3stalwarts (118 page)

“Why, I don’t know for sure,” Fortune said. “There was a Brandreth man and a peddler and old Davis, and I cleaned them out. Just now I’d be rich if I hadn’t give Tinkle all of it.”

“You done that?”

The old man grinned shamefacedly.

“It’s time maybe I invested some. I thought I’d buy a boat, maybe. He’s going to get me one in Rome if he can. Boats’ll be cheap in fall.”

“That’s right, I guess.”

Dan got slowly to his feet.

“Maybe we’d better get back,” he said dully.

Fortune coughed.

“Them horses could get you into Rome without no driving, couldn’t they?”

“I guess so.”

“I thought maybe I ought to stay here and give those rascals another chance at their money, while my luck’s in.”

“All right.”

“If you could let me have my wages.”

“All right.”

Dan paid him.

“Good-bye.”

“Good luck,” said the ex-preacher, shaking hands.

Dan walked back till he came to the old Sarsey Sal, rubbing heavily against the bank. He gazed at it, half seeing, and then he turned to look to-ward Rome. His lean brown face did not change. He was very still, and a muskrat slipped into the water and swam just to his feet before it saw him. It looked at him out of its sharp eyes for an instant, saw that it was not observed, and dove without a sound.

A little way off, cows in their pasture lifted their hind legs and got up with a jangle of a bell or two. Dan went aboard to find that the coffee had boiled over.

Rome Haul

The men caught their horses in a group of trees a hundred yards from the towpath and tied the body to the spare one. It was an awkward job, but at last it held.

They came aboard to thank Dan and shake his hand.

“I shot him,” said George, “but you licked Jotham Klore. You don’t get no reward. It’s tough.”

“Yeanh,” said the spokesman. “That’s how it is.”

Dan harnessed the big team and took them to the towpath. The black looked round till he had heaved the gang aboard and taken the sweep in his hands. Then, perhaps, he said something, for they both started together.

It was a silent trip. They passed the Delta House, blind and asleep. Dan was glad Fortune was out of sight. Going alone, the heart seemed out of the boat. He kept his eyes on the team, once in a while meeting the glance of the black as he turned his head.

They slipped into the morning mist. All round Dan the sound of cows broke out, the distant song of their bells. The mist was cold and wet on his face; there was nothing left to see but the dip of the towline and occasionally the rumps of his big team pulling faithfully.

He heard the water life awakening— the splash of a rat, the dive of a frog; the sounds slipped quickly to his ears and were gone.

So they went on— the Sarsey Sal, the two horses, and Dan. When the sun rose, flooding the sky above the mist with color, they were close to Rome.

They came into the bustle of the great basin in the clear day, and the team took him to Butterfield’s wharf. There they stopped, both waiting for him to take them aboard.

When they had been unharnessed, he went to Butterfield’s office. Men about him were talking excitedly at the double news, the death of Calash and the defeat of Klore. Some looked at Dan as he went past, and some pointed him out, proud of knowing who he was.

Mr. Butterfield shook his hand.

“I heard about the fight,” he said. “It must have been a great one. I’ll get you to tell me about it later.”

“There ain’t much to tell,” Dan said heavily.

Mr. Butterfield looked at him keenly. Then he came swiftly to business. It was soon settled.

“About that farm proposition, Harrow. I’m sorry to say Mr. Wilder writes that he can only take you on single.”

“I’ll take it.”

Mr. Butterfield said nothing for a moment, but there was understanding kindness in his eyes that embarrassed Dan.

“I’m glad. It’s a good job for you. You’ll do well. You ought to go at once, if you can.”

“I’d like to start to-day.”

“What will you do with the boat?”

“I think I know a man that will buy it and the light team,” Dan said. “They won’t fetch much of a price.”

“No, not now. But how about your fine team?”

“I was wondering about them,” Dan said shyly. “I was wondering would you keep them for me awhile? They could earn their keep.” “Certainly. But I’d be glad to pay you a full price for them.” “I wouldn’t want to sell them.” “I see.” They shook hands, and Dan went out.

8

THE ROAD AND THE PEDDLER

He was walking along the Watertown road. A man driving a buggy had given him a lift as far as Ava. Now he was climbing the long slope of Tug Hill from the south.

