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Down the Ravine, a novel by Mary Noailles Murfree |
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Chapter 9 |
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_ CHAPTER IX This grave, eager gaze Rufe returned with the gayest audacity. "Been skeered by old Mis' Price's harnt lately?" he once more chirped out gleefully. He was comical enough, as he sat on the top of the wood-pile, hugging his knees with both arms, his old, bent, wool hat perched on the back of his tow head, and all his jagged squirrel teeth showing themselves, unabashed, in a wide grin. Jubal Perkins laughed lazily, as he looked at him. Then, with that indulgence which Rufe always met at the tanyard, and which served to make him so pert and forward, the tanner said, humoring the privileged character, "What be you-uns a-talkin' 'bout, boy? Mrs. Price ain't dead." "HE hev viewed old Mis' Price's harnt," cried Rufe, pointing at Andy Byers, with a jocosely crooked finger. "HE air so peart an' forehanded a-viewin' harnts, he don't hev to wait till folkses be dead. HE hev seen Mis' Price's harnt--an' it plumb skeered the wits out'n him." Perkins did not understand this. His interest was suddenly alert. He took his pipe from his mouth, and glanced over his shoulder at Byers. "What air Rufe aimin' at, Andy?" he asked, surprised. Byers did not reply. He still gazed steadfastly at Rufe; the knife lay unheeded on the ground at his feet, and the hide was slipping from the wooden horse. At last he said slowly, "Birt tole ye 'bout'n it, eh?" "Naw, sir! Naw!" Rufe rocked himself fantastically to and fro in imminent peril of toppling off the wood-pile. "'Twar Tom Byers ez tole me." "TOM!" exclaimed Byers, with a galvanic start. For Tom was his son, and he had not suspected filial treachery in the matter of the spectral blackberry bush. Rufe stared in his turn, not comprehending Byers's surprise. "TOM," he reiterated presently, with mocking explicitness. "Tom Byers--I reckon ye knows him. That thar freckled-faced, snaggled- toothed, red-headed Tom Byers, ez lives at yer house. I reckon ye MUS' know him." "Tom tole ye--WHAT?" asked the tanner, puzzled by Byers's grave, anxious face, and Rufe's mysterious sneers. Rufe broke into the liveliest cackle. "Tom, he 'lowed ter me ez he war tucked up in the trundle-bed, fast asleep, that night when his dad got home from old Mis' Price's house, whar he had been ter hear her las' words. Tom, he 'lowed he war dreamin' ez his gran'dad hed gin him a calf--Tom say the calf war spotted red an' white--an' jes' ez he war a-leadin' it home with him, his dad kem racin' inter the house with sech a rumpus ez woke him up, an' he never got the calf along no furder than the turn in the road. An' thar sot his dad in the cheer, declarin' fur true ez he hed seen old Mis' Price's harnt in the woods, an' b'lieved she mus' be dead afore now. An' though thar war a right smart fire on the h'a'th, he war shiverin' an' shakin' over it, jes' the same ez ef he war out at the wood-pile, pickin' up chips on a frosty mornin'." And Rufe crouched over, shivering in every limb, in equally excellent mimicry of a ghost-seer, or an unwilling chip-picker under stress of weather. "My!" he exclaimed with a fresh burst of laughter; "whenst Tom tole me 'bout'n it I war so tickled I war feared I'd fall. I los' the use o' my tongue. I couldn't stop laffin' long enough ter tell Tom what I war laffin' at. An' ez Tom knowed I war snake-bit las' June, he went home an' tole his mother ez the p'ison hed done teched me in the head, an' said he reckoned, ef the truth war knowed, I hed fits ez a constancy. I say--FITS!" Once more the bewildered tanner glanced from one to the other. "Why, ye never tole me ez ye hed seen su'thin' strange in the woods, Andy," he exclaimed, feeling aggrieved, thus balked of a sensation. "An' the old woman ain't dead, nohow," he continued reasonably, "but air strengthenin' up amazin' fast." "Waal," put in Rufe, hastening to explain this discrepancy in the spectre, "I hearn you-uns a-sayin' that mornin', fore ye set out from the tanyard, ez she war mighty nigh dead an' would be gone 'fore night. An' ez he hed tole me he'd skeer the wits out'n me, I 'lowed ez I could show him ez his wits warn't ez tough ez mine. Though," added the roguish Rufe, with a grin of enjoyment, "arter I hed dressed up the blackberry bush in mam's apron an' shawl, an' sot her bonnet a-top, it tuk ter noddin' and bowin' with the wind, an' looked so