THE COMING OF JAMES HADDON

THE sun was gone, and the shadows were black in the defile. The ancient river went on with its mocking of them, now low and hoarse, now cynically shrieking, as the voice of flowing water will come, altered by the currents of the air.

The two thus alone in the wilderness spoke not at all for some time, and then Joslin could only go on in his own self-reproach.

“It was where we built the fires, Ma’am,” he said vaguely, still endeavoring to explain what could not be explained save in the books of the gods. “I’ve sat there myself more than one night—I studied there, Ma’am, read my lessons, getting ready to teach. I read while I waited for the fish to bite. I set that line my own self. I never knew—oh! it seems as though I had done this with my own hand.”

“Don’t,” she said, gentle and just even now. “I was afraid you both were gone. Please don’t talk. I’m afraid—oh, I’m afraid!—and I’m so cold—I’m so very cold.”

She was shivering now, Joslin as well. He hurried to his flung coat and found matches this time, came with bits of drift wood, pieces of dry brandies. He built a little fire. “You must get warm,” said he.

“What shall we do? Oh, what shall we do? This awful place—oh, this awful place!”

“Wait just a little,” said David Joslin. “You must get warm.”

They cowered at the fire, two small human objects here in the grip of the wilderness, in the hands of fate indeed. It was some time before Joslin raised his head.

“There’s someone coming—I hear a wagon on the rocks, Ma’am,” said he, starting up. “You stay here—I’ll go see—it must be someone on the trail above.”

He hurried to the edge of the undergrowth and disappeared. The sound of wheels became apparent to her ears. Soon after they stopped she saw Joslin come again, accompanied by a tall gaunt man his equal in stature, a man who came and stood near by her, looking down in pity.

“Ma’am,” said he, “this is mighty bad—mighty bad.”

“Help me, Absalom,” said David Joslin. “Mrs. Haddon, you go over there. We’re going to take him to the wagon.”

Marcia Haddon turned away, her face buried in her hands. She did not see David Joslin and Absalom Gannt as they bent and lifted between them the dead body of the man who but now might have boasted that he held these and the land of these in the hollow of his hand. They held him now, neck and heels, in the hollows of their hands, such being the will of fate. They carried him up the hillside, and they laid him on the top of the rough load of lumber which was to make his resting place for a time. Then they came back after the woman.

“I was down to the mill fer a load,” said Absalom to Joslin as they walked. “Hit’s a lucky thing. That’s his wife? Oh, my Lordy, hain’t that hard! Ye say he’s the Company man? He was rich——”

“Very rich,” said Joslin. “She’s a good woman, his wife. We’ll have to help her, Absalom. She’ll have to stay with us for a while. We’ll have to bury him in here, I reckon—he couldn’t ever be got out.”

“Tell me, how come him to get in thar, anyways?”

“Fell into the boat—and on over—he was trying to get something out of the boat,” replied Joslin. “The current carried him down under. You saw his hand—that was where I cut the fish hook out. He was swinging on the set-line when I saw him. I was on the other side then.”

“Ye’ve had a hard time savin’ of him, Davy, that’s shore enough,” rejoined Absalom soberly. “I know what that water is. Well, the Narrers has got one more man. Damn ‘em, anyways!”

They spoke no more when they had come to Marcia Haddon. She felt the hand of each of these tall men, one at each elbow, aiding her to rise, aiding her up the steep slope of the mountain, aiding her to climb up on the load of lumber where lay the long shrouded figure, covered with coats now—all that was left of what had been, or ought to have been, all in the world to her.

Absalom Gannt took up the reins and sat at the front of the load of lumber, his back toward them. Joslin sat at one side of the load, reaching out a hand now and then to steady Marcia Haddon, who sat opposite, swaying weakly against the rude jolting of the vehicle on the rough mountain roads. His hand was light, gentle, quickly withdrawn. The wagon wheels, creaking and groaning, sent their protest now up against the mountain side as they jolted onward. The wagon, tilting and rocking, carried on. Now and again the long shrouded object rolled horribly from one side to the other. On one side it met a hand firm and strong—this sodden body of James Haddon, now gone to his accounting. Upon the other side it met a hand which steadied it gently—the hand of a woman who, all her unhappy life, had never been otherwise than gentle with him.