Читать книгу The Long Rifle - Stewart Edward White - Страница 25

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Andrew stared at her incredulously.

“You knew,” he stated dully. She gazed back at him unflinchingly, her eyes bright. “Why did you not stop me? I was as one bemused.”

“It was in the hands of the Lord,” she repeated piously, “as are all the great moments of life.”

“You would have me kill a man!” he cried, arousing to a belated horror of what he might have done.

“Why not,” returned the old woman stoutly, “if so be it the time has come?”

“You would have me a murderer, and say no word to stay me!”

“I know you, Andrew, through and through. I knew your father, and his father before him. They moved alone through the destinies appointed for them. That destiny is yours also. You will follow where it leads, for peace or war, for weal or woe. I would not have it otherwise. Never for a moment have I doubted it. But this I have known: your fate is not in these tame fields. They are not in your blood. It is out yonder,”—she flung her hand toward the glowing west—“where a man’s work awaits you, work bequeathed you by your breeding. I have sat here long in patience, but certain that your time would come. How, I could not know. Why should I presume to interfere when the moment arrives? Even if it cost a worthless life. Who am I to know the Lord’s ways?”

Her small figure had straightened in her chair, her eyes blazed. Through the blurring of her great years shone a fire. With a sudden movement she held the long rifle to him.

“And this,” she cried—“this that in the hands of Boone has spoken in the Dark and Bloody Ground! Do you suppose for a moment I have thought its voice was stilled? That its age was run, and that it must hang in place, an outworn relic on the walls of a Pennsylvania farm? No, my lad. It has but hung there in its fallow time, gathering the strength for its further destinies.”

Mechanically Andrew took the piece from her, dropped its butt to the floor, crossed his forearms in an attitude of ease across the muzzle.

“Ah!” cried the old lady in triumph. “This have I seen, and now I see again. But beyond I see, not the tameness of walls, but the dusk of forests and the lurk of savage men and beasts——” She broke off suddenly and sank back as though weary.

“Tell me, Andrew,” she commanded.

Andy told of the afternoon’s episode. She listened, nodding understandingly from time to time.

“It is the moment,” she broke in at last. “The hand of the Lord. You must go.”

“Go?” repeated Andrew at a loss.

“Go. Certainly.”

“How? Where? He will not let me.”

“Go anyway. Run away. Of course you can.” She was impatient at his hesitation. “Don’t tell me. I know the breed. I ought to: I’ve been one of them long enough. You must have money. Very well: I have saved for this. Nonsense: it’s mine. I can do as I please. It is not his; it was your grandfather’s. And this,”—her hand touched the rifle—“this too was your grandfather’s. It is mine. I can give what is mine, I suppose?”

A dull spot of red glowed in Andy’s cheeks. He straightened, and his hands gripped the rifle barrel until the knuckles showed white. Suddenly a thought wrenched him.

“But you, Grandmother!” he cried brokenly, “how can I leave you?”

For an instant the old lady’s face contorted, then stiffened again.

“Only for a while. Do you suppose I like this chair and this room? I too have waited. You will make a place for both of us—out there! When the time comes I will join you.”

“Yes!” cried Andy, taking fire; then a chill caution seized him again, “but he—what will he do? When he finds out, he’ll——”

“I shall tell him at the proper time,” stated the old lady with dignity. “I think you may trust me to give John Birkholm his come-uppance!”

“I believe I can!” cried Andrew delightedly.

The Long Rifle

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