by Homer Greene
CHAPTER II
"Good-by, Gran'pap!"
"Good-by, Dannie! Get to school in time; and don't forget to look afterthe sheep."
"All right, Gran'pap! Don't forget about the new suspenders."
"No, indeed I won't!"
"Good-by!"
Abner Pickett drove away, and Dannie sat on the gate-post and watchedhim until a turn in the road, as it wound through the narrow canyon ofPickett's Gap, shut him from sight.
He was still a picturesque figure, this old man, as he faced theclimbing sun and started on the ten-mile journey to town. Approachingfourscore years, he had lost little of his physical energy, and noneof his mental vigor. He was still brusque and biting, exact to ahair's-breadth, honest to the heart. He never spoke to any one ofCharlie. The whole countryside knew that he had driven his son fromhis home; but, save Charlie and himself, no one ever knew the reasonwhy. Abner Pickett would not talk about it, and Charlie did not comeback.
Not that the old man did not care. No one believed that. No one couldbelieve it who saw him every day. Aunt Martha, than whom no one knewhim better, detected the bitterness and the sorrow of the estrangementin his keen eyes, and heard it in the tone of his voice time andagain, as he went about his accustomed tasks. But she knew that in thestubbornness of his nature he would suffer death before he would makethe first sign, or accept the first proffer of reconciliation. Hispride had been too deeply cut to be healed with the salve of apology.
But then, there was Dannie. What Charlie had lost of his father'sstrange affection, Dannie had won. And the fondness which the old manhad felt and shown for Dannie's mother had been transferred to her boy.But he was worthy of it. He was bright and affectionate, a typicalfarmer's boy, the chum and crony of his grandfather. Many a day theyspent together in the woods and fields, many a toothsome lunch theyate in common. Many a trip they took to hunt small game, or whip thebrooks for speckled trout. Indeed, if you saw Abner Pickett anywherewithin the borders of his four hundred acre tract, you might be prettywell assured that Dannie was not far away.
When the boy was old enough to go to school, it came hard for both ofthem to be separated all day long; and no one but gran'pap knew what awelcome sight it was to see the sturdy little figure come tramping homealong the dusty road from the red schoolhouse two miles away.
So it was with a distinct feeling of loneliness in the heart of eachthat the old man drove away to town that bright September morning, andDannie, sitting on the gate-post, saw him go.
For a long time the boy sat there after the last faint echo from thewheels of the rattling buckboard died away, looking off toward thegraveyard with its fluted column, and on to the dim recesses of thegap. He was wondering. He was wishing. It was all about his father,whom he never remembered to have seen, to whom he had never spoken inhis life, and yet who, so far as he could learn, was living somewherein estrangement from his home. Why was it? When was it? Whose faultwas it? He had asked himself these questions a thousand times. Hehad tried to learn from others. It was in vain. He had mentioned hisfather's name once to gran'pap. He never dared to do so the secondtime. He was fond of his grandfather, very fond of him indeed. Theloveliness of his dead mother was a tradition, not only at the Picketthearthstone, but in all the countryside. And yet, what this boy wanted,what he longed for with his whole boy's heart, with all the ardor ofhis soul, was, not so much a loving grandfather, not so much a dearmother's tenderness, as it was the living, breathing presence and dailycompanionship of a strong and stalwart father.
Ah, well! He dropped from his seat on the gate-post, and strolledup the path to the farmhouse, whistling softly. Max, the dog, camebounding out to greet him, and, together, they went out to the sheeppasture to see that the sheep were not straying beyond bounds andtearing their wool with the brambles. After that, Aunt Martha, thehousekeeper, gave him his dinner in a pail, kissed him good-by as shealways did, and he started off to school. He had to drive Max back. Thedog was devoted to him and always wanted to go with him.
At the first bend in the road he turned to look back, and saw Max stillstanding by the gate, looking wistfully after his young master. Somehowor other, although Dannie was fond of his books, the day at schooldragged dreadfully, and it was with a long sigh of relief that he foundhimself, in the afternoon, trudging down the dusty road toward home.Max, waiting for him at the gate, leaped joyfully out to meet him. Hewent to the house to see Aunt Martha, and then again, in compliancewith gran'pap's request, and accompanied by the dog, he sauntered upto the pasture to look after the sheep. That duty performed, he wentdown to the flat and along the road to the potato field where Gabriel,the steady hired man, was digging potatoes. His name was not Gabriel,as Dannie often explained; but every one got to calling him that onaccount of his horn. He had a big tin horn, once bright with red paintand gilt bands, which he used for the purpose of driving the cows, thesheep, the poultry, and any other live-stock of which he might be incharge, affecting to believe that the animals responded more readily tohis signals on the horn than they would have done to the sound of hisvoice. He was turning out beautiful, big, red potatoes; the Giant Rosehe called them, with now and then a few old-fashioned white pink-eyesin the hills.
"Great crop!" he exclaimed as Dannie came up. "Biggest crop sence theyear your pa went away."
