CHAPTER XXV

And the Day After

It was nearly mid-day when Paisley sought his skiff once more and made to cross to Bushwhackers’ Place. It had turned bitterly cold within the last couple of hours and the ice upon the surface of the creek was almost too thick to break with a paddle. Out across Rond Eau black wisps of duck were rising from the water and fluttering upward like smoke puffs, melting in a broken line into the hanging snow-clouds. Declute was standing on the opposite shore. He spoke as Paisley’s boat parted the sere rushes.

“They’ll all go to-day, Bill. By night thar won’t be a duck on the bay.”

“Been over to Mac’s?” asked Paisley. His eyes were on the low-lying hulk of the charred schooner and his shaggy brows were puckered in a scowl.

“Just come from there,” answered the other. “Seems like old Nick has been loose amongst us las’ night, it does.”

“Then you’ve heard?” Bill nodded toward the black patch on the white waves.

“It was me seen it first,” replied Declute. “I seen her burnin’ near mornin’. Man, but it was a wild sight! Red sky above her and red water all about her. Arter daylight come I gets in my boat and goes over to the hull. Injun Noah’s skiff was thar floatin’ bottom up near the middle ground.”

Declute felt for his pipe, lit it, and threw the charred match down with a shudder.

Paisley stepped from the boat and brushed past him up the path.

“You told Mac, I suppose?”

“Yep, they know it, and Gloss she is takin’ on some. I guess she thought a lot of poor old Noah.”

“I reckon she did,” agreed Paisley; “he brought her here nigh twenty years ago.”

They found Big McTavish carrying fodder from the corn-stalk stack into the log-stable. From the chinks of the barn between the logs came the white breath of the oxen, and the chickens released from their coop ran in and out of its open door.

“Bill,” said the big man, his blue eyes humid with feeling, “it looks as though poor old Noah went with the schooner.”

“It does,” nodded Paisley. “Mac, we all know who it was burned the boat, and bad as we know Hallibut to be, it’s awful to think he would sacrifice that old man so’s there wouldn’t be a witness against him when he tries to prove we did it. It’s awful!”

Boy came up, his face worn and his eyes heavy. He placed the spade he carried inside the stable door and turned away up the path.

Paisley stepped forward and threw his arm about Boy’s shoulders.

“You’re shakin’,” he said; “you ain’t just yourself. You mus’n’t take on hard like you’re doin’, Boy. I guess maybe Joe had more soul in his poor dog’s body than all them cut-throats had among the lot of ’em, but Joe is done with this life. Boy, don’t you take it hard.”

He drew the young man towards the house, and half-way across the yard Boy stopped and hurled a look down across the valley.

“Bill,” he cried, “I told you I would wait till you came back, and now you’re back I’m goin’.”

“Boy,” said Paisley, “_he_ ain’t there.”

“Where’s he gone?”

“He got away last night,” said Paisley. “He was hurt bad. I guess old Joe did it. They carried him off, and he won’t ever come back here again, Boy.”

“Let me go,” cried the young man, shaking himself free. “I don’t care where he’s gone, Bill, I’ll follow him—and——”

He snatched up the rifle leaning against the ash-leach and dashed across toward the creek. Paisley followed more slowly. He came up as Boy was pushing his canoe into the ice-coated creek.

“The ducks are leavin’ to-day, Boy,” he said, “look at ’em. They’ve had a glad time here this season, I guess, take it all round. Look at ’em, Boy,—they don’t seem to want to go very much, do they?”

Boy glanced up, then he stood erect in the boat and watched the detached flocks of frantic water-fowl swerve and pitch and at last mingle in the greater flocks, fading south. Sweetly and shrilly their strong wings beat the frosty air, the sound of their pinions now rising, now fading, and at last thundering as the great flocks dropped low as though to bid the old marsh feeding-ground a last good-by.

“They’re goin’ away, Bill,” he remarked absently. “Even the little teal that were hatched right here in this ma’sh are goin’. Seems odd, don’t it? I guess they know it’s come winter.”

“Seems like they know it has,” answered Paisley, “and I’m thinkin’ they’re sorter promisin’ this old dead ma’sh they’ll come back when it’s spring and nest again. ‘Member the old gray duck’s nest me and you found down near the otter-run, Boy? Gosh, I’d never believed an old ma duck could take on like that one did. Kept flyin’ right in my face, and there her little ducklin’s, just hatched, kept divin’ in the water and pointin’ their heads sideways like they were sickin’ her on to me and enjoyin’ seeing me get a whalin’. By gum, my face was sore for more’n a week where her wings brushed it. And you—why, you just stood there laughin’ at me gettin’ the whippin’.”

Boy was smiling now, his head lagging on his breast, his hands blue with the cold, clasping and unclasping the paddle.

“The little devils,” he said softly, “the little devils. I don’t suppose there is anythin’ cuter than the little wild things of the ma’sh, Bill. I’ve been out springs with Davie, and you know how he can handle birds and things. I’ve seen baby snipe, baby rats, baby rails, and all the little babies of the ma’sh. They’re all like them ducklin’s. There’s none of ’em scared and all of ’em sassy.”

