3stalwarts (91 page)

When he had finished fixing the horses, he went back to the cabin to cook breakfast, ate it, spelled the driver to let him eat; and then went to his bunk to sleep.

But after an hour Samson, stamping on deck, woke him.

His face and neck were covered with sweat.

“I just seen Annie setting there on the cabin,” he said. “I ain’t notional, Dan. But she set there just as plain. She was darning the same sock I got on my foot, and I cussed her, and she said, ‘What an old roarer you be, Sammy!’— just like she always did. I ain’t notional, Dan, but it don’t seem right. I need sleep. Would you mind spelling me a bit?”

“No,” said Dan. “I guess not.”

“I’d lie by for a while, only Butterfield’s in such a hurry for his damned machinery. I’ve got to get it through.”

“Sure.”

Weaver stared at him with a worried expression, sighed, and went down. But he came up again after lunch and managed to fill out nearly four hours at the rudder. Dan slept like a log.

“I reckon I’ll be able to last out most of the night,” he said.

There was a stiff frost that night, and the tread of the mules sounded tight and clear. More boats were upon the water than there had been on the two preceding days; but few of them moved after dark.

Down below, in the cabin of the Sarsey Sal, Samson Weaver continued his conversation between himself and the departed Annie; his voice higher than usual, talking fast; then silent while he waited for her to answer. Listening, Dan would feel a stir in the hackles on his neck, and his hand kept straying there to put them down.

Two miles from the relay station between Little Falls and Utica, one of the company mules went dead lame. The driver flogged him ahead for a quarter of a mile and then yelled to Dan to put the boat in shore. He came back, caught the tie-ropes, and snubbed them to posts.

“When a mule can’t think of anything else to do, it lames himself,” he said. “What would a man want to invent such an animal for is out of my knowledge. Just to see ‘em you can tell it’s against nature. It spoils a man’s stomach.”

Grumbling, he climbed on to the sound mule.

“I’ll be back with a new pair in maybe an hour.”

Dan sat down on the deck. The moon was coming up behind him, and for a long way his eyes followed the small figures of the mules along the black ridge of the towpath, the driver sitting sideways on the leader. Directly under him the voice of Samson Weaver broke out in streaks of muttering. Shadows grew and changed with the mysterious swiftness that is theirs by night. There were no boats visible, no farm lights showing against the hills; only the pocket of yellow glimmer cast by the night lantern of the Sarsey Sal.

Then, far back on the towpath and coming forward in the still gleam of the moon, Dan heard the rapid tapping of a galloping horse. Behind him the canal bent round a wide curve, with trees on either bank. Their shadows clung to the water; and suddenly in the heart of them the hammer of the horse’s hoofs echoed sharp and clear.

He broke into the moonlight, his grey coat stained with sweat, running hard with a fine drive, a sparkle of silver snatching his bit; the rider hunched forward on his withers, a black shape, as if he had dropped out of the shadows before the horse burst free.

Dan’s quick ears caught the clink of a loose shoe as the horse came on; and just as he reached the stern of the boat he cast it. It dropped in a short silver arc, spun for an instant on the towpath, and splashed into the water beside a clump of arrowhead.

Dan jumped to his feet, and waved his arm.

“Say!” he shouted. “Say, mister. You’ve dropped a shoe.”

He stepped ashore, climbed down to the water’s edge, and fished it out, a plate shoe, with light bar calks, as smooth as polished silver.

The rider had drawn in his horse and was returning at a walk.

“Did you get it?”

“Yeanh,” said Dan. “I seen it go in by that arrerhead.”

“Thanks.”

Dan handed it up, looking for the man’s face, but all he could see under the wide brim of his hat was a smooth chin and the glitter of two eyes. The man pocketed the shoe.

“Lucky you seen it,” he said. “I’d have had to wait too long to have another made. Them shoes were cut special.”

“They’re handy-looking,” said Dan admiringly.

“Ain’t I seen you before?”

“Once,” said Dan. “That was in Hennessy’s saloon. I’ve seen you twice. Once in Boonville and once in Albany.”

“I didn’t see you those times.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, we did each other a favor in Hennessy’s,” said the man.

“Yeanh.”

“Well, I’ve got to get on. I want to get to Rome tomorrow.”

“Close after you?”

“I shook ‘em in Albany,” said the man.

“You seen a horse trader? Calls himself Henderson?”

“Yes. He’s the man I got you to get out of Hennessy’s with Spinning.”

