CHAPTER I
SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT
Night was falling as two horsemen
drew rein in front of a cabin at the
edge of a clearing in the far-reaching
sombre forest. Their approach across
the stump-strewn tract had been heralded
by the barking of dogs,--two bristling
beasts that came out upon the muddy,
deep-rutted road to greet them with
furious inhospitality. A man stood partially
revealed in the doorway. His left arm
and shoulder were screened from view
by the jamb, his head was bent forward
as he peered intently through narrowed
eyes at the strangers in the road.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
he called out.
"Friends. How far is it to the
tavern at Clark's Point?"
"Clark's Point is three miles
back," replied the settler. "I
guess you must have passed it without
seein' it," he added drily. "If
it happened to be rainin' when you come
through you'd have missed seein' it
fer the raindrops. Where you bound fer?"
"Lafayette. I guess we're off
the right road. We took the left turn
four or five miles back."
"You'd ought to have kept straight
on. Come 'ere, Shep! You, Pete! Down
with ye!"
The two dogs, still bristling, slunk
off in the direction of the squat log
barn. A woman appeared behind the man
and stared out over his shoulder. From
the tall stone chimney at the back of
the cabin rose the blue smoke of the
kitchen fire, to be whirled away on
the wind that was guiding the storm
out of the rumbling north. There was
a dull, wavering glow in the room behind
her. At one of the two small windows
gleamed a candle-light.
"What's takin' you to Clark's
Point? There ain't no tavern there.
There ain't nothin' there but a hitch-post
and a waterin'-trough. Oh, yes, I forgot.
Right behind the hitch-post is Jake
Stone's store and a couple of ash-hoppers
and a town-hall, but you wouldn't notice
'em if you happened to be on the wrong
side of the post. Mebby it's Middleton
you're lookin' fer."
"I am looking for a place to
put up for the night, friend. We met
a man back yonder, half an hour ago,
who said the nearest tavern was at Clark's
Point."
"What fer sort of lookin' man
was he?"
"Tall fellow with red whiskers,
riding a grey horse."
"That was Jake Stone hisself.
Beats all how that feller tries to advertise
his town. He says it beats Crawfordsville
and Lafayette all to smash, an' it's
only three or four months old. Which
way was he goin'?"
"I suppose you'd call it south.
I've lost my bearings, you see."
"That's it. He was on his way
down to Attica to get drunk. They say
Attica's goin' to be the biggest town
on the Wabash. Did I ask you what your
name was, stranger?"
"My name is Gwynne. I left Crawfordsville
this morning, hoping to reach Lafayette
before night. But the road is so heavy
we couldn't---"
"Been rainin' steady for nearly
two weeks," interrupted the settler.
"Hub-deep everywhere. It's a good
twenty-five or thirty mile from Crawfordsville
to Lafayette. Looks like more rain,
too. I think she'll be on us in about
two minutes. I guess mebby we c'n find
a place fer you to sleep to-night, and
we c'n give you somethin' fer man an'
beast. If you'll jest ride around here
to the barn, we'll put the hosses up
an' feed 'em, and--Eliza, set out a
couple more plates, an' double the rations
all around." His left arm and hand
came into view. "Set this here
gun back in the corner, Eliza. I guess
I ain't goin' to need it. Gimme my hat,
too, will ye?"
As the woman drew back from the door,
a third figure came up behind the man
and took her place. The horseman down
at the roadside, fifty feet away, made
out the figure of a woman. She touched
the man's arm and he turned as he was
in the act of stepping down from the
door-log. She spoke to him in a low
voice that failed to reach the ears
of the travellers.
The man shook his head slowly, and
then called out:
"I didn't jist ketch your name,
mister. The wind's makin' such a noise
I--Say it again, will ye?"
"My name is Kenneth Gwynne. Get
it?" shouted the horseman. "And
this is my servant, Zachariah."
The man in the door bent his head, without
taking his eyes from the horseman, while
the woman murmured something in his
ear, something that caused him to straighten
up suddenly.
"Where do you come from?"
he inquired, after a moment's hesitation.
"My home is in Kentucky. I live
at---"
"Kentucky, eh? Well, that's a
good place to come from. I guess you're
all right, stranger." He turned
to speak to his companion. A few words
passed between them, and then she drew
back into the room. The woman called
Eliza came up with the man's hat and
a lighted lantern. She closed the door
after him as he stepped out into the
yard.
