Читать книгу: «The Wiving of Lance Cleaverage», страница 15

"I surely thought you were fixing to take the cow over to yo' house," she said shortly. "It doesn't belong here."

"It was said to be yours," Sylvane told her, true to his promise not to mention his brother's name, even inferentially. "I 'lowed that the baby and – and all – would need the milk. Reckon you best leave her stay."

"No," said Callista positively. "The cow's nothing I have any concerns with. Maybe Sis' Roxy could make use of the milk. Take her along home, Sylvane, or drive her back where she came from – or turn her loose, for all of me."

And then Sylvane knew whether his brother had failed in care for the child.

When Callista came in from disposing of this question of the cow, she found her mother standing, inclined, as usual, to be tearful, over the boxes and bundles. Coming on one of these latter with a peculiar knot which Lance always used, and which he had once taught her the secret of, Callista experienced a sick revulsion of feeling.

"I wish you'd undo 'em and put 'em away for me. Mammy," she said with unusual gentleness. "I think I hear the baby."

"All right, honey, go 'long and 'tend to him. I'll see to these," agreed Octavia patiently.

Callista hurried over to the big house where young Ajax lay asleep, and, as chance would have it, found indeed that he had wakened. She was hushing him on her knee a few minutes later, when her mother appeared in the doorway, a little money held in her trembling hands, and her eyes now openly overflowing.

"That pore boy!" Octavia burst out. "Look what he sent you. Sis! Now, he hain't sold anything of his crop – not yet. The good Lord only knows whar he come by this; but what he could get his hands on, he's sent you."

Callista leaped to her feet and ran to the door, pushing her mother aside none too gently, offending Ajax greatly by her rough handling of him.

"Sylvane!" she cried in the direction of the horse lot where Sylvane had gone to exchange the harness for a saddle on the mule. "Whoo-ee – Sylvane!"

"I'm a-comin'," Sylvane's voice answered, and she turned swiftly to the bed and laid the baby down.

"Give me that money!" she demanded.

"What for?" asked Octavia with unexpected spirit, tucking the bills in against her arm and refusing them.

"I want to send it back by Sylvane."

"You ain't a-goin' to do any such thing," Octavia declared. "The good Lord! To think that I ever raised such a gal as you air!"

"Give it to me!" Callista laid hands upon her mother's arm, wrenching at it. "Here's Sylvane. Give it to me now!"

The thud of the mule's hoofs approaching the door came clearly to both of them. Callista could even distinguish the little cow's light feet following.

The two wrestled and swayed a moment, Callista pushing a strong, capable hand into the elbow where the bills and the few coins were held.

"Take it, then. Oh, my Lord!" moaned Octavia. "I think you're the hard-heartedest somebody I ever knew of. Pore Lance – pore Lance!"

Sylvane, riding to the door with the rejected cow, received with something of Lance's stoic grace the despised money. A thankfulness that his "Buddy" was rehabilitated in his eyes made him say, as he stuffed the small wad down in his pocket:

"An' I don't take back my word. Sis' Callie. You wouldn't have these; but whatever I can do is ready and waitin', you know that."

And somehow, in the hour of her victory, Callista tasted defeat.

CHAPTER XX.
DRAWN BLANK

FOR a region of dwellers so scattered as those of the Turkey Tracks, the word neighborhood is a misnomer. Where the distances are so great from house to house, where there is no telephone, no milkman on regular rounds, no gossiping servants, one would have said that Callista might go home to her grandfather's and live a month without anyone suggesting that there had been a serious rupture between herself and Lance. But news of this sort travels in a mysterious way through the singularly intimate life of these thinly settled, isolated highlands. The first comers who saw Callista and her baby at the Gentry place knew in some curious fashion that she had forsaken Lance. Perhaps it was her air of permanence in the new home which was her old one; perhaps it was the fact that she had established her little household of two in that outside cabin. However it may be, Buck Fuson rode straight from the Gentry place to Derf's with the information – and found it there before him.

