The Blazed Trail

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Blazed Trail

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

"Then you're all right, ain't ye?" inquired Tim.

"It'll be the middle of summer before we get a hearing in court,"
said he. "Oh, they're a cute layout! They expect to hang me up
until it's too late to do anything with the season's cut!"

He arose and began to pace back and forth.

"Tim," said he, "is there a man in the crew who's afraid of nothing
and will obey orders?"

"A dozen," replied Tim promptly.

"Who's the best?"

"Scotty Parsons."

"Ask him to step here."

In a moment the man entered the office.

"Scotty," said Thorpe, "I want you to understand that I stand
responsible for whatever I order you to do."

"All right, sir," replied the man.

"In the morning," said Thorpe, "you take two men and build some
sort of a shack right over the sluice-gate of that second dam,--
nothing very fancy, but good enough to camp in. I want you to
live there day and night. Never leave it, not even for a minute.
The cookee will bring you grub. Take this Winchester. If any of
the men from up-river try to go out on the dam, you warn them off.
If they persist, you shoot near them. If they keep coming, you
shoot at them. Understand?"

"You bet," answered Scotty with enthusiasm.

"All right," concluded Thorpe.

Next day Scotty established himself, as had been agreed. He did not
need to shoot anybody. Daly himself came down to investigate the
state of affairs, when his men reported to him the occupancy of the
dam. He attempted to parley, but Scotty would have none of it.

"Get out!" was his first and last word.

Daly knew men. He was at the wrong end of the whip. Thorpe's game
was desperate, but so was his need, and this was a backwoods country
a long ways from the little technicalities of the law. It was one
thing to serve an injunction; another to enforce it. Thorpe finished
his drive with no more of the difficulties than ordinarily bother a
riverman.

At the mouth of the river, booms of logs chained together at the
ends had been prepared. Into the enclosure the drive was floated
and stopped. Then a raft was formed by passing new manila ropes
over the logs, to each one of which the line was fastened by a
hardwood forked pin driven astride of it. A tug dragged the raft
to Marquette.

Now Thorpe was summoned legally on two counts. First, Judge Sherman
cited him for contempt of court. Second, Morrison & Daly sued him
for alleged damages in obstructing their drive by holding open the
dam-sluice beyond the legal head of water.

Such is a brief but true account of the coup-de-force actually
carried out by Thorpe's lumbering firm in northern Michigan. It
is better known to the craft than to the public at large, because
eventually the affair was compromised. The manner of that
compromise is to follow.

Chapter XXXIII

Pending the call of trial, Thorpe took a three weeks' vacation to
visit his sister. Time, filled with excitement and responsibility,
had erased from his mind the bitterness of their parting. He had
before been too busy, too grimly in earnest, to allow himself the
luxury of anticipation. Now he found himself so impatient that he
could hardly wait to get there. He pictured their meeting, the
things they would say to each other.

As formerly, he learned on his arrival that she was not at home. It
was the penalty of an attempted surprise. Mrs. Renwick proved not
nearly so cordial as the year before; but Thorpe, absorbed in his
eagerness, did not notice it. If he had, he might have guessed the
truth: that the long propinquity of the fine and the commonplace,
however safe at first from the insulation of breeding and natural
kindliness, was at last beginning to generate sparks.

No, Mrs. Renwick did not know where Helen was: thought she had gone
over to the Hughes's. The Hughes live two blocks down the street
and three to the right, in a brown house back from the street.
Very well, then; she would expect Mr. Thorpe to spend the night.

The latter wandered slowly down the charming driveways of the little
western town. The broad dusty street was brown with sprinkling from
numberless garden hose. A double row of big soft maples met over it,
and shaded the sidewalk and part of the wide lawns. The grass was
fresh and green. Houses with capacious verandas on which were
glimpsed easy chairs and hammocks, sent forth a mild glow from a
silk-shaded lamp or two. Across the evening air floated the sounds
of light conversation and laughter from these verandas, the tinkle
of a banjo, the thrum of a guitar. Automatic sprinklers whirled and
hummed here and there. Their delicious artificial coolness struck
refreshingly against the cheek.

Thorpe found the Hughes residence without difficulty, and turned up
the straight walk to the veranda. On the steps of the latter a rug
had been spread. A dozen youths and maidens lounged in well-bred
ease on its soft surface. The gleam of white summer dresses, of
variegated outing clothes, the rustle o frocks, the tinkle of low,
well-bred laughter confused Thorpe, so that, as he approached the
light from a tall lamp just inside the hall, he hesitated, vainly
trying to make out the figures before him.

