Sally of Missouri | Page 5

and
he was moved to get some sort of grip upon the old man's interest while
the chance lasted. "The Canaan Tigmores are not as far away as the
Boston Mountains, Mr. Bernique. Much nearer than the Kiamichi.
What's your idea about the Canaan Tigmores--in relation to zinc, Mr.
Bernique?"
"Pouf!" The old man made airy rings of smoke from the cigar with
which Steering had furnished him. He would not talk about the Canaan
Tigmores at all. "You will see Mr. Crittenton Madeira in Canaan about
all that," he said. "And now, sir, I have the regret to leave you. Our
roads part at the sign-post yonder. I ride east."
"Well, tell you what I wish!" cried Steering, with the pertinacity that
was a part of him. "I am on my way to Mr. Crittenton Madeira now,
and I wish you would come to me in Canaan some soon day and let me
tell you the result of my business with him." Time was limited, for the
horses were close to the cross-roads sign-post. "The Canaan Tigmores
won't always belong to old Bruce Grierson, Mr. Bernique!" It was a
random shot, but it told against Bernique's glumness.
"Pouf! The bat-fool! The blind mole!"
"The Canaan Tigmores are entailed, Mr. Bernique! The next owner
may have eyes!"
"God grant!" growled Old Bernique.
"Grey eyes, eh, Mr. Bernique?" Steering flashed his own eyes smilingly
at the French Missourian. The horses were at the sign-post.
"Eh, what?" cried Old Bernique, "is it that----?"
"We shall meet again, Mr. Bernique?"

"I ride east for many a day, I think," said Bernique dubiously.
"But you come back to Canaan?"
"Ah, God in Heaven, yes!" cried the old man then, with a sudden fierce
impetuosity, "I ride east, ride west, ride the wide world ovaire, but
always I come back,--come back to Canaan." He stopped abruptly, as
though afraid of himself, and faced Steering for a silent moment.
Up to the silence, cleaving it gently, musically, there came
unexpectedly the notes of a rollicking song:
"The taters grow an' grow, they grow!"
On the instant old Bernique's face relaxed pleasantly. He half grunted,
half laughed. "The potato song!" he cried, his eyes gay, his mouth
twitching. "Mistaire Steering, if you will ride on a little way you will
have fine company. That is the tramp-boy yondaire. He is in the woods
above the gulch there. He will have emerge' to the road presently. The
yong scamp is musical, sair!"
"Aye, hear that!" cried Steering appreciatively, "gloriously musical!"
Out of the great green timber mounted the tenor notes, piercingly sweet,
pure, true, like a bird-call:
"A tater's good 'ith 'lasses."
Bernique's horse was growing restless. The old man rode a little nearer
Steering and regarded him searchingly. "Good-bye, sair," he said then,
"it shall be what you say. I shall come back to you in Canaan."
"Good-bye, Mr. Bernique. I'm glad to have you decide that way."
Steering clung to his notion that he and Bernique were to know each
other better. They shook hands under the cross-roads sign-post with
understanding.
The rain was coming on fast. All the east lay grey behind Steering, all
the west grey before him as he moved away from the cross-roads. But

out of the west rolled the melody of the carolling boy, the voice of one
singing in the wilderness, young and undismayed.
Under the cross-roads sign-post old Bernique sat his horse motionless
for a time, looking after Steering. From Steering his eyes roamed afar
toward the Canaan Tigmores. A little shiver caught him. "The man that
was expect'," he mused, "the man that was expect'!" Then he, too, rode
away.

Chapter Two
PINEY OF THE WOODS
Where the ridge road dropped down close to the pale river at a dip in
the hills, Steering overtook the tramp-boy, hallooed to him, and
watched him, as he turned his pony about and sat waitingly. He was a
youth of sixteen or seventeen, and from under the peak of his felt hat,
slouched and old, peered out a slim young gypsy face, crowned by a
thick mop of black hair that tumbled about wide temples. Motionless
there, the tremble of his song still on his lips and the gladness of youth
and health on his face, the tramp-boy made Steering think of the rosy
young shepherd Adonis, he was so glowing, so fine and fresh.
"I have been right after you all the way from the cross-roads,"
explained Steering, by way of a beginning, riding up to the lad's side, "I
have just parted from a friend of yours,--Mr. Bernique,--so you see we
are almost friends ourselves."
"A'most." The boy smiled, showing white teeth. He seemed to like
Bruce's method of dealing with him. "Wuz Unc' Bernique cross
because I didn't go