Pickett's Gap

by Homer Greene

  CHAPTER IX

  Long after his father and his son had vanished from sight between thegreat snow ridges that lined the street, Charlie Pickett stood at thewindow of the jury room, looking out upon the wide, white landscape,thinking of the days gone by, of the day just passed, of the days hestill hoped might come in the future.

  Some one touched him gently on the shoulder. He turned and saw that itwas Gabriel, and reached out to him a welcoming hand.

  "I'm glad to see you, Gabriel," he said. "I've been trying to geta chance to speak to you ever since you've been here. I've beenwanting to ask you about Dannie, and about Father, and Aunt Martha,and yourself, and about the old place. It's been a hard day for me,Gabriel."

  "The' ain't no doubt o' that, Char--Mr. Pickett, I mean."

  "No, not Mr. Pickett. I'm always Charlie to you, you know. We'veworked and tramped and hunted and fished together too often for anyformality of that kind, Gabriel. But I am glad to see you. Here, sitdown. Tell me about Dannie. I've just given him up to Father. I had aright to take him, Gabriel; I wanted to take him; but I knew it wouldbreak Father's heart, and I couldn't do that, I couldn't do it."

  "Well," replied Gabriel, slowly, "I ain't got nothin' to say aginstAbner Pickett. He's treated me like a white man fer eighteen yearan' up'ards; but ef I had a son like you, an' a gran'son like DanniePickett, I'll be everlastin'ly gee-hawed ef I wouldn't git down off'nmy high hoss once't in a w'ile, say once't in a year to start on, an'treat 'em both like human bein's. Not to say but w'at he's good toDannie. W'y good ain't no name fer it. They ain't nothin' he wouldn'tdo fer that boy, nothin'--excep' to let 'im hev the benefit uv afather."

  "And is Dannie equally fond of him?"

  "Sure. They're jes' like twins, them two is. W'enever an' w'erever yousee one uv 'em, you're jes' nat'ally bound to see t'other."

  "So Aunt Martha has written me; and I'm glad of that, Gabriel. It isthe only thing that reconciles me to his loss. But does he never thinkabout his father? Does he never ask for him? Does he never want him?Tell me that, Gabriel."

  "Well, he ain't never asked 'is gran'father about ye more'n once, Ireckon. I heard 'im ask once. An' the way--well, never mind that. Ezol' Isra'l Pidgin use to say: 'You can't close up a crack by hammerin'a wedge in it.' But ef he's asked me about ye once't, he's asked ahunderd times. He'll come on ye sudden like, w'en ye ain't expectin'it, an' fire away till you don't know wuther you're standin' on yourhead or your feet. He come onto me once't that way las' fall in thepotater patch. 'Gabriel,' says 'e, 'w'at did my father go away fer?'sez 'e. Well, now, I could 'a' told 'im, an' I couldn't 'a' told 'im,an' I didn't do nary one. 'Did he an' Gran'pap hev a quarrel?' sez 'e.An' bless my soul ef I knew w'at to say. I couldn't go to fillin' of'im up with stuff about 'is gran'pap; an' I hadn't no warrant to do it,anyhow. I didn't hear ye quarrel. 'Don't never tell fer a fact w'atye ain't willin' to swear to,' ez ol' Isra'l Pidgin use to say. ButI kin tell ye this, that ef they's one thing in this world 'at thatboy wants to hear about, an' to talk about, an' to hev about, it's hisfather."

  "Thank you, Gabriel. Thank you a thousand times for telling me that."

  "Yes, an' the most surprisin' thing about it all is, w'at a lot ofblamed ignoramuses we all be w'en he asks any of us anything about ye."

  "I know you're all very kind about it, Gabriel, and very wise andconsiderate. I'm sure he couldn't be in better hands."

  "Yes, your Aunt Marthy jest dotes on 'im."

  "I'm certain of that. But it was a strange thing for him to do,Gabriel, to pull out that line of stakes. I came up the gap with himthe night he did it. He wanted to tell me then. I'm sorry now I didn'tpermit him to. It might have saved him a deal of suffering."

  "Well, he's taken it hard, I can tell ye. He ain't the same boy he wassix months ago. He couldn't eat nor sleep nor rest, it worried 'imso. We all thought he was sick, he fell away that bad. Even your AuntMarthy couldn't do nothin' fer 'im. But say, wa'n't it grand, the wayhe come in there at the wind-up an' told how things wuz; pufficklyregardless of wuther he spent the nex' six months in jail or no?There's the Pickett grit fer ye!"

  "Gabriel, I think it was heroic." And the tears sprang into CharliePickett's eyes as he thought of that pathetic little figure facing thecrowded court room, battling with his fear and conquering it, brave tothe limit in the cause of conscience and of truth.

