CHAPTER VIII

By the time the start was made Mr. Hoonover had cooled down somewhat. He went in front, of course, in his capacity as guide, but all along the two and a half miles drive he was constantly jerking about in his seat to look back and shout some question or remark to the man in his wake. Thus before their destination was reached he had proven, in tones loud enough for all the countryside to hear, that the man who had attacked him was indeed part negro, that he himself always lived at peace with his neighbours, and that from this day forward he intended to go "loaded" for Marston. The garrulity of the old farmer annoyed Glenning somewhat, who had his own forebodings as to the result of the unfortunate encounter on the street, and he replied to Mr. Hoonover's demonstrations only by a nod of the head, or a smile. So busy was that gentleman looking behind to see that his remarks were heard, that his horse drew him almost in front of the Scribbenses before he knew it. When he suddenly discovered his proximity to the infected shack, and realized that his horse was moving in a slow jog, he tightened his reins and began to belabour his beast with the staff he held. As he dashed at a gallop past the dreaded spot he shouted some unintelligible communication wildly over his shoulder, and was out of sight before Glenning drew up at a broken down stake-and-rider fence skirting the road. He looked about him as he got out and hitched his horse. The spot seemed the abomination of desolation. The by-road was rutty and not kept; deep sluices showed on either side of it, where no effort had been made to check the ravages of heavy rains. A worthless species of grass grew in sickly clumps, dust-covered. Blackberry vines, sassafras and sumac bushes made one inextricable tangle of vegetation along the zigzag fence. There was a gap in the fence which served for a gate. John went through, then stopped for a moment. Not from fear at entering the stricken place. He had no bodily fear, nor ever had. But the awful loneliness of the spot weighed upon him. Low hills, bush-dotted and gullied, arose on every side except the southern one, where a small field, untilled and marshy, lay along a creek bed, now nearly dry. Beyond this, and perhaps half a mile away, on higher ground, was a rather pretentious looking farmhouse which he guessed, rightly, to be the home of Mr. Hoonover. The miserable log shanty facing him was pitiful in its decay and loneliness. The ground all about it was bare, and a few stunted, shrivelled cedars stood at one side. The chinking had fallen from the stick-and-mud chimney, and it looked like the torso of some giant skeleton. The door was shut; the one window darkened from the inside by what appeared to be a ragged quilt. A lean brown cur lay by the rotten log serving for a door step, too lazy or too near dead from starvation to lift its voice at the intrusion of a stranger. The dog was the only sign of life. All the rest, was silence, poverty, desolation. No birds sang here; not even the shrilling of an insect cut the great stillness. A feeling almost of awe came over John Glenning, standing there alone in the strong sunlight, vigorous, assertive, confident of his power to do. He scarcely wondered that Doctor Kale had refused the case. But he was glad he had taken it. Not alone to get a start in the community, for this was a beginning at practice which most men would not value, but here was a fellow being, sick, friendless and helpless. He would save him if he could, although the pauper's life could scarcely be of use to anyone, and he would be better off dead.

John's grip tightened on the handle of his medicine case and he walked briskly and firmly to the door, and knocked. The cur arose and slunk a few paces to one side, then lay down again, with his yellow eyes fixed on the man. The door was opened a crack, and a rasping female voice said:

"Go 'way. My man's got the small-pox!"

"I'm the doctor," answered Glenning; "let me in."

There was a moment's hesitation, during which a brief argument took place between the woman and some one else inside, then the door was grudgingly opened wide enough for John to enter, when it was promptly closed.

"Thar he is," said the woman. "Go to 'im; he's purty bad."

The sudden transition from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the cabin made it impossible for Glenning to see distinctly. He was vaguely conscious of the presence of a number of persons, and he could barely discern the outlines of a figure stretched on a bunk in a corner.

"All of you'll die if you don't have light and air," he announced, almost harshly, and striding to the window, removed the flimsy curtain. Then he turned abruptly to the woman who stood with mouth agape in the middle of the room. "Open the door!" he commanded; "let some air in here!"

She was a slatternly creature of uncertain age, her stooped shoulders and lined face showing her kinship with want and all physical suffering. She looked with curious intentness at the tall young man who seemed to so fill the small room, and did his bidding.

