Читать книгу Scott Burton in the Blue Ridge - Edward G. Cheyney - Страница 8

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The disappearance of Hopwood had been so silent and so unexpected that Scott hardly knew whether it had not been a dream after all. He sat still for a moment to see whether he would come back, but, when he did not, he arose leisurely, and began to glance cautiously about him. He did not want to search because he thought that Hopwood must be behind a tree somewhere waiting to have the laugh on him. After all what difference did it make what had become of Hopwood? Scott felt that he had learned all that he could get out of him just now, and he had made up his mind what he wanted to do.

He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter of twelve, and he would be late for his dinner if he did not hurry. He was curious to know how Hopwood had disappeared so suddenly and where he had gone, but he struck out for the road without looking to the right or the left. Just as he reached it he saw the man of the iron hat stroll leisurely around a bend a little way up the mountain, apparently unconscious that he had acted peculiarly, and without a backward glance. The sight of him reminded Scott that he had not found out why this man wore his strange iron hat, and he made up his mind to ask some one the first chance he had.

When Scott reached the hotel after again running the gauntlet of stares in the village there were no signs of a meal in the very near future. The women were talking in the kitchen, but there was no sign of any hurry in spite of the fact that it was already fifteen minutes after the time they had announced for dinner. He went to his room and found it just as he had left it. Either he was expected to make his own bed or the women did not make them till afternoon. He decided to wait and see what would happen.

When the dinner bell finally rang, it was a quarter past one. Scott found himself alone with the station agent. The meal was about the worst he had ever seen. Great cubes of salt pork fat three inches square, boiled and transparent, that might have made an Eskimo’s mouth water, but were impossible for the uninitiated. Corn bread as dry as powder, a sickly looking gravy, and some gluey rice. At first Scott thought that he could not eat any of it, but what was he going to do? This was probably what he would have to eat for several weeks. There was no place to look for anything better. With a desperate look around the table to make sure that he had not overlooked any possibilities, he resolutely helped himself to the rice and the corn bread and waded in. He could swallow these things if he had to, but he could not bring himself even to try the salt pork.

He had been so disgusted with the meal that he had forgotten all about the station agent. Now he recalled that the gentleman had been rather offended at his actions in the morning, and that he had better try to make his peace with him now.

“Mr. Roberts, you probably thought me very ungrateful this morning, but I knew absolutely nothing of this feud here, and could not imagine what you meant.”

The agent answered rather stiffly. “None of the government men who have been here seem to want to know anything about it, but they all learn something about it sooner or later.”

“Well, I want to know all I can about it. Up the road this morning I met Mr. Sanders, and when he asked me that same question about buying at the stores I asked him to explain. He told me all he could about it, and then I realized what you meant. I really appreciate your kindness very much, and want to thank you for trying to warn me. I don’t believe there are many people around here who would have done it.”

The agent was evidently pleased with the apology and melted immediately. “No, I reckon there ain’t,” he said rather proudly. “Old man Sanders and I are about the only ones. The others are all in it up to their necks.”

“Now that I know about it, I am not going to get mixed up with either side. They will have to give up their feud and work together like other people if they want to get in the game.”

“They will never do that as long as old Jarred lives,” the agent answered confidently.

That familiar phrase reminded Scott of the strange man with the iron hat. “By the way,” he asked, “who is this man Hopwood?”

“He’s Foster Wait’s nephew. Foster’s father is the man who started the feud, you know. He had an awful bad temper, and they tell me that, when Hopwood was a little kid, old Foster hit him in the head with his cane and he’s been crazy as a loon ever since. Did you meet him at Sanders’ place?”

“No,” Scott replied, “I met him up in the woods.”

“Thought you might have met him at Sanders’,” the agent said. “His mother was old Sanders’ daughter. What did you think of his hat?”

“I was just going to ask you why he wears that thing,” Scott said with renewed curiosity.

“He thinks it will keep the devil away.” The agent was delighted with the opportunity to tell some one of the strange gossip of the country that he had collected in his ten years of residence. “You see when he grew up he saw that he was not like other people, and they had to give him some reason for it, so they told him there was a devil in him. He went right out and built that iron hat and has worn it ever since. Says he’s going to wear it till they give up the feud.”

“Doesn’t wear it at night, does he?” Scott asked. It was ridiculous, but it was so pathetic that he hated to laugh at it.

“No,” the agent answered seriously, “he doesn’t wear it at night, but he sleeps on his back with that thing on his chest.”

“He looked queer,” Scott said, “but he seemed to talk reasonably enough. He said just as you do that they will never drop the feud as long as old Jarred Morgan lives, but he says the others are all scared and would drop it if they could.”

“Sometimes I think he isn’t as crazy as they make out. They talk about him and in front of him as though he couldn’t understand anything, but he can tell you every word that they have said for the past five years.”

Scott thought for a minute. “Do you think it would be safe for me to make use of him or would that be considered as taking part with the Waits?”

“No, that would not tie you up with the Waits. Everybody talks to him, even old Jarred Morgan. They do not seem to consider him as belonging to the family, somehow. But you don’t want to be too sure about using him. If he happened to take a liking to you he will do anything for you, but if he did not like you this morning you’ll probably never see him again.”

“I don’t know whether he liked me or not,” Scott said thoughtfully. “He appeared on a log in front of me so suddenly that I did not see where he came from, and he got away again in the same way.”

“Oh, he moves like a shadow in the woods,” the agent exclaimed enthusiastically. “He has any Indian I have ever seen beaten three ways for woodcraft. He moves about so fast and so silently that a lot of folks around here think he is a spirit.” It was easy to see from the agent’s manner that he was not altogether clear on that point himself.

“Well,” Scott said, “I hope he likes me because it looks as though I won’t have very many friends around here.”

“You sure will not,” the agent remarked with decision. “You can make friends with half the people easy enough, but sure as you do the other half will hate you. If you don’t take up with either side, as you are planning on doing, likely as not they will all hate you.”

Scott sat for a moment dreamy eyed, considering this disagreeable dilemma. When he looked up Hopwood was standing in the doorway, calmly looking at him over the agent’s head. For a moment Scott was too astonished to speak. He wondered if Hopwood had been outside listening, and he thought of what the agent had said about this strange man being a spirit.

“Hello, Hopwood!” he exclaimed, and the agent almost jumped out of his chair.

Hopwood smiled an answer. “Is that red-headed man who came on the train yesterday your boss?” he asked, as though they had been talking for some time.

“Yes,” Scott admitted, “he is, in a way.”

“Well, he’s joined the Waits,” Hopwood remarked.

The announcement almost stunned Scott. He stared wildly at Hopwood for an instant and then at the agent. “What makes you think so?” he asked dully.

There was no answer, and he found Hopwood had disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

The agent tiptoed to the door and looked cautiously up and down the porch. Hopwood was nowhere to be seen. He looked back at Scott and shook his head. “Gone completely. Well, whether he is man or devil, I reckon he is a friend of yours all right.”

“I guess he is,” Scott replied with a sickly smile, “but it does not look as though my boss thought much of me.”