CHAPTER XII.

FAREWELL TO THE POACHERS.

Lucas was ready to start, and 'Tilda Jane and the boys stood in the doorway watching him tie on his snow-shoes.

"Now, sons," he said, straightening himself up and drawing on his woollen mittens, "I'm goin' one way an' you another, but if ye act contrairy an' pouty to that leetle gal, I'll know it, for she's goin' to write me, an' if there's any complaint, there'll be such a wallopin' as these ones this mornin' would be a shadder an' a dream to."

His lecture over, he looked over his shoulder and narrowly inspected the faces of his two boys. They were reserved, almost expressionless. It might be a month before he saw them again. He forgot 'Tilda Jane for an instant, "Sons--ye know yer pop loves ye, don't ye?"

His tone had suddenly changed, and the two big boys ran to him as if they still were children. "Pop, can't we come back after we take her out?" they exclaimed, with backward jerks of their heads toward 'Tilda Jane. Their hands were on his arms, and they were roughly fondling his shoulders--these two unmannerly cubs of his.

"Sons," he said, in a broken voice, "I ain't been a good father to ye. I've got to spend the last o' my life in rootin' up the weeds I sowed the fust part. I don't want you to have such a crop. Now you go 'long out an' be good sons. Your mother'll be sot up, an' you mind what she says, an' I'll soon come home. Take good care o' the leetle gal," and passing his hand, first over one brown head, then over the other, he tramped away out of view among the snowy spruces.

The boys and 'Tilda Jane went back into the cabin. The two former sat together by the fire and talked, taking little notice of her. All their friendliness of the evening before was gone, yet they were not openly unkind, but simply neglectful. Toward noon the snow ceased falling, as Lucas had predicted, the sun came out brilliantly, and they began making preparations for departure.

Zebedee was to wear an old pair of snow-shoes that had been left in the cabin, and 'Tilda Jane was to put on his new ones. Her humility and unselfishness slightly thawed the boys' reserve, and when they at last started, her ridiculous attempts at snow-shoeing threw them into fits of laughter.

Zebedee carried the infirm Gippie, who otherwise would have sunk to his neck in the snow, Poacher soberly plunged his way along, while Joe assisted 'Tilda Jane in keeping her equilibrium. After an hour's travel, she had become quite expert in the art of taking wide steps, and no longer needed his helping hand.

"Air we mos' there?" she asked.

"In the span of another hour and a half," said Joe.

The hour and a half went by. They tramped on under the serene blue of the sky, and in such a solemn stillness that it seemed as if never a bird nor beast could have inhabited this white wilderness. Only the voiceless, silent trees were there, clad all in white like ghosts of departed living things. But at last their winding way through the wood came to an end, and they stepped out on the old road. Here were evidences of travel. A few teams had passed by, and there were snow-shoe tracks alongside those of the sleigh runners.

The trees also grew more sparsely, and soon gave place to clearings, then the distant roof of a barn appeared, and finally a long, thin string of small farmhouses winding down a bleak road before them.

"Is this your home?" asked 'Tilda Jane, of the boys.

"Nop," answered Joe, "we live off'n that way," and he pointed down a road to the left. "But we've got to take you here to the Mercers', pop said."

He drew up before the first in the string of houses,--a poor enough place, and unspeakably chilling in its deathly whiteness. A tiny white house, a white barn, a white fence, a white cow in the yard,--white snow over everything.

"Looks as if they'd all died an' gone to heaven," thought 'Tilda Jane, with a shiver.

"Hole on," said Joe. "I'll run ahead an' see if the folks is home. Ain't no smoke cornin' out o' the chimney."

He swung open the gate, hurried in, pounded at the front door, pounded at the back door, and finally returned. "Guess there mus' be a funeral or somethin'--all off, anyway. What'll we do, Zeb?"

Zebedee shrugged his shoulders. "S'pose we go nex' door?"

"But them's the Folcutts," objected Joe.

"S'pose they be."

"Well, you know--"

"Guess they kin drive as well as Mercer's folks."

"What would pop say?"

"It's nearer than the nex' house."

"I'm kind o' tired," said 'Tilda Jane, politely and faintly. "Just drop me, an' you go back. I'll find some one."

"Nop," said Joe, firmly, "we promised pop."

"Come on," said Zebedee, "let's try the Folcutts."

They went slowly on to the next blot on the landscape,--this one, a low-roofed, red house with untidy windows, and a feeble, wavering line of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney.

They all went around to the back door, and, in response to their knock a slatternly woman appeared.

"What you want, boys?"

"Pop says will you take this gal to Nicatoos station?" asked Joe. "He'll square up with you when he comes out."

The woman looked 'Tilda Jane all over. "The roads is main heavy."

'Tilda Jane leaned up against the door-post, and the woman relented. "I guess it won't kill our hoss," she remarked. "Is it the seven o'clocker you want?"

'Tilda Jane appealed to the boys.

"Yes, m'am," responded Joe, promptly.

"Needn't start for an hour yit. Come on in, boys."

"I guess we'll be goin' on home," said Zebedee.

Joe, for some reason or other, seemed reluctant to leave 'Tilda Jane. He carefully lifted Gippie to a resting-place by the kitchen stove, untied 'Tilda Jane's snow-shoes and strapped them on his back, stroked Poacher repeatedly, and finally with a hearty "So long, little gal, let's hear from you," he made her an awkward bob of his head and ran after his brother, who had reached the road.

