THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP

“There is nothing more terrible than the revolt of a sheep,” said De Marsay.—Balzac.

“OH, shut up, Hank! Dang it! Hain’t you goin’ to let a feller sleep none? How can I be strong enough to keep from snivellin’ in the mornin’, if I don’t get my sleep?”

A small man with a thin, weak face, that might have suggested the vacuous countenance of a sheep had it not been for an expression of anguish and childish petulance, sat up among a bunch of furs in the corner of the cabin. He supported himself tremblingly upon an arm and stared with watery, haggard eyes upon Hank, who regarded him wistfully.

Hank was a big man and raw-boned. His big, quiet, hirsute face contrasted strongly with the face of the other. About his waist hung a belt containing a pair of six-shooters. Since the dark had fallen he had been pacing nervously back and forth across the cabin floor, his eyebrows knit, his face twitching, now and then offering a soft word of comfort to the little man who lay among the furs in the corner breathing fitfully.

“Cuss your hide, Hank! You know I hain’t slep’ none for a week, and you go on a-trampin’ and a-gabbin’ till you got me all on needles! Why can’t you leave me be? O damn it!”

The last words were more like a sob than a curse; and the white, thin face and quivering lips seemed too impotent for the words. Hank stopped pacing up and down, and with his fists resting upon his hips he stared at the little man.

“Now, Sheep,” he drawled kindly, “you hain’t got no call to talk that away. Hain’t I tryin’ to be your friend to the finish? I was just thinkin’ to cheer you up so’s you’d make a respect’ble, manly hangin’. I didn’t go to rile you.”

The little man thus addressed as “Sheep” drew himself up into a shivering bunch among the furs and groaned. The big man shook his head slowly and sat down, leaning against the wall of the cabin. “Pore Sheep,” he muttered.

For an hour he sat with his chin in his hands, staring with pitying eyes upon the huddled little man, who now and again shook with shuddering sobs. The candle flame flickered dismally in the night wind that came in through the chinks in the wall.

At length a series of stifled groans grew up among the furs, accompanied by a spasmodic jerking of the limbs of the little man. With a deep sigh he sat up. With an imbecile droop of the lower jaw, and eyes that burned feverishly with utter horror, he stared at his companion.

“O cuss you, Hank!” he broke out querulously, “why can’t you talk none? You goin’ to let me keep a-slippin’ down, down, down right into hell and never say a word to me? What you settin’ there like a bump on a log for?”

“W’y, Sheep,” said the big man kindly; “thought you was tryin’ to snooze.”

“Snooze! How can I snooze with a million little devils runnin’ up and down my backbone and adancin’ all over my head? You knowed I couldn’t sleep! You knowed I hain’t slep’ for a week! Snooze! O damn it! Hain’t I goin’ to get plenty of snoozin’ when they drag the cart out from ’n under me in the mornin’?”

Sheep’s voice broke; the fire went out of his eyes; his teeth chattered as though a sudden gust of winter had struck him.

“Now, Sheep,” said Hank, “don’t be so riled up like. I know it’s hard to go out that away; but it won’t last long, and it can’t hurt much after the first jerk. I reckon it don’t matter much how a feller goes out after he’s gone.”

“Oh, shut that up!”

The little man leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. After a considerable silence the big man produced a flask of liquor and spoke soothingly.

“Want a drink, Sheepy, old man?”

The little man leaped up with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“‘Course I do! What made you keep a-hidin’ it when you knowed all along that’s what I been wantin’?”

He grasped the flask and drank with great eager gulps until it was empty. Then he sat down against the cabin wall, staring fixedly at the candle flame. The empty, sheepish, cowardly face began to gain expression as the liquor mounted to his head. A light of fearlessness began to grow in his eyes. Lines appeared and deepened in his thin face, suggesting at once a certain degree of mastery and infinite malevolence. The wolf that lurks somewhere in the fastness of every man’s soul had come forth and routed the sheep.

“What in thunder you doin’ with all that heavy artillery hangin’ to you, Hank? Take ’em off! I don’t need no guards. Who said I was thinkin’ of breakin’ camp? I hain’t tryin’ to run, am I? Damn me, I’m glad I done it and I’m a-goin’ to walk right straight into hell a-grinnin’! Sheep, am I?”

