From the Valley of the Missing. Grace Miller White
of his body was the only evidence he gave that he had heard Crabbe's words. Snip, snip, snip! went the bits of gold into the kettle, until Eli spoke again.
"Ye can't tell me that ye ain't goin' never to get married, Lem?"
Crabbe lifted his hooked arm viciously. "I ain't said nothin' like that. I says as how Scraggy can keep away from my scow."
"Don't she never come here no more?" asked Eli in disbelief.
"Nope, not after them three beatin's I give her. She kept a comin', and I had to wallop her. I'd do it again if she snoops 'bout here."
"Ye beat her up well, didn't ye, Lem? And she telled Mammy that yer brat were drowned one night in the river. Were it, Lem?"
There was an expectant pause between his first and last questions, and Lem waited almost as long before he grunted:
"Yep."
"Did ye throw it in when ye was drunk?"
"Nope, he jest fell in—that's all."
"I guess that last beatin' ye give Scraggy made her batty. Mam says that she ain't no more sense than her cat."
"Let her keep to hum then, and she won't get beat. I don't do no runnin' after her!"
Again there came a space of time during which Eli and Lem worked in silence. From far away in the city there came the sound of the fire whistle, followed by the ringing of bells. But not one of the men ceased his clipping to satisfy any curiosity he might have had.
Suddenly Lem Crabbe spoke louder than he had before that evening.
"Women ain't no good, nohow! They don't love no men, and men don't love them. What's the good of havin' 'em round to feed and to bother a feller 'bout drinkin' an' things? Less a man sees of 'em the better!"
The third man, Silent Lon Cronk, sunk lower at his work, even more fiercely flattening the gemless rings under the pressers. After a few moments he laid down his tools and began to stretch his long legs, scraping into a cup the bits of gold from his lap.
"I've been goin' to ask ye fellers somethin' for a long time. Might as well now as any other night, eh?"
"Yep," replied Eli eagerly.
"'Tain't nothin' that will take any money out yer pockets; 'twill put it in, more likely. We've been stealin' together for how long, Lem? How long we been pals?"
"Nigh onto ten years, I'm thinkin'. It were that year that Tilly Jacobson got burned, weren't it?"
"Yep, for ten years," replied Lon, ignoring Lem's last query, "and we've allers been hones' with each other. I've been hones' with both of ye, and ye've been hones' with me. Eh?"
"Yep."
"Lem, do ye want all the swag in this here room, only a sharin' up with Eli, without havin' to share and share alike with me?"
A small jewel bounded from the steel hook, and the pliers fell from Lem's fingers. Eli dropped back upon his bare feet.
"What's in the wind?" demanded Lem.
"Only want ye to help me with a job some night that won't be nothin' to nuther of ye. But it's all to me. Will ye?"
Lem wriggled nearer on the floor. "Ye mean stealin', Lon?" he demanded.
"Yep."
"And we ain't to share up with it?"
"Nope; but ye're to have all that's in this here room. If I tell ye, will ye help?"
Crabbe looked at Eli, and a furtive look was shot back. Each was afraid of the other; but for the big, gloomy man before them they had vast respect.
"What be ye goin' to steal, Lon? Tell us before we say we'll help."
"Kids," muttered Lon moodily.
"Live kids?" asked Eli, in great surprise.
"Yep, live ones. What do I want with dead ones? Will ye help?"
"Can't see no good a swipin' kids. What do ye want with 'em?"
"I'll tell ye if ye sit up and listen to me."
Crabbe dropped his hooked arm and leaned against the wall. Eli lighted a pipe. A mysterious change had passed over Silent Lon's face. The blue eyes glowed out from under a massive brow, and a mouth cruel and vindictive set firm-jawed over decayed teeth.
"I'll tell ye this much for all time, Lem Crabbe: that ye lied when ye said that no woman could love no man—ye lied, I say!"
So fierce had he become that the man with the hook drew back into the corner and sat staring sullenly. Eli puffed more vigorously on his pipe.
Lon went on:
"I had a woman oncet," said he, "and she were every bit mine. And she were little—like this."
The big fellow measured off a space with his hand and, straightening again, stood against the wall of the scow, his head reaching almost to the ceiling.
"She were mine, I say, and any man what says she weren't—"
"Where be she?" interrupted Lem curiously.
"Dead," replied Lon, "as dead as if she'd never been alive, as dead as if she'd never laid ag'in' my heart when I wanted her! God! how I wanted her!"
"But were she a woman?" asked Lem meditatively.
"Yep, she were a woman, and I married her square, I did!"
Lon stirred his dank black hair ferociously, standing it on end with horny fingers. "I loved her, Lem Crabbe," he continued hoarsely. "I loved her, that I know! And ye can let that devilish grin ride on yer lips when I say it and I don't give a hell; but—but if ye say that she didn't love me, if ye so much as smile when I say that she died a callin' me, that she went away lovin' me every minute, I—I'll rip offen yer hooked arm and tear out yer in'ards with it!"
He was leaning against the wall no longer. As he spoke, he came closer to the crouching canalman, his eyes straining from their sockets in livid hate. But he halted, and presently began to speak in a voice more subdued.
"But she's dead, and I'm goin' to get even. He killed her, he did, 'cause he wouldn't let me see her, and he's got to go the same way I went! He's got to tear his hair and call God to curse some 'un he won't know who! He's got to want his kids like as how I've been wantin' mine—"
"Ye ain't had no kids, Lon," his brother broke in scoffingly.
"I would a had if he'd a kept his hands to hum and let me see her. But she were so little an' young-like an' afeard, and I telled her that night—I telled her when she whispered that she were a goin' to have a baby, and said as how she couldn't stand bein' hurt—I says, 'Midge darlin', do it hurt the grass to grow jest 'cause the winds bend it double? Do it hurt the little birds to bust out of their shells in the springtime?' And she knowed what I meant, that not even what she were a thinkin' of could hurt her if I was there close by."
His deep voice sank almost to a whisper, a hard, heavy sob closing his throat. He shook himself fiercely and continued:
"I took her up close—God! how close I tooked her up! And I telled her that there wasn't no pain big 'nough to hurt her when I were there—that even God's finger couldn't tech her afore it went through me. And she fell to sleep like a bird, a trustin' me, 'cause I said as how there wasn't goin' to be no hurt. And all the time I knowed I were a lyin'—I knowed that she'd suffer—"
His voice trailed into silence, the muscles of his dark face twitching under the gnawing heart-pain; but after a time he conquered his feelings and went on:
"Then they comed and took me away for stealin' jest that there week and sent me up to Auburn prison, and they wouldn't let me stay with her. And I telled the state's lawyer, Floyd Vandecar, this; I says, 'Vandecar, ye be a good man, I be a thief, and ye caught me square, ye did. My little Midge be sick like women is sick sometimes, and