Other Main-Travelled Roads

by Garland, Hamlin

  "Can't do much till Emmy gets here," said Sarah.

  "Oh, I guess we can. Bill, you put out y'r team, we won't get away 'fore dinner."

  The men drove off to the barn, leaving the women to pick their way on chips and strips of board laid in the mud, to the safety of the chip-pile, and thence to the kitchen, which was desolately littered with utensils.

  Deacon assumed command with the same alertness, and with the same sunny gleam in his eye, with which he directed the funeral a few days before.

  "Now, Bill, put out your team and help Jack and me pen them hogs. Women folks 'll git things ready here."

  Emma came at last, driven by Harkey's brother and his hired man. They were both brawny fellows, rude and irritable, and the Deacon lifted his eyebrows and whistled when he saw them drive in with a lumber wagon.

  The women swarmed out to greet Emma, who was a thin, irritable, feeble woman.

  "Better late than never. Where's Ike?" inquired Mrs. Gray.

  "Well, he—couldn't git away very well—he's got t' clean up some seed-oats," she answered nervously. After the men drove off, however, she added: "He thought he hadn't ought to come; he didn't want to cause no aidgewise feelin's, so he thought he hadn't better come—he'd just leave it to you, Deacon."

  The Deacon said, "All right, all right! We'll fix it up!" but he didn't feel so sure of it after that, though he set to work bravely.

  The sun, growing warmer, fell with pleasant gleam around the kitchen door and around the chip-pile where the hens were burrowing. The men worked in their shirt-sleeves.

  "Well, now, we'll share the furniture an' stuff next," said the Deacon, looking around upon his little interested semicircle of spectators. "Now, put Emmy's things over there and Serry's things over here. I'll call 'em off, and, if they's no objection, you girls can pass 'em over."

  He cleared his throat and began in the voice of one in authority:—

  "Thirteen pans, six to Emmy, seven to Serry;" then hastened to add: "I'll balance that by giving the biggest of the two kittles to Emmy. Rollin' pin and cake board to Serry, two flat-irons to Emmy, small tub to Emmy, large one to Serry, balanced by the tin water pail. Dozen clo'se-pins; half an' half, six o' one, half-dozen t'other," he said with a smile at his own joke, while the others actively placed the articles in separate piles.

  "Stove to Serry, because she has the house, bureau to Emmy."

  At this point Mrs. Gray said, "I guess that ain't quite even, Deacon; the bureau ain't worth much."

  "Oh, no, no, that's all right! Let her have it," Emma protested nervously.

  "Give her an extry tick, anyway," said Sarah, not to be outdone in magnanimity.

  "Settle that between ye," said the Deacon.

  He warmed to his work now, and towels, pans, crockery, brooms, mirrors, pillows, and bedticks were rapidly set aside in two groups on the soft soil. The poverty of the home could best be seen in the display of its pitiful furniture.

  The two nieces looked on impassively, standing side by side. The men came to move the bureau and other heavy things and looked on, while the lighter things were being handed over by Mrs. Gray and the girls.

  At noon they sat down in the empty kitchen and ate a cold snack—at least, the women took seats, the men stood around and lunched on hunks of boiled beef and slices of bread. There was an air of constraint upon the male portion of the party not shared by Mrs. Gray and the girls.

  "Well, that settles things in the house," beamed the Deacon as he came out with the women trailing behind him; "an' now in about two jerks of a dead lamb's tail, we'll git at the things out in the barn."

  "Wal, we don't know much about machines and things, but I guess we'd better go out and keep you men from fightin'," said Mrs. Gray, shaking with fun; "Ike didn't come because he didn't want to make any trouble, but I guess he might just as well 'a' come as send two such critters as Jim 'n' Hank."

  The women laughed at her frankness, and in very good humor they all went out to the barn-yard.

  "Now, these things can't be laid out fast as I call 'em off, but we'll do the best we can."

  "Let's try the stawk first," said Jim.

  The women stood around with shawls pinned over their heads while the division of the stock went forward. The young men came often within chaffing distance of the girls.

  There were nine shotes nearly of a size, and the Deacon said, "I'll give Serry the odd shote."

  "Why so?" asked Jim Harkey, a sullen-faced man of thirty.

  "Because a shote is hard to carry off and I can balance—"

  "Well, I guess you can balance f'r Em 'bout as well as f'r Serry."