"'Round this way," he called
out, making off toward the corner of
the cabin. "Don't mind the dogs.
They won't bite, long as I'm here."
The wind was wailing through the stripped
trees behind the house,--a sombre, limitless
wall of trees that seemed to close in
with smothering relentlessness about
the lonely cabin and its raw field of
stumps. The angry, low-lying clouds
and the hastening dusk of an early April
day had by this time cast the gloom
of semi-darkness over the scene. Spasmodic
bursts of lightning laid thin dull,
unearthly flares upon the desolate land,
and the rumble of apple-carts filled
the ear with promise of disaster. The
chickens had gone to roost; several
cows, confined in a pen surrounded by
the customary stockade of poles driven
deep into the earth and lashed together
with the bark of the sturdy elm, were
huddled in front of a rude shed; a number
of squealing, grunting pigs nosed the
cracks in the rail fence that formed
still another pen; three or four pompous
turkey gobblers strutted unhurriedly
about the barnlot, while some of their
less theatrical hens perched stiffly,
watchfully on the sides of a clumsy
wagon-bed over against the barn. Martins
and chimney-swallows darted above the
cabin and out-buildings, swirling in
mad circles, dipping and careening with
incredible swiftness.
The gaunt settler conducted the unexpected
guests to the barn, where, after they
had dismounted, he assisted in the removal
of the well-filled saddle-bags and rolls
from the backs of their jaded horses.
"Water?" he inquired briefly.
"No, suh," replied Zachariah,
blinking as the other held the lantern
up the better to look into his face.
Zachariah was a young negro,--as black
as night, with gleaming white teeth
which he revealed in a broad and friendly
grin. "Had all dey could drink,
Marster, back yander at de crick."
"You couldn't have forded the
Wea this time last week," said
the host, addressing Gwynne. "She's
gone down considerable the last four-five
days. Out of the banks last week an'
runnin' all over creation."
"Still pretty high," remarked
the other. "Came near to sweeping
Zack's mare downstream but--well, she
made it and Zack has turned black again."
The settler raised his lantern again
at the stable door and looked dubiously
at the negro.
"You're from Kentucky, Mr. Gwynne,"
he said, frowning. "I got to tell
you right here an' now that if this
here boy is a slave, you can't stop
here,--an' what's more, you can't stay
in this county. We settled the slavery
question in this state quite a spell
back, an' we make it purty hot for people
who try to smuggle niggers across the
border. I got to ask you plain an' straight;
is this boy a slave?"
"He is not," replied Gwynne.
"He is a free man. If he elects
to leave my service to-morrow, he is
at liberty to go. My grandfather freed
all of his slaves shortly before he
died, and that was when Zachariah here
was not more than fifteen years of age.
He is as free as I am,--or you, sir.
He is my servant, not my slave. I know
the laws of this state, and I intend
to abide by them. I expect to make my
home here in Indiana,--in Lafayette,
as a matter of fact. This boy's name
is Zachariah Button. Ten years ago he
was a slave. He has with him, sir, the
proper credentials to support my statement,--and
his, if he chooses to make one. On at
least a dozen occasions, first in Ohio
and then in Indiana, I have been obliged
to convince official and unofficial
inquirers that my--"
"That's all right, Mr. Gwynne,"
cried the settler heartily. "I
take your word for it. If you say he's
not a slave, why, he ain't, so that's
the end of it. And it ain't necessary
for Zachariah to swear to it, neither.
We can't offer you much in the way of
entertainment, Mr. Gwynne, but what
we've got you're welcome to. I came
to this country from Ohio seven years
ago, an' I learned a whole lot about
hospitality durin' the journey. I learned
how to treat a stranger in a strange
land fer one thing, an' I learned that
even a hoss-thief ain't an ongrateful
cuss if you give him a night's lodgin'
and a meal or two."
"I shall be greatly indebted
to you, sir. The time will surely come
when I may repay you,--not in money,
but in friendship. Pray do not let us
discommode you or your household. I
will be satisfied to sleep on the floor
or in the barn, and as for Zachariah,
he--"
"The barn is for the hosses to
sleep in," interrupted the host,
"and the floor is for the cat.
'Tain't my idee of fairness to allow
human bein's to squat on proppety that
rightfully belongs to hosses an' cats,--so
I guess you'll have to sleep in a bed,
Mr. Gwynne." He spoke with a drawl.
