  When pretty Mary Farrell came to Brine’s Rip and set up a modest dressmaker’s shop quite close to the Mills (she said she loved the sound of the saws), all the unattached males of the village, to say nothing of too many of the attached ones, fell instant victims to her charms. They were her slaves from the first lifting of her long lashes in their direction. Tug Blackstock, the Deputy Sheriff, to be sure, did not capitulate quite so promptly as the rest. Mary had to flash her dark blue eyes upon him at least twice, dropping them again with shy admiration. Then he was at her feet—which was a pleasant place to be, seeing that those same small feet were shod with a neatness which was a perpetual reproach to the untidy sawdust strewn roadways of Brine’s Rip. Even Big Andy, the boyish young giant from the Oromocto, wavered for a few hours As for the womenfolk of Brine’s Rip, it was not to be expected that they would agree any too cordially with the men on the subject of Mary Farrell. But one instance of Mary’s tact made even the most irreconcilable of her own sex sheath their claws in dealing with her. She had come from Harner’s Bend. The Mills at Harner’s Bend were anathema to Brine’s Rip Mills. A keen trade rivalry had grown, fed by a series of petty but exasperating incidents, into a hostility that blazed out on the least occasion. And pretty Mary had come from Harner’s Bend. Brine’s Rip did not find it out till Mary’s spell had been cast and secured, of course. But the fact was a bitter one to swallow. No one else but Mary Farrell could have made Brine’s Rip swallow it. One day Big Andy, greatly daring, and secure in his renovated allegiance to the postmistress, ventured to chaff Mary about it. She turned upon him, half amused and half indignant. “Well,” she demanded, “isn’t Harner’s Bend a good place to come away from? Do you think I’d ought to have stopped there? Do I look like the kind of girl that wouldn’t come away from Harner’s Bend? And me a dressmaker? I just couldn’t live, let alone make a living, among such a dowdy lot of women-folk as they’ve got over there. It isn’t dresses they want, but oat-sacks, and you wouldn’t know the difference, either, when they’d got them on.” The implication was obvious; and the women of Brine’s Rip began to allow for possible virtues in Miss Farrell. The postmistress declared there was no harm in her, and even admitted that she might almost be called good-looking “if she hadn’t such an awful big mouth.” I have said that all the male folk of Brine’s Rip had capitulated immediately to the summons of Mary Farrell’s eyes. But there were two notable exceptions—Woolly Billy and Jim. Both Woolly Billy’s flaxen mop of curls and the great curly black head of Jim, the dog, had turned away coldly from Mary’s first advances. Woolly Billy preferred men to women anyhow. And Jim was jealous of Tug Blackstock’s devotion to the petticoated stranger. But Mary Farrell knew how to manage children and dogs as well as men. She ignored both Jim and Woolly Billy. She did it quite pointedly, yet with a gracious politeness that left no room for resentment. Neither the child nor the dog was accustomed to being ignored. Before long Mary’s amiable indifference began to make them feel as if they were being left out in the cold. They began to think they were losing something because she did not notice them. Reluctantly at first, but by-and-by with eagerness, they courted her attention. At last they gained it. It was undeniably pleasant. From that moment the child and the dog were at Mary’s well-shod and self-reliant little feet. IIAs summer wore on into autumn the dry weather turned to a veritable drought, and all the streams ran lower and lower. Word came early that the mills at Harner’s Bend, over in the next valley, had been compelled to shut down for lack of logs. But Brine’s Rip exulted unkindly. The Ottanoonsis, fed by a group of cold spring lakes, maintained a steady flow; there were plenty of logs, and the mills As August drew to a dusty, choking end, Mary Farrell began to collect her accounts. Her tact and sympathy made this easy for her, and women paid up civilly enough who had never been known to do such a thing before, unless at the point of a summons. Mary said she was going to the States, perhaps as far as New York itself, to renew her stock and study up the latest fashions. Every one was much interested. Woolly Billy’s eyes brimmed over at the prospect of her absence, but he was consoled by the promise of her speedy return with an air-gun and also a toy steam-engine that would really go. As for Jim, his feathery black tail drooped in premonition of a loss, but he could not gather exactly what was afoot. He was further troubled by an unusual depression on the