The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1903-09-07
CHAPTER Ill.
BILLY BRUE FINDS HIS MAN.

I'M
BILLY BRUE FINDS HIS MAN.
Each spring the old man grew FESTIVE and
raw, like an unbroken colt. And when the
distant mountain peaks began to SWIM III
their summer haze, and the little rusnlng
rivers sang to him, pleading that he come
once more to follow them up, he became
uncomfortable. Every year at this time ne
alleged, with a show of irritation, that MS
health was being Slapped by the pernlcious
indulgence of sleeping on a bed inside a
house. He alleged, further, that stocks and
bonds were but shadows of wealth, tnat
the old mines might any day become ex-
hausted, and that security for the future
lay only i'm having one member Of the fam
lily, at least. looking up new pay-rock
against the ever-possible time of adversely.
'They amt got to makin calendars yet
with the rainy day marked on EN-" he
would say. Almost any one of them inno-
cent-lookin' Mondays or Tuesdays or
Wednesdays is liable to be it when you get
right UP on to it. I'll AVE to start my
old bones out again, 1 see that. Things are
beginnin' to green up Already"
When he did go it was always understood
to be positively for not more than two
weeks. A list of his reasons for extending
the time each year to three or four months
would constitute the ideal monograph on
human duplicity. When hard pushed on his
return, he had once or twice been even
braZen enough to assert that he had lost
his way in the mountain Businesses. But,
for all his protestations. no one when he
left in June expected to see him again be-
fore September at the earliest. In these
solitary tours he was busy and happy.
working and playing. Work." he would
say, sis something you want to get done:
play is something you jest like to be dom.
Snoopin' up these gulches is both Of 'em
to me-"
n so he loitered through the mountains,
resting here, climbing there. making al
ways a shrewd, close reading of the rocks.
1t was thus Billy Brue found him at the
end of his seconds days search. A little
off the trail. at the entrance to a pocket Of
the canyon, he lowered erect to peer down
when he heard the noise of the messengers
ascent. Standing beside a bowlder of grey
granite, before a background of the gnarled
dwarf cedars, his hat off, his blue shirt
open at the neck, his bare forearms brown,
hairy and muscular, a hammer in his right
hand, his left resting Lightly on his hip, he
might have beer the Tita,. that had forged
the bowlder at his side, pausing now for
brea IN before another mighty task. Well
over six feet tall, straight as any of the
pines before him, his head and broad Shout
| ders in the easy poise of power, there was
| about him from a little distance no sign of
| age. His lines were gracefully full, his
| bearing had still the alertness of youth.
One must come as near as Billy Brue now
| came to detect the marks OF time in his
face. Not of age-merely of time! for here
was no senility, no quavering or fretful
lines. The grey eyes shone bright and
clear from far under the heavy, unbroken
line of brow, and the mouth was still
straight and firmly held. a mouth under
sure control from corner to corner. A little
had the years brought out the rugged
| squareness of the chin and the deadly set
of the jaws; a little had they pressed in
the cheeks to throw the high bones into
broad relief. But these were the utmost
of their devastations. Otherwise Peter
Bines showed his s~eventy-four years only
b. the marks of a well-Ordered maturity.
His eyes, it is true, had that look of know
ing which to the young seems always TO
betoken the futility OF, and to warn against
the folly of, truggle against what must
be; yet they Were KIND eyes, and humorous.
with many of the small lines of laughter at
their corners. Reading the eyes and mouth
together one perceived gentleness and
sternness TO be well matched, working TO
any given end in amiable and effective COM
promise. Uncle Peter" he had long been
called by the public that knew him, and his
own grandchildren had come to call him
by the same term. finding him too young to
meet their ideal of a grandfather.
Billy Brue, riding up the trail, halted.
nodded, and was silent. The old man re-
turned his salutation briefly. These things
managed with verbal economy. They
would talk presently, but greetings We're
awkward.
and turned in his saddle, pulling the leg
up to a restful position. Then he spat,
m~usingly. and looked back down the can
yon aimlessly, throwing his eyes from side
TO side where the grey granite lodges
showed through the tall spruce and pine
trees.
But the old man knew he had been sent
well. Billy Brue, what's doin'?'
Billy Brue squirmed in the saddle, spat
again, as with sudden resolve, and said:
'.Why-uh-Dan1 J.-he's dead"
The old man repeated the words, dazedly.
"Danl J.-he's d~ead-why. who else Is
Billy Brue's emphasis. cunningly con-
trived by him to avoid giving prominence
TO the word dead" had suggested this in
Quiry I'm the first moment OF stupefaction.
Nobody else dead-jest Danl J.-he's
dead"
Jest Danl J.-my boy-my boy Dam
dead,'
His mighty shape was stricken with a
curious rigidity, erected there as if IL were
a part of the mountain, lung up of OLD
from the earth's inner tragedy, COMPOUNDED
desolate, ancient.
Billy Brue turned from the stony interro.
cation of his eyes and took a few steps
away, waiting. A little wind sprang VI
among the higher trees, the moments
passed, and still the great figure stood
transfxed in its curious silence. The leath.
ers creaked as the horse turned. The mes.
senger, with an air of surveying the canyon
stole an anxious glance at the old face
The sorrowful old eyes were fixed on thing.
tina were not; they looked vaguely as il
In search.
'Dan'lI' he said.
1t was not a cry; there was nothing plant
i've in IL. 1t was only the old man callins
his son; David calling upon Absalom. Ther
there was a change. He came sternly for
ward.
who killed my boy?'
Nobody. Uncle Peter; twas a stroke
He was goin' over the line and they'd Iaie
out at Kaslo fer a day SOS Dan'l j. coul,
see about "A spur the Lucky Cuss' peopl,
wanted-and maybe 1t was the climbin
brought IL on"
The old man looked his years. As h,
came nearer Billy Brue saw tears trembl,
in his eyes and roll unnoted down hi
cheeks. Yet his voice was unbroken ant
he was. indeed. unconscious of the tears.
II was afraid of that He lived too high
He ct too much and he drank too much an,
was too soft-was Dan'l-too soft"
Ths old voice trempieo u bit and h