by Holman Day
CHAPTER VII
ON MISERY GORE
"I reckon if gab had been sprawl, He'd have climb' to the very top notch. As it was, though, he made just one crawl To a perch in a next-the-ground crotch."
--The Pauper.
The two men "hopped" the broad expanse of Patch Dam heath, springingfrom tussock to tussock of the sphagnum moss. In that mighty flat theyseemed as insignificant as frogs, and their progress suggested thebatrachian as they leaped and zigzagged.
Ahead bounced Christopher Straight, the few tins of his scantycooking-kit rattling in the meal-bag pack on his back.
At his heels came Dwight Wade, blanket-roll across his shoulders andcalipers and leather-sheathed axe in his hands. Sweat streamed into hiseyes, and, athlete though he was, his leg muscles ached cruelly. TheSeptember sunshine shimmered hotly across the open, and the young man'shead swam.
Old Christopher's keen side glance noted this. With the veteran guide'stactful courtesy towards tenderfeet, he halted on a mound and madepretence of lighting his pipe. There was not even a bead of perspirationon his face, and his crisp, gray beard seemed frosty.
"I'm ashamed of myself," blurted the young man in blunt outburst. Hisknees trembled as he steadied himself after his last leap.
"It ain't exactly like strollin' down the shady lane, as the song says,"replied old Christopher, with gentle satire. He looked away towards thefringe of distant woods.
"We could have kept on around by the Tomah trail, Mr. Wade, but I reckonyou got as sick as I did of climbin' through old Britt's slash. Anduntil he operated there last winter it used to be one of the best trailsnorth of Castonia. I blazed it myself forty years ago."
"And just a little care in felling it would have left it open," criedthe young man, indignantly.
"There was orders from Britt to drop ev'ry top across that trailthat could be dropped there, Mr. Wade. So, unless they come inflyin'-machines, there's been few fishermen and hunters up the Tomahtrail this season to build fires and cut tent-poles."
"Does the old hog begrudge that much from the acres he stole from thepeople of the State?" demanded Wade.
"He'd ruther you'd pick your teeth with your knife-blade than pull evena sliver out of a blow down," replied Christopher, mildly. He tossed hisbrown hand to point his quiet satire, and Wade's eyes swept the vastexpanse of wood, from the nearest ridges to the dim blue of thetree-spiked horizon.
Christopher put his hand to his forehead and gazed north.
"I can show you your first peek at it, Mr. Wade," he said, after amoment. "That's old Enchanted--the blue sugar-loaf you see through PogeyNotch there. Under that sugar-loaf is where we are bound, to Ide'sholdin's."
There was a thrill for the young man in the spectacle--in the bluemountains swimming above the haze, and in the untried mystery of themiles of forest that still lay between. Even the word "Enchanted"vibrated with suggestion.
The zest of wander-lust came upon him later--a zest dulled at first bytwo days of perspiring fatigue, uneasy slumbers under the stars,breathless scrambles through undergrowth and up rocky slopes.
"That's Jerusalem Mountain, layin' a little to the right," went onChristopher. "That's Britt's principal workin' on the east slope of thatthis season. He'll yard along Attean and the other streams, and run hisdrive into Jerusalem dead-water--and that's where you and Ide will havea chore cut out for you." The old man wrinkled his brows a bit, but hisvoice was still mild.
The romance oozed from Wade's thrill. The thrill became more like anangry bristling along his spine. During the days of his preparation forthis trip into the north country, Rodburd Ide--suddenly become hispartner by an astonishing juncture of circumstances--had spent as muchtime in setting forth the character of the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt ashe had in instructing his neophyte in the duties of a timber explorer.As a matter of fact, Ide left it mostly to old Christopher to be mentorand instructor in the art of "exploring," as search for timber in thenorth woods is called. Ide was better posted on the acerbities andsinuosities of Britt's character than he was on the values of standingtimber and the science of economical "twitch-roads," and, with sagepurpose, he had freely given of this information to his new partner.
"Don't worry about the explorin' part--not with Christopher postin'you," Ide had cheerfully counselled, when he had shaken hands with themat the edge of Castonia clearing. "You and he together will find enoughtimber to be cut. But you can't get dollars for logs until they'resorted and boomed--and that part means dividin' white water with Brittnext spring. So, don't spend all your time measuring trees, Wade.Measure chances!"
