# An Indiana Girl/Chapter 10

"As th' feller says," began Doles one evening to his assembled guests, as he assumed a lofty expression of wisdom, and contemplated each member of the group slowly to their individual embarrassment, "as th' feller says, 'th' more you give some folks th' less they have time to say "thanks."' An' that's jest it. Now, I ain't sayin' anythin' again' Ashville in general, or anybody in partic'lar, but it does seem to me like we all ought t' be thankful fer what we've got one way or 'nother. Here's our mysteries," he said with an oratorical flourish, and each of his auditors, beginning to perceive the levity of his remarks, smiled faintly in restrained anticipation, "an' our marriages," he added, "an' the marriages thet's in the egg yet, so to speak, as the feller says: 'What of them?' Ef Ashville ain't got more comin' happiness to the inch right now than ever before she hadn't ought to celebrate Thanksgivun'," and here the smiles assumed broader proportions.
"Well, I dunno," said Orrig, who had dropped in to deliver some borax to Mrs. Doles, and remained to help the host in any bit of jollity that might be afoot, "I never put in much time a-readin' much, an' it's hard fer me t' dip down into the waves when talk is runnin' high-flown, so I jest has t' drift, as the feller says, an' never get into th' bottom of things. But I'm willin'—mighty willin'—t' follow th' lead anywheres it takes me ef I on'y has somethin' t' hold to, as the feller says. Lemme understand you now, 'Si,'" he said, assuming an expression of inquiring innocence. "I 'low, of course, you air referrin' to a couple thet's goin' t' be jined, mebbe?" Here one of the listeners moved uneasily and tried to smile with lacking concern.
"Thet's what I read in th' paper here lately," 'Si' replied, nonchalantly.
"Wonder how I come t' miss thet?" said Orrig, in assumed disgust. "But then, thet's jest me. I never do see anythin' afore it hits me. Lemme see," he resumed after a pause, and with apparent change of subject, "I thought I hear'n you say over t' th' store one night, Landy, thet you wuz a-goin' away som'mers? I 'low it wuz you as said it, or am I out o' my memory?"
"Well, what ef I did?" Landy replied sullenly, tilting forward on the front legs of his chair and cutting a sliver from the floor between his feet with his knife, after which he recovered his upright position, but without raising his eyes.
"Oh, nothin'—nothin' 'tall!" said Orrig. "But—"
"You an' Doles is all-fired smart, ain't ye?" said Landy, and the confession was received with wild laughter, while John Carey and one or two others made efforts to congratulate the prospective benedict.
After the merriment had subsided somewhat he resumed with assumed confidence and excited volubility: "I 'low I'll be as thankful as most when it comes time fer Thanksgivun'; but, befer y' got t' talkin' on me, I wuz a-thinkin' of him as has th' thanksgivun's t' hold up. Th' one thet's in thet business. I don't need t' give no 'nitials, an' I am here t' say thet I wouldn't be in his shoes."
A serious calm fell upon them all at this allusion, each taking into his mind's eye a retrospect of his own actions when in contact with the one referred to by Landy, and out of them all there was no one who remembered a deed, a word, or look that was to his own credit.
"I see you all know what I'm talkin' about," he began, with more positive earnestness, "an' bein' fixed as I am, I know jest how he feels. I dunno how t' feel much neither, but ef it wuz me I'd keep my word an' clear out—thet's what I'd do, an' do it quick, too."
"Then, why don't he?" asked someone, "er else shet his mouth an' not cry like a whipped baby."
"As I say," began Landy, arising from his chair and retorting angrily, "as I say, I don't know much about feelin's, but what I do know is thet his hurts is wuss than airy whipped baby's ever wuz, an' what's more, it's late fer you to be gettin' th' first lesson o' how babies feel, but ef y' don't take that back I'm a-goin' t' learn y' afore it gits too late."
"Mebbe I'm wrong about that p'int," said the speaker quickly; but what I do hold to is, that he's gettin' jest what's a-comin' to him, an' I 'low ever'body here agrees on that."
Landy cast a hasty glance about him, and, seeing no look of disapproval to these words, angered almost to the verge of speechlessness.
"You're not men!" he said at last, "not a one of you, an' you're the fish-eat-fish kind. Kickin' when y' got somebody down. I'm the parson's friend, d' y' hear? Y' can't none of y' help a man when he needs help, but where I come from men are men, an' bein' as I'm here t' stay now, I'm goin' t' be his friend!" And then he rushed out, leaving the door open after him.
"That's what Snellins said: 'I'm his friend,'" quoted Orrig sententiously, but the last vestige of humor was gone from them, and the sally was lost.
Landy walked quickly the length of the street, and, turning in at the gate, knocked on the rectory door. He waited impatiently for what seemed to him an interminable interval, and knocked again. Receiving no response he opened the door quietly and stepped within.
"Oh! it is you, Landy. Close the door quickly and come in. I was afraid to respond, as I could not let anyone else in now." Kent struck a match and lighted his study lamp. Landy looked about him in quick surprise, entirely forgetting his own anger in the confusion of his surroundings. The chairs, tables and other furniture were upturned in a jumbled mass in one corner of the room, and the lamp hanging from the ceiling was about the only article in its normal position.
