THE WOOD HAULERS is is is is By ALMA A. ROGERS "I ain't Lizy Bolton and the kid. DECLAR' to goodness ef thar They've drove that ere load all them twenty miles from the Sandy. Where do you 'spose Jim is? Off on a toot, I'll bet," and shifting himself from his comfortable position against a tree, John Forrest advanced to meet the new comers, while his companions stared curiously. The speaker was one of a ragged group of wood haulers who stood aimlessly about the Plaza street, waiting for prospective buyers of the cordwood which filled the rickety wagons. "Well, Lizy, hev you come out fur a ride in your kerridge this fine day?" was his greeting. His attempt at jocularity awakened no response in the face of the woman. "Not much sellin' goin' on," was her rejoinder. "No, business is uncommon bad. Seems like it gets wuss and wuss. Whatever is goin' to become of us I don't know. I've hauled wood off and on ever since I landed in Oregon, thirty years the 5th of last January, but I never see it so bad as this. We're nigh as bad off as when we crossed the plains and the Injuns stampeded all our stock, and starvation looked us uncommon close in the face. But every cloud has its silver linin', and this panic can't last always," he concluded cheerfully. "While the grass is growin' the horse 'll starve," said the woman, dejectedly. "Where's Jim?" asked the man, in order to change the doleful subject. The question was unfortunate. Lizy's face grew a shade more hopeless, if that were possible. "He's drunk. Sence that saloon has been set up at Sandy bridge he's loafin there most o' the time. Ez ef the drinkin warn't enuff to attrac' the men, them fel lers what run the saloon ere a goin' to git up a bear fight, and Jim is to help set on the dogs. He's been away now fur three days hand runnin', and Hennery an' me we had to saw the most o' this wood and load it and bring it to town ef we didn't want to starve outright." John Forrest had an invalid wife at home whose pressing need of medicine must be supplied from the proceeds of his wood. His heart proffered sympathy, but he was powerless to relieve the present distress. So he could only say: "Well, well, Lizy, cheer up. Hennery will soon be a man, and then he won't forgit his mammy," glancing cheerily at the little scarecrow who answered to the name of "Hennery." "Well, I reckon it's no use to stop here any longer," said Lizy. "I reckon we'd better try the houses, tho' them horses looks like they wouldn't stand much more travel." Late that afternoon a nerveless knock at a suburban cottage brought the mistress to the back door. A woman stood there, gaunt and haggard. "Want enny wood?" she drawled. "No, we bought a load last week, when we moved into this house," said Mrs. Vincent. Without a word the woman turned and stalked away. Mrs. Vincent hastened to the front window, her compassion almost stifling her. She had only recently moved to the painfully impressed by the poverty of the city, but in those few days she had been wood haulers who passed along the street or stopped at the door, their starved faces and ragged garments offering only shade less eloquent appeal than the wretched outlines of the skeleton horses a whose heads drooped with the dispirited air worn by every failure in life. But never had she seen a face like this. THE WOOD HAULERS It would haunt her to her dying day. But none of these heterogeneous gar- 147 powerful hard time sellin' thet wood. "How has ma been resting, pa?" in- "I guess that new medicine's a good "Well, pa, you go along to bed, now, She was laying the cloth for dinner the next day when her father beckoned at the rear window. She hastened to follow him out of earshot of the invalid's open door. "What is it, pa? I've been looking for you ever so long. Did you find Jim ?" "Yes, I found him," said her father, with an expression which seldom visited his cheerful countenance. "Yes, I found him. He was down at that abomination place, helpin' set the dogs on at that bear-baitin', I tried to git him away, but he hesn't hed his spree out yit, an' it's no use. I declar', Mary, it's a shame to the neighborhood that sich goin's on is tolerated, and I fur one am goin' to 148 see what kin be done to stop it. I was talkin' to Ike Wheatley, an' he's agreed with me that somethin's got to be done before another one comes off. To see that pack o' men and boys hootin' and yellin' and eggin' on the dogs to tackle them bears was the sickenest thing I ever see, and I didn't stay to the end o' it. The bears didn't hev half a chance nohow. They was only half-growed and tied to ropes at that. They say that saloon feller has promised another one as soon as the dogs an' bears git well of their hurts, but I guess we'll see that it doesn't happen. I feel so oneasy about thet woman,' ," the old man continued, "thet I believe you'd better go over after dinner an' see her, Mary. A few miles further up the road, beyond the bridge which spans the brawling Sandy, stood a settler's hut. It was built of whipsawn lumber and the roof was covered with shakes. In early days it had been a very comfortable abode. The ghost of the house could have related memories of feasting and good cheer, when neighbors were few and thought nothing of a ten-mile drive to the house had fallen into its decline, and eat a Thanksgiving dinner. But now its melancholy tenants seemed the fitting accompaniment of its fall. Three years previous, a covered wagon containing James Bolton and family had stopped at the shanty. Its evident desertion inclined them to seek protection against a driving rainstorm, and here they had ever since remained. The visitors' rap was answered by the little scarecrow, Hennery. Lizy Bolton lay upon the old corded bedstead, which creaked as she moved to gaze at her visitor. A flush of fever shone red underneath the dun of the tanned cheeks and her eyes had a dim look like the scum on a lizard's as it basks in the sun. "How are you feeling, Mis' Bolton?" said Mary in her father's kindly tone, reaching