King Spruce Part 7

"Not if you move your brogans over to some seat where there is more room for them," she returned, with a click of her white teeth that showed mild savagery. This young man who was in love with some one else, and who had scowled at her, was decidedly not to her liking, she thought, in spite of his regular features, his firm chin, his clean-cut mouth unhidden by beard, and his brown eyes.

Wade flushed, rose, bowed with hat lifted to a rather ironical height, and took his seat alone, well to the front of the car. He saw MacLeod's baleful face framed in the little window of the smoking-car's door. For mile after mile, as the train jangled on, it remained there.

The menace of the expression, the challenge in the att.i.tude, and this insolent espionage, all following the insults of his gossiping tongue, wrought upon the young man's feelings like a file on metal. As his resentment gnawed, it was in his mind to go and smash his fist through the little window into the middle of that lowering countenance.

To him came the Honorable Pulaski, bristling and bustling.

"They're telling me back there, young man, that you and Colin came near to having some sort of rumpus a little while ago. Now, I can't have anything of that sort going on among my men. You mind _your_ business.

I'll make _him_ mind _his_. But what's it all about, anyway? Why were you going to fight like roosters at sight?"

Wade looked at his pompous red face and into his eyes with their yellowish sclerotic, and choked back the recrimination he had intended.

The thought of opening his heart's poor secret by bandying words with this man made him quiver.

"As well to talk to a Durham bull," he reflected.

"Why, you poor college dude," went on his employer, scornfully, "Colin MacLeod would break you in two and use you to taller his boots, a piece in each hand. You're hired to keep books and peddle w.a.n.gan stuff according to the prices marked! Keep your place, where you belong. Don't go to stacking muscle against the boss of the Busters."

The former centre of Burton College's football eleven stiffened his muscles and set his nails into his palms to keep from hot retort. What was the use? What did college training avail if it didn't help a gentleman to hold his tongue at the right time?

"Now, remember what I've told you," ordered Britt, "and I'll go and set MacLeod to the right-about, so that you won't have to be afraid of him if you mind your own business."

He went away into the smoking-car. Between the opening and the closing of the door there puffed out a louder jargon from the orgy. It then settled into its dull diapason of maudlin voices.

For the rest of the journey, to the end of the forest railroad spur, Wade sat and looked out into the hopeless and ragged ruin left by the axes. The sight fitted with his mood. Britt, back from his interview with MacLeod, and serene in the power of the conscious autocrat, sat by himself and figured endlessly with a stubby lead-pencil. Wade looked around only once at the girl. When he did he caught her looking at him, and she immediately snapped her eyes away indignantly.

At last the engine gave a long shriek that wailed away in echoes among the stumps. It was a different note from its careless yelps at the infrequent crossings.

"Here we are!" bellowed Britt, cheerfully, stuffing away his papers and coming up the car for his little bag. He stopped opposite Wade.

"Remember what I told you about minding your business," he commanded, brusquely. "You may be a college graduate, but MacLeod is your boss. He won't hurt you if you keep your place!"

In medicine there are c.u.mulative poisons--the effect of small doses at intervals amounting in the end to a single large dose.

In matters of heart, temper, and moral restraint there are c.u.mulative poisons, too. Dwight Wade, struggling up as the train jolted to a halt, felt that this last insult, coming as it did out of that brusque, rough-sneering, culture-despising spirit of the woods, exemplified in Pulaski D. Britt, had put an end to self-restraint.

It was the same brusque, money-wors.h.i.+pping, intolerant spirit of the woods that sounded in John Barrett's voice when he had sneered at Wade's pretensions to his daughter's hand. There it was now in those roaring voices in the smoking-car. And yet he had come to it--hating it--fleeing from the sight of men of his kind when his little temple of love seemed closed to him, and the world had jeered at him behind his back! He looked through the dirty car windows at the little shacks of the railroad terminus, heard the bellow of voices, gritted his teeth in ungovernable rage at Britt's last words, and determined to--well, he hardly knew what he did propose to do.

But it should be something to show them all that he could no longer be bossed and insulted and jeered at--all in that b.u.mptious, braggadocio, bucko spirit of the woods!

Both platforms of the cars were swarming with men--men rigged in queer garb: wool leggings, wool jackets striped off in bizarre colors or checked like crazy horse-blankets. Each man in sight carried his heavy brogan shoes hung about his neck.

They were singing in fairly good time, and Wade listened to the words despite himself:

"Oh, here I come from the Kay-ni-beck, With my old calk boots slung round my neck Here we come--yas, a-here we come-- A hundred men and a jug of rum.

WHOOP-fa-dingo!

Old p.r.o.ng Jones!"