"Iley's man seen her jest at the aidge o' the evenin', streakin' through the woods 'crost the holler with the chap on her hip, and a bundle over her shoulder," Garrett Derf explained. "Them Injuns is smart about some things. He said to Iley when he come home that Lance's squaw had done shook him. Well!"

Gossip is generally personified as an old woman, but the men of a region like the Turkey Tracks are much thrown back upon it for an interest.

"Looks like Callisty never had been greatly petted on Lance," Fuson put forward, flinging a leg around the pommel of his saddle and sitting at ease.

Derf shook his head.

"I reckon she's like any other womern," he deprecated, with a sort of passive scorn. "You can spile the best of 'em. When Lance come over here the day after him and Callisty was wed and sot up housekeepin', and he showed hisse'f plumb crazy to spend money on her, I says to myse'f, says I, 'Yes, an' there'll be trouble in that fambly befo' snow flies.'"

He nodded with an air of one who utters the final wisdom, and Fuson could but agree.

"That's a fact," assented Buck, as one who knew something of the matter himself. "Man can pay out all he's worth, and still not satisfy a woman."

"Satisfy her!" echoed Derf. "Don't I tell you that it's the ruination of the best of 'em? They'll ax ye for anything, and then when they git it they'll quit ye, or turn ye out and pop the do' in yo' face. Lance was jest that-a-way. He wouldn't take a dare. Ef Callisty said she wanted the moon, and let on like she thought he was able to git it, he'd say nothin' and try to grab it for her."

"Ain't that Flent Hands's hawse?" asked Fuson suddenly, as Cindy trotted across the small home pasture and came to the fence.

"Uh-huh," agreed Derf, and the two men steadily avoided looking at each other. "Flent, he put the nag here with us so as to be handy. Him and me's got a trade up for openin' a store in the Settlement, him to run that end o' the business and me to run this end. Don't know how it'll turn out. He's been a-comin' and a-goin' considerable, and he left the filly with us. Says he aims to take her away to-morrow."

"Alf Dease 'lowed to me that Lance was sort o' pestered 'count of Flent havin' the filly," Fuson murmured abstractedly. "Said Lance wanted him to see could he buy her back. I reckon he couldn't go to Hands himself – Lance couldn't – way things air; but it seems he axed Dease to do it."

Derf was silent a moment, then,

"Some says that Lance Cleaverage is fixin' to sell and go to Texas," he opened out categorically. "I've always been good friends with the feller, but I tell you right here and now, I'd be glad to see the last of him. He's got his word out agin Flenton Hands, and, whenever them two meets, there's liable to be interruptions. I'm a peaceful man, and I aim to keep a peaceful place, and I ain't got any use for sech. I wish't Lance would see it that-a-way and move out – I do for a fact."

Slowly Fuson straightened his foot down, sought and found his stirrup; meditatively he switched the mule's withers with the twig he carried, and spoke to the animal, digging a negligent heel into its side, to start it.

"Well, I must be movin'," he said.

Derf stood long, leaning on the rail fence, looking absently after the slow pacing mule in the dusty highway. He turned at the sound of Ola's steps behind him. She had a halter in her hand and was making for the horse lot.

"I hearn what you and Buck was talkin' about," she said defiantly. "I'm goin' to ketch me out Cindy and ride over to Lance's."

"Oh, ye air, air ye?" demanded her father. "Well," with free contempt, "much good may it do ye!"

But Ola was impervious to his scorn. A stone wall was the only barrier her direct methods recognized. She caught and saddled the filly, brought out her black calico riding skirt, hooked it on over her workaday frock, clambered to Cindy's back, and turned her into the little frequented woodsroad down which Lance used to come with his banjo to play for the dances. Cindy put forward her ears and nickered softly as they neared her old home, and Satan, running free in a field of stubble from which Lance had gathered the corn, came galloping to the boundary to stretch a friendly nose across to his old companion. Ola looked with relief at the black horse. Here was assurance that Lance was at home. Yet, when she got off, tied the filly, and made her way to the cabin, she found it all closed, silent, apparently deserted.

In the mountains, nobody raps on a door. Ola gave the customary hail, her voice wavering on the "hello!"

There was no answer.