"Zachariah c'n spread his blankets
on the kitchen floor an' make out somehow.
Now, if you'll jist step over to the
well yander, you'll find a wash pan.
Eliza,--I mean Mrs. Striker,--will give
you a towel when you're ready. Jest
sing out to her. Here, you, Zachariah,
carry this plunder over an' put it in
the kitchen. Mrs. Striker will show
you. Be careful of them rifles of your'n.
They go off mighty sudden if you stub
your toe. You'll find a comb and lookin'
glass in the settin' room, Mr. Gwynne.
You'll probably want to put a few extry
touches on yourself when I tell you
there's an all-fired purty girl spendin'
the night with us. Go along, now. I'll
put the feed down fer your hosses an'
be with you in less'n no time."
"You are very kind, Mr.--Did
you say Striker?"
"Phineas Striker, sir,--Phin
fer short."
"I am prepared and amply able
to pay for lodging and food, Mr. Striker,
so do not hesitate to--"
"Save your breath, stranger.
I'm as deef as a post. The storm's goin'
to bust in two shakes of a dead lamb's
tail, so you'd better be a leetle spry
if you want to git inside afore she
comes."
With that he entered the barn door,
leading the horses. Gwynne and his servant
hurried through the darkness toward
the light in the kitchen window. The
former rapped politely on the door.
It was opened by Mrs. Striker, a tall,
comely woman well under thirty, who
favoured the good-looking stranger with
a direct and smileless stare. He removed
his tall, sorry-looking beaver.
"Madam, your husband has instructed
my servant to leave our belongings in
your kitchen. I fear they are not overly
clean, what with mud and rain, devil-needles
and burrs. Your kitchen is as clean
as a pin. Shall I instruct him to return
with them to the barn and--"
"Bring them in," she said,
melting in spite of herself as she looked
down from the doorstep into his dark,
smiling eyes. His strong, tanned face
was beardless, his teeth were white,
his abundant brown hair tousled and
boyishly awry,--and there were mud splashes
on his cheek and chin. He was tall and
straight and his figure was shapely,
despite the thick blue cape that hung
from his shoulders. "I guess they
ain't any dirtier than Phin Striker's
boots are this time o' the year. Put
them over here, boy, 'longside o' that
cupboard. Supper'll be ready in ten
or fifteen minutes, Mr. Gwynne."
His smile broadened. He sniffed gratefully.
A far more exacting woman than Eliza
Striker would have forgiven this lack
of dignity on his part.
"You will find me ready for it,
Mrs. Striker. The smell of side-meat
goes straight to my heart, and nothing
in all this world could be more wonderful
than the coffee you are making."
"Go 'long with you!" she
cried, vastly pleased, and turned to
her sizzling skillets.
Zachariah deposited the saddle-bags
and rolls in the corner and then returned
to the door where he received the long
blue cape, gloves and the towering beaver
from his master's hands. He also received
instructions which sent him back to
open a bulging saddle-bag and remove
therefrom a pair of soft, almost satiny
calf-skin boots. As he hurried past
Mrs. Striker, he held them up for her
inspection, grinning from ear to ear.
She gazed in astonishment at the white
and silver ornamented tops, such as
were affected by only the most fastidious
dandies of the day and were so rarely
seen in this raw, new land that the
beholder could scarce believe her eyes.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed,
and then went to the sitting-room to
whisper excitedly to the solitary occupant,
who, it so chanced, was at the moment
busily and hastily employed in rearranging
her brown, wind-blown hair before the
round-topped little looking-glass over
the fireplace.
"I thought you said you wasn't
goin' to see him," observed Mrs.
Striker, after imparting her information.
"If you ain't, what are you fixin'
yourself up fer?"
"I have changed my mind, Eliza,"
said the young lady, loftily. "In
the first place, I am hungry, and in
the second place it would not be right
for me to put you to any further trouble
about supper. I shall have supper with
the rest of you and not in the bedroom,
after all. How does my hair look?"
"You've got the purtiest hair
in all the--"
"How does it look?"
"It would look fine if you NEVER
combed it. If I had hair like your'n,
I'd be the proudest woman in--"
"Don't be silly. It's terrible,
most of the time."
