Then Freckles exulted.
“Now, let’s be telling the Bird Woman about it!” he shouted, wildly dancing and swinging his hat.
“We got it! We got it! I bet a farm we got it!”
Hand in hand they ran to the north end of the swamp, yelling “We got it!” like young Comanches, and never gave a thought to what they might do until a big blue-gray bird, with long neck and trailing legs, arose on flapping wings and sailed over the Limberlost.
The Angel became white to the lips and gripped Freckles with both hands. He gulped with mortification and turned his back.
To frighten her subject away carelessly! It was the head crime in the Bird Woman’s category. She extended her hands as she arose, baked, blistered, and dripping, and exclaimed: “Bless you, my children! Bless you!” And it truly sounded as if she meant it.
“Why, why—” stammered the bewildered Angel.
Freckles hurried into the breach.
“You must be for blaming it every bit on me. I was thinking we got Little Chicken’s picture real good. I was so drunk with the joy of it I lost all me senses and, ‘Let’s run tell the Bird Woman,’ says I. Like a fool I was for running, and I sort of dragged the Angel along.”
“Oh Freckles!” expostulated the Angel. “Are you loony? Of course, it was all my fault! I’ve been with her hundreds of times. I knew perfectly well that I wasn’t to let anything—not anything—scare her bird away! I was so crazy I forgot. The blame is all mine, and she’ll never forgive me.”
“She will, too!” cried Freckles. “Wasn’t you for telling me that very first day that when people scared her birds away she just killed them! It’s all me foolishness, and I’ll never forgive meself!”
The Bird Woman plunged into the swale at the mouth of Sleepy Snake Creek, and came wading toward them, with a couple of cameras and dripping tripods.
“If you will permit me a word, my infants,” she said, “I will explain to you that I have had three shots at that fellow.”
The Angel heaved a deep sigh of relief, and Freckles’ face cleared a little.
“Two of them,” continued the Bird Woman, “in the rushes—one facing, crest lowered; one light on back, crest flared; and the last on wing, when you came up. I simply had been praying for something to make him arise from that side, so that he would fly toward the camera, for he had waded around until in my position I couldn’t do it myself. See? Behold in yourselves the answer to the prayers of the long-suffering!”
Freckles took a step toward her.
“Are you really meaning that?” he asked wonderingly. “Only think, Angel, we did the right thing! She won’t lose her picture through the carelessness of us, when she’s waited and soaked nearly two hours. She’s not angry with us!”
“Never was in a sweeter temper in my life,” said the Bird Woman, busily cleaning and packing the cameras.
Freckles removed his hat and solemnly held out his hand. With equal solemnity the Angel grasped it. The Bird Woman laughed alone, for to them the situation had been too serious to develop any of the elements of fun.
Then they loaded the carriage, and the Bird Woman and the Angel started for their homes. It had been a difficult time for all of them, so they were very tired, but they were joyful. Freckles was so happy it seemed to him that life could hold little more. As the Bird Woman was ready to drive away he laid his hand on the lines and looked into her face.
“Do you suppose we got it?” he asked, so eagerly that she would have given much to be able to say yes with conviction.
“Why, my dear, I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve no way to judge. If you made the exposure just before you came to me, there was yet a fine light. If you waited until Little Chicken was close the entrance, you should have something good, even if you didn’t catch just the fleeting expression for which you hoped. Of course, I can’t say surely, but I think there is every reason to believe that you have it all right. I will develop the plate tonight, make you a proof from it early in the morning, and bring it when we come. It’s only a question of a day or two now until the gang arrives. I want to work in all the studies I can before that time, for they are bound to disturb the birds. Mr. McLean will need you then, and I scarcely see how we are to do without you.”
Moved by an impulse she never afterward regretted, she bent and laid her lips on Freckles’s forehead, kissing him gently and thanking him for his many kindnesses to her in her loved work. Freckles started away so happy that he felt inclined to keep watching behind to see if the trail were not curling up and rolling down the line after him.
