The Man from Jericho Part 12

Thus before their destination was reached he had proven, in tones loud enough for all the countryside to hear, that the man who had attacked him was indeed part negro, that he himself always lived at peace with his neighbours, and that from this day forward he intended to go "loaded" for Marston. The garrulity of the old farmer annoyed Glenning somewhat, who had his own forebodings as to the result of the unfortunate encounter on the street, and he replied to Mr. Hoonover's demonstrations only by a nod of the head, or a smile. So busy was that gentleman looking behind to see that his remarks were heard, that his horse drew him almost in front of the Scribbenses before he knew it.

When he suddenly discovered his proximity to the infected shack, and realized that his horse was moving in a slow jog, he tightened his reins and began to belabour his beast with the staff he held. As he dashed at a gallop past the dreaded spot he shouted some unintelligible communication wildly over his shoulder, and was out of sight before Glenning drew up at a broken down stake-and-rider fence skirting the road. He looked about him as he got out and hitched his horse. The spot seemed the abomination of desolation. The by-road was rutty and not kept; deep sluices showed on either side of it, where no effort had been made to check the ravages of heavy rains. A worthless species of gra.s.s grew in sickly clumps, dust-covered. Blackberry vines, sa.s.safras and sumac bushes made one inextricable tangle of vegetation along the zigzag fence. There was a gap in the fence which served for a gate. John went through, then stopped for a moment. Not from fear at entering the stricken place. He had no bodily fear, nor ever had. But the awful loneliness of the spot weighed upon him. Low hills, bush-dotted and gullied, arose on every side except the southern one, where a small field, untilled and marshy, lay along a creek bed, now nearly dry.

Beyond this, and perhaps half a mile away, on higher ground, was a rather pretentious looking farmhouse which he guessed, rightly, to be the home of Mr. Hoonover. The miserable log shanty facing him was pitiful in its decay and loneliness. The ground all about it was bare, and a few stunted, shrivelled cedars stood at one side. The c.h.i.n.king had fallen from the stick-and-mud chimney, and it looked like the torso of some giant skeleton. The door was shut; the one window darkened from the inside by what appeared to be a ragged quilt. A lean brown cur lay by the rotten log serving for a door step, too lazy or too near dead from starvation to lift its voice at the intrusion of a stranger. The dog was the only sign of life. All the rest, was silence, poverty, desolation. No birds sang here; not even the shrilling of an insect cut the great stillness. A feeling almost of awe came over John Glenning, standing there alone in the strong sunlight, vigorous, a.s.sertive, confident of his power to do. He scarcely wondered that Doctor Kale had refused the case. But he was glad he had taken it. Not alone to get a start in the community, for this was a beginning at practice which most men would not value, but here was a fellow being, sick, friendless and helpless. He would save him if he could, although the pauper's life could scarcely be of use to anyone, and he would be better off dead.

John's grip tightened on the handle of his medicine case and he walked briskly and firmly to the door, and knocked. The cur arose and slunk a few paces to one side, then lay down again, with his yellow eyes fixed on the man. The door was opened a crack, and a rasping female voice said:

"Go 'way. My man's got the small-pox!"

"I'm the doctor," answered Glenning; "let me in."

There was a moment's hesitation, during which a brief argument took place between the woman and some one else inside, then the door was grudgingly opened wide enough for John to enter, when it was promptly closed.

"Thar he is," said the woman. "Go to 'im; he's purty bad."

The sudden transition from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the cabin made it impossible for Glenning to see distinctly. He was vaguely conscious of the presence of a number of persons, and he could barely discern the outlines of a figure stretched on a bunk in a corner.

"All of you'll die if you don't have light and air," he announced, almost harshly, and striding to the window, removed the flimsy curtain.

Then he turned abruptly to the woman who stood with mouth agape in the middle of the room. "Open the door!" he commanded; "let some air in here!"

She was a slatternly creature of uncertain age, her stooped shoulders and lined face showing her kins.h.i.+p with want and all physical suffering.

She looked with curious intentness at the tall young man who seemed to so fill the small room, and did his bidding.

"Ye don't b'long in Mac'n, do ye?" she asked. "'Pears to me I've never saw ye before."

"I belong there now," replied John, shortly. "Came several days ago."

His quick eyes were taking in the meagre appointments of the room, and its occupants, as he was walking towards the sick man in his corner. The place seemed swarming with children of all ages and both s.e.xes; they were thick as rats in a corn-bin. He could not believe all of them the offsprings of this dest.i.tute pair, and he voiced his idea as he knelt by the pallet.

"What are all these children doing here? Send them home. Don't you know they're in danger?"

"They _air_ home, thank ye!" rasped the woman, in quick defense of her brood. "They're _our'n_, I'd hev ye know, ever' blessed one, 'n' they've got more right here than you hev, ef you _air_ a doctor!"

"No offense!" mumbled Glenning, taking the hairy wrist which listlessly lay on the ragged counterpane and feeling for the pulse with tips of practiced fingers.

