"He was never unkind, he never found fault with me, he never in all his life scolded or switched me when I was bad. Then, one day,—it was three years ago,—he told me to get ready to go down to St. Louis to school. He put me in charge of a trader and his wife who were going down the river by perogue. He gave them money to buy suitable clothes for me,—a large sum of money, it must have been,—and he provided me with some for my own personal use. All arrangements had been made in advance, without my knowing anything about it.

"I stayed there until I was called home by his death. I expected to return to school, but my mother refused to let me go back. She said my place was with her. That was last fall. She is still in the deepest mourning, and I believe will never dress otherwise. I have said all there is to say about my father. I did not love him, I was not grieved when he passed away. It was almost as if a stranger had died."

She paused. He took occasion to remark, sympathetically: "He must have been a strange man."

"He was," she said. "I hope I have made you understand what kind of a man he was, and what kind of a father he was to me. Now, I am coming to the point. This finery you see me in now was purchased without my mother's knowledge or consent,—with money of my own. The box was delivered to Phineas Striker day before yesterday up in Lafayette. I came here to spend the night, in order that I might try them on. I live in town, with my mother. She left the farm after my father's death. She adored him. She could not bear to live out there on the lonely—but, that is of no interest to you. A few weeks ago I asked her if I might not take off the black. She refused at first, but finally consented. I have her promise that I may put on colours sometime this spring. So I wrote to the woman who used to make my dresses in St. Louis,—my father was not stingy with me, so I always had pretty frocks,—and now they have come. My mother does not know about them. She will be shocked when I tell her I have them, but she will not be angry. She loves me. Is your curiosity satisfied? It will have to be, for this is all I care to divulge at present."

He smiled down into her earnest eyes. "My curiosity is appeased," he said. "I should not have slept tonight if you had not explained this tantalizing mystery. Therefore, I thank you. May I have your permission to say that you are very lovely in your new frock and that you are marvellously becoming to it?"

"As you have already said it, I must decline to give you the permission," she replied, naively.

He thought her adorable in this mood. "As a lawyer," he said, "I make a practice of never withdrawing a statement, unless I am convinced by incontrovertible evidence that I was wrong in the first place,—and you will have great difficulty in producing the proof."

"Wait till you see me in my black dress and bonnet,—and mittens," she challenged.

He bowed gallantly. "Only the addition of the veil,—it would have to be a very thick one,—I am sure,—could make me doubt my own eyes. They are witnesses whose testimony it will be very hard to shake."

Her manner underwent another transformation, as swift as it was unexpected. A troubled, harassed expression came into her eyes, driving out the sparkle that had filled them during that all too brief exchange. The smile died on her lips, which remained drawn and slightly parted as if frozen; she seemed for the moment to have stopped breathing. He was acutely alive to the old searching, penetrating look,—only now there was an added note of uneasiness. In another moment all this had vanished, and she was smiling again,—not warmly, frankly as before, but with a strange wistfulness that left him more deeply perplexed than ever.

"I wonder,—" she began, and then shook her head without completing the sentence. After a moment she went on: "Phineas is a long time. I hope all is well."

They heard the kitchen door open and close and Striker's voice loudly proclaiming the staunchness of his outbuildings, a speech cut short by Eliza's exasperation.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Phin Striker, not to come in this here kitchen without wipin' your feet? Might as well be the barn, fer as you're concerned. Go out an' scrape that mud offen your boots."

Deep mumbling and then the opening and shutting of the door again.

"Sometimes, I fear, poor Phineas finds matrimony very trying," said the girl, her eyes twinkling.

Eliza appeared in the doorway. She was rolling down her sleeves.

"How are you two gettin' along?" she inquired, looking from one to the other keenly. "I thought Phin was in here amusin' you the whole time with lies about him an' Dan'l Boone. He used to hunt with old Dan'l when he was a boy, an' if ever'thing happened to them two fellers that he sez happened, why, Phin'd have to be nearly two hundred years old by now an' there wouldn't be a live animal or Indian between here an' the Gulf of Mexico." She seemed a little uneasy. "I hope you two made out all right."

The girl spoke quickly, before her companion could reply. "We have had a most agreeable chat, Eliza. Are you through in the kitchen? If you are, would you mind coming into the bedroom with me? I want you to see the other dress on me, and besides I have a good many things I wish to talk over with you. Good night," she said to Gwynne. "No doubt we shall meet again."

He was dumbfounded. "Am I not to see you in the new dress?" he cried, visibly disappointed. "Surely you are not going to deny me the joy of beholding you in—"

She interrupted him almost cavalierly. "Pray save up some of your compliments against the day when you behold me in my sombre black, for I shall need them then. Again, good night."

"Good night," he returned, bowing stiffly and in high dudgeon.

Eliza, in hurrying past, had snatched one of the candlesticks from the mantel, and now stood holding the bedroom door open for the queenly young personage. A moment later the door closed behind them.

Gwynne was still scowling at the inoffensive door when Striker came blustering into the room.

"Where are the women?" he demanded, stopping short.

A jerk of the thumb was his answer.

"Gone to bed?" with something like an accusing gleam in his eye as his gaze returned to the young man.

"I believe so," replied Gwynne carelessly, as he sat down in the despised rocker and stretched his long legs out to the fire. "I fancy we are safe to smoke now, Striker. We have the parlor all to ourselves. The ladies have deserted us."

Striker took the tobacco pouch from the peg on the mantel and handed it to his guest.

"Fill up," he said shortly, and then walked over to the bedroom door. He rapped timorously on one of the thick boards. "Want me fer anything?" he inquired softly, as his wife opened the door an inch or two.

"No. Go to bed when you're ready an' don't ferget to smother that fire."

"Good night, Phineas," called out another voice merrily.

"Good night," responded Striker, with a dubious shake of his head. He returned to the fireplace.

"Women are funny things," said he, dragging up another chair. "'Specially about boots. I go out 'long about sun-up an' work like a dog all day, an' then when I come in to supper what happens? First thing my wife does is to look at my boots. Then she tells me to go out an' scrape the mud off'm 'em. Then she looks up at my face to see if it's me. Sometimes I get so doggoned mad I wish it wasn't me, so's I could turn out to be the preacher er somebody like that an' learn her to be keerful who she's talkin' to. Supposin' I do track a little mud into her kitchen? It's OUR mud, ain't it? 'Tain't as if it was somebody else's land I'm bringin' into her kitchen. Between us we own every danged bit of land from here to the Middleton dirt-road an' it ain't my fault if it happens to be mud once in awhile. You'd think, the way she acts, I'd been out stealin' somebody else's mud just for the sake of bringin' it into her kitchen.

"An' what makes me madder'n anything else is the way she scolds them pore dogs when they come in with a little mud. As if a dog understood he had to scrape his feet off an' wash his paws an' everything 'fore he c'n step inside his master's cabin. Now you take cats, they're as smart as all get out. They're jist like women. Allus thinkin' about their pussonal appearance. Ever notice a cat walk across a muddy strip o' ground? Why, you'd think they was walkin' on a red hot stove, the way they step. I've seen a cat go fifty rods out of her way to get around a mud-puddle. I recollect seein' ole Maje,—he's our principal tom-cat,—seein' him creepin' along a rail fence nearly half a mile from the house so's he wouldn't have to cross a stretch o' wet ground jist outside the kitchen door. Now, a dog would have splashed right through it an' took the consequences. But ole Maje—NO, SIR! He goes miles out'n his way an' then when he gits home he sets down on the doorstep an' licks his feet fer half an hour er so before he begins to meow so's Eliza'll open the door an' let him in.

"Ever' so often I got to tie a litter of kittens up in a meal-bag an' take 'em over to the river an' drownd 'em, an' I want to tell you it's a pleasure to do it. You never in all your life heerd of anybody puttin' a litter of pups in a bag an' throwin' 'em in the river, did ye? No, sirree! Dogs is like men. They grow up to be useful citizens, mud er no mud. Why, if I had a dog what sat down on the doorstep an' licked his paws ever' time he got mud on 'em I'd take him out an' shoot him, 'cause I'd know he wasn't no kind of a dog at all. Now, Eliza's tryin' to make me act like a cat, an' me hatin' cats wuss'n pison. There's setch a thing as bein' too danged clean, don't you think so? Sort o' takes the self-respect away from a man. Makes you feel as if you'd ort to have petticoats on in place o' pants. How do you like that terbaccer?"

Throughout the foregoing dissertation, Gwynne had sat with his moody gaze fixed upon the flaring logs, which Striker had kicked into renewed life with the heel of one of his ponderous boots, disdaining the stout charred poker that leaned against the chimney wall. He was pulling dreamily at the corncob pipe; the fragrant blue smoke, drifting toward the open fireplace, was suddenly caught by the draft and drawn stringily into the hot cavern where it was lost in the hickory volume that swept up the chimney.