Paisley bent and pulled the skiff high up on the bank. He took Boy’s arm in his and they went back along the walk together. And as they turned, the skies darkened and the snow began to fall in zigzag sheets that hid the flocks of migrating wild ducks, and the low song of their beating wings grew more muffled and at last died away altogether.

“There’s somethin’ I want to tell you, Boy,” said Paisley softly, when at last the companions sought the path to the house. “Me and Mary Ann is goin’ to be married in the spring. I reckon you’ll be glad to know it.”

Boy did not lift his eyes from the ground.

“I sort o’ knowed all along you and Mary Ann would marry some day,” he said. “And, Bill, I am glad—glad as I can be to-day.”

The inner door of the McTavish home had been taken from its leather hinges to make an additional table for the guests assembled. Seated about that table were most of the fathers and mothers of Bushwhackers’ Place. Fat, tousle-headed children ran and toddled and crept about the wide floor. The table was laden with all of the good things that the Bushwhackers were accustomed to partake of. A couple of fragrant boiled hams, a great deal of cornbread, dried venison, fresh venison, cucumber pickles, boiled rice, a deep custard made in a milk-pan by the deft hands of widow Ross, who now sat at the head of the table and dished it out proudly; strong tea, and cream and maple-sugar to make the rice palatable. In addition to these delicacies Peeler had brought along some smoked fish of his own special brand. Widow Ross had brought coffee—a rarity in those old days, and each of the Bushwhackers had, as was their custom, brought something eatable to swell the good cheer. It was a big spread, and the men and women there assembled were doing justice to it. If there was gloom the good people were doing their best to dispel it. A lull fell on the assembly as Boy and Paisley entered and took their places at the table. Big McTavish helped them to meat and potatoes and then he began:

“We’ve been goin’ on and summin’ up. Seems likely to us that Hallibut’s gang will come back here right soon again, and we’ve been talkin’ over what we’d better do. Hallibut’s likely goin’ to bring a bigger force next time, we think. From what the widder tells us, there’s no doubt that he burned his own boat. She says they woke her up about three in the mornin’, and they were in a big hurry. She wanted to get up and dress Simpson’s wounds, but they told her to mind her own business. She tried to see who was in the gang, but they kept in the dark. About half an hour after they had gone she seen the schooner burnin’. Now, it’s just this way. Hallibut has an excuse to push us off of here, as he wants to do, for, of course, he’ll say we burned his boat and poor old Noah. And we, on the other hand, have an excuse to shoot Hallibut. But we mus’n’t do anythin’ rash, boys. We must be careful.”

Boy looked about the room in search of Gloss. He did not see her and rightly divined that she was grieving, in some hidden place, over the death of her old friend.

He arose and passed unnoticed from the room. The sky was dark with storm-clouds and the snow was falling. He took the path toward the grove and as he passed the leach no dog lifted his head and watched him. He entered the bush, but no dog followed him. That part lay behind. In the old playhouse, cold and dreary and dark, Boy found the girl.

“Gloss,” he said, and she answered without lifting her head.

“I couldn’t help it, Boy; I had to come. I know I did wrong, and after what happened last night I know I should be careful. But, oh, Boy, I can’t bear to think of it all. It’s terrible!”

Boy went over and sat on a corner of the stump table. He did not attempt to pacify her. He did not know how. He felt his impotency, and it made him miserable.

“Nobody will know, can know, how good Noah has been to me,” sobbed Gloss. “Oh, Boy, I don’t know how I’ll get along without him. I shut my eyes and I can see him there, and then I see him on that burnin’ boat, and I see the fire all about him, reachin’ its red fingers for him. Oh,” she gasped, “I can’t bear it, Boy; I can’t, I can’t!”

He lifted her up and bore her out to the snow-carpeted open. She had not mentioned Simpson’s name. He was thankful for that. She clung to him, her warm breath biting his cheek and her hot tears eating his soul. And so he half carried, half led her back to the house.

“Go in and lie down,” he said gently.

She loosened her arms slowly, looking into his eyes, and when she had gone he leaned weakly against the wall.

The guests had finished dinner and Mrs. Declute was blocking the space between the table and the fireplace with her matronly figure and discoursing on the probabilities of a hard, long winter.

“As I was tellin’ Ander on our way over, just exactly four years ago to-day, Moses and Zaccheus was down with chicken-pox and David and leetle Rebecca war gettin’ the symptoms of it when it sot in dark and snowy like it is to-day. Winter took a tight hold for nigh three months. Why, you’ll remember there wa’nt no loggin’ done that winter, and the wolves starved to death in the timber. Deer, too, and turkey, and I guess thar wa’nt no visitin’ done much either, and give my life if thar was one dance in the whole Bushwhackers’ Place. Why, it got cold and stayed cold, and Joseph, our cat, friz stiff on the ladder when he was climbin’ to the loft of the barn. And every sign p’ints to jest sech another winter comin’.”

“It looks as though winter was here to stay, all right,” observed Peeler, “and we’re like to have a hard one, too. The rats are buildin’ deep and strong.”