The girl pa.s.sed Wade, going down the aisle before he left his seat. He came behind her. But they were obliged to wait at the door. The men crowded close upon both platforms. Each man had a meal-sack stuffed with his possessions. They were all elbowing each other, and the result was a congestion that the kicks of the Honorable Pulaski and the cuffings of Colin MacLeod did little to break.

The boss of the Busters kept stealing glances at the girl, as though to challenge her notice, and perhaps her admiration, as she saw him thus a master of men.

It was then that the spirit of anger and rebellion seething in Dwight Wade--the c.u.mulative poison of his many insults--stirred him to bitter provocation in his own turn.

The girl carried a heavy leather suit-case, and now, waiting for the press of men to escape from the car, she rested it against a seat, and sighed in weariness and vexation.

With quiet masterfulness Wade took it from her hand and smiled into the astonished gray eyes that flashed back over her shoulder at him. It was a smile that not even a maiden, offended as she had been, could resist.

"I will a.s.sist you to--to--I believe it is a stage-coach that takes us on," he said. "Let me do this, so that you won't remember me simply as a man whose own troubles made him a boor."

MacLeod's look of fury as he saw the act fell full upon them both, and the girl resented it.

"I thank you," she returned, smiling at her squire with a little exaggeration of cordiality. And when at last the platforms were cleared they stepped out, still talking.

All about them men were kneeling, fastening the latchets of their spike-sole shoes.

"Rod Ide's gal has got a new mas.h.!.+" hiccoughed one burly chap, leering at them as they pa.s.sed. At the instant MacLeod, at their heels, struck the man brutally across the mouth, shouldered Wade roughly, and spoke to the girl, his round hat crumpled in his big fist.

"Miss Nina," he stammered, "I'm--I'm sorry for forgetting that you were in that car awhile back. But you know I ain't used to takin' talk of that sort. So, let me see you safe aboard the stage, like an old friend should."

"This gentleman will look after me," said the girl. She tried to be calm, but her voice trembled. A city woman, confident of the regard due to woman, would not have feared so acutely. But Nina Ide, bred on the edge of the forest, was accustomed to see the brute in man spurn restraint. The pa.s.sions flaming in the eyes of these two were familiar to her. She expected little more from the gentleman in the way of consideration for her feelings than she did from the lumber-jack. "You go along about your business, Colin," she said, hastily. "I can attend to mine."

"Give me that!" snarled the boss, his eyes red under their meeting brows. In his rage he forgot the deference due the woman.

"See if you can take it!" growled back the other. With him the girl was only the means to the end that his whole nature now l.u.s.ted for. He forgot her.

Wade looked for the young giant to strike. But the woods duello has its vagaries.

MacLeod lifted one heavy shoe and drove its spiked sole down upon Wade's foot, the brads puncturing the thin leather. With his foe thus anch.o.r.ed, he clutched for the valise. But ere his victim had time to strike, the furious, flaming, bristling face of the Honorable Pulaski was between them, and his elbows, hard as pine knots, drove them apart with wicked thrustings. As they staggered back the old lumber baron, used to playing the tyrant mediator, grabbed an axe from the nearest man of the crew.

"I'll brain the one that lifts a finger!" he howled. "What did I tell you about this? Who is running this crew? Whose money is paying you? Get back, you hounds!"

Once more, though he gasped in the pure madness of his rage, MacLeod was cowed by his despot. He turned and began marshalling the crew aboard great wagons that were waiting at the station.

"You take your seat in that wagon, young man!" roared Britt, shaking that hateful, hairy fist under Wade's nose. "We'll see about all this later! Get onto that wagon!"

At the opposite side of the station was the mail-stage, a dusty, rusty conveyance with a lurching canopy of cracked leather above its four seats, and four doleful horses waiting the snap of the driver's whip.

Without a word to Britt, Wade led the way to the coach, and set the suit-case between the seats. He limped as he walked, and his teeth were set in pain.

He gave his hand to the girl, and she silently accepted the a.s.sistance and took her place in the coach.

Then he turned to meet the fiery gaze of the Honorable Pulaski, who had followed close on their heels, choking with expletives.

"I reckon I see through this now," he growled. "Tryin' to cut out the cleanest feller in the Umcolcus with your dude airs! But Rod Ide's girl ain't to be fooled by city notions. She knows a man when she sees him."

He chucked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of MacLeod, busy with the laggard men. "Go aboard, and let this be an end of your meddling, young man."

"You just speak for yourself and attend to your business, Mr. Britt!"

cried the girl, with a spirit that cowed even the tyrant's bl.u.s.ter.

"'Rod Ide's girl,' as you call her, can choose all her own affairs, and you needn't scowl at me, for I'm not on your pay-roll and I'm not afraid of you!"