part of Tug Blackstock. The Deputy Sheriff seemed to have lost his zest in tracking down evil-doers. It was nearing ten o’clock on a hot and starless night. Tug Blackstock, too restless to sleep, wandered down to the silent mill with Jim at his heels. As he approached, Jim suddenly went bounding on ahead with a yelp of greeting. He fawned upon a small, shadowy figure which was seated on a pile of deals close to the water’s edge. Tug Blackstock hurried up. “You here, Mary, all alone, at this time o’ night!” he exclaimed. “I come here often,” answered Mary, making room for him to sit beside her. “I wish I’d known it sooner,” muttered the Deputy. “I like to listen to the rapids, and catch glimpses of the water slipping away blindly in the dark,” said Mary. “It helps one not to think,” she added with a faint catch in her voice. “Why should you not want to think, Mary?” protested Blackstock. “How dreadfully dry everything is,” replied Mary irrelevantly, as if heading Blackstock off. “What if there should be a fire at the mill? Wouldn’t the whole village go, like a box of matches? People might get caught asleep in their beds. Oughtn’t there to be “Mills most generally git set afire,” answered the Deputy grimly. “Think what it would mean to Harner’s Bend if these mills should git burnt down now! It would mean thousands and thousands to them. But you’re dead right, Mary, about the danger to the village. Only it depends on the wind. This time o’ year, an’ as long as it keeps dry, what wind there is blows mostly away from the houses, so sparks and brands would just be carried out over the river. But if the wind should shift to the south’ard, or thereabouts, yes, there’d be more watchmen needed. I s’pose you’re thinkin’ about your shop while ye’re away?” “I was thinking about Woolly Billy,” said Mary gravely. “What do I care about the old shop? It’s insured, anyway.” “I’ll look out for Woolly Billy,” answered Blackstock. “And I’ll look out for the shop, whether you care about it or not. It’s yours, and your name’s on the door, and anything of yours, anything you’ve touched, an’ wherever you’ve put your little foot, that’s something for He had taken her hand, and she had yielded it to him. He had put his great arm around her shoulders and drawn her to him,—and for a moment, with a little shiver, she had leant against him, almost cowered against him, with the air of a frightened child craving protection. But as he spoke on, in his quiet, strong voice, she suddenly tore herself away, sprang off to the other end of the pile of deals, and began to sob violently. He followed her at once. But she thrust out both hands. “Go away. Please don’t come near me,” she appealed, somewhat wildly. “You don’t understand—anything.” Tug Blackstock looked puzzled. He seated himself at a distance of several inches, and clasped his hands resolutely in his lap. “Of course, I won’t tech you, Mary,” said he, “if you don’t want me to. I don’t want Mary gave a bitter little laugh, and choked her sobs. “It isn’t that, oh no, it isn’t that!” she said. “I—I liked it. There!” she panted. Then she sprang to her feet and faced him. And in the gloom he could see her eyes flaming with some intense excitement, from a face ghost-white. “But—I won’t let you make me love you, Tug Blackstock. I won’t!—I won’t! I won’t let you change all my plans, all my ambitions. I won’t give up all I’ve worked for and schemed for and sold my very soul for, just because at last I’ve met a real man. Oh, I’d soon spoil your life, no matter how much you love me. You’d soon find how cruel, and hard, and selfish I am. An’ I’d ruin my own life, too. Do you think I could settle down to spend my life in the backwoods? Do you think I have no dreams beyond the spruce woods of Nipsiwaska County? Do you think you could imprison me in Brine’s Rip? I’d Utterly bewildered at this incomprehensible outburst, Blackstock could only stammer lamely: “But—I thought—ye kind o’ liked Brine’s Rip.” “Like it!” The uttermost of scorn was in her voice. “I hate, hate, hate it! I just live to get out into the great world, where I feel that I belong. But I must have money first. And I’m going to study, and I’m going to make myself somebody. I wasn’t born for this.” And she waved her hand with a sweep that took in all the backwoods world. “I’m getting out of it. It would drive me mad. Oh, I sometimes think it has already driven me half mad.” Her tense voice trailed off wearily, and she sat down again—this time further away. Blackstock sat quite still for a time. At last he said gently: “I do understand ye now, Mary.” “You don’t,” interrupted Mary. “I felt, all along, I was somehow not good enough for you.” “You’re a million miles too good for me,” she interrupted again, energetically. “But,” he