by Howard Pyle
“Yes,” he said, “he’s in there; but you come on in, Abe.” take away from them something that was by rights theirs.
The company had thrown a great deal of work into the hands of Tony Bratton, who was one of the most experienced wreckers along the coast, and upon the whole the old man had perhaps made more money out of it than he would have done had he worked in his own interest. But nevertheless he felt himself to be aggrieved in that the Philadelphia company should come down to Marley and take away the business that had until then belonged almost entirely to him. This feeling rarely broke out except when the old man was in liquor. Then he would sometimes come stumbling up into the company’s office and be very abusive. Mason Green bore with him very patiently, for he felt that the Marley people were jealous of him and that they sympathized with old Tony.
Mason Green was a small man, with insignificant, boyish features, fair hair, and a close-clipped, straggling yellow beard.
Maggie Bratton was a rather pretty, smooth-faced girl, with light brown colorless hair and filigree gold ear-rings, set each with a blue stone. She was Tony Bratton’s niece and lived with him as his daughter.
After Abe Lynch had left him, Tony Bratton stood for awhile in the darkness in front of the house. Then he spat the cud of tobacco out from his mouth into his hand, and threw it away with a sweep of his arm into the darkness. He stumblingly mounted the wooden steps to the door, lifted the old-fashioned iron latch with a loud click and entered, passing along the short entry-way and into the room beyond.
“How-de-do, Tony?” said Mason Green.
The old man did not answer. He hung up his hat very carefully behind the door. Then he crossed the room to the mantelshelf, filled his pipe with uncertain fingers and struck a sulphur match with a long scrape under the mantel-shelf. As he stood holding the sputtering match, sheltering it with his hand as though from the wind, he swayed almost imperceptibly. The young man and the girl had not known at first that he had been drinking. Mason Green watched him furtively as he lit his pipe. Maggie sat rocking herself, alternately picking up and dropping the handkerchief in her lap. There was a little space of constrained silence.
“Well,” said Mason Green, “I guess I’d better be going back home.”
“.Don’t go yet,” said Maggie, but she did not urge him further, and he arose, pushing back his chair with a noisy grating on the bare floor.
Old Tony turned slowly around, holding with one hand to the mantel-shelf to steady himself. He stared balefully with his pale gray eyes from under the shag of his eyebrows.
“I guess you’d better be goin’, Mace Green,” said he, and as he spoke he took out the pipe from his mouth and shook the stem at the young fellow.
“I guess you’d better be goin’ — and not come back again.”
He stopped short and looked into the bowl of his pipe with sudden interest. Then he looked up at Mason Green again and began swearing at him. The girl sat silently in her chair, rocking with an almost imperceptible motion.
“That’s all right, Tony,” said the young man, soothingly.
“No, it ain’t all right, Mace Green, and you can’t talk to me. You don’t own Tony Bratton, an’ don’t you forget it. The Philadelphia Wracking Company don’t own me, and don’t you forget that, neither. They think because they paid me for to break up the Baltimore Belle and the Rosalind Osborn they own me — but they don’t own Tony Bratton. They know’d there was no man about here could get out of them wracks what I got out of ’em, and they don’t own me because I broke ’em up.”
“That’s all right, Tony,” said the young man again, soothingly.
“No, it ain’t all right, neither,” reiterated old Tony, stubbornly. “You don’t own me, and the Philadelphia Wracking Company don’t own me, and you ain’t going to come here to see Maggie as you choose, neither. Some of these days Abe Lynch’ll give you — ll — that’s what he’ll do.”
“That’s, all right, Tony,” said the young man. “I’m going, good-night. Good-night, Maggie,” and this time she did not ask him to stay.
He stopped at the hotel on his way back. The group of loungers still sat back-tilted in the darkness. The young fellow told how old Bratton had come home and what he had said. The others listened in silence, and then there was a brief laugh. The only one who spoke was Wilcox, the proprietor of the hotel.
“You’ll get yourself into trouble some of these days, Mace,” said he.
“Oh, I ain’t afraid of that,” said Mason Green.
