 CHAPTER VII Wherein Freckles wins honour and finds a footprint on the trail. Round-eyed Freckles watched the birdwoman and the angel drive away. After they were from sight, and he was safely hidden among the branches of a small tree, he remembered that he had neither thanked them nor said good-bye. Considering what they had been through they never would come again. His heart sank until he had palpitation in his wading boots. Stretching the length of the limb he thought deeply, though he was not thinking of Black Jack or Wesner. Would the birdwoman and the angel come again? No other woman whom he ever had known would. But did they resemble any other woman he ever had known? He thought of the birdwoman's unruffled face and the angel's revolver practice, and presently he was not so sure that they would not return. What were the people in the big world like? His knowledge was so very limited. There had been people at the home who exchanged a stilted perfunctory kindness for their salaries. The visitors who called on receiving days he had divided into three classes. The psalm-singing kind, who came with a tear in the eye, and hypocrisy in every feature of their faces. The kind who dressed in silks and jewels and handed to those poor little mother-hungry souls worn toys that their children no longer cared for, in exactly the same spirit in which they pitched biscuits to the monkeys at the zoo, and for the same reason, to see how they would take them and be amused by what they would do, and the third class whom he considered real people. They made him feel they cared that he was there and that they would have been glad to see him elsewhere. Now here was another class that had all they needed of the world's best, and were engaged in doing work that counted. They had things worthwhile to be proud of, and they had met him as a son and brother. With them he could, for the only time in his life, forget the lost hand that every day tortured him with a new pang. What kind of people were they, and where do they belong among classes he knew? He failed to decide, because he never had known others similar to them, but how he loved them. In the world where he was going soon, were the majority like them, or were they of the hypocrite and bun-throwing classes? He had forgotten the excitement of the morning and the passing of time when distant voices aroused him, and he gently lifted his head. Nearer and nearer they came, and as the heavy wagons rumbled down the east trail he could hear them plainly. The gang were shouting themselves hoarse for the limber-lost guard. Freckles did not feel that he deserved it. He would have given much to be able to go to the men and explain, but to McLean only could he tell his story. At the sight of Freckles the men threw up their hats and cheered. McLean shook hands with him warmly, but big Duncan gathered him into his arms and hugged him as a bear and choked over a few words of praise. The gang drove in and finished felling the tree. McLean was angry beyond measure at this attempt on his property, for in their haste to fell the tree the thieves had cut too high and wasted a foot and a half of valuable timber. When the last wagon rolled away McLean sat on the stump and Freckles told the story he was aching to tell. The boss scarcely could believe his senses. Also he was much disappointed. I have been almost praying all the way over, Freckles, he said, that you would have some evidence by which we could arrest those fellows and get them out of our way, but this will never do. We can't mix up those women in it. They have helped you save me the tree and my wager as well. Going across the country as she does the bird woman never could be expected to testify against them. No indeed, nor the angel either, sir, said Freckles. The angel? queried the astonished McLean. The boss listened in silence while Freckles told of the coming and christening of the angel. I know her father well, said McLean at last, and I have often seen her. You are right, she is a beautiful young girl, and she appears to be utterly free from the least particle of false pride or foolishness. I do not understand why her father risks such a jewel in this place. He is daring it because she is a jewel, sir, said Freckles, eagerly. Why, she's trusting a rattlesnake to rattle before it strikes her, and of course she thinks she can trust mankind as well. The man isn't made who wouldn't lay down the life of him for her. She doesn't need any care. Her face and the pretty ways of her are all the protection she would need in a band of howling savages. Did you say she handled one of the revolvers? asked McLean. She scared all the breath out of me body, admitted Freckles. Seems that her father has taught her to shoot. The bird-woman told her distinctly to lie low and blaze away high, just to help scare them. The spunky little thing followed them right out into the west road, spitting lead like hail, and clipping all around the head and heels of them. And I'm damned, sir, if I believed she'd cared a rap if she'd hit. I never saw much shooting, but if that wasn't the nearest to miss I ever want to see. Scared the life near out of me body with the fear that she'd drop one of them. As long as I'd know one to help me but a couple of women that didn't dare to be mixed up in it, all I could do was to let them get away. Now will they come back? asked McLean. Of course, said Freckles. They're not going to be taking that. You could stake your life on it, they'll be coming back. At least Black Jack will. Wesner may not have the pluck, unless he's half drunk. Then he'd be a terror. And the next time, Freckles hesitated. What? It will be a question of who shoots first and straightest. Then the only thing for me to do is to double the guard and bring the gang here the first minute possible. As soon as I feel that we have the rarest of the stuff out below, we will come. The fact is, in many cases, until it is felt it is difficult to tell what a tree will prove to be. It won't do to leave you here longer alone. Jack has been shooting twenty years to your one, and it stands to reason that you are no match for him. Who of the gang would you like best to have with you? No one, sir, said Freckles emphatically. Next time is where I run. I won't try to fight them all alone. I'll just be getting wind of them, and then make tracks for you. I'll need to come like lightning, and Duncan has no extra horse, so I'm thinking you'd best get me one, or perhaps a wheel would be better. I used to do extra work for the home doctor, and he would let me take his bicycle to ride around the place, and at times the head nurse would loan me his for an hour. A wheel would cost less and be faster than a horse, and would take less care. I believe if you were going to town soon you had best pick up any kind of an old one at some second-hand store, for if I'm ever called to use it in a hurry there