Friar Tuck Part 54

"I can feel things clearer now 'n I ever could before; and when I picture my own self as hangin' from nails drove through my hands and feet, it just about takes my breath away. I've been handled purty rough in my time, but allus when my blood was hot, and pain don't count then; but to have nails drove-My G.o.d, Horace, that's an awful thought! That's an awful thought.

"Then, too, I don't feel that any one has ill used me lately. The treatment I got in the army, and in the pen, was consid'able h.e.l.lish; but I haven't had much chance to try forgivin' any one for the last few years. Horace, you can't imagine all the joy the last part of my life has been to me. I didn't know what life really was, until you and the Friar pointed it out to me. I've been so happy sometimes it has hurt me in the throat; and now that I'm goin' on, I don't want to cause any one any bother. I asked Ty to tell me if he was married to the woman, and he did tell me. I'm sorry to say 'at he is married to her, Horace; but I'm thankful to Ty for tellin' me. He don't feel easy near me; so I wish you'd move me back to the bunk-shack."

It was some minutes before Horace could speak, and when he did, he had to put on pressure to keep his voice steady. "I don't care one single d.a.m.n what Ty Jones wants," sez he. "Let him stay right where he is and learn the meanin' of friends.h.i.+p from the best friend a man ever had."

After which Horace gave The's hand a grip and hurried out of the room.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

THE LITTLE GUST O' WIND

I have seen some mighty quick changes brought about by flood o'

circ.u.mstances breakin' on a man all of a sudden-ol' Cast Steel Judson, himself, had melted and run into a new mold the night o'

Barbie's weddin'-but I never saw such a complete change as had took place in The since I'd first seen him. He loved devilment then, like a bear loves honey; while now he had swung back with the pendulem clear to the other side, until he was more unworldly 'n the Friar himself.

It wasn't what he said 'at made a feller feel funny inside, it was his eyes. His eyes were all the time tryin' to tell things 'at his tongue couldn't frame up, and it acted like brakes on a feller's breathin'

apparatus.

I asked the Friar about it one evenin' while we were walkin' back through the ravine. He walked along with his brows wrinkled a few minutes, and then said: "You see, Happy, the whole human race is made up o' millions of individuals, and each one is some alike and some different. A man goes through childhood, youth, his fightin' period, and old age; and the race has to do the same thing.

"Now, ages ago when the childhood o' the race began, folks were downright primitive; they used stone axes, skins for clothing, and ate raw flesh. They were fierce, impulsive, pa.s.sionate, just like children are if you watch 'em close enough; but they lived close to nature, just like the children do, and their bodies were vigorous, and their minds were like dry sponges, ready to absorb whatever fell upon 'em.

"The outdoor man of to-day is still primitive; he delights in his dissipations, and recklessness, but the grim, set face which he wears, is a mask. The rich, pure air is all the time was.h.i.+n' his body clean, his active life keeps his nerves sound and accurate, and his heart is like the heart of a little child-hungry for good or evil, and needin'

a guiding hand all the time.

"In the mornin' a child is so full o' life that words don't mean much to him; but when the play o' the day is over, he comes home, through the twilight shadows, bruised an' disappointed an' purty well tired out. All day long he's waged his little wars; but now he is mighty glad to pillow his head close to his mother's heart; and then it is that the seeds o' gentleness are easiest sprouted. This is the twilight time for Promotheus."

We didn't have anything more to say on this walk; but we both had plenty to think of. It allus seemed to me that in some curious way, the Friar, himself, was better 'n his own religion. His religion made badness a feller's own fault; but after gettin' to know the Friar, it allus made ya feel more like takin' some share in the other feller's sin, than like pointin' your finger at him and sayin' he never was any good, nohow.

A couple o' days after this, the doctor told us that the sands were runnin' mighty low in The's hour-gla.s.s, and it wouldn't be long to the end; but still we couldn't believe it. He didn't look bad, nor he didn't suffer; and we had seen him come back from the grave almost, that time at Olaf's when Horace had claimed his life, and had saved him in spite of himself.

Then again, the doctor had missed it on Janet, and we were all hopin'

he'd get slipped up on again; but The himself seemed to side with the doctor, and Olaf took one long look, an' then shut his lips tight an'

shook his head. The said he wanted to live, and had done all he could to get a clinch on life; but that it was slippin' away from him drop by drop, and he couldn't stay with us much longer.