The children had huddled like sheep against the wall furthest away, a tattered, unkempt crew of misbegotten humanity; terrible fruit of a union of ignorance and brute pa.s.sion. They said not a word, but clung to each other as though menaced by some visible danger. The woman stood in the center of the floor, also silent, her hands clasped under her dirty ap.r.o.n, and her stringy neck outstretched as she watched the doctor. The thing under Glenning's hand must have been made by G.o.d, but it hardly looked it. It would not have looked it in health, and in the grip of a loathsome disease it was doubly repulsive. The man's figure was thin and bony. He lay sick in his s.h.i.+rt and trousers, for he had no night clothes, to say nothing of underwear, which in all probability he had never known. His shoes were off, and his feet, knotty, and grimy with the ground-in dirt of many months, stuck from under the narrow coverlet which lay over him. His soiled s.h.i.+rt was open at the throat--a throat presenting alternate ridge and hollow, and covered scantily with colorless hair. His face was gaunt; his teeth broken and tobacco-stained; his nose twisted oddly. His hair was a sandy mop. His eyes were cunning and treacherous. His face was already marked with dull red spots, and he was burning with fever.

Glenning's face was solemn.

"How long have you been sick?" he asked.

"Two weeks off 'n' on, I reck'n," answered the man.

"How long have you been in bed?"

"Tuk bed yistiddy."

"You should have been in bed ten days, at least. You're pretty sick, my man."

A shadow of alarm flashed over the b.e.s.t.i.a.l countenance.

"I won't _die_, doc, will I? Yo' don't mean I'm gunta _die_!"

In his eagerness he grasped the sleeve of the figure kneeling beside him.

"You've _got_ to cyore 'im, doc!" wailed the woman. "I can't live 'ithout my man!"

She walked about wringing her hands.

"You've waited too long before seeking help," continued John, getting to his feet. "There's a chance for you--a slim one, but I'll do what I can."

He found a rickety chair, and sat down gingerly.

The older children began to snuffle, and the younger ones burst out crying and ran to their mother, hiding their dirty faces in her dirtier clothes.

"Small chance in this reeking hole for a man with small-pox," mused Glenning, then he looked at Mrs. Scribbens, and said:

"That man should have a bath, first of all, from head to foot; a _scrubbing_. Can you give it to him?"

"I 'low I kin," responded the woman, briskly, "but weuns ain't much on the wash. Will lye soap do, doc?"

John cast a look at the sick man, and guessed at the texture of his skin.

"Yes, lye soap will do, but have your water hot, and rinse him off well when you're through. I'm going to leave some medicine which I want you to give him through the night."

Mrs. Scribbens disappeared out a door in the rear which led to the back premises, and busied herself making a fire under a large iron kettle which hung from a blackened limb, itself supported by two forked sticks sunk in the ground. The numerous progeny trooped after her _en ma.s.se_, vaguely sensing an omen of evil in the presence of the doctor, and turning, like little wild things, to their best friend and protector.

Glenning had his case on his knees, rapidly preparing the doses to be given that night. There was a slight movement from the pallet, and a terror-laden voice called----

"Doc!"

John turned his head.

"Doc, fur hones'! Tell me! Don't be skeered it'll finish me right off.

Now, while the woman 'n' the chil'n 're gone, tell me!"

A beam of pity struggled to the brown, tired eyes of the man sitting above him. After all this was his brother--this thing in its filth and misery and callousness had had a soul breathed into it by a common G.o.d years ago. Should he not feel compa.s.sion for anyone whose feet had come so near the brink of the Valley of the Shadow? He did feel compa.s.sion; the wave which swept him as the pleading, untaught tones came to him was almost protecting. His brother! Though one's feet had never left the shallows, and the other's, not long before, had fared through strange and awful deeps where dreadful monsters lurked in the guise of innocence and beauty so rare that it was blasting.

With a quick movement John leaned down and took the hard, seamed hand.

"You haven't got even chances," he said. "I can't promise anything but this: I'll do for you what I'd do for the richest man in Macon!"

"I never heerd sich talk!" exclaimed Scribbens. "What sort o' man air ye?"

"A pretty poor sort, but I've studied medicine mighty hard. You've got to pull like blazes to get through. Can you do it. Keep a stout heart, I mean, and believe all the time you're coming out all right?"

"I dunno. I hurt pow'ful, 'n' I'm burnt to scorchin'."

A paroxysm of abject fear seized him, and he pulled the quilt, full of holes, up over his head to hide the wild expression on his face. He lay there and shook with dread--dread of dying--dread of the vast unknown, and of the punishment he felt surely was awaiting him. John went on with his work. The packages were done up and the medicine case snapped to and placed on the floor. Still the coverlet was convulsed with erratic movements. Directly the man jerked the quilt from his face, showing it all a-sweat with anguish.

"Doc!" he groaned. "I can't! I can't go this way! It mought be tonight--in the dark! I feel cur'is! D'ye think I'll go tonight?"