won't be the handlebars left after crossing the corduroy. Yes, said McLean, and if you didn't have a first-class wheel you never could cross the corduroy on it at all. As they walked to the cabin McLean insisted on another guard, but Freckles was stubbornly set on fighting his battle alone. He made one mental condition. If the bird woman was going to give up the little chicken series he would yield to the second guard, solely for the sake of her work, and the presence of the angel in the limberlost. He did not propose to have a second man, unless it were absolutely necessary, for he had been alone so long that he loved the solitude, his chickens and flowers, the thought of having a stranger to all his ways come and meddle with his arrangements, frighten his pets, pull his flowers, and interrupt him when he wanted to study, so annoyed him that he was blinded to his real need for help. With McLean it was a case of letting his sober, better judgment be overridden by the boy he was growing so to love that he could not endure to oppose him, and to have Freckles keep his trust and win alone meant more than any money the boss might lose. The following morning McLean brought the wheel, and Freckles took it to the trail to test it. It was new, chainless, with as little as possible to catch in hurried riding, and in every way the best of its kind. Freckles went skimming around the trail on it, on a preliminary trip before he locked it in his case and started his minute examination of his line on foot. He glanced around his room as he left it, and then stood staring. On the moss before his prettiest seat lay the angel's hat. In the excitement of yesterday all of them had forgotten it. He went and picked it up, oh, so carefully, gazing at it with hungry eyes, but touching it only to carry it to his case, where he hung it on the shining handle-bar of the new wheel, and locked it among his treasures. Then he went to the trail, with a new expression on his face, and a strange throbbing in his heart. He was not in the least afraid of anything that morning. He felt he was the various Daniel, but all his lions seemed weak and harmless. What Black Jack's next move would be he could not imagine, but that there would be a move of some kind was certain. The big bully was not a man to give up his purpose, or to have the hat swept from his head with a bullet and bear it meekly. Moreover, Wessner would cling to his revenge with the Dutchman's singleness of mind. Freckles tried to think connectedly, but there were too many places on the trail where the angel's footprints were yet visible. She had stepped in one mucky spot, and left a sharp impression. The afternoon sun had baked it hard, and the horse's hooves had not obliterated any part of it, as they had in so many places. Freckles stood fascinated, gazing at it. He measured it lovingly with his eye. He would not have ventured a caress on her hat any more than on her person, but this was different. Surely a footprint on a trail might belong to anyone who found and wanted it. He stooped under the wires and entered the swamp. With a little searching he found a big piece of thick bark loose on a log, and carefully peeling it carried it out and covered the print so that the first rain would not obliterate it. When he reached his room he tenderly laid the hat upon his bookshelf, and to wear off his awkwardness mounted his wheel and went spinning on trail again. It was like flying, for the path was worn smooth with his feet and baked hard with the sun almost all the way. When he came to the bark he veered far to one side and smiled at it in passing. Suddenly he was off the wheel, kneeling beside it. He removed his hat, carefully lifted the bark, and gazed lovingly at the imprint. I wonder what she was going to say of me voice, he whispered. She never got it said, but from the face of her I believe she was liking it fairly well. Perhaps she was going to say that singing was the best thing I was to be doing. That's what they all thought at the home. Well, if it is, I'll just shut me eyes, think of me little room, the face of her watching and the heart of her beating, and I'll raise them. Damn them if singing will do it, I'll raise them from the benches. With his dire threat freckles Nelt as at her wayside spring and deliberately laid his lips on the footprint. Then he arose, appearing as if he had been drinking at the fountain of gladness. CHAPTER VIII. WHERE IN FRECKLES MEETS A MAN OF AFFAIRS AND LOSES NOTHING BY THE ENCOUNTER. Real I'd be draw'd on, exclaimed Mrs. Duncan. Freckles stood before her, holding the angel's hat. I've been thinking this long time that ye or Duncan would see that sun-bonnets weren't a bra enough for a woman of my standin' and ye're a good laddie to bring me this beautiful hat. She turned it around, examining the weave of the straw and the foliage trimmings, passing her rough fingers over the satin ties delightedly. As she held it up, admiring it, Freckles' astonished eyes saw a new side of Sarah Duncan. She was jesting, but under the jest, the fact looms strong that though poor, overworked, and with none but God-given refinement, there was something in her soul crying after that bit of feminine finery, and it made his heart ache for her. He resolved that when he reached the city he would send her a hat if it took fifty dollars to do it. She lingeringly handed it back to him. It's uncoo good of ye to think of me, she said lightly, but I'm on question ye taste, do ye? Do ye not think ye had best return this and get a woman with half her hair gray a little plainer headdress? Seems like that's far or gay for me. I'm no sand that it's not exactly what I'd like to have, but I'm on to make myself ridiculous. Ye'd best give this to someone young and pretty, say about sixteen. Where did ye come by it, freckles? If there's anything been droppin' lately ye have forgotten to mention it. Do ye see anything heavenly about that hat, queried freckles, holding it up? The morning breeze waved the ribbons gracefully, binding one around freckles' sleeve and the other across his chest, where they caught and clung as if magnetized. Yes, said Sarah Duncan, it's vera plain and simple, but it just makes ye feel that it's all of the finest stuff. It's exactly what I'd call a heavenly hat. Sure, said freckles, for it's belonging to an angel. Then he told her about the hat and asked her what he should do with it. Take it to her, of course, said Sarah Duncan, like it's the only end she has and she may need it badly. Freckles smiled. He had a clear idea about the hat being the only one the angel had. However there was a thing he felt he should do and wanted to do, but he was not sure. You think I might be taken at home, he said? Of course ye must, said Mrs. Duncan, and without another hour's delay, it's been here two days new and she may want it, and be too busy or afraid to come. But how can I