He seemed to want us about him, so we dropped in and sat beside him as long as we could keep cheerful. All through the afternoon he lay with a serious, gentle smile on his lips, but the sadness was mostly gone, even from his eyes. I closed my own eyes as I sat beside him, and called up the picture o' Badger-face the day he had wanted to lynch Olaf. Then I opened my eyes and looked at the real Promotheus, and I understood what the Friar meant by bein' born again.

I spoke o' this to ol' Tank Williams, and he fired up at me as though I had poured red pepper in the nose of a sleepin' cripple. "You're a nice one, you are!" sez he. "I'd sooner fill myself with alcohol and die in a stupor than to call up The's past at such a time as this. You ought to be ashamed o' yourself."

The' was no way to make Tank see what I meant so I sent him in to set with The a while, and took a little walk up the ravine. Every step I took brought some memory o' the time The and Horace and I had first started to find out about the woman; and it wasn't long before I was ready to turn back.

Janet was quite strong by this time, though she still had to wear a bandage; and after supper, the Friar took her in to see Promotheus. He had told her all about him, and she was mighty sorry to think 'at his end was near. She didn't recall havin' been kind to him when he was playin' cripple; but the Friar had told her about this, too. Horace had told the Friar about what Ty had said, and it had cut him purty deep; but he had braced up better 'n we expected. We didn't any of us know what effect bringin' Janet in sight o' Ty would have, and when she came into the mess-hall, we watched purty close.

Ty sat propped up, with his clenched hand restin' outside the blanket, and an expression on his face like that of a trapped mountain-lion. He glared up at her as she came near; but she only looked at him with pity in her eyes, and she didn't seem to recognize him, at all-just looked at him as though he was a perfect stranger which she was sorry for, and Tank, who was settin' next me, gave me a nudge in my short ribs, which was about as delicate as though it had come from the hind foot of a mule. "Well?" I whispered. "What do ya mean by that?"

"Couldn't ya see 'at she didn't know him?" sez Tank.

"That's nothin'," sez I. "He knew her all right."

"Yes, but Great Scott," sez he, "a man can't claim that a woman's his wife if she don't know him, can he?"

"Pshaw," sez I, "if you'd settle things that way, the' wouldn't be any married people left. The' ain't one woman in fifty 'at knows her husband, and the' ain't any men at all who know their wives."

"You're just dodgin' the question," sez Tank. "I claim that if a man marries a woman when she's out of her mind, he ain't got any claim on her when she gets back into her mind again."

"Look here, Tank," sez I; "you've never had much experience with the world, 'cause every time you went where experience was to be had, you got too intoxicated to take notice; but I'm tellin' you the truth when I say that if women didn't sometimes get out o' their right minds, they wouldn't get married at all."

"Aw, shut up," sez Tank.

Janet had gone over to Promotheus, and was smoothin' his forehead. She had a beautiful, shapely hand, and it made me feel a little wishful to watch her. The lay perfectly still, and his sensations must 'a' been peculiar. Ty Jones didn't even look at 'em. He kept his brows scowled down and his gaze out the south window.

Presently Janet turned and walked out to the porch. It was an unusually warm night, and she sat there alone, while the Friar came back to The. Horace had gone off by himself to get a grip on his feelin's; but he came in about nine o'clock, and went up and took The's hand. "Well," sez he, "have you finally got over your nonsense?

I have a lot o' plans I want to carry out, and you know I can't have you loafin' much longer."

Nothin' suited The so well as to have a little joke put at him; but he didn't have any come-back to this. He caught at his breath a time or two, and then said: "I can't do it, this time, Horace. I hate to disappoint ya-I've been countin' on what a good time we were goin' to have-up there in the hills-but I can't come back this time-I, can't, quite, make it."

He ended with a little gurgle and sank back on the pillow. Horace shook him a little and then flew for the doctor, who was on the porch o' the old cabin. They were back in half a minute, Horace pus.h.i.+n' the doctor before him; and we all held our breaths when he felt The's pulse. The doctor squirted somethin' into The's arm, and after a bit, he opened his eyes with a long sigh, and when he saw Horace bendin'

over him, he smiled.