“My boy, Tom, he cut down a squirrel tree yesterday,” declared Mrs. Boss, “and that squirrel had stored up feed for a long winter. Hope, though, we don’t have one like that one o’ four years ago. I had both ears and one toe friz that winter.”

“Guess we’d all better get home,” laughed Declute, “else we’ll have to build some snowshoes t’ travel on.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Peeler, “and I guess the cattle and sheep won’t care about standin’ out in this storm.”

Gloss came out and sat at the table. Mary Ann Ross sat down near her, and Bill Paisley, stepping carefully through the babies, drew close enough to the girls to say:

“Didn’t know that you intended to come over, Mary Ann.”

“Ma thought we ought to come,” said the girl.

“Did you hear them prophesyin’ a long winter?” asked Paisley.

Mary Ann looked up and smiled.

“It can’t be too long to suit me,” she retorted.

“I wish it was spring right now,” sighed Bill.

Gloss raised her head and looked inquiringly at the two.

“Ask Mary Ann,” said Paisley solemnly.

“Tell Gloss yourself, if you want to, baby,” flashed Mary Ann, hiding her face.

“Mary Ann is to be Mrs. William Paisley next spring,” grinned Bill.

Gloss drew the blushing head over to her bosom.

“I’m glad,” she said simply.

The babies were being bundled up and there was the commotion that comes of lingering leave-taking among good neighbors. It had been settled among the Bushwhackers as to what they should do when the inevitable should happen. Now they were going to their separate homes, each satisfied and determined. They would have been glad, even, had not the gloom of Injun Noah’s death still hung across their simple hearts. Just as Declute reached for the latch the door opened and Daft Davie sprang into the room, a spray of powdery snow following him as though he had been shot down from the scurrying clouds. He stood looking about him.

“Right here, Davie,” cried Boy. “What is it, lad?”

Davie spoke a few low words, then darted under Declute’s arm and out into the darkening day.

The Bushwhackers looked at one another.

“What does the lad say?” asked Big McTavish.

Boy snatched up his cap.

“I’ll see,” he cried. “Wait here, everybody.”

He glanced at Gloss, then sped out after Davie. For half an hour after the boys had gone there was almost absolute silence among those gathered there.

“I’ve been wonderin’ all day where Davie was,” Paisley said at length. “You didn’t see him when you was over?” turning to Peeler.

“When you said I better go and see if he had got home safe, I went over there to Betsy’s place,” explained Peeler. “The old Granny came to the door, and when I asked if Davie had got home she said ‘yes,’ and slammed the door in my face. That’s all I know, Bill.”

“Boy is comin’ now, and he’s runnin’,” cried Gloss from the window.

She sprang out and ran down the path through the deep snow to meet him.

“Oh, Boy,” she called, “is there anythin’ worth tellin’?”

He caught her in his arms and his voice was husky as he said:

“Noah is alive and well, Gloss. He’s over at old Betsy’s.”

In a flash the good news passed to those waiting inside; and after the preliminary excitement had subsided they crowded about the bearer of the good news for his story.

“Noah was asleep in the hold of the schooner,” explained Boy, “and when he fought his way up through the smoke, the deck and masts were all afire. He made a run for it and jumped into the water, and when he swam around to where his skiff was hid he found the painter had been burned through and the boat gone. He give up, then, but naturally he swam, and as good luck would have it, he found a piece of driftwood and hung to it until he reached shore. Old Betsy found him there just at daybreak, and she and Davie between ’em managed to get him over to her house. She give him some stuff that made him sleep, and he only woke up about an hour ago. Old Noah had an awful close shave, and Betsy won’t let him come over here yet awhile, but he’s all right, people, and I guess we’re all mighty glad.”

Peeler stood forth and gave vent to his feelings in this wise:

“There’s some among us here, good folks, haven’t give old Betsy her just dues. We’ve believed she was a witch and we was all scared of her. Now, neighbors, Betsy has done a mighty lot for us in one way and another, and I move that to show how much we appreciate all this we build her a bran’ new house next spring. That is,” he ended with a grin, “pervided Hallibut don’t push us all off the earth before then.”

“Hear, hear!” cried everybody; and it was decided there and then that Betsy should have one of the finest houses in Bushwhackers’ Place.

And so each of the Bushwhacker neighbors left the McTavish domicile happy and determined. The day shortened, the skies grew darker, and the snow came down in vast white walls. The remnants of the feast lay upon the long table. Old Granny sat quietly beside the fire, her wrinkled face sweet with the peace that comes only to the very young or very old, her worn Bible clasped in her blue-veined hands. Mrs. McTavish sat close beside her, and Gloss stood in her old place at the window. Big McTavish, his face caressing the old fiddle, was playing his favorite tune, and Boy, his head bowed before the fire, was listening to the music and wondering. And so they waited until the dusk of early night came down and the chickens crept to their coop and the owl began his mournful hoot in the tangled copse down near the swale. All was alike, tranquilly sweet and peaceful, after a night and day of storm: only old Joe was not in his accustomed place.

He had left his bed beside the ash-gum for one in the hazel-copse.