Williston graphic. (Williston, Williams County, N.D.) 1895-1919, 1904-02-11
The Woman
Who Knew ~
b WILL LEXINGTON COMFORT

b WILL LEXINGTON COMFORT :
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
nILL DUDLEY, who owned the
peach farm touching the western
borders of the hills, pes red in through
the open door of Hatfeld's shanty as
he drove by. Hatfield was there, bend
ing over the stove, occupied probably
with q rasher of bacon and a tin cup
of tea. Above the faint sizzle from
the pan and the rustling grind OF the
wheels in the heavy sand of the road,
Dudley heard the muttering OF voice.
It was as if Hatfield were talking back
at the sputter of the fat. Dudley pulled
up in sudden pity and called. The mans
murmur ceased, but flock OF geese be-
hind the shanty whanged up a general
and animated comment. Hatfield ap-
peared at the door.
He was tall, young, black haired. His
face had the yellowish whiteness of an
unblued washing. His body was bent,
his long arms hanging forward like an
aged farmers.
'tTomorrer's Sunday" Dudley began,
with effort. what be you a-goin' t
do? They's partridge-slews O part
ridge-in them swails yonder on the
west slopes. Then, eff we want blue
bill, or redhead, or mallard-you know
Titman lake, an fishin' in old Silver?
Lew Gail got a 20 FOUNDER thar yistiddy
grass pike. Come on along. Peaches
all marketed. Apples are better out in
the cool. Least they won't Spite. Save
yer pork fur winter and hey game fur
q week. Come on"
Thank you, Dudley, but I'd better
not. I'm poor hunter"
Time you war learnin', then. Come
on!'
But"
'T'll rout you out bout three an half
In the mornin'. Well go to the. duck
cove fust, an wait for light to see the
birds. 1 got two guns. Git up, Polite!
Glong!"
This invitation Of Dudley's must weigh
In as virtue. He would far rather
have gone hunting alone. Moreover, the
days sport would be strained because
free silences and random chatter were
impos sible in the presence of an inscrut-
able fellow like Hatfield. Dudley was
the happiest man in the hills just now.
He turned back after Polite had plodded
on hundred yards or so. Hatfield was
still standing in his doorway, his body
appearing long drawn and helpless.
Dudley smoked, chuckled to the mare,
and smacked his lips at the west. He
had reached the High ridge. The view
was glorious, startling. The fields and
lakes and forests shone through golden
grenadine of Indian summer haze. All
the jewels of heaven seemed to have
dropped into the valley, there to glow in
the smoky light of the red-hot crucible
sagging down west. >. About quar-
ter of mile south of Dudley's place
there was white cottage with green
blinds. A handsome young woman ap-
peared at the door of the cottage, glarced
back cautiously, then waved hurried,
kiss at Dudley as he passed.
Hatfield fingered at the doorway until
the tea boiled over and the bacon was
charred. He would, perhaps, have for
gotten to eat had not the scalding bub-
bles aroused him. Most pitiable was
his attempt. The odor Of food sickened
him. He drank the tea from the leaves
and set the rest away, handling the
dishes repugnantly. Then he rolled
cigarette, and lit it, and hurried out in the
air. The dark was growing. He re-
Elected miserably that cigarettes were
always endurable.
Why did Hatfield live alone on the Hill
forty? One,must travel beyond the ridge
district to learn this. A few suggested
that weak lungs were responsible for
his purchase of the little fruit farm and
his stanch adherence thereto; others
believed that he had dissipated fortune,
ply sique and morals in metropolitan
company, and that he sought to repair
all three by solitude and toll incessant.
Which guess was farthest atield is not
for this narrative. A few things were
known; that he spoke as one having
culture and understanding; that he la
bored from dawn to dark in the frail but
ceaseless manner of a woman; that he
paid for what he" bought swiftly and
without question; that he gladly har-
bored wayfarers, but avoided affiliations
with his neighbours; that he lived care
lessly, bitterly, and absolutely alone.
Had you watched him that night, you
would. have learned that Hatfield's soul
held the passion and poetry Of Creeks,
the supreme fervor of man allied with
the idols of boy. And you might have
imagined without touching doubtful fab
ric that his mastering romance was tor
tured by knowledge of physical unfit
ness, famed by solitude and rendered
maddening by its purposeless fruition.
It was dark before moonrise. The
geese were regabbing the days events
by the water trough. Hatfield paused sud-
denly. He had walked for an hour,
walked swiftly to and fro, between the
barn and the shed. He almost ran