As he went on, the stiffness began to run out of him; his back limbered and his breathing eased. He stopped to eat a sandwich under a tree beside a small spring. Close to him a pair of cows looked on affably. It had come out hot after the cold night; there was a dry dusty August gleam on everything.

The little cool pocket off the road, where the cows discussed the world together over their cuds, invited him. A little way off wasps whined about their nest; but they had no quarrel with the three at the spring.

The cows were thin, scrawny creatures, with matted coats and little pinched bags.

“Dinkeys,” Dan said to himself; and he thought of the fine cattle he was to work among. Already he was looking forward.

It was only when he came to the great hill, where the road was no better than a track, that he stopped to look back toward the wide Mohawk Val-ley. He could see the thread of the canal and the white lines of bridges; and to his left, five miles away, he caught a glimpse of the Black River Canal, and a small boat on it. The boat was the merest speck of white in the rolling land of green. But it seemed to him that he could hear its horn, echo after echo, in the Lansing Kill… .

The imagined sound brought back to him a picture of the fat woman; she had come down to the Sarsey Sal that morning and had taken him into her arms. For some reason he had not been embarrassed, even when Solomon poked his bald head through the door and, after looking at them asked, “Can I come in?” The three had sat together without a word for several minutes.

Then Solomon had cleared his throat nervously and asked him what he would sell the boat for. “I’m not buying it for us, Dan.” “You’d understand that,” the fat woman had said. “It’s Fortune”-and Dan told them how he had talked to Fortune at the Delta House. “He wouldn’t buy a boat for himself,” the fat woman said, and Solomon nodded— and then they had all three looked at each other, guessing whom he wished to buy it for. “How much did he give you?” Solomon had told him, “A hundred and fifty dollars.” And Dan had given him the boat and the bays for that. “My land, it’s giving it away!” said the fat woman; and she and Solomon had looked at each other.

Then Dan had told them his plans. Mr. Butterfield had offered to invest his money for him and had promised to keep the big team; but they, if Dan could have use for them, would be sent on in the late fall— “in time for fall ploughing,” Dan said, and Solomon had nodded. For a young man, he was well off.

“I should think you’d farm it your own self,” said the fat woman.

“I got to learn more about dairying,” Dan said. “I didn’t have only a few dinkeys on Pa’s place. There’s a lot of things to learn handling good land.”

“I guess that’s right,” she said.

“Plain horse sense,” said Solomon.

“Later I’ll maybe get me my own farm,” Dan said.

He got up and went forward to the stable. Solomon made a move with his feet; but Mrs. Gurget said, “Leave him be alone.” And he went in by himself to thump the ribs of the brown and stroke the bald white nose of the black. The brown stared stolidly at the wall and rested his nigh hip; but the black nuzzled him for sugar and blew gentle breaths into the palm of his hand. They were a good team.

When he returned to the cabin, Mrs. Gurget and Solomon had helped him to pack his bag.

Then he gave her the clock— and the tears had jumped out on her cheeks. “My, my, I always did like that little pony, prancing and raring like he’d just been stung! Ain’t he pretty, Sol?”

Dan had put an envelope in Solomon’s hand. The couple could not say very much. The fat woman kissed him good-bye and Solomon wrung his hand, muttering something about stopping off at Lyons Falls to see how he was. “If anything comes wrong, just write and we’ll turn the old boat and come galloping,” he promised. “Shucks,” said Mrs. Gurget, “gallop them mules?” “I’ll leave you on shore, then they can,” he said. The fat woman kissed Dan again and whispered in his ear, “Don’t remember her too hard, Dan.”

They had waved to him till he turned the corner. He had had a last glimpse of the little bowlegged man and the great woman, with her high bonnet, her red hair, her scarlet petticoat, and the boats going by behind them.

Of all the people on the canal, they were his best friends… .

Then he turned himself.

For a minute he saw Molly before his eyes, as she had come aboard that night, flushed cheeks and blowzy hair, and he felt heavy and sad.

But the road led downward under his feet and he stepped ahead. The road would take him down past the barren farms to rich meadowland where fine cows grazed. He would feel them with his hands and milk them in the dusk of the great new barn.

As the shadows came in on the track, he made out the marks of wagon wheels, fresh in the dry road. From the first they seemed familiar. Then he remembered. They went from side to side of the road and stopped where the grass had been lush. There a horse had cropped it up.