The little man laughed a strange laugh that had the snarl of a mad wolf in it; a moment since he had been bleating like a scared lamb.

“You set there and listen. Sheep, sheep, sheep! That’s what they all been a-callin’ me, but when I get done tellin’ you about it, I guess you won’t call me no sheep. Hain’t a danged one of you big fellers as would ’ve done it up better ’n me!

“You’ve knowed me quite a spell, Hank; and you never knowed no bad of me till now, did you? And I hain’t had any easy trail most of the time neither. When I was jest a little feller goin’ to country school back East, the other fellers always picked onto me ’cause I was so easy to pick onto. Never had a fight in my life. Always scared to death of fightin’; sucked it in with my mother’s milk, I guess. Used to get off alone and bawl ’cause I couldn’t make myself fight.

“Never was a real boy; always a kind of a stray sheep, bleatin’ around in lonesome places. Guess I must look like a sheep; anyway the boys called me that; and it stuck. Pretty hard bein’ a sheep amongst wolves, Hank!

“I was always shy and easy scared, Hank. I never owned it to a livin’ man before; but a man is like to say things just before he goes out for good that he wouldn’t say before.

“You knowed ol’ man Leclerc, didn’t you? Her dad, you know. Used to live down-river half a day’s hard walkin’. I reckon that ol’ man was about the best friend I ever had, ’ceptin’ you, Hank. Kind of seemed to understand me like. Wonder if he’s hearin’ me now! Don’t give a damn if he is! He knowed it wasn’t in me to be bad, and he knows I done right. I tell you, Hank, I ain’t scared, nor ’shamed nor nothin’. Damn me, I can see Donahan a-dyin’ yet, and it does me good, Hank! Does me good!”

The little man’s eyes blazed, and his face seemed to take fire from them. But the light died as quickly as it was kindled, like a fire in too little fuel whipped by a wind too strong. A soft light of reminiscence lingered where the fiercer glow had died.

“Used to go down there pretty often when I could; part to see the ol’ man, and most to see his girl. Nice little thing, Hank; awful nice little thing! Don’t you think so? Good as an angel, too, but weak like a woman can be. I hain’t nothin’ again’ her, Hank—so help me God, I hain’t! I wasn’t the man for her. She’d ought to ’ve had a big, strong, quiet feller what wasn’t afraid of the devil. Some feller like you, Hank—or Donahan.

“Oh, let the hottest fires in hell eat Donahan!”

The little man shook with a passion that seemed grotesque, because it was too big for him.

“And I kep’ goin’ down there, and goin’ down there, till I begun to be happy, Hank. Begun to thinkin’ part of this world was made for me. Begun to thinkin’ about havin’ a woman and babies; and somehow I got to feelin’ bigger and stronger, and not sneakin’ any more.

“‘Peared like the girl liked me. Never had nothin’ to do with no woman ’cept my mother, you know. Oh, Hank, why can’t a feller be a man when he wants to so bad? I dunno. I tried.

“Well, one time I went down there and ol’ man Leclerc was pretty sick. Said he was a-goin’ to die sure thing. Wheezin’ already and pickin’ at the blankets. Calls me up to him, and after he got done tellin’ me what he was goin’ to do d’rectly, he says: ‘Sheep, my boy, I’ve brought her up as near like a French lady as I knowed how. She hain’t able to hustle for herself, and—well, ain’t she a pretty girl? Why the devil don’t you ask me for her?’

“And I asked, and the ol’ man said ‘yes,’ and that was his last word, ’cept ‘God be with both of you.’ Took all his breath to say that, seemed like.

“And so I saw the ol’ man under ground and come up here with the girl. Got the missionary, Father Donahan, to do the tyin’. (Oh, damn him!) And then I begun to be happy. Seemed like God heard the ol’ man for a spell, tho’ his voice was weak when he said it. Now I guess mebbe he didn’t hear. Does he always hear, Hank?”