like folks, ez it gin ME a skeer, an' I jes' run home ez hard ez I could travel. An Towse, he barked at it!" Andy Byers spoke suddenly. "Waal, Birt holped ye, then." "He never!" cried Rufe, emphatically, unwilling to share the credit, or perhaps discredit, of the enterprise. "Birt dunno nuthin' 'bout it ter this good day." Rufe winked slyly. "Birt would tell mam ez I hed been a-foolin' with her shawl an' bonnet." Andy Byers still maintained a most incongruous gravity. "It warn't Birt's doin', at all?" he said interrogatively, and with a pondering aspect. Jubal Perkins broke into a derisive guffaw. "What ails ye, Andy?" he cried. "Though ye never seen no harnt, ye 'pear ter be fairly witched by that thar tricked-out blackberry bush." Rufe shrugged up his shoulders, and began to shiver in imaginary terror over a fancied fire. "Old--Mis'--Price's--harnt!" he wheezed. The point of view makes an essential difference. Jube Perkins thought Rufe's comicality most praiseworthy--his pipe went out while he laughed. Byers flushed indignantly. "Ye aggervatin' leetle varmint!" he cried suddenly, his patience giving way. He seized the crouching mimic by the collar, and although he did not literally knock him off the wood-pile, as Rufe afterward declared, he assisted the small boy through the air with a celerity that caused Rufe to wink very fast and catch his breath, when he was deposited, with a shake, on the soft pile of ground bark some yards away. Rufe was altogether unhurt, but a trifle subdued by this sudden aerial excursion. The fun was over for the present. He gathered himself together, and went demurely and sat down on the lowest log of the wood-pile. After a little he produced a papaw from his pocket, and by the manner in which they went to work upon it, his jagged squirrel teeth showed that they were better than they looked. Towse had followed his master to the tanyard, and was lying asleep beside the woodpile, with his muzzle on his forepaws. He roused himself suddenly at the sound of munching, and came and sat upright, facing Rufe, and eyeing the papaw gloatingly. He wagged his tail in a beguiling fashion, and now and then turned his head blandishingly askew. Of course he would not have relished the papaw, and only begged as a matter of habit or perhaps on principle; but he was given no opportunity to sample it, for Rufe hardly noticed him, being absorbed in dubiously watching Andy Byers, who was once more at work, scraping the hide with the two-handled knife. Jubal Perkins had gone into the house for a coal to re-kindle his pipe, for there is always a smouldering fire in the "smoke-room" for the purpose of drying the hides suspended from the rafters. He came out with it freshly glowing, and sat down on the broad, high pile of wood. As the first whiff of smoke wreathed over his head, he said, "What air the differ ter ye, Andy, whether 't war bub, hyar, or Birt, ez dressed up the blackberry bush? ye 'pear ter make a differ a-twixt 'em." Still Byers was evasive. "Whar's Birt, ennyhow?" he demanded irrelevantly. "Waal," drawled the tanner, with a certain constraint, "I hed been promisin' Birt a day off fur a right smart while, an' I tole him ez he mought ez well hev the rest o' ter-day. He 'lowed ez he warn't partic'lar 'bout a day off, now. But I tole him ennyhow ter go along. I seen him a while ago passin' through the woods, with his rifle on his shoulder--gone huntin', I reckon." "GONE HUNTIN'!" ejaculated Rufe in dudgeon, joining unceremoniously in the conversation of his elders. "Now, Birt mought hev let me know! I'd hev wanted ter go along too." "Mebbe that air the reason he never tole ye, bub," said Perkins dryly. For he could appreciate that Rufe's society was not always a boon, although he took a lenient view of the little boy. Any indulgence of Birt was more unusual, and Andy Byers experienced some surprise to hear of the unwonted sylvan recreations of the young drudge. He noticed that the mule was off duty too, grazing among the bushes just beyond the fence, and hobbled so that he could not run away. This precaution might have seemed a practical joke on the mule, for the poor old animal was only too glad to stand stock still. Rufe continued his exclamatory indignation. "Jes' ter go lopin' off inter the woods huntin', 'thout lettin' ME know! An' I never gits ter go huntin' nohow! An' mam won't let me tech Birt's rifle, 'thout it air ez empty ez a gourd! She say she air feared I'll shoot my head off, an' she don't want no boys, 'thout heads, jouncin' round her house--shucks! Which way did Birt take, Mister Perkins?