So it was that Helen Thorpe saw him first, and came fluttering to
meet him.

"Oh, Harry! What a surprise!" she cried, and flung her arms about
his neck to kiss him.

"How do you do, Helen," he replied sedately.

This was the meeting he had anticipated so long. The presence of
others brought out in him, irresistibly, the repression of public
display which was so strong an element of his character.

A little chilled, Helen turned to introduce him to her friends. In
the cold light of her commonplace reception she noticed what in a
warmer effusion of feelings she would never have seen,--that her
brother's clothes were out of date and worn; and that, though his
carriage was notably strong and graceful, the trifling constraint
and dignity of his younger days had become almost an awkwardness
after two years among uncultivated men. It occurred to Helen to be
just a little ashamed of him.

He took a place on the steps and sat without saying a word all the
evening. There was nothing for him to say. These young people
talked thoughtlessly, as young people do, of the affairs belonging
to their own little circle. Thorpe knew nothing of the cotillion,
or the brake ride, or of the girl who visited Alice Southerland;
all of which gave occasion for so much lively comment. Nor was
the situation improved when some of them, in a noble effort at
politeness, turned the conversation into more general channels.
The topics of the day's light talk were absolutely unknown to him.
The plays, the new books, the latest popular songs, jokes depending
for their point on an intimate knowledge of the prevailing vaudeville
mode, were as unfamiliar to him as Miss Alice Southerland's guest.
He had thought pine and forest and the trail so long, that he found
these square-elbowed subjects refusing to be jostled aside by any
trivialities.

So he sat there silent in the semi-darkness. This man, whose
lightest experience would have aroused the eager attention of the
entire party, held his peace because he thought he had nothing to
say.

He took Helen back to Mrs. Renwick's about ten o'clock. They
walked slowly beneath the broad-leaved maples, whose shadows
danced under the tall electric lights,--and talked.

Helen was an affectionate, warm-hearted girl. Ordinarily she would
have been blind to everything except the delight of having her
brother once more with her. But his apparently cold reception had
first chilled, then thrown her violently into a critical mood. His
subsequent social inadequacy had settled her into the common-sense
level of everyday life.

"How have you done, Harry?" she inquired anxiously. "Your letters
have been so vague."

"Pretty well," he replied. "If things go right, I hope some day
to have a better place for you than this."

Her heart contracted suddenly. It was all she could do to keep
from bursting into tears. One would have to realize perfectly her
youth, the life to which she had been accustomed, the lack of
encouragement she had labored under, the distastefulness of her
surroundings, the pent-up dogged patience she had displayed during
the last two years, the hopeless feeling of battering against a
brick wall she always experienced when she received the replies
to her attempts on Harry's confidence, to appreciate how the
indefiniteness of his answer exasperated her and filled her
with sullen despair. She said nothing for twenty steps. Then:

"Harry," she said quietly, "can't you take me away from Mrs.
Renwick's this year?"

"I don't know, Helen. I can't tell yet. Not just now, at any rate."

"Harry," she cried, "you don't know what you're doing. I tell you
I can't STAND Mrs. Renwick any longer." She calmed herself with an
effort, and went on more quietly. "Really, Harry, she's awfully
disagreeable. If you can't afford to keep me anywhere else--" she
glanced timidly at his face and for the first time saw the strong
lines about the jaw and the tiny furrows between the eyebrows. "I
know you've worked hard, Harry dear," she said with a sudden
sympathy, "and that you'd give me more, if you could. But so have
I worked hard. Now we ought to change this in some way. I can get
a position as teacher, or some other work somewhere. Won't you let
me do that?"

Thorpe was thinking that it would be easy enough to obtain Wallace
Carpenter's consent to his taking a thousand dollars from the
profits of the year. But he knew also that the struggle in the
courts might need every cent the new company could spare. It would
look much better were he to wait until after the verdict. If
favorable, there would be no difficulty about sparing the money. If
adverse, there would be no money to spare. The latter contingency
he did not seriously anticipate, but still it had to be considered.
And so, until the thing was absolutely certain, he hesitated to
explain the situation to Helen for fear of disappointing her!

