The Girl From Tim's Place. Charles Clark Munn
Old Tomah that, an’ he said if he did, he’d shoot him; but Old Tomah wasn’t round only winters. I hated dad so I’d ’a’ shot him myself, I guess, if I cud ’a’ got hold o’ a gun when he wa’n’t watchin’.”
“It’s awful to have to feel that way toward your own father,” interrupted Ray, “for he was your father.”
“I s’pose ’twas,” admitted Chip, candidly, “but I never felt much different. I’ve seen him slap mother when she was on her knees a-bawlin’, an’ the way he would cuss her was awful.”
“But you had some friendship from this old Indian,” queried Ray, who began to realize what a pitiful life the girl had led; “he was good to you, wasn’t he?”
“He was, sartin,” returned Chip, eagerly; “he used to tell me the spites ’ud fix dad ’fore long, so he’d never show up agin, ’n’ when I got big ’nuff he’d sneak me off some night ’n’ take me to the settlement, whar I could arn a livin’. Old Tomah was the only one who cared a cuss fer me. I used to bawl when he went away every spring, an’ beg him to take me ’long ’n’ help him camp ’n’ cook. I’d ’a’ done ’most anything fer Old Tomah. I didn’t mind havin’ to work all the time fer Tim. I didn’t mind wearin’ clothes made out o’ old duds ’n’ bein’ cussed fer not workin’ hard ’nuff. What I did mind was not havin’ nobody who cared whether I lived or died, or said a good word to me. Sometimes I got so lonesome, I used to go out in the woods nights when ’twas moonlight ’n’ beg the spites to help me. I used to think mother might be one on ’em ’n’ she’d keer fer me. I think she was, an’ ’twas her as kept me goin’ till I found you folks’s camp. I got awful skeered them nights I was runnin’ away, an’ when ’twas so dark I couldn’t see no more, an’ I heerd wildcats yowlin’, I’d git on my knees ’n’ beg mother to keep ’em away. I think she did, an’ allus shall.”
Much more in connection with the wild, harsh life Chip had led for eight years was now told by her. Old Tomah’s superstition and belief in hobgoblins were enlarged upon. Life at Tim’s Place, with all its filth, brutality, and nearly animal existence, was described in full; for Chip’s tongue, once loosened, ran on and on, while Ray, spellbound by this description, was scarce conscious he was wielding a paddle. Never before had he heard such a tale, so unusual and so pathetic. Naturally of chivalrous and manly nature, it appealed to him as naught else could. Then the girl herself, with her big, pleading eyes, her queer belief in those woodsy, spectral forms she called spites, and her free and easy confidence in him, and his sympathy also, surprised Ray. Her speech was coarse and crude–the vernacular of Tim’s Place. Now and then a profane word crept in; yet it was absolute truth, and forceful from its very simplicity.
But another influence, more potent than her wrongs, was now appealing to Chip–her sense of joy at her rescue, and with it a positive faith that the spites had been the means of her escape.
“I know they did it,” she said time and again, “an’ I know mother was one on ’em. I wished I cud do suthin’ to show ’em how thankful I am ’n’ how happy I am now.” And Ray, astonished that so keen-witted and courageous a girl should have such a fantastic belief, made no comment.
A more serious subject was under discussion in the other canoe, meantime, as to the future disposition of Chip herself.
“I feel it my duty to take care of her,” Angie said, after relating her conversation with Chip and that morning’s incident. “She is a homeless, outcast waif, needing education and everything else to Christianize her. We must bring her to the settlement, but to turn her adrift might mean leaving her to a life of vice, even if she escapes her brutal father and this worse half-breed. Then, again, I am not sure that her parentage will bear inspection. She has told me something about her earlier life, and about her mother, who evidently loved her. One course only seems plain to me,–to take care of and educate this unfortunate.”
“I am willing, my dear,” responded Martin, who, like all new husbands, was ready to concede anything, “only I suggest that you go a little slow. You can’t tell yet what this girl will develop into. She has had the worst possible parentage, without doubt. Her life at Tim’s Place, and contact with lumbermen or worse, has been no benefit. She is grossly ignorant, and may be ill-tempered, and once given to understand that you have practically adopted her, you can’t–or won’t–have the heart to turn her off. Now we are to return to the lake and remain a month, as you know, and in the meantime, what will you do with this girl?”
This was reducing Angie’s philanthropic impulses to a focus, as it were, and it set her thinking. Something more of this discussion followed, and finally Angie announced her decision.
“We must take the girl back with us,” she said, “and begin her reformation at the camp. If she shows any aptitude and willingness to obey, we will take her to Greenvale. If not, you must arrange to get her into some institution.”
“And suppose the half-breed finds where she is, what then?” inquired Martin.
“What do you say, Levi?” he added, turning to his guide, “you know this fellow; what will he be apt to do?”
“I s’pose you know what a panther’ll do, robbed of her cub,” Levi answered, “an’ how a bull moose acts in runnin’ time, mebbe. Wal, this Pete is worse’n both on ’em biled into one, I callate. If you’re goin’ ter take the gal back, you’ve got to keep her shady, or some day you’ll find her missin’. Besides, Pete, ez I told ye, don’t know the meanin’ o’ law and is handy with a gun.”
But Martin did not quite share Levi’s fears, and so Angie’s decision was agreed to. Levi’s advice to “keep shady” was accepted, however, and all through that summer’s somewhat thrilling experiences it was the rule of conduct.
When noon came, Levi led the way into a lagoon; in a secluded spot at its head dinner was cooked, and when the sun was well down and a tributary stream was reached, he turned into it, and halted not for the night camp until a full half-mile separated them from the river.
A certain vague sense of impending danger began to impress both Martin and his wife, and the woods seemed to hold a one-eyed, malicious villain who might appear at any moment. A danger which we know actually exists, we can avoid or meet squarely; but one merely imaginary becomes irksome and really more annoying.
No hint of this was dropped by the three older ones, and when the tents were pitched, long before twilight, and Martin and Ray had captured a goodly string of trout and the camp-fire was alight, this wildwood life seemed absolutely perfect, to the young folks at least.
Chip also showed one of the best features of her training. She wanted to help everybody and do everything, and Levi, who always did the cooking, was importuned to let her help. Strong as a young Amazon, she fetched and carried like a man, and the one thing that gladdened her most was permission to work.
When supper was over came the lounging beside the cheerful fire, and as the shadows thickened, forth came Ray’s banjo once more, and with it the light of admiration in Chip’s eyes.
All that day he had been her charming companion; his open, manly face, his bright brown eyes, had been ever before her. His well-bred ways, so unlike all the men at Tim’s Place, had impressed her as those of a youth of eighteen will a maid of sixteen; and now, with his voice appealing to the best in her, he seemed like Pan of old, once more wooing a nymph with his pipes.
No knowledge of this was hers, no consciousness of why she was happy came to her. She knew what spites were; but the god Pan and Apollo with his harp were unknown forms.
Neither did she realize that born in her soul that day, on the broad shining river, was a magic impulse woven out of heart throbs, and destined to mete out to her more sorrow than all else in her life combined.
She had entered the wondrous vale of love whose paths are flower-strewn, whose shores are rippled with laughter, and whose borders, alas! are ever hid in the midst of tears.