'Tilda Jane drew up to the stove, and, while she sat drying her dress, looked about her. What a dirty kitchen! The log cabin she had just left was neatness itself compared with this place. Pots and pans were heaped in a corner of the room, the table was littered with soiled dishes, the woman herself was unkempt, frowsy, and dispirited in appearance.

She was also cunning, for, while she seized a broom and stirred about the accumulation of dust on the floor, she inspected the little girl with curious, furtive glances.

"You bin stoppin' with the Lucases?" she asked, at last.

She had opened the door, and while she looked one way she carelessly tried to sweep in another way the pile of rubbish she had collected.

"Yes, m'am," said 'Tilda Jane, wearily.

"How's Mis' Lucas?"

'Tilda Jane paused to gaze out the open door. Why did not the woman shut it? And why, when it was so pure and clean without, did she not feel ashamed to keep so dull and untidy a house? If it were summer-time, and the ground were brown and green, this dun-coloured room would not be so bad, but now--the contrast made her sick.

"How's Mis' Lucas?" repeated her hostess, in a dull voice.

"I don't know," replied 'Tilda Jane.

Mrs. Folcutt poised herself on her broom and with rustic deliberation weighed the statement just made. Then she said, "She ain't gone away?"

"I dunno," said 'Tilda Jane, "I never see her in my life."

Here was a puzzle, and Mrs. Folcutt pondered over it in silence, until the draught of chilly air made her remember to close the door.

"Are we to start soon?" inquired 'Tilda Jane, after a time.

"I ain't a-goin' to take you," said her hostess, unamiably, "it's Uzziah--Uzziah!" and she went to an open stairway leading from the kitchen.

"What cher want?" came back, in an impatient tone.

"You're wanted. Passenger for the station."

A boy speedily appeared. 'Tilda Jane was not prepossessed in his favour as he came lumbering down the staircase, and she was still less so when he stood before her. He had his mother's sharp face, lean head, and cunning eyes, and he was so alarmingly dirty that she found herself wondering whether he had ever touched water to his face and hands since the winter began.

"Go hitch up an' take this gal to the station," said his mother, in feeble command.

He stood scrutinising 'Tilda Jane. "Who fur?"

"Bob Lucas."

"How much'll he gimme?"

"I dunno. He'll pay when he comes out."

"S'pose the warden ketches him?"

"He ain't bin ketched yit."

"He's goin' to--so they say at the post-office."

"I've got fifty cents," said 'Tilda Jane, with dignity. "Here it is," and she laid it on the table.

The youthful fox snatched at it, and grinned at his mother as he pocketed it.

"Say--that ain't fair," remarked 'Tilda Jane. "You ain't kerried me yet."

"She's right," said the more mature fox. "Give it back, Uzzy."

Uzziah unwillingly restored the coin to 'Tilda Jane.

"Now go hitch up," said his mother.

He sidled out of the room and disappeared, and Mrs. Folcutt's covetous eye wandered over 'Tilda Jane's wearing apparel. "Say, sissy, that's a pooty fair shawl you took off'n your dog. I always favour stripes."

"So do I," replied 'Tilda Jane, and, with a premonition of what was coming, she turned her head and gazed out the window.

"I guess you might as well square up with us," said the slatternly woman, seating herself near her caller and speaking in' persuasive accents, "and then you'll not hev to be beholden to Bob Lucas. It's jus' as well for a nice little gal like you to hev no dealin's with them Lucases."

"That shawl ain't mine," said 'Tilda Jane, sharply.

This statement did not seem worth challenging by the woman, for she went on in the same wheedling voice, "You'll not hev no call for it on the cars. I kin lend you somethin' for the dog to ride down in. It's too good for wrappin' him," and she gazed contemptuously at Gippie.

'Tilda Jane drew in her wandering gaze from the window, and fixed it desperately on Poacher, who was lying under the stove winking sadly but amiably at her. Was no one perfect? Lucas hunted deer, this good dog helped him, his boys were naughty, this woman was a sloven and a kind of thief, her boy was a rogue, and she herself--'Tilda Jane was a little runaway girl. "You can have this tippet," she said, sternly. "That shawl's got to be sent back to where it comes from."

"Oh, you stole it, did ye?" said the woman, with a sneer. "Well, I guess we kin hitch up for no thieves," and she got up and moved deliberately toward the door as if she would recall her son.

'Tilda Jane's nimble fancy ran over possibilities. She had fallen among sharpers, she must be as sharp as they. Her offensive manner fell from her. "Look here," she said, bluntly, "I ain't got one mite o' money but that fifty-cent piece. If your boy'll drive me to Nicatoos right off, I'll give him that as I said, an' I'll send back the shawl by him. But if you don't want to do it, speak right up, an' I'll move on to the next house, and," she continued boldly as she saw consent on the cunning face, "you've got to give me somethin' to eat an' drink with it, 'cause I've got two dogs to take care of, an' I don't want to get to Ciscasset and tumble over from bein' fainty."

Mrs. Folcutt's gray face became illumined by a silly smile. There was not a shawl like that in the settlement, and bustling to her feet, she stroked it and felt it with admiring fingers, until admonished by 'Tilda Jane that time was passing, and if she was going to get her anything to eat she had better be quick about it.

The little girl almost choked over the sloppy tea from the venerable teapot, the shady bread and butter, and the composite dish of preserves set before her, yet resolutely shutting her eyes she ate and drank, and forced Gippie to do the same. Poacher would touch nothing. "Don't ye know them huntin' dogs eats only once a day?" said Mrs. Folcutt, contemptuously.