Again she tried, drawing nearer, circling the house, forbearing to touch either of the doors or step on the porch.

"Hello, Lance! Hoo-ee – Lance!" she ventured finally. "It's Ola. I got somethin' to say to you."

She stood long after that effort. A wind went by in the oak leaves, whispering to itself derisively. The shabby, stubbed little figure in the dooryard, halting with rusty calico riding skirt dragged about her, choked and shivered.

"I know he's in thar," she muttered to herself resentfully, and then marched straight up the steps and shook the door. The rattling of the latch gave her to understand that the bar was dropped. People cannot go outside and bar a door.

"Lance," she reiterated, "I got somethin' to tell you about Cindy."

The hound who had accompanied Lance and Ola on many a stolen hunting trip or fishing excursion roused from his slumbers in the barn and came baying down to greet her. She paid no attention to the dog.

"Flent he's had the filly at our house for two weeks," she said, addressing the closed and barred door. "He – he's a-aimin' to take her away to-morrow. Do you want me to buy her back for you? Lance – aw, say, Lance – do you? I could."

Outside were the usual summer sounds, the rattle of the dog's feet on the porch floor as he capered about her. Within, hearken as she might, the silence was unbroken, till suddenly across it cut, with a sharp pang of melody, the twanging of banjo strings.

Ola began to cry. Springing forward, she beat fiercely on the door with her palms, then laid hold of its knob once more to rattle it.

Under her touch it swung wide, revealing an empty room, spotlessly clean, in perfect order, with Lance's banjo, yet humming, lying on the floor where it had fallen from its nail.

"I know you' in thar," she sobbed, speaking now to the four walls that mocked her with a semblance of welcome. "This here is jest like you. Lance Cleaverage. This is the way you always treat a friend. You ain't a-lookin', you ain't a-carin'!"

Her voice broke shrilly on the last words, and, whirling, she sat down on the step, flinging her forehead upon her knees, sobbing, catching her breath, and still accusing.

"I don't know why I come here this-a-way, a-hangin' around after you!" she stormed. "Hit's jest like it's always been – I cain't he'p myself. The good Lord! What's Callisty Gentry thinkin' of? – her that had you, and wouldn't keep you!"

Silence. The hound curled down at her feet. Cindy, pulling loose from her tether, cropped the roadside grass with steady, even bites. Callista's hollyhocks nodded by the doorstone. In the room there Callista's hand showed everywhere. The Derf girl sobbed herself quiet.

"Lance," she said heavily at length, getting to her feet, "I'm a-goin' to leave the Turkey Tracks. You won't see me no more. I" – she stood and listened long – "well, good-bye. Lance."

She halted down the steps, her glance over her shoulder in the vacant room, so like the empty expressionless face Lance used to turn to her and her blandishments. She got to Cindy and prepared to mount. Again she waited, with her hand caught in the filly's mane; but there came no answer from the doorway, no sound nor movement in the house. She climbed droopingly to the saddle, and took the homeward trail.

CHAPTER XXI.
FLENTON HANDS

LANCE CLEAVERAGE'S wife had been many weeks in the home of her grandfather when it was noticed that Flenton Hands made occasion to come very frequently to the Gentry place. Ajax was well off, for the mountains, and they had always been hospitable; there was much coming and going about the farm; yet the presence of this visitor could not but be noted.

"I reckon you'll have to speak to him. Pappy," Octavia said finally. "I had it on the end of my tongue to name it to him the other day that hit don't look well for him to come back here a-hangin' around the wife of a man that has threatened him. I know in my soul that Lance Cleaverage would not want more than a fair excuse to – Well, an' I couldn't blame him, neither."

It was evident to all that Octavia Gentry, though now as ever she loved her daughter above everything, could not find it in her soft heart to censure Lance. Indeed that heart bled for him and the sufferings she felt sure were his.

It chanced that Ajax spoke to his frequent guest the next day and in the presence of his daughter-in-law. Flenton had come on one of his aimless visits; he was sitting on the porch edge, and Callista had gathered up her baby and retreated to the weaving room, whence the steady "thump-a-chug! thump-a-chug!" of the loom came across to them. Flenton's slaty gray eyes began to wander in the direction of the sounds, and Ajax, prompted by anxious looks from Octavia, finally addressed him.