“You better watch for him,” said Dan. “He’s Department of Justice.”

“I’d guessed it.”

The man laughed.

“I don’t have to worry about a fat twerk like him.”

“He was right behind you in Albany.”

The man leaned forward and stroked his horse’s neck, and the horse pricked his ears. Dan petted his nose and the horse nuzzled him, blowing clouds of steam against his shirt.

“He likes you,” said the man suddenly. Then he laughed again. “I can handle a better man than Henderson. There’s no use worrying about him. I’ve got to get on. What’s your name, son?”

“Dan Harrow.”

“Harrow,” repeated the man. “I’ll remember that. Thanks for spotting that shoe.”

He wheeled the horse and went off at a lope. The horse showed no limp.

“Gol,” Dan said to himself. “See him nurse that horse! He can ride.”

Hoarfrost was forming on the deck when he got aboard the Sarsey Sal. He looked up the canal once more, but Gentleman Joe and the grey horse had passed from sight. The canal was still.

In the bunk cuddy, he heard Weaver muttering. Suddenly his voice be-came articulate.

“Dan!” he called. “Dan, Dan! Come here, quick!”

Dan ran down. The curtains to the cuddy were pulled back and the brass lamp sent its light directly into the bunks.

Weaver was lying on his back, stiff under the blankets. His face was still very red. When he saw Dan, he lifted his head for an instant, but immediately it fell back on the pillow, and he glared straight up at the planks above him.

“There’s something on deck, Dan. What is it on deck?”

“There ain’t nothing on deck,” Dan said. “I’ve just come down.”

Dan filled the empty glass with rum. He wondered that Samson had not noticed the stopping of the boat, or heard his meeting with Calash.

The boater swallowed noisily.

“Got to keep myself washed out,” he said. “Only way to fool this damn disease. I wish Annie was here. You’re a good lad, Dan.”

He lay still a moment. Then he tossed his head to one side.

“I’m queer, Dan. I’m feeling mortal queer.”

“Kind of bad?”

“Bad. I want to see a doctor, Dan. You won’t go off leaving me to Utica, will you?”

“No.”

“You’re a good lad, Dan. We’ll get there tomorrow?”

“Yeanh. I guess so.”

“Fetch me a doctor, Dan. First off.”

“All right.”

“You’re an honest lad, Dan. You’ll need money to fetch a doctor. Doctors look at your tongue, but they like the color of your money better. It’s nature, Dan. It don’t mean nothing.”

“No.”

“I got quite a lot of money on the boat, Dan. Banks go bust, so I put mine right into the boat. It’s in the beam, Dan. There’s a piece lifts out. I ain’t got any kin, Dan, nor nobody to look out after me, now Annie’s gone. Only you, Dan. You’ll let me see a doctor when we get to Utica?”

“First off.”

Weaver closed his eyes, and for a few moments he seemed asleep. Then the lids quivered and jumped up, and he was staring wildly at the roof again.

“It’s come back onto the deck. It hadn’t ought to be there. Chase it off, Dan. For God’s sake, chase it off. I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t do a thing. It’s back there. Go and look.”

His voice trailed off into incoherent sentences. “Get on back, Annie. … Pa said for you to get the cows, Joe. … I always did like buttermilk. …”

Dan got up. The cuddy was hot and stuffy, but Samson could not bear to have a window opened. Dan saw to the fire, his mind on Calash, riding ahead of his pursuer. He would never be caught.

Samson’s voice followed him.

“It’s back again. I can hear it. Chase it off, Dan.”

He went on deck. Sam Henderson was sitting with his back to the rudder post, smoking a cigar. The night lantern shone over his plump shoulders, leaving his face in darkness, except for the faint red glow of the cigar end, which was mirrored in his eyes.

“Well,” he said, “well, well. Ain’t I seen you before, young man?”

“Yeanh, Mr. Henderson.”

“Why, sure, that’s right. I saw you in Boonville and in Rome. You wanted to tell me about a horse I’d lost, which was nice of you, though Spinning didn’t seem to think so. He said this Joe Calash was in the saloon and got out while you was talking to us. But you couldn’t know that.”

“No.”

Henderson grunted.

“What’re you doing here?”

Dan glanced out to the towpath where a brown horse stood hitched to one of the tie-ropes.

“Working,” he said.

“Yeanh? Who owns this boat?”

“Samson Weaver.”

Again Henderson grunted.

“What’s that?” he asked suddenly, staring down between his knees.

“That’s Samson,” Dan said. “He’s been that way most of the trip up from Albany.”

