CHAPTER XXVI
And there Agincourt fell upon them!
The weekly newspaper from a neighboring county made its appearance with an article on the front page which began as follows:
"We understand that our good neighbors in Blueberry County are being ham-strung by certain interests which want to take money out of the county and put nothing back in the shape of taxes. It is said that underground political forces have been so successful in their blackguard activities that their new court house, badly needed for years, and road improvements are halted for the time being.
"Our people may congratulate themselves on being free from selfish and reactionary interests. It is a stain on the fair name of any community to have the presence of such leeches, etc."
Copies of this journal appeared in numbers. Within twenty-four hours farmers up and down the river and in the far corners of remote townships found marked copies of the paper in mail boxes and did not need rapidly running rumors to establish the identity of the "reactionary interests" as Foraker's Folly. Rumors and grumbling and discontent spread quickly and when Helen Foraker drove the sand roads she was followed by black looks and talked about sourly by men who had hoped to profit at her expense.
Humphrey Bryant had taken advantage of an unexplained loophole in the law, the story had it, to enable Foraker's Folly to grow rich at the expense of the rest of the county. But wait—wait! was the word passed by the supervisors, who had said little and looked wise, for Harris again had them in hand.
And another sly story crept about: That young John Taylor, son of the great and remembered Luke, was no idle son of a rich man. He had been at work for weeks to get possession of the Folly. He had come for that purpose, he had wormed his way into the girl's confidence and had then come into the open. That was why he was living in Pancake, boarding with the widow Holmquist and awaiting the ripening of plans that would mean much to the town and the county.
When men came to Jim Harris for confirmation of this story he shrugged and said little; but he said enough and his eyes carried a fine twinkle when he said—just enough.
Milt Goddard heard this and carried it to Helen.
"Rowe is making his cracks that Taylor was here all the time like a—a spy," he said.
She turned away so abruptly that the gesture was more stinging than any reply she might have made. Goddard's hour of triumph had been brief, indeed. He had dismayed John Taylor, but it had gained him nothing—for the present. He could wait, though; he could wait. He told himself that as the flush which Helen's wordless rebuke had caused began to fade.
Other happenings: For instance, Rowe and Harris drove out toward Seven Mile Creek, turned off before reaching the mill and followed a pair of dim ruts along the edge of the swamp until they came to a small clearing with an ancient log cabin squatted among the balsams. There they halted and Harris sounded his horn until its hoarse voice startled birds in the forest.
Inside the cabin, a stirring, a shuffling step, and Charley Stump appeared in the doorway.
"Hello, Charley."
"Hello," falteringly. "Who are ye?"
"It's me, Jim Harris. We come out to have a talk." He chuckled. "We want to settle, Charley!"
The old man's face showed indecision. He was not sure whether to be flattered or frightened, but the two visitors entered the house with so much good nature that he was put at ease.
The three sat down in the foul smelling room and talked for long, quite earnestly, in low voices, and now and then Rowe or Harris went to the doorway and looked out.
Charley stood beside the car when Harris started the motor.
"An' when it's all over will you give me a set of tires for my safety, too, Jim?"
"Tires? You bet, Charley!"
Both men laughed.
The second day after Rowe's visit to her house, a letter mailed from Pancake came to Helen. It read:
"You will do well to clear out of this county. We have stood for your ways long enough and do not want you for a neighbor at any price. If you do not go of your own will, things will happen which will make you clear out anyhow.—Citizens' Committee."
With an impatient exclamation she tore the sheet in half, but arrested the gesture to throw it into the waste basket, smoothed it out, and later that day carried it to the office of the Banner. Humphrey read it slowly; then snorted:
"Citizens' Committee! It's not hard to guess where this came from!"
He paced the office with the greatest show of rage Helen had ever seen him exhibit.
"I'd be willing to bet my last penny that Harris wrote that note himself and that Rowe looked over his rascally shoulder while he did it. They're thicker than thieves!"
"Could we prove that?"
"No. Give the devil his due, Helen, they're slicker than eels! This is blackmail and they'll take no chances, just as they're taking no chances in trying to ruin me!