"Ye don't b'long in Mac'n, do ye?" she asked. "'Pears to me I've never saw ye before."

"I belong there now," replied John, shortly. "Came several days ago."

His quick eyes were taking in the meagre appointments of the room, and its occupants, as he was walking towards the sick man in his corner. The place seemed swarming with children of all ages and both sexes; they were thick as rats in a corn-bin. He could not believe all of them the offsprings of this destitute pair, and he voiced his idea as he knelt by the pallet.

"What are all these children doing here? Send them home. Don't you know they're in danger?"

"They _air_ home, thank ye!" rasped the woman, in quick defense of her brood. "They're _our'n_, I'd hev ye know, ever' blessed one, 'n' they've got more right here than you hev, ef you _air_ a doctor!"

"No offense!" mumbled Glenning, taking the hairy wrist which listlessly lay on the ragged counterpane and feeling for the pulse with tips of practiced fingers.

The children had huddled like sheep against the wall furthest away, a tattered, unkempt crew of misbegotten humanity; terrible fruit of a union of ignorance and brute passion. They said not a word, but clung to each other as though menaced by some visible danger. The woman stood in the center of the floor, also silent, her hands clasped under her dirty apron, and her stringy neck outstretched as she watched the doctor. The thing under Glenning's hand must have been made by God, but it hardly looked it. It would not have looked it in health, and in the grip of a loathsome disease it was doubly repulsive. The man's figure was thin and bony. He lay sick in his shirt and trousers, for he had no night clothes, to say nothing of underwear, which in all probability he had never known. His shoes were off, and his feet, knotty, and grimy with the ground-in dirt of many months, stuck from under the narrow coverlet which lay over him. His soiled shirt was open at the throat--a throat presenting alternate ridge and hollow, and covered scantily with colorless hair. His face was gaunt; his teeth broken and tobacco-stained; his nose twisted oddly. His hair was a sandy mop. His eyes were cunning and treacherous. His face was already marked with dull red spots, and he was burning with fever.

Glenning's face was solemn.

"How long have you been sick?" he asked.

"Two weeks off 'n' on, I reck'n," answered the man.

"How long have you been in bed?"

"Tuk bed yistiddy."

"You should have been in bed ten days, at least. You're pretty sick, my man."

A shadow of alarm flashed over the bestial countenance.

"I won't _die_, doc, will I? Yo' don't mean I'm gunta _die_!"

In his eagerness he grasped the sleeve of the figure kneeling beside him.

"You've _got_ to cyore 'im, doc!" wailed the woman. "I can't live 'ithout my man!"

She walked about wringing her hands.

"You've waited too long before seeking help," continued John, getting to his feet. "There's a chance for you--a slim one, but I'll do what I can."

He found a rickety chair, and sat down gingerly.

The older children began to snuffle, and the younger ones burst out crying and ran to their mother, hiding their dirty faces in her dirtier clothes.

"Small chance in this reeking hole for a man with small-pox," mused Glenning, then he looked at Mrs. Scribbens, and said:

"That man should have a bath, first of all, from head to foot; a _scrubbing_. Can you give it to him?"

"I 'low I kin," responded the woman, briskly, "but weuns ain't much on the wash. Will lye soap do, doc?"

John cast a look at the sick man, and guessed at the texture of his skin.

"Yes, lye soap will do, but have your water hot, and rinse him off well when you're through. I'm going to leave some medicine which I want you to give him through the night."

Mrs. Scribbens disappeared out a door in the rear which led to the back premises, and busied herself making a fire under a large iron kettle which hung from a blackened limb, itself supported by two forked sticks sunk in the ground. The numerous progeny trooped after her _en masse_, vaguely sensing an omen of evil in the presence of the doctor, and turning, like little wild things, to their best friend and protector.

Glenning had his case on his knees, rapidly preparing the doses to be given that night. There was a slight movement from the pallet, and a terror-laden voice called----

"Doc!"

John turned his head.

"Doc, fur hones'! Tell me! Don't be skeered it'll finish me right off. Now, while the woman 'n' the chil'n 're gone, tell me!"