went on without heeding the protest, “I hoped, somehow, that I might be able to make you happy. An’ that’s what I want, more’n anything else in the world. All I have is at your feet, Mary, an’ I could make it more in time. But I’m not a big enough man for you. I’m all yours—an’ always will be—but I can’t make myself no more than I am.” “Yes, you could, Tug Blackstock,” she cried. “Real men are scarce, in the great world and everywhere. You could make yourself a master anywhere—if only you would tear yourself loose from here.” He sprang up, and his arms went out as if to seize her. But, with an effort, he checked himself, and dropped them stiffly to his side. “I’m too old to change my spots, Mary,” said he. “I’m stamped for good an’ all. I am some good here. I’d be no good there. An’ I won’t never resk bein’ a drag on yer plans.” “You could—you could!” urged Mary almost desperately. But he turned away, with his lips set hard, not daring to look at her. “Ef ever ye git tired of it all out there, an’ yer own kind calls ye back—as it will, bein’ in yer blood—I’ll be waitin’ for ye, Mary, whatever happens.” He strode off quickly up the shore. The girl stared after him till he was quite out of sight, then buried her face in the fur of Jim, who had willingly obeyed a sign from his master and remained at her side. “Oh, my dear, if only you could have dared,” she murmured. At last she jumped up, with an air of resolve, and wandered off, apparently aimlessly, into the recesses of the mill, with one hand resting firmly on Jim’s collar. IIITwo days later Mary Farrell left Brine’s Rip. She hugged and kissed Woolly Billy very hard before she left, and cried a little with him, pretending to laugh, and she took her three big trunks with her, in the long-bodied express waggon which carried the mails, although she said she would not be gone more than a month at the outside. Tug Blackstock eyed those three trunks with a sinking heart. His only comfort was that he had in his pocket the key of Mary’s little shop, which she had sent to him by Woolly Billy. When the express waggon had rattled and bumped away out of sight there was a “There’s goin’ to be some bad luck comin’ to Brine’s Rip afore long,” remarked Long Jackson in a voice of deepest pessimism. “It’s come, Long,” said the Deputy. That same day the wind changed, and blew steadily from the mills right across the village. But it brought no change in the weather, except a few light showers that did no more than lay the surface dust. About a week later it shifted back again, and blew steadily away from the village and straight across the river. And once more a single night-watchman was regarded as sufficient safeguard against fire. A little before daybreak on the second night following this change of wind, the watchman was startled by a shrill scream and a heavy splash from the upper end of the great pool where the logs were gathered before being fed up in the saws. It sounded like a woman’s voice. As fast as he could stumble over the He turned and dashed back, yelling “Fire! Fire!” at the top of his lungs. A similar ruddy light was spreading upward in two other corners of the mill. Frantically he turned on the nearest chemical extinguisher, yelling madly all the while. But he was already too late. The flames were licking up the dry wood with furious appetite. In almost as little time as it takes to tell of it the whole great structure was ablaze, with all Brine’s Rip, in every varying stage of dÉshabille, out gaping at it. The little hand-fire-engine worked heroically, squirting a futile stream upon the flames for a while, and then turning its attention to the nearest houses in order to keep them drenched. “Thank God the wind’s in the right direction,” muttered Zeb Smith, the storekeeper and magistrate. And the pious ejaculation was echoed fervently through the crowd. In the meantime, Tug Blackstock, seeing that there was nothing to do in the way of fighting “Sure,” he agreed, “it was a trick to git you away long enough for the fires to git a start. Somebody yelled, an’ chucked in a big stick, that’s all. An’, o’ course, you run to help. You couldn’t naturally do nothin’ else.” The watchman heaved a huge sigh of relief. If Blackstock exonerated him from the charge of negligence, other people would. And his heart had been very heavy at being so fatally fooled. “It’s Harner’s Bend all right, that’s what it is!” he muttered. “Ef only we could prove it,” said Blackstock, searching the damp ground about the edges of the pool, which was lighted now as by day. Presently he saw Jim sniffing excitedly at some tracks. He hurried over to examine them. Jim looked up at him and wagged his tail, as much as to say, “So you’ve found them, too! Interesting, ain’t