take it, asked freckles. Gings spinning on your wheel, you can do it easily in an hour. But in that hour what if, nonsense interrupted Sarah Duncan, you've watched the timberline till you've grown fast to it, Lady. Give me your boots and club and I'll give walk the south end and watch doon the east and west sides till you come back. Mrs. Duncan, you never would be doing it, cried freckles. Why not, inquired she? But you know you're mortal afraid of snakes and a lot of other things in the swamp. I am afraid of snakes, said Mrs. Duncan, but likely they've gone into the swamp this hot weather. I'll just stay on the trail and watch, and you might hurry the least bit. The day's so bright it feels like storm. I can put the barrens on the wood pile to play until I get back. You gang away and take the blessed little angel, her beautiful hat. Are you sure it'll be all right, that urged freckles? Do you think if Mr. McClain came, he would care? Masses, Mrs. Duncan. I dinna. If ye and me agree that a thing ought to be done, and I watch in your place, why it's bound to be all right with McClain? Let me pin the hat in a paper, and you jump on your wheel and gang fly, and ought ye put on your sabotee clothes? Freckles shook his head. He knew what he should do, but there was no use in taking time to try to explain it to Mrs. Duncan while he was so hurried. He exchanged his waiting boots for shoes, gave her his club, and went spinning toward town. He knew very well where the angel lived. He had seen her home many times, and he passed it again without even raising his eyes from the street, steering straight for her father's place of business. Carrying the hat, freckles passed a long line of clerks, and at the door of the private office, asked to see the proprietor. When he had waited a moment, a tall, spare, keen-eyed man faced him, and in brisk, nervous tones asked, How can I serve you, sir? Freckles handed him the package and answered, My deliverant to your daughter this hat, which she was after leaving at me place the other day when she went away in a hurry. And by saying to her and the birdwoman that I'm more thankful than I'll be having words to express for the brave things they was doing for me, I'm McClain's limber-loss guard, sir. Why don't you take it yourself, question the man of affairs? Freckles' clear gray eyes met those of the angel's father squarely, and he asked, If you were in my place, would you take it to her yourself? No, I would not, said that gentleman quickly. Then why ask why I did not? came Freckles' lamb-like query. Bless me, said the angel's father. He stared at the package, then at the lifted chin of the boy, then at the package again and muttered, Excuse me. Freckles bowed. It would be favoring me greatly if you would deliver the hat and the message. Good morning, sir. And he turned away. One minute, said the angel's father. Suppose I give you permission to return this hat in person, and make your own acknowledgments. Freckles stood one moment thinking intently, and then he lifted those eyes of unswerving truth and asked, Why should you, sir? You're kind and dade to mention it, and it's thanking you I am for your good intentions. But my wanting to go, or your being willing to have me, ain't proven that your daughter would be wanting me, or care to bother with me. The angel's father looked keenly into the face of this extraordinary young man, for he found it to his liking. There's one other thing I meant to say, said Freckles. Every day I see something and at times a lot of things that I think the bird woman would be wanting pictures of badly if she knew. You might be speaking of it to her, and if she'd want me to I can send her word when I find things she wouldn't likely get elsewhere. If that's the case, said the angel's father, and you feel under obligations for her assistance the other day, you can discharge them in that way. She is spending all her time in the fields and woods searching for subjects. If you run across things, perhaps rarer than she may find, about your work, it would save her the time she spends searching for subjects, and she could work insecurity under your protection. By all means, let her know if you find subjects you think she could use, and we will do anything we can for you if you will give her what help you can, and see that she is as safe as possible. It's hungry for human beings, I am, said Freckles, and it's like heaven to me to have them come. Of course, I'll be telling her sending her word every time my work can spare me. Anything I can do, it would make me uncommon happy. But, again, truth had to be told because it was Freckles who was speaking. When it comes to protecting them, I'd risk me life to be sure. But even that might and do any good in some cases. There are many dangers to be reckoned with in the swamp, sir, that call for every person to look sharp. If there wasn't really thieving to guard against, why, McClain wouldn't need to be paying out good money for a guard. I'd love them to be coming, and I'll do all I can. But you must be told that there's danger of them running into timber thieves again any day, sir. Yes, said the angel's father. And I suppose there's danger of the earth opening up and swallowing the town any day. But I'm damned if I quit business for fear at will. And the bird woman won't either. Everyone knows her and her work, and there is no danger in the world of anyone in any way molesting her, even if he were stealing a few of McClain's gold-plated trees. She's as safe in the limberlost as she is at home, so far as timber thieves are concerned. All I am ever uneasy about are the snakes, poison vines, and insects. And those are risks she must run anywhere. You need not hesitate a minute about that. I shall be glad to tell them what you wish. Thank you very much. And good day, sir. There was no way in which freckles could know it. But by following his best instincts, and being what he conceived a gentleman should be, he surprised the man of affairs into thinking of him and seeing his face over his books many times that morning. Whereas if he had gone to the angel as he had longed to do, her father never would have given him a second thought. On the street he drew a deep breath. How had he acquitted himself? He only knew that he had lived up to his best impulse, and that is all anyone can do. He glanced over his wheel to see that it was all right, and just as he stepped to the curb to mount, he heard a voice that thrilled him through and through. Freckles! Oh, freckles! The angel separated from a group of laughing sweet-faced girls and came hurrying to him. She was in snowy white, a quaint little frock with a marvel of soft lace around her throat and wrists. Through the sheer sleeves of it her beautiful rounded arms showed distinctly, and it was cut just to the base of her perfect neck. On her head was a pure white creation of fancy braid, with folds