"I've haunted the court house, I've tapped every underground wire of information I have, but they've cut me off. Not a soul knows a word outside the rascals who have planned it and the rascals who are going to execute their orders. They're saving this thing for a knockout blow and they're taking no chances of spoiling it by letting the plan leak. By keeping quiet they have everything to gain and not a whisper to lose."
Closeted in Jim Harris' room in the Commercial House that night, Jim and Phil Rowe and the Judge of Probate talked in half tones over their cigars.
"If there's a leak we'll spot it," said Harris. "The three of us, the kid and the sheriff are the only ones who know, except Bryant himself. He won't squeak, so that if anything does get around we'll know where it comes from."
His hand on the table clenched and his eyes showed no humor as they fixed a penetrating gaze on the nervous little judge.
"If she comes off all right, we'll be able to answer the old question about who cracked cock robin, an' when I'm through with him he can squawk as loud as he wants about Chief Pontiac's valuation and they'll laugh him out of the country. I'm afraid of no robber of orphans!" He mouthed the words in satisfaction.
And so while the county buzzed with hostility against Helen Foraker, that little group waited for the hour when Bryant, her only support, would walk from the court house a discredited man, for they knew, as well as the editor himself knew, that for their purposes the charge was as good as conviction.
Humphrey was to have gone to Detroit Monday night to find an investor to take up the mortgage which Wilcox, the new cashier of the Pancake Bank, had informed Helen by mail must be met at the end of the month, when it was due. But the serving of that notice to appear in court Thursday altered all plans.
It was on Tuesday morning that John Taylor entered the Banner office and confronted the editor. The old man looked up from his desk with a searching stare instead of his usual smile.
"You've heard, of course, about me," John said after a brief exchange.
Humphrey pushed up his spectacles and nodded "Everything."
"And you think that I'm—"
He did not finish. The other examined his pencil tip carefully; then looked up once more.
"Helen has been like my daughter since her father died. I have no children of my own. I have no kin. I'm a lonely old man and in her I've found an outlet for all the sentiment that old men have. What harms her, harms me. In rational processes I might differ with her, in purely natural reactions—I don't care to discuss them."
"You believe, then, that—"
"I don't want to be unjust or hard, Taylor, but in this matter you'll have to excuse me. You wouldn't try to argue with a father whose impulses and sentiment were strong, would you?"
A warning flash of unreasonable but natural temper was in his face and John went out, standing a long time on the edge of the sidewalk, staring across the street.
He had gone about in a half daze since leaving the forest yesterday. He felt numb and heartless and guilty and hurt. His mind would not stay on his affairs. He tried to put it there by a trip to the mill at Seven Mile the next day, but he was in a panic for fear Helen would come and he would be forced to confront her. He was glad to be back in Pancake that night, but his room in Mrs. Holmquist's house, where he had sought refuge from Rowe and Harris, was stifling so he walked down First Street slowly and sought an isolated chair on the hotel verandah.
The night was sultry. Preceding nights had been warm after scorching days. Each evening clouds gathered and rain was promised, but no rains came. Day after day the brisk, dry wind had fanned the country, browning the brakes, bleaching ripening June grass, wilting the foliage of aspens.
John saw the lights go out in the office of the Banner, saw the old editor come outside and toil up the stairway to his rooms above. The light came on there and Humphrey stood in his living room and took off his stiff bosomed shirt and stood motionless an interval. Then he did a strange thing. He drew up two rockers to the window for all the world as though he expected a visitor. For a time he rocked, then he rose and turned off the light and Taylor imagined he sat down again beside that empty chair in the darkness.
Lucius came along the street, smoking a cigar with a deal of manner. There was that in his bearing which indicated stimulants.
"Hello, Mr. Taylor!"
"Hello, Lucius."
"Hot night."
"Yes. Hot."
Pause.
Taylor hoped the boy would go on but he mounted the steps and dragged up a chair, propping his feet pompously on the rail.
"Hot an' dusty an' dead," he said ponderously. "Pancake's as—as flat as a pancake!"
His silly giggle confirmed the suspicion that he had been drinking.
