From the Valley of the Missing | Page 2

squareness of a room. Scraggy knew that hauling lumber was but the cover for a darker trade. Yet as she glanced at the stolid, indifferent man trudging behind the mules a lovelight sprang into her eyes.
Later, by an hour, the mules came to a halt at Lem's order.
"Throw down that gangplank, Scraggy," stammered Crabbe, "and put the brat below! I want to get these here mules in. The storm'll be here in any minute."
Obediently the woman hastened to comply, and soon the tired mules munched their suppers, their long faces filling the window-gaps of the stable.
Lem Crabbe followed the woman down the scow-steps amid gusty howls of the wind, and the night fell over the city and the black, winding river. The man ate his supper in silence, furtively casting his eyes now and then upon the slender figure of the woman. He chewed fast, uttering no word, and the creaking of the heavy jaws and the smacking of the coarse lips were the only sounds to be heard after the woman had taken her place at the table. Scraggy dared not yet begin to eat; for something new in her master's manner filled her with sudden fear. By sitting very quietly, she hoped to keep his attention upon his plate, and after he had eaten he would go to bed. She was aroused from this thought by the feeble whimper of her child in the tiny room of the scow's bow. Although the woman heard, she made no move to answer the weak summons.
She rose languidly as the child began to cry more loudly; but a command from Lem stopped her.
"Set down!" he said.
"The brat's a wailin'," replied Scraggy hoarsely.
"Set down, and let him wail!" shouted Lem.
Scraggy sank unnerved into the chair, gazing at him with terrified eyes. "Why, Lem, he's too little to cry overmuch."
"Keep a settin', I say! Let him yap!"
For the second time that day Scraggy's face shaded to the color of ashes, and her gaze dropped before the fierce eyes directed upon her.
"Ye said more'n once, Scraggy," began Lem, "that I wasn't to drink no more whisky. Whose money pays for what I drink? That's what I want ye to tell me!"
"Yer money, Lem dear."
"And ye say as how I couldn't drink what I pay for?"
"Yep, I has said it," was the timid answer. "Ye drink too much--that's what ye do! Ye ain't no mind left, ye ain't! And it makes ye ugly, so it does!"
"Be it any of yer business?" demanded Lem insultingly, as he filled his mouth with a piece of brown bread. After washing it down with a drink of whisky, he finished, "Ye ain't no relation to me, be ye?"
The thin face hung over the tin plate.
"Ye ain't married to me, be ye?"
And, while a giant pain gnawed at her heart, she shook her head.
"Then what right has ye got to tell me what to do? Shut up or get out--ye see?"
He closed his jaw with a vicious snap, resting his half-dazed head on his mutilated arm. Louder came the baby's cries from the back room. Thinking Lem had ended his tirade, Scraggy made a motion to rise.
"Set still!" growled Crabbe.
"Can't I get the brat, Lemmy?" she pleaded. "He's likely to fall offen the bed."
"Let him fall. What do I care? I want to tell ye somethin'. I didn't bring ye here to this boat to boss me, ye see? Ye keep yer mouth shet 'bout things what ye don't like. Ye're in my way, anyhow."
"Ye mean, Lemmy, as how I has to leave ye?"
Crabbe regarded the appealing face soddenly before answering. "Yep, that's what I mean. I'm tired of a woman allers a snoopin' around, and a hundred times more tired of the brat."
"But he's yer own," cried the woman, "and ye did say as how ye'd marry me for his sake! Didn't ye say it, Lem? He ain't nothin' but a baby, an' he don't cry much. Will ye let me an' him stay, Deary?"
"Ye can stay tonight; but tomorry ye go, and I don't give a hell where, so long as ye leave this here scow, an' I'm a tellin' ye this--" He halted with an exasperated gesture. "Go an' get that kid an' shet his everlastin' clack!"
Scraggy bounded into the inner room, and, once out of sight of the watchful eyes of Lem, snatched up the infant and pressed her lips passionately to the rosy skin.
"Yer mammy'll allers love ye, little 'un, allers, allers, no matter what yer pappy does!"
She whispered this under her breath; then, dragging the red shawl about her shoulders, appeared in the living-room with the child hidden from view.
"An' I'll tell ye somethin' else, too," burst in Lem, pulling out a corncob pipe: "that it ain't none of yer business if I steal