He had taken in but a portion of his host's remarks; his thoughts were not of dogs and cats but of the perplexing girl who eagerly gave him her confidence in one moment and shrank into the iciest reticence the next. Her unreserved revelations concerning her own father, uttered with all the frankness of an intimate, and the childish ingenuousness with which she accounted for her raiment, followed so closely, so abruptly by the most insolent display of bad manners he had ever known, gave him ample excuse for reflection, and if he failed to obtain the full benefit of Striker's discourse it was because he had no power to command his addled thoughts. As a matter of fact, he was debating within himself the advisability of asking his host a few direct and pointed questions. A fine regard for Striker's position deterred him,—and to this regard was added the conviction that his host would probably tell him to mind his own business and not go prying into the affairs of others. He came out of his reverie in good time to avoid injury to his host's feelings.

"It is admirable," he assured him promptly. "Do you cure it yourself or does it come up the river from Kentucky?"

"Comes from Kentucky. We don't have much luck tryin' to raise terbaccer in these parts."

Whereupon Mr. Striker went into a long and intelligent lecture upon the products of the soil in that section of Indiana; what to avoid and what to cultivate; how to buy and how to sell; the traders one could trust and those who could not be trusted out of sight; the short corn crop of the year before and the way he lost half a dozen as fine shoats as you'd see in a lifetime on account of wild hogs coming out of the woods and enticin' 'em off. He interrupted himself at one stage in order to get up and close the door to the kitchen. Zachariah was snoring lustily.

"Whenever you feel like goin' to bed, jist say so," he said at last, as his guest drew his huge old silver watch from his pocket and glanced at it.

"I have been doing a little surmising, Mr. Striker," said the other. "You have only this sitting-room and one bedroom. The ladies are occupying the latter. My servant has gone to bed in the kitchen. I am wondering where you and I are to dispose ourselves."

"I could see you was doin' some figgerin', friend. Well, fer that matter, so was I. 'Tain't often she comes to spend the night here, an' when she does me an' Eliza give her our room an' bed an' we pull an extry straw tick out here in the room an' make the best of it. Now, as I figger it out, Eliza is usin' that straw tick herself, 'cause she certainly wouldn't ever dream of gettin' into bed with—with—er—her. Not but what she's clean an' all that,—I mean Eliza,—but you see, she used to be a hired girl once upon a time, an'—an'—well, that sort of makes a—"

"My fellow-guest confided to me a little while ago that she too had been a hired girl, Mr. Striker, so I don't see—"

"Did she tell you that?" demanded Phineas sharply.

"She did," replied Gwynne, enjoying his host's consternation.

"Well, I'll be tee-totally danged," exploded the settler. He got up suddenly and turning his back to his guest, knocked the burnt tobacco from his pipe against the stone arch of the fireplace. "I guess I better rake the ashes over these here coals," said he, "'cause if I don't an' the cabin took fire an' burnt us all alive Eliza'd never git done jawin' me about it." Presently he stood off and critically surveyed his work. "I guess that'll fix her so's she won't spit any sparks out here an' set fire to the carpet. As I was sayin', I reckon I'll have to make up a bed here in front of the fireplace fer myself, an' let you go up to the attic. We got a—"

"I was afraid of this, Mr. Striker. You are putting yourselves out terribly on my account. I can't allow it, sir. It is too much to ask—"

"Now, don't you worry about us. You ain't puttin' us out at all. One night last winter,—the coldest night we had,—Eliza an' me slep' on the kitchen floor with nary a blanket er quilt, an' I had to git up every half hour to put wood on the fire so's we wouldn't freeze to death, all because Joe Wadley an' his wife an' her father an' mother an' his sister with her three children dropped in sort of unexpected on account of havin' their two wagons git stuck in a snow drift a mile er so from here. No, sirree, don't you worry. There's a spare tick up in the attic what we use fer strangers when they happen along, an' Zachariah has put your blankets right here by the door,—an' your pistols, too, I see,—so whenever you're ready, I'll lead the way up the ladder an' show you where you're to roost. There's a little winder at one end, so's you c'n have all the air you want,—an', my stars, there's a lot of it to-night, ain't there? Jist listen to her whistle. Sounds like winter. She's changed, though, an' I wouldn't be surprised if we'd find the moon is shinin'."



CHAPTER IV

VIOLA GWYN

They stepped outside the cabin, into the fresh, brisk gale that was blowing. A gibbous moon hung in the eastern star-specked sky. Scurrying moonlit clouds off in the west sped northward on the sweep of the inconstant wind, which had shifted within the hour. A light shone dimly through the square little window of the bedroom. Kenneth's imagination penetrated to sacred precincts beyond the solid logs: he pictured her in the other frock, moving gracefully before the fascinated eyes of the settler's wife, proud as a peacock and yet as gay as the lark.

"Women like to talk," observed Striker, with a sidelong glance at the lighted window. He led the way to the opposite end of the cabin and pointed off into the night. "Lafayette's off in yan direction. There's a big stretch of open prairie in between, once you git out'n these woods, an' further on there's more timber. The town's down in a sort of valley, shaped somethin' like a saucer, with hills on all sides an' the river cuttin' straight through the middle. Considerable buildin' goin' on this spring. There's talk of the Baptists an' the Methodists puttin' up new churches an' havin' regular preachers instead of the circuit riders. But you'll see all this fer yourself when you git there. Plenty of licker to be had at Sol Hamer's grocery,—mostly Mononga-Durkee whisky,—in case you git the Wabash shakes or suddenly feel homesick."

"I drink very little," said Kenneth.

"Well, you'll soon git over that," prophesied his host. "Everybody does. A spell of aguer like we have along the river every fall an' winter an' spring will make you mighty thankful fer Sol Hamer's medicine, an' by the time summer comes you'll be able to stand more'n you ever thought you could stand. What worries me is how the women manage to git along without it. You see big strong men goin' around shakin' their teeth out an' docterin' day an' night at Sol's, but I'll be doggoned if you ever see a woman takin' it. Seems as if they'd ruther shake theirselves to death than tetch a drop o' whisky."

"You would not have them otherwise, would you?"

"Why, if I ever caught my wife takin' a swaller o' whisky, I'd—well, by gosh, I don't know what I would do. First place, I'd think the world was comin' to an end, and second place, I guess I'd be glad it was. No, sirree, I don't want to see whisky goin' down a woman's gullet. But that don't explain how they come to git along without it when they've got the aguer. They won't even take it when a rattlesnake bites 'em. Sooner die. An' in spite of all that, they bring he-children into the world that can't git over a skeeter bite unless they drink a pint or two of whisky. Well, I guess we better go to roost, Mr. Gwynne. Must be nine o'clock. Everything's all right out at the barn an' the chicken coops. Wolves an' foxes an' weasels visit us sometimes at night, but I got things fixed so's they go away hungry. In the day time, Eliza's got an ole musket o' mine standin' in the kitchen to skeer the hawks away, an' I got a rifle in the settin' room fer whatever varmint comes along at night,—includin' hoss-thieves an' setch-like."

"Horse-thieves?"

"Yep. Why, only last month a set of hoss-thieves from down the river went through the Wea plains an' stole sixteen yearlin' colts, drove 'em down to the river, loaded 'em on a flat-boat an' got away without losin' a hair. Done it on a Sunday night, too."

It was a few minutes past nine when Kenneth followed his host up the ladder and through the trap-door into the stuffy attic. He carried his rough riding-boots, which Zachariah had cleaned and greased with a piece of bacon-rind.

"I'll leave the ladder here," said Striker, depositing the candlestick on the floor. "So's I c'n stick my head in here in the mornin' an' rouse you up. There's your straw-tick over yander, an' I'll fotch your blankets up in a minute or two. I reckon you'll have to crawl on your hands an' knees; this attic wasn't built fer full-size men."

"I will be all right," his guest assured him. "Beggars cannot be choosers. A place to lay my head, a roof to keep the rain off, and a generous host—what more can the wayfarer ask?"

The clapboard roof was a scant three feet above the dusty floor of the attic. Stooping, the young man made his way to the bed-tick near the little window. He did not sniff with scorn at his humble surroundings. He had travelled long and far and he had slept in worse places than this. He was drawing off his boots when Striker again stuck his head and shoulders through the opening and laid his roll of blankets on the floor.

"Eliza jist stuck her head out to tell me to shut this trap-door, so's my snorin' won't keep you awake. I fergot all about my snorin'. Like as not if I left this door open the whole danged roof would be lifted right off'm the cabin 'fore I'd been asleep five minutes. Well, good night. I'll call you in the mornin' bright an' early."

The trap-door was slowly lowered into place as the shaggy head and broad shoulders of the settler disappeared. The young man heard the scraping of the ladder as it was being removed to a place against the wall.

He pried open the tight little window, letting a draft of fresh air rush into the stifling attic. Then he sat on the edge of the tick for a few minutes, ruminating, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on the sputtering, imperilled candle. Finally he shook his head, sighed, and began to unstrap his roll of blankets. He had decided to remove only his coat and waistcoat. The sharp, staccato barking of a fox up in the woods fell upon his ears. He paused to listen. Then came the faraway, unmistakable howl of a wolf, the solemn, familiar hoot of the wilderness owl and the raucous call of the great night heron. But there was no sound from the farmyard. He said his prayers—he never forgot to say the prayer his mother had taught him—blew out the candle, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and was soon fast asleep.