"Well she won't bother me much more b' God. It may be hotter in Detroit but it ain't so dead, I'll tell the world."
"Going to Detroit, are you?"
"I'll say I am! Just as soon as I get this here, now, case off my mind I'll be on my way." He wagged his head and hitched his chair even closer and whispered. "You know, Taylor, we got old Hump sunk."
"Sunk?"
"I'll say we have! Leave it to Jim—Besides," brandishing his cigar, "I ain't no man to go off an leave th' kids in a hole. That stuff don't go down y' know, Taylor. Business 's business, but when it's stealin' from orphans, why that ain't business."
Taylor sat silent, every muscle tensing, letting these ambling suggestions sink in—Harris—Bryant—orphans—this case—
"Sure not," he said watching the youth.
"Course, you know all about it," went on Lucius. "Rowe says you're his friend an' so does Jim. Fine feller, Jim.' He give this advice for nothin' an' even agrees to slip me a little change so's I can go to Detroit when it's all over." He giggled. "An' he slips me a little now so a feller can enjoy himself in a town as flat as a pancake."
Taylor managed to hold his voice steady.
"You'll be pulling stakes soon, then."
"Yup," lowering his voice. "After tomorr' a.m. prob'ly. Y'see, the case comes up at ten in the mornin'. Jim says that's all there'll be to it, just have th' old devil appear in court an' answer my complaint that he ain't done right by Bobby an' Bessy when he lends their money to the Foraker girl."
He rolled the cigar in his lips and nodded importantly.
"Then it'll all be over tomorrow? That will end it?"
"So far's I give a damn it will. It'll ruin Hump', Jim says an' that's all we want. He won't be hornin' into other folk's business, then—"
Lucius giggled. "Tha's all. I don't give damn about th' kids. I don' care what they do to old Bryant. I'm out after th' jack, I am! So's I can get to Detroit an' a real town."
He nudged John with his elbow. "I'm from Pancake, but I'll show 'em a step or two when I land there with fifty dollars!"
"Fifty dollars is a lot of money," said Taylor.
"Not a cent too much! I told Jim it wasn't when he offered it to me to sign th' complaint over in th' judge's office. It won't last long, but then, I can get a job easy, I can—"
He ambled on with his puerile boasts while Taylor's mind worked like lightning.
"Have you seen Jim tonight?" he asked, to bring the boy back to those pregnant facts.
"Nope. Don't 'tend to, neither. He give me five on th' promise that I wouldn't get jingled—But, hell, Pancake's too dead for a sober man. Besides I ain't told nobody but you—an' you know it already. It's all fixed, anyhow. We'll have old Hump sunk an' I'm th' complainin' witness, ain't I?"
He sat up in his chair and swayed to peer closely into Taylor's face.
"Can't do nothin' without me, can they? Can't turn a wheel, can they? Huh! Guess I got a right to get jingled a little on your money! I ain't any damn fool, Taylor. I know what's goin' oh. All you fellers want is to get Bryant out of th' way so you can razee this Foraker girl back into th' brush an' you an' Rowe get her pine." Spit. Wipe of hand across an uncouth chin. "B' God I ain't so damn dumb!"
No, he was not damned dumb! He saw through Harris' scheme and his words brought order and reason to Taylor.
So they were after Bryant, were they? They were framing him? And then, with him out of the way, Helen Foraker would be at the mercy of Luke Taylor! This was Jim Harris' plotting, but he knew that Rowe's hand and mind had not been idle. John sat up.
"Suppose, " he said, "that the case should be postponed. Suppose they should hold you here a long time? Wouldn't you expect more than your fifty?"
"I'll tell a man I would. But they won't. The probate judge's fixed an' old Bryant can't turn a wheel to save himself. My part's done in ten minutes tomorra. Tha's all. Night after next I'll be steppin' out among 'em!"
In the poolroom across the street appeared the figure of Jim Harris, walking behind the tables, looking among the loafers in the far end of the room.
"There's Harris," said Taylor.
"Where?" Lucius started sharply. "Say, I better shake a leg! If he thought I'd been drinkin'—"
He rose. Harris was talking to the proprietor behind his counter. Taylor got to his feet.