Now, with his eyes on the promised field of battle, Wade growled underhis breath.
Britt!
For four days now he had struggled behind old Christopher throughtangled undergrowth of striped maple, witch hobble, and mountainholly--Mother Nature's pathetic attempt to cover with ragged and stuntedgrowth the breast that the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt had stripped bare.
"He cut her three times," Christopher explained. "First time the virginblack growth--and as handsome a stand of timber as ye ever put calipersto; second time, the battens--all under eleven inches through; thirdtime, even the poles. That's forestry as he practises it! He's robbin'the squirrels!"
Britt!
Wade had seen rotting tops that would have yielded logs--the refuse ofthe first reckless and wasteful cutting. He had passed skidways andtoiled over corduroy in which thousands of feet of good spruce had beenleft to decay. The deploring finger of the watchful Christopher pointedout butts hacked off head high.
"The best timber in the log left standin' there, Mr. Wade. But PulaskiBritt ain't lettin' his men stop to shovel snow away."
Britt behind him, in the tangled undergrowth! Britt about him, in thestraggle of trees on the hard-wood ridges! Britt ahead of him, where theblack growth shaded the mountains in the blue distance! The same Brittwho had so contemptuously tossed him aside as useless baggage whenForeman Colin MacLeod had demanded his discharge!
Wade clutched calipers and axe, and went leaping after old Christopherwith new strength in his legs.
But in spite of the vigor that resentment lent him, he was glad when theguide tossed off his pack beside a brook that trickled under mossy rockson the hard-wood slope. It was good to hear the tinkle of water, to feelthe solid ground after the weird wobbling of the sphagnum moss, and tosnuff the smoke of the handful of fire crackling under the tea-pail.
They were munching biscuits and bacon, nursing pannikins of tea betweentheir knees, when Christopher cocked an ear, darted a glance, andmumbled a mild oath as savor to his mouthful of biscuit.
"Set to eat a snack within a mile of Misery Gore and one of them crowswill appear to ye. And that's the old he one of them all."
The old man who came shuffling slowly down the path was gaunt with theleanness of want, and unkempt with the squalor of the hopelesslypauperized.
"It's one of the Misery Gore squatters, Mr. Wade. All Skeets andBushees, and married back and forth and crossways and upside down tillev'ry man is his own grandmother, if he only knew enough to figgerrelationship. All State paupers, and no more sprawl to 'em than there isto a fresh-water clam."
Old Christopher, with Yankee contempt of the thrifty for the willingpauper, grumbled on in his scornful explanations after the old man satdown opposite them. Wade, accustomed to politer usages, winced beforethis brutal frankness. He plainly felt worse than the subject, wholooked from one to the other, his blue lips slavering at sight of thefood.
"It ain't no use to set there and drool like a hound pup, Jed," snappedold Christopher, cutting another slice of bacon. "We're bound in for afortnit's explorin' trip, and we ain't got no grub to spare."
The patriarch of Misery Gore drew a greasy bit of brown paper from hisragged vest, unfolded it, and took out what was apparently a long hairfrom his grizzly beard. He pinched the thicker end between his dirtythumb and forefinger, stroked the whisker upright, and held it before
his gaping mouth. The whisker slowly bent over towards Christopher.
"'Lectric!" announced the experimenter, in thick, stuffy tones, asthough he were talking through a cloth.
Again he gaped his toothless mouth, and the whisker bent towards theuninviting opening.
"'Lectric!" He grinned at them, rolling his watery eyes from face toface to seek appreciation. It was evident that he considered the featremarkable.
"Full of it! Er huh! Full of it!" He stroked his thin fingers down hisarm and slatted into the air. "Storms, huh? I know. Fair weather, huh? Iknow. Things to happen, huh? I know. I can tell."
He hitched nearer, and looked hungrily at the bread and bacon whichChristopher immediately and ruthlessly began to wrap up.
"Them wireless-telegraph folks ought to know about you," grunted theguide. "Don't pay any attention to the old fool, Mr. Wade. He don't haveto beg of us. Rod Ide furnishes supplies to these critters. Law saysthat the assessor of the nearest plantation shall do it, and then Ideputs in his bill to the State. You needn't worry about their starvin'."
"You'd all see us starve on Misery Gore," wailed the old man. "You'd allsee us starve!" His tone changed suddenly to weak anger. "Ide's an oldhog. No tea, no tobarker."
