Part 14 (1/2)

”An' her a-lyin' out with thet-thar wolf all thet while,” he mumbled, in despair. ”Mebby, this very minute, she's a-screamin'--callin' to her ole gran'pap to save her. My Plutiny!” He walked with lagging steps; the tall form, usually so erect, was bowed under the burden of tormenting fears. The marshal, understanding, ventured no word of comfort.

It was late afternoon when the dispirited searchers reached the Siddon clearing on their return from the fruitless day's work. There, they were astonished to see the Widow Higgins come down the path toward them, at a pace ordinarily forbidden by her rheumatic joints. She waved a paper in her hand.

”Hit's a telegraph,” she called shrilly. Her voice held something of the awe with which remoter regions still regard that method of communication. But there was a stronger emotion still that thus sent the old woman dancing in forgetfulness of her chronic pains. It was explained in her next sentence, cried out with a mother's exultation in the homecoming of her beloved. Almost, in joy over seeing her son again, she forgot the misery that was bringing him.

”Hit's from Zekie! Zekie's comin' home!”

Uncle d.i.c.k could not share the mother's delight. The lover's coming could hardly avail anything toward saving the girl. Nevertheless, he took the sheet of paper, which carried the message sent on by telephone from North Wilkesboro' to Joines' store. He read it aloud, that the marshal might hear:

Suffolk, Va.

Richard Siddon, Joines' Mill, N. C., Via Telephone from North Wilkesboro'.

Arrive to-night with bloodhound.

Ezekiel.

Uncle d.i.c.k's voice faltered a little in the reading. The black eyes were glowing with new hope beneath the beetling white brows, as he lifted his gaze to the mountain peaks. For the first time, he felt a thrill of jubilation over the young man whom he had rejected, whom now he accepted--jubilation for the fresh, virile, strength of the lad, for the resourcefulness that this message so plainly declared. The old man's lips moved in vague, mute phrases, which were the clumsy expressions of emotions, of grat.i.tude to Providence for the blessing of another's energy, on which to lean in this time of trial. There had been desperate need of haste in getting the hounds on the trail. Now, they were coming--to-night. Zeke was bringing them. Perhaps, after all, an old man's declining years would know the fond tenderness of a daughter's care--and a son's. Thank G.o.d that Zeke was coming!

CHAPTER XVII

Zeke, in his new life, found little leisure for loneliness, though nightly he fell asleep with an ache of nostalgia in his heart, longing for the mountains of home and the girl who dwelt among them. But his days were filled with various activities that held his whole attention. With a mind keen and apt to receive impressions, and hungry for knowledge, he gave himself joyously to learning the details of Sutton's tree-nail manufacture. The processes were, in fact, simple, and he mastered them with ease. Then, he was instructed more broadly in business methods, with the purpose of making him competent when he should become a manager of the projected factory in the Blue Ridge region. His time was thus so fully occupied that he had neither opportunity nor inclination for social pleasures.

He spent a week-end in his employer's Long Island home, and surprised that gentleman mightily by the propriety of his manners, which he had acquired on the yacht. On this occasion, Sutton spoke definitely of his plans. The railroad branch north from the main line was now a certainty, and the construction would soon start. At that time, Zeke would return to North Carolina, and set about securing options on the best available timber. A mill would be built, and the manufacture of tree-nails carried on. Zeke, in addition to an adequate salary, would receive a certain share of the profits. The prospect was one to delight any ambitious young man, and Zeke appreciated it to the full.

But most of all he rejoiced that his success should come to him in the place he loved, where the girl waited.

Zeke had a companion, who shared with him the tiny hall-room, and kept at his side in long evening rambles through the city streets. It came about in this wise:

It was one afternoon when he had been in New York for a week, that a visitor entered, unannounced, the office where he was listening intently to Sutton's crisp explanations of business routine. Zeke looked up at the sound of the opening door. Then, his jaw dropped, his eyes widened. Next moment, he sprang to his feet, his face radiant with welcome. His phrases, in the excitement of this meeting, were the mountaineer's idioms, which new a.s.sociations were beginning to modify in his ordinary speech.

”Why, hit's sh.o.r.ely Miss Josephine!” he cried, as he advanced upon her, with outstretched hand. He saw the dog, straining toward him on the leash. ”An' thet-thar man-faced dawg!”

There was a little interval of confusion, while greetings were exchanged amid the demonstrative antics of the bull-terrier. Sutton was called away presently, and then the girl explained the object of her visit.

”You never noticed it,” she said somewhat pettishly; ”but one time on the yacht, I came up on deck with Chubbie. You were over by the rail.

You snapped your fingers to him. I ordered him to stay with me. He wouldn't mind. He went to you. Well, I decided right then what I'd do.”

”Why, shucks, Miss Josephine!” Zeke exclaimed, in much distress. ”He jest nacherly didn't mean nothin' by thet.”

”He showed something by it, though,” was the retort. ”He showed that he belonged to you, and not to me. So, here he is.” She held out the leash to Zeke, who took it doubtfully, only half-comprehending. As he was about to speak, a gesture checked him.

”I'm not really a bit generous in giving him to you. My dog must like me better than anyone else in the world. That's why I really don't want Chubbie any longer. You're first in his heart, and I'm second.

And, though I'm quite selfish about it, I know I'm doing him the greatest favor in the world--that is, if you're willing to take him.”

”I'd sh.o.r.e be tickled to death to have him,” Zeke admitted. ”But it don't seem right.”

”Providence seems to have arranged it that way, anyhow,” Josephine declared, airily. ”Perhaps, if a surgeon operated on him for the dent you put in his skull, he might cease loving you. But nothing else seems likely to stop him.”