"You'd better clear out, " he said. "He'll see you sure. Here, come along!"
Half shoving the confused boy he left the porch, whisked around the corner and was out of sight when Harris, scratching his head, appeared outside the pool-room and scanned the deserted street.
"Close shave!" whispered Taylor, slapping Lucius on the back. "But we're safe now."
A plan was forming in his mind, forming, oh, so slowly! He flattered the boy, directed a stream of inane banter into his ears as he led him down the dark street, keeping his tongue wagging while his mind drove along in search of a workable scheme.
"You got any hooch left?" he asked finally.
He could see Lucius wink heavily.
"HI say I have. Want a touch?"
"You know it!"
They made their way by circuitous route to the rear of the livery stable, careful not to show themselves to Jim, who still stood in the street, watching stray passers. Lucius entered the red barn, fumbled under the cushions' of his rattle-trap car and brought out a bottle.
"Here Jack, ole kid, touch her off!"
He was exceedingly familiar and rested an arm across Taylor's shoulders and John tasted the concoction. That was enough; one taste. Its vile strength gave him assurance; liquor like that fitted well with his maturing plan. He wiped his lips and passed the bottle to Lucius.
"Drink hearty!" The silhouette before him tipped the bottle up and the liquor gurgled.
They went out, taking the whiskey, and wandered to the railroad track where they sat on a pile of ties.
"Don't take too much," Taylor warned. "That's stiff stuff."
"Nev' min' me. I c'n carry m' hooch! Why, Jack, I ben drinkin' ev' since I wus so high—here, have touch."
Again John tasted and held the bottle in his hands for a long interval thereafter while he talked, humoring the boy, laughing at his tawdry boasting, edging the talk further away from Harris.
In the distance the south-bound night train whistled. The little town was asleep and dark. A light in the Commercial House and one in the bank made the only relief in the close night.
"Lucius, what if Harris throws you down? What if he gets you into court and then holds out on you?"
"Think he would?" The youth seemed sobered for the moment by the prospect. "If he did, I'd get him, b' God! Don' give damn 'bout th' case—all I wan' 's a crack at Detroit."
"Let's move on."
They rose and went toward the station. They were the only people astir. The train whistled nearer and they could hear its distant rumble when the uneasy breeze died.
"Lucius, let's not wait for Jim! Let's make sure of this—go on down to Detroit tonight!"
They were on the station platform, face to face, and Taylor took the boy's arm as he planted this suggestion.
"You 'n' me? Sure—" Then he shook off Taylor's hands groggily. "Sa-ay what you wan' me to go tonigh' for?" an ugly note in his thick voice.
"For company. I'm going down the line tonight. It'll be all right. I'll tell Jim all about it. You've done your share and if they've got anything on Bryant they can get along without you. Besides you're not sure of your fifty yet, and I'll buy your ticket."
Far off a blue-white glare in the sky told that the train was swinging around the big bend, rushing down on Pancake, which was not a schedule stop.
"You 'n' me? Lucius an' Jack."
"I'll promise you a job if you go—tonight."
"Tha' righ'? Gimme a job? Say, Jack, you're all to the candy—you—"
He said more but Taylor did not hear. He drew a folded newspaper from his pocket and struck a match. The train was very near, the ray of its headlight swinging in towards them, throwing buildings into sharp relief. He held the match to the paper. The torch flared and he waved it. The locomotive whistle barked twice and fire streamed from the brake shoes—
In the cindery seat of the smoker Lucius settled himself with a satisfied grin. He fumbled in his coat for the bottle, drained it with no offer of hospitality and then, tossing it into the night, pillowed his head on the window sill and, passed into oblivion.
"One to Peerless and one to Detroit," said Taylor to the conductor.
Peerless was the first stop.
Dirty, uncomfortable men slept or smoked stupidly in the car. None paid attention to Taylor. He joggled Lucius, drew his head up from the sill and it fell against the seat-back, but the boy gave no indication of awakening.