--'kase I be goin' ter ketch up." "He war headed fur that thar salt lick, whenst I las' seen him," replied the tanner; "ef ye stir yer stumps right lively, mebbe ye'll overhaul him yit." Rufe rose precipitately. Towse, believing his petition for the papaw was about to be rewarded, leaped up too, gamboling with a display of ecstasy that might have befitted a starving creature, and an elasticity to be expected only of a rubber dog. As he uttered a shrill yelp of delight, he sprang up against Rufe, who, reeling under the shock, dropped the remnant of the papaw. Towse darted upon it, sniffed disdainfully, and returned to his capers around Rufe, evidently declining to believe that all that show of gustatory satisfaction had been elicited only by the papaw, and that Rufe had nothing else to eat. Thus the two took their way out of the tanyard; and even after they had disappeared, their progress through the underbrush was marked by an abnormal commotion among the leaves, as the saltatory skeptic of a dog insisted on more substantial favors than the succulent papaw. The tanner smoked for a time in silence. Then, "Birt ain't goin' ter be let ter work hyar ag'in," he said. Byers elevated his shaggy eyebrows in surprise. "Ye see," said the tanner in a confidential undertone, "sence Birt hev stole that thar grant, I kin argufy ez he mought steal su'thin' else, an' I ain't ekal ter keepin' up a spry lookout on things, an' bein' partic'lar 'bout the count o' the hides an' sech. I can't feel easy with sech a mischeevious scamp around." Byers made no rejoinder, and the tanner, puffing his pipe, vaguely watched the wreaths of smoke rise above his head, and whisk buoyantly about in the air, and finally skurry off into invisibility. A gentle breeze was astir in the woods, and it set the leaves to whispering. The treetoads and the locusts were trolling a chorus. So loudly vibrant, it was! So clamorously gay! Some subtle intimation they surely had that summer was ephemeral and the season waning, for the burden of their song was, Let us now be merry. The scarlet head of a woodpecker showed brilliantly from the bare dead boughs of a chestnut-oak, which, with its clinging lichens of green and gray, was boldly projected against the azure sky. And there, the filmy moon, most dimly visible in the afternoon sunshine, swung like some lunar hallucination among the cirrus clouds. "Ye 'lows ez I ain't doin' right by Birt?" the tanner suggested presently, with more conscience in the matter than one would have given him credit for possessing. "I knows ye air doin' right," said Byers unexpectedly. All at once the woodpecker was solemnly tapping--tapping. Byers glanced up, as if to discern whence the sudden sound came, and once more bent to his work. "Ye b'lieves, then, ez he stole that thar grant from Nate Griggs?" asked Perkins. "I be SURE he done it," said Byers, unequivocally. The tanner took his pipe from his lips. "What ails ye ter say that, Andy?" he exclaimed excitedly. Andy Byers hesitated. He mechanically passed his fingers once or twice across the blunt, curved blade of the two-handled knife. "Ye'll keep the secret?" "In the sole o' my boot," said the tanner. "Waal, I KNOWS ez Birt stole the grant. I hev been powerful changeful, though, in my thoughts bout'n it. At fust I war glad when he war suspicioned 'bout'n it, an' I war minded to go an' inform on him an' sech, ter pay him back; 'kase I held a grudge ag'in him, believin' ez he hed dressed out that thar blackberry bush ez Mrs. Price's harnt. An' then I'd remember ez his mother war a widder-woman, an' he war nothin' but a boy, an' boys air bound ter be gamesome an' full o' jokes wunst in a while, an' I'd feel like I war bound ter furgive him 'bout the harnt. An' then ag'in I got toler'ble oneasy fur fear the Law mought hold ME 'sponsible fur knowin' 'bout Birt's crime of stealin' the grant an' yit not tellin' on him. An' I'd take ter hopin' an' prayin' the boy would confess, so ez I wouldn't hev ter tell on him. I hev been mightily pestered in my mind lately with sech dilly-dallyin'." Again the sudden tapping of the woodpecker filled the pause. "Did ye SEE him steal the grant, Andy?" asked the tanner, with bated breath. "Ez good ez seen him. I seen him slyin' round, an' I HEV FUND THE PLACE WHAR HE HEV HID IT." And the woodpecker still was solemnly tapping, high up in the chestnut-oak tree. _ |
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