Farther on, where the road ran up a short ridge, he saw where the old horse had lengthened his stride; and now he was certain that the old peddler was ahead of him, riding his wagon, wondering where the road would bring him out.

He would be reading a book.

Dan changed his bag to his left hand. Perhaps he would get a lift.

ERIE WATER

For My Mother

One THE WEDDING

1

“The captain said I was strong’

An April morning in 1817, two passengers stood on the bows of the Greenbush Ferry.

“So you’re heading west, hey?”

“Yes.”

“Aiming to square off a piece of a section on your own hook? Well, you’re young, and you look stout.”

While the young man leaned his wrists on the ferryboat rail, his companion looked him over. His sharp, humorous eyes drooped kindly, as if a young man heading west appealed to him.

The young man was staring cross-river, at the shipping, the sloops at the dock, the New York packet getting up a head of steam, at the warehouses and stores, and behind them the houses of the city itself perched on the steep slope. Through the middle of the city, from the river to the green park before the Capitol Building on the summit, a white line went straight as a ferule.

“That’s State Street, son.” The man pushed back his tall Quakerish hat and pointed a long forefinger. “That’s the way you pass through the city, whether you take the Great Western or the Mohawk Pike. For the first you keep right straight after your shadder. For the other, you branch right at the Capitol.”

“That brown building with the white stripes on it?”

“Yes. But those stripes are pillars, better than four feet thick, and built of stone— Connecticut marble, I’ve heard tell.”

But the young man was not interested in stone. His lean strong hands, tanned and calloused, took hold of each other. His brown eyes were earnest. The older man bent close to his shoulder and examined his profile.

The face was lean, like the hands, the nose strong, curved, with a hint of humor. The cheeks were slightly hollow, because of the high bones, but the jaw was set well. He was dressed in a worn homespun suit halfway between a grey and a brown, the trousers tucked into the boots, and the cloth bundle with shoulder straps lay between his feet.

“Albany’s an almighty big city,” he said now, turning to his companion.

“There’s bigger, son. There’s Boston, and Philadelphy, and New York. There’s Baltimore, and I’ve heard Charlestown is a reputable city, too. But there’s no denying Albany sets handsome against the river. Haven’t you ever seen it before?”

“No.”

“Where do you come from, son?”

“From Uniontown.”

“Uniontown? Say, what’s your name?”

“Jerry Fowler.”

“Fowler! Not kin to Preston Fowler that farms the creek bottom along the mill road there?”

“He’s my Pa.”

“By draggit! I know your Pa. My name is Bennet. Maybe you’ve heard him use it?”

The young man turned.

“You ain’t Issachar Bennet? The Shaker missioner?”

“I’m called so, son.”

“I’ve heard Pa speak about you.”

The skin about the Shaker’s eyes puckered.

“What did he say?”

“He said you was the only man that ever tied him in a horse deal.”

“Spoke kind of sharp?”

“He said it was the most vicious piece of business but one he’d ever been a party to. But this time he got the horse.”

The Shaker tilted his hatchet head. Innumerable wrinkles appeared in his face. His laughter rang over the water.

Behind him the ears of the two brown horses hitched to his wagon pricked forward.

“That was a handsome deal, son, even if it was against your Pa.”

He pulled forward his hat again, and leaned his arms upon the rail. Now and then a chuckle rose in his long throat and his shoulders quivered. “Ain’t nothing like a horse deal,” he muttered. “One way or the other, there ain’t nothing like it.”

The ferry tilted under their feet as the last wagon rolled aboard. Jerry looked behind him at the boat. The skipper was casting off the ropes, and the horse boy had picked up his short whip.

“All right, there, Joey!” bawled the skipper, and the boy yelled, “Whoa!”

The ferry horses, which wore collar and traces, had been dozing in their places inside the wheel housings, the one on the right facing the stern, the one on the left the bow. When the driver boy yelled “Whoa!” they lifted their heads and started walking, and Jerry saw that the channel they trod in was no more than the rim of a gigantic wheel under the ferry deck. He heard the creaking of wooden gears and the splash of paddles against the water, and the flat-bottomed old ferryboat began to edge out into the river. The skipper caught up a rudder stick and fastened it into the post aft.