This morning Freckles walked straight to his case, unlocked it, and set his apparatus and dinner inside. He planted a new specimen he had found close the trail, and, bringing his old scrap-bucket from the corner in which it was hidden, from a near-by pool he dipped water to pour over his carpet and flowers.
Then he took out the bird book, settled comfortably on a bench, and with a deep sigh of satisfaction turned to the section headed “V.” Past “veery” and “vireo” he went, down the line until his finger, trembling with eagerness, stopped at “vulture.”
“‘Great black California vulture,’” he read.
“Humph! This side the Rockies will do for us.”
“‘Common turkey-buzzard.’”
“Well, we ain’t hunting common turkeys. McLean said chickens, and what he says goes.”
“‘Black vulture of the South.’”
“Here we are arrived at once.”
Freckles’s finger followed the line, and he read scraps aloud.
“‘Common in the South. Sometimes called Jim Crow. Nearest equivalent to C-a-t-h-a-r-t-e-s A-t-r-a-t-a.’”
“How the divil am I ever to learn them corkin’ big words by mesel’?”
“‘—the Pharaoh’s Chickens of European species. Sometimes stray north as far as Virginia and Kentucky—’”
“And sometimes farther,” interpolated Freckles, “’cos I got them right here in Indiana so like these pictures I can just see me big chicken bobbing up to get his ears boxed. Hey?”
“‘Light-blue eggs—’”
“Golly! I got to be seeing them!”
“‘—big as a common turkey’s, but shaped like a hen’s, heavily splotched with chocolate—’”
“Caramels, I suppose. And—”
“‘—in hollow logs or stumps.’”
“Oh, hagginy! Wasn’t I barking up the wrong tree, though? Ought to been looking close the ground all this time. Now it’s all to do over, and I suspect the sooner I start the sooner I’ll be likely to find them.”
Freckles put away his book, dampened the smudge-fire, without which the mosquitoes made the swamp almost unbearable, took his cudgel and lunch, and went to the line. He sat on a log, ate at dinner-time and drank his last drop of water. The heat of June was growing intense. Even on the west of the swamp, where one had full benefit of the breeze from the upland, it was beginning to be unpleasant in the middle of the day.
He brushed the crumbs from his knees and sat resting awhile and watching the sky to see if his big chicken were hanging up there. But he came to the earth abruptly, for there were steps coming down the trail that were neither McLean’s nor Duncan’s—and there never had been others. Freckles’s heart leaped hotly. He ran a quick hand over his belt to feel if his revolver and hatchet were there, caught up his cudgel and laid it across his knees—then sat quietly, waiting. Was it Black Jack, or someone even worse? Forced to do something to brace his nerves, he puckered his stiffening lips and began whistling a tune he had led in his clear tenor every year of his life at the Home Christmas exercises.
“Who comes this way, so blithe and gay,
Upon a merry Christmas day?”
His quick Irish wit roused to the ridiculousness of it until he broke into a laugh that steadied him amazingly.
Through the bushes he caught a glimpse of the oncoming figure. His heart flooded with joy, for it was a man from the gang. Wessner had been his bunk-mate the night he came down the corduroy. He knew him as well as any of McLean’s men. This was no timber-thief. No doubt the Boss had sent him with a message. Freckles sprang up and called cheerily, a warm welcome on his face.
“Well, it’s good telling if you’re glad to see me,” said Wessner, with something very like a breath of relief. “We been hearing down at the camp you were so mighty touchy you didn’t allow a man within a rod of the line.”
“No more do I,” answered Freckles, “if he’s a stranger, but you’re from McLean, ain’t you?”
“Oh, damn McLean!” said Wessner.
Freckles gripped the cudgel until his knuckles slowly turned purple.
“And are you railly saying so?” he inquired with elaborate politeness.
“Yes, I am,” said Wessner. “So would every man of the gang if they wasn’t too big cowards to say anything, unless maybe that other slobbering old Scotchman, Duncan. Grinding the lives out of us! Working us like dogs, and paying us starvation wages, while he rolls up his millions and lives like a prince!”