"Yes, and he ain't been so lib'ral with turkeys, plush furniture, andchampagne as he ought to be," growled Christopher, relishing his irony.
"If there's anything that you really need, Mr.--Mr.--"
"Skeet," snapped the guide.
"--Mr. Skeet, I'll speak to Mr. Ide about it when--"
"Mr. Wade," broke in Christopher, "what's the need of wastin' goodbreath on that sculch? They get all they deserve to have. They're toolazy to breathe unless it come automatic. They let their potatoes rot inthe ground, and complain about starvin'. They won't cut browse to banktheir shacks, and complain about freezin'. The only thing they can do tothe queen's taste is steal, and it's got so in this section that thereain't a sportin'-camp nor a store wangan that it's safe to leave a thingin."
He began to stuff tins into the mouth of the meal-sack, glowering at theancient pauper.
"They nigh put me out of bus'ness guidin' hereabouts. Stole everythingfrom my Attean camp that I left there--and it ain't no fun to tugger-luggrub for sports on your back from Castonia."
When the last knot in the leather thong was twitched close and thebountiful meal-bag was closed, old Jed abandoned hope and wheedling. Hebrandished the whisker at Christopher, his moth-speckled hand quivering.
"Old butcherman!" he screamed. "'Twas my Jed. Off here!" He set the edgeof his palm against his arm.
Christopher's face grew hard under his frosty beard, but his cheeksflushed when Wade gazed inquiringly at him.
"It's a thief's lookout when there's a spring-gun in a camp," hemuttered. "There was a sign on the door sayin' as much. It ain't myfault if folks has been too busy stealin' to learn to read. If you everhear anything about it up this way, Mr. Wade, you needn't blame me. Theyhad their warnin' by word o' mouth. I'm sorry it happened, but--"
"What happened?"
"Young Jed Skeet joined the 'It-'ll-git-ye Club' a year ago with a finshot off at the elbow."
Christopher swung his pack to his back, thrust his arms through thestraps, and marched away. Wade followed with a new light on some of theaccepted ethics of human combat in the big woods. Old Jed shuffledbehind, a toothless Nemesis gasping maledictions in stuffy tones.
"We'll swing over the ridge and go through Misery Gore settlement, Mr.Wade," said the old guide, after a time, divining the reason for hiscompanion's silence. "It may spoil your appetite for supper, but it'llprob'ly straighten out some of your notions about me and thatspring-gun."
On the opposite slant of the ridge a ledge thrust above the hard-woodgrowth, and Christopher led the way out upon this lookout.
"There! Ain't that a pictur' for a Sussex shote to look at, and thentake to the woods ag'in?" he inquired, with scornful disregard for anycivic pride the patriarch of Misery might have taken in his community.
The few miserable habitations of poles, mud, and tarred paper werescattered around a tumble-down lumber camp, relic of the old days when"punkin pine" turreted Misery Gore.
"I suppose the man who named it stood here and looked down," suggestedWade.
"It was named Misery fifty years before this tribe ever came here. Ireckon they heard of it, and it sounded as though it might suit 'em.They're a tribe by themselves, Mr. Wade. They've been driven off'n adozen townships that I know of. Land-owners keep 'em movin'. I reckonthis is their longest stop. This Gore is a surplus left in surveyingRange Nine. Sort of a no man's land. But they hadn't ought to be lefthere."
There was so much conviction in the old guide's tone, and the contrastof utter ruin below was so great, its last touch added by the patheticold figure in rags at the foot of the ledge, that the young man's temperflamed. He had been pondering the spring-gun episode with no verytolerant spirit.
"For God's sake, Straight, show some man-feeling. Is the selfishness ofthe woods down to the point where you begrudge those poor devils thatwallow of stumps and rocks?"
Christopher received this outburst with his usual placidity--theplacidity that only woodsmen have cultivated in its most artistic sense.
"Look, Mr. Wade!" He swept his hand in the circuit that embraced thepanorama of ridges showing the first touches of frost, the hills stilldarkling with black growth, the valleys and the shredded forest.