they?” “What d’ye make o’ that?” demanded Blackstock of the watchman. “Boy’s tracks, sure,” said the latter at once. The footprints were small and neat. They were of a double-soled larrigan, with a low heel of a single welt. “None of our boys,” said Blackstock, “wear a larrigan like that, especially this time o’ year. One could run light in that larrigan, an’ the sole’s thick enough to save the foot. An’ it’s good for a canoe, too.” He rubbed his chin, thinking hard. “Yesterday,” said the watchman, “I mind seem’ a young half-breed, he looked like a slip of a lad, very dark complected, crossin’ the road half-a-mile up yonder. He was out o’ sight in a second, like a shadder, but I mind noticin’ he had on larrigans—an’ a brown slouch hat down over his eyes, an’ a dark red handkerchief roun’ his neck. He was a stranger in these parts.” “That would account for the voice, like a woman’s,” said Blackstock, following the tracks till they plunged through a tangle of tall bush. “An’ here’s the handkerchief,” he added triumphantly, grabbing up a dark red thing that fluttered from a branch. “Harner’s Bend knows somethin’ about that boy, I’m thinkin’. Now, Bill, you go along back, an’ don’t say nothin’ about this, mind! Me an’ Jim, we’ll look into it. Tell old Mrs. Amos and Woolly Billy not to fret. We’ll be back soon.” He slipped the leash into Jim’s collar, gave The trail led around behind the village, and back to the river bank about a mile below. There it followed straight down the shore. It was evident to Blackstock that his quarry would have a canoe in hiding some distance further down. There was no time to be lost. It was now almost full daybreak, and he could follow the trail by himself. After all, it was only a boy he had to deal with. He could trust Jim to delay him, to hold him at bay. He loosed the leash, and Jim bounded forward at top speed. He himself followed at a leisurely loping stride. As he trotted on, thinking of many things, he took out the red handkerchief and examined it again. He smelt it curiously. His nose was keen, like a wild animal’s. As he sniffed, a pang went through him, clutching at his heart. He sniffed again. His long stride shortened. He dropped into a walk. He thought over, word by word, his conversation with Mary that night beside the mill. His face went grey. After a brief struggle he Meanwhile, the figure of a slim boy, very light of foot, was speeding far down the river bank, clutching a brown slouch hat in one hand as he ran. He had an astonishing crop of hair, wound in tight coils about his head. He was panting heavily, and seemed nearly spent. At last he halted, drew a deep sigh of relief, pressed his hands to his heart, and plunged into a clump of bushes. In the depth of the bushes lay a small birch-bark canoe, carefully concealed. He tugged at it, but for the moment he was too weary to lift it. He flung himself down beside it to take breath. In the silence, his ears caught the sound of light feet padding down the shore. He jumped up, and peered through the bushes. A big black dog was galloping on his trail. He drew a long knife, and his mouth set itself so hard that the lips went white. The dog reached the edge of the bushes. The youth slipped behind the canoe. “Jim,” said he softly. The dog whined, wagged his tail, and plunged in through the “You’d never go back on me, would you, Jim, no matter what I’d done?” said he, in a gentle voice. Then, with an expert twist of his lithe young body, he shouldered the canoe and bore it down to the water’s edge. One of his swarthy hands had suddenly grown much whiter, where Jim had been licking it. Before stepping into the canoe, this peculiar youth took a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket, and an envelope. He scribbled something, sealed it up, addressed the envelope, marked it “private,” and gave it to Jim, who took it in his mouth. “Give that to Tug Blackstock,” ordered the youth clearly. Then he kissed the top of Jim’s black head, pushed off, and paddled away swiftly down river. Jim, proud of his commission, set off up the shore at a gallop to meet his master. Half-a-mile back he met him. Blackstock snatched the letter from Jim’s mouth, praising Heaven that the dog had for once failed in his duty. He tore open the letter. It said: Yes, I did it. I had to do it. But you could have saved me, if you’d dared—for I do love you, Tug Blackstock.—Mary. A month later, a parcel came from New York for Woolly Billy, containing an air-gun, and a toy steam-engine that would really go. But it contained no address. And Brine’s Rip said that Tug Blackstock had been bested for once, because he never succeeded in finding out who burnt down the mills. |
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