Newspaper Page Text
*
I x in the
Clearing
A Twig ol ili« North
Country In lh« Time
Of Silas Wright
By
IRVING BACHE1XER
*»«»•*•< ‘ViNwH tUUp. '’ ftert y*
(Copyright, WIT, Irvin* BaeksUer)
•YNOP8I8.
I—Barton Baynes, uncle, Peabody, orphan,
taken an?&l£SU"U.!S’S£ to live with his
lit. about the yeer U2*. Barton meet*
1 Dunkelberg, about hie the own Berneses, ese, but
Oly Is Of a clees above
fascinated by the pretty face
fine clothe*.
•n
Kate, CHAPTER II—Barton tha neighborhood meets Kevins the
“■fleet known In ae
Woman.” Amos Orlmshaw. In township, young
sea to of the richest man the
a visitor at the Baynes home, and
Moving Kate tells ths fortunes of the two
Roys, ton and predicting death a the bright gallows future for for Amos. Bar¬
ov*d on act of boyish mischief
for an
cm rung away. Intartdtna to mak* hia
i with ths Punkeibergs. He reaches
village of exhaustion of Canton and porch. fall# into There a
» on a
fount by Silas Wright, Jr., proml
•mnt Peabody naan in public affairs, who. home knowing
ter Haynes, takes Barton af¬
buying him new clothes.
CHAPTER III—Barton and his unde
B&d aunt visit Canton and bear SUM
Wright lead a sermon.
rV-SilM Barton, Wright svtncM
Interest In end sends a box
end sasr‘3 , &."’*^8”s
J senate Is
States announced.
CHAPTER V-When Barton is twelve
.years istence old he becomes aware of ttie ex¬
■smew known of a wonderful m "Honor.” end end mysterious learns
Sew jtorful through hi* possession of that won
mi end thin* greatly Orlmshaw dreaded is the most In power
apunity, moat of tha settlers man being tha com
peiT jtftwa visit In home hie
to tee Baynes
V Wright which leaves Barton a note Is In a sealed sc¬
ope. SEPr to read oa ths
& “ 1 “~ home to et
CHAPTER load TI-SHtM to R, to
drive a to mill.Arrive# safely, hut
(Wheel of the wagon la broken. Uncle
(Jbe JSiSSl hired man, 2±to totne poatofttoe -Si. *tesis at Can
gt held up by a man .with a gun, who 33 mhkes SJ
:moaey W highwayman's Ufa” demand Purvis of "Your
or your rune away,
•yhlle the stranger drawn a pistol, but ba¬
ke him. can uae It tha robber shoots and
Barton’s the horse throws him
rune away. Aa Barton murderer bends
the stranger throws a atone
b he obeervtui wounds the thief, who
once, but not until Barton
setafi t his gun stock Search waa broken
manner. robber of the
hood for ths is unavailing
Orlmshaw is arrested charged with the
murder of the stranger.
bribe CHAPTER IX—Orlmshaw he silent seeks hks to
Barton to about
wounding the road. the The murderer offer Is of spumed. the man killed
re*
>trv&& CHAPTER X—Emissaries igrtS5!? of Ben Orlm
k 0 &.to” 0 Jd r Ui
igrsns "Ola Kate” ffi.wjssffl’orfa: la the part*.
anas on# of
that , CHAPTER XU—Barton and Bally Dun
berg formally pledge their troth.
CHAPTER XITI-Old Kate*# client hut
unrelenting has its effect, pursuit and goaded of Old Ben beyond Orlmshaw endur¬
ance, Grlmshaw dies as the “Silent Wom
laa” points at him.
CHAPTER XTV—Barton gets a letter
from “Roving Kate" which heartens him
doesn’t Immensely, although at the time he
understand It.
"Saymisfer,* look down Into that val
lley there,” the stranger began. “See
mil them houses—they’re the little
/ [houses o’ the poor. See how smooth
The land Is? Who built them houses?
'Who cleaned that land? Was It Mr.
[Livingston? By hokey nettle! I guess
,*ot. The men who Me there built the
(houses an’ cleaned the land. We ain’t
[gone jgot nothin’ to the else—not landlord. a dollar I I It’s the all
am for
l»en who made every rod o’ that land
mu’ who own not a single rod of It
[Years an’ years ago a king gave It to
A man who never cut one tree or laid
Iono stone on another. The deeds say
bushels jtbat we must pay a rent o’ so many
o* wheat a year bat the land Is
JBo good for wheat, an’ ain’t been for
A hundred years. Why, ye see, mis
#er, a good many things have happened
m three hundred years. The land was
willin’ to give wheat then an’ a good
tmany ibokey folks was willin’ to be slaves. By
nettle 1 they had got used to it
King* an* magistrates an’ slavery
•didn’t look so bad to ’em as they do
(now. Our brains have changed—that’s
•what’s the matter—same as the soil
lias changed. We want to be free like
(Other folks In this country. America
ut growed np around us but here we
Are livin’ back In old Holland three
feundred years ago. It don’t set good.