Green lights began to play through the gray of Freckles’s eyes.
“Wessner,” he said impressively, “you’d make a fine pattern for the father of liars! Every man on that gang is strong and hilthy, paid all he earns, and treated with the courtesy of a gentleman! As for the Boss living like a prince, he shares fair with you every day of your lives!”
Wessner was not a born diplomat, but he saw he was on the wrong tack, so he tried another.
“How would you like to make a good big pile of money, without even lifting your hand?” he asked.
“Humph!” said Freckles. “Have you been up to Chicago and cornered wheat, and are you offering me a friendly tip on the invistment of me fortune?”
Wessner came close.
“Freckles, old fellow,” he said, “if you let me give you a pointer, I can put you on to making a cool five hundred without stepping out of your tracks.”
Freckles drew back.
“You needn’t be afraid of speaking up,” he said. “There isn’t a soul in the Limberlost save the birds and the beasts, unless some of your sort’s come along and’s crowding the privileges of the legal tinints.”
“None of my friends along,” said Wessner. “Nobody knew I came but Black, I—I mean a friend of mine. If you want to hear sense and act with reason, he can see you later, but it ain’t necessary. We can make all the plans needed. The trick’s so dead small and easy.”
“Must be if you have the engineering of it,” said Freckles. But he heard, with a sigh of relief, that they were alone.
Wessner was impervious. “You just bet it is! Why, only think, Freckles, slavin’ away at a measly little thirty dollars a month, and here is a chance to clear five hundred in a day! You surely won’t be the fool to miss it!”
“And how was you proposing for me to stale it?” inquired Freckles. “Or am I just to find it laying in me path beside the line?”
“That’s it, Freckles,” blustered the Dutchman, “you’re just to find it. You needn’t do a thing. You needn’t know a thing. You name a morning when you will walk up the west side of the swamp and then turn round and walk back down the same side again and the money is yours. Couldn’t anything be easier than that, could it?”
“Depinds entirely on the man,” said Freckles. The lilt of a lark hanging above the swale beside them was not sweeter than the sweetness of his voice. “To some it would seem to come aisy as breathing; and to some, wringin’ the last drop of their heart’s blood couldn’t force thim! I’m not the man that goes into a scheme like that with the blindfold over me eyes, for, you see, it manes to break trust with the Boss; and I’ve served him faithful as I knew. You’ll have to be making the thing very clear to me understanding.”
“It’s so dead easy,” repeated Wessner, “it makes me tired of the simpleness of it. You see there’s a few trees in the swamp that’s real gold mines. There’s three especial. Two are back in, but one’s square on the line. Why, your pottering old Scotch fool of a Boss nailed the wire to it with his own hands! He never noticed where the bark had been peeled, or saw what it was. If you will stay on this side of the trail just one day we can have it cut, loaded, and ready to drive out at night. Next morning you can find it, report, and be the busiest man in the search for us. We know where to fix it all safe and easy. Then McLean has a bet up with a couple of the gang that there can’t be a raw stump found in the Limberlost. There’s plenty of witnesses to swear to it, and I know three that will. There’s a cool thousand, and this tree is worth all
of that, raw. Say, it’s a gold mine, I tell you, and just five hundred of it is yours. There’s no danger on earth to you, for you’ve got McLean that bamboozled you could sell out the whole swamp and he’d never mistrust you. What do you say?”
Freckles’s soul was satisfied. “Is that all?” he asked.
“No, it ain’t,” said Wessner. “If you really want to brace up and be a man and go into the thing for keeps, you can make five times that in a week. My friend knows a dozen others we could get out in a few days, and all you’d have to do would be to keep out of sight. Then you could take your money and skip some night, and begin life like a gentleman somewhere else. What do you think about it?”
Freckles purred like a kitten.