“Does he do it a lot?”

“He’s been that way most of the trip up from Albany,” Dan repeated.

Under them Samson shouted.

“Chase it off, Dan! Chase it away!”

The horse snorted and jerked back on the rope.

“Whoa!” Henderson shouted. “I don’t blame him, though. I feel that way myself. Poor Samson. He always was a hard drinker. He’s got a weak heart. This cholera must have give him a scare. He always was scared of a disease. It’s funny thing, a big man like him.”

“Dan!” yelled Samson. “Dan!”

“Maybe I’d better go down,” Dan said.

“No,” said Henderson. “Has there been anybody along the towpath tonight?”

“Not many boats just now,” said Dan.

“Listen here, young man. I guess I might as well tell you. See this. I’m a Department of Justice man. I’m after this Calash, called Gentleman Joe. I’m kind of suspicious of you, but I ain’t going to do anything if you don’t try to head me wrong. Has there been anybody along the towpath tonight?”

Dan gazed at the toes of his shoes.

“Yeanh,” he said, after a moment. “Yeanh. He was coming fast.”

“Well, I can’t catch him now. I’ll get into Utica in the morning. He ought to be there. Charley Mack, the bank walker, he’ll have heard him go by if he ain’t seen him.”

“Dan! Dan! Dan!”

“I better go down, maybe,” said Dan.

“No,” said Henderson. “I’ll go down. He’s an old friend. He’ll be glad to see me. Poor Samson Weaver.”

He went down the narrow stairs nimbly for so stout a man.

There was the sound of a striking match, and the sharp sour smell of brimstone came up to Dan on deck, and a harsh scream. The horse jumped again and wrenched against his fastening. “Easy,” said Dan. “Easy, boy.”

“It’s only me, Samson,” he heard Henderson saying, quietly. “It’s only Samuel.”

There was no further sound, until all at once Dan could hear Henderson breathing sharply.

The stout man came up again. His face was covered with sweat and his round eyes were glassy.

“He’s took a kind of fit,” he said. “He’s stiff as a cherry post. He must’ve thought I was somebody else. Poor Samson.”

He took off his hat and wiped his handkerchief over his bald head.

“I’ve got to get along, young man. If you see anything of this man Calash, write to me. I give you the address.”

He went down to the horse and lit a fresh cigar; his hands shook a trifle; but, with the cigar once filling his mouth, he steadied himself and mounted, raised his hand to Dan, and galloped off. The horse seemed eager… .

Dan sat by himself. The first grey of dawn and the returning driver appeared together, the mules ambling along the towpath at a good pace.

Dan got up and went down into the cabin. The candle on the stove burned feebly in the grey light, but Dan took it up and went back to the bunks. Samson was lying on his side, his knees drawn up and his head back. His eyes were wide-open, his smooth cheeks a dark, unnatural red.

Dan put his hand down against his side. Then he went on deck.

The driver had cast off the tie-ropes and hitched his mules.

“I took longer than I figured.”

“Longer than I figured,” said Dan.

“Well, we’d better get going. How’s the old—?”

He pointed his thumb at the cabin and twirled it between his eyes.

“He’s lying quiet,” Dan said.

“It’s a good thing,” said the driver.

The mules heaved up into the collars, took up the slack, heaved, and the Sarsey Sal groaned a bit and moved sluggishly ahead, with the dawn wind against its bows, and the water muttering on the rudder.

Ten-Dollar Corpse

While they waited outside the weighlock in Utica, Dan searched Sam-son’s clothes for money. He felt that it would take him too long to find the beam which the boater had made his bank. But in the trousers Samson still wore he found four dollars, and in the wallet in his Sunday coat he found five more— enough to see them past the weighlock.

When the Sarsey Sal had been passed through, and Dan had paid his toll, the driver asked him where he wanted to tie up.

“Anywhere’ll do,” Dan said. “We’re hauling out for Rome tomorrow.”

“That’s funny,” said the driver. “A short haul like that. I’d think you’d want to go right on.”

“Weaver wants to see a doctor.”

“Yeanh? Well, a doctor’s a good thing when a man’s going to die. He can write the certificate, anyway.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Dan.

“Damndest thing you ever see. A man can’t marry a woman without getting a certificate— unless he takes a cook on to the canal. And then people’ll have to say, ‘My, My!’ He can’t get born respectable without a man writing a document about him. No, sir, the poor lobster can’t even pull in his head to die unless somebody says it’s O. K.”