Читать книгу The Long Rifle - Stewart Edward White - Страница 26

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The point decided, the old lady became all energy and animation. She took charge of every detail, overriding Andy’s somewhat bewildered objections to making the proceedings so summary.

“No, now is the time,” insisted his grandmother, “for if he misses you this evening, he will think you are sulking apart; so it will be well into to-morrow before he will understand that you are gone. By then you must be well away. Do not travel by public conveyance; at least until you are beyond the Gap; so that news of you may not be easily come at.”

“I shall hide in the woods!” cried Andy.

But the old lady would have none of false romanticism.

“Time enough for that when there is need,” she said. “He will make no great excursion,” she gave her opinion, “save perhaps to send forth notice to law officers. He will not leave his work; and he will spend no money on a barren cause. I shall make him see that. No, lad; travel sensibly—but get beyond the reach of his grasp as soon as you may.”

While thus they talked, she was busy gathering a small bundle of clothing, to which she added a package of food sufficient for the night and morning.

“You would best go as directly as you may to Missouri,” she advised. “They say the land is fat and there is room to breathe. Colonel Boone’s last home was there. Get you a plantation, if it seems good to you——Lord, lad, you do not want that,” she snatched away the low brogans Andy was about to include in the pack. “Remember, you must carry these things.”

At the last the bundle was formed and they returned to the lower story, the grandmother’s cane tap-tapping on the stairs. She disappeared for a moment in her own room, to return with a fat leathern wallet.

“Here is money,” she said. “See that you bestow it in a safe place. Now you must hasten. The sun is low, and you must be off before he returns from the fields.” She picked up the long rifle from the corner in which it had been stood. A solemn hush abruptly terminated their bustling activities. They looked at each other. Andy’s lower lip quivered in a sudden overwhelming realization.

“Oh, Grandmother——” he began brokenly.

The old lady’s softening eyes snapped back to birdlike brightness.

“Remember,” she said briskly, “I have lived in a log hut in my time, and I can live in one again! Don’t get any highfaluting ideas, young man. I expect you to send for me as soon as you get a good roof overhead. And take a good look around. They say it’s all settled up near the river. Don’t take up the first piece of bottomland you see. Go to the new country—like a Burnett. They’ll try to scare you. They’ll tell you there’s no law, no comfort, no civilization. Make your own law. Comfort comes from within you, not outside. They’ll tell you tales of Indians. Indians! Injuns we called them! Pshaw, I’ve see Indians aplenty!”

She looked down at the long rifle, then held it out to him in both hands. He took it. The moment swelled big with unspoken things.

“Kiss me—dear,” she said at last.

He crushed her small form to him in a sudden agony. But immediately she pushed him away.

“There!” she cried in her brisk quick way. “There! Now you must go. Nay, it is hard; yes I know—oh, how well I know! But it is only for a little time. Remember!”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Andy, choking manfully against unmanly tears. “A little time. I’ll be ready for you——”

She fairly pushed him from the door. He shouldered the rifle and the bundle; hesitated; turned and stumbled away.

“Andrew,” she stopped him.

He turned.

“The piece has been fired. Mind you clean it well before you sleep.”

He nodded, paused uncertainly.

“Go!” she commanded.

He bent his head and obeyed, nor did he again look back. She watched him from the doorway, her head held high.

In her eyes was the dazzle and glory of the westering sun. Thus in the past had she sent forth her men. She saw in the golden haze, not the tamed solid peace of the Pennsylvania farms, but the shadowy darkness of unknown forests; and against them the trudging dogged figure of the boy, and the gleaming slant of the rifle barrel.

The figure turned the corner of the lane.