He did not know what time it was when he was aroused by the barking of Striker's dogs, loud, furious barking and ugly growls, signifying the presence in the immediate neighbourhood of the house of some intruder, man or beast. Shaking off the sleep that held him, he crept to the window and looked out. The moon was gone and the stars had almost faded from the inky black dome. He guessed the hour with the acute instinct of one to whom the vagaries of night have become familiar through long understanding. It would now be about three o'clock in the morning, with the creeping dawn an hour and a half away.

Suddenly his gaze fell upon a light moving among the trees some distance from the cabin. It appeared and disappeared, like a jack o' lantern, but always it moved southward, obscured every few feet by an intervening trunk or a clump of brush. As he watched the bobbing light, he heard some one stirring in the room below. Then the cabin door creaked on its rusty hinges and almost immediately a jumble of subdued hoarse voices came up to him. He felt for his pistols and realized with something of a shock that he had left them in the kitchen with Zachariah. For the first time in his travels he had neglected to place them beside his bed.

The dogs, admonished by a sharp word or two, ceased their barking. This reassured him, for they would obey no one except Phineas Striker. Whoever was at the cabin door, there was no longer any question in his mind as to the peaceful nature of the visit. He crept over to the trap-door and cautiously attempted to lift it an inch or so, the better to hear what was going on, but try as he would he could not budge the covering. The murmur of voices went on for a few minutes longer, and then he heard the soft, light pad of feet on the floor below; sibilant, penetrating whispers; a suppressed feminine ejaculation followed by the low laugh of a man, a laugh that might well have been described as a chuckle.

For a long time he lay there listening to the confused sound of whispers, the stealthy shuffling of feet, the quiet opening and closing of a door, and then there was silence.

Several minutes passed. He stole back to the window. The light in the forest had vanished. Just as he was on the point of crawling into bed again, another sound struck his ear: the unmistakable rattle of wagon wheels on their axles, the straining of harness, the rasp of tug chains,—quite near at hand. The clack-clack of the hubs gradually diminished as the heavy vehicle made its slow, tortuous way off through the ruts and mire of the road. Presently the front door of the cabin squealed on its hinges, the latch snapped and the bolt fell carefully into place.

He could not go to sleep again. His brain was awake and active, filled with unanswered questions, beset by endless speculation. The first faint sign of dawn, creeping through the window, found him watching eagerly, impatiently for its appearance. The presence of a wagon, even at that black hour of the night, while perhaps unusual, was readily to be accounted for in more ways than one, none of them possessing a sinister significance. A neighbouring farmer making an early start for town stopping to carry out some friendly commission for Phineas Striker; a settler calling for assistance in the case of illness at his home; hunters on their way to the marshes for wild ducks and geese; or even guardians of the law in search of malefactors. But the mysterious light in the woods,—that was something not so easily to be explained.

The square little aperture was clearly defined against the greying sky before he distinguished signs of activity in the room below. Striker was up and moving about. He could hear him stacking logs in the fireplace, and presently there came up to him the welcome crackle of kindling-wood ablaze. A door opened and a gruff voice spoke. The settler was routing Zachariah out of his slumbers. Far off in some unknown, remote land a rooster crowed,—the day's champion, the first of all to greet the rising sun. Almost instantly, a cock in Striker's barnyard awoke in confusion and dismay, and sent up a hurried, raucous cock-a-doodle-doo,—too late by half a minute to claim the honours of the day, but still a valiant challenger. Then other chanticleers, big and little, sounded their clarion call,—and the day was born.

Kenneth, despite his longing for this very hour to come, now perversely wished to sleep. A belated but beatific drowsiness seized him. He was only half-conscious of the noise that attended the lifting of the trap-door.

"Wake up! Time to git up," a distant voice was calling, and he suddenly opened his eyes very wide and found himself staring at a shaggy, unkempt head sticking up out of the floor, rendered grim and terrifying by the fitful play of a ruddy light from the depths below. For a second he was bewildered.

"That you, Striker?" he mumbled.

"Yep,—it's me. Time to git up. Five o'clock. Breakfass'll soon be ready. You c'n wash up out at the well. Sleep well?"

"Passably. I was awakened some time in the night by your visitors."

He was sitting up on the edge of the tick, drawing on his boots. Striker was silent for a moment.

"Thought maybe you'd be disturbed, spite of all we could do to be as quiet as possible. People from a farm 'tother side of the plains."

The head disappeared, and in a very few minutes Gwynne, carrying his coat and waistcoat, descended the ladder into the presence of a roaring fire. He shot a glance at the closed bedroom door, and then hastily made his way out of the cabin and around to the well. Eliza was preparing breakfast. In the grey half-light he made out Striker and Zachariah moving about the barnlot. A rough but clean towel hung across the board wall of the well, while a fresh bucket of water stood on the shelf inside, its chain hanging limply from the towering end of the "h'isting pole."

As he completed his ablutions, the darkey boy approached.

"Good morning, Zachariah," he spluttered, over the edge of the towel. "Did you sleep well?"

"No, suh, Marse Kenneth, Ah slep' powerful porely. Ah don't reckon Ah had mah eyes close' more'n fifteen seconds all night long, suh."

His master peered at him. Zachariah's eyes were not yet thoroughly open.

"You mean you did not have them open more than fifteen seconds, you rascal. Why, you were asleep and snoring by nine o'clock."

"Yas, suh, yas, suh,—but Ah done got 'em wide open ag'in 'side o' no time. Ah jes' couldn't holp worryin', Marse Kenneth, 'bout you all. Ah sez to mahself, ef Marse Kenneth he ain' got no fitten place to lay his weary haid—"

"Oh, then you were not kept awake by noises or—by the by, did you hear any noises?"

"Noises? No, SUH! Dis yere cabin hit was like a grave. Thass what kep' me awake, mos' likely. Ah reckon Ah is used to noises. Ah jes' couldn't go to sleep widdout 'em, Marse Kenneth. Wuzzen't even a cricket er a—"

His master's hearty laugh caused him to cut his speech short. A wary glance out of the corner of his eye satisfied him that it was now time to change the subject.

"Done fed de hosses, suh, an' mos' ready to packen up fo' de juhney, suh. Yas, SUH! Ev'thing all hunky-dory jes' soon as Marse Kenneth done had his breakfuss. YAS, suh! Yas, SUH!"

They ate breakfast by candle-light, Striker and Eliza and Kenneth. There was no sign of the beautiful and exasperating girl. Phineas was strangely glum and preoccupied, his wife too busy with her flap-jacks to take even the slightest interest in the desultory conversation.

"A little too early for my fellow-guest to be up and about, I see," ventured Kenneth at last, taking the bull by the horns. His curiosity had to be satisfied.

Striker did not look up from his plate. "She's gone. She ain't here."

"Gone?"

"Yep. Left jist a little while 'fore sun-up."

"Her ma sent for her," volunteered Eliza.

"Sent fer her to come in a hurry," added Striker, trying to be casual.

"Then it was she who went away in the wagon last night," said the young man, a note of disappointment in his voice.

"Airly this mornin'," corrected his host. "Jist half an hour or so 'fore sun-up."

"I trust her mother is not ill."

"No tellin'," was Striker's non-committal response.

It was quite apparent to Kenneth that they did not wish to discuss the matter. He waited a few moments before remarking:

"I saw a light moving through the woods above here,—a lantern, I took it to be,—just after I was awakened by the barking of the dogs. I thought at first it was that which set the dogs off on a rampage."

Striker was looking at him intently under his bushy eyebrows, his knife poised halfway to his lips. While he could not see Eliza, who was at the stove behind him, he was struck by the fact that there was a brief, significant suspension of activity on her part; the scrape of the "turnover" in the frying-pan ceased abruptly.

"A lantern up in the woods?" said Striker slowly, looking past Gwynne at Eliza.

"A light. It may not have been a lantern."

"Which way was it movin'?"

"In that direction," indicating the south.

The turning of the flap-jacks in the pan was resumed. Striker relaxed a little.

"Hunters, I reckon, goin' down stream for wild duck and geese this mornin'. There's a heap o' ducks an' geese passin' over—"

"See here, Phineas," broke in his wife suddenly, "what's the sense of sayin' that? You know it wasn't duck hunters. Nobody's out shooting ducks with the river as high as it is down this way, an' Mr. Gwynne knows it, if he's got half as much sense as I think he has."

"When I heard people out in front of the cabin shortly afterward, I naturally concluded that the lantern belonged to them," remarked the young man.

"Well, it didn't," said Striker, laying down his knife. "I guess it won't hurt you to know now somethin' that will be of considerable interest to you later on. I ain't betrayin' nobody's secret, 'cause I said I was goin' to tell you the whole story."