"There she lays before you, ten thousand acres like a tinder-box in thisweather, dry since middle August. You've seen some of the slash. Butyou've seen only a little of it. Under those trees as far as eye can seethere's the slash of three cuttin's. Tops propped on their boughs likewood in a fireplace. Draught like a furnace! It's bad enough now, withthe green leaves still on. It's like to be worse in May before the greenleaves start. And about all those dod-fired Diggers down there know orcare about property interests is that a burn makes blueberries grow, andblueberries are worth six cents a quart! They have done it in otherplaces. They're inbred till they've got water for blood and sponges forbrains. When the hankerin' for blueberries catches 'em they'll put thetorch to that undergrowth and refuse, and if the wind helps and the raindon't stop it they'll set a fire that will run to Pogey Notch likeracin' hosses, roar through there like blazin' tissue-paper in a chimblyflue, and then where'll your black growth on Enchanted be--the growththat's goin' to make money for you and Rod Ide? I tell ye, Mr. Wade,there's more to woods life than roamin' through and cuttin' your gal'sname on the bark. There's more to loggin' than the chip-chop of a sharpaxe or the rick-raw of a double-handled gashin'-fiddle. And when itcomes down to profit, you can't be polite to a porcupine when he'sgirdlin' your spruce-trees, nor practice society airs and Christiancharity with damn fools, whether they're dude fishermen tossin'cigar-stubs or such spontaneously combustin' toadstools as them thatlive down yonder eatin' the State's pork and flour. I'm up here with yeto tell ye something about the woods, Mr. Wade. And it ain't all goin'to be about calipers, the diffrunce between the Bangor and New Hampshirescale, and how stumpage ain't profitable under nine inches topmeasure--no, s'r, not by a blame sight!"
There was no passion in the old man's remonstrance, but there was anearnestness that closed the young man's lips against argument. Hefollowed silently when Christopher led the way down towards thesettlement. Old Jed took up his position at the rear.
The first who accosted them was a slatternly woman, her short skirtsrevealing men's long-legged boots. She rapped the bowl of a pipe smartlyin her palm, to show that it was empty, and demanded tobacco. Shescowled, and there was no hint of coaxing in her tones.
When Wade looked at her with an expression of shocked astonishment thatall his resolution could not modify, she sneered at him.
"Oh, you think we don't know northin' here--ain't wuth noticin' 'causewe live in the woods, hey? Well, we do know something. Here, Ase, tellthis sport the months of the year, and then let's see if he's stingyenough to keep his plug in his pocket
."
Ase, plainly her son, lubberly and man-grown, roared withoutbashfulness:
"Jan'warry, Feb'darry, Septober, Ockjuber, Fourth o' July, St. Padrick'sDay, and Cris'mus--gimme a chaw!"
Two or three men lounged out-of-doors--one with his arm significantlyoff at the elbow. But there was not even a shadow on his vapid face whenhe looked at Christopher, author of his misfortune.
"Ain't ye goin' to give me a piece of your plug, Chris?" he whined."Seem's if ye might. You 'n' me's square now--I got your pork and yougot my arm."
"There! Hear that?" growled Straight, in Wade's ear. "Put yourcommon-sense calipers on this stand of human timber and see what ye makeof it."
Wade, looking from face to face, as the frowsy population of Miserylounged closer about him, half in indolence, half in the distrustfulshyness that the stupidly ignorant usually assume towards superiorstrangers, noted that though the men displayed an almost canine desireto fawn for favors, the women were sullen. The only exception was a veryold woman who hobbled close and entreated:
"Ain't you got northin' good for Abe, nice young gentleman? Poor Abe!Hain't got no friend but his old mother." She hooked a hand as blue andgaunt as a turkey's claw into Wade's belt and held up her spotted faceso close to his that he turned his head in uncontrollable disgust.
"Your hands off the gentleman, Jule," commanded Christopher, brusquely."It's old Jule, mate of the old he one that has been chasin' us," heexplained, with more of that blissful disregard for the feelings of hissubjects that had previously shocked the young man. "There's old Jed andyoung Jed--old Jule and young Jule. They 'ain't even got gumption enoughhere to change names. And that's Abe--the choice specimen that she'sbeggin' for. Look at him and wish for a pictur'-machine, Mr. Wade!"
He had thought there could be no worse in human guise than those he hadseen. But this huge, hairy, shaggy, almost naked giant, cowering againstthe side of a shack with all the timidity of a child, marked a climaxeven to such degeneracy as he had quailed before.