A beam of pity struggled to the brown, tired eyes of the man sitting above him. After all this was his brother--this thing in its filth and misery and callousness had had a soul breathed into it by a common God years ago. Should he not feel compassion for anyone whose feet had come so near the brink of the Valley of the Shadow? He did feel compassion; the wave which swept him as the pleading, untaught tones came to him was almost protecting. His brother! Though one's feet had never left the shallows, and the other's, not long before, had fared through strange and awful deeps where dreadful monsters lurked in the guise of innocence and beauty so rare that it was blasting.

With a quick movement John leaned down and took the hard, seamed hand.

"You haven't got even chances," he said. "I can't promise anything but this: I'll do for you what I'd do for the richest man in Macon!"

"I never heerd sich talk!" exclaimed Scribbens. "What sort o' man air ye?"

"A pretty poor sort, but I've studied medicine mighty hard. You've got to pull like blazes to get through. Can you do it. Keep a stout heart, I mean, and believe all the time you're coming out all right?"

"I dunno. I hurt pow'ful, 'n' I'm burnt to scorchin'."

A paroxysm of abject fear seized him, and he pulled the quilt, full of holes, up over his head to hide the wild expression on his face. He lay there and shook with dread--dread of dying--dread of the vast unknown, and of the punishment he felt surely was awaiting him. John went on with his work. The packages were done up and the medicine case snapped to and placed on the floor. Still the coverlet was convulsed with erratic movements. Directly the man jerked the quilt from his face, showing it all a-sweat with anguish.

"Doc!" he groaned. "I can't! I can't go this way! It mought be tonight--in the dark! I feel cur'is! D'ye think I'll go tonight?"

"I think not, Scribbens--cheer up! You're not that sick yet."

"But ye can't tell!" persisted Dink. "Th' ketchin' small-pox is orful. I've heerd uv it before. It gits ye w'en ye're not watchin'. 'N' say, doc, I've got somethin' to tell--"

He raised himself on a sharp elbow and glanced dreadfully at the back door.

"'Fore the woman gits back. 'Tain't wuth while to bother 'bout a preacher ur a priest. I've never j'ined a church--ain't Cath'lic--ain't nothin'. But I've got to tell somebody. It'll make it easier. I'm goin' to tell you, doc."

He fell back, and his hands strayed about nervously over his breast.

"Tell me if you wish," said Glenning, gently; "if it will help you."

"Oh, it will, doc! It's been eatin' on me ever' since I done it. I's never shore 'nough bad till that man made me bad. I'm always been pore as a dawg, 'n' wuthless, 'n' no 'count fur nothin'. I've stole, sometimes, w'en the kids was hongry, but that don't bother me none. Them that I got frum never missed some cawn ur a chick'n now'n then. 'Tain't that, doc."

He stopped again, breathing fast. It was hard for him to lay bare the story of his wrong-doing.

"I heer ye tell th' woman that ye come a few days ago," he resumed, in a steadier tone. "Then ye don't know many folks 'bout here, I reck'n. But thar's some mighty bad uns, 'n' I reck'n Devil Marston's the wust. I 'low yo's heerd uv how a stable wuz burned a few nights ago, at the aidge o' town? Thar wuz a hoss in that stable, 'n' some feller ur 'nother drug 'im out. It wuz Major Dudley's. Thar's a good man, doc. He's give to me w'en I'd go to 'im with a tale o' no work 'n' hongry kids at home, 'n' maybe he wuz hongry at the same time, fur all his big house he's nigh bad off as I am. But his hoss's a wonder, 'n' Devil Marston's got some hisself whut kin run some. He comes to me one day, Marston did, 'n' shows me a ten-dollar greenback, 'n' said he'd give it to me ef I'd take some powders he had with 'im, all wropped up, 'n' slip in 'n' put that stuff in th' hoss's feed. I knowed it wuz wrong, doc. I knowed it wuz p'izen, but I tuk it, 'n' the money, too, 'n' that night I slipped in 'n' done whut he tol' me to do. The nex' day he come to me b'ilin' mad, 'n' 'lowed I'd tricked 'im. He said the hoss's still alive, 'cause he'd saw 'im, 'n' that I'd took 'is money 'n' didn't do whut I'd said I'd do. But he lied, doc, 'cause I toted fa'r. But he tore up snakes, and said he's gunta hosswhip me, 'n' come put nigh hittin' me. 'N' he cussed me some more 'n' pulled out another ten-dollar bill, 'n' th'owed it at me, 'n' 'lowed that ef I'd go that night 'n' burn the stable up with the hoss locked in it he'd call it squar. I didn't want to do it, doc, I sw'ar I didn't, 'cause Major Dudley's been good to me, but I's skeered not to. That Devil Marston jist looked at me with his snake eyes 'n' 'lowed that if I failed 'im ag'in he'd come 'n' shoot me daid. 'N' I went, nigh onto midnight, 'n' I got some straw out'n the lof'--a hull big armful o' dry straw, 'n' piled it ag'in the door o' the stable, 'n' sot fire to it. Then I run. I run till I got home, but I saw the light in the sky, 'n' knowed the hoss wuz gone this time. But the nex' day I heered o' some feller draggin' 'im out! Then I tuk sick, 'n' I s'pose it's a jedgment on me fur bein' so wicked. But he _made_ me do it! He _made_ me! 'Twarn't so much his money, but I's skeered uv 'im. You don't know Devil Marston, doc. His name's fittin'. 'N' now I feel better, doc; I sw'ar I do!"

