The Man Thou Gavest | Page 4

in May.
I was harkin' back to the little white hen and Nella-Rose. There ain't
much chance to have a livin' pet up to Greyson's place. Anything fit to
eat is et. Pete drinks the rest. But once Nella-Rose came totin' up here
on a cl'ar, moonlight evenin' with somethin' under her little, old shawl.
'Jim' she says--wheedlin' and coaxin'--'I want yo' to keep this here hen
fo' me. I'll bring its keep, but I love it, and I can't see it--killed!' That
gal don't never let tears fall--they jest wet her eyes and make 'em shine.
With that she let loose the most owdacious white bantam and scattered
some corn on the floor; then she sat down and laughed like an imp
when the foolish thing hopped up to her and flopped onter her lap. Well,
I kept the sassy little hen--there wasn't anything else ter do--but one day
Marg, she followed Nella-Rose up and when she saw what was going
on, she stamped in and cried out: 'So! yo' can have playthings while
us-all go starved! Yo' can steal what's our'n,--an' with that she took the
bantam and fo' I could say a cuss, she wrung that chicken's neck right
fo' Nella-Rose's eyes!"
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Conning; "the young brute! And the other
one--what did she do?"
"She jest looked at me--her eyes swimmin'. Nella-Rose don't talk much
when she's hurt, but she don't forget. I tell yo', young feller, bein' a
sheriff in this settlement ain't no joke. Yo' know folks too well and see
the rights and wrongs more'n is good for plain justice."

"Well?" Jim rose and stretched himself, "yo' won't go on the b'ar hunt
ter-morrer?"
"No, Jim, but I'll walk part of the way with you. When do you start?"
"'Bout two o' the mornin'."
"Then I'll turn in. Good-night, old man! You've given me a great
evening. I feel as if I were suddenly projected into a crowd with human
problems smashing into each other for all they're worth. You cannot
escape, old man; that's the truth. You cannot escape. Life is life no
matter where you find it."
"Now don't git ter talkin' perlite to me," Jim warned. "Old Doc
McPherson's orders was agin perlite conversation. Get a scrabble on
yer! I'll knock yer up 'bout two or thereabouts."
Outside, Truedale stood still and looked at the beauty of the night. The
moon was full and flooded the open space with a radiance which
contrasted sharply with the black shadows and the outlines of the near
and distant peaks.
The silence was so intense that the ear, straining for sound, ached from
the effort. And just then a bewitched hen in White's shed gave a weird
cry and Truedale started. He smiled grimly and thought of the little
no-count and the tragedy of the white bantam. In the shining light
around him he seemed to see her pitiful face as White had described
it--the eyes full of tears but never overflowing, the misery and hate, the
loneliness and impotency.
At two the next morning Jim tapped on Truedale's window with his
gun.
"Comin' fur a walk?"
"You bet!" Con was awake at once and alert. Ten minutes later, closing
the doors and windows of his cabin after him, he joined White on the
leaf-strewn path to the woods. He went five miles and then bade his

host good-bye.
"Don't overwork!" grinned Jim sociably. "I'll write to old Doc
McPherson when I git back."
"And when will that be, Jim?"
"I ain't goin' ter predict." White set his lips. "When I stay, I stay, but
once I take ter the woods there ain't no sayin'. I'll fetch fodder when I
cum, and mail, too--but I ain't goin' ter hobble myself when I take ter
the sticks."
Tramping back alone over the wet autumn leaves, Truedale had his first
sense of loneliness since he came. White, he suddenly realized, had
meant to him everything that he needed, but with White unhobbled in
the deep woods, how was he to fill the time? He determined to force
himself to study. He had wedged one solid volume in his trunk,
unknown to his friends. He would brush up his capacity for work--it
could not hurt him now. He was as strong as he had ever been in his
life and the prospect ahead promised greater gains.
Yes, he would study. He would write letters, too--real letters. He had
neglected every one, especially Lynda Kendall. The others did not
matter, but Lynda mattered more than anything. She always would!
And thinking of Lynda reminded him that he had also, in his trunk, the
play upon which he had worked for several years during hours that
should have been devoted to rest. He would get out the play and