on folds of tulle, soft and silken as cobwebs, lining the brim. While a mass of white roses clustered against the gold of her hair crept round the crown and fell in a riot to her shoulders at the back. There were gleams of gold with settings of blue on her fingers, and altogether she was the daintiest, sweetest sight he had ever seen. Freckles, standing on the curb, forgot himself in his cotton shirt, corduroy's, and his belt to which his wire cutter and pliers were hanging, and gazed as a man gazes when first he sees the woman he adores, with all her charms enhanced by appropriate and beautiful clothing. Oh, Freckles, she cried as she came to him. I was wondering about you the other day. Do you know I never saw you in town before? You watched that old line so closely. Why did you come? Is there any trouble? Are you just starting to the limberlost? I came to bring your hat, said Freckles. You forgot it in the rush the other day. I've left it with your father, and a message trying to express the gratitude of me for how you and the birdwoman were for helping me out. The angel nodded gravely. Then Freckles saw that he had done the proper thing in going to her father. His heart bounded until it jarred his body, for she was saying that she scarcely could wait for the time to come for the next picture in the little chicken series. I want to hear the remainder of that song, and I haven't even begun seeing your room yet, she complained. As for singing, if you can sing like that every day, I can never get enough of it. I wonder if I couldn't bring my banjo and some of the songs I like best. I'll play and you sing, and we'll put the birds out of commission. Freckles stood on the curb with drooped eyes, for he felt that if he lifted them the tumult of tender adoration in them would show and frighten her. I was afraid your experience the other day would scare you so that you'd never be coming again, he found himself saying. The angel laughed gaily. Did I seem scared, she questioned. No, said Freckles, you did not. Oh, I just enjoyed that, she cried. Those hateful, stealing old things. I had a big notion to pink one of them, but I thought maybe some way it would be best for you if I shouldn't. They needed it. That didn't scare me. And as for the bird woman, she's accustomed to finding snakes, tramps, cross dogs, sheep, cattle, and goodness knows what. You can't frighten her when she's after a picture. Did they come back? No, said Freckles. The gang got there a little afternoon and took out the tree. But I must tell you, and you must tell the bird woman, that there's no doubt that they will be coming back, and they will have to make it before long now, for it's soon the gang will be there to work on the swamp. Oh, what a shame, cried the angel. They'll clear out roads, cut down the beautiful trees, and tear up everything. They'll drive away the birds and spoil the cathedral. When they've done their worst, then all these mills close here will follow in and take out the cheap timber. Then the landowners will dig a few ditches, build some fires, and in two summers more the limberloss will be in corn and potatoes. They looked at each other and groaned despairingly in unison. You like it too, said Freckles. Yes, said the angel. I love it. Your room is a little piece right out of the heart of Fairyland, and the cathedral is God's work, not yours. You only found it and opened the door after he had completed it. The birds, flowers, and vines are all so lovely. The bird woman says it's really a fact that the mallows, foxfire, iris, and lilies are larger and of richer coloring there than in the remainder of the country. She says it's because of the rich loam and muck. I hate seeing the swamp torn up, and to you it'll be like losing your best friend, won't it? Something like, said Freckles. Still, I have the limberloss in my heart, so that all of it will be real to me while I live, no matter what they do to it. I'm glad past telling if you will be coming a few more times, at least until the gang arrives. Past that time I don't allow myself to be thinking. Come, have a cool drink before you start back, said the angel. I couldn't possibly, said Freckles. I left Mrs. Duncan on the trail, and she's terribly afraid of a lot of things. If she even sees a big snake, I don't know what she'll do. It won't take but a minute, and you can ride fast enough to make up for it. Please, I want to think of something fine for you to make up a little for what you did for me that first day. Freckles looked in sheer wonderment into the beautiful face of the angel. Did she truly mean it? Would she walk down that street with him, crippled, homely, in mean clothing, with the tools of his occupation on him, and share with him the treat she was offering? He could not believe it, even of the angel. Still, in justice to the candor of her pure sweet face, he would not think that she would make the offer and not mean it. She really did mean just what she said, but when it came to carrying out her offer, and he saw the stares of her friends, the sneers of her enemies, if such as she could have enemies, and heard the whispered jeers of the curious, then she would see her mistake and be sorry. It would be only a manly thing for him to think this out and save her from the results of her own blessed bigness of heart. I really must be off, said Freckles earnestly, but I'm thanking you more than you'll ever know for your kindness. I'll just be drinking bowls of icy things all me way home in the thoughts of it. Down came the angel's foot, her eyes flashed indignantly. There's no sense in that, she said. How do you think you would have felt when you knew I was warm and thirsty, and you went and brought me a drink, and I wouldn't take it because—because goodness knows why. You can ride faster to make up for the time. I've just thought out what I want to fix for you. She stepped to his side and deliberately slipped her hand under his arm—that right arm—that ended in an empty sleeve. You are coming, she said firmly. I won't have it. Freckles could not have told how he felt. Neither could anyone else. His blood rioted, and his head swam, but he kept his wits. He bent over her. Please don't, angel, he said softly. You don't understand. How Freckles came to understand was a problem. It's this, he persisted, if your father met me on the street in my station and dress with you on the arm, he'd have every right to be caning me before the people and not a finger would I lift to stay him. The angel's eyes snapped. If you think my father cares about my doing anything that is right and kind, and that makes me happy to do, why then you completely failed in reading my father and I'll ask him and just show you. She dropped Freckles' arm and turned toward the entrance to the building. Why, look there, she exclaimed. Her father stood in a big window, fronting the street, a bundle of papers in his