out to take the hand of her neighbor. magical. Not for years had she tasted spoonfuls to the woman. The effect was tea so good. She was able to help herself to the wholesome meal which Mary soon set before her. "I don' know whut's come over me." Lizy explained, as the visitor sat by the bedside smiling encouragingly upon her. and Hennery, who, at the other side of the board which served as a tray, was taking his share of the feast. "I jes seem to sink all in a heap when I got home yisterday night, and Hennery hed to onhitch the hosses himself. Of 'cos I wuz wet, but that ain't nothin' new. I've ben wet to the skin many a time, an' thought nuthin of it. It don' seem jist like rheumatiz. It's a kind o' dum misery all through me." The woman sank back with the effort of so long a speech, and when Mary Forest left the cottage an hour later, she promised to repeat the visit the next day. As the twilight darkened into night Hennery crept into the foot of the bed. and, with a sense of comfort in his little body as unwonted as it was delightful soon slept beneath the faded patchwork quilt, which once was a gorgeous prototype of the "Rising Sun." The woman, too, had fallen into a doze. She awoke wide-eved, with a parched throat and body burning with fever. Struggling to her feet,she groped her way to the door. The cool night air revived her. The effulgence of a full moon lit up the path to the cliff. Mechanically she followed it. Below its edge the Sandy rushed along in its cool, deep bed. The path zigzagged down the bankside and led to broad stones, where Lizy often went with her pail to draw water. Almost without thinking, she descended the well worn steps, and sitting upon the flat stone bathed her face and hands in the cool liquid of the deep pool. A little below the pool was a shallow stretch which gurgled noisily over a pebbly beach, like a child, who, tired of at once that food was needed. Sending the wayside. Its rippling cascades dasha continuous journey, stops to play by The woman tried to speak, but the murmurs died in her throat. Mary saw Hennery for chips, she soon had a cup. of fragrant tea which she administered in ed and foamed against the rocks without a thought of care or sorrow. But THE WOOD HAULERS the deep pool looked silent, solemn and mysterious, with an unanswered riddle in its depths like the tragedy of some lives. Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed, when she arose painfully and reascended the path, feeling her strength give way at every step. As she reached the top she reeled, and only the saving barrier of a fir tree prevented her sudden fall over the cliff side. Groping on her hands and knees, she finally reached the open door of the cottage. Then, making a final effort, she fell, rather than lay, upon the bed. There must have been magic in the cool water, for now everything changed. She was no longer sick and helpless in a tumbledown shanty in a faraway country. She was a girl again, back in her Missouri home, and she was running down the path to greet the return of her parents from the disposal of the tobacco crop. She knew she would be remembered. Again she held in her hands the gorgeous green sash whose promise had so often lightened the hours of toil. And that evening she had merrily mounted to the pillion behind young Jim Bolton's saddle, taking good care of the sash meanwhile, and away they had gone to a dance at a neighbor's house-warming. She could see just how the sash looked. It was tied in two short bows in the middle of the back and the streamers hung nearly to the end of her white skirt. For had not mother declared that her Eliza should have the finest sash of any girl in the county? And was not Jim Bolton the handsomest young fellow at the dance, and what did it matter if some ill-natured people did say he was fonder of hunting and fishing than working in the fields! And who else could swing his partner round the corner with such grace and abandon when the stentorian lungs of the old darkey shouted the call and the fiddles shrieked their loudest. The fiddles! Yes, she remembered. It was Pomp Johnson who led off and could always carry the tune regardless of whether strings snapped or no. And how the feet shuffled in a muffled roar on the rough wooden floor! When had she heard a fiddle 149 The music and the laughter vanished, and she was in a prairie schooner with a babe in her arms, "movin'" from the old neighborhood. Jim had caught the Kansas fever. On the plains her baby died and was buried by the roadside. She and Jim wept together. No chilling of affection had yet divided them. But Jim was restless, that was sure. He was never happy long in one place. And for some mysterious reason all the babies who filled her arms pined away and died before they could lisp her name. And the weight of sorrow and poverty and care grew heavier as Jim grew more shiftless with the years. At last Henry had come in her middle age. But her heart was too dulled to feel a welcome She remembered she had shed tears as she looked at the poor mite, and that look seemed to dry the fountain at its source, for never since had she been able to weep. She had still worked on, though she had lost hope. And then had come this western trip, and Jim had promised if she would go just this once. The moonlight was at its full when a shambling form stole up the road and entered the cottage through the half-open door. The sight of the weird figure upon the bed seemed suddenly to sober him. The flush of fever had faded fron. its dim cheeks, the tusk-like teeth had pushed the lips apart, and the glassy eyes stared upward unseeingly. At the bed-foot slumbered the boy, in the dreamless slumber which is the boon of childhood. The man paused for a moment it. speechless trembling. Then he threw himself upon his knees at the bedside and moaned through the sobs which shook his gaunt frame, "O, Lizy, Lizy forgive me. I didn't mean to treat ye so Sholy ye ain't dead. Wake up an' hear me. But the woman slept. |