Part 4 (1/2)

The neighbors continued to speculate and to ply Mrs. Stuvic with questions concerning Milford. Men who had spent many a rainy day in the hay-mow, gambling, knew that he had played poker. An old man, with a Rousseau love for botanizing, had been found dead in the woods, with five red leaves in his hand. And Milford had said: ”The poor old fellow made his flush and died.” They knew that he was brave, for, with a stick of brushwood, he had attacked a dog reported to be mad. But they believed, also, that he had something heavy on his mind, for they had seen him walking about in the woods at night, once when a hard rain was beating him. Steve Hardy, the man who had hauled the stranger from the station, was caught in a storm one night, and a flash of lightning revealed Milford standing gaunt in the middle of a marsh. But he had never attempted to borrow money in the neighborhood, and of all the virtues held dear by the rural Yankee, restraint in the matter of borrowing is the brightest. ”Yes, sir, old Brady was as mean a man as ever lived among us, but, sir, he died out of debt.” Old Brady could have illumined his death-bed with no brighter light.

One evening, while Milford and Mitch.e.l.l were at supper, the hired man said: ”They keep on askin' me all sorts of questions about you. I never saw folks so keen. They are like spring sheep after salt. I've got so I throw up my hands whenever I meet any of 'em in the road.”

Milford reached over and turned down the ragged blaze of the smoking lamp. ”Am I the first stranger that ever happened along here?”

”It would look that way. But there is a sort of a somethin' about you, Bill. I heard Henwood's daughter say you was mighty good-lookin', but she hasn't got much sense.” Milford looked up with a smile. ”No, she ain't,” Mitch.e.l.l went on. ”And if her daddy was to die she'd have to have a gardeen appointed. But to-day, while I was gettin' a drink at the windmill, I heard two or three of Mrs. Stuvic's women standin' over in the road talkin'. One of 'em said that she had a cousin that's a detective in Chicago, and she was goin' to bring him out here and let him investigate you just for fun.”

Milford turned down the light. ”I'll throw this thing into the road the first thing you know. Bring a detective, eh? All right, let her bring him.”

”What will you do, Bill?”

”Knock him down if he gets in my road.”

”I guess that's the way to look at it. But have you got any cause to be afraid of a detective, Bill?”

”If I had, do you suppose I'd tell you?”

”Well, I don't know why. We're workin' here together, and I wouldn't say anythin' about it. What did you do, Bill?”

”Stole a saw-mill.”

”You don't say so! What did you want with a saw-mill?”

”To rip out new territory--I wanted to make a state.”

”That's all right. You're guyin' me. But say, where did you get your education?”

”I stole that, too. Did you ever hear of a French marquise that ran stage lines and shot fellows out West? Well, I robbed his ranch, and carried off a cook-book. That's how I learned to boil salt pork.”

”That's where you learned how to feed a fellow on guff. I'm givin' it to you straight. I want to know, for they say that a fellow never gets too old to learn, and I'd like to have education enough to get out of hard work.”

”You don't see me out of it, do you?”

”No, but I guess you could do somethin' else if you wanted to. Did you go to school much when you was a boy?”

”I saw the worn doorsteps in the old part of Yale, for two days, and then I turned away and went West. My father died, and I didn't want to be a tax on mother, so I decided to s.h.i.+ft for myself.”

”Was it a good s.h.i.+ft?”

”I can't say it was. Are you going to bed?” Milford asked, as Mitch.e.l.l got up from the table.

”No, not now. I've got an engagement to take the Dutch girl out in a boat.”

”She'll upset your craft and drown you.”

”I'm goin' to take the scow.”

He went out whistling a light tune, but dragging his feet heavily, for he had worked hard all day, keeping pace with Milford's bounding energy. Milford sat musing, and his brow was not clear. From behind the clock on the mantel-piece, he took a newspaper, and strove to read it by the smoky light, but his mind wandered off. He went out and sat on the gra.s.s beneath the walnut tree. The night was hot. The slow air fumbled among the leaves. Far in the sultry west was an occasional play of lightning, the hot eye of day peeping back into the sweltering night. He heard some one coming up the hill, talking. It was Mrs. Stuvic's voice.

She arose into the dim light, and he saw that she was alone. He called to her, and she came forward at a faster gait, still talking. ”Wouldn't believe me--couldn't get him to believe me, but he does now--yes, you bet!”

”What's the matter, ma'am?”