hand, interestingly watching the little scene with eyes that comprehended quite as thoroughly as if he had heard every word. The angel caught his glance and made a despairing little gesture toward Freckles. The man of affairs answered her with a look of infinite tenderness. He nodded his head and waved the papers in the direction she had indicated, and the various dolt could have read the words his lips formed. Take him along. A sudden trembling seized Freckles. At the side of Angel's father he had stepped back as far from her as he could, leaned the wheel against him and snatched off his hat. The angel turned on him with triumphing eyes. She was highly strong and not accustomed to being thwarted. Did you see that, she demanded? Now, are you satisfied? Will you come or must I call a policeman to bring you? Freckles went. There was nothing else to do. Guiding his wheel he walked down the street beside her. On every hand she was kept busy giving and receiving the cheeriest greetings. She walked into the parlours exactly as if she owned them. A clerk came hurrying to meet her. There's a table vacant beside a window where it's cool. I'll save it for you. And he started back. Please not, said the angel. I've taken this man unawares when he's in a rush. I'm afraid if we sit down we'll take too much time, and afterward he will blame me. She walked to the fountain, and a long row of people stared with all the varying degrees of insolence and curiosity that Freckles had felt they would. He glanced at the angel. Now would she see? On my soul he muttered under his breath. They don't even touch her. She laid down her sunshade and gloves. She walked to the end of the counter and turned the full battery of her eyes on the attendant. Please, she said. The wide-aproned individual stepped back and gave delighted ascent. The angel stepped beside him, and selecting a tall, flaring glass of almost paper thinness she stooped and rolled it in a tray of cracked ice. I want to mix a drink for my friend, she said. He has a long, hot ride before him, and I don't want him started off with one of those old, palette-teasing sweetnesses that you mix just on purpose to drive a man back in ten minutes. There was an appreciative laugh from the line at the counter. I want a cool, clear, sparkling drink that has a tang of acid in it. Where's the cherry phosphate? That, not at all sweet, would be good, don't you think? The attendant did think. He pointed out the different taps, and the angel compounded the drink. While Freckles, standing so erect he almost leaned backward, gazed at her and paid no attention to any one else. When she had the glass brimming, she tilted a little of its contents into a second glass and tasted it. That's entirely too sweet for a thirsty man, she said. She poured out half the mixture, and, refilling the glass, tasted it a second time. She submitted that result to the attendant. Isn't that about the thing, she asked? He replied enthusiastically. I'd get my wages raised ten a month if I could learn that trick. The angel carried the brimming, frosty glass to Freckles. He removed his hat, and lifting the icy liquid even with her eyes, and looking straight into them, he said in the mellowest of all the mellow tones of his voice, I'll be drinking it to the swamp angel. As he had said to her that first day, she now cautioned him, be drinking slowly. When the screen door swung behind them, one of the men at the counter asked of the attendant. Now, what did that mean? Exactly what you saw, replied he, rather curtly. We're accustomed to it here. Hardly a day passes this hot weather, but she's picking up some poor, godforsaken mortal and bringing him in. Then she comes behind the counter herself and fixes up a drink to soothe the occasion. She's all sorts of fancies about what's what for all kinds of times and conditions, and you bet she can just hit the spot. Ain't a clerk here can put up a drink to touch her. She's a sort of knack at it. Every once in a while, when the boss sees her, he calls out to her to mix him a drink. And does she? asked the man with an interested grin. Well, I guess. But first she goes back and sees how long it is since he's had a drink. What'd he drink last? How warm he is. When he ate last. Then she comes here and mixes a glass of fizz with a little touch of acid and a bit of cherry, lemon, grape, pineapple, or something sour and cooling, and it hits the spot just as no spot was ever hit before. I honestly believe that the interest she takes in it is half the trick. For I watch her closely and I can't come within gunshot of her concoctions. She has a running bill here. Her father settles once a month. She gives nine tenths of it away. Hardly ever touches it herself. But when she does, she makes me mix it. She's just old persimmons. Even the scrub boy of this establishment would fight for her. It lasts the year round, for in winter it's some poor frozen cuffs that she's warming up on hot coffee or chocolate. Mighty queer specimen she had this time volunteered another. Irish, hand-off, straight as a ramrod, and something worthwhile in his face. Notice that hat peel off, and the eyes of him. There's a case of fight for her. Wonder who he is. I think, said a third, that he's McClain's limber-loss guard, and I suspect she's gone to the swamp with a bird woman for pictures, and knows him that way. I've heard that he's a master hand with the birds, and it would just suit the bird woman to a tee. On the street the angel walked beside Freckles to the first crossing, and there she stopped. Now, will you promise to ride fast enough to make up for the five minutes that took, she said? I am a little uneasy about Mrs. Duncan. Freckles turned his wheel into the street. It seemed to him he had poured that delicious icy liquid into every vein in his body instead of his stomach. It even went to his brain. Did you insist on fixing that drink because you knew how intoxicating it would be? He asked. There was subtlety in the compliment, and it delighted the angel. She laughed gleefully. Next time maybe you won't take so much coaxing, she teased. I wouldn't this if I had known your father and been understanding you better. Do you really think the bird woman will be coming again? The angel jeered. Wild horses couldn't drag her away, she cried. She will have hard work to wait the week out. I shouldn't be in the least surprised to see her start any hour. Freckles could not endure the suspense. It had to come. And you, he questioned, but he dared not lift his eyes. Wild horses, me too, she laughed. Couldn't keep me away either. I dearly love to come, and the next time I am going to bring my banjo, and I'll play, and you sing for me some of the songs I like best, won't you? Yes, said Freckles, because it was all he was capable of saying, just then. It's beginning to act stormy, she said. If you hurry, you'll just about make