"Don't you think you'd better let it come from somebody else, Phin?" interposed his wife nervously.

"No, I don't, Eliza. 'Cause why? 'Cause I think he'd ort to know. Maybe he'll be able to put a stop to her foolishness. We didn't know until long after you went to bed that her real reason fer comin' here yesterday was to run off an' get married to Barry Lapelle. She didn't tell you no lies about her clothes an' all that, 'cause her ma had put her foot down on her takin' off black. They had it all planned out beforehand, her an' this Lapelle. He was to come fer her some time before daybreak with a couple of hosses an' they was to be off before the sun was up on their way to Attica where they was to be married, an' then go on down the river to his home in Terry Hut. Me an' Eliza set up all night in that bedroom, tryin' to coax her out of it. I don't like this Lapelle feller. He's a handsome cuss, but he's as wild as all get out,—drinks, gambles, an' all setch. Well, to make a long story short, that was prob'ly him up yander on the ole Injin trace, with his hosses, waitin' fer the time to come when they could be off. Her ma must have found out about their plans, 'cause she come here herself with two of her hired men an' old Cap'n Scott, a friend of the fam'ly, an' took her daughter right out from under Barry's nose. It was them you heared down here last night. I will say this fer the girl, she kinder made up her mind 'long about midnight that it was a foolish thing to do, runnin' off like this with Barry, an' like as not when the time come she'd have backed out."

"She's a mighty headstrong girl," said Eliza. "Sot in her ways an' sp'iled a good deal by goin' to school down to St. Louis." "Her mother don't want her to marry Lapelle. She's dead sot ag'inst it. It's a mighty funny way fer the girl to act, when she's so fond of her mother. I can't understand it in her. All the more reason fer her to stick to her mother when it's a fact that the old woman ain't got what you'd call a friend in the whole deestrict. She's a queer sort of woman,—close an' stingy as all get out, an' as hard as a hickory log. Never been seen at a church meetin'. She makes her daughter go whenever there's a meetin', but as fer herself,—no, sirree. 'Course, I understand why she's so sot ag'inst Barry. She's purty well off an' the girl will be rich some day."

"Shucks!" exclaimed Eliza. "Barry Lapelle's after her 'cause she's the purtiest girl him or anybody else has ever seen. He ain't the only man that's in love with her. They ALL are,—clear from Lafayette to Terry Hut, an' maybe beyond. Don't you tell me it's her money he's after, Phin Striker. He's after HER. He's got plenty of money himself, so they say, so why—"

"I ain't so sure about that," broke in her husband. "There's a lot of talk about him gamblin' away most everything his father left him. Lost one of his boats last winter in a poker game up at Lafayette, an' had to borrer money on some land he's got down the river to git it back. The packet Paul Revere it was. Used to run on the Mississippi. I guess she kinder lost her head over him," he went on musingly. "He's an awful feller with women, so good-lookin' an' all, an' so different from the farm boys aroun' here. Allus got good clothes on, an' they say he has fit a couple of duels down the river. Somehow that allus appeals to young girls. But I can't understand it in her. She's setch a level-headed girl,—but, then, I guess they're all alike when a good-lookin' man comes along. Look at Eliza here. The minute she sot eyes on me she—" "I didn't marry you, Phin Striker, because you was purty, let me tell you that," exclaimed Eliza, witheringly.

Gwynne, who had been listening to all this with a queer sinking of the heart, interrupted what promised to develop into an acrimonious wrangle over pre-connubial impressions. He was decidedly upset by the revelations; a vague dream, barely begun, came to a sharp and disagreeable end.

"She actually had planned to run away with this man Lapelle?" he exclaimed, frowning. "It was all arranged?"

"So I take it," said Striker. "She brought some of her personal trinkets with her, but Eliza never suspected anything queer about that."

"The fellow must be an arrant scoundrel," declared the young man angrily. "No gentleman would subject an innocent girl to such—"

"All's well that ends well, as the feller says," interrupted Striker, arising from the table. "At least fer the present. She seemed sort of willin' to go home with her ma, so I guess her heart ain't everlastingly busted. I thought it was best to tell you all this, Mr. Gwynne, 'cause I got a sneakin' idee you're goin' to see a lot of that girl, an' maybe you'll turn out to be a source of help in time o' trouble to her."

"I fail to understand just what you mean, Striker. She is an absolute stranger to me."

"Well, we'll see what we shall see," said Striker, cryptically. He opened the kitchen door and called to Zachariah to hurry in and get his breakfast.

Half an hour later Kenneth and his servant mounted their horses in the barnyard and prepared to depart. The sun was shining and there was a taste and tang of spring in the breeze that flouted the faces of the horsemen.

"Follow this road back to the crossin' an' turn to your left," directed Striker, "an' 'fore you know it you'll be in Lay-flat, as they call it down in Crawfordsville. Remember, you're allus most welcome here. I reckon we'll see somethin' of each other as time goes on. It ain't difficult fer honest men to be friends as well as neighbours in this part of the world. I'm glad you happened my way last night."

He walked alongside Gwynne's stirrup as they moved down toward the road.

"Some day," said the young man, "I should like to have a long talk with you about my father. You knew him well and I—by the way, your love-lorn friend knew him also."

The other was silent for half a dozen paces, looking straight ahead.

"Yes," said he, with curious deliberation. "She was sayin' as how she told you a lot about him last night,—what sort of a man he was, an' all that."

"She told me nothing that—"

"Jist a minute, Mr. Gwynne," said Striker, laying his hand on the rider's knee. Kenneth drew rein. "I guess maybe you didn't know who she was talkin' about at the time, but it was your father she was describin'. We all three knowed somethin' that you didn't know, an' it's only fair fer me to tell you the truth, now that she's out of the way. That girl was Viola Gwyn, an' she's your half-sister."



CHAPTER V

REFLECTIONS AND AN ENCOUNTER

The sun was barely above the eastward wall of trees when Kenneth and his man rode away from the home of Phineas Striker. Their progress was slow and arduous, for the black mud was well up to the fetlocks of the horses in this new road across the boggy clearing. He rode ahead, as was the custom, followed a short distance behind by his servant on the strong, well-laden pack-horse.

The master was in a thoughtful, troubled mood. He paid little attention to the glories of the fresh spring day. What he had just heard from the lips of the settler disturbed him greatly. That beautiful girl his half-sister! The child of his own father and the hated Rachel Carter! Rachel Carter, the woman he had been brought up to despise, the harlot who had stolen his father away, the scarlet wanton at whose door the death of his mother was laid! That evil woman, Rachel Carter!

Could she, this foulest of thieves, be the mother of so lovely, so sensitive, so perfect a creature as Viola Gwyn?

As he rode frowningly along, oblivious to the low chant of the darkey and the song of the first spring warblers, he revisualized the woman he had known in his earliest childhood. Strangely enough, the face of Rachel Carter had always remained more firmly, more indelibly impressed upon his memory than that of his own mother.

This queer, unusual circumstance may be easily, reasonably accounted for: his grandfather's dogged, almost daily lessons in hate. He was not allowed to forget Rachel Carter,—not for one instant. Always she was kept before him by that bitter, vindictive old man who was his mother's father,—even up to the day that he lay on his deathbed. Small wonder, then, that his own mother's face had faded from his memory while that of Rachel Carter remained clear and vivid, as he had known it now for twenty years. The passing years might perforce bring about changes in the face and figure of Rachel Carter, but they could not, even in the smallest detail, alter the picture his mind's eye had carried so long and faithfully. He could think of her only as she was when he last saw her, twenty years ago: tall and straight, with laughing eyes and white teeth, and the colour of tan-bark in her cheeks.

Then there had been little Minda,—tiny Minda who existed vaguely as a name, nothing more. He had a dim recollection of hearing his elders say that the babe with the yellow curls had been drowned when a boat turned over far away in the big brown river. Some one had come to his grandfather's house with the news. He recalled hearing the talk about the accident, and his grandfather lifting his fist toward the sky and actually blaming God for something! He never forgot that. His grandfather had blamed God!

He had thought of asking Striker about his father's widow, after hearing the truth about Viola, but a stubborn pride prevented. It had been on his tongue to inquire when and where Robert Gwynne and Rachel Carter were married,—he did not doubt that they had been legally married,—but he realized in time that in all probability the settler, as well as every one else in the community, was totally uninformed as to the past life of Robert and Rachel Gwynne. Besides, the query would reveal an ignorance on his part that he was loath to expose to speculation.

Striker had explained the somewhat distasteful scrutiny to which he had been subjected the night before. All three of them, knowing him to be Viola's blood relation, were studying his features with interest, seeking for a trace of family resemblance, not alone to his father but to the girl herself. This had set him thinking. There was not, so far as he could determine, the slightest likeness between him and his beautiful half-sister; there was absolutely nothing to indicate that their sire was one and the same man.

