CHAPTER XXI
DADDY DUNNIGAN
It was broad daylight when Creed pulled the team up before atumbled-down stable in the rear of one of the outstraggling cabins atthe end of Hilarity's single street. Hastily he unhitched and led thehorses through the door.
As he disappeared Bill slipped from under the canvas and limped stifflyaround the corner of the stable, and none too soon, for as Creedreturned to the sled for the oats and blankets the cabin door opened,and a tall, angular woman appeared, carrying an empty water-pail.
"So ye've come back, hev ye?" she inquired in a shrewish voice. "Well,ye're jest in time to fetch the water an' wood. Where d'ye git thatrig?" she added sharply, eying the sled.
"None o' yer damn business! An' you hurry up an' cook breakfast ag'in'I git back from Burrage's, er I'll rig you!"
"Yeh, is that _so_? Jest you lay a finger on me, you damn timber-thievin'boot-legger, an' I'll bust you one over the head with the peaked end ofa flatiron! Where ye goin' ter hide when the owner of them team comes ahuntin' of 'em? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Shet up!" growled the man so shortly that the woman, eying himnarrowly, turned toward the rickety pump, which burbled and wheezed asshe worked the handle, filling the pail in spasmodic splashes.
"One of Moncrossen's teamsters got burnt up in the shack at Melton'sNo. 8, an' I found the team in the stable an' druv 'em in," hevouchsafed as he brushed by the woman on his way to the street."'Twouldn't look right if I shet up about it; I'll be back when I tellBurrage."
"Fetch some bacon with ye," called the woman as she filled her dirtyapron with chips. She paused before lifting the pail from the spout ofthe wooden pump and gazed speculatively at the tote-sled.
"He's lyin'," she said aloud. "He's up to some fresh devilment, an''pears like he's scairt. Trouble with Creed is, he ain't got nonerve--he's all mouth. I sure was hard up fer a man when I tuk_him_--but he treats me middlin' kind, an' I'd kind of hate to see himgit caught--'cause he ain't no good a liar, an' a man anyways smart'dmix him up in a minit."
She lifted the pail and pushed through the door of the cabin.
"Nice people," muttered Bill as he cast about for an exit.
Keeping the stable in line with the window of the cabin, he made hisway through a litter of tin cans and rubbish, gaining the shelter ofthe scrub, where he bent a course parallel with the street.
He was stiff and sore from his cramped position in the sled, and hisfoot pained sharply. His progress was slow, and he paused to rest onthe edge of a small clearing, in the center of which, well back fromthe highway, stood a tiny cabin.
In the doorway an old man, with a short cutty-pipe between his lips,leaned upon a crutch and surveyed the sky with weatherwise eyes.
Bill instantly recognized him as the old man with the twisted leg whotendered the well-meant advice upon the night of his first arrival inthe little town, and his face reddened as he remembered thesupercilious disregard with which he had received it.
For a moment he hesitated, then advanced toward the door. The old manremoved his cutty-pipe and regarded him curiously.
"Good morning!" called Bill with just a shade of embarrassment.
"Good marnin' yersilf!" grinned the other, a twinkle in his littleeyes.
"May I ask where I will find a man called Daddy Dunnigan?"
"In about foive minutes ye'll foind um atein' breakfust wid ashtrappin' young hearty wid a sore fut. Come an in. Oi'm me ownhousekaper, cook, an' bottle-washer; but, av Oi do say ut mesilf, Oi'veseen wor-rse!"
"So you are Daddy Dunnigan?" asked Bill as he gazed hungrily upon thesteaming saucers of oatmeal, the sizzling ham, and the yellow globes offresh eggs fried "sunny side up."
"Ye'll take a wee nip befoor ye eat?" asked his host, reaching to thechimney-shelf for a squat, black bottle.
"No, thanks," smiled Bill. "I don't use it."
"Me, nayther," replied the other with a chuckle; "Oi misuse ut," and,pouring himself a good half tin cupful, swallowed it neat at a gulp.
The meal over, the men lighted their pipes, and Bill broached theobject of his visit. The old man listened and, when Bill finished, spatreflectively into the wood-box.
"So Buck Moncrossen sint ye afther me, did he?"
"Yes. He said you were a good cook, and I can certainly bear him out inthat; but he said that you would only work if you damn good and feltlike it, and if you didn't you wouldn't." The old man grinned.
"He's roight agin, an' Oi'll be tellin' ye now Oi damn good an' don'tfeel loike wor-rkin' f'r Moncrossen, th' dirthy pirate, takin' a man'spay wid wan hand an' shtealin' his timber wid th' other. He'd cut th'throat av his own mither f'r th' price av a dhrink.
"An' did he sind ye down afoot an' expict me to shtroll back wi' ye,th' both av us on crutches?"
"No, I have a team here," laughed Bill. "They are in Creed's stable."
"Creed's!" The old man glanced at him sharply. "Phwat ar-re they doin'at Creed's?"
"Well, that is a long story; but it sums up about like this: I see youknow Moncrossen--so do I. And Moncrossen is afraid I will crab hisbird's-eye game--and I will, too, when the proper time comes.