So [We be see slave*. lots o’ They people that their don’t land have an’
own
they ain’t worked any harder than we
■uve or been any outre savin*. That’s
phy I say we can’t pay the rents no
pore an* ye mustn’t try to make us.
If (By hokey do." nettle 1 You’ll have trouble
ye
The truth had flashed upon me out
Af the words of this Ample man. Un¬
til then I had heard only one side of
p case. Jt I were to be the servant
pf Justice, as Mr. Wright had advised,
srhat was t to do? Then tenants had
pen jOrUpahawed Grimshawed ookJt flu and Jute were being
fruits qf
aneMtor ha a
For half a
of my
“If what you say latrus I think
ra right” l said.
"I don’t agree with too.” said
jUtour, “The patrooas have a clear
title to this land. If the tenants don’t
want to pay tbs rents they ought to
gat out and make way tor others.’’
“Look here, young Wan, my name Is
Joslah Curtis,” said the stranger. “I
Uve In the first howto on the right
hand side o’ the rood. You may tell
the Judge that I won’t pay rent no
more—not as long as I live—and I
won’t git out, either,"
“Mr. La tour, you and Purvis may go
on slowly—TO overtake you soon," I
said.
They went on and left me alone with
Curtis. Be was getting excited and I
wished to allay his fears.
“Don’t let him try to serve no writs
or there’ll be hell to pay to this val¬
ley," said Curtis.
"In that case I shall not try to serve
the writs. I don’t want to stir up the
neighborhood, but I want to know the
facts. I shall try to see other tenants
and report what they say. It may lead
to a settlement”
We went on together to the top of
the hill near which we bad been stand¬
ing. Fat ahead I saw a cloud of dust
but no signs of Latour and Purvis.
They must have The spurred their to horses that
Into a run. fear came me
Latour would try to serve the writs to
spite of me. They were In his pocket
What a fool I had been not to call foi
them. My companion saw the look of
concern In my face.
“I don’t like that young feller,” said
Curtis. “He’s In fer trouble.”
He ran toward his boose, which was
only a few rods beyond us, while I
started on In .pnrsnlt of the two men
at top speed. Before my horse had
taken a dozen Jumps I heard a boro
blowing behind me and Us echo In the
hills. Within a half a moment a dozen
boras were sounding In the valleys
around me. What a contrast to the
quiet In which we had been riding was
this pandemonium which had broken
loose In the countryside. A little ahead
I could see men running ont of the
fields. My horse bad begun to latber,
for the son was hot My companions
were far ahead. I could not see the
dust of their heels now. I gave np try¬
ing to catch them and checked the
speed of my horse and went on at a
walk. The horns were still sounding.
Some of them seemed to be miles
away. About twenty roda ahead I saw
three riders In strange costumes come
ont of a dooryard and take the road
at a wild gallop In pursuit of Latour
and Purvis. They had not discovered
me. I kept as calm as I could to the
midst of this excitement
I passed the house from which the
throe riders had Just tamed into the
road. A number of woman and an old
man and three or four children stood
on the porch. They looked at me to
silence a* I was passing and then be¬
gan to hiss and Jeer. It gave me a
feeling I have never known since that
day. I Jogged along over the brow of
the hill when, at a white, frame house,
I saw the center toward which all the
Suddenly I heard the hoof-beats of
• horse behind me. I stopped, and
looking over my shoulder saw a rider
Approaching me In the costume of an
Indian chief. A red mask covered his
face. A crest of eagle feathers circled
the edge of his cap. Without a word
he rode on at my side. I knew not
then that he was the man Joslah Cur¬
tis—nor could I at any time have
sworn that It was he.
A crowd had assembled around th«
house ahead. I could see a string of
horsemen coming toward It from the
other side. I wondered what whs go¬
ing to happen to me. What a shouting
and Jeering In the crowded dooryard!
I could see the smoke of a fire. We
reached the gate. Men In Indian masks
and costumes gathered aronnd us.
“Order I Sh-sh-sh,” was the loud com¬
mand of the man beside me In whom I
recognized—or thought that I did—the
voice of Joslah Curtis. “What has
happened?"
“One o’ them tried to serve a writ
an’ we have tarred on’ feathered him.”
