Читать книгу Wigwag Weigand - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 3

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At first Wig thought he was dreaming. In his semi-conscious mind it was akin to the striking of a hammer on an anvil, this tumult of voices keyed in angry pitch. Then gradually his drowsy senses awakened to the stark reality of things.

He sat upright inside his shelter, startled. A whispering breeze quelled itself into nothingness as if fearful of obtruding into that midnight realm of sound. The hum of mountain life that had so pleasantly lulled him to sleep a few hours earlier had ceased. All living, moving things seemed suddenly held in the tense grip of those three portentous words.

“I’d kill you!” shouted Delmar in those unmistakably clear tones of his, “I’d kill you sooner than I would a helpless animal or any kind of dumb creature. I’ve never been given to that sort of thing yet, thank goodness!”

Wig threw his blanket aside. Oblivious of his bare feet he jumped up and ran, dodging in and out of the trees toward Delmar’s shack. At the thick, moss-covered trunk of a stunted tree he stopped, prudence overcoming the impulse that had first borne him onward.

The yellow light of the lantern gleamed through the partly opened door and threw into relief the figures of the game-warden, Andrews, and the man, Delmar. They stood facing each other, their features distorted with anger, their rifles in hand.

“G’wan,” said Andrews, with a quick, peremptory flourish of his free hand. “You can’t make me believe you’ve never taken a sly shot at something ’round here. Not the way you seem to handle a rifle. No sir!”

“Very well,” Delmar retorted tersely. “I don’t purpose to argue further. I’ve told you that my bullets haven’t been aimed at anything but targets and I meant it. My conscience is clear.”

He gazed squarely at Andrews as he made that declaration. His firm jaw was set and his kind eyes blazed with righteous indignation. As Wig watched him he felt suddenly imbued with faith in this man whom he hardly knew. He wanted to defend his new friend and tell the game-warden that the accusation was unfair.

He would tell him! Wig moved upon the impulse and hurried back to his shelter to get into his clothes.

The night air was cool, almost cold. Hurriedly he pulled on one shoe and then the other, listening the while with bated breath to Andrews’ continued tirade.

Dressed, he ran back again and stumbled over a stump. He bruised his leg and stood for a moment nursing it when he heard Delmar’s voice again. What he said was unintelligible to Wig, except that it had a decisive sound. Then the stinging sound of a rifle cleaved the stillness of the midnight air.

Wig was out of the thicket with one step. Delmar stood rigid and Andrews was tottering backward, two—three steps, and finally sank to the ground with a long, stifled gasp. He hugged his rifle close to his enormous chest, the butt resting under his gaping jaw.

Wig felt himself moving forward like an automaton. Horrified, he gazed at the prone Andrews and then at Delmar who stood like some startled apparition with his rifle shaking visibly in his long, trembling arm and the muzzle pointing groundward.

Their eyes met. Wig’s frank blue eyes searched those of Delmar but found in them no trace of guilt. He met the steady gaze of the scout, unflinchingly, but none the less sadly.

Slowly he raised his left arm toward his forehead as if to scatter for all time the memory of that tragic moment. “I didn’t do it, Wigwag!” he said in a hushed voice. “I couldn’t do it! You believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Wig firmly. “Somehow I do.”