the circle to which he had belonged as long as the circle had existed. All through that dreary day he had known that he could never go back to it. Just why he could not say, but he felt that that decision was irrevocable. And for that whole day he had been alone–more utterly, absolutely alone than he had ever been in his whole life–yet here was a place awaiting him, needing him. For some reason it was not quite so hard to look straight back into the eyes of that soul which he had discovered that day; it wasn’t so hard, even though he knew it now for the pitiful old fraud it really was.

His thin, leathery face was working spasmodically. And it was alight–aglow with a light that came entirely from within.

“Could you maybe explain,” he quavered hungrily; “could you kinda tell me–just why it is–you’re a-askin’ me? It–it ain’t jest because you hev to, entirely; now, is it? It ain’t because there ain’t nothin’ else left you to do?”

Denny Bolton sensed immediately more than half of what was behind the question. He shook his head.

“No,” he answered steadily. “No, because I’m going to try to tell her again, myself, tonight. It’s only partly because maybe I–I won’t be able to see her before I go–and part because she–she’d believe you, somehow, I think, when she wouldn’t believe any of the rest.”

The white-haired old man sighed. His stiffened body slackened as he shifted his feet against the stove.

“Why–why, I kinda hoped it was something like that,” he murmured; and he was talking more to himself than to Denny. “I kinda hoped it was–but I never had no reason to believe it.”

His voice lifted until it was its shriller, more natural falsetto.

“I wouldn’t ’a’ believed myself today, at twelve o’clock noon,” he stated flatly. “No, sir-e-e! After takin’ stock of myself, as you might say, the way I done this morning, I wouldn’t ’a’ believed myself on oath!”

His feet dropped noisily to the floor, and he sat bolt upright again.

“But she’s a-goin’ to believe me! Godfrey, yes, she’ll believe me when I git through tellin’ her!”

His pale eyes clung to the boy’s face, tinged with astonishment before so much vehemence.

“And ain’t it kinda struck you–ain’t it sorta come to you that she wa’n’t quite fair, either, any more than the rest of us, a-thinkin’–a-thinkin’ what she did, without any real proof?”

Young Denny did not have time to reply.

“No, I reckon it ain’t,” Old Jerry rushed on. “And I don’t know’s I’ve got much right criticizing either. Not very much! I’ve been a tidy hand at jedgin’ other folks’ matters until jest lately. Some way I ain’t quite so handy at it as I was. And I kinda expect she’s goin’ to be sorry she even thought it, soon enough, without my tryin’ to make her any more so. She’s goin’ to be mighty uncomfortable sorry, if she’s anything like me!”

He rose and shuffled across to the door, and stopped there. Denny could not understand the new thrill there was in his cracked voice, nor the light in those pale eyes. But he knew that the old man before him had been making something close akin to an eleventh-hour confession; making it out of a profound thankfulness for the opportunity. With the same gesture with which he bade the old man wait, his big hand went inside his shirt, and came out again. And he reached out and pressed something into Old Jerry’s knotty fingers.

“I–I was sure you’d do it,” he told him. “I knew you would. And I want you to take this, too, and keep it. I don’t want to go away like this, but I have to. If I didn’t start right now I–I might not go at all. I hate to leave her alone–in this town. That’s half of what the Judge let me have today on this place. It’s not much, but it’s something if she should need anything while I’m gone. I thought you might–see that she was all right–till I got back?”

The servant of the “Gov’mint” stood and stared down at the limp little roll of bills in his hand; he stared until something caught in his throat and made him gulp again noisily. But his face was shamelessly defiant of the mist that smarted under his eyelids when he looked up again.

“Take care of her?” he whispered. “Me take care of her for you? Why–why, Godfrey–why, man–”

He dashed one hand across his eyes.

“I’m a old gossipy fool,” he exclaimed. “Nothin’ but a old gossipy fool; but I reckon you don’t hev to count them bills over before you leave ’em with me. Not unless you want to. I’ve been just an ordinary, common waggle-tongue. That’s what I really come for in such a hurry tonight, once I’d thought of it. Jest to see if I couldn’t nose around into business that wa’n’t no concern of mine. But I’m gittin’ over that–I’m gittin’ over that fast! Learning a little dignity of bearin’, too, as you might say. And I don’t deny I ain’t a little curious yet–more’n a little curious. But I want to tell you this: There’s some folks that lies mostly for profit, and some that lies largely for their own amusement, and they both do jest about as much damage in the long run, and I ain’t no better, jest because I never made nothin’ outen mine. But if you could kinda drop me a line, maybe once in a while, and tell me how you’re gittin’ on, I’d be mighty glad to hear. An’ it wouldn’t do no harm, either.” He nodded his head, in turn, in the direction of the drab cottage across the valley. “Because–because she’s goin’ to be waitin’ to hear–she’s goin’ to be sorry, and kinda wonderin’. I know–well, jest because I know!”