Pondering, he now understood what Striker meant in declaring that he ought to know the truth about the frustrated elopement. Even though the honest settler was aware of the strained relations existing between the widow and her husband's son by a former wife,—(the deceased in his will had declared in so many words that he owed more than mere reparation to the neglected but unforgotten son born to him and his beloved but long dead wife, Laura Gwynne),—even though Striker knew all this, it was evident that he looked upon this son as the natural protector of the wilful girl, notwithstanding the feud between step-mother and step-son.

And Kenneth, as he rode away, felt a new weight of responsibility as unwelcome to him as it was certain to be to Viola; for, when all was said and done, she was her mother's daughter and as such doubtless looked upon him through the mother's eyes, seeing a common enemy. Still, she was his half-sister, and whether he liked it or not he was morally bound to stand between her and disaster,—and if Striker was right, marriage with the wild Lapelle spelled disaster of the worst kind. He had only to recall, however, the unaccountable look of hostility with which she had favoured him more than once during the evening to realize that he was not likely to be called upon for either advice or protection.

He mused aloud, with the shrug of a philosopher: "Heigh-ho! I fear me I shall have small say as to the conduct of this newly found relation. The only tie that bound us is gone. She is not only the child of my father, whom she feared and perhaps hated, but of mine enemy, whom she loves,—so the case is clear. There is a wall between us, and I shall not attempt to surmount it. What a demnition mess it has turned out to be. I came prepared to find only the creature I have scorned and despised, and I discover that I have a sister so beautiful that, not knowing her at all, my eyes are dazzled and my heart goes to thumping like any silly school boy's. Aye, 'tis a very sorry pass. Were it not so demned upsetting, it would be amusing. Fate never played a wilder prank. What, ho, Zachariah! Where are we now? Whose farm is that upon the ridge?"

Zachariah, urging his horse forward, consulted his memory. Striker had mentioned the farms they were to pass en route, and the features by which they were to be identified. Far away on a rise in the sweep of prairie-land stood a lonely cabin, with a clump of trees behind it.

"Well, Marse Kenneth, ef hit ain' de Sherry place hit shorely am de Sheridan place, an' ef hit ain't nuther one o' dem hit mus' belong to Marse Dimmit er—-"

"It is neither of these, you rascal. We are to the north of them, if I remember our directions rightly. Mr. Hollingsworth and the Kisers live hereabouts, according to Phineas Striker. A house with a clump of trees,—it is Mr. Huff's farm. Soon we will come to the Martin and Talbot places, and then the land that is mine, Zachariah. It lies for the most part on this side of the Crawfordsville road."

"Is yo' gwine to stop dere, Marse Kenneth?"

"No. I shall ride out from town some day soon to look the place over," said his master with a pardonable lordliness of mien, becoming to a landed gentleman. "Our affairs at present lie in the town, for there is much to be settled before I take charge. Striker tells me the man who is farming the place is an able, honest fellow. I shall not disturb him. From what he says, my property is more desirable in every way than the land that fell to my father's widow. Her farm lies off to our left, it seems, and reaches almost to the bottomlands of the river. We, Zachariah, are out here in the fertile prairie land. Our west line extends along the full length of her property. So, you see, the only thing that separates the two farms is an imaginary line no wider than your little finger, drawn by a surveyor and established by law. You will observe, my faithful fellow,—assuming that you are a faithful fellow,—that as we draw farther away from the woods along the river, the road becomes firmer, the soil less soggy, the—If you will cast your worthless eye about you, instead of at these mud-puddles, you will also observe the vast fields of stubble, the immense stretches of corn stalks and the signs of spring ploughing on all sides. Truly 'tis a wonderful country. See yon pasture, Zachariah, with the cows and calves,—a good score of them. And have you, by the way, noticed what a glorious day it is? This is life!"

"Yas, suh, Marse Kenneth, Ah done notice dat, an' Ah done notice somefin ailse. Ah done notice dem buzzards flyin' low over yan way. Dat means death, Marse Kenneth. Somefin sho' am daid over yan way."

"You are a melancholy croaker, Zachariah. You see naught but the buzzards, when all about you are the newly come birds of spring, the bluebird, the robin, and the thrush. Soon the meadow lark will be in the fields, and the young quail and the prairie-hen."

"Yas, suh," agreed Zachariah, brightening, "an' de yaller-hammer an' de blue-jay an' de—an' de rattlesnake," he concluded, with a roving, uneasy look along the roadside.

"Do not forget the saucy parroquets we saw yesterday as we came through the forest. You went so far in your excitement over those little green and golden birds, with their scarlet heads, that you declared they reminded you of the Garden of Eden. Look about you, Zachariah. Here is the Garden of Eden, right at your feet. Do you see those plum trees over yonder? Well, sir, old Adam and Eve used to sit under those very trees during the middle of the day, resting themselves in the shade. And right over there behind that big rock is where the serpent had his nest. He gave Eve a plum instead of an apple, because Eve was especially fond of plums and did not care at all for apples. She—"

"'Scuse me, Marse Kenneth, but dem is hawthorn trees," said Zachariah, grinning.

"So they are, so they are. Now that I come to think of it, it was the red-haw that Eve fancied more than any other fruit in the garden."

"Yas, suh,—an' ole Adam he was powerful fond ob snappin'-turtles fo' breakfas'," said Zachariah, pointing to a tortoise creeping slowly along the ditch. "An' lil Cain an' Abel,—my lan', how dem chillum used to gobble up de mud pies ole Mammy Eve used to make right out ob dish yere road we's ridin' on."

And so, in this sportive mood, master and man, warmed by the golden sun and cheered by the spring wind of an April morn, traversed this new-found realm of Cerus, forded the turbulent, swollen creek that later on ran through the heart of the Gwynne acres, and came at length to the main road leading into the town.

They passed log cabins and here and there pretentious frame houses standing back from the road in the shelter of oak and locust groves. Their passing was watched by curious women and children in dooryards and porches, while from the fields men waved greeting and farewell with the single sweep of a hat. On every barn door the pelts of foxes and raccoons were stretched and nailed.

Presently they drew near to a lane reaching off to the west, and apparently ending in a wooded knoll, a quarter of a mile away.

"There," said Kenneth, with a wave of his hand, "is where I shall some day erect a mansion, Zachariah, that will be the wonder and the envy of all the people in the country. For unless I am mistaken, that is the grove of oaks that Striker mentioned. Behold, Zachariah,—all that is mine. Four hundred acres of as fine farm-land as there is in all the world, and timber unparalleled. Yes, I am right. There is the house that Striker described, the place where my father lived he first came to the Wea. Egad, 'tis not a regal palace, is it, Zachariah? The most imposing thing about it is the chimney."

They were gazing at a cabin that squatted meekly over against the wall of oaks. Its roof was barely visible above the surrounding stockade, while the barn and styes and sheds were hidden entirely beyond the slope. It was, in truth, the most primitive and insignificant house they had seen that day.

"He was one of the first to build in this virgin waste," mused the young man aloud. "Rough and parlous were the days when he came to this land, Zachariah. There was no town of Lafayette, no neighbours save the rude, uncultured trappers. Now see how the times have changed. And, mark my guess, Zachariah, there will be still greater changes before we are laid away. There will be cities and—Ha! Look, Zachariah,—to the right of the grove. It is all as Striker said. There is the other house,—two miles or more to the westward. That is HER house. It is new, scarce two years old, built of lumber instead of logs, and quite spacious. There are, he tells me, two stories, containing four rooms, with a kitchen off the back, a smoke-house and a granary besides the barn,—yes, I see them all, just as he said we should see them after we rounded the grove."

He drew rein and gazed at the distant house, set on a ridge and backed by the seemingly endless forest that stretched off to the north and south. His face clouded, his jaw was set, and his eyes were hard.

"Yes, that would be Rachel Carter's house," he continued, harshly. "Her land and my land lying side by side, with only a fence between. Her grain and my grain growing out of the same soil. What an unholy trick for fate to play. Perhaps she is over there, even now. She and Viola. It is not likely that they would have started for town at an earlier hour than this. And to think of the damnable situation I shall find in town. She will be my neighbour,—just as she was twenty years ago. We shall live within speaking distance of each other, we shall see each other perhaps a dozen times a day, and yet we may neither speak nor see. Egad, I wonder what I'll do if she even attempts to address me! Heigh-ho! 'Tis the mischief of Satan himself. Come, Zachariah,—you lazy rascal! As if you had not slept soundly all night long, you must now fall asleep sitting bolt upright in the saddle."

And so on they rode again, at times breaking into a smart canter where the road was solid, but for the most part proceeding with irksome slowness through the evil slough. Ahead lay the dense wood they were to traverse before coming to the town. Soon the broad, open prairie would be behind them, they would be plunged into the depths of a forest primeval, wending their way through five miles of solitude to the rim of the vale in which the town was situated. But the forest had no terrors for them. They were accustomed to the long silences, the sombre shades, the seemingly endless stretches of wildwood wherein no mortal dwelt. They had come from afar and they were young, and hardy, and fearless. Beyond that wide wall of trees lay journey's end; a new life awaited them on the other side of the barrier forest.