"Mind in him about five years old, and will always stay five years old,"said the guide, pointing to the wistful, simpering face. "Body speaksfor itself. Look at them muscles! I've seen him ploughin' hitched withtheir cow. Clever as a mule. He's the old woman's hoss. Hauls her on ajumper clear to Castonia settlement."
"An animal!" Wade gasped.
"Not much else. Afraid of the dark, of shadows, and women mostly.Strange women! Once a woman scared him in Castonia and he ran away likea hoss, draggin' the jumper. Old Jule hitched him to a post after that."
Cretinism in any form had always shocked Dwight Wade inexpressibly. Heturned away, but the old woman was in his path, begging.
The next moment a tall, lithe girl ran swiftly out of a hut, seized thewhimpering old woman, tossed her over her shoulder as a miller wouldup-end a bag of meal, and staggered back into the hut, kicking the fraildoor shut with angry heel. Wade got an astonished but a comprehensiveview of this "kidnapper." There was no vacuity in her face. It wasbrilliant, with black eyes under a tangle of dark hair disordered butnot unkempt like that of the females he had seen in Misery. Her lipswere very red, and the color flamed on her cheeks above the brown of thetan. In that compost heap of humanity the girl was a vision, and Wadeturned to old Christopher with unspoken questions on his parted lips.
"Don't know," said the guide, laconically, wagging his head. "No oneknows. She's with 'em. But you and me can see that she ain't one of 'em.She's always been with 'em as fur back's I know of her--and that wassixteen years ago, when she was in a holler log on rockers for acradle."
"Stolen!" suggested Wade, desperately. The thought had a morsel ofcomfort in it. That a girl like that could belong by right of birth inthis tribe, that a girl with--ah, now he realized why his heart hadthrobbed at sight of her--that a girl with Elva Barrett's hair and eyescould be doomed to this existence was a knife-thrust in hissensibilities.
And the toss of her head and the rebelliousness in the gesture--thedefiance in the upward flash of the sparkling eyes--subdued in ElvaBarrett's case by training--the mnemonics of love, whose suggestions areso subtle, thrilled him at the sudden apparition of this forest beauty.Reason angrily rebuked this unbidden comparison. He bit his lips, andflushed as though his swift thought had wronged his love. OldChristopher put into blunt woods phrase the pith of the thoughts thatstruggled together in Wade's mind. The guide was looking at the closeddoor.
"There's lots of folks, Mr. Wade, that don't recognize plain white birchin some of the things that's polished and set up in city parlors. I'vewondered a good many times what a society cabinet-shop, as ye might say,would do to that girl."
"They must have stolen her," repeated Wade.
Old Christopher tucked a sliver of plug into his cheek.
"That would sound well in a gypsy fairy-story, but it don't fit thestyle of the Skeets and Bushees. They're too lazy to steal anythingthat's alive. They want even a shote killed and dressed before they'lltouch it. Near's I can find out, the young one was handed to 'em, andthey was too dadblamed tired to wake up and ask where it came from.They didn't even have sprawl enough to name her. I did that," he added,calmly. "Yes," he proceeded, smiling at Wade's astonished glance; "I wasguidin' a sport down the West Branch just before they drove the tribeout of the Sourdnaheunk country--under old Katahdin, you know! I see herin that log cradle, and they was callin' her 'it.' So me 'n' the sportgot up a name for her--Kate Arden, for the mountain. 'Tain't a name fora Maine girl to be ashamed of."
It suddenly occurred to Wade, gazing at the old man, that the quizzicalscrewing-up of his eyes was hiding some deeper emotion; forChristopher's voice had a quaver in it when he said:
"Poor little gaffer! Some one ought to have taken her away from 'em. Butit's hard to get folks interested in even a pretty posy when it grows ina skunk-cabbage patch."
He looked away, embarrassed that any man should see emotion on his face,and uttered a prompt exclamation.
Threading their way in single file among the blackened stumps thatbordered the Tomah trail to the north came a half-dozen men.
"That's Bennett Rodliff ahead, and he's the high sheriff of thiscounty," growled the old man. "There's two deputies and two game-wardenswith him--and old Pulaski Britt bringin' up in the rear. Knowin' thempretty well, I should say that it spells t-r-u-b-l-e, in jest sixletters. I ain't a great hand to guess, Mr. Wade, but if some one was toask me quick, I should say it was the same old checker-game that theSkeets and Bushees have been playin' for all these years, and that it'stheir turn to move."