it. Now, goodbye. End of Chapter 8 wherein Freckles meets a man of affairs, and loses nothing by the encounter. Chapter 9 of Freckles This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa. Freckles, by Gene Stratton Porter. Chapter 9 wherein the Limberlost falls upon Mrs. Duncan, and Freckles comes to the rescue. Freckles was halfway to the Limberlost when he dismounted. He could ride no further, because he could not see the road. He sat under a tree, and leaning against it, saw up, shook, twisted, and rended him. If they would remind him of his position, speak condescendingly or notice his hand, he could endure it. But this, he would surely kill him. His hot pulsing Irish blood was stirred deeply. What did they mean? Why did they do it? Were they like that to everyone? Was it pity? He could not be, for he knew that the bird woman and the angel's father must know that he was not really McLean's son, and it did not matter to them in the least. In spite of accident and poverty, they evidently expected him to do something worthwhile in the world. That must be his remedy. He must work on his education. He must get away. He must find and do the great thing of which Angel talked. For the first time his thoughts turned anxiously toward the city in the beginning of his studies. McLean and the Duncan spoke of him as the boy, but he was a man. He must face life briefly and act a man's part. The Angel was a mere child. He must not allow her to torture him past endurance with her frank comradeship that meant to him high heaven, earth's richness, and all that lay between, and nothing to her. There was an ominous growl of thunder and amazed at himself, freckles snatched up his wheel and raced toward the swamp. He was worried to find his boots laying at the cabin door. The children playing on the woodpile told him that Mithyr said they were so heavy she couldn't walk in them, and she had come back and taken them off. Thoroughly frightened, he stopped only long enough to slip them on in its bed with all his strength for the lumber lost. To the west, the long black, hard-beaten trail lay clear, but far up the east side, straight across the path, he could see what was certainly a limp, brown figure. Freckles spun with all his might. Face down, Sarah Duncan lay across the trail. When freckles turned her over, his blood chilled of the look of horror settled on her face. There was a low humming and something spattered against him. Glancing around, freckles shivered in terror, for there was a swarm of wild bees settled on a scrub-thorn only a few yards away. The air was filled with excited and settled bees, making ready to lead farther in search of a suitable location. Then he thought he understood, and with the prayer of thankfulness in his heart that she had escaped, even so narrowly, he caught her up and hurried down the trail until they were well out of danger. He laid her in the shade, and carrying water from the swamp in the crown of his hat, he bathed her face in hands, but she lay in unbroken stillness without a sign of life. She had found freckles' boots so large and heavy that she had gone back and taken them off, although she was mortally afraid to approach the swamp without them. The thought of it made her nervous, and the fact that she had never been there alone added to her fears. She had not followed the trail many yards when her trouble began. She was not freckles, so not a bird of the line was going to be fooled into thinking she was. They began jumping from their nests and darting from unexpected places around her head and feet with quick whirrs that set her starting and dodging. Before freckles was halfway to the town, poor Mrs. Duncan was hysterical, and a limberloss had neither sung nor performed for her. But there was trouble brewing. It was quiet and intensely hot, with that stifling stillness that precedes a summer storm, and feathers and fur were tense and nervous. The birds were singing only a few broken snatches and flying around, seeking places of shelter. One moment everything seemed devoid of life. The next there was an unexpected whirr, buzz, and sharp cry. Inside a pandemonium of growlings, batting, snarling, and grunting broke loose. The swale bent flat before heavy gusts of wind, and the big black chickens swept lower and lower above the swamp. Patches of clouds gathered, shedding out the sun and making it very dark, and the next moment were swept away. The sun poured with fears burning brightness, and everything was quiet. It was at the first growl of thunder that freckles really had noticed the weather, and putting his own troubles aside resolutely raced for the swamp. Sarah Duncan paused on the line. We allow witness day in this place for a million a month, she said aloud, and the sound of her voice brought no comfort, for it was so little like she had thought it that she glanced hastily around her to see if it had really been she that spoke. She tremblingly wiped the perspiration from her face with a skirt of her son bonnet. Awful hot, she panted huskily, believe there's going to be a big storm. I do hope freckles will hurry. Her chin was quivering as a terrified child. She lifted her bonnet to replace it, and brushed against a bush beside her, whirrr, almost into her face when a night hawk stretched along a limb for its daytime nap. Mrs. Duncan cried out and sprang down the trail, a lighting on a frog that was hopping across. The terrible croak it gave as she crushed it sickened her. She screamed wildly and jumped to one side. That carried her into the swale, where the grass has reached almost to her waist, and her horror of snakes returning, she made a flying leap for an old log lying beside the line. She lighted squarely, but it was so damp and rotten that she sank straight through it to her knees. She caught at the wire as she went down, and missing, raked her wrist across a barb until she tore of leading gash. Her fingers closed convulsively around the second strand. She was too frightened to scream now. Her tongue stiffened. She clung frantically to the sagging wire, and finally managed to grasp it with the other hand. Then she could reach the top wire, and so she drew herself up and found solid footing. She picked up the club that she had dropped in order to extricate herself. Leaning heavily on it, she managed to return to the trail, but she was trembling so that she scarcely could walk. Going a few steps further, she came to the stump of the first tree that had been taken out. She sat bolt upright and very still, trying to collect her thoughts and reason away her terror. A squirrel above her dropped a nut, and as it came rattling down, bouncing from branch to branch, every nerve it in her tugged wildly. When the disgusted squirrel barked loudly, she sprang to the trail. The wind arose higher. The changes from light to darkness were more abrupt, while the thunder came closer and louder at every