Suddenly Zachariah called his master's attention to a horseman who rode swiftly, even recklessly across the fields to their left and well ahead of them. They watched the rider with interest, struck by the furious pace he was holding, regardless of consequences either to himself or his steed.

"Mus' be somebody pow'ful sick, Marse Kenneth, fo' dat man to be ridin' so fas'," remarked Zachariah.

"Going for a doctor, I sup—Begad, he must have come from Rachel Carter's farm! There is no other house in sight over in that direction. I wonder if—" He did not complete the sentence, but frowned anxiously as he looked over his shoulder at the distant house.

Judging by the manner and the direction in which he was galloping, the rider would reach the main road a quarter of a mile ahead of them, about at the point where it entered the wood. Kenneth now made out an unfenced wagon-road through the field, evidently a short-cut from Rachel Carter's farm to the highway. He permitted himself a faint, sardonic smile. This, then, was to be her means of reaching the highway rather than to use the lane that ran past his house and no doubt crossed a section of his farm.

Sure enough the horseman turned into the road some distance ahead of them and rode straight for the forest. Then, for the first time, Gwynne observed a second rider, motionless at the roadside, and in the shadow of the towering, leafless trees that marked the portal through which they must enter the forest. The flying horseman slowed down as he neared this solitary figure, coming to a standstill when he reached his side. A moment later, both riders were cantering toward the wood, apparently in excited, earnest conversation. A few rods farther on, both turned to look over their shoulders at the slow-moving travellers. Then they stopped, wheeled about, and stood still, awaiting their approach.

Kenneth experienced a poignant thrill of apprehension What was he to expect: a friendly or a sanguinary encounter? He slipped his right hand into the saddle pocket and drew forth a pistol which he shoved hastily inside his waistcoat, covering the stock with the folds of his cape.

"Keep a little way behind me," he said to his servant, a trace of excitement in his voice.

"Yas, suh," said Zachariah, with more alacrity than valour, the whites of his eyes betraying something more than a readiness to obey this conservative order. It was a foregone conclusion that Zachariah would turn tail and flee the instant there was a sign of danger. "Slave hunters, Marse Kenneth, dat's what dey is," he announced with conviction. "Ah c'n smell 'em five miles away. Yas, suh,—dey's gwine a' make trouble fo' you, Marse Kenneth, sho' as you is—" But by this time he had dropped so far behind that his opinions were valueless.

When not more than fifty yards separated the two parties, one of the men, with a word and an imperative jerk of the head to his companion, advanced slowly to meet Kenneth. This man was the one who had waited for the other at the edge of the wood.

Gwynne beheld a tall, strongly built young man who rode his horse with the matchless grace of an Indian. Although his companion was roughly dressed and wore a coon-skin cap, this man was unmistakably a dandy. His high beaver hat observed a jaunty, rakish tilt; his brass-buttoned coat was the colour of wine and of the latest fashion, while his snug fitting pantaloons were the shade of the mouse. He wore no cumbersome cape, but fashioned about his neck and shoulders was a broad, sloping collar of mink. There were silver spurs on his stout riding boots, and the wide cuffs of his gauntlets were embroidered in silver.

He was a handsome fellow of the type described as dashing. Dark gleaming eyes peered out beneath thick black eyebrows which met in an unbroken line above his nose. Set in a face of unusual pallor, they were no doubt rendered superlatively brilliant by contrast. His skin was singularly white above the bluish, freshly shaven cheeks and chin. His hair was black and long and curling. The thin lips, set and unsmiling, were nevertheless drawn up slightly at one corner of the mouth in what appeared to be a permanent stamp of superiority and disdain,—or even contempt. Altogether, a most striking face, thought Gwynne,—and the man himself a person of importance. The very manner in which he jerked his head to his companion was proof enough of that.

"Good morning," said this lordly gentleman, bringing his horse to a standstill and raising his "gad" to the brim of his hat in a graceful salute.

Gwynne drew rein alongside. He had observed in a swift glance that the stranger was apparently unarmed, except for the short, leather gad.

"Good morning," he returned. "I am on the right road to Lafayette, I take it." "You are," said the other. "From Crawfordsville way?"

"Yes. I left that place yesterday. I come from afar, however. This is a strange country to me."

"It is strange to most of us. Unless I am mistaken, sir, you are Mr. Kenneth Gwynne."

The other smiled. "My approach appears to be fairly well heralded. Were I a vain person I should feel highly complimented."

"Then you ARE Kenneth Gwynne?" said the stranger, rather curtly.

"Yes. That is my name."

"Permit me to make myself known to you. My name is Lapelle,—Barry Lapelle. While mine no doubt is unfamiliar to you, yours is well known to me. In fact, it is known to every one in these parts. You have long been expected. You will find the town anxiously awaiting your appearance." He smiled slightly. "If you could arrange to arrive after nightfall, I am sure you would find bonfires and perhaps a torchlight procession in your honour. As it is, I rather suspect our enterprising citizen, Mr. William Smith, will fire a salute when you appear in view."

"A salute?" exclaimed Kenneth blankly.

"A joyful habit of his, but rather neglected of late. It used to be his custom, I hear, to put a charge of powder in a stump and set it off whenever a steamboat drew up to the landing. That was his way of letting the farmers for miles around know that a fresh supply of goods had arrived and they were to hurry in and do the necessary trading at the store. He almost blew himself and his store to Hallelujah a year or two ago, and so he isn't quite so enterprising as he was. I am on my way to town, Mr. Gwynne, so if you do not mind, I shall give myself the pleasure of riding along with you for a short distance. I shall have to leave you soon, however, as I am due in the town by ten o'clock. You are too heavily laden, I see, to travel at top speed,—and that is the way I am obliged to ride, curse the luck. When I have set you straight at the branch of the roads a little way ahead, I shall use the spurs,—and see you later on."

"You are very kind. I will be pleased to have you jog along with me."



CHAPTER VI

BARRY LAPELLE

So this was Barry Lapelle. This was the wild rake who might yet become his brother-in-law, and whose sprightly enterprise had been frustrated by a woman who had, herself, stolen away in the dark of a far-off night.

As they rode slowly along, side by side, into the thick of the forest, Kenneth found himself studying the lover's face. He looked for the signs of the reckless dissipated life he was supposed to have led,—and found them not. Lapelle's eyes were bright and clear, his skin unblemished, his hand steady, his infrequent smile distinctly engaging. The slight, disdainful twist never left the corner of his mouth, however. It lurked there as a constant reminder to all the world that he, Barry Lapelle, was a devil of a fellow and was proud of it. While he was affable, there was no disguising the fact that he was also condescending. Unquestionably he was arrogant, domineering, even pompous at times, absolutely sure of himself.

He spoke with a slight drawl, in a mellow, agreeable voice, and with meticulous regard for the King's English,—an educated youth who had enjoyed advantages and associations uncommon to young men of the frontier. His untanned face testified to a life of ease and comfort, spent in sheltered places and not in the staining open, where sun and wind laid bronze upon the skin. A lordly fellow, decided Kenneth, and forthwith took a keen dislike for him. Nevertheless, it was not difficult to account for Viola's interest in him; nor, to a certain extent, the folly which led her to undertake the exploit of the night before. Barry Lapelle would have his way with women.

"You come from Kentucky, Mr. Gwynne," Lapelle was saying. "I am from Louisiana. My father came up to St. Louis a few years ago after establishing a line of steamboats between Terre Haute and the gulf. Two of our company's boats come as far north as Lafayette, so I spend considerable of my time there at this season of the year. You will find, sir, a number of Kentucky and Virginia people in this part of the state. Splendid stock, some of them. I understand you have spent several years in the East, at college and in pursuit of your study of the law."

"Principally in New York and Philadelphia," responded the other, subduing a smile. "My fame seems to have preceded me, Mr. Lapelle. Even in remote parts of the country I find my arrival anticipated. The farmer with whom I spent the night was thoroughly familiar with my affairs."

"You are an object of interest to every one in this section," said Lapelle, indifferently. "Where did you spend the night?"

"At the farm of a man named Striker,—Phineas Striker."

Lapelle started. His body appeared to stiffen in the saddle.

"Phineas Striker?" he exclaimed, with a swift, searching look into the speaker's eyes. Suddenly a flush mantled his cheek. "You were at Phineas Striker's last night?"

"Yes. We had lost our way and came to his place just before the storm," said Kenneth, watching his companion narrowly. Lapelle's face was a study. Doubt, indecision, even dismay, were expressed in swift succession.

"Then you must have met,—but no, it isn't likely," he said, in some confusion.

Kenneth hesitated a moment, enjoying the other's discomfiture. Then he said: "I met no one there except my sister, who also happened to be spending the night with the Strikers."

The colour faded from Lapelle's face, leaving it a sickly white. "Were you in any way responsible for—well, for her departure, Mr. Gwynne?" he demanded, his eyes flaming with swift, sudden anger.