Just then I heard the voice of Pur¬
vis shouting back in tbe crowd this
Impassioned plea:
“Bart, for God’s sake, come here.”
I turned to Curtis and said:
“If the gentleman tried to serve the
writ he acted without orders and de¬
serves what he has got. The other fel¬
low Is simply a hired man who came
along to take care of the horses. He
couldn’t tell the difference between a
writ and a hole In the ground.”
“Men, you have gone far enough,”
said Curtis. “This man Is all right
Bring the other men here and put ’em
on their horses an’ TO escort ’em out
o' the town.”
They brought Latour on a rail
amidst roars of laughter. What a bear
like, poultrifled, be-poodled object he
was—burred and sheathed In rumpled
gray feathers from his hair to hts
heels. The sight and smell of him
scared the horses. There were tufts
of feathers over his ears and on his
cbia. They had found great joy Jn
spoiling, that aristocratic livery to
which he had arrived.
Then came poor Parvis. They had
Just begun to apply the tar and feath¬
er* to him when Curtis had stopped
the process. He had only a shaking
ruff of long feathers around his neck.
They lifted the runaway* Into their
saddles. Purvis started off at a gallop,
shouting "Come on, Bart," but they
stopped him.
“Don’t be In a hurry, young feller."
•aid one of tbe Indians, and then there
was another roar of laughter.
J33o hack to i« w«k PRK," .Curtis
"Yoa rtda along with me and lot onr
feathered friends follow u«."
Co wo started op the road
way back to OoMeakttL Onr golds loft
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They Brought Latour on a Rail Amidst
Roars of Laughter.
us st the town line some three miles
beyond.
Latour was busy picking* his arms
snd shoulders. Presently he took oft
his feathered coat and threw It away,
saying:
“They’ll have to pay for this. Every
one o’ those Jackrabbifs will have to
settle with gie.”
“You brought It on yourself," I said.
“Yon ran away from me and got us all
Into trouble by being too smart. Yon
tried to be a tool and succeeded be¬
yond yonr expectation.” -
It was dark when I left my com¬
panions in Cobleskill, I changed my
clothes and had my supper and found
Judge Westbrook in bis home and re¬
ported the talk with Curtis and onr
adventure and my view of the situa¬
tion back In the hills. I observed that
he gave the latter a cold welcome.
“I. shall send the sheriff and a
posse," be said with a troubled look.
“Pardon me, but I think It will make
a bad matter worse," I answered.
“We must not forget that the pa
troons are our clients,” he remarked.
I yielded and went oo with my work.
In the next week or so I satisfied my¬
self of the rectitude of my opinions.
Then came the most critical point In
my history—a conflict with Thrift and
Fear on one side and Conscience oa
the other.
The Judge raised my salary. I want
ed the money, but every day J would
have to lead my help, directly of or J^di
rectly, to the prosecution claims
which I could not believe to be jnst.
My heart went ont of mnr work. I be¬
gan to fear myself. For weeks I bad
not the courage to take issue with tbe
learned Judge.
One evening I went to his home de
gai*R«raEjae _ .__
frankly that I thought the patrooas
should seek a friendly settlement with
their tenants.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because their position Is unjust,
un-American and untenable,” was my
answer.
He rose and gave me his hand and
a smile of forbearance in considera¬
tion of my youth, as I took it.
I left much Irritated and spent a
sleepleey night in the course of which
I declta! to ding to the ideals of Da¬
vid Hoffman and Silas Wright.
In the morning I resigned my place
and asked to be relieved as soon ae
the convenience of the Judge would
allow It He tried to keep me with
gentle persuasion and higher pay, but
I was firm. Then I wrote a long letter
to my friend the senator.
Again I had chosen my way and with
due regard to the compass. '
CHAPTER XVI.
The Man With the Scythe.
It was late to June before I was able
to disengage myself from the work of
the Judge’s office. Meanwhile there
had been blood shed bock to the hills.
One of the sheriff’s posse had been se¬
verely wounded by a bullet and had
failed to serve the writs. The judge
bad appealed to the governor. People
were talking of “the rent war.”
What a Joy entered my heart when
I was aboard the steamboat, at last,
and on my way to all most dear to me l
As I entered Lake Champlain t con¬
sulted the map and decided to leave
the boat at Chimney Point to find Kate
Fullerton, who had written to tbe
schoolmaster from Canterbury. My
aunt had said to a letter that old Kate
was living there and that a great
change had come over her. So I went
ashore and hired a horse ol the ferry¬
man.