Still he lingered, with his fingers on the door catch. He shoved out his free hand.

“I–I suppose we’d ought to shake hands, hedn’t we,” he faltered; “bein’ as it’s kinda considered the reg’lar and customary thing to do on such occasions?”

Denny was smiling as his hand closed over those clawlike fingers; he was smiling in a way that Old Jerry had never seen before. Because the noise in his throat was growing alarmingly louder every moment, the latter went on talking almost wildly, to cover that weakness which he could not control.

“I hope you git on,” he said. “And I reckon you will. It’s funny–it’s more’n that–and I don’t know where I got the idea. But it’s kinda come to me, somehow, that maybe it was that account in the paper–that story of Jeddy Conway–that’s set you to leavin’. It ain’t none of my business, and I ain’t askin’ no questions, but I do want to say that there never was a time when you couldn’t lick the everlastin’ tar outen him. And you’ve growed some since then. Jest a trifle–jest a trifle!”

The boy’s smile widened and widened. Then he laughed aloud softly and nodded his head.

“I’ll send you the papers,” he promised. “I’ll send you all of them.”

Old Jerry stood with his outstretched hand poised in midair while he realized that his chance shot had gone home. And suddenly, unaccountably, he began to chuckle; he began to cackle noisily.

“I might ’a’ knowed it,” he whispered. “I ought to hev knowed it all along. Now, you don’t hev to worry–they ain’t one mite of a thing I ain’t a-goin’ to see to while you’re away. You don’t want nothin’ on your mind, because you’re goin’ to hev a considerable somethin’ on your hands. And I got to git along now. Godfrey, but it’s late for me to be up here, ain’t it? I got to hustle, if I ever did; and there ain’t too much time to spare. For tonight–tonight, before I git through, I aim to put a spoke in the Jedge’s wheel, down to the Tavern, that’ll make him think the axles of that yello’-wheeled gig of his’n needs greasin’. Jest a trifle–jest a trifle!”

He opened the door and slammed it shut behind him even before the boy could reply. Still smiling whimsically, Young Denny stood and listened to the grating of the wheels as the buggy was turned about outside–heard the old rig groan once, and then complain shrilly as it started on its way. But no one witnessed Old Jerry’s wild descent to the village that night; no one knew the mad speed he made, save the old mare between the shafts; and she was kept too busy with the lash that whistled over her fat flanks to have given the matter any consistent thought.

Old Jerry drove that scant mile or two this night under the spur of his one greatest inspiration; and while he drove he talked aloud to himself.

“And I was a-goin’ to fix it for him,” he muttered once, “I was a-goin’ to fix that old busted jug in the morning. Godfrey, I must ’a’ been flustered!” He shrilled in uncontrollable glee at the recollection. And then again, later and far more gravely:

“I’m a-gittin’ more religious every livin’ day. I’m gittin’ more religious jest from standin’ around and kinda watchin’ how things is made to work out right, jest when you’ve about decided that the Lord ain’t payin’ as much attention to details as he might.”

He knew that there had to be a light in the windows of the Tavern office; he knew that he had to be in time. That was the finger of a Something behind the whole day’s developments which was directing it all so masterfully. And because he was so certain of it all–because he was positive that he was the agent who had been selected to mete out justice at last–he found himself possessed of a greater courage than he had ever known before as he clambered down from his seat and mounted the worn steps.

A rush of chill air swept the group about the sprawling stove as he opened the door and made each member lift his head, each after a fashion that was startlingly indicative of the man himself. For Judge Maynard wheeled sharply as the cold blast struck him–wheeled with head flung back challengingly, and a harsh rebuke in every feature–while old Dave Shepard turned and merely shivered. He just shivered and flinched a little from the draft, appealingly. The rest registered an ascending scale of emotions betwixt and between.

Just as he knew he would find them they sat. Judge Maynard had the floor; and it was an easy thing to read that he had all but reached the crisis of his recital. Any man could have read that merely from the protest in the faces of the rest. And yet Old Jerry simply stood there and swept the group with serene and dangerous geniality.

“Evenin’, folks,” he saluted them mildly.