For a moment Glenning sat silent.

"Yes, I know Devil Marston," he said at last, "and he is a bad man. And I know the Dudleys, too, and I know the man who went in for the colt."

"Ye won't tell, doc, will ye?" asked Scribbens, in sudden alarm. "Ye won't give me 'way?"

"I'll promise that no harm shall come to you because of the things that you've told me. But you're a bad man, too, Dink Scribbens--a low down, dastardly coward!"

The figure below shrank back under the stern, accusing voice.

"I know it! I know it! It's kep' me 'wake ever since I done it!"

He was almost whimpering now, and John realized the utter futility of a sermon at this time. The arrival of Mrs. Scribbens at this juncture with her corps of satellites put an end to further confidences. John arose.

"I've het the water!" announced Mrs. Scribbens, standing with a chunk of lye soap in one hand and a battered and dented tin washpan in the other from which steam was rising.

"Very well," said Glenning. "Get him clean. Give him one of these when you have finished, another at midnight, and a third in the morning. Have you a clock?"

His gaze swept the pitifully bare room and failed to reveal one.

"Humph!" sniffed Mrs. Scribbens. "The roosters crow, don't they? He'll git his dose at midnight!"

"Keep the children out of doors as much as you can; make each of them bathe every day and do the same yourself. I'll come back in the morning and bring something for each of you to take to keep you from catching the small-pox. Good-day."

The sweet summer afterglow which immediately follows the going down of the sun was spread mysteriously over all the landscape as John got in his buggy and began his return trip. The confession to which he had just given ear did not occupy his mind much. He knew beforehand that it must have been some creature like this; some degraded, conscienceless, cast-off devil. Dink Scribbens didn't matter, but Marston did--Marston, whose heavy figure was beginning already to loom on his life's horizon portentously. Now, since the occurrence on the streets of Macon a couple of hours before, he knew that trouble was ahead for him, swift and sure. Marston hated him well enough before that incident, providing Travers had delivered his message properly, but now--to be struck on the chest and almost knocked down! Glenning heard the little voice which always speaks to us when we are alone saying that he had done right, that his course all along had been true and proper, and that he had no cause to regret anything. He must simply keep his eyes open, and at the same time not let his brain get rusty. Innocent people were in actual distress at that moment, and the girl of the trusting brown eyes, proud and brave, would soon be hungry. _Hungry!_ The word stung his brain like something hot would sting the flesh, and he clicked his teeth and drew up his lines, urging his horse faster. He was passing a gloomy looking house set considerably off the road, surrounded by doleful firs and funereal cedars. It was of brick, square and not ugly, but the shutters to all windows visible were closed, and the front doors were inhospitably shut. Some gaunt dogs of ferocious breed were stalking about the yard. He had not noticed this house when coming out, but he might well have passed it unseeingly, all of his attention at that time being demanded by Mr. Hoonover. But instinctively he knew who lived there. The place savoured of its master; forbidding, grim, merciless. John was not sorry when it lay behind him.