  The Deacon was willing to yield a point. "Any objection, Bill? If not, why—"

  "Nope, let her go," said Bill.

  "What 'ave you got to say 'bout it?" asked Jim, insolently.

  Bill turned his slow bulk. "I guess I've a good 'eal to say—haven't I, Serry?"

  Sarah reddened, but stood beside him bravely. "I guess you have, Bill, about as much as I have." There was a moment of dramatic tension and the girls tingled with sympathy.

  "Let 'er go," said Bill, splitting a straw with his knife. He had not proposed to Sarah before and he felt an unusual exaltation to think it came so easy after all.

  When they reached the cattle, Jim objected to striking a balance with a "farrer cow," and threw the Deacon's nice calculation all out of joint.

  "Let it go, Jim," pleaded Emma.

  "I won't do it," Ike said—"I mean I know he don't want no farrer cow, he's got two now."

  The Deacon was a little nettled. "I guess that's going to stand," he said sharply.

  Jim swore a little but gave in, and came back with an access of ill humor on a division of the horses.

  "But I've give you the four heavy horses to balance the four others and the two-year-old," said the Deacon.

  "I'll be damned if I stand that," said Jim.

  "I guess you'll have to," said the Deacon.

  Emma pleaded, "Let it go, Jim, don't make a fuss."

  Jim raged on, "I'll be cawn-demmed if I'll stand it. I don't—Ike don't want them spavined old crows; they're all ring-boned and got the heaves." His long repressed ill-nature broke out.

  "Toh, toh!" said the Deacon, "Don't kick over the traces now. We'll fix it up some way."

  Emma tried to stop Jim, but he shook her off and continued to walk back and forth behind the horses munching on quietly, unconscious of any dispute about their value.

  Bill sat on the oat box in his hulking way, his heels thumping a tune, his small gray eyes watching the angry man.

  "Don't make a darn fool of yourself," he said placidly.

  Jim turned, glad of the chance for a row, "You better keep out of this."

  Bill continued to thump, the palms of his big hands resting on the edge of the box. "I'm in it," he said conclusively.

  "Well, you git out of it! I ain't goin' to be bulldozed—that ain't what I come here for."

  "No, I see it ain't," said Bill. "If you're after a row you can have it right here. You won't find a better place."

  "There, there," urged the Deacon. "What's the use? Keep cool and don't tear your shirts."

  Mrs. Gray went up to Jim and took him by the arm. "You need a good spankin' to make you good-natured," she said. "I think the Deacon has done first rate, and you ought 'o—"

  "Let go o' me," he snarled, raising his hand as if to strike her.

  Bill's big boot lunged out, catching Harkey in the ribs, and if the Deacon had not sprung to his assistance Jim would have been trampled to pieces by the scared horse under whose feet he found himself. He was wild with dizzy, breathless rage.

  "Who hit me?" he demanded.

  Bill's shapeless hulk straightened up and stood beside him as if his pink flesh had suddenly turned to oak. Out of his fat cheeks his gray eyes glared.

  "I did. Want another?"

  The Deacon and Jack came between and prevented the encounter which would have immediately followed.
Bill went on:—

  "They cain't no man lay a hand on my mother and live long after it." He was thoroughly awake now. There was no slouch to his action at that moment, and Jim was secretly pleased to have the encounter go by.

  "You come here for a fuss and you can have it, both of you," Bill went on in unusual eloquence. "Deacon's tried to do the square thing, Emmy's tried to do the square thing, and Serry's kep' quiet, but you've been sour and ugly the whole time, and now it's goin' to stop."

  "This ain't the last of this thing," said Jim.

  "You never'll have a better time," said Bill.

  Mrs. Gray and the Deacon turned in now to quiet Bill, and the settlement went on. Jim kept close watch on the proceedings, and muttered his dissent to his friends, but was careful not to provoke Bill further.

  In dividing the harnesses they came upon a cow-bell hanging on a nail. The Deacon jingled it as he passed. "Goes with the bell-cow," he said, and nothing further was said of it. Jim apparently did not consider it worth quarrelling about.

  At last the work was done, a terribly hard day's work. The machines and utensils were piled in separate places, the cattle separated, and the grain measured. As they were about to leave, the Deacon said finally:—

  "If there's any complaint to make, let's have it right now. I want this settlement to be a settlement. Is everybody satisfied?"

