Down the Ravine Part 15

squinchin', ez I knowed he war makin' faces at me. So I jes' riz up--an' the eyes slipped away from thar in a hurry. I war aimin'

ter larrup Birt fur his sa.s.s, but I stopped ter hang up a skin ez I hed knocked down. It never tuk me long, much, but when I went out, thar warn't n.o.body ter be seen in the tanyard."

He paused to place one foot upon the wooden horse, and he leaned forward with a reflective expression, his elbow on his knee, and his hand holding his bearded chin.

The afternoon was waning. The scarlet sun in magnified splendor was ablaze low down in the saffron west. The world seemed languorously afloat in the deep, serene flood of light. Shadows were lengthening slowly. The clangor of a cow-bell vibrated in the distance.

The drone of Andy Byers's voice overbore it as he recommenced.

"Waal, I was sorter confl.u.s.ticated, an' I looked round powerful sharp ter see whar Birt hed disappeared to. I happened ter cut my eye round at that thar pit ez he hed finished layin' the tan in, an'

kivered with boards, an' weighted with rocks that day ez ye an' me hed ter go an' attend on old Mrs. Price. Ye know we counted ez that thar pit wouldn't be opened ag'in fur a right smart time?"

The tanner nodded a.s.sent.

"Waal, I noticed ez the aidge o' one o' them boards war sot sorter catawampus, an' I 'lowed ez 't war the wind ez hed 'sturbed it. Ez I stooped down ter move it back in its place, I seen su'thin' white under it. So I lifted the board, an' thar I see, lyin' on the tan a-top o' the pit, a stiff white paper. I looked round toward the shed, an' thar hung the coat yit--with nuthin' in the pocket. I didn't know edzactly what ter make of it, an' I jes' shunted the plank back over the paper in the pit like I fund it, an' waited ter see what mought happen. An' all the time ez that thar racket war goin' on bout'n the grant, I knowed powerful well whar 't war, an'

who stole it."

Birt looked from one to the other of the two men. Both evidently believed every syllable of this story. It was so natural, so credible, that he had a curious sense of inclining toward it, too.

Had he indeed, in some aberration, taken the grant? Was it some tricksy spirit in his likeness that had peered through the c.h.i.n.king at Andy Byers?

He could find no words to contend further. He sat silent, numb, dumfounded.

"Birt," said the tanner coaxingly, "thar ain't no use in denyin' it enny mo'. Let's go an' git that grant, an' take it ter Nate an'

tell the truth."

The words roused Birt. He clutched at the idea of getting possession of the paper that had so mysteriously disappeared and baffled and eluded him. He could at least return it. And even if this should fail to secure him lenient treatment, he would feel that he had done right. He rose suddenly in feverish anxiety.

Andy Byers and Perkins, exchanging a wink of congratulation, followed him to the pit.

"It air under this hyar board," said Byers, moving one of the heavy stones, and lifting a broad plank.

Perkins pressed forward with eager curiosity, never having seen this famous grant.

The ground bark on the surface was pretty dry, the layer being ten or fifteen inches thick, and the tanning infusion had not yet risen through it.

Byers stared with a frown at the tan, and lifted another board.

Nothing appeared beneath it on the smooth surface of the bark.

In sudden alarm they took away the boards, one after another, till all were removed, and the whole surface of the pit was exposed.

Then they looked at each other, bewildered. For once more the grant was gone.

CHAPTER XII.

Jubal Perkins broke the silence.

"Andy Byers," he exclaimed wrathfully, "what sort 'n tale is this ez ye air tryin' ter fool me with?"

Byers, perturbed and indignant, was instantly ready to accuse Birt.

"Ye hev been hyar an' got the grant an' sneaked it off agin, hev ye!" he cried, scowling at the boy.

Then he turned to the tanner. "I hope I may drap dead, Jube," he said earnestly, "ef that grant warn't right hyar"--he pointed at the spot--"las' night whenst I lef' the tanyard. I always looked late every evenin' ter be sure it hedn't been teched, thinkin' I'd make up my mind in the night whether I'd tell on Birt, or no. But I never could git plumb sati'fied what to do."

His tone carried conviction. The tanner looked at Birt with disappointment in every line of his face. There was severity, too, in his expression. He was beginning to admit the fitness of harsh punishment in this case.

"Ye don't wuth all this gabblin' an' jawin' over ye, ye miser'ble leetle critter," he said. "An' I ain't goin' ter waste another breath on ye."

Birt stood vacantly staring at the tan. All the energy of the truth was nullified by the futility of protestation.

The two men exchanged a glance of vague comment upon his silence, and then they too looked idly down at the pit.

Tennessee abruptly caught Birt's listless hand as it hung at his side, for Towse had suddenly entered the tanyard, and prancing up to her in joyous recognition, was trying to lick her face.

"G'way, Towse," she drawled gutturally. She struck vaguely at him with her chubby little fist, which he waggishly took between his teeth in a gingerly gentle grip.

"Stand back thar, Tennessee," Birt murmured mechanically.

As usual, Towse was the precursor of Rufe, who presently dawdled out from the underbrush. He quickened his steps upon observing the intent att.i.tude of the party, and as he came up he demanded vivaciously, "What ails that thar pit o' yourn, Mister Perkins?-- thought ye said 't warn't goin' ter be opened ag'in fore-shortly."

For a moment the tanner made no reply. Then he drawled absently, "Nuthin' ails the pit, Rufe--nuthin'."

Rufe sat down on the edge of it, and gazed speculatively at it.

Presently he began anew, unabashed by the silence of the grave and contemplative group.

"This hyar tan hev got sorter moist atop now; I wonder ef that thar grant o' Nate's got spi'led ennywise with the damp."

Birt winced. It had been a certain mitigation of his trouble that, thanks to his mother's caution, the children at home knew nothing of the disgrace that had fallen upon him, and that there, at least, the atmosphere was untainted with suspicion.

The next moment he was impressed by the singularity of Rufe's mention of the missing grant and its place of concealment.

"Look-a-hyar, Rufe," he exclaimed, excitedly; "how d'ye know ennything 'bout Nate's grant an' whar 't war hid?"

Rufe glanced up scornfully, insulted in some occult manner by the question.

"How did I know, Birt Dicey? How d'ye know yerse'f?" he retorted.

"I knows a heap, ginerally."

Perkins, catching the drift of Birt's intention, came to the rescue.

"Say, bub, how d'ye know the grant war ever put hyar?"

"Kase," responded Rufe, more amicably, "I seen it put hyar--right yander."

He indicated the spot where the paper lay, according to Byers, when it was discovered.

Birt could hardly breathe. His anxieties, his hopes, his fears, seemed a pursuing pack before which he was almost spent. He panted like a hunted creature. Tennessee was swinging herself to and fro, holding by his hand. Sometimes she caught at Towse's unlovely ear, as he sat close by with his tongue lolled out and an attentive air, as if he were a.s.sisting at the discussion.