peel. In swarms, the blackbirds arose from the swale and came flocking to the interior, with a clamoring cry. To check, to check! Crackles marshalled to the tribal call. Chalahee, chalahee! Red-winged blackbirds swept low, calling to belated bates. Follow me, follow me! Big jetty crows gathered close to her, crying as if to warn her to flee before it was everlastingly too late. A heron, fishing the nearby pool, for freckles, find out-frog, fell into trouble with a muskrat and uttered a rasping note that sent Mrs. Duncan a rod down the line without realizing that she had moved. She was too shaken to run far. She stopped and looked around her fearfully. Several bees struck her and were angrily buzzing before she noticed them. Then the humming swelled on all sides. A convulsive sob shook her and she ran into the bushes, now into the swale, anywhere to avoid the swarming bees, ducking, dodging, fighting for her very life. Presently the humming seemed to become a little fainter. She found the trail again and ran with all her might from a few of her anger pursuers. As she ran, straining every muscle, she suddenly became aware that crossing the trail before her was a big, round, black body with brown markings on its back, like painted geometrical patterns. She tried to stop. The louder buzzing behind warned her she dared not. Gathering her skirts higher with hair flying around her face and her eyes almost bursting from their sockets, she ran straight toward it. The sound of her feet and the humming of the bees alarmed the rattler, so it stopped across the trail, lifting its head above the grasses of the swale and rattling inquiringly, rattled until the bees were outdone. Straight toward it went the panic-straken woman, running wildly and uncontrollably. She took one leap, clearing its body on the path, then flew ahead with winged feet. The snake, coiled to strike, missed Mrs. Duncan and landed among the bees instead. They settled over and around it and realizing that it had found trouble. It sank among the grasses and went thrashing towards its den in the deep, willow-fringed, low ground. The swale appeared as if a reaper were cutting a wide swath. The massive enraged bees started angrily around, searching for it, and striking the scrub thorn began a temporary settling there to discover whether it were a suitable place. Completely exhausted, Mrs. Duncan staggered on a few steps farther, fell facing the path where Freckles found her and lay quietly. Freckles worked over her until she drew a long, quivering breath and opened her eyes. When she saw him bending over her, she closed them tightly and gripping him, struggled to her feet. He helped her, and with his arm around and half-carrying her, they made their way to the clearing. She clung to him with all her remaining strength, but opened her eyes she would not until her children came clustering around her. Then, brawny, big scotswoman though she was, she quietly keeled over again. The children added their wailing to Freckles' panic. This time he was so close to the cabin that he could carry her into the house and lay her on the bed. He sent the oldest boys scutting down the corduroy to the nearest neighbor, and between them they undressed Mrs. Duncan and discovered that she was not bent. They bathed and bound to the bleeding wrist and coaxed her back to consciousness. She lay sobbing and shuddering. The first intelligent word she said was, Freckles, look at that jar on the kitchen table and see if my yeast is no running o'er. Several days passed before she could give Duncan and Freckles any detailed count of what had happened to her. Even then she could not do it without crying as the least of her babies. Freckles was almost heartbroken, and nursed her as well as any woman could have done, while Big Duncan, with a heart full for them both, worked early and late to chink every crack of the cabin and examine every spot that possibly could harbor a snake. The effects of her mourning on the trail kept her shivering half the time. She could not rest until she sent for McLean and begged him to save Freckles from further risk in that place of horrors. The boss went to the swamp with his mind fully determined to do so. Freckles stood and laughed at him. Why, Mr. McLean, don't you let a woman's nervous system set you worrying about me, he said. I'm not denying how she felt, because I've been through it myself, but that's all over and gone. It's the height of me glory to fight it out with the old swamp and all that's in it, or will be coming to it, and then to turn it over to you as I promised you and myself I'd do, sir. You couldn't break the heart of me entire quicker than to be taking it from me now when I'm just on the home stretch. It won't be over three or four weeks yet, and that when I've got it almost a year, why, what's that to me, sir? You mustn't let a woman get mixed up with business, for I've always heard about how that's bringing trouble. McLean smiled. What about that last tree, he said? Freckles blushed and grand appreciatively. Angels and bird women don't count in the common run, sir, he affirmed shamelessly. McLean sat in the saddle and laughed. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of Freckles This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Freckles by Jean Stratton Porter, Chapter 10, wherein Freckles strives mightily, and the swamp angel rewards him. The bird woman and the angel did not seem to count in the common run, for they arrived on time for the third of the series and found McLean on the line talking to Freckles. The boss was filled with enthusiasm over a marsh article. Of the bird woman said he had just read. He begged to be allowed to accompany her into the swamp, and watched the method by which she secured an illustration in such a location. The bird woman explained to him that it was an easy matter with the subject she then had in hand, and as little chicken was too small to be frightened by him, and big enough to be growing troublesome, she was glad for his company. They went to the chicken log together, leaving to the happy Freckles the care of the angel, who had brought her banjo and a roll of songs that she wanted to hear him sing. The bird woman told them that they might practice in Freckles' room until she finished with little chicken, and then she and McLean would come to the concert. It was almost three hours before they finished, and came down the west trail for their rest and lunch. McLean walked ahead, keeping sharp watch on the trail, and clearing it of fallen limbs from overhanging trees. He sent a big piece of bark flying into the swale, and then stopped short and stared at the trail. The bird woman bent forward. Together they studied that imprint of the angel's foot. At last their eyes met. The bird woman filled with astonishment, and McLean's humid with pity. Neither said a word, but they knew. McLean entered the