Chapter 16
Wherein the Angel Locates a Rare Tree and Dines with the Gang
From afar Freckles saw them coming. The Angel was standing, waving her hat. He sprang on his wheel and raced, jolting and pounding, down the corduroy to meet them. The Bird Woman stopped the horse and the Angel gave him the bit of print paper. Freckles leaned the wheel against a tree and took the proof with eager fingers. He never before had seen a study from any of his chickens. He stood staring. When he turned his face toward them it was transfigured with delight.
“You see!” he exclaimed, and began gazing again. “Oh, me Little Chicken!” he cried. “Oh me ilegant Little Chicken! I’d be giving all me money in the bank for you!”
Then he thought of the Angel’s muff and Mrs. Duncan’s hat, and added, “Or at least, all but what I’m needing bad for something else. Would you mind stopping at the cabin a minute and showing this to Mother Duncan?” he asked.
“Give me that little book in your pocket,” said the Bird Woman.
She folded the outer edges of the proof so that it would fit into the book, explaining as she did so its perishable nature in that state. Freckles went hurrying ahead, and they arrived in time to see Mrs. Duncan gazing as if awestruck, and to hear her bewildered “Weel I be drawed on!”
Freckles and the Angel helped the Bird Woman to establish herself for a long day at the mouth of Sleepy Snake Creek. Then she sent them away and waited what luck would bring to her.
“Now, what shall we do?” inquired the Angel, who was a bundle of nerves and energy.
“Would you like to go to me room awhile?” asked Freckles.
“If you don’t care to very much, I’d rather not,” said the Angel. “I’ll tell you. Let’s go help Mrs. Duncan with dinner and play with the baby. I love a nice, clean baby.”
They started toward the cabin. Every few minutes they stopped to investigate something or to chatter over some natural history wonder. The Angel had quick eyes; she seemed to see everything, but Freckles’s were even quicker; for life itself had depended on their sharpness ever since the beginning of his work at the swamp. They saw it at the same time.
“Someone has been making a flagpole,” said the Angel, running the toe of her shoe around the stump, evidently made that season. “Freckles, what would anyone cut a tree as small as that for?”
“I don’t know,” said Freckles.
“Well, but I want to know!” said the Angel. “No one came away here and cut it for fun. They’ve taken it away. Let’s go back and see if we can see it anywhere around there.”
She turned, retraced her footsteps, and began eagerly searching. Freckles did the same.
“There it is!” he exclaimed at last, “leaning against the trunk of that big maple.”
“Yes, and leaning there has killed a patch of dried bark,” said the Angel. “See how dried it appears?”
Freckles stared at her.
“Angel!” he shouted, “I bet you it’s a marked tree!”
“Course it is!” cried the Angel. “No one would cut that sapling and carry it away there and lean it up for nothing. I’ll tell you! This is one of Jack’s marked trees. He’s climbed up there above anyone’s head, peeled the bark, and cut into the grain enough to be sure. Then he’s laid the bark back and fastened it with that pole to mark it. You see, there’re a lot of other big maples close around it. Can you climb to that place?”
/> “Yes,” said Freckles, “if I take off my wading-boots I can.”
“Then take them off,” said the Angel, “and do hurry! Can’t you see that I am almost crazy to know if this tree is a marked one?”
When they pushed the sapling over, a piece of bark as big as the crown of Freckles’s hat fell away.
“I believe it looks kind of nubby,” encouraged the Angel, backing away, with her face all screwed into a twist in an effort to intensify her vision.
Freckles reached the opening, then slid rapidly to the ground. He was almost breathless while his eyes were flashing.
“The bark’s been cut clean with a knife, the sap scraped away, and a big chip taken out deep. The trunk is the twistiest thing you ever saw. It’s full of eyes as a bird is of feathers!”
The Angel was dancing and shaking his hand.
“Oh, Freckles,” she cried, “I’m so delighted that you found it!”
“But I didn’t,” said the astonished Freckles. “That tree isn’t my find; it’s yours. I forgot it and was going on; you wouldn’t give up, and kept talking about it, and turned back. You found it!”
“You’d best be looking after your reputation for truth and veracity,” said the Angel. “You know you saw that sapling first!”