"Flenton," he began, removing his pipe from his lips, and examining its filling as he spoke, "you've come here right smart of late."

The visitor looked doubtfully from one to the other.

"Y-yes, Mr. Gentry," he allowed uneasily, "I have."

"Uh-huh," Ajax pursued in deep, even tones. "Yo're welcome in this house, like any other neighbor, and they ain't a man on top o' the Turkey Track mountings that can say I ever shut my door in the face of a friend. But – I'll ax you fa'r and open – do you think hit's wise?"

Again Flenton's eyes went rapidly, almost stealthily, from one face to the other.

"Do I think what's wise?" he finally managed to inquire, with fair composure.

"Well," said the elder man slowly, "in the first place we'll say that Lance Cleaverage ain't a feller to fool with. We'll say that, and we'll lay it by and not name him again.".

He paused a moment, then went on:

"Like some several other o' the boys hereabouts, you used to think a heap o' Sis before she was wedded. She's quit her man; and do you think hit's wise to visit so much at the house where she's stayin'? This matter consarns me and the girl's mother, too. I take notice all the rest o' the boys lets Sis alone. How about you?"

This time Flent did not turn his head. He stared out over the hills and made no answer for so long that Octavia spoke up, a tremor of impatience, or of resentment, in her voice.

"Now, Flent, they's no use o' talkin'; of all of Sis's lovyers, you hung on the longest. Look like you wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Why, the very night her and Lance was married, you done yo' best to step betwixt 'em. And worst is, you don't quit it now that they air wedded."

"Octavy," demurred old Ajax, chafed at seeing a man so bearded by one of the weaker sex, "Flenton may have something to say – let him speak for hisself."

Thus encouraged, Hands faced about toward them.

"No, I ain't never give up Callisty," he said doggedly, "and I ain't never a-goin' to. She's quit her husband." Even in his eagerness he did not find it possible to take Lance's name on his lips. "She's left that thar feller that never done her right, and never was fit for her, to consarn himself with his own evil works and ways; and she's come home here to you-all; and I don't see what should interfere now between her an' me."

Octavia's comely face crimsoned angrily.

"A married woman – a wife – " she broke out with vehemence. But her father-in-law checked her by a motion of the hand.

"Yes, Callisty's quit Lance Cleaverage," agreed Ajax dryly. "An' she's come home. But I reckon she'll behave herself. Leastways, she will while she's in my house."

At the seeming implication, Octavia's fingers trembled in her lap, and she turned a wounded look upon Ajax.

"Well, Pappy! You' no call – " she was beginning, when Flenton, with a manner almost fawning, interrupted her.

"You don't rightly git my meaning, Mr. Gentry – nor you, neither, Miz. Gentry," he said humbly. "I've lived considerable in the Settlement. Down thar, when married people cain't git along, and quits each other, there's – there's ways – Down in the Settlement – "

He broke off under the disconcerting fire of Ajax's eye.

"Oh – one o' them thar di-vo'ces, you mean?" the old man said, strong distaste giving an edge to his deep voice.

"Well, they ain't a-goin' to be none sech between Lance and Callisty," Octavia protested indignantly. "If that's what you' hangin' around for, you'll have yo' trouble for yo' pains, Flenton Hands." She got up sharply, went into the house, and shut the door, leaving the two men together.

Yet when she reviewed her daughter's conduct, her mind, ever alert to the interests of the erring Lance, misgave her. Callista seemed hard enough and cold enough for anything. Octavia heard the two masculine voices, questioning, replying, arguing. She had put herself beyond understanding the words they uttered, but presently feminine curiosity overcame her, and she was stealing back to listen, when, through the small window, she saw Flenton Hands get heavily to his feet. A moment he stood so, looking down, then, her head close to the sash, she heard him ask,

"I've got yo' permission, have I, Mr. Gentry, to go over thar and name this all out to Callisty?"