"But he saw a chance to get rid of me, so he sent me after you,probably knowing that you would not come; but it offered an excuse toget me where he wanted me. Then he framed it up with Creed to steal theteam in the night while I was camped at Melton's No. 8, and leave me todie bushed.
"I built a fire in the shack, ate my supper, rigged up a dummy near thefire, and then went out to the sled and crawled under the tarp. Aftermaking sure that I was asleep Creed stole the team as per schedule, buthe did not stop at that. He decided to make sure of me, so he lockedthe door on the outside and fired the shack. I remained under the tarp,and as Creed was going my way I let him do the driving. While he put upthe team I slipped out the back way, and here I am."
"Th' dirthy, murdherin' hound!" exclaimed the old man, chuckling andweaving his body from side to side in evident enjoyment of the tale.
"An' phwat'll ye do wid um now ye're here?" The old man sat erect andstared into the face of his guest, whose eyes had narrowed and whoselips had curved into an icy smile.
"First, I'll give him the damnedest licking with my two fists that heever got in his life; then I'll turn him over to the authorities."
Daddy Dunnigan leaned forward and, laying a gnarled hand upon hisshoulder, shook him roughly in his excitement:
"Yer name, b'y? Phwat is yer name?" His voice quavered, and the littleeyes glittered between the red-rimmed lids, bright as an eagle's. Theyounger man was astonished at his excitement.
"Why, Bill," he replied.
"Bill or Moike or Pat--wurrah! Oi mane yer rale name--th' whole av ut?"
"That I have not told. I am called Bill."
"Lord av hiven! I thocht ut th' fir-rst toime Oi seen ye--but now! Man!B'y. Wid thim eyes an' that shmile on yer face, d'ye think ye c'd foolowld Daddy Dunnigan, that was fir-rst corp'l t'rough two campaigns an'a scourge av peace f'r Captain Fronte McKim?
"Who lucked afther um loike a brother--an' loved um more--an' whofought an' swore an' laughed an' dhrank wid um trough all th'plague-ridden counthry from Kashmir to th' say--an' who wropped um inhis blanket f'r th' lasht toime an' helped burry um wid his eyesopen--f'r he'd wished ut so--on th' long, brown slope av a rock-pockedPunjab hill, ranged round tin deep wid th' dead naygers av Hira Kal?"
Bill stared at the man wide-eyed.
"Fronte McKim?" he cried.
"Aye, Fronte McKim! As sh'u'd 'a' been gineral av all Oirland, England,an' Injia. Av he'd 'a' been let go he'd licked th' naygers fir-rst an'diplomated phwat was lift av um. He'd made um shwim off th' field tokape from dhroundin' in their own blood--an' kep' 'em good aftherwardwid th' buckle ind av a surcingle.
"My toime was up phwin he was kilt, an' Oi quit. F'r Oi niver 'listedto rot in barracks. Oi wint back to Kerry an' told his mither, th'pale, sad Lady Constance--God rist her sowl!--that sint foor b'ys toth' wars that niver come back--an' wud sint
foor more if she'd had 'em.
"She give me char-rge av th' owld eshtate, wid th' big house, an th'lawn as wide an' as grane as th' angel pastures av hiven--an' littleEily--his sisther--th' purtiest gur-rl owld Oirland iver bred, who wasniver tired av listhenin' to tales av her big brother.
"Oi shtayed till th' Lady Constance died an' little Eily married a richman from Noo Yor-rk--Car-rson, or meby Carmen, his name was; an' hecarried her off to Amur-rica. 'Twas not th' same in Kerry afther that,an' Oi shtrayed from th' gold camps av Australia to th' woods avCanada."
The far-away look that had crept into the old man's eyes vanished, andhis voice became gruff and hard.
"Oi've hear-rd av yer doin's in th' timber--av yer killin' th' werwolfin th' midst av her pack--an yer lickin' Moncrossen wid a luk an' agrin--av yer knockin' out Shtromberg wid t'ree blows av yer fisht.
"Ye might carry th' name av a Noo York money-grubber, but yer hear-rtis th' hear-rt av a foightin' McKim--an' yer eyes, an' that smile--th'McKim smile--that's as much a laugh as th' growl av a grizzly--an' moredangerous thin a cocked gun."
The old man paused and filled his pipe, muttering and chuckling tohimself. Bill grasped his hand, wringing it in a mighty grip.
"You have guessed it," he said huskily. "My name does not matter. I ama McKim. She was my mother--Eily McKim--and she used to tell me of myuncle--and of you."
"Did she, now? Did she remember me?" he exclaimed. "God bless th'little gur-rl. An' she is dead?" Bill nodded, and Daddy Dunnigan drew acoarse sleeve across his eyes and puffed hard at his short pipe.
"And will you go back with me and work the rest of the winter forMoncrossen?"
The old man remained silent so long that Bill thought he had not heard.He was about to repeat the question when the other laid a hand upon hisknee.
"Oi don't have to wor-rk f'r no man, an' Oi'll not wor-rk f'rMoncrossen. But Oi'd cross hell on thin ice in July to folly a McKimwanst more, an' if to do ut Oi must cook f'r Appleton's camp, thin sout is. Git ye some shleep now whilst Oi loaf down to Burrage's."
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