I passed through Middlebury and
rode into the grounds of the college,
where the senator had been educated,
and on out to Weybrtdge to see where
he had lived as a boy. I found the
Wright homestead—a comfortable
white honse at tbe head of a beautiful
valley with wooded hills behind it—
and rode np to the door. A white
haired old lady to a black lace cap
was sitting on Its porch looking out
at the sunlit fields.
“Is this where Senator Wright lived
when he waa a boy?” I asked.
"Yes, sir," the old lady answered,
*I am from Canton.”
She rose from her chair.
n«B firm r jfeaLffiSiiffiffc
-iw.rfi mmmr .. „
boy's home la, Tm glad to am toil Go
• a’ pot your tarot la 0 m born.”
“Silas Wright la my boy,"
“What to your namef
“Barton Baynes," I eel
hitched ^fWum.
“Barton Baynea! Why, Silas has
told me aU about you to his letter*
He writes to every week. Gome
and sit down.”
We sat down together on the port*.
“Silas wrote In his last letter that
you were going to leave your place to
CoblesklU,” rite continued to my sur¬
prise. “He said that he was glad you
had decided not to stay."
It waa Joyful news to me, for the
senator's silence bad worried me and I
had begun to think with alarm of my
future.
“I wish that he jwould take you to
Washington to help him. The poor
man has too much to do.”
“I should think it a great privilege
to go," I answered.
“My boy likes ypu,” she ^gnt on.
“You have been brought up just as he
waa I used to read to him every eve¬
ning when the candles were lit How
hard he worked to make a man of him¬
self I I have known the mother’s Joy.
I can truly say, ‘Now let thy servant
depart in peace.’”
“•For mine eyes have seen thy sal¬
vation,’ ” I quoted.
“You see I know much about you
and much about your aunt and uncle,"
said Mrs. Wright
She left me for a moment and soon
the whole household was gathered
about, me on the porch, the men hav¬
ing come up from the fields. They put
my horse in the barn and pressed me
to stay for dinner, which I did. As I
was going the gentle old lady gave
me a pair of mittens which her distin¬
guished son had worn during his last
winter In college. I remember well
how tenderly she handled them!
“I hope that Silas will get you to
help him"—those were the last words
she said to me when I bade her good
by.
The shadows were long when I got
to Canterbury. At the head of its
main street I looked down upon a vil¬
lage green and some fine old elms. It
was a singularly quiet place. I stopped
In front of a big white meeting house.
An old ma t was mowing In its grave¬
yard near the highway. Slowly he
swung his scythe.
“Do you know where Kate Fullerton
lives?” I asked.
“Well, It’s party likely that I do,” ho
answered as be stood resting on his
snath. “I’ve lived seventy-two years
on this hill come the fourteenth day o’
June, an’ tf I didn’t know where she
lived I’d he ’shamed of It Do yon see
that big house down there In the
trees!”
I could see the place at which he
pointed far back from the village street
1c the valley below us, the house near¬
ly hidden by tall evergreens.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Wal, that’s tbe Squire Fullerton
place—he’s Kate’s father.”
“Does the sqnlre live there?”
“No, sir—not eggzac’ly. He’s dyln*
there-been dyin’ there for two year
er more. By gosht It’s wonderful how
hard ’tl8 fer some folks to quit breath¬
in’. Say, be you any o’ his family!”
"No.”
“Nor no friend o’ his?”
“Nol”
“Course not He never had a friend
in his life—too mean ! He’s too mean
to die, mister—too mean fer hell an’ I
wouldn’t wonder—honest I wouldn’t—
mebbe that’s why God is keepin' him
here—Jest to metier him up a little.
Say, mister, be you in a hurry?”
“No.”
“Say, hitch yer taoss an’ come In
here. I want to show ye suthla’.”
I dismounted and hitched my horse
to the fence and followed him Into the
old churchyard, between weather
stained mossy headstones and graves
overgrown with wild roses. Near the
far end of these thick-sown acres he
stopped.
“Here’s where the buryln’ begun,”
said my guide. “The first hole In the
hill was dug for a Fullerton.”
There were many small monuments
and slabs of marble—some spotted
with lichens and all In commemoration
of departed Fullertons.
“Say, look a’ that,” said my guide as
he pulled aside the stem of a leafy
brier red with rosA. “Jest read that,
mister.”
My keen eyes slowly spelled out the
time-worn words on a slab of stained
marble:
Sacred to the memory of
Katherine Fullerton
17 * 7-1806
“Proclaim his Word In every place
That they are dead who fall from grace."