"What did my father go away for?" asked Dannie, so quickly thatGabriel, startled by the suddenness of the question, inadvertentlystruck the blade of his hoe into a great plump potato and split it fromend to end.
"Oh, now, that's too bad!" he exclaimed, as he stooped to pick up thesevered parts, moist and milk-white on the broad cut surfaces. "That'sthe fust potater I've cut this season, or even nicked," he continued,gazing ruefully at the vegetable wreck in his hand.
"What did my father go away for?" repeated Dannie.
The question certainly was direct enough to demand an answer. Gabrielleaned on his hoe-handle thoughtfully, and took the matter into dueconsideration before replying.
"Well now, I've hearn one story about it one day, an' another storyabout it another day. Defferent people hez defferent idees. Ez fer me,I ain't prepared to make no affidavy about it one way ner another.'Don't tell what you don't know jes' because it's easy,' ez ol' Isra'lPidgin use to say."
"What do folks say he went away for?" persisted Dannie.
"Well, that's another question. Some says one thing an' some saysanother. Likely as not they ain't nobody knows jest the right of it."
"Did he an' Gran'pap quarrel?"
Gabriel pushed the loose dirt from the top of the next hill of potatoesbefore he answered.
"Well, ef they did quarrel--now mind ye, I ain't a-sayin' wuther theydid or wuther they didn't--but ef they _did_ quarrel, it was a quarrelwuth lis'nin' to, I can tell ye that. I knowed yer pa; knowed 'imlike a book; worked right alongside of 'im many a day. Best-natered,best-hearted, best-mannered young feller I ever see in all _my_ life.But"--impressively--"he wouldn't never let no one set on 'im. W'en hesot out to do a thing he done it wuther or no. An' w'en he got 'isdander up--well, my gracious! You seen he was a chip o' the ol' blockthen, sure. An' yer gran'pap! Well, you know yer gran'pap perty nigh aswell as I do, an' you know 'at w'at he ain't capable uv in the way o'well-digested contrariness ain't wuth mentionin'. 'Member the dressin'down he give 'Squire Biddlecomb las' spring over that breechy cow o'his'n?"
Gabriel stopped for a moment to chuckle in delighted remembrance overthe incident to which he had referred. Then he continued:--
"So, ez I say, ef they did quarrel, it must 'a' be'n a rip-staver. An',ez ol' Isra'l Pidgin use to say, 'It takes longer fer a win'fall togrow up with new timber 'an it does to heal up a family quarrel.'"
Gabriel never tired of quoting Israel Pidgin; but, when asked aboutthis oracle, the facts he was able to give were very meagre. "An ol'feller I use to know up in York state" was usually all the informationthat could be obtained. There were those, however, who did not hesitateto declare that the supposed sage was wholly a crea
ture of Gabriel'simagination.
"Heard anything about the new railroad?" he asked, changing the subjectabruptly, and digging violently into the bottom and sides of a hillfrom which he had already thrown out all the potatoes. "Say they'rea-comin' right down acrost the farm an' out through the gap to theriver."
Dannie knew that it was useless to question Gabriel further about hisfather, and he turned away disappointed and vexed.
"No," he replied impatiently, "I don't know anything about the newrailroad, an' I don't know as I care."
"Well," continued Gabriel, leaning contemplatively on the handle of hishoe, "ef Abner Pickett gits what it's wuth to a railroad to run throughthat gap, he can afford to wear a starched shirt onct in a w'ile on aSunday."
"Gran'pap wears the kind o' shirts that suits him," replied Dannie,indignantly, "an' it's nobody's business but his own."
"Of course! Of course!" chuckled Gabriel. "As ol' Isra'l Pidgin use tosay, 'Blood's thicker'n water; an' ye can't thin it by stirrin' of itup.'"
Dannie was tired and disheartened. He looked away toward the gap andwished, with all his heart, that he might see Gran'pap coming up theroad toward home. Some one, indeed, was coming from out the shadows ofthe rocks, but it was not Gran'pap. It was a small, black-whiskeredman, carrying an engineer's transit. When he was well out from themouth of the gap he set up his instrument and adjusted it, and peeredthrough the telescope, first back into the shadows of the canyon, andthen ahead toward the graveyard, into the sacred enclosure of which theflagman, with his signal pole, was already advancing.
"Look, Gabriel!" exclaimed Dannie, "look! What are they doing?"
Gabriel gave a quick glance toward the gap.
"It's the new railroad," he said. "Sure as eternity, it's the newrailroad!"
The chainmen were now in sight, measuring off the distances. Theflagman, standing in the very centre of the graveyard and looking backto the transitman, was holding his pole on the ground and balancing itwith his hands to keep it plumb.
Gabriel had dropped his hoe, Dannie had thrust his hands savagely intohis trousers pockets, and both stood gazing with wide eyes on theanimated scene.
"W'at under the canopy Abner Pickett'll say to that is more'n I'd liketo wager on!" exclaimed Gabriel. "Think of it, Dan! A railroad right upthrough yer gran'pap's gap; right up through yer gran'pap's road an'crick; right up through--bust my bellus ef 'tain't a comin' right upthrough yer gran'pap's graveyard!"