“Yes, after you took me back and set me looking for it,” scoffed Freckles.
The clear, ringing echo of strongly swung axes came crashing through the Limberlost.
“’Tis the gang!” shouted Freckles. “They’re clearing a place to make the camp. Let’s go help!”
“Hadn’t we better mark that tree again?” cautioned the Angel. “It’s away in here. There’s such a lot of them, and all so much alike. We’d feel good and green to find it and then lose it.”
Freckles lifted the sapling to replace it, but the Angel motioned him away.
“Use your hatchet,” she said. “I predict this is the most valuable tree in the swamp. You found it. I’m going to play that you’re my knight. Now, you nail my colors on it.”
She reached up, and pulling a blue bow from her hair, untied and doubled it against the tree. Freckles turned his eyes from her and managed the fastening with shaking fingers. The Angel had called him her knight! Dear Lord, how he loved her! She must not see his face, or surely her quick eyes would read what he was fighting to hide. He did not dare lay his lips on that ribbon then, but that night he would return to it. When they had gone a little distance, they both looked back, and the morning breeze set the bit of blue waving them a farewell.
They walked at a rapid pace.
“I am sorry about scaring the birds,” said the Angel, “but it’s almost time for them to go anyway. I feel dreadfully over having the swamp ruined, but isn’t it a delight to hear the good, honest ring of those axes, instead of straining your ears for stealthy sounds? Isn’t it fine to go openly and freely, with nothing worse than a snake or a poison-vine to fear?”
“Ah!” said Freckles, with a long breath, “it’s better than you can dream, Angel. Nobody will ever be guessing some of the things I’ve been through trying to keep me promise to the Boss, and to hold out until this day. That it’s come with only one fresh stump, and the log from that saved, and this new tree to report, isn’t it grand? Maybe Mr. McLean will be forgetting that stump when he sees this tree, Angel!”
“He can’t forget it,” said the Angel; and in answer to Freckles’s startled eyes she added, “because he never had any reason to remember it. He couldn’t have done a whit better himself. My father says so. You’re all right, Freckles!”
She reached him her hand, and as two children, they broke into a run when they came closer the gang. They left the swamp by the west road and followed the trail until they found the men. To the Angel it seemed complete charm. In the shadiest spot on the west side of the line, at the edge of the swamp and very close Freckles’s room, they were cutting bushes and clearing space for a big tent for the men’s sleeping-quarters, another for a dining-hall, and a board shack for the cook. The teamsters were unloading, the horses were cropping leaves from the bushes, while each man was doing his part toward the construction of the new Limberlost quarters.
Freckles helped the Angel climb on a wagonload of canvas in the shade. She removed her leggings, wiped her heated face, and glowed with happiness and interest.
The gang had been sifted carefully. McLean now felt that there was not a man in it who was not trustworthy.
They all had heard of the Angel’s plucky ride for Freckles’s relief; several of them had been in the rescue party. Others, new since that time, had heard the tale rehearsed in its every aspect around the smudge-fires at night. Almost all of them knew the Angel by sight from her trips with the Bird Woman to their leases. They all knew her father, her position, and the luxuries of her home. Whatever course she had chosen with them they scarcely would have resented it, but the Angel never had been known to choose a course. Her spirit of friendliness was inborn and inbred. She loved everyone, so she sympathized with everyone. Her generosity was only limited by what was in her power to give.
She came down the trail, hand in hand with the red-haired, freckled timber guard whom she had worn herself past the limit of endurance to save only a few weeks before, racing in her eagerness to reach them, and laughing her “Good morning, gentlemen,” right and left. When she was ensconced on the wagonload of tenting, she sat on a roll of canvas as a queen on her throne. There was not a man of the gang who did not respect her. She was a living exponent of universal brotherhood. There was no man among them who needed her exquisite face or dainty clothing to teach him that the deference due a gentlewoman should be paid her. That the spirit of good fellowship she radiated levied an especial tribute of its own, and it became their delight to honor and please her.
As they raced toward the wagon—“Let me tell about the tree, please?” she begged Freckles.