"I think you'd better wait, Helen," said he. "There'll be time
enough for all that later when it becomes necessary. You are very
young yet, and it will not hurt you a bit to continue your education
for a little while longer."

"And in the meantime stay with Mrs. Renwick?" flashed Helen.

"Yes. I hope it will not have to be for very long."

"How long do you think, Harry?" pleaded the girl.

"That depends on circumstances," replied Thorpe

"Oh!" she cried indignantly.

"Harry," she ventured after a time, "why not write to Uncle Amos?"

Thorpe stopped and looked at her searchingly.

"You can't mean that, Helen," he said, drawing a long breath.

"But why not?" she persisted.

"You ought to know."

"Who would have done any different? If you had a brother and
discovered that he had--appropriated--most all the money of a
concern of which you were president, wouldn't you think it your
duty to have him arrested?"

"No!" cried Thorpe suddenly excited. "Never! If he was my brother,
I'd help him, even if he'd committed murder!"

"We differ there," replied the girl coldly. "I consider that Uncle
Amos was a strong man who did his duty as he saw it, in spite of his
feelings. That he had father arrested is nothing against him in my
eyes. And his wanting us to come to him since, seems to me very
generous. I am going to write to him."

"You will do nothing of the kind," commanded Thorpe sternly. "Amos
Thorpe is an unscrupulous man who became unscrupulously rich. He
deliberately used our father as a tool, and then destroyed him. I
consider that anyone of our family who would have anything to do
with him is a traitor!"

The girl did not reply.

Next morning Thorpe felt uneasily repentant for his strong language.
After all, the girl did lead a monotonous life, and he could not
blame her for rebelling against it from time to time. Her remarks
had been born of the rebellion; they had meant nothing in themselves.
He could not doubt for a moment her loyalty to the family.

But he did not tell her so. That is not the way of men of his stamp.
Rather he cast about to see what he could do.

Injin Charley had, during the winter just past, occupied odd
moments in embroidering with beads and porcupine quills a wonderful
outfit of soft buckskin gauntlets, a shirt of the same material, and
moccasins of moose-hide. They were beautifully worked, and Thorpe,
on receiving them, had at once conceived the idea of giving them
to his sister. To this end he had consulted another Indian near
Marquette, to whom he had confided the task of reducing the gloves
and moccasins. The shirt would do as it was, for it was intended
to be worn as a sort of belted blouse. As has been said, all were
thickly beaded, and represented a vast quantity of work. Probably
fifty dollars could not have bought them, even in the north country.

Thorpe tendered this as a peace offering. Not understanding women
in the least, he was surprised to see his gift received by a burst
of tears and a sudden exit from the room. Helen thought he had
bought the things; and she was still sore from the pinch of the
poverty she had touched the evening before. Nothing will exasperate
a woman more than to be presented with something expensive for which
she does not particularly care, after being denied, on the ground of
economy, something she wants very much.

Thorpe stared after her in hurt astonishment. Mrs. Renwick sniffed.

That afternoon the latter estimable lady attempted to reprove Miss
Helen, and was snubbed; she persisted, and an open quarrel ensued.

"I will not be dictated to by you, Mrs. Renwick," said Helen, "and I
don't intend to have you interfere in any way with my family affairs."

"They won't stand MUCH investigation," replied Mrs. Renwick, goaded
out of her placidity.

Thorpe entered to hear the last two speeches. He said nothing, but
that night he wrote to Wallace Carpenter for a thousand dollars.
Every stroke of the pen hurt him. But of course Helen could not
stay here now.

"And to think, just to THINK that he let that woman insult me so,
and didn't say a word!" cried Helen to herself.

Her method would have been to have acted irrevocably on the spot,
and sought ways and means afterwards. Thorpe's, however, was to
perfect all his plans before making the first step.

Wallace Carpenter was not in town. Before the letter had followed
him to his new address, and the answer had returned, a week had
passed. Of course the money was gladly put at Thorpe's disposal.
The latter at once interviewed his sister.

"Helen," he said, "I have made arrangements for some money. What
would you like to do this year?"

She raised her head and looked at him with clear bright gaze. If
he could so easily raise the money, why had he not done so before?
He knew how much she wanted it. Her happiness did not count. Only
when his quixotic ideas of family honor were attacked did he bestir
himself.

"I am going to Uncle Amos's," she replied distinctly.