"I was not aware of her departure until I arose this morning, Mr. Lapelle. Striker informed me that she went away before sunrise."

For a moment Lapelle glared at him suspiciously, and then gave vent to a short, contemptuous laugh.

"A thousand apologies," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I might have known you would not be consulted."

"I never laid eyes on my half-sister until last night," said Kenneth, determined to hold his temper. "It is not likely that she would have asked the advice of a total stranger, is it? Especially in so simple a matter as going home when she felt like it."

Lapelle shrugged his shoulders again. "I quite forgot that you are a lawyer, Mr. Gwynne," he said, drily. "Is it your purpose to hang out your shingle in the town of Lafayette?"

"My plans are indefinite."

"You could do worse, I assure you. The town is bound to grow. It will be an important town in a very few years." And so the subject uppermost in the minds of both was summarily dismissed.

They came at last to the point where a road branched off to the right. The stillness was intense. There was no sign of either human or animal life in the depths of this wide, primeval forest.

"Follow this road," said Lapelle, pointing straight ahead. "It will take you into the town. You will find the bridge over Durkee's Run somewhat shaky after the rain, but it is safe. I must leave you here. I shall no doubt see you at Johnson's Inn, in case you intend to stop there. Good morning, sir."

He lifted his hat and, touching the spirited mare with the gad, rode swiftly away. A few hundred feet ahead he overtook his mud-spattered friend and the two of them were soon lost to sight among the trees.

Kenneth fell into profound cogitation. Evidently Lapelle had waited at the edge of the forest for a report of some description from the farmhouse belonging to Rachel Carter. In all probability Viola was still at the farm with her mother, and either she had sent a message to her lover or had received one from him. Or, it was possible, Lapelle had despatched his man to the farmhouse to ascertain whether the girl was there, or had been hurried on into the town by her mother. In any case, the disgruntled lover was not content to acknowledge himself thwarted or even discouraged by the miscarriage of his plans of the night just ended. Kenneth found himself wondering if the incomprehensible Viola would prove herself to be equally determined. If so, they would triumph over opposition and be married, whether or no. He was conscious of an astounding, almost unbelievable desire to stand with Rachel Carter in her hour of trouble.

His thoughts went back, as they had done more than once that morning, to Viola's artful account of his own father. He had felt sorry for her during and after the recital and now, with the truth revealed to him, he was even more concerned than before,—for he saw unhappiness ahead of her if she married this fellow Lapelle. He went even farther back and recalled his own caustic opinions of certain young rakes he had known in the East, wherein he had invariably asseverated that if he "had a sister he would sooner see her dead than married to that rascal." Well,—here he was with a sister,—and what was he to do about it?

Zachariah, observing the dark frown upon his master's face, and receiving no answer to a thrice repeated question, fell silent except for the almost inaudible hymn with which he invited consolation.

From afar in the thick wood now came the occasional report of a gun, proof that hunters were abroad. Many times Kenneth was roused from his reverie by the boom and whiz of pheasants, or the ring of a woodman's axe, or the lively scurrying of ground squirrels across his path. They forded three creeks before emerging upon a boggy, open space, covered with a mass of flattened, wind-broken reeds and swamp grass, in the centre of which lay a wide, still bayou partially fringed by willows with the first sickly signs of spring upon them in the shape of timid mole-ear leaves. Beyond the bridge over the canal-like stream which fed the bayou was a ridge of hills along whose base the road wound with tortuous indecision.

The first log cabin they had seen since entering the wood nestled among the scrub oaks of the hill hard by. The front wall of the hut was literally covered with the pegged-up skins of foxes, raccoons and what were described to Kenneth as the hides of "linxes," but which, in reality, were from the catamount. A tall, bewhiskered man, smoking a corncob pipe, leaned upon the rail fence, regarding the strangers with lazy interest.

Kenneth drew rein and inquired how far it was to Lafayette.

"'Bout two mile an' a half," replied the man. "My name is Stain, Isaac Stain. I reckon you must be Mister Kenneth Gwynne. I heerd you'd be along this way some time this mornin'."

"I suppose Mr. Lapelle informed you that I was coming along behind," said Kenneth, smiling.

"'Twuzn't Barry Lapelle as told me. I hain't seen him to-day."

"Didn't he pass here within the hour?"

"Nope," was the laconic response.

"I met him back along the road. He was coming this way."

"Must 'a' changed his mind."

"He probably took another road."

"There hain't no other road. I reckon he turned off into the wood an' 'lowed you to pass," said Mr. Stain slowly.

"But he was in great haste to reach town. He may have passed when you were not—"

"He didn't pass this place unless he was astraddle of an eagle er somethin' like that," declared the other, grinning. "An' even then he'd have to be flyin' purty doggone high ef I couldn't see him. Nope. I guess he took to the woods, Mr. Gwynne, for one reason er 'nother,—an' it must ha' been a mighty good reason, 'cause from what I know about Barry Lapelle he allus knows which way he's goin' to leap long before he leaps. He's sorter like a painter in that way."

Kenneth, knowing that he meant panther when he said painter, was properly impressed.

"It is very strange," he said, frowning. It was suddenly revealed to him that if Lapelle had tricked him it was because the messenger had brought word from Viola, at the farmhouse, and that the baffled lovers might even now be laying fresh plans to outwit the girl's mother. This fear was instantly dissipated by the next remark of Isaac Stain.

"Nope. It wuzn't him that told me about you, pardner. It wuz Violy Gwyn. She went by here with her ma, jes' as I wuz startin' off to look at my traps,—'long about seven o'clock, I reckon,—headed for town. She sez to me, sez she: 'Ike, there'll be a young man an' a darkey boy come ridin' this way some time this forenoon an' I want you to give him a message for me.' 'With pleasure,' sez I; 'anything you ask,' sez I. 'Well,' sez she, 'it's this. Fust you ask him ef his name is Kenneth Gwynne, an 'ef he sez it is, then you look an' see ef he is a tall feller an' very good-lookin', without a beard, an' wearin' a blue cape, an' when you see that he answers that description, why, you tell him to come an' see me as soon as he gits to town. Tell him it's very important.' 'All right,' sez I, 'I'll tell him.'"

"Where was her mother all this time?"

"Settin' right there in the buggy beside her, holdin' the reins. Where else would she be?"

"Did she say anything about my coming to see her daughter?"

"Nope. She never said anythin' 'cept 'Good mornin', Ike,' an' I sez 'Good mornin', Mrs. Gwyn.' She don't talk much, she don't. You see, she's in mournin' fer her husband. I guess he wuz your pa, wuzn't he?"

"Yes," said Kenneth briefly. "Was there anything else?"

"Nothin' to amount to anything. Violy sez, 'When did you get the linx skins, Ike?' an' I sez, 'Last Friday, Miss Violy,' an' she sez, 'Ain't they beautiful?' an' I sez—"

"She wants me to come to her house?" broke in Kenneth, his brow darkening.

"I reckon so."

"Well, I thank you, Mr. Stain. You are very kind to have waited so long for me to arrive. I—"

"Oh, I'd do a whole lot more'n that fer her," said the hunter quickly. "You see, I've knowed her ever since she wuz knee-high to a duck. She wuzn't more'n five or six when I brung her an' her folks up the Wabash in my perogue, all the way from Vincennes, an' it wuz me that took her down to St. Louis when she went off to school—her an' some friends of her pa's. Skinny, gangling sort of a young 'un she wuz, but let me tell you, as purty as a picter. I allus said she'd be the purtiest woman in all creation when she got her growth an' filled out, an', by hokey, I wuz right. Yes, sir, I used to run a boat on the river down below, but I give it up quite awhile ago an' come up here to live like a gentleman." He waved his hand proudly over his acre and a half estate. "I wuz talkin' to Bill Digby not long ago an' he sez this is a wonderful location for a town, right here at the fork of two o' the best fishin' cricks in the state. An' Bill he'd ort to know, 'cause he's laid out more towns than anybody I know of. The only trouble with Bill is that as soon as he lays 'em out somebody comes along an' offers him a hundred dollars er so fer 'em, er a team of hosses, er a good coon dog, an' he up an' sells. Now, with me, I—Got to be movin' along, have you? Well, good-bye, an' be a little keerful when you come to Durkee's Run bridge. It's kinder wobbly."

They were fording a creek some distance beyond Stain's cabin when Kenneth broke the silence that had followed the conversation with the hunter by exploding violently:

"Under no circumstances,—and that's all there is to it."

Zachariah, ever ready to seize an opportunity to raise his voice, either in expostulation or agreement, took this as a generous opening. He exclaimed with commendable feeling:

"Yas, suh! Undeh no suckemstances! No, suh!"

"It is not even to be thought of," declared his master, frowning heavily.

"No, suh! We can't even think about it, Marse Kenneth," said Zachariah, a trifle less decisively.

"So that is the end of it,—absolutely the end."