“Dunno,” muttered the big man, who sat with his face in his hands; “seems like He ain’t out here ’t all, sometimes.”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” peevishly snapped the little man. “Le’ me talk! You got plenty of time for talkin’! Le’ me talk, will you?”

The big man sighed, and the other continued rapidly in a sort of a dazed sing-song voice with little inflection in it, like a man in a trance.

“Big change come over me then; better man all ’round. Factor saw it and sent me on some long trips; seemed to trust me more’n before. But I always done the longest trips in the shortest poss’ble time. Doted on that girl wife, and I guess I was about the happiest feller that ever cussed a pack mule. Used to like to set around the cabin when I could and watch her skip about the place makin’ things comfort’ble like a woman can when she’s a mind.

“And by and by I was happier’n ever. That was when the little boy come. Cute little feller, that boy was. Don’t you mind? Had blue eyes, and that tickled me half to death, ’cause black eyes is the rule in my fambly and hers, and it seemed like God was tryin’ to be kind to me.

“When Father Donahan christened the young’n, I drawed his attention to them blue eyes and Donahan (no, I ain’t goin’ to call him Father no more, ’cause if he was a priest, he was a priest of the devil!) What was I sayin’?”

At the sound of Donahan’s name upon his own lips, the little man’s face writhed into malevolent contortions.

“What was I sayin’?” he repeated dazedly.

“Blue eyes,” suggested Hank.

“Quit breakin’ in onto me that away!” snapped the little man peevishly. “And when I showed him the blue eyes, Donahan grinned and said, ‘Yes, God had been very kind.’ And it did look like it, didn’t it?

“Donahan named the boy; asked me if I’d let him. Called him James for a front name and Donahan for a middle one. Well, things went along smooth until one day the little feller died. Made me feel pretty bad—like to tore my heart out. But Donahan he come and cried too, and that helped. Always helps to have somebody feel bad with you; don’t you think so?

“After that things dragged on like they have a way of doin’. I kep’ on tryin’ to be like a man. But the girl, she seemed to be takin’ it pretty hard. Got stranger and stranger toward me, like as if she didn’t care for me no more. Donahan used to come in often and console her, and she seemed to brighten up at them times—’cause she was always strong on the religion business. That’s what made her so good, I guess.

“But by and by there was goin’ to be another youngster, and I kind of got into the way of whistlin’ again somehow. Got to thinkin’ how it’d be a boy with blue eyes like the one that died. About that time the Factor sent me off on a long trip. Hated to go, but it couldn’t be helped. You’d ought to seen me travel, Hank! Wantin’ to get back, you know; ’feared all the time mebbe she was sick and a-wantin’ me. Made a quick trip—quicker’n most big men could, Hank. And when I come in sight of home, I was that glad that I couldn’t feel my feet and legs achin’.

“It was night when I got back, and I thought I’d just take a peep in at the winder before I went in; light was shinin’ out so home-like. You know how a boy looks a long time at a big, red apple before he eats it; gettin’ his eyes full of it before he fills his belly? That was like me.

“I crep’ up and looked in; winder was raised a little. I could see Donahan inside and he was talkin’ soft and low.

“‘Hope it’ll have blue eyes,’ he was sayin’; ‘blue eyes like mine.’ And that made me love Donahan more, ’cause it was just what I was a-wishin’ myself. Talked along quite a spell, and me watchin’ outside, all the time pityin’ Donahan ’cause he couldn’t never have no little woman like that and a youngster with blue eyes.

“And the talkin’ growed into a mumble and hum like as if I was a-dreamin’ it all in a happy dream; until all to oncet some of the words leaped out of the hum, and stood out clear like so many candle flames a-burnin’ into my head, and a-scorchin’ my backbone, and a-settin’ the whole world afire with bloody light.

“I held onto the winder sill to keep from fallin’ down, and this is what I heard: ‘Sometimes I feel sorry for the pore sheep; and I’ve spent many nights prayin’ to God about it and askin’ him to forgive me. Then when I see you again, it all comes back and the prayers are no more than so many curses. What’d you ever marry that sheep for? Curse the day that I was made a priest!’

“And then the words seemed to get muffled, only now and then I could hear some of ’em plain, and every one of ’em was like a big man’s fist drivin’ into my face and a-beatin’ my eyes full of blood.”