A dark shadow fell upon the honse
of my soul and I heard a loud rapping
at its door which confused me
looking out, I saw the strange troth
the matter. Rose leaves and
seemed to be tiding to hide It
their beauty, but In vain. ' '
“I understand,” I said. ( I
"No ye don’t Leastways don’t
lieve ye do—not correct Squire
lerton dug a grave here an’ had
empty coffin put Into It away back
1806. It means that he wanted
body to understan’ that his girl
'Jest the same as dead to him an’
God; Say, he knew all about
wishes—that man. Gosh l He
sent more folks to hell than there
to It, I guess. Say, mister, do ye
why he sent her there?"
* I shook my head.
“Yls ye do, too. It’s the
tiling that's been sendln’ women
bell ever since the world begun.
know hell must ’a* been the
of a man—that’s sartin—an’ it
mostly fer women an’
sartlner—an’ fer. all the
atffl-t itm wltR hlm. g* down Kero
an' I'll tell y* the hull story. >&«**'■
rofdown together sad *• «"<
m< VMp!i£t' see Sato Fullerton?"
-Tea."
-No to didn't, (rather. Tor too young.
Mebbe ye seen her when ahe waa old
an’ broke down, bat that wa’n’t Kate
—no more*n Tm BUI Tweedy, which 1
ain’t Kate waa as handsome as a
golden robin. Bair yelleir as his breast
an* feet as spry as his wings an’ a
voice as sweet as his song, an’ eyes as
bright as his’o—yls, sir—ye couldn’t
beat her fer looks. That was years
and years age. Her mother died when
Kate was ten year old—there’s her
grave In there with the sickle an’ the
sheaf an’ the portry on It That was
unfort’nit an’ no mistake. Course the
squire married agin but the new wife
wa’n’t no kind of a mother to the girl,
an’ yon know, mister, there was a
yonng scoundrel here by the name o’
Grlmshaw. His father was a rich man
—owned the cooper shop an* the saw¬
mill an’ the tanbery an’ a lot o’ cleared
land down In the valley. He kep’ com¬
pany with her fer two or three year.
Then all of a sudden folks began to
talk—the women in particular. Ye
know man Invented hell an’ women
keep np the fire. Kate didn’t look right
to ’em. Fust we knew, yonng Grlm¬
shaw had dropped her an’ was keeptn’
comp’ny with another gal—yls, sir. Do
ye know why!"
Before I could answer be went on:
-No ye don’t—leastways I don’t be¬
lieve yfe do. It was ’cause her father
was richer’n the squire an’ had prom¬
ised his gal ten thousan’ dollars the
day she was married. AU of a sud¬
den Kate disappeared. We didn’t know
what had happened fer a long time.
“One day the ol’ squire got me to dig
this grave an’ put up the headstone an’
then he tol' me the story. He turned
the poor gal out o’ doors. God o’
Israel I It was in the night—yls, sir—
It was In the night that be sent her
away. Goldam him! He didn’t have
no more heart than a grasshopper—no,
sir—not a bit I could ’a’ brained him
with my shovel, but I didn’t
“I found out where the gal had gone
ah’ I follered her—yls I did—found
her In the poorhouse way over on
Pussley Hill—uh huh! She Jes’ put
her arms ’round my neck an’ cried an’
cried. I guess ’twas ’cause I looked
kind o’ friendly—uh huhl I tol’ her
she should come right over to our
house an’ stay jest as long as she
wanted to as soon as she got well—
yis, sir, I did.
“She was sick aU summer long
kind o’ out o’ her head, ye know, an’ I
used to go over hossback an’ take
things fer her to eat An’ one day
when I was over there they was won¬
derin’ what they was goin’ to do with
her little baby. I took It In my arms
gp> : . ■7 m >
h. St
/
X- ■ t
r i
/a
a
A &
i
i
<1 Took It in My Arms.
an’ Pll be gol Hummed If It didn’t grab
hold o’ my nose an’ hang on like a
puppy to a root. When they tried to
take it away it grabbed its fingers into
my whiskers an’ hollered like a pan¬
ther—yis, sir. Wal, ye know I jes*
fetched that little baby boy home In
my arms, ay uh! My wife scolded me
like Sain Hill—yis, sir—she had five
of her own. I tol’ her i was goto’
take It back to a day er two but
it had been in the house three days
couldn’t ’a’ pulled it away from
with a windlass.
“We brought him up an* he was
iwnss a good boy. We called
Enoch—Enoch Rone—did ye ever
the name?”
“‘No.’
I didn’t think 'twas likely but
alwuss honin’.
(Continued).
Plenty of exercise, fresh air,
regular hours—is all the pre¬
scription you need to avoid
Influenza—unless through
neglect or otherwise, a cold
gets you. Then take—at
once \
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