Quickly John searched the other's pockets, taking every penny of change except a lone dime. Then he took an envelope from his own pocket and wrote on it:
"Go to Mr. Richard Mason, Mason Auto Wheel Company. Tell him who your are and that John Taylor sent you. He will take care of you and give you a job."
This he thrust into the boy's pocket and sat back, lighting a cigarette with unsteady hands.
The brakeman came out of the smoky vestibule.
"Next stop Peerless!—Peerless—"
Taylor lurched down the rocking aisle.
"Listen, Charley," taking the trainman by the arm. "My drunken friend has just street car fare. The address he is going to is in a note in his pants' pocket. Tell him about it, and keep this for yourself."
He shoved a bill into the other's hand and went down the car steps.
"All right, boss, good-night."
The man smiled and waved a farewell as the locomotive snorted to be under way again.
Peerless, too, was asleep but not so soundly as Pancake. There were a half dozen street lights and one upstairs window of a business block showed life. The metal sign of a telephone company reflected the glow within.
John knocked and parleyed with a feminine voice on the other side. For some time entrance was refused, but finally a frightened little girl plucked aside the shade, peered out and with misgivings allowed him to enter.
For three hours he sat beside her switchboard while she worked to rouse rural operators and get a wire into Detroit. He did not let her rest and was rewarded finally by a sleepy voice in his ear.
"Hello, John; what the devil's up?"
"You're up—and I'm up—Listen, Dick, I'm sending a man down for a job."
"Don't need any men; turning 'em off every day."
"Makes no difference—His name is Kildare, Lucius Kildare, and he's on the way down with just enough money to get his hangover and appetite to your plant.
"Give him a job and keep money away from him—Yes—Ball and chain, if necessary—A job at your house would be fine!"
"What's the game?"
"A big one. Do as I say because it's more important than anything I've ever asked of you before. If you let this kid get back into this country in a month I'll never ask another favor of you as long as I live!"
A laugh came over the wire.
"If it's that serious I'll put him up at the club! Or how about a straight jacket?"
"Good idea and night. Go back to bed. Many thanks, until I can explain."
He walked out of the telephone exchange unmindful of the wondering stare of the operator. He strolled to the small station and sat down on a baggage truck to smoke and wait for a north-bound morning train. The cigarette glowed idly and the coal shrank into its shell of ash. He leaned his head back against the wall of the building and fixed his eyes on a faint star, low in the north.
He reflected.
This was the thing he could do. He could fight his father, Phil Rowe, Jim Harris; all these other men and influences that were aligned against Helen Foraker. He could put his best into that fight and make a courageous attempt to drive away the menace he had brought upon her. He owed her that; he would square his account.
He felt just the least bit heroic as he planned that fight and a tinge of bitterness crept into his attitude toward the girl. She had professed to give him her love, but when the crisis came the forest was uppermost in her mind. Her life, she had said it was, and perhaps that had been truth because she had shown no willingness to give him the benefit of the doubt—after she had given him her caresses. Her ready defiance which he had once thought splendid seemed a weakness, now.
And yet before the north-bound train stopped for him he became cold and lonely and was prompted to go to her and plead his case. But he could not do that, he told himself. He had been wrong, he had dodged and twisted and failed to meet the issue, when it concerned this girl who never dodged! He was small, small beside her, and her consequence seemed even greater as he pictured her, backed in a corner, fighting these powerful forces which sought to overwhelm her.
Until midnight Helen had been out with Goddard and Black Joe watching a ground fire run itself into a wet marsh. She undressed very slowly and sat on the edge of her bed. Watch Pine whispered restlessly above her house this night and struck a responsive chord in her heart. Until now she had thought of John Taylor only with anger. He had come to her, she had helped him, she had loved him, only to have him strike at the vital thing for which she lived and worked. But tonight her weariness could rally no resentment and her thoughts persisted in straying back to sweet moments. When he had fished with her at evening, when he had been beside her desk at night learning the things she had to teach; when he had talked of his father; when he had pledged his allegiance—and when his lips had first touched hers. Now, there was no wrath to think that he had come so close to her heart, but only a sense of emptiness, loneliness. Was her forest all that mattered? she asked herself.