“Why, sure!” said Freckles.
He probably would have said the same to anything she suggested. When McLean came, he found the Angel flushed and glowing, sitting on the wagon, her hands already filled. One of the men, who was cutting a scrub-oak, had carried to her a handful of crimson leaves. Another had gathered a bunch of delicate marsh-grass heads for her. Someone else, in taking out a bush, had found a daintily built and lined little nest, fresh as when made.
She held up her treasures and greeted McLean, “Good morning, Mr. Boss of the Limberlost!”
The gang shouted, while he bowed profoundly before her.
“Everyone listen!” cried the Angel, climbing a roll of canvas. “I have something to say! Freckles has been guarding here over a year now, and he presents the Limberlost to you, with every tree in it saved; for good measure he has this morning located the rarest one of them all: the one in from the east line, that Wessner spoke of the first day—nearest the one you took out. All together! Everyone! Hurrah for Freckles!”
With flushing cheeks and gleaming eyes, gaily waving the grass above her head, she led in three cheers and a tiger. Freckles slipped into the swamp and hid himself, for fear he could not conceal his pride and his great surging, throbbing love for her.
The Angel subsided on the canvas and explained to McLean about the maple. The Boss was mightily pleased. He took Freckles and set out to re-locate and examine the tree. The Angel was interested in the making of the camp, so she preferred to remain with the men. With her sharp eyes she was watching every detail of construction; but when it came to the stretching of the dining-hall canvas she proceeded to take command. The men were driving the rope-pins, when the Angel arose on the wagon and, leaning forward, spoke to Duncan, who was directing the work.
“I believe if you will swing that around a few feet farther, you will find it better, Mr. Duncan,” she said. “That way will let the hot sun in at noon, while the sides will cut off the best breeze.”
“That’s a fact,” said Duncan, studying the conditions.
So, by shifting the pins a little, they obtained comfort for which
they blessed the Angel every day. When they came to the sleeping-tent, they consulted her about that. She explained the general direction of the night breeze and indicated the best position for the tent. Before anyone knew how it happened, the Angel was standing on the wagon, directing the location and construction of the cooking-shack, the erection of the crane for the big boiling-pots, and the building of the store-room. She superintended the laying of the floor of the sleeping-tent lengthwise, So that it would be easier to sweep, and suggested a new arrangement of the cots that would afford all the men an equal share of night breeze. She left the wagon, and climbing on the newly erected dining-table, advised with the cook in placing his stove, table, and kitchen utensils.
When Freckles returned from the tree to join in the work around the camp, he caught glimpses of her enthroned on a soapbox, cleaning beans. She called to him that they were invited for dinner, and that they had accepted the invitation.
When the beans were steaming in the pot, the Angel advised the cook to soak them overnight the next time, so that they would cook more quickly and not burst. She was sure their cook at home did that way, and the CHEF of the gang thought it would be a good idea. The next Freckles saw of her she was paring potatoes. A little later she arranged the table.
She swept it with a broom, instead of laying a cloth; took the hatchet and hammered the deepest dents from the tin plates, and nearly skinned her fingers scouring the tinware with rushes. She set the plates an even distance apart, and laid the forks and spoons beside them. When the cook threw away half a dozen fruit-cans, she gathered them up and melted off the tops, although she almost blistered her face and quite blistered her fingers doing it. Then she neatly covered these improvised vases with the Manila paper from the groceries, tying it with wisps of marshgrass. These she filled with fringed gentians, blazing-star, asters, goldenrod, and ferns, placing them the length of the dining-table. In one of the end cans she arranged her red leaves, and in the other the fancy grass. Two men, watching her, went away proud of themselves and said that she was “a born lady.” She laughingly caught up a paper bag and fitted it jauntily to her head in imitation of a cook’s cap. Then she ground the coffee, and beat a couple of eggs to put in, “because there is company,” she gravely explained to the cook. She asked that delighted individual if he did not like it best that way, and he said he did not know, because he never had a chance to taste it. The Angel said that was her case exactly—she never had, either; she was not allowed anything stronger than milk. Then they laughed together.
The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter Page 19