“Well, you may be afraid,” said Wilcox. “I know Tony Bratton better than you do. I helped pick up Tom Willis after he’d shot him.”
“Well, I tell you what it is,” said Mason Green, “if he ever tries any of his tricks on me, I’ll be doggoned if I wouldn’t shoot as quick as he’d shoot.”
Abe Lynch had stopped at the hotel again on his return from Tony Bratton’s. He sat listening, unobserved by Mason Green.
No one said anything further, and presently Mason Green went on down the street.
“He’ll get himself into trouble with Tony Bratton one of these days,” observed Wilcox.
The two Philadelphia gentlemen were sitting listening to all that had passed. There was a little space of silence and then the dropping talk began about other things.
“They say Jim Cardweld’s going to git the appointment for inspector after all,” said Tom Handy.
“Sho!” said John Wells. “He’ll never get it as long as he lives — it ain’t in the wood.”
The next day it was still blowing strongly from the east, and there was little appearance of the weather breaking. Some rain had fallen during the night, but it had ceased by morning, and about two o’clock Handy’s hack came to take the Philadelphia gentlemen down to Indian Head Bay.
Abe Lynch had come over from the beach early in the morning and a consultation had been held.
“Do you think it’s going to rain, Abe?” said Ellsworth.
Abe Lynch looked up at the gray, windy sky.
“I dunno,” said he, after awhile. “If it don’t break away by noon we’ll like enough have a little weather.”
“It ain’t a-goin’ to rain this morning, gentlemen,” said Handy, having an eye to hiring his hack.
“What’s the odds, anyhow, Jack?” said Paton. “I’d rather get a little wet than loaf around here all day.” And so it was decided upon to go.
Wilcox and the bartender and two loungers stood looking on as various desiderata were handed into the hack — guns, waterproofs, two boxes of cartridges, Paton’s rifle, and a lunch-basket.
“Hold on a minute, Abe; stick this in the basket,” said Ellsworth, reaching him a bottle three-fourths filled with whiskey.
Each of the young men wore a brown-yellow hunting-jacket, the pockets stuffed and bulged out with necessaries for the day.
Then the hack drove away, the young Philadelphia men looking back and waving their hats at the hotel.
During the day it began raining, in fine, driving, misty sheets of moisture. Late in the afternoon the hack returned. At the sound of loud voices and laughter Wilcox came out of the hotel and stood looking as the curtained hack, wet and gleaming in the gray, sodden light, disgorged its contents — first the men themselves, then damp and muddy waterproofs, guns, cartridge-belts, a basket, and finally an indiscriminate bunch of dead birds. The two young men talked with loud voices and laughed a great deal. They had evidently made frequent applications to pocket-flasks on the way home, and were in a wild, skylarking humor. The figure of Abe Lynch could be dimly seen within the damp, curtained space of the hack. He made some remark, and the two young men burst out laughing.
“Did you get your eagle, Mr. Paton?” said the landlord.
“No,” said the young fellow. “I couldn’t get within a mile of him.”
“They’re mighty shy,” said the landlord.
“You bet your life they are,” said Paton.
Then the hack drove away through the slanting sheets of
rain. “Did you get your rifle, Paton?” said Ellsworth.
“No, by George! — forgot all about it. Abe’ll look after it, though,” said Patou. “Did you get your bottle of whiskey, Jack?” he added.
“Yes; it’s in the basket.”.
Paton turned over the contents of the lunch-basket. “It ain’t here,” said he.
“Then it’s been left in the hack,” said Ellsworth.
Paton burst out laughing. “Abe’ll take care of it, too,” said he. “Good-by, whiskey.”
The bartender stood lounging in the doorway of the bar-room, “Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Paton,” said he, and Paton held up the gray bunch of dead, shattered birds.