Dannie set his teeth tight and jammed his fists deeper into histrousers pockets as he saw an engineer's assistant drive a stake on thegraveyard eminence halfway between the fluted column and the roadsidewall. He had learned to hold the burial plot in scarcely less reverencethan did the old man himself; and to see it trespassed on in thisfashion roused all his ire. But the trespass was so audacious that,looking on it as he did, he could neither move nor speak.
The engineers were evidently in some haste. They were setting theirline of stakes along the narrow strip of land between the creek andthe public road. Already the leveller and the rodman were in sight,following up the location, and the transitman had advanced along theroad to a point opposite the potato field where the valley widened andthe land began to slope more gently to the north and west. He leapedthe fence lightly and came to within twenty feet of where Dannie andGabriel were standing.
"Hello!" said Gabriel.
"Hello!" replied the stranger.
"Runnin' a railroad?"
"Yes. Do you own the place?"
"No; but I work fer the man 'at does, an' I'm thinkin' it wouldn't beright healthy fer ye ef he was in sight."
The stranger laughed a little, showing a row of very white teeth.
"Don't he want a railroad through his place?"
"Not ef the court knows herself, he don't, nor through his gap nuther."
"Does he own that gap?"
"Ain't nobody else owned it fer forty year."
The engineer looked back into the shadows cast by the beetling cliffs,and then up along his line of stakes.
"Well," he replied, "all I have to say is, speaking from a railroadpoint of view, he's got a valuable property."
He glanced ahead at his flagman and directed him to a point farther upin the field, to which point, having fixed and recorded it, he himselfhastened, followed by Gabriel and Dannie. Up to this moment the boy hadnot opened his mouth. Now, with the ring of rising indignation in hisvoice, he spoke up:--
"Has this railroad got a right to run through my gran'father's landwithout his permission?"
Either the engineer was in haste and did not wish to be againinterrupted, or else he did not think the boy of sufficient consequenceto demand his attention; for, after looking him over for a moment, hewent on with his work without replying.
Dannie repeated the question.
"I say has your railroad got a right to run through my gran'father'sland if he don't want it to?"
The man evidently decided to reply.
"Yes," he said snappishly, "got a right to run plumb through his house;and I'm not sure but we shall if he does any kicking."
"An' have you got a right to run through that graveyard down yonder?"
"Oh! graveyards don't count when there's a railroad to be built. Come!you're right in my line of sight. Get over in the road there if youwant to see. Hadn't you better run home, anyway, and tell the old manto look out for his cattle? First thing he knows the engine will bea-puffing, and the bell a-ringing, and the whistle a-blowing rightthrough his barnyard, scaring all his live-stock into fits."
This was the last straw. It was bad enough to drive a stake inhis grandfather's graveyard; it was worse to order him out of hisgrandfather's field; but to ridicule, in that coarse way, theold man whom he loved, that was the crowning insult. Dannie's facewas white, and his hands, still tight in his trousers pockets, wereclenched in anger.
"This land is my gran'father's, an' I'll stand where I please onit," he declared. "An' that graveyard is my gran'father's, an' yourrailroad'll never lay a tie nor put a rail in it while Gran'pap and Ihave breath in our bodies. An' your making fun of an old man like himwhen he ain't here is the act of a coward!"
"'This land is my gran'father's, an' I'll stand where Iplease on it.'"]
The boy stopped, breathless, his breast heaving and his eyes flashing.Gabriel, his face glowing with exultation at the lad's spirit, pulledhis old horn from his pocket, thrust it to his lips, and gave atremendous blast. The engineer stopped in the middle of a record,looked the boy over again from head to foot, and then burst into ahearty laugh.
"You'll do!" he exclaimed. "Stand right where you are as long as youwant to. If you don't own this farm some day, it won't be because youdon't deserve to. I'm through, anyway," he added, glancing at hiswatch. "Put a plug there, John," addressing an axeman, "and tell theboys to chain up. The country beyond this is open and free--room forfifty railroads; but the gap is ours now, and the game is ours, and theTidewater and Western may catch us if it can. Put a bench on the pointof that rock, Miller, and then get your tools together."
The man addressed chiselled a cross on the projecting crown of a hugerock near by, the leveller took the height of the point and recordedit, and the work of the day was done. The engineer removed the head ofhis transit from the tripod, and as the rest of the party faced towardthe gap, he turned to Dannie.
"Well, good night," he said; "I don't like your manners, but I admireyour spunk. Shall we part friends?"
He held out his hand as he spoke, but Dannie looked at him contemptuouslyand did not reply.
"Oh, just as you feel about it," continued the man. "But kindly giveyour aged and respected grandparent this bit of advice from me, 'Don'tfight the Delaware Valley and Eastern.'"
He waved his hand jauntily, flung back another unanswered "Good night,"and five minutes later, with the rest of his company, he entered intothe dark recesses of the gap, on his way to the river and the town.