Deep twilight had come. The time when vague stars shine shyly, uncertain whether or not to show their faces. Objects along the roadside were becoming slightly blurred, and the unsightly things of the garish day were softened into pleasant lines and tones. The man riding townward felt the witchery of the hour. It entered into him and lay upon his soul, speaking of peace. He breathed more gently, and let his horse take its time. From the gates of the west which had unclosed to receive the going day, a breeze had surely blown from Paradise. And alone there, in the soft dusk, two faces rose up before the man. One was fresh, unfretted, appealing, beautiful, with brown eyes which looked innocence and trust. The one beside it was crowned with a bewildering glory of bronze-gold hair, full of sullen splendours, like a stormy sunset; an oval face of perfect lines and charm ineffable, and winey eyes which lured. He looked upon the two, and his eyes grew strained; that look of awful weariness stole over his face, as though the battle were almost too hard, and he groaned in his throat while a shudder swept him, making him tremble from head to foot. He was conscious of a sound, far away, but growing more distinct. _Clickety-clack! Clickety-clack! Clickety-clack!_ It was a horse on the highway ahead, running fast. _Clickety-clack! Clickety-clack!_ It was just around the bend in front of him. In a dull way he drew his horse somewhat to one side. A huge black shape thundered into view, seemingly of mammoth proportions in the dim light. Straight to the middle of the road it clung, its hoofs striking fire at every leap, its rider making no effort to swerve it. Glenning called, and pulled his horse sharply aside. Horse and rider swept by, so close that the man's knee brushed John's sleeve. In that fraction of a second their eyes met, and each recognized the other. But neither stopped. Marston rode on till his horse drew up quivering at his gate, and Glenning, a new, strange light in his eyes, drove on towards town.

Arriving at the livery stable he inquired for Judge Colver. That gentleman lived in the country, and had gone home. He would have to make his report in the morning, when the people could be advised by bulletin of the presence of small-pox in the county, the proper quarantine established, and measures taken for preventing the disease from spreading. He suddenly remembered that, in the business of getting established, he had neglected opening the account at the bank, and had also forgotten his hotel bill. It was too late to keep his promise to Dillard that day, so he turned down street towards the hotel, resolving to settle his bill there. Supper was in progress when he entered the office, and the place was comparatively empty. He paid his reckoning to the smiling Jones, and was preparing to leave, when Travers came out of the passage leading to the hotel bar, and called his name. John turned, and coldly faced him. The landlord beckoned, and retreated to the passage. John hesitated a moment, for he desired no further dealings with this person, but upon second thought he followed. Travers' nervous manner had returned. He fidgeted, and shifted his weight, and toyed with his watch chain.

"I want to tell you I have kept my word," he said, in a low, cautious voice. "You played fair with me, and I have some appreciation. I went out to Marston's place this morning and told him all about it, to his face, and I told him what you said, word for word. I did, 'pon my honor!"

"That's more than I expected," answered Glenning, icily. "But I admire your pluck. It took a man to do that."

"I did it, doctor, and for a while I thought he was going to kill me. But he didn't touch me."

"I suppose he made some threats?"

"Yes, he talked mighty ugly about you. I'd advise you to be on your guard. You'd better carry a gun with you all the time."

"I've never carried a gun, and I don't intend to begin now. I fancy I can take care of myself without that. Thank you, Mr. Travers. I'm glad you told me this. Good evening."

He had turned to go, when he heard his name spoken in an agitated whisper. He stopped, and faced about.

"That ain't all, doctor. You've done me a fine turn, and I want to break even."

"Well?"

"Marston's just left here. He's been in the bar drinking for an hour or more, and he's been talkin' mighty reckless. It was about you, and he boasted he was going to make you sorry you ever came here--that he was going to run you out of town. He'd just been at the long distance telephone, and he said he'd found out something, and would know more tomorrow. He'd been drinking heavily, you know, and didn't care what he said. He leaves on the early mornin' train. I was standin' close to that swingin' door, and heard every word he said. He wasn't talkin' to anybody in particular--just easin' himself. But he'll hurt you if he can."

Glenning's voice was very low as he asked--

"Where is he going?"

"To Jericho," said Travers.