"I don't know as you've got my permission, and I don't forbid ye," Ajax Gentry said haughtily. "I hold with lettin' every feller go to destruction his own way. He gits thar sooner; and that's whar most of 'em ort to be."

"Well, you don't say I shain't go and speak to her of it," Hands persisted. "I'm a honest man, a perfesser and a church member, and what I do is did open and above-boards. I thank ye kindly for yo' good word."

Old Ajax, who certainly had given no good word, merely grunted as Hands made his way swiftly across the grass to the cabin where the loom stood.

"Don't werry, Octavy," he said, not unkindly, as his daughter-in-law's distressed face showed at the window. "Shorely Sis has got the sense to settle him."

Callista, hard at work, was aware of her visitor by the darkening of the doorway. She looked up and frowned slightly, but gave no other sign of noting his coming. The baby sat on the floor, playing gravely with a feather which stuck first to one plump little finger end and then another. Had Flenton Hands possessed tact, he might have made an oblique opening toward the mother through the child. As it was, he began in a choked, husky voice,

"Callisty, honey – "

He broke off. The concluding word was said so low that Callista could pretend not to have heard it, and she did so.

"Callisty," he repeated, coming in and leaning tremulously forward on the loom, "I want to have speech with you."

"I'm not saying anything against your speakin', am I?" inquired Callista. "But I'm right busy now, Flenton. It isn't likely that you could have anything important to say to me, and I reckon it'll keep."

"You know mighty well and good that what I have to say to you is plenty important," Flenton told her, shaken out of his usual half-cringing caution. "Callisty, yo' husband has quit ye; he's down in the Settlement, and is givin' it out to each and every that he's aimin' to sell to the Company and go to Texas."

He would have continued, but a glance at her face showed him such white rage that he was startled.

"I didn't aim to make you mad," he pleaded. "I know you quit Lance first – good for nothin' as he was, he'd never have given you up, I reckon, till you shook him."

Callista set a hand against her bosom as though she forcibly stilled some emotion that forbade speech. Finally she managed to say with tolerable composure,

"Flenton Hands, you've named a name to me that I won't hear from anybody's lips if I can help it – least of all from yours. If that's the speech you came to have with me, you better go – you cain't take yourself off too soon."

"No," Hands clung to his point, "no, Callisty, that ain't all I come to say. I want to speak for myse'f."

He studied her covertly. He did not dare to mention the divorce which he had assured her grandfather he was ready and anxious to secure for her.

"I," – he was breathing short, and he moistened his lips before he could go on – "I just wanted to say to you, Callisty, that thar's them that loves you, and respects and admires you, and thinks the sun rises and sets in you."

Lance's wife looked down with bitten lip. Her full glance studied the cooing child playing on the floor near her feet.

"Well – and if that's all you came to say, you might have been in better business," she told him coldly. "I reckon I've got a few friends."

She chose to ignore the attitude of lover which he had assumed. After a moment's silence Flenton began desperately,

"Yo' grandfather named to me that I ought not to visit at the house like I do without my intentions towards and concerning you was made clear," twisting Grandfather Gentry's words to a significance that would certainly have amazed the original speaker. "I told him that I was a honest man and a member in good standin' of Brush Arbor church, and that what I wanted of you was – "

He caught the eye of the girl at the loom and broke off. The red was rising in her pale face till she looked like the Callista of old.

"Don't you never say it!" she choked. "Don't you come here to me, a wedded wife, doin' for my child, and talk like I was a girl lookin' for a husband. I've got one man. Him and me will settle our affairs without help from you. I may not let you nor nobody else, name him to me – but I'll take no such words as this from your mouth."

"An' you won't let me come about any more – you won't speak to me?" demanded Hands, in alarm.

"What is it to me where you come or where you stay?" Callista flung back scornfully. "This ain't house of mine – I'm not the one to bid you go or come."

And with this very unsatisfactory permission, Flenton was obliged to content himself. Thereafter he went to the Gentry's as often as he dared. He sent Little Liza when he was afraid to go; and if Callista put her foot off the place, she found herself dogged and followed by her unwelcome suitor.