"What?" asked Thorpe incredulously.

For answer she pointed to a letter lying open on the table. Thorpe
took it and read:

"My dear Niece:

"Both Mrs. Thorpe and myself more than rejoice that time and
reflection have removed that, I must confess, natural prejudice
which the unfortunate family affair, to which I will not allude,
raised in your mind against us. As we said long ago, our home is
your's when you may wish to make it so. You state your present
readiness to come immediately. Unless you wire to the contrary, we
shall expect you next Tuesday evening on the four-forty train. I
shall be at the Central Station myself to meet you. If your brother
is now with you, I should be pleased to see him also, and will be
most happy to give him a position with the firm.

"Aff. your uncle,

"Amos Thorpe.

"New York, June 6, 1883."

On finishing the last paragraph the reader crumpled the letter and
threw it into the grate.

"I am sorry you did that, Helen," said he, "but I don't blame you,
and it can't be helped. We won't need to take advantage of his
'kind offer' now."

"I intend to do so, however," replied the girl coldly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she cried, "that I am sick of waiting on your good
pleasure. I waited, and slaved, and stood unbearable things for
two years. I did it cheerfully. And in return I don't get a civil
word, not a decent explanation, not even a--caress," she fairly
sobbed out the last word. "I can't stand it any longer. I have
tried and tried and tried, and then when I've come to you for the
littlest word of encouragement, you have pecked at me with those
stingy little kisses, and have told me I was young and ought to
finish my education. You put me in uncongenial surroundings, and
go off into the woods camping yourself. You refuse me money enough
to live in a three-dollar boarding-house, and you buy expensive
rifles and fishing tackle for yourself. You can't afford to send
me away somewhere for the summer, but you bring me back gee-gaws
you have happened to fancy, worth a month's board in the country.
You haven't a cent when it is a question of what I want; but you
raise money quick enough when your old family is insulted. Isn't
it my family too? And then you blame me because, after waiting in
vain two years for you to do something, I start out to do the best
I can for myself. I'm not of age but you're not my guardian!"

During this long speech Thorpe had stood motionless, growing paler
and paler. Like most noble natures, when absolutely in the right,
he was incapable of defending himself against misunderstandings.
He was too wounded; he was hurt to the soul.

"You know that is not true, Helen," he replied, almost sternly.

"It IS true!" she asseverated, "and I'm THROUGH!"

"It's a little hard," said Thorpe passing his hand wearily before
his eyes, "to work hard this way for years, and then---"

She laughed with a hard little note of scorn.

"Helen," said Thorpe with new energy, "I forbid you to have anything
to do with Amos Thorpe. I think he is a scoundrel and a sneak."

"What grounds have you to think so?"

"None," he confessed, "that is, nothing definite. But I know men;
and I know his type. Some day I shall be able to prove something.
I do not wish you to have anything to do with him."

"I shall do as I please," she replied, crossing her hands behind her.

Thorpe's eyes darkened.

"We have talked this over a great many times," he warned, "and
you've always agreed with me. Remember, you owe something to the
family."

"Most of the family seem to owe something," she replied with a
flippant laugh. "I'm sure I didn't choose the family. If I had,
I'd have picked out a better one!"

The flippancy was only a weapon which she used unconsciously,
blindly, in her struggle. The man could not know this. His
face hardened, and his voice grew cold.

"You may take your choice, Helen," he said formally. "If you go
into the household of Amos Thorpe, if you deliberately prefer your
comfort to your honor, we will have nothing more in common."

They faced each other with the cool, deadly glance of the race, so
similar in appearance but so unlike in nature.

"I, too, offer you a home, such as it is," repeated the man.
"Choose!"

At the mention of the home for which means were so quickly
forthcoming when Thorpe, not she, considered it needful, the girl's
eyes flashed. She stooped and dragged violently from beneath the
bed a flat steamer trunk, the lid of which she threw open. A dress
lay on the bed. With a fine dramatic gesture she folded the garment
and laid it in the bottom of the trunk. Then she knelt, and without
vouchsafing another glance at her brother standing rigid by the door,
she began feverishly to arrange the folds.

The choice was made. He turned and went out.

Chapter XXXIV

With Thorpe there could be no half-way measure. He saw that the
rupture with his sister was final, and the thrust attained him
in one of his few unprotected points. It was not as though he
felt either himself or his sister consciously in the wrong. He
acquitted her of all fault, except as to the deadly one of
misreading and misunderstanding. The fact argued not a perversion
but a lack in her character. She was other than he had thought her.