"What's happened, parson?" he asked in alarm.
"He's gone," Kent replied in despair, "and I am afraid, Landy, that I hurt him in the scuffle."
"It's you that's hurt. Look at y'! He mighty nigh fixed y'—you're all tore up an' bleedin'! But where's Martin?" he asked, in added alarm.
"She's in the other room overcome with fright."
Landy rushed away, not waiting to hear more, and Kent examined his dilapidated clothes as he tried to bring himself to an understanding of the situation.
Widow Martin was in an adjoining room, and as Landy entered she watched the door open in dumb terror until she realized the change in affairs. With a last effort she arose and fell into his strong arms in pleased relief.
"Oh, Landy, he's gone!" she said faintly; but, regaining assurance, she became excited again: "He's killed th' parson, Landy—th' parson, he's killed him! What will we do?"
"Kent's all right," he said, consolingly. "He's cut up some, but I don't 'low he's hurt much. Tell me how it happened?" he said, re-seating her gently and placing his big hand on her shoulder.
"It wuz my fault," she began, when the tears came and choked her further utterance.
"All right, now; all right. Don't cry. I'll bring him back," he said, patting her tenderly on the arm and starting to leave.
She caught his hand quickly, begging him not to go, but he smiled faintly and withdrew it as he said:
"We can't let him get far, y' know; so th' quicker I go the sooner I'll bring him back."
"But he'll kill y'. I know he will!" she protested.
"No, I don't 'low he will," he replied, as, with a last, re-assuring pat upon her back, he left her to her tears.
Landy had not gone long when Kent entered the room, and, looking hastily about, said:
"Where is he? Where is Landy? We must go bring 'Snell' back, and we must go at once. Tell me where Landy is, Martin?"
"He's gone!" she said, in self-reproach, between sobs. "An' it's my fault!"
"How did Snellins get out?" Kent asked sternly.
"I opened th' door jest t' look at him," she replied, "an' he laughed at me an' pushed me back as you come in, an' you know th' rest," she ended abruptly.
"Well, never mind—never mind," he said soothingly.
"Air you a-goin', too?" she asked startedly, as he prepared to leave.
"Yes, Martin. I feel that I should help Landy find him. Two will be better than one, and we must bring him back before anyone meets or has any trouble with him."
"My land!" she exclaimed, in unconquerable fear. She locked and bolted the door after him, and, regaining her own room, locked its door also. Placing a chair with its back to brace against the knob, Martin for the first time thought of her babies. She went to the side of their bed, and, scanning the boy's face, breathed a sigh of relief on finding him in a sound sleep. Drawing her chair up close that she might feel the sense of their companionship, she was startled by a whispered "Mommie." She turned quickly and found Gyp with her eyes wide open and filled with terror. The mother expressed a gentle "Sh!" and, placing her hand under the coverlet, took that of her baby's, while she croned an unintelligible lullaby that soothed her into slumber.
Kent reasoned that, as Landy had but a few moments the start, he might catch him if he accelerated his own speed. He, therefore, concluded it would be best to take a cross-country route, as that would serve the double purpose of aiding him to avoid any of the townspeople who might delay him with curiosity over his bandaged head, and also give him the advantage of many yards in overtaking Landy, whom he judged would make straight for Brandt's by the road.
He avoided the main street in town, and waited, before crossing it, until he had reached the outskirts, and even then he cast a hasty glance in both directions before he hastened over. The night was grown cold, and the parson turned the collar of his great coat about his ears, which gave him confidence in the secrecy of his identity if anyone should, by chance, see him from a distance. It had ceased snowing after an hour's fitful attempt in the second fall of the season, and as he crossed the road he looked back at his own tracks, and smiled as he thought of the importance a less honest purpose would have given them. They were distinct, and without distracting fellow-paths in the hazy light, and he worried over them, despite his self-ridicule, as troubled minds will worry over trifles. Climbing a fence he made across a lower field to Weller's private footbridge that joined the farm lands, and from here he struck off for the section road, a half mile south. Reaching the grove he stopped and listened, and back by the bridge he heard a sound that caused his heart to thump audibly in his silent surroundings. Only a second and then Weller's dog, that had happened upon his path, set up a wailing, hollow and dismal. Another pause and the hound began again. Up on the crest of the hill a door opened, and Weller stood, lamp in hand, shading his eyes, trying to see into the night. He said something about a "darned rabbit hound" to his wife inside, whistled sharply and returned, closing the door. But the dog was obdurate and began again with renewed energy.
Kent dared not move. The door opened, bringing Mrs. Weller to view, her last word of a finished sentence becoming distinctly clear. "Wrong," she said, and he readily filled in the preceding words by the tone of this last one.
"She insists that there is something wrong," Kent said, as the farmer stepped out, adjusting his overcoat.
Weller unwillingly stumbled down the slippery hill to where the dog stood, head uplifted, emitting his doleful howls.