“‘Twould be a rare joke on the Boss,” he said, “to be stalin’ from him the very thing he’s trusted me to guard, and be getting me wages all winter throwed in free. And you’re making the pay awful high. Me to be getting five hundred for such a simple little thing as that. You’re trating me most royal indade! It’s away beyond all I’d be expecting. Sivinteen cints would be a big price for that job. It must be looked into thorough. Just you wait here until I do a minute’s turn in the swamp, and then I’ll be eschorting you out of the clearing and giving you the answer.”
Freckles lifted the overhanging bushes and hurried to the case. He unslung the specimen-box and laid it inside with his hatchet and revolver. He slipped the key in his pocket and went back to Wessner.
“Now for the answer,” he said. “Stand up!”
There was iron in his voice, and he was commanding as an outraged general. “Anything, you want to be taking off?” he questioned.
Wessner looked the astonishment he felt. “Why, no, Freckles,” he said.
“Have the goodness to be calling me Mister McLean,” snapped Freckles. “I’m after resarvin’ me pet name for the use of me friends! You may stand with your back to the light or be taking any advantage you want.”
“Why, what do you mean?” spluttered Wessner.
“I’m manin’,” said Freckles tersely, “to lick a quarter-section of hell out of you, and may the Holy Vargin stay me before I leave you here carrion, for your carcass would turn the stummicks of me chickens!”
At the camp that morning, Wessner’s conduct had been so palpable an excuse to force a discharge that Duncan moved near McLean and whispered, “Think of the boy, sir?”
McLean was so troubled that, an hour later, he mounted Nellie and followed Wessner to his home in Wildcat Hollow, only to find that he had left there shortly before, heading for the Limberlost. McLean rode at top speed. When Mrs. Duncan told him that a man answering Wessner’s description had gone down the west side of the swamp close noon, he left the mare in her charge and followed on foot. When he heard voices he entered the swamp and silently crept close just in time to hear Wessner whine: “But I can’t fight you, Freckles. I hain’t done nothing to you. I’m away bigger than you, and you’ve only one hand.”
The Boss slid off his coat and crouched among the bushes, ready to spring; but as Freckles’s voice reached him he held himself, with a strong effort, to learn what mettle was in the boy.
“Don’t you be wasting of me good time in the numbering of me hands,” cried Freckles. “The stringth of me cause will make up for the weakness of me mimbers, and the size of a cowardly thief doesn’t count. You’ll think all the wildcats of the Limberlost are turned loose on you whin I come against you, and as for me cause—I slept with you, Wessner, the night I came down the corduroy like a dirty, friendless tramp, and the Boss was for taking me up, washing, clothing, and feeding me, and giving me a home full of love and tinderness, and a master to look to, and good, well-earned money in the bank. He’s trusting me his heartful, and here comes you, you spotted toad of the big road, and insults me, as is an honest Irish gintleman, by hinting that you concaive I’d be willing to shut me eyes and hold fast while you rob him of the thing I was set and paid to guard, and then act the sneak and liar to him, and ruin and eternally blacken the soul of me. You damned rascal,” raved Freckles, “be fighting before I forget the laws of a gintlemin’s game and split your dirty head with me stick!”
Wessner backed away, mumbling, “But I don’t want to hurt you, Freckles!”
“Oh, don’t you!” raged the boy, now fairly frothing. “Well, you ain’t resembling me none, for I’m itching like death to git me fingers in the face of you.”
He danced up, and as Wessner lunged in self-defense, ducked under his arm as a bantam and punched him in the pit of the stomach so that he doubled with a groan. Before Wessner could straighten himself, Freckles was on him, fighting like the wildest fury that ever left the beautiful island. The Dutchman dealt thundering blows that sometimes landed and sent Freckles reeling, and sometimes missed, while he went plunging into the swale with the impetus of them. Freckles could not strike with half Wessner’s force, but he could land three blows to the Dutchman’s one. It was here that the boy’s days of alert watching on the line, the perpetual swinging of the heavy cudgel, and the endurance of all weather stood him in good stead; for he was tough, and agile. He skipped, ducked, and dodged. For the first five minutes he endured fearful punishment. Then Wessner’s breath commenced to whistle between his teeth, when Freckles only had begun fighting. He sprang back with shrill laughter.