As for himself, he had schemed, worked, lived only for her. He had
come to her from the battle expecting rest and refreshment. To the
world he had shown the hard, unyielding front of the unemotional;
he had looked ever keenly outward; he had braced his muscles in the
constant tension of endeavor. So much the more reason why, in the
hearts of the few he loved, he, the man of action, should find
repose; the man of sternness, should discover that absolute peace
of the spirit in which not the slightest motion of the will is
necessary, the man of repression should be permitted affectionate,
care-free expansion of the natural affection, of the full sympathy
which will understand and not mistake for weakness. Instead of this,
he was forced into refusing where he would rather have given; into
denying where he would rather have assented; and finally into
commanding where he longed most ardently to lay aside the cloak of
authority. His motives were misread; his intentions misjudged; his
love doubted.

But worst of all, Thorpe's mind could see no possibility of an
explanation. If she could not see of her own accord how much he
loved her, surely it was a hopeless task to attempt an explanation
through mere words. If, after all, she was capable of misconceiving
the entire set of his motives during the past two years, expostulation
would be futile. In his thoughts of her he fell into a great
spiritual dumbness. Never, even in his moments of most theoretical
imaginings, did he see himself setting before her fully and calmly
the hopes and ambitions of which she had been the mainspring. And
before a reconciliation, many such rehearsals must take place in the
secret recesses of a man's being.

Thorpe did not cry out, nor confide in a friend, nor do anything
even so mild as pacing the floor. The only outward and visible sign
a close observer might have noted was a certain dumb pain lurking in
the depths of his eyes like those of a wounded spaniel. He was hurt,
but did not understand. He suffered in silence, but without anger.
This is at once the noblest and the most pathetic of human suffering.

At first the spring of his life seemed broken. He did not care for
money; and at present disappointment had numbed his interest in the
game. It seemed hardly worth the candle.

Then in a few days, after his thoughts had ceased to dwell constantly
on the one subject, he began to look about him mentally. Beneath his
other interests he still felt constantly a dull ache, something
unpleasant, uncomfortable. Strangely enough it was almost identical
in quality with the uneasiness that always underlay his surface-
thoughts when he was worried about some detail of his business.
Unconsciously,--again as in his business,--the combative instinct
aroused. In lack of other object on which to expend itself, Thorpe's
fighting spirit turned with energy to the subject of the lawsuit.

Under the unwonted stress of the psychological condition just
described, he thought at white heat. His ideas were clear, and
followed each other quickly, almost feverishly.

After his sister left the Renwicks, Thorpe himself went to Detroit,
where he interviewed at once Northrop, the brilliant young lawyer
whom the firm had engaged to defend its case.

"I'm afraid we have no show," he replied to Thorpe's question.
"You see, you fellows were on the wrong side of the fence in trying
to enforce the law yourselves. Of course you may well say that
justice was all on your side. That does not count. The only
recourse recognized for injustice lies in the law courts. I'm
afraid you are due to lose your case."

"Well," said Thorpe, "they can't prove much damage."

"I don't expect that they will be able to procure a very heavy
judgment," replied Northrop. "The facts I shall be able to adduce
will cut down damages. But the costs will be very heavy."

"Yes," agreed Thorpe.

"And," then pursued Northrop with a dry smile, "they practically own
Sherman. You may be in for contempt of court at their instigation.
As I understand it, they are trying rather to injure you than to
get anything out of it themselves."

"That's it," nodded Thorpe.

"In other words, it's a case for compromise."

"Just what I wanted to get at," said Thorpe with satisfaction.
"Now answer me a question. Suppose a man injures Government or
State land by trespass. The land is afterwards bought by another
party. Has the latter any claim for damage against the trespasser?
Understand me, the purchaser bought AFTER the trespass was committed."

"Certainly," answered Northrop without hesitation.

"Provided suit is brought within six years of the time the trespass
was committed."

"Good! Now see here. These M. & D. people stole about a section of
Government pine up on that river, and I don't believe they've ever
bought in the land it stood on. In fact I don't believe they
suspect that anyone knows they've been stealing. How would it do,
if I were to buy that section at the Land Office, and threaten to
sue them for the value of the pine that originally stood on it?"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26