"Well, it's spick an' span now,
if that's what you want to know,"
grumbled Eliza, and vanished, fingering
her straight, straw-coloured hair somewhat
resentfully.
Meanwhile, Kenneth Gwynne, having
divested himself of his dark blue "swallow-tail,"
was washing his face and hands at the
well. The settler approached with the
lantern.
"She's comin'," he shouted
above the howling wind. "I guess
you'd better dry yourself in the kitchen.
Hear her whizzin' through the trees?
Gosh all hemlock! She's goin' to be
a snorter, stranger. Hurry inside!"
They bolted for the door and dashed
into the kitchen just as the deluge
came. Phineas Striker, leaning his weight
against the door, closed it and dropped
the bolt.
"Whew! She's a reg'lar harricane,
that's what she is. Mighty suddent,
too. Been holdin' back fer ten minutes,--an'
now she lets loose with all she's got.
Gosh! Jest listen to her!"
The hiss of the torrent on the clapboard
roof was deafening, the little window
panes were streaming; a dark, glistening
shadow crept out from the bottom of
the door and began to spread; the howling
wind shook the very walls of the staunch
cabin, while all about them roared the
ear-splitting cannonade, the crash of
splintered skies, the crackling of musketry,
the rending and tearing of all the garments
that clothe the universe.
Eliza Striker, hardy frontierswoman
though she was, put her fingers to her
ears and shrank away from the stove,--for
she had been taught that all metal "drew
lightning." Her husband busied
himself stemming the stream of water
that seeped beneath the door with empty
grain or coffee bags, snatched from
the top of a cupboard where they were
stored, evidently for the very purpose
to which they were now being put.
Gwynne stood coatless in the centre
of the kitchen, rolling down his white
shirt-sleeves. Behind him cringed Zachariah,
holding his master's boots and coat
in his shaking hands, his eyes rolling
with terror, his lips mumbling an unheard
appeal for mercy.
The sitting-room door opened suddenly
and the other guest of the house glided
into the kitchen. Her eyes were crinkled
up as if with an almost unendurable
pain, her fingers were pressed to her
temples, her red lips were parted.
"Goodness!" she gasped,
with a hysterical laugh, not born of
mirth, nor of courage, but of the sheerest
dismay.
"Don't be skeered," cried
Phineas, looking at her over his shoulder.
"She'll soon be over. Long as the
roof stays on, we're all right,--an'
I guess she'll stay."
Kenneth Gwynne bowed very low to the
newcomer. The dim candle-light afforded
him a most unsatisfactory glimpse of
her features. He took in at a glance,
however, her tall, trim figure, the
burnished crown of hair, and the surprisingly
modish frock she wore. He had seen no
other like it since leaving the older,
more advanced towns along the Ohio,--not
even in the thriving settlements of
Wayne and Madison Counties or in the
boastful village of Crawfordsville.
He was startled. In all his journeyings
through the land he had seen no one
arrayed like this. It was with difficulty
that he overcame a quite natural impulse
to stare at her as if she were some
fantastic curiosity.
The contrast between this surprising
creature and the gingham aproned Eliza
was unbelievable. There was but one
explanation: She was the mistress of
the house, Eliza the servant. And yet,
even so, how strangely out-of-place,
out-of-keeping she was here in the wilderness.
In some confusion he strode over to
lend a hand to Phineas Striker. The
rustle of silk behind him and the quick
clatter of heels, evidenced the fact
that the girl had crossed swiftly to
Eliza's side.
Later on he had the opportunity to
take in all the details of her costume,
and he did so with a practised, sophisticated
eye. It was, after all, of a fashion
two years old, evidence of the slowness
with which the modes reached these outposts
of civilization. Here was a perfect
fitting blue frock of the then popular
changeable gros de zane, the skirt very
wide, set on the body in large plaits,
one in front, one on each side and two
behind. The sleeves also were wide from
shoulder to elbow, where they were tightly
fitted to the lower arm. The ruffles
around the neck, which was open and
rather low, and about the wrists were
of plain bobinet quilling. Her slippers
were black, with cross-straps. He had
seen such frocks as this, he was reminded,
in fashionable Richmond and New York
only a year or so before, but nowhere
in the west. Add a Dunstable straw bonnet
with its strings of satin and the frilled
pelerine, and this strange young woman
might have just stepped from her carriage
in the most fashionable avenue in the
land.
