A Young Man in a Hurry, and Other Short Stories Part 25

"Seven, sir. He had three muskrats, a mink, and a string of steel traps when I caught him--"

"Rolfe, you go to Abe Storm and tell him I give him leave to take muskrat and mink along Spirit Creek, and that I'll allow him a quarter bounty on every unmarked pelt, and he may keep the pelts, too."

The keeper looked blankly at the master: "Why--why, Mr. Burleson, he's the dirtiest, meanest market hunter in the lot!"

"You do as I say, Rolfe," said the master, amiably.

"Yes, sir--but--"

"Did you deliver my note to the fire-warden?"

"Yes, sir. The old man's abed with miseries. He said he'd send his deputy at noon."

Burleson laid his gloved hand on his horse's saddle, looking sharply at the keeper.

"They tell me that Mr. Elliott has seen better fortune, Rolfe."

"Yes, sir. When the Cross-roads went to pot, he went too. He owned a piece o' land that was no good only for the timber. He's like the rest o' them, I guess--only he had more to lose--an' he lost it same as all o' them."

Burleson drew out his watch, glanced at it, and then mounted.

"Try to make a friend of Abe Storm," he said; "that is my policy, and you all know it. Help me to keep the peace, Rolfe. If I keep it, I don't see how they're going to break it."

"Very well, sir. But it riles me to--"

"Nonsense! Now tell me where I'm to meet the fire-warden's deputy. Oh!

then I'll jump him somewhere before long. And remember, Rolfe, that it's no more pleasure for me to keep my temper than it is for anybody. But I've got to do it, and so have you. And, after all, it's more fun to keep it than to let it loose."

"Yes, sir," said Rolfe, grinning like a dusty fox in July.

So Burleson rode on at a canter, presently slacking to a walk, arguing with himself in a low, calm voice:

"Poor devils--poor, half-starved devils! If I could afford to pay their prices I'd do it.... I'll wink at anything short of destruction; I can't let them cut the pine; I can't let them clean out the grouse and deer and fish. As for law-suits, I simply won't! There must be some decent way short of a shot-gun."

He stretched out a hand and broke a flaming maple leaf from a branch in pa.s.sing, drew it through his b.u.t.ton-hole, thoughtful eyes searching the road ahead, which now ran out through long strips of swale bordered by saplings.

Presently a little breeze stirred the foliage of the white birches to a sea of tremulous gold; and at the same moment a rider appeared in the marsh beyond, galloping through the blanched swale-gra.s.s, which rose high as the horse's girth.

Young Burleson drew bridle; the slim youth who sat his saddle so easily must be the deputy of the sick fire-warden; this was the time and the place.

As the young rider galloped up, Burleson leaned forward, offering his hand with an easy, pleasant greeting. The hand was unnoticed, the greeting breathlessly returned; two grave, gray eyes met his, and Burleson found himself looking into the flushed face of a young girl.

When he realized this, he took off his cap, and she inclined her head, barely acknowledging his salute.

"I am Mr. Elliott's daughter," she said; "you are Mr. Burleson?"

Burleson had the honor of presenting himself, cap in hand.

"I am my father's deputy," said the girl, quietly, gathering her bridle and wheeling her horse. "I read your note. Have you reason to believe that an attempt has been made to fire the Owl Vlaie?"

There was a ring of business in her voice that struck him as amusingly delightful--and such a sweet, clear voice, too, untinged with the slightest taint of native accent.

"Yes," said Burleson, gravely, "I'm afraid that somebody tried to burn the vlaie. I think that a change in the wind alone saved us from a bad fire."

"Shall we ride over?" inquired the girl, moving forward with unconscious grace.

Burleson ranged his big horse alongside; she set her mount at a gallop, and away they went, wheeling into the swale, knee-deep in dry, silvery gra.s.ses, until the deputy fire-warden drew bridle with a side-flung caution: "Muskrats! Look out for a cropper!"

Now, at a walk, the horses moved forward side by side through the pale, glistening sea of gra.s.s stretching out on every side.

Over a hidden pond a huge heron stood guard, stiff and shapeless as a weather-beaten stake. Blackbirds with crimson-slashed shoulders rose in clouds from the reeds, only to settle again as they pa.s.sed amid a ceaseless chorus of harsh protest. Once a pair of summer duck came speeding overhead, and Burleson, looking up, exclaimed:

"There's a bird I never shoot at. It's too beautiful."

The girl turned her head, serious gray eyes questioning his.

"Have you ever seen a wood-duck?--a drake? in full plumage?" he asked.

"Often--before Mr. Grier came."

Burleson fell silent, restless in his saddle, then said:

"I hope you will see many wood-duck now. My boats on Spirit Water are always at Mr. Elliott's disposal--and at yours."

She made the slightest sign of acknowledgment, but said nothing. Once or twice she rose upright, standing straight in her stirrups to scan the distance under a small, inverted hand. East and north the pine forest girdled the vlaie; west and south hardwood timber laced the sky-line with branches partly naked, and the pine's outposts of white birch and willow glimmered like mounds of crumpled gold along the edges of the sea of gra.s.s.

"There is the stream!" said Burleson, suddenly.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AWAY THEY WENT, KNEE-DEEP IN DRY SILVERY GRa.s.sES"]

She saw it at the same moment, touched her mare with spurred heels, and lifted her clean over with a grace that set Burleson's nerves thrilling.

He followed, taking the water-jump without effort; and after a second's hesitation ventured to praise her horse.

"Yes," she said, indifferently, "The Witch is a good mare." After a silence, "My father desires to sell her."

"I know a dozen men who would jump at the chance," said the young fellow. "But"--he hesitated--"it is a shame to sell such a mare--"

The girl colored. "My father will never ride again," she said, quietly.

"We should be very glad to sell her."

"But--the mare suits you so perfectly--"

She turned her head and looked at him gravely. "You must be aware, Mr.

Burleson, that it is not choice with us," she said. There was nothing of bitterness in her voice; she leaned forward, patting the mare's chestnut neck for a moment, then swung back, sitting straight as a cavalryman in her saddle. "Of course," she said, smiling for the first time, "it will break my heart to sell The Witch, but"--she patted the mare again--"the mare won't grieve; it takes a dog to do that; but horses--well, I know horses enough to know that even The Witch won't grieve."

"That is a radical theory, Miss Elliott," said Burleson, amused. "What about the Arab and his loving steed?"

"That is not a legend for people who know horses," she replied, still smiling. "The love is all on our side. You know horses, Mr. Burleson. Is it not the truth--the naked truth, stripped of poetry and freed from tradition?"