  "Yes, it wuz," responded Gabriel. "An' how under the sun an' moon an'seven stars he ever got here through them drifts! How did 'e git here,anyhow? He couldn't 'a' druv. They couldn't no hoss 'a' got through.He couldn't 'a' walked. Goliath o' Gath couldn't 'a' walked it. An' 'edidn't fly. How _did_ 'e git here, anyhow?"

  "I don't know, Gabriel. I hadn't thought of it. How did he?"

  The two men gazed at each other with a look of astonishment in theirfaces that slowly grew into awe. Then Gabriel lifted his eyes andpointed heavenward.

  "God a'mighty," he said reverently. "He done it fer 'im. Nobody elsecould."

  Then, for many minutes, the two men sat in silence. Gabriel was thefirst to speak.

  "He'll be goin' home with 'im now, I reckon. I seen 'em start to'ardsthe depot."

  "Yes," replied Charlie, rising and going again to the window; "butI doubt whether they will get farther than Port Lenox to-night. Thetrains will be late, and the roads will not be broken. Poor boy! Ishall be glad to feel that he is at home with Aunt Martha, resting fromhis physical strain, relieved of his mental burden. Well, Gabriel,let's go back into court. I don't suppose they'll want us any more, butwe'll see what they are doing with the case."

  But court had adjourned. As the two men passed out into the hall thepeople from the court room came crowding by. Among them was Nicholson,the Delaware Valley and Eastern engineer. When he saw Gabriel his facelighted up with a smile.

  "Hello, my bumptious friend!" he shouted; "where's your horn?"

  "Left it to hum," replied Gabriel, readily, "to scare off trampengineers 'at might come 'round settin' stakes in the snow-drifts."

  "Are you going to leave it home when you die, or will you take italong?"

  "Oh! I'll hev it with me on that trip. You can borrow it occasionallyef you want to. Blowin' on it once't in a w'ile's a great relief tothem in misery."

  A crowd was gathering, and Gabriel's sally was greeted with a shout ofapproval. It nettled Nicholson, and he turned away. He did not care forfun unless he himself could be the beneficiary.

  "Children and fools--" he muttered, "the old saying still holds good."

  "Say!" called Gabriel after him; "did you ever hear of ol' Isra'lPidgin?"

  "Oh, yes!" was the quick reply, "he was an idiot that lived up in YorkState."

  "Yes. 'Member wut he said about the feller 'at goes 'round with a chipon 'is shoulder lookin' fer somebody to knock it off?"

  Nicholson did not reply.

  "Well," continued Gabriel, "he says, says 'e, 'that feller's lucky ef'e don't git 'is shoulder put out o' jint a gittin' of the chip knockedoff,' says 'e."

  But Nicholson had disappeared. He was pushing his way down the windingstaircase, satisfied that, in the estimation of the crowd, he was nomatch for Gabriel, and anxious to escape. In the lower hall he metCharlie Pickett. He went up to him with outstretched hand, for he wasgenerous as well as impetuous.

  "Pickett," he said, "if I made any fool remarks on the witness standto-day reflecting on you in any way, I want to ask your pardon. Youknow there's no man in the profession, nor anywhere else, for thatmatter, whom I esteem more highly than I do you. My quick tongue alwaysdid get me into no end of trouble, and I'm afraid it always will. Itwasn't two minutes ago that I was crushed in repartee by that wise foolfrom Pickett's Gap, Gabriel, by name. But, Pickett, say! whose idea wasthat moonlight survey, anyway? It was a genuine _coup-d'etat_."

  "Oh, that was Wilson's scheme. Our chief, you know. He knew that youwere running along the westerly bank of the Delaware that afternoon andthat a location by us next day would be too late. We didn't dream thatyou would get through the gap
that night. I didn't dream that you hadbeen through it when I went down in the moonlight. If I had seen yourstakes there, I should more than likely have turned back."

  "Well, it's lucky for your people that you didn't see them, then.For the only hope you have, the way the matter stands now, is in thetheory that your board was the first to adopt the location. But thatwas a strange thing, wasn't it, about that boy pulling out the stakes?It wasn't a mere dare-devil adventure, you understand. It was doneconscientiously in order that justice--from his standpoint--mightprevail. Took some courage to go down through that gap in thenight-time you know, and pull out that line of stakes. But, talk aboutgrit and moral heroism! did you ever see or hear of anything equal tothat boy coming down from Pickett's Gap, through a world of driftedsnow, and going on the stand, voluntarily, to swear himself into jailjust to set us right on the matter of the stakes, and to do justice toyou? Say, it was magnificent! If I had a boy like him, I'd keep himwith me day and night, just for the inspiration."