Zachariah, lacking his master's good
manners, gazed in open-mouthed wonder
at the lady, forgetting for the moment
his fear of the tempest's wrath. Only
the most hair-raising crash of thunder
broke the spell, causing him to close
his eyes and resume his supplication.
"Now's your chance to get at
the lookin' glass, Mr. Gwynne,"
said Striker. "Right there in the
sittin'-room. Go ahead; I'll manage
this."
Muttering a word of thanks, the young
man turned to leave the room. He shot
a glance at his fellow guest. Her back
was toward him, she had her hands to
her ears, and something told him that
her eyes were tightly closed. A particularly
loud crash caused her to draw her pretty
shoulders up as if to receive the death-dealing
bolt of lightning. He heard her murmur
again:
"Goodness--gracious!"
Eliza suddenly put an arm about her
waist and drew the slender, shivering
figure close. As the girl buried her
face upon the older woman's shoulder,
the latter cried out:
"Land sakes, child, you'll never
get over bein' a baby, will ye?"
To which Phineas Striker added in
a great voice: "Nor you, neither,
Eliza. Ef we didn't have company here
you'd be crawlin' under the table or
something. She ain't afraid of wild
cats or rattlesnakes or Injins or even
spiders," he went on, addressing
Gwynne, "but she's skeered to death
of lightnin'. An' as fer that young
lady there, she wouldn't be afeared
to walk from here to Lafayette all alone
on the darkest night,--an' look at her
now! Skeered out of her boots by a triflin'
little thunderstorm. Why, I wouldn't
give two--"
"My goodness, Phin Striker,"
broke in his wife, a new note of alarm
in her voice, "I do hope them chickens
an' turkeys have got sense enough to
get under something in this downpour.
If they ain't, the whole kit an' boodle
of 'em will be drownded, sure as--"
"I never yet see a hen that liked
water," interrupted Phineas. "Er
a turkey either. Don't you worry about
'em. You better worry about that side-meat
you're fryin'. Ef my nose is what it
ort to be, I'd say that piece o' meat
was bein' burnt to death,--an' that's
a lot wuss than bein' drownded. They
say drowndin' is the easiest death--"
"You men clear out o' this kitchen,"
snapped Eliza. "Out with ye! You
too, Phin Striker. I'll call ye when
the table's set. Now, you go an' set
over there in the corner, away from
the window, deary, where the lightnin'
can't git at you, an'--You'll find a
comb on the mantel-piece, Mr. Gwynne,
an' Phineas will git you a boot-jack
out o' the bedroom if that darkey is
too weak to pull your boots off for
you. Don't any of you go trampin' all
over the room with your muddy boots.
I've got work enough to do without scrubbin'
floors after a pack of--My land! I do
believe it's scorched. An' the corn-bread
must be--"
Phineas, after a doubtful look at
the stopped-up door-crack, led the way
into the sitting-room. Zachariah came
last with his master's boots and coat.
He was mumbling with suppressed fervour:
"Oh, Lord, jes' lemme hab one mo'
chaince,--jes' one mo' chaince. Good
Lord! I been a wicked, ornery nigger,--only
jes' gimme jes' one mo' chaince. I been
a wicked,--Yassuh, Marster Kenneth,
I got your boots. Yassuh. Right heah,
suh. Oh, Lordy-Lordy! Yassuh, yassuh!"
Seated in a big wooden rocker before
the fireplace, Gwynne stretched out
his long legs one after the other; Zachariah
tugged at the heavy, mud-caked riding-boots,
grunting mightily over a task that gave
him sufficient excuse for interjecting
sundry irrelevant appeals for mercy
and an occasional reference to his own
unworthiness as a nigger.
The tempest continued with unabated
violence. The big, raw-boned Striker,
pulling nervously at his beard, stood
near a window which looked out upon
the barn and sheds, plainly revealed
in the blinding, almost uninterrupted
flashes of lightning. Such sentences
as these fell from his lips as he turned
his face from the bleaching flares before
they ended in mighty crashes: "That
struck powerful nigh,"--or "I
seen that one runnin' along the ground
like a ball of fire," or "There
goes somethin' near," or "That
was a tree jest back o' the barn, you'll
see in the mornin'."