“Begolly! and will your honor be whistling the hornpipe for me to be dancing of?” he cried.
SPANG! went his fist into Wessner’s face, and he was past him into the swale.
“And would you be pleased to tune up a little livelier?” he gasped, and clipped his ear as he sprang back. Wessner lunged at him in blind fury. Freckles, seeing an opening, forgot the laws of a gentleman’s game and drove the toe of his heavy wading-boot in Wessner’s middle until he doubled and fell heavily. In a flash Freckles was on him. For a time McLean could not see what was happening. “Go! Go to him now!” he commanded himself, but so intense was his desire to see the boy win alone that he did not stir.
At last Freckles sprang up and backed away. “Time!” he yelled as a fury. “Be getting up, Mr. Wessner, and don’t be afraid of hurting me. I’ll let you throw in an extra hand and lick you to me complate satisfaction all the same. Did you hear me call the limit? Will you get up and be facing me?”
As Wessner struggled to his feet, he resembled a battlefield, for his clothing was in ribbons and his face and hands streaming blood.
“I—I guess I got enough,” he mumbled.
“Oh, you do?” roared Freckles. “Well this ain’t your say. You come on to me ground, lying about me Boss and intimatin’ I’d stale from his very pockets. Now will you be standing up and taking your medicine like a man, or getting it poured down the throat of you like a baby? I ain’t got enough! This is only just the beginning with me. Be looking out there!”
He sprang against Wessner and sent him rolling. He attacked the unresisting figure and fought him until he lay limp and quiet and Freckles had no strength left to lift an arm. Then he arose and stepped back, gasping for breath. With his first lungful of air he shouted: “Time!” But the figure of Wessner lay motionless.
Freckles watched him with regardful eye and saw at last that he was completely exhausted. He bent over him, and catching him by the back of the neck, jerked him to his knees. Wessner lifted the face of a whipped cur, and fearing further punishment, burst into shivering sobs, while the tears washed tiny rivulets through the blood and muck. Freckles stepped back, glaring at Wessner, but suddenly the scowl of anger and the ugly disfiguring red faded from the boy’s face. He dabbed at a cut on his temple from which issued a tiny crimson stream, and jauntily shook back his hair. His face took on the innocent look of a cherub, and his voice rivaled that of a brooding dove, but into his eyes crept a look of diabolical mischief.
He glanced vaguely around him until he saw his club, seized and twirled it as a drum major, stuck it upright in the muck, and marched on tiptoe to Wessner, mechanically, as a puppet worked by
a string. Bending over, Freckles reached an arm around Wessner’s waist and helped him to his feet.
“Careful, now,” he cautioned, “be careful, Freddy; there’s danger of you hurting me.”
Drawing a handkerchief from a back pocket, Freckles tenderly wiped Wessner’s eyes and nose.
“Come, Freddy, me child,” he admonished Wessner, “it’s time little boys were going home. I’ve me work to do, and can’t be entertaining you any more today. Come back tomorrow, if you ain’t through yet, and we’ll repate the perfarmance. Don’t be staring at me so wild like! I would eat you, but I can’t afford it. Me earnings, being honest, come slow, and I’ve no money to be squanderin’ on the pailful of Dyspeptic’s Delight it would be to taking to work you out of my innards!”
Again an awful wrenching seized McLean. Freckles stepped back as Wessner, tottering and reeling, as a thoroughly drunken man, came toward the path, appearing indeed as if wildcats had attacked him.
The cudgel spun high in air, and catching it with an expertness acquired by long practice on the line, the boy twirled it a second, shook back his thick hair bonnily, and stepping into the trail, followed Wessner. Because Freckles was Irish, it was impossible to do it silently, so presently his clear tenor rang out, though there were bad catches where he was hard pressed for breath:
“It was the Dutch. It was the Dutch.
Do you think it was the Irish hollered help?
Not much!
It was the Dutch. It was the Dutch—”
Wessner turned and mumbled: “What you following me for? What are you going to do with me?”
Wonder, Hope, Love, and Loss Page 6