"I mighty near slipped away that time," sez he. "It's not goin' to be hard, Horace; and I don't want you to worry. I feel as comfortable as if I was sleepin' on a cloud, and there isn't one, single thing to grieve about. I've been like one o' those hard little apples which take so long to ripen. I've hung up on a high bough and the rains beat on me, and the sun shone on me, and the winds shook me about, and the birds pecked at me until at last just the right sort o' weather came along and I became softer and softer, and riper and riper, until now my hold on the stem begins to weaken. Purty soon a little gust'll come along and shake me down on the green gra.s.s; but this is all right, this is perfectly natural, and I don't want you to feel bad about it.

"I own up now, that I've been afraid o' death all my life; but this has pa.s.sed. I don't suffer a bit; but I'm tired, just that pleasant weariness a feller feels when his last pipe has been smoked, and the glow o' the camp fire begins to form those queer pictures, in which the doin's o' that day mingle with the doin's of other days. I'm liable to drop off to sleep at any moment, now; and I'd like-I'd kind o' like to shake hands with the boys before I go."

Well, this gave Horace something to do, and he was mighty glad to do it. After we had all shaken hands with The, he marched up the prisoners, even to the c.h.i.n.k, and they all shook hands, too; and by this time Prometheus was purty tired; but he did look unusual contented. He glanced across at Ty; but Ty had turned his face to the wall, and The gave a little sigh, settled down into the pillow again, and closed his eyes. Horace backed around until The couldn't see him, and shook his fist at Ty, good and earnest.

Purty soon a regular grin came to The's face, and he opened his eyes and looked at the Friar with a twinkle in 'em. "Friar Tuck," sez he, "I don't know as I ever mentioned it before, but I'll confess now that I'm right glad I didn't lynch you for stealin' those hosses." He lay there smilin' a minute, and then held out his hand. "Good-bye, Horace," he said in a firm voice.

Horace had been doin' uncommon well up to now; but he couldn't stand this. He threw himself on the bed, took both o' The's hands and looked down into his face. "Promotheus, Prometheus," he called to him in a shakin' voice. "Don't give up! You can win if you fight a while longer. Remember that day in the desert, when I wanted to lie down and end it all. You said you didn't take any stock in such nonsense; and you picked me up and carried me over the molten copper, while queer things came out o' the air and clutched at us. You reached the water-hole that time, Promotheus, and you can do it again, if you just use all your might."

Promotheus opened his eyes and his jagged, gnarly teeth showed in a smile, weak and trembly, but still game to the last line of it.

"Nope," he said so low we could hardly hear him, "I'm Promotheus, all right. I hung on as long as I could; but the vultures have finished my liver at last, Horace-they have finally finished it. I hate to leave you; but I'll have to be goin' soon. The's only one thing I ask of ya-don't send a single one o' the boys to the pen. They don't know what the world really is; but shuttin' 'em out of it won't ever teach 'em. If the's anything you can do to give 'em a little start, it would be a mighty good thing-a mighty good thing." His voice was gettin'

awful weak, an' he'd have to rest every few words.

"And Ty Jones, too," he went on, "Ty was square with me in the old days. Try to make him understand what it was 'at turned me again' him; and if the's any way to make things easier for Ty, I want you to have it done. Ty had a lot o' tough times, himself, before he turned all the hard part of his nature outside. Don't bear him any malice, Horace. Seventy times seven, the Friar sez we ought to forgive, and that many'll last a long time, if a feller don't take offence too easy. The's a lot o' things I don't understand; but some way it seems to me that if I could just go out feelin' I had squared things with Ty, I'd be a leetle mite easier in my mind."

Horace stepped to Ty's bed and shook him by the arm. "Did you hear what he said?" he demanded. "You know he's achin' to have you speak to him decent. Why don't ya speak to him?"

Ty looked cold and stony into Horace's eyes, and then took his left hand and pushed Horace's grip from off his arm. Horace stood lookin'

at Ty with his fist clinched. The turned and saw it and a troubled look came into his face.

"Friar Tuck," he said, "you meant it, didn't ya-that about forgivin'

seventy times seven?"

"I did," sez the Friar, his voice ringin' out clear and strong in spite of its bein' low pitched. "Be at peace, Promotheus, the laws of man are at war with the laws of G.o.d; but they're bound to lose in the end. I want you to know that I forgive Ty Jones as fully as you do-and I shall do everything in my power to square things up with him."

The held out his hand to the Friar, and they clasped in a comrade-grip. "I can trust you," he said; "and I know you'll do all you can to make Horace see it that way, too."