"Dere won't never be any mo'nin',"
gulped the unhappy Zachariah, bending
lower to his task, which now had to
do with the boot-straps at the bottoms
of his master's trouser-legs. Getting
to his feet, he proceeded, with a well-trained
dexterity that even his terror failed
to divert, to draw on the immaculate
calf-skin boots with the gorgeous tops.
Then he pulled the trouser-legs down
over the boots, obscuring their upper
glory; after which he smoothed out the
wrinkles and fastened the instep straps.
Whereupon, Kenneth arose, stamped severely
on the hearth several times to settle
his feet in the snug-fitting boots,
and turned to the looking-glass. He
was wielding the comb with extreme care
and precision when his host turned from
the window and approached.
"Seems to me you're goin' to
a heap o' trouble, friend," he
remarked, surveying the tall, graceful
figure with a rather disdainful eye.
"We don't dress up much in these
parts, 'cept on Sunday."
"Please do not consider me vain,"
said the young man, flushing. He smarted
under the implied rebuke,--in fact,
he was uncomfortably aware of ridicule.
"My riding-boots were filthy. I--I--Yes,
I know," he broke in upon himself
as Phineas extended one of his own muddy
boots for inspection. "I know,
but, you see, I am the unbidden guest
of yourself and Mrs. Striker. The least
I can do in return for your hospitality
is to make myself presentable--"
"You'll have to excuse my grinnin',
Mr. Gwynne," interrupted the other.
"I didn't mean any offence. It's
jest that we ain't used to good clothes
an' servants to pull our boots off an'
on, an'--butternut pants an' so on.
We're 'way out here on the edge of the
wilderness where bluejeans is as good
as broadcloth or doe-skin, an' a chaw
of tobacco is as good as the state seal
fer bindin' a bargain. Lord bless ye,
I don't keer how much you dress up.
I guess I might as well tell ye the
only men up at Lafayette who wear as
good clothes as you do are a couple
of gamblers that work up an' down the
river, an' Barry Lapelle. I reckon you've
heerd of Barry Lapelle. He's known from
one end of the state to the other, an'
over in Ohio an' Kentucky too."
"I have never heard of him."
Striker looked surprised. He glanced
at the closed sitting-room door before
continuing.
"Well, he owns a couple steamboats
that come up the river. Got 'em when
his father died a couple o' years ago.
His home used to be in Terry Hut, but
he's been livin' at Bob Johnson's tavern
for a matter of six months now, workin'
up trade fer his boats, I understand.
He's as wild as a hawk an'--but you'll
run across him if you're goin' to live
in Lafayette."
"By the way, what is the population
of Lafayette?"
Phineas studied the board ceiling
thoughtfully for a moment or two. "Well,
'cordin' to people who live in Attica
she's got about five hundred. People
who live in Crawfordsville give her
seven hundred. Down at Covington an'
Williamsport they say she's got about
four hundred an' twelve. When you git
to Lafayette Bob Johnson an' the rest
of 'em will tell you she's over two
thousand an' growin' so fast they cain't
keep track of her. There's so much lyin'
goin' on about Lafayette that it's impossible
to tell jest how big she is. Countin'
in the dogs, I guess she must have a
population of between six hundred and
fifty an' three thousand. You see, everybody
up there's got a dog, an' some of 'em
two er three. One feller I know has
got seven. But, on the whole, I guess
you'll like the place. It's the head
of navigation at high water, an' if
they ever build the Wabash an' Erie
Canal they're talkin' about she'll be
a regular seaport, like New York er
Boston. 'Pears to me the worst is over,
don't you reckon so?"
Kenneth, having adjusted his stock
and white roll-over collar to suit his
most exacting eye, slipped his arms
into the coat Zachariah was holding
for him, settled the shoulders with
a shrug or two and a pull at the flaring
lapels, smoothed his yellow brocaded
waist-coat carefully, and then, spreading
his long, shapely legs and at the same
time the tails of his coat, took a commanding
position with his back to the blazing
logs.
"Are you referring to my toilet,
Mr. Striker?" he inquired amiably.
"I was talkin' about the storm,"
explained Phineas hastily. "Take
the boots out to the kitchen, Zachariah.
Eliza'll git into your wool if she ketches
you leavin' 'em in here. Yes, sir, she's
certainly lettin' up. Goin' down the
river hell-bent. They'll be gettin'
her at Attica 'fore long. Are you plannin'
to work the farm yourself, Mr. Gwynne,
or are you goin' to sell er rent on
shares?"
