Part 15 (2/2)
”Yes, I was conscripted, but after I was conscripted I thought I mout as well be a good soldier as a bad one an' so I fought all I could. I never did make it out quite clear in my head what they was a fightin'
about, but I says to myself, says I, 'Bill,' says I, 'you're in for this thing an' they's only one thing to do, an' that is fight as hard as you kin on the side yer on.'”
”Well if you were in the army,” interposed Tom, ”you know what a parole is?”
”Oh, yes, I know that. I had one o' them things oncet. That's how I got out'n the army. I was tooken pris'ner along with a lot of other fellers, an' after talkin' to us a lot, the officers what had us pris'ners sort o' explained the parole business to us, an' after we signed papers promisin' not to fight no more, they let us go home, tellin' us that ef we was caught fightin' agin they'd hang us. Fur a long time I was afraid the conscript officers would ketch me, an' make me fight again, but when one on 'em did ketch me at last he tole me he couldn't make me fight agin, 'cause I was a prisoner on parole. So I know mighty well what a parole means, though at first we all thought it meant a pay-roll an'
that we was to be paid for not fightin'.”
”Well you understand it better now,” said Tom. ”You understand that when a man is paroled, he promises not to fight again, and if he does, and is caught at it, he gets shot?”
”Oh, yes, I understand all that now. I was only tellin' you how as I didn't know fust off.”
”Well, now that we're 'talking fair and square,' as you say, I want to say that I think you ought to go to state prison for a long term for shooting Ed, and I intended at first to send you there. Perhaps I may do so yet. But now, if Ed will forgive you for shooting him--I'll ask him presently--I'm going to put you on parole, just because of your sick wife and your little girl. You have been in our camp for several weeks now. You know what we are here for. You know that we are not here to bother your friends or to interfere with them in any way.”
”Oh, any fool could see that!” exclaimed the man.
”Very well, then. I am going to make you sign a parole and then send you home, but mind, if you violate your parole I'll go down the mountain and bring enough soldiers up here to capture the last one of your gang and send all of you to prison. I know where some of your stills are, and I can find all the others. So you had better keep your parole, and your friends had better let us alone. Are you ready to sign the parole?”
The man rose from the chair on which he was sitting and threw his arms about Tom.
His expressions of grat.i.tude were rude in the extreme, but at least they were genuine, and he finished in tears as he exclaimed:
”Oh, thank goodness I can go back now an' look after the wife an' little one, an' you kin bet your bottom dollar ef the other fellers makes any trouble fer you fellers, Bill Jones'll be here to help you agin 'em. I'm a goin' to explain things to 'em. I'm agoin' to give it to 'em straight, an' then ef they make trouble fer you, I'll be with you.”
Tom drew up the parole and Jones signed it with extraordinary pride in his ability to write his own name in clumsy printing letters, with the ”J” turned backwards. But strong man as he was, the tears kept coming into his eyes as he said over and over again:
”You're mighty good to me, Tom! All you fellers is mighty good to me.
An' I'm agoin' to teach that little gal o' mine when she says her 'now I lay me' to wind it up with 'G.o.d bless Tom an' the other fellers.'”
With that he wiped away his tears with the back of his hand for lack of a handkerchief.
The next morning the mountaineer insisted upon departing in spite of the Doctor's a.s.surance that he was not yet well enough to make the journey.
”I must, Doctor,” he said. ”You see, I don't know what's happened to my wife an' my little gal while I've been gone.”
”Very well,” answered the Doctor, ”only I want to add a promise to your parole. I want you to promise me that if your wounds give you trouble you'll either come here yourself, or if you can't do that, you'll send for me to go to you and dress them.” Then seeing that the man was about saying something emotional the Doctor quickly added:
”You see, I'm a Doctor, and it hurts my pride to have a case that I attend go bad. So if you have any trouble with your hurts you are to come to me or send for me at once.”
Then after such rude adieus as the mountaineer could make, he started off up the mountain, the Doctor accompanying him a part of the way, upon pretense of wanting to see whether or not he was really fit to walk and carry his gun, which had of course been restored to him. But the Doctor had another purpose in view. Just before parting with the mountaineer he took a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and pressed it into the man's hand.
”There!” he said. ”Perhaps that will keep meat and bread in your cabin till the blackberries get ripe,” and with that he suddenly turned on his heel and rapidly strode back toward the camp, giving the man no chance to refuse the gift or to thank him for it.
But while the Doctor had taken every possible precaution to prevent any of his comrades from seeing what he did, the sentry on the platform saw and reported the facts. So when the Doctor returned to camp and set to work with his axe, the boys were quietly discussing a little plan of their own, talking in low tones, as they worked.
That night at supper Jack opened the subject, saying:
”Doctor, we shall be very sorry to part with you, but you have forfeited your right to remain in our camp. You have violated your parole.”
”Why, how? What can you mean?” asked the Doctor in bewilderment.
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