  "Yes? I'm glad to hear you say that. He's my boy, Nicholson. You didn'tknow that, did you?"

  Nicholson stared in amazement.

  "Your boy!" he exclaimed. "Why, look here, Pickett! You're not a son ofthe owner of Pickett's Gap, are you?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "Give me your hand. You've got a father and a son to be proud of. Why,that old man will move heaven and earth to defend and preserve what heconsiders his rights. I looked into the muzzle of his double-barrelledshot-gun one day; well, it was lucky the sheriff came when he did, orI'd have been picking bird-shot No. 2 out of my anatomy to this day.And I don't blame him a bit--not a bit. I'd have done the same thingin his place. But that boy, Pickett, why that boy's a hero. I wonderedwhat you carried him out of the court room so tenderly for when hefainted. Where is he? Did he get over his illness? No wonder he went topieces, poor fellow!"

  When Nicholson once started in to talk, it was of no use trying tointerrupt him till he was through.

  "Yes," replied Charlie, sadly, "he recovered; he went home with hisgrandfather."

  Nicholson stood for a moment in deep thought.

  "Look here, Pickett!" he exclaimed finally. "I don't want to uncoverany family secrets; but what I can't make out is why in the world,if you own such a boy as that, he don't know it. And, why in all theworlds, if you've got a right to have the company of a human being,with his intelligence and conscience and grit and grace, you don'tavail yourself of it."

  "Well, Nicholson, it's a long story. I can't tell it to you now. Youwouldn't understand it if I did. But I hope some day to have him withme. How soon or how far away that day may be, I cannot tell. At anyrate, it will take a thousand unkind remarks from you, hereafter, tooverbalance the kind things you've said about me and mine in the lasttwenty minutes."

  The two men shook hands warmly and passed out with the crowd. CharliePickett went to his hotel, but not to rest. He could not brush from hismental sight the vision of his son's pale face and anxious eyes. Heheard always in his ears the boy's pathetic voice as he lay exhaustedon the bench in the jury room and pleaded that he might go with hisfather.

  When morning came, the vision was still before him, the voice wasstill in his ears. He paid little heed to the remaining witnesses whotestified in the case, and when, after fixing a day for argument,court finally adjourned, he went back to his hotel with his mind ina tumult of anxiety and desire; anxiety lest the great physical andmental strain which the boy had undergone might bring on some suddenand severe illness; desire that he might be with him, might look athim, might talk to him, might hear his voice and press his hands.Nor is it strange that his brief interview should have inspired suchtender and tumultuous thoughts. Charlie Pickett's mother had diedin his childhood. His wife had yielded up her life for her son. Hisfather had driven him from home. This boy was the only one in all theworld to whom he was united in the bonds of blood and of undisguised,untrammelled, unsatisfied affection. The more he thought about it themore he wondered why he had, on the previous day, so readily yieldedto his father's stern ultimatum. The more he considered it, the morethe unreasonableness of it, the injustice of it, the downright crueltyof it impressed itself upon his mind. The restriction under which hehad placed himself chafed and galled him beyond endurance. At last,unable longer to withstand the imperious demand of parental passion, hebuttoned his great-coat about him, pulled his cap over his eyes, andset his face toward Pickett's Gap, intent on doing something, anything,to relieve the unbearable situation in which he found himself. A trainon the Mooreville branch was just leaving for Port Lenox. He boardedit hastily, and contained himself as best he could while the wheezingengine puffed its slow way between banks of shovelled snow so high thathalf the time they hid the surrounding country from the sight of thosein the cars.

  At Port Lenox he waited an hour for the down train on the main line,striding up and down the platform like a caged animal. When he left thecar at Fisher's Eddy, the short winter day was already at its close,and the summit of the hill range, through which the gap wound itssinuous way, was already all but indistinguishable against the westernsky. He started across the street toward a livery stable to get a horseand sleigh, but, changing his mind suddenly, he struck out along themiddle of the roadway toward the hillside. The thought of waiting fora team to be ready, of forcing a tired horse up the hill through theheavy snow, was too much for his nearly exhausted patience.

  Many and many a time, in other days, he had walked the road fromFisher's Eddy to the Pickett's Gap homestead in time that would havedone credit to the best horse in Meredith County. He felt that hecould do it to-night. Moreover he knew that he needed the exercisein order to work off, if possible, some of the surplus energy withwhich his veins and muscles were charged. Perhaps, when he arrivedat his destination, he might not be so impetuous, he might be moreconsiderate, more gentle, more patient under the provocation which wassure to come, more cautiously firm in his just demands.

