Читать книгу Mark Gilmore's Lucky Landing - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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Mark waited until distance obliterated the watching figure from view. Then he asked, “What’s blockaders, Hammil?”

“Moonshiners,” came the soft reply. “Devlin’s the new agent over th’ gov’ment men in Greeley district.”

“And Dake Riggs is kind of worried about him, huh?” Mark asked.

Hammil chuckled. “Dake don’t worry, Brother Mark. He’s just gettin’ his dander up ’cause he’s heard what a clever feller this Devlin is. Guess the last agent didn’t bother Dake much, hey pap?”

Old Pete shook his head sagaciously. “That’s cuz he was sort o’ on the down-go, son. I heerd he hed a bad heart. Wa’al, ’twuz lucky fer Dake, but now he’s gone an’ this Devlin has come an’ is fixin ter stay, hit hain’t comfortin’ th’ Riggses none—not the hull passel o’ em.”

Mark scrutinized the old mountaineer with a friendly smile. His trousers and flannel shirt were spotless and though his wide-brimmed hat bore signs of constant wear it looked carefully brushed and clean. Yes, it was obvious that there was a vast difference between the unkempt Dake Riggs and Old Peter Hammil.

Mark was presently to observe that this difference was manifest throughout the Hammil family. They had an inherent pride from the oldest to the youngest, a pride in the civilization of the world beyond the hills which they struggled to pattern after. And in Old Pete’s household they came nearer to this realization, for mule raising was a lucrative business.

Old Pete had built himself a frame house which was the secret envy of the county. It attained the amazing proportions of a city house in width and a story and a half in height. Hammil proudly informed Mark of this as they drove into the well kept yard. There were three rooms downstairs and a bedroom upstairs—which apartment they would occupy together. No one within a radius of fifty miles had such a place.

“Windows an’ everythin’,” drawled Hammil. “We ain’t like the Riggses livin’ in th’ back country with houses mos’ fallin’ on top o’ em an’ nothin’ ter let th’ light in but th’ door.”

Mark looked up smiling but saw that Hammil was perfectly serious. Moreover, he looked disdainfully reminiscent as if the mere thought of the Riggs’ mode of life was repugnant to him. Old Pete’s expression, too, held a world of contempt for the whole impecunious clan of Riggses.

The Hammils turned out to welcome their flying kinsman almost to a man. The little four room house was filled to overflowing with Hammil’s four married brothers, his cousins and uncles and aunts whom Mark tried valiantly to count and keep track of, but soon gave up in despair. They all did their share, however, in trying to make him feel at home with their soft-spoken hospitality.

Mark could feel before supper was over that they had accepted him. Hammil’s mother was herself responsible for this, fluttering about in her clean calico dress from stove to table and murmuring about “young Mr. Gil’s kindness ter Peter.” And though the kitchen table held at least fifteen diners there was not a sound. All listened in awed silence as she concluded a lengthy recital of Mark’s heroism.

Mark protested modestly when she had finished but to no avail. The Hammils had taken him under their wing and his participation in that savory supper of pone, fried ’taters and ’sass (apple sauce) seemed to seal a bond of lasting friendship. When they filed out just before dusk each one solemnly wrung his hand and nodded, and at the last of the line, Hammil’s four married brothers gravely spoke a word of thanks, then passed into the dusk where they mounted their horses.

Mark found himself alone with Old Peter and Mammy Hammil after the noise of their departing kinsmen had died away. Peter, the good woman explained, was out seeing that the mules were safe for the night.

“He allus does thet fer his pap when he comes fer a visit,” she said sweetly, nodding her graying head. “Reckon yore ’bout settin’ ter sleep after yore journey.”

Mark admitted he was pretty tired. “I guess Peter is too,” he said, kicking gently at one of Mrs. Hammil’s home hooked rugs that were spread here and there over the “parlor” floor. “I don’t think he’s feeling nearly well yet, that’s why the doctors in the hospital made him come home for at least a month. His lungs are pretty weak.”

Mrs. Hammil’s thin lips quivered. “He air got ter take care o’ hisself an’ stringthin up,” she said anxiously.

“Reckon he orter stringthin up longer,” said Old Pete. “He hain’t hed nothin’ but trouble with his lungs since thet gas bizness in th’ war.”

“The old rascal,” said Mark. “He’s never told me a thing about what happened to him in the war.”

The old people nodded as if to say that a Hammil didn’t talk about himself as long as there was something else to talk of, especially when it came to his physical ills. They were a stoical lot, Mark thought.

At that juncture there came to them the distant sound of a horse’s hoofs. They listened in silence as the sound came nearer and nearer and finally ceased before the door. Voices echoed in the misty twilight and suddenly they could hear young Hammil’s husky drawling tones.