Gwynne looked at him in surprise.
"You appear to know who I am, after
all, Mr. Striker."
Striker grinned. "I guess everybody
in this neck o' the woods has heerd
about you. Dan Bugher,--he's the county
recorder,--an' Rube Kelsey, John Bishop,
Larry Stockton, an' a lot more of the
folks up in town, have been lookin'
down the Crawfordsville road fer you
ever since your father died last August.
You 'pear to be a very important cuss
fer one who ain't never set foot in
Indianny before."
"I see," said the other
reflectively. "Were you acquainted
with my father, Mr. Striker?"
"Much so as anybody could be.
He wasn't much of a hand fer makin'
friends. Stuck purty close to the farm,
an' made it about the best piece o'
propetty in the whole valley. I was
jest wonderin' whether you was plannin'
to live on the farm er up in town."
"Well, you see, I am a lawyer
by profession. I know little or nothing
about farming. My plans are not actually
made, however. A great deal depends
on how I find things. Judge Wylie wishes
me to enter into partnership with him,
and Providence M. Curry says there is
a splendid chance for me in his office
at Crawfordsville. I shall do nothing
until I have gone thoroughly into the
matter. You know the farm, Mr. Striker?"
"Yes. It's not far from here,--five
or six mile, I'd say, to the north an'
east. Takes in some of the finest land
on the Wea Plain,--mostly clear, some
fine timber, plenty of water, an' about
the best stocked farm anywheres around.
Your father was one of the first to
edge up this way ten er twelve year
ago, an' he got the pick o' the new
land. He came from some'eres down the
river, 'bout Vincennes er Montezuma
er some such place. I reckon you know
that he left another passel of land
over this way, close to the Wabash,
an' some propetty up in Lafayette an'
some more down in Crawfordsville."
"I have been so informed,"
said his guest, rather shortly.
"I bought this sixty acre piece
offen him two year ago. All timber when
I took hold of it, 'cept seventeen acres
out thataway," jerking his thumb,
"along the Middleton road."
He hesitated a moment. "You see,
I worked for your father fer a considerable
time, as a hand. That's how he came
to sell to me. I got married an' wanted
a place of my own. He said he'd sooner
sell to me than let some other feller
cheat the eye-teeth outen me, me bein'
a good deal of fool when it comes to
business an' all. Yep, I'd saved up
a few dollars, so I sez what's the sense
of me workin' my gizzard out fer somebody
else an' all that, when land's so cheap
an' life so doggoned short. 'Course,
there's a small mortgage on the place,
but I c'n take keer of that, I reckon."
"Ahem! The mortgage, I fancy,
is held by--er--the other heirs to his
property." "You're right.
His widder holds it, but she ain't the
kind to press me. She's purty comfortable,
what with this land along the edge o'
the plain out here an' a whole section
up in the Grand Prairie neighbourhood,
besides half a dozen buildin' lots in
town an' a two story house to live in
up there. To say nothin' of--"
"Come to supper," called
out Mrs. Striker from the doorway.
"That's somethin' I'm always
ready fer," announced Mr. Striker.
"Winter an' summer, spring an'
fall. Step right ahead, Mr.--"
"Just a moment, if you please,"
said the young man, laying his hand
on the settler's arm. "You will
do me a great favour if you refrain
from discussing these matters in the
presence of your other guest to-night.
My father, as you doubtless know, meant
very little in my life. I prefer not
to discuss him in the presence of strangers,--especially
curious-minded young women."
Phineas looked at him narrowly for
an instant, a queer expression lurking
in his eyes.
"Jest as you say, Mr. Gwynne.
Not a word in front of strangers. I
don't know as you know it, but up to
the time your father's will was perduced
there wasn't a soul in these parts as
knowed such a feller as you wuz on earth.
He never spoke of a son, er havin' been
married before, er bein' a widower,
er anything like--"
"I am thoroughly convinced of
that, Mr. Striker," said Kenneth,
a trifle austerely, and passed on ahead
of his host into the kitchen.
"Bring in them two candlesticks,
Phin," ordered Mrs. Striker. "We
got to be able to see what each other
looks like, an' goodness knows we cain't
with this taller dip I got out here
to cook by. 'Tain't often we have people
right out o' the fashion-plates to supper,
so let's have all the light we kin.