"What y' got—a gopher? Darn a rabbit houn' anyway!" And he shoved the dog away with his knee. "Well, I'm jiggered!" he said, as he held his lantern close to the ground and moved it along from one print to another. Suddenly he jumped to a conclusion, and, hastening back to the house, he told his wife of the actual discovery, as he hurriedly bundled himself about with heavy clothing preparatory to departure.
"I didn't put no stock in any o' them mystery tales," he said between tugs at his clothes. "Even ef they wuz seven er eight eye-witnesses, an' bein' as it's two weeks now sence the last, and I wuz about disbelievin' everybody. But Great Jupiter! ef it ain't turned up right in my own dooryard, with this mystery man a-prowlin' about."
"Be y' a-goin' arter him?" asked Mrs. Weller with quiet concern.
"Not by my loneself,' he replied. "I'm a-goin' up t' town fusst." At this he took up his lantern again and started away by the road, constantly alert for surprises, with the hound close at his heels.
Kent remained standing in the brush until all was quiet again at the house, and when Mrs. Weller had closed the shutters, unrolled the shades and turned down the lights, he turned and resumed his journey. Having lost so much time, he concluded that he would now be unable to overtake Landy, so he stepped out into the road and walked slowly, as he swung his arms across his chest to revive his circulation, forming plans of procedure for his approach to Brandt's.
Weller hastened on, constantly increasing his speed as the importance of his find grew upon him. He hurried up the street, and, bursting in upon the remainder of the group in the hotel office, exclaimed:
"Git yer lanterns an' coats on, ever'body. I've got him cornered!"
"Got who cornered?" laughed "Si."
"The mystery man," said Weller, anticipating the effect of these magic words.
The room was all excitement on the instant, each man making for his outer garments and lantern in confused haste.
Weller, scarcely awaiting their preparations, started away, spreading his news into the stores as he held their doors open. Thus the crowd was soon augmented to a point of containing nearly all the prominent citizens, and they followed Weller's lead as he took the short cut returning homeward.
"Is it a man, Mr. Orrig?" asked the druggist's apprentice, as he remained close to his employer.
"Men don't live on roots and stones," Orrig replied mysteriously, to which the lad gave a shudder for response and an unspoken wish to be at home, though he dared not leave and return alone.
"Now here's where I discovered him at," said Weller at last, with an air of pride. "An' he made off fer my grove there," he ended, as he shrewdly inspected the direction of the footprints and pointed their way.
"Well," asked someone, "what we goin' t' do?"
"Lemme see ef th' tracks is a man's tracks?" At which the apprentice raised his cap by means of his hair. "They be no hurry t' go into th' woods after him long as Weller's got him cornered there," said Doles sagely.
"Mebbe 'Si' 'd like t' go back an' wait till mornin'," said Weller, sarcastically.
"I don't 'low I would," "Si" retorted amiably, "'cause long's it's a man's feet thet's b'n here, I 'low they's 'nough of us t' take keer o' him." And he resumed the march, with the others following eagerly.
Once they had reached the open road their eagerness grew apace, and knew no restraint such as the woods had placed upon them. They hurried on breathlessly—happily—until they found the tracks turned to a sharp angle, and a broken place in the snow on the top rail of the fence showed distinctly the crude method in which that obstruction had been overcome, and then the imprints in the snow began again on the opposite side, running away into the densest portion of Brandt's thicket. Here their spirits fell, and they stopped to discuss the uselessness of further proceeding. Weller's hound climbed the fence, proceeded a few yards, then looked back at the group expectantly. Becoming impatient over the delay, he suddenly raised his head again and howled.
"Drat that dog, anyway," said Weller angrily, after being nearly raised off his feet by the sudden noise.
Kent, who was not far away, and reconnoitering about Brandt's house, stopped quickly at the familiar sound. He listened intently. Again the dog howled, and, concluding that something was amiss, he was driven to a quick expedient. To hurry away meant to have that noisy dog follow him home, and perhaps Weller with him. To climb a tree would be to make himself ridiculous; but, in any event, to go away without Snellins was out of the question. He felt almost helpless for a means of maintaining his secrecy, and was about to step forward and disclose himself to Brandt by seeking admission to the house when an inspiration came that struck him as effective, if decidedly humorous, and he acted upon it at once, the feeling of novelty and risk making it appeal with irresistible force. He held in his hand where he stood one end of a broken, unused swing rope, and, realizing its usefulness, he took a firmer hold and pulled himself from the ground to test its strength. Being sure of this he next threw it as far as he could over the limb of a tree, and going around in a large circle, making his tracks clearly distinct, he climbed up to the bough, made ready and swung off. It was a long reach that he was attempting, and for the instant he doubted the success of his venture, but the momentum of his weight on the downward course served to carry him on and up until he had reached its apex, just beyond the chicken-house fence. There he let go of the rope and dropped off fairly within the inclosure. As he slipped quietly into the roost a surprised cackle greeted him, but, remaining quiet, the chickens resumed their slumber, and he securely awaited results.