  "I am," said Emmy. "Ain't you, Serry?"

  "Why, of course," said Sarah, who was a little slower of speech. "I think the Deacon has done first rate. I ain't a word of fault to find, have you, Bill?"

  "Nope, not an ioty," said Bill, readily.

  Jim did not agree in so many words, but, as he said nothing, the Deacon ended:—

  "Well, that settles it. It ain't goin' to rain, so you can leave these things right here till Monday. I guess I'll be gettin' out for home. Good evening, everybody."

  Emma drove away down the road with Jim, but Sarah remained to straighten up the house. Harkey's hired hand went home with Dade Walker who considered that walk the pleasant finish to a very interesting day's work. She sympathized for the time with the Harkey faction.

  Sunday forenoon, when Bill and Sarah drove up to the farm to put things in order in the house, they found Ike Harkey walking around with that queer side glance he had, studying the piles of furniture, and mentally weighing the pigs.

  He greeted them smoothly: "Yes, yes, I'm purrfickly satisfied, purrfickly! Not a word to say—better'n I expected," he added.

  Bill was not quite keen enough to perceive the insult which lay in that final clause, and Sarah dared not inform him for fear of trouble.

  As Harkey drove away, however, Bill had a dim feeling of dissatisfaction with him.

  "He's too gol-dang polite, that feller is; I don't like such butter-mouth chaps—they'd steal the cents off'n a dead nigger's eyes."

  III

  The second Sunday after the partition of goods the entire Coolly turned out to church in spite of the muddy road. The men, after driving up to the door of the little white church and helping the women to alight, drove out to the sheds along the fence and gathered in knots beside their wagons in the warm spring sun. It was very pleasant there, and the men leaned with relaxed muscles upon the wagon-wheels, or sat on the fence with jack-knives in hand. The horses, weary with six days seeding, slept with closed eyes and drooping lips. Generally the talk was upon spring work, each man bragging of the number of acres he had sown during the week, but this morning the talk was all about the division which had come between the nieces of "deceased Williams." They discussed it slowly as one might eat a choice pudding in order to extract the flavor from each spoonful.

  "What is it all about, anyhow?" asked Jim Cranby. "I ain't heard nothing about it." He had stood in open-mouthed perplexity trying to catch a clew. Coming late, he found it baffling.

  "That shows where he lives; a man might as well live in a well as up in Molasses Gap," said one of the younger men, pointing up to the Coolly. "Why, Ike Harkey is kicking about the six shotes the Deacon put off on him."

  "No, it wasn't the shotes, it was a farrer cow," put in Clint Stone.

  "Well, I heard it was a shote."

  "So did I," said another.

  "Well, Bill Gray told Jinks Ike had stole a cow-bell that belonged to the black farrer cow," said another late comer.

  "Stole a cow-bell," and they all drew closer together. This was really worth while!

  "Yes, sir; Jinks told me he heard Bill say so yesterday. That's the way I heard it."

  "Well, I'll be cussed, if that ain't small business for Ike Harkey!"

  "How did it happen?" asked Cranby, with sharpened appetite.

  "Well, I didn't hear no p'rtic'lars, but it seems the bell was hangin' on a peg in the barn, and when they got home from church it was gone, hide an' hair. Bill is dead sure Ike took it."

  "Say, there'll be fun over that yet, won't they," said one of the fellows, with a grin.

  "Well, Ike better keep out of Bill's way, that's all."

  "Well—I ain't takin' sides. Some young'un may have took it."

  "Well, let's go in, boys; I see the Elder's come. By gum, there's Harkey!" They all looked toward Harkey, who had just driven up to the door.

  Harkey came into church holding his smooth, serious face a little one side, in his usual way, quiet and dignified, as if he were living up to his Sunday suit of clothes. He seemed to be unconscious of the attitude in which he stood toward most of his neighbors.

  Bill and Sarah were not present, and that gave additional color to the story of trouble between the sisters.

  After the sermon Deacon Harkey led the Sunday School, and the critics of his action were impressed more than usual with his smooth and quiet utterance. Emma seemed more than ordinarily worn and dispirited.

  It was perfectly natural that Mrs. Gray should be the last person to know of the division which had slowly set in between the two sisters and their factions. Charitable and guileless herself, it was difficult for her to conceive of slander and envy.