"Dat's what Ah say,—yas, suh, dat's what Ah say all along, suh!"

His master suddenly turned upon him. "I cannot go to that woman's house. It is unthinkable, Zachariah."

Zachariah began to see light. "Yo' all got to be mighty car'ful 'bout dese yere strange women, Marse Kenneth. Don' you forget what done happen in 'at ole Garden of Eden. Dis yere old Eve, she—"

"Still I am greatly relieved to know that she is in town and not out on the farm. It is a relief, isn't it, Zachariah?"

"Yas, suh,—hit sho'ly am."

They progressed slowly up a long hill and came to an extensive clearing, over which perhaps half a dozen farmhouses were scattered. Beyond this open space they entered a narrow strip of wood and, upon emerging, had their first glimpse of the Wabash River.

Stopping at the brow of the hill, they looked long and curiously over the valley into which they were about to descend. The panorama was magnificent. To the left flowed the swollen, turgid river, high among the willows and sycamores that guarded the low-lying bank. Far to the north it could be seen, a clayish, ugly monster, crawling down through the heart of the bowl-like depression. Mile after mile of sparsely wooded country lay revealed to the gaze of the travellers, sunken between densely covered ridges, one on either side of the river. Half a mile beyond where they stood feathery blue plumes of smoke rose out of the tree tops and, dispersing, floated away on the breeze,—and there lay the town of Lafayette, completely hidden from view.

The road wound down the hill and across a clumsily constructed bridge spanning the Run and thence along the flat shelf that rimmed the bottom-land, through a maze of wild plum and hazel brush squatting, as it were, at the feet of the towering forest giants that covered the hills.

Presently the travellers came upon widely separated cabins and gardens, and then, after passing through a lofty grove, found themselves entering the town itself. Signs of life and enterprise greeted them from all sides. Here, there and everywhere houses were in process of erection,—log-cabins, frame structures, and even an occasional brick dwelling-place. Turning into what appeared to be a well-travelled road,—(he afterwards found it to be Wabash Street), Kenneth came in the course of a few minutes to the centre of the town. Here was the little brick courthouse and the jail, standing in the middle of a square which still contained the stumps of many of the trees that originally had flourished there. At the southwest corner of the square was the tavern, a long story and a half log house,—and it was a welcome sight to Gwynne and his servant, both of whom were ravenously hungry by this time.

The former observed, with considerable satisfaction, that there were quite a number of substantial looking buildings about the square, mostly stores, all of them with hitching-racks along the edge of the dirt sidewalks. As far as the eye could reach, in every direction, the muddy streets were lined with trees.

Half a dozen men were standing in front of the tavern when the newcomers rode up. Kenneth dismounted and threw the reins to his servant. Landlord Johnson hurried out to greet him.



CHAPTER VII

THE END OF THE LONG ROAD

"We've been expecting you, Mr. Gwynne," he said in his most genial manner. "Step right in. Dinner'll soon be ready, and I reckon you must be hungry. Take the hosses around to the stable, nigger, and put 'em up. I allowed you'd be delayed some by the bad roads, but I guess you must have got a late start this mornin' from Phin Striker's. Mrs.—er—ahem! I mean your step-mother sent word that you were on the way and to have accommodations ready for you. Say, I'd like to make you acquainted with—"

"My step-mother sent word to you?" demanded Kenneth, incredulously.

"She did. What would you expect her to do, long as she knew you were headed this way? I admit she isn't specially given to worryin' about other people's comforts, but, when you get right down to it, I guess she considers you a sort of connection of hers, spite of everything, and so she lays herself out a little. But I want to tell you one thing, Mr. Gwynne, you're not going to find her particularly cordial, as the sayin' is. She's about as stand-offish and unneighbourly as a Kickapoo Indian. But, as I was sayin', I'd like to make you acquainted with some of our leadin' citizens. This is Daniel Bugher, the recorder, and Doctor Davis, Matt Scudder, Tom Benbridge and John McCormick. It was moved and seconded, soon as you heaved in sight, that we repair at once to Sol Hamer's grocery for a little—"

"Excuse me," broke in Kenneth, laughing; "I have heard of that grocery, and I think it would be wise for me to become a little better acquainted with my surroundings before I begin trading there."

The landlord rubbed his chin and the other gentlemen laughed uproariously.

"Well," said the former, "I can see one thing mighty plain. You're going to be popular with my wife and all the other women in town. They'll point to you and say to practically nine-tenths of the married men in Lafayette: 'There's a man that don't drink, and goodness knows HE isn't a preacher!'"

"I am hardly what you would call a teetotaler, gentlemen," said Gwynne, still smiling.

"Wait till you get down with a spell of the Wabash shakes," said Mr. McCormick. "That'll make a new man of him, won't it, Doc?"

"Depends somewhat on his constitution and the way he was brought up," said the doctor, with a professional frown which slowly relaxed into an unprofessional smile.

"I was brought up by my grandmother," explained Kenneth, vastly amused.

"That settles it," groaned Mr. Johnson. "You're not long for this world. Before we go in I wish you'd take a look at the new courthouse. We're mighty proud of that building. There isn't a finer courthouse in the state of Indiana,—or maybe I'd better say there won't be if it's ever finished." "I noticed it as I came by," said the newcomer, dismissing the structure with a glance. "If you will conduct me to my room, Mr. Johnson, I—"

"Just a second," broke in the landlord, his gaze fixed on a horseman who had turned into the street some distance below. "Here comes Barry Lapelle,—down there by that clump of sugar trees. He's the most elegant fellow we've got in town, and you'll want to know him. Makes Lafayette his headquarters most of the—"

"I have met Mr. Lapelle," interrupted Kenneth. "This morning, out in the country."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Johnson. The citizens exchanged a general look of surprise.

"Thought you said he went down the river on yesterday's boat," said Scudder.

"That's just what he did," said Johnson, puzzled. "Packed some of his things and said he'd be gone a week or so. He must have got off at Attica,—but, no, he couldn't have got here this soon by road. By glory, I hope the boat didn't strike a snag or a rock, or run ashore somewhere. Looks kind of serious, boys."

"Couldn't he have landed almost anywhere in a skiff?" inquired Gwynne, his eyes on the approaching horseman.

"Certainly he could,—but why? He had business down at Covington, he said."

"He told me this morning he had very important business here. That is why he could not ride in with me," said Kenneth, affecting indifference. "By the way, is he riding his own horse?"

"Yes," said Benbridge. "That's his mare Fancy,—thoroughbred filly by King Philip out of Shawnee Belle. He sent her down to Joe Fell's to stud yesterday and—Say, that accounts for him being on her now. You made a good guess, Mr. Gwynne. He must have landed at La Grange, rowed across the river, and hoofed it up to Fell's farm. But what do you suppose made him change his mind so suddenly?"

"He'll probably tell you to go to thunder if you ask him," said the landlord.

"I'm not going to ask him anything," retorted Benbridge.

"He's working tooth and nail against the Wabash and Erie Canal that's projected to run from Lake Erie to the mouth of the Tippecanoe, Mr. Gwynne," said one of the citizens. "But it's coming through in spite of him and all the rest of the river hogs."

"I see," said the young man, a grim smile playing about his lips.

He knew that the mare Fancy had been in waiting for her master when he clambered ashore on the river bank opposite La Grange, and he also suspected that the little steamboat had remained tied up at the landing all night long and well into the morning, expecting two passengers who failed to come aboard. He could not suppress a chuckle of satisfaction.

Lapelle rode up at this instant and, throwing the bridle rein to a boy who had come running up from the stable, dismounted quickly. He came straight to Gwynne, smiling cordially.

"I see you beat me in. After we parted I decided to cut through the woods to have a look at Jack Moxley's keel boat, stuck in the mud on this side of the river. You'd think the blame fool would have sense enough to keep well out in mid stream at a time like this. Happy to have you here with us, and I hope you will like us well enough to stay."

"Thank you. I shall like you all better after I have had something to eat," said Kenneth.

"And drink," added Lapelle. It was then that Kenneth noticed that his eyes were slightly blurred and his voice a trifle thick. He had been drinking.

"What turned you back, Barry?" inquired McCormick. "Thought you were to be gone a week or—"

"Changed my mind," said Lapelle curtly, and then, apparently on second thought, added: "I got off the boat at La Grange and crossed over to spend the night at Martin Hawk's, the man you saw with me this morning, Mr. Gwynne. He is a hunter down Middleton way. I fish and hunt with him a good deal. Well, I reckon I'd better go in and get out of these muddy boots and pants."

Without another word, he strode up the steps, across the porch and into the tavern, his head high, his gait noticeably unsteady.

"Martin Hawk!" growled the landlord. "The orneriest cuss this side of hell. Plain no-good scalawag. Barry'll find it out some day, and then maybe he'll wish he had paid some attention to what I've been tellin' him."

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit if Mart knows a whole lot more about what became of some mighty good yearlin' colts that used to belong to honest men down on the Wea," said one of the group, darkly.