After he got home Abe Lynch found the rifle and the half-filled bottle of whiskey. He took them both into the house with him, standing the bottle on the shelf over the stove and the rifle in the corner. He could see through the open door that his supper was ready for him. His mother had finished her meal, and was rattling about in the shed outside where the firewood was kept. His brain was already blurred and confused with the high-grade Club whiskey he had drunk, and he felt an appetite for more. He took the whiskey-bottle from the shelf, uncorked it with his lean, horny fingers, and took a deep draught. He shuddered as the fiery strength of the liquor passed his palate, and wiped his hand across his mouth.
“Is that you, Abe?” called his mother from the shed beyond.
“Yes,” said he.
“Well, come an’ git your supper,” said she.
He went in and sat down to his supper. It was greasy with frying; the bread was thick and heavy, and the tea was a dark and bitter brown. Every moment he felt the liquor he had drunk mounting to his head. His mother spoke, her voice coming to him as though from a distance. He ate, not knowing what he was eating, and by and by he found that he had done.
“D’ye want some more fish, Abe?” asked his mother. “There’s a lot more left here on the stove.”
He collected his rambling intelligence before he answered. “No,” he said; “I guess I’ve had enough.” He pushed back his chair noisily, arose, steadied himself with his hand on the back of it; then he went out into the other room. Presently he found himself standing by the shelf, fumbling along the top of it. What was he looking for? Oh, yes; it was his pipe. He knocked over a dusty, greasy, flat bottle that had once held patent liniment. There was another bottle; it was the bottle of whiskey. He looked steadily at it for awhile, and then uncorked it and took another drink.
“Where did you git that liquor, Abe?” said his mother’s voice from behind him.
Again he steadied himself before he answered. “It’s Mr. Ellsworth’s whiskey,” said he. He was conscious that his tongue was thick.
“Well, you’d better not take any more,” said his mother, eying him sharply.
“Never you mind,” said he. He corked the bottle unsteadily, driving in the stopper with a smack of his palm; then he found his pipe and lit it. He went out and sat on the doorstep, leaning back in the doorway. He shut his eyes, and his dizzy brain reeled and swam. He heard his mother moving about within, and when he opened his eyes he saw that she was taking away the whiskey-bottle. He aroused himself and asked her what she was doing.
“I’m going to put it away,” said she. “You’ve had too much as it is.”
“Well, just you put it back again,” said he. “I’ll take care of that. I know what I’m about.” Then his mother put the bottle back on the shelf and went away.
He felt that there was some weight of trouble lying heavily upon him. What was it about? Oh, yes! It was about Mason Green and Maggie Bratton. His brooding humor blazed up in a sudden flame of anger. What business had Mason Green to come down here to Marley, anyway? Damn if he wouldn’t shoot him some day. That’s what Tony Bratton would have done. Dogged if he wouldn’t take that there rifle and do it to-night. Then he was conscious that he was laboriously knocking the ashes out of his pipe against the heel of his boot. He got up and went into the house. He was standing with his hand resting on the mantel-shelf. What was he going to do? Oh, yes; he was going to take another drink of whiskey. Then he was going to do something with the rifle. What was it? Oh, yes; dogged if he wouldn’t fix it with Mace Green. What time of night was it, anyhow? He had taken the breech-loader up in his hand. He pushed down the lever and looked dully at the weapon. He was conscious that there was a cartridge in it, and that the cartridge had not been used. Presently he was out in the windy night. He found himself laboring staggeringly along the heavy, sandy road toward Marley. He had the rifle in his hand. Should he go down through the town? No; he wouldn’t do that; they would stop him and take the’ rifle away from him, or else they would know what he was going to do. He must cut across the marsh to the creek, upon the farther bank of which abutted the house. He turned off from the road, plunged down into the hog-wallow, unseen in the darkness, and fell heavily, foiling over. The rifle was gone. He felt around through the sedge-grass in the darkness and found it again. It was gritty with the sand, into which it had fallen, and he wiped it carefully with his sleeve. Then he went on again, stumbling through the darkness and surrounded by swarms of mosquitoes.
Presently he found through the haze in his mind that he had come close to Tony Bratton’s house. Between him and it were the dark waters of the creek. There was a light shining from the window, but he could not see inside. He felt very dull and sleepy, and lay down at length on the ground. The mosquitoes were biting his face and neck, and he slapped heavily at them.