  Nevertheless, a division had come about, slowly, but decisively. The entire Coolly was involved in the discussion before Mrs. Gray gave it any serious attention, but one day, when Sarah came in upon her and poured out a mingled flood of sorrow and invective, the good soul was aghast.

  "Well, well, I swan! There, there! I wouldn't make so much fuss over it!" she said, stripping her hands out of the biscuit dough in order to go over and pat Sarah on the shoulder. "After all that to-do gettin' settled, seems 's if you ought 'o stay settled. Good land! It ain't anything to have a fuss over, anyway!"

  "But it is our cow-bell. It belonged on the black farrer cow, that Jim turned his nose up at, and he sneaked around and got it just to spite us."

  "Oh, I guess not," she replied incredulously.

  "Well, he did; and Emmy put him up to it, and I know she did," said Sarah in a lamentable voice.

  "Sary Ann," said Mrs. Gray, as sharply as any one ever heard her speak, "that's a pretty way to talk about your sister, ain't it?"

  "Well, Mrs. Jim Harkey said—"

  "You never mind what Mrs. Jim Harkey said; she's a snoop and everybody knows it."

  "But she wouldn't tell that, if it weren't so."

  "Well, I tell you, I wouldn't pay no attention to what she said, and I wouldn't make such a fuss over an old cow-bell, anyway."

  "But the cow-bell is only the starting point; she ain't been near the house since, and she says all kinds of mean, nasty things about us."

  "All comes through Mrs. Jim, I suppose," said Mrs. Gray, with some sarcasm.

  "No, it don't. She told Dade Walker that I got all the biggest flat-irons, when she knows I offered her the bureau. I did everything I could to make her feel satisfied."

  "I know you did, and now you must just keep cool till I see Emmy myself."

  When Mrs. Gray started out on her mission of pacification, she found it to be entirely out of her control. The Coolly was actively partisan. One party stood b
y the Harkeys, and another took Sarah's part, while the tertium quid said it was "all darn foolishness."

  Mrs. Gray was appalled at the state of affairs, but struggled to maintain a neutral position. In May, when Bill and Sarah were married, things had reached such a stage that Emma was not invited to the wedding supper. Nothing could have cut deeper than this neglect, and thereafter adherents of the third remove declined to speak when passing; some even refused to nod. The Harkey faction also condemned the early marriage of Bill and Sarah as unseemly.

  Soon after, Emma came again to see Mrs. Gray, salty with tears, and crushed with the slight Sarah had put upon her. She was a plain pale woman, anyway, and weeping made her pitiable. She explained the situation with her head on Mrs. Gray's lap:—

  "She never has been to see me since that day, and—but I hoped she'd come and see me, but she never sent me any invitation to her wedding." She choked with sobs at the memory of it.

  Mrs. Gray realized the enormity of the offence, and she could only put her arms around Emma's back and say, "There, there, I wouldn't take on so about it." As a matter of fact, she had striven to have Bill send an invitation to his brother-in-law, but Bill was inflexible on that point. With the sound of the stolen cow-bell ringing in his ears, he could not bring himself to ask Ike Harkey into his house.

  After Emma grew a little calmer, Mrs. Gray tried again to bridge the chasm. "Now, I just believe if you would go to Sarah—"

  "I can't do that! She'd slam the door in my face. Jim's wife says Sarah said I shouldn't pick a single currant out of the garden this year!"

  "I don't go much on what Jim's wife says," put in Mrs. Gray, guardedly. She had begun to feel that Jim's wife was the main disturbing element.

  The sisters really suffered from their separation. They had been so used to running in at all times of the day that each missed the other wofully. It had been their habit whenever they needed each other to help cook, or cut a dress, to hang a cloth out of the chamber window, a sign which was sure to bring help post-haste; but now nothing would induce either of them to make the first concession.

  Two or three times when Emma, feeling especially lonely, was on the point of hanging out the signal, she was prevented by the thought of some cruel message Mrs. Jim had brought. Jim lived on Ike's farm in a small house that had been Emma's first home, and Mrs. Jim was almost as much in her house as in her own. She had no children, and was a mischief-maker, not so much from ill will as from a love of dramatic situations; it was her life, this dramatic play of loves and hates among her friends and neighbors.