The little man covered his face with his hands and sobbed.

“O, I ain’t a-blamin’ her, Hank,” he blubbered. “Never was a better woman. I ain’t blamin’ her.”

He rocked himself back and forth for some time. His sobbing ceased. Suddenly he raised his face and the flames of hell glittered in his tear-washed eyes.

“I’m a white-livered coward, so I didn’t go in and kill him. He was a big man, and I ain’t no fighter. I run; don’t know why. Didn’t feel sore nor achy in my legs no more. I run and run and run till my breath give out, then I fell down and the stars swum ’round and went out. Then after awhile I was up and walkin’, and nothin’ would stand still. Things danced round and round me and the air was full of little spiteful, spittin’ lights and sounds like devils a-laughin’. And by and by I come to ol’ man Leclerc’s place. Don’t know why I went there. Nothin’ there but the place.

“I went in and laid down on the floor all broke up. And when I went to sleep, I dreamed of killin’ Donahan. I woke up and it was mornin’.

“First thing I heard was the rattle of some Red River carts goin’ north. I guess it was the devil that whispered somethin’ in my ear then. I run out and told a big lie to the bull-whackers. ‘Man a-dyin’ in here! Go as fast as you can to the next post and tell Father Donahan to come down to see the pore devil through with it!’

“Guess I looked like I’d been settin’ up for a week, so the bull-whackers believed it and went on north a-whackin’ their bulls into a swingin’ trot.

“Well, Donahan come all right.”

Here the little man lapsed into a stubborn silence. He leaned against the wall and for several hours there was no sound in the cabin but that of heavy breathing.

At length Hank got up and walked over to the little window. A dull grey blur had grown up in the East. It would soon be time. Hank sighed.

Suddenly the little man was aroused from his lethargy as though he had heard a shout. He began talking rapidly.

“I stood behind the door of the cabin, and when he come in I downed him with a club. Then I tied his hands and his feet and fastened him to the floor. I sat beside him and spit in his face till he come to a-groanin’. And it was a couple days before he could talk sense or knowed who I was.

“And he begged and he cussed, but I didn’t say nothin’. He got hungry; so I chawed at some pemmican I had left from the trip so’s he’d get hungrier. He got thirsty; so I drank more’n I wanted so’s he’d get thirstier.

“Said he’d get me into heaven for just one sup of water; so I went out with my cup; I filled it with dust; I put it to his lips.

“Said he’d send me to hell if I didn’t give him just one drop. So I give him more dust. And by and by he got luny like, and cussed like a bull-whacker and whined like a sick woman by turns.

“God, Hank! How that man hung on!

“And by and by he seemed to get a little sense for a spell, and he yelled out: ‘He had blue eyes, didn’t he? Look at mine!’ And I cuffed him in the mouth till his teeth was bloody, ’cause his eyes was blue.”

The little man hesitated. Suddenly an expression of supreme terror came over his face. The wolf was dead—the frightened sheep looked out of his eyes. There was a sound of footsteps. The shabby light of early dawn had already cheapened the glow of the guttered candle.

The door opened—a priest entered.

The little man gave a yell of terror and shrank into his corner.

“Take it away, Hank!” he screamed. “Take it away!”

Hank spoke a few words into the ear of the priest, who muttered a prayer and went out. For some time the little man stared appealingly into the eyes of the bigger man. When he spoke his voice was husky and low: “Won’t you look after the woman a little, Hank? If it’s got blue eyes——”

There was now a sound of other footsteps approaching. The little man gasped like one who has suddenly been thrust into cold water.

“Oh, Hank!” he moaned; “hold me tight. Don’t let ’em take me! They’ll stand me in the cart under a tree and they’ll put the rope around my neck and they’ll drag the cart away! Oh!”

The footsteps were now very near the door. The little man on a sudden became very quiet. He bit nervously at his finger-tips. His body stiffened. His face seemed transparent.

When the sound of a hand at the latch was heard, his jaw dropped nervelessly. He stared upon the soon-to-be-opened door with wide, dilated eyes, in which all that had been human was burned to dust.