Love of the Wild. Archie P. McKishnie
force.
From across the creek came the jarring notes of the school bell.
Then the wind fell, and the clouds parted to let a misty web of warm sunlight through to the world.
CHAPTER VI
The Go-Between
A big man, past middle age, and seated astride a small white horse, came picking his way between the huge beech and maple trees, down through the quiet morning of the woods. He had shaggy red brows and a big mouth that drooped at the corners. The little eyes, flashing sideways in search of the blaze on the trees, were sharp and calculating. Where the ridge sloped to the valley he reined up.
“Must be somewhere about here,” he mused aloud. “Don’t know how I can miss seeing McTavish if he happens to be outside—land knows he’s big enough to see.—Hello, who are you?”
Something animated in the shape of a boy had stirred from a log directly in the path. Leaping out it stood before the rider—a boy with long yellow curls and big brown eyes. The old white horse shied, and the boy rocked backward and forward on the path, voicing low, plaintive sounds. As the rider watched him a small animal crept from the thicket and climbed upon the lad’s shoulder. The horse reared, and the boy, lifting his brown arms, began to wave them to and fro. At the same time he broke into a wild, tuneless chant, the words of which were unintelligible to the wondering observer. It was a shrill, weird note, fluted and varying like the call of a panther. Suddenly boy and animal vanished as though the Wild had reached forward and gathered them into its arms.
“Heavens!” shuddered the man, and struck the horse sharply with his spurs. Where the trail curved off abruptly to the valley he reined up once more, and, turning about, looked back.
“Well, I’ll be shot!” he soliloquized. “No matter where you find the Creator’s handiwork and beauty you’ll find His imperfections, too. Ugh! how those big eyes did probe me! It’s enough to make a saint shiver, let alone a chap who has climbed up as I have—not caring who I have tramped on.”
He shivered again, and felt in his pocket for his pipe. His hand brought forth a leather wallet. A hard smile warped his mouth as he opened the wallet and drew out a small photograph. It was the likeness of a young woman with sweet face and great eyes. He tapped the likeness and a lock of brown hair leaped out like a snake and twined about his finger. He brushed it back with a shudder, and, snapping the case, put it back in his pocket.
“I’ll find that Big McTavish and get this deal closed,” he mused as he rode along.
The horse stumbled and a grouse whizzed along the trail, passing close to the man’s head, with a thundering, nerve-wracking sound. He sat erect and sank his spurs into the old gray’s heaving flank.
“Get epp, you lazy old bag of bones,” he commanded. “Let’s find that big innocent and get hold of his deed. We’ll give him a dollar or so to see us back along that lonesome trail. I wouldn’t go back along that spooky path for all old Hallibut’s money. I’ve seen enough snakes and wolves and bears since two o’clock this morning to last me a lifetime. And that last animal—that crazy boy!—ugh!”
He slashed the old mare into a faster walk and sat huddled up and pondering until a twist in the path brought an open glade into view. The buzz of a saw and the pant of a weary engine came to his ears like welcome music.
“Totherside,” he chuckled. “Let’s see, Bushwhackers’ Place lies just across from it. But there’s the creek. Guess I’ll have to ride down to the narrows.”
Finally, with much grumbling, he reached the farther side of the creek, and, pulling in his horse, he gazed about him.
“Ha, look at that for timber!” he exulted. “And to think that Smythe and I will have control——”
He did not finish the sentence aloud, but sat nodding his head up and down. Very soon he drew up before the long log-house. Big McTavish stepped out and pointed to a log-building in a grove of butternuts.
“Put your horse in there,” he invited.
“I will, and more,” agreed the arrival. “I’ll enjoy a bite of bread and a slice of dried venison or anything else your larder affords. I’m hungry as old Nick.”
“You’re welcome to the best we have,” replied McTavish. “You’re Mr. Watson, I suppose. Am I right?”
“Watson I am—Robert W. O. Watson, that’s me. I’m pretty well known through these parts; that is to say, better maybe a little east of here. This place is kind of off the map, you know. Just give the lazy skate anything that’s handy,” he growled, referring to the patient steed that stood with drooping head and sanctimonious air, “but you needn’t be in any hurry to feed her. She’s Smythe’s horse and used to waiting.”
“I always see that my oxen get their meals same as I do,” said Big McTavish. “I wouldn’t feel just like eatin’ unless they had their fodder, too. We’ll step inside and I’ll have Gloss fix you up a meal. She’s down at the spring now gettin’ the cream ready for the churnin’, but she’ll be back direct.”
As they crossed from the stable a small form flitted by them and vanished among the trees. Watson gasped and he clutched McTavish’s arm.
“That’s him,” he cried; “that’s the crazy boy I met a couple of miles away. How did he get here this soon, do you suppose?”
“Oh, that’s Daft Davie,” smiled McTavish. “Nobody knows exactly when he’ll turn up. He runs like a deer and is as shy as the wild things he plays among.”
“Plays among?” repeated the other. He followed McTavish into the house and sat down heavily on a stool. “What do you mean by ‘plays among’?”
“I mean that he moves among the wild things and they are not scared of him same as they are of you and me or anybody else. They do say that he can fondle the cubs of bears, and wolf-kittens. I’ve seen him playin’ with a big snake, myself,—not a poisonous one, of course. Seems as though Davie can pick out the things that are harmful quick enough. Nobody pays any attention to him much in Bushwhackers’ Place, but leaves him to himself, knowin’ that God’ll protect the soul He didn’t give over-much reasonin’ power to.”
“Humph,” grunted the other, “I see you’re a pious man, McTavish—pious, God-fearing, and honest. Good plan to work along that line. Had a good bringing up myself. Mother’s prayers, early teaching, and that sort of thing have a lot to do with making a big man. My mother is largely—I should say was largely—responsible for my success. She’s dead now, poor old lady. Of course, a fellow who climbs has a right to some credit himself, I suppose. Made up your mind, I can see, to swap this forsaken wilderness for a piece of cultivated land,” he said, abruptly opening the subject nearest his heart and fixing on the big man his little pig-eyes.
“Aha, I thought you would, McTavish. Says I to Smythe this morning: ‘Smythe, it doesn’t seem to me that this is a very good piece of business judgment on our part; but,’ says I, ‘Smythe, we must consider others rather than ourselves in this matter. McTavish now,’ says I, ‘he has a couple of youngsters growing up, and they should secure an education such as the Clearview school can give them, and if that’s the case, we can’t blind our eyes to our duty as Christian men.’ Smythe is a good Christian man and just that soft-hearted that it’s no wonder my words affected him. He says: ‘Mr. Watson, money is not everything. Go forth on an errand of mercy, and offer Mr. McTavish of Bushwhackers’ Place one bright and fertile hundred acres of loam in Clearview in exchange for his bit of wilderness.’—His very words, McTavish. So I wrote you briefly in order to break the good news gently, and now I am before you to perform an act which, believe me, gives me as much pleasure, in a sense, as it does you. I have all the necessary papers, and although the