  When he reached the place where his survey terminated, on that eventfulSeptember night, he stopped for a moment and looked down through thedarkness to the twinkling lights of Fisher's Eddy as he had looked thatnight. Then, pushing on through the snow-burdened glen, he recalled,as he walked, every word and tone and look of the boy who was hisunwilling companion on that former journey; how they noted the locationof the curve; how they halted at the graveyard; how they said good-byat the gate.

  Here he was now, again at the gate, almost within sight, withinhearing, within touch of his boy. The thought of it brought a suddenweakness to his limbs, and he stopped and leaned heavily against thepost on which Dannie had sat one happy morning and bade his grandfathergood-by. Here he was. What was he to do? What was he to say? Howshould he enter the house? How introduce the object of his mission?Abner Pickett had forbidden him to return; how would he greet himto-night? In his unreasoning impetuosity he had thought of none ofthese things until this moment. Now they presented themselves to himwith perplexing persistency. Not that he was weakening in his purpose,he would not admit that; but how could he best accomplish the objecthe had in view? That was the question. He moved slowly up the path,turning these things over in his mind, until he reached the frontporch. At the side of the porch there was a window opening from thesitting room. The curtain had not been drawn, and he could see in. Theimpulse to look before he entered came upon him, and he pushed hisway through a huge bank of loose snow, close to the window ledge, andfastened his eyes upon the occupants of the room.

  A table was drawn up in front of a great wood fire, for it was a bittercold night, and Abner Pickett was sitting by it reading his paper. Inhis face was still the hard, stern, uncompromising look with which hehad greeted Charlie in the jury room the day before. There was scantencouragement in that face, indeed! Aunt Martha was sitting in heraccustomed chair by the fire, busy with her knitting; and Dannie, ona stool by her side, with his head resting in her lap, gazed at thecrackling logs and the leaping flames, looking up now and then toanswer some question that she aske
d him. His face was turned so thatCharlie could see it plainly. It had in it a look of weariness, indeed,but of content--of absolute content. It was a quiet, peaceful, pleasantscene; but in another moment he, Charlie Pickett, was to break inupon it, to destroy it, to set a gentle woman's heart throbbing withapprehension and fear, to arouse the unconquerable passion of a sternold man, to plunge a weary, peaceful, contented boy into a new turmoilof trouble and of grief. And to what end? Simply to satisfy his ownselfish desire. A revulsion of feeling came over him as he looked. Theold man moved uneasily in his chair, laid down his paper, and turnedtoward Dannie. He appeared to be saying something to him, and as hetalked, the sternness, the hardness, the coldness vanished from hisrugged features, and his gray eyes, piercing when he was in anger,softened now with the mild glow of tenderness and affection. Charliesaw it all by the bright light of the fire, understood it all, feltit all, and, waiting no longer, he turned away. With his face to thethick darkness he struggled out to the path, down through the gate, andon into the middle of the road. He thrust behind him his own desire,his own disappointment and sorrow and loneliness, and once again, likethe man that he was, he thought only of his father's comfort and thehappiness of his son.

  A figure loomed up out of the darkness before him and stood still.

  "Who goes thar?" came the challenge.

  "It is I, Gabriel, Charlie Pickett."

  "Charlie Pickett! An' w'at in the name o' the seven wise men an' theirjigger-books be ye a doin' here?"

  "I came to get my boy, Gabriel. I looked in at the window and saw thathe was content, and his grandfather happy, and I hadn't the heart todisturb their comfort and peace. So I am going again. They will notknow that I ever came. It is our secret, Gabriel. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I understand; but look here! That ain't fair, you know. You'rehis father. You've got the fust right."

  "True, but I'm not demanding it. Don't tempt me. My mind is madeup. Let me go now before I falter. Good night and good luck to you,Gabriel!"

  He reached out his hand, and Gabriel took it with a tremendous grasp.

  "The genuine Pickett grit!" he exclaimed. "You're a chip o' the oldblock, after all. So's the boy. Wher's your hoss? What! Didn't hevany? Walked up? Well, I'll be--say, you'll do! You're Pickett to thebackbone! So's the boy. Consarn ye, both o' ye. Blame the hull threeo' ye! You're a set o' the contrariest, pig-headedest, big-heartedesthuman bein's 'at the Lord ever let tromp on his foot-stool!"

  It was evident that Gabriel's feelings were getting the best of him,for his voice was very husky as he continued:--

  "Good night! Ef ever you want anything done around these parts, you letme know. I'm it when you speak. Don't forgit!"

  "Thank you, Gabriel! Thank you a thousand times. Good night!"

  The next moment Charlie Pickett's figure was lost in the darkness, andGabriel stood gazing at the place where it had disappeared, mutteringto himself:--

  "Well, ez ol' Isra'l Pidgin use to say: 'On the hull, darkness coversmore good deeds than evil ones.'"