The Ekalaka eagle. [volume] (Ekalaka, Mont.) 1909-1920, 1914-04-17
David Growing to Manhood.

AfOW, Reyerson, reckon yer see
who's ter say so,' Hedrick
continued. AN reckon yer
see hit amt a lot er men
hidin' behind masks an skee1ed ter
death. An yer jest listen ter me, Kip
Ryerson," he said slowly, bringing his
face close to the others scared white
one, "you git cleared outer here by
tomorrer mawnin', err by tomorrer
night there'n be er place in this Draft
folksll show where there was er lynch
In like they do over at Wayside, only
this time hit'll be er white man.
At his words, backed by calculations
of "Dogged eff that amt sou THAT'S
right" "A-ha-a!" "Now yer talkin'!'
from the other men, a frightened
shudder swept over Kip Ryerson, and
be was silent.
Now you've got ~ word" Hedricl
concluded, IAN hits jest like 1 tell
you, an yer'd better not stay round
these parts studyin' on what we've |
said too long" Falling back from Ry- |
erson and followed by the others, he |
stepped of the porch and in a few mo-
ments there vas nothing left to tell
OF he visit save the disappearing
twinkle Of lanterns. the barking Of
aroused dogs up and down the Draft !
and in Kip Ryerson's heart a great
fear.
David stole away home by himself,
crying all the way, partly because he
was unstrung, but chiefly because the
sight of Ryerson rent him anew with
an awful, %sickening hatred. At home
he crept to his mothers bedside and
told her what had happened, and aft
erward, when he was in his own bed,
he heard her, for the first time since
his fathers death, weeping as though
her heart would break.
That night a belated thunderstorm
gathered itself toward morning and,
sweeping up the valley, fell upon the
suffering hillsides in the glad relief Of
driven sheets of rain, and when next
day the sun came up serenely it look
ed upon mountains sapphire and topaz
clear. freed from fire and smoke.
And Kip Ryerson was gone, no one
knew where; and in the crystal atmos-
phere David drew a deep, free breath.
Ten years have changed little in the
Draft. George Hedrick, gone a triae
gray on the temples and with a some
what hunched up stoop, still keeps the
store at the crossroads, dispensing the
necessaries Of life and the general Cos
sip-its luxury-to all corners; and for
the most part the little farms look
across the valley at one another, with
the same people toiling in their fields
or moving in and out of the doorways
Of their dwellings as of yore. Certain
~ the little stretch Of meadow land
that looks owe the county road at the
field opposite still belongs to the Crees,
din's as Of old.
And in this same field on a May
morning, ten years and more since the
funeral Of Anderson Cree. Robert Red
din, with most of his family to help
him. went forth to plant his corn.
MARY said Bobbie Reddin, the
youngest who took the field that day,
a gentleman verging on eight years,
who toiled faithfully after his sister,
dropping soup beans where she drop
ped corn, "Mary. l seed Lucy drop
pretty nigh ten grains err corn in one
hill, an sted err stoppin' ter pick 'em
out she jest tromped 'em all in SOS
nobody wouldn't see an went n
Mary Reddin, from her slender
height Of eighteen years. smiled sweet
IL down at the little brothers scan
dalized face, but she made no reply.
In the depths Of Mary's sunbonnet a
little dimple looked out of her cheek
an instant as she listened to a certain
voice which came to her musically
across the fragrant field in the soft
language Of the OBSERVATION-DISCLOSURES,
haup! Gee! Gee! Whoa-haw"
The voice was that of David Cree.
and If any one had told Mary Reddin