A moment later he came stalking in at the door. “Devlin come ter see you, pap,” he announced, and behind him walked a very giant of a man—red-haired, with steely-blue eyes.

“Howdy, folks,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice. “Reckon yer know who I be?”

“Howdy, Devlin,” said Old Pete, and rising, extended his hand to the new government agent. “Hev a cheer an’ set. Won’t yer stay th’ night?”

Devlin with hasty formality pulled a worn gray cap from his head and stuffed it into an already bulging corduroy pocket. “Reckon I’ll have ter stay th’ night Pete,” he answered at length. “Uncle Sam put me inter this job ter work an’ git results, an’ I ain’t losin’ no time. I’m startin’ ter look over things up back country way an’ see what’s doin’. Kind of a good time termorrer when most o’ the folks are down ter Greeley, eh?”

Old Pete’s face was inscrutable. “Kinder talk as if ye heerd somethin’,” he said softly.

“Somebuddy’s got ter git after them Riggses,” said Devlin with a finality that was not to be mistaken. “Reckon they been doin’ jest a leetle too much fer quite a spell. Wa’al, they kin settle with me ef I catch ’em.”

Old Pete said nothing to this but walked to the hearth and lighted his pipe. That done, he made Mark acquainted with the newcomer and fell to talking of the prospective flying school, seeming to dwell at great length upon it. One could feel the man’s constraint with every word uttered. Suddenly Mrs. Hammil arose and excused herself for the night. Devlin, she announced, could occupy the “parlor.”

Mark and the lieutenant were in possession of the upper story bedroom a few minutes later. A moon was beginning to struggle through the misty dark clouds and points of light disclosed an uncarpeted but clean floor. A small wooden chair and a full-sized iron bed completed the room’s furnishings.

“Have ter wash at the well, Brother Mark,” said Hammil almost apologetically. “That’s one thing we hain’t got yet—a bathroom. Lights neither. Have ter be satisfied with lamps downstairs an’ the dark upstairs, hey?”

“Why, sure,” Mark said good-naturedly. “Don’t make any excuses to me, Hammil. Gosh, I think it’s great and that’s a fact! Just like when I was a scout and camped in the Adirondacks. I love lamps and lanterns and washing outdoors; honestly.” He walked over to the little cubby hole of a window and inhaled deeply of the cool, sweet night air. “Boy, will I sleep!” he exclaimed.

For a moment he stood looking out at the little roof that sloped down from the window and over the tiny porch. It was like a doll’s house, he mused, and smiled at the thought that the dwelling actually housed that night such giants as the Hammils, father and son, and Devlin. He quite forgot that he was himself standing with his blond head bent in order to avoid the low ceiling of the room. And he had still a few more years in which to attain his growth.

Devlin’s rumbling bass voice trailed out into the night and set Mark thinking. He turned to Hammil who was almost ready for bed. “Mind me asking you something, Ham?” he asked.

Hammil smiled at the nickname. “What’s on yer mind, Brother Mark?”

“About Devlin. Your father sort of shut up tight when the talk came around to the Riggs bunch. I could feel he was just talking and that’s all.”

“Yer right. We like ter have folks stay with us overnight, regardless of who they are ’ceptin’....”

“The Riggses?” Mark interposed laughing.

“Right, Brother Mark. But outside o’ them, we like ter give hospitality ’ceptin ter gov’ment men. Yer see it makes things look bad fer us and while we don’t care what the Riggses think o’ us, we don’t like ter be thought informers when we’re not. It’s a sort o’ honor we have ’bout such things. That’s what made pap talk unnatural like. He don’t like it ter have Devlin stop here tonight an’ then start out makin’ trouble for one o’ the other o’ the Riggses tomorrer, ’specially when he admits he heard something.”

“You mean somebody’s already given him a tip about one of the Riggses?”

Hammil nodded. “Yer guessed it right off. Now Dake Riggs has good reason ter snipe at one o’ us. He’s been waitin’ fer years ter get such a good excuse.”

It seemed incredible to Mark. “That’s nonsense. Why, even I could prove that your father told him nothing. In fact, I never saw anybody shut up so quickly as when Devlin started talking about those people. You’d think your father never even heard of them the way he did that!”

“Pap’s honorable,” said Hammil proudly. “Even if they don’t deserve it, pap wouldn’t snoop or tell about the Riggses’ way o’ livin’. That’s th’ way he is, Brother Mark. But jest th’ same this business is goin’ ter fall right on our heads. Trouble’s a-comin’.”

And Hammil said it so convincingly that Mark somehow felt that it was already on the way.