He did not know how long he lay there, but suddenly a head came between him and the square of window. It was a man, and he was peeping into the house spying on Maggie Bratton. Abe Lynch felt a sudden flaming rush of anger that Mason Green should come thus spying on Maggie. No matter, he would make it even with him. He raised his rifle, resting with his elbows upon the damp ground, and took a long, steady aim at the head outlined against the window. He pulled the trigger, but no report came. Then he looked at it, and found he had not cocked the piece. He lifted the hammer with fumbling, uncertain fingers, and raised the weapon again. Was the head gone? No; there it was. Again he took a long, steady aim, and again he pulled the trigger. —
Instantly there was a loud, stunning report and a flash of light.. — . — . The head was gone.
The shock of the report and the instant second shock of the thought of what he had done cleared his brain, as a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder clear the heaviness in the air. Suddenly every sense was abnormally and keenly alert. He heard a scuffling noise, then silence. He lay staring into the darkness, the warm rifle still grasped in his hand. Then presently he saw two heads appear at the window, and the window opened. My God! what had he done? Had he just shot Mason Green? It could not be! Who were they at the window? What if he had really shot that man? He got up softly, and crept away into the darkness.
A bridge crossed the creek some little distance below the house.’ He went down there and stood for a little while leaning on the rail of the bridge, looking and looking. The two heads at the window had gone away, and there was no disturbance at the house. All was perfectly quiet. It could not be that he had really shot anyone — it must have been a dream. He had forgotten all about his having been drunk, and now he felt nothing except a sort of inert keenness of thought; a rambling positiveness of intelligence. He thought to himself that he would go up to the house and make sure that he had not shot anyone.
In spite of the clouds that yet drifted across the sky there was a sort of pallid, all-pervading light.... He stood silently in front of the house, listening for awhile. Everything was perfectly silent except for the rushing of the wind and the gurgling of the ebbing tide in the creek. What was that dark thing lying not far from the doorsteps? He went over, approaching on tiptoe. My God! It was true! It was a man’s figure. He had shot Mason Green! He stooped down, and felt with his hand. The body was yet warm; was it dead? He felt the hair of the man’s head — it was thick and bushy. It was not
like Mason Green’s. There was something wet upon it. He stooped forward and looked more closely. He could see a dark line down across the forehead. He looked still closer, and now he could see the face.
It was Tony Bratton!
The next morning the news spread over the town like wild-fire. Somebody had shot and killed Tony Bratton the night before. His niece had found him lying dead in front of the house that morning. It was the first thing that the two Philadelphia gentlemen heard when they came downstairs. The news struck them like a blow. Tony Bratton, whom they had seen alive and well only the night before, now dead!— “By George!” commented Paton, almost breathlessly. It seemed incredible, and he could not believe it.
When they came out-of-doors they found the street strangely deserted. They could see in the distance, down the road, that a crowd was gathered brokenly about Tony’s house. “Let’s go over and see,” said Ellsworth.
They found the house surrounded by clustering groups of men and women and half-grown children. There was an all-pervading air of dreadful excitement, and people were crowding into the house as others straggled out of it. Within the doorway could be seen a mass of men and women filling the entry beyond. The two Philadelphia men went in with the others. It was hot and oppressively close in the crowded space; they could hear the sound of women crying in a farther room as they elbowed their way forward, and so finally made their way into the room where the body lay. They could see over the heads of the crowd the tall, spindle posts of an old-fashioned bedstead and a square Connecticut clock tick-tacking on a shelf by the window, a pair of grotesque plaster-of-Paris dogs, flanked on either side by a cracked blue pitcher and a coal-oil lamp. The crowd was gathered about the bed whereon the body lay. They pressed forward, and then they were looking down upon the half-undressed figure; the yellow, waxy face, and the round blue hole in the side of the head. Abe Lynch was standing there also looking down at the dead face, his hands clasped, motionless as à statue. There were some crying women in the room beyond.