swale, and hunted up the bark. He replaced it, and the bird woman carefully stepped over. As they reached the bushes at the entrance, the voice of the angel stopped them, for it was commanding and filled with much impatience. Freckles, James Ross McLean, she was saying, you fill me with dark blue despair. You're singing as if your voice were glass, and might break at any minute. Why don't you sing as you did a week ago? Answer me that, please. Freckles smiled confusedly at the angel, who sat on one of his fancy seats, playing his accompaniment on her banjo. You are a fraud, she said. Here you went last week, and led me to think that there was the making of a great singer in you. And now you are singing. Do you know how badly you are singing? Yes, said Freckles Meekly. I am thinking I'm too happy to be singing well today. The music don't come right, only when I'm lonesome and sad. The world's for being all sunshine at prison, for among you and Mr. McLean and the bird woman, I'm after being that happy, that I can't keep me thoughts on me notes. It's more than sorry I am to be disappointing you. Play it over, and I'll be beginning again, and this time I'll hold hard. Well, said the angel disgustedly, it seems to me that if I had all the things to be proud of that you have, I'd lift up my head and sing. And what is it I have to be proud of, ma'am? politely inquired Freckles. Why, a whole world full of things, cried the angel explosively. For one thing, you can be good and proud over the way you've kept the timber thieves out of this lease, and the trust your father has in you. You can be proud that you've never even once disappointed him or failed in what he believed you could do. You can be proud over the way everyone speaks of you with trust and honor, and about how brave of heart and strong of body you are. I heard a big man say a few days ago that the limber lost was full of disagreeable things, positive dangers, unhealthful as it could be, and that since the memory of the first settlers, it has been a rendezvous for runaways, thieves, and murderers. This swamp is named for a man that was lost here and wandered around till he starved. That man I was talking with said he wouldn't take your job for a thousand dollars a month. In fact, he said he wouldn't have it for any money, and you've never missed a day or lost a tree. Proud? What I should think of you is parade around all proper over that. And you can always be proud that you were born an Irishman. My father is Irish, and if you want to see him get up and strut, give him a teeny opening to enlarge on his race. He says that if the Irish had decent territory, they'd lead the world. He says they've always been handicapped by lack of space and a fertile soil. He says if Ireland had been as big and fertile as Indiana, why England wouldn't ever have had the upper hand, she'd only be an appendage. Fancy England and appendage. He says Ireland has the finest orators and the keenest statesmen in Europe today, and when England wants a fight, with whom does she fill her trenches? Irishmen, of course. Ireland has the greenest grass and trees, finest stones and lakes, and they've jaunting cars. I don't know just exactly what they are, but Ireland has all there are, anyway. They've a great lot of actors and a few singers, and there never was a sweeter poet than one of theirs. You should hear my father recite, Dear harp of my country, he does it this way. The angel of rose made an elaborate, old-time bow, and holding up the banjo recited in clipping feet and meter, with rhythmic swing and a touch of brogue that was simply irresistible. Dear harp of my country, the angel ardently clasped the banjo. In darkness I found thee. She held it to the light. The cold chain of silence had hung orally long. She muted the strings with her rosy palm. Then proudly, my own Irish harp, I unbound thee. She threw her head and swept a ringing harmony. I gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song. She crashed into the notes of the accompaniment she had been playing for freckles. That's what you want to be thinking of, she cried. Not darkness and lonesomeness and sadness, but light, freedom, and song. I can't begin to think offhand of all the big, splendid things an Irishman has to be proud of. But whatever they are, they are all yours, and you are a part of them. I just despise that saddest when I sing business. You can sing. Now you go over there and do it. Ireland has had her estatesmen, warriors, actors, and poets. Now you be her voice. You stand right out there before the cathedral door, and I'm going to come down the aisle playing that accompaniment. And when I stop in front of you, you sing. The angel's face wore an unusual flush. Her eyes were flashing, and she was palpitating with earnestness. She parted the bushes and disappeared. Freckles, straight and tense, stood waiting. Presently, before he saw she was there, she was coming down the aisle toward him, playing compellingly, and riffs of light were touching her with gold and glory. Freckles stood as if transfixed. The cathedral was majestically beautiful, from arch-dome of frescold gold, green, and blue, in never-ending shades and harmonies, to the mosaic aisle she trod, richly inlaid in choices, colours, and gigantic pillars that were God's handy work, fashioned and perfected through ages of sunshine and rain. But the fair young face, and divinely molded form of the angel, were his most perfect work of all. Never had she appeared so surpassingly beautiful. She was smiling encouragingly now, and as she came toward him, she struck the cords full and strong. The heart of poor Freckles almost burst with dull pain, and his great love for her. In his desire to fulfil her expectations, he forgot everything else, and when she reached his initial cord, he was ready. He literally burst forth. Three little leaves of Irish green, united in one stem. Love, truth, and valor do they mean. They form a magic gem. The angel's eyes widened curiously, and her lips parted. A deep colour swept into her cheeks. She had intended to arouse him. She had more than succeeded. She was too young to know that in the effort to rouse a man, women frequently kindled fires that they neither can quench nor control. Freckles was looking over her head now, and singing that song, as it never had been sung before, for her alone, and instead of her helping him, as she had intended, he was carrying her with him on the waves of his voice, away, away into another world. When he struck into the cords, wide-eyed and panting, she was swaying toward him and playing with all her might. Oh, do you love? Oh, say you love. You love the shamrock green. At the last note, Freckles' voice ceased, and he looked at the angel. He had given his best and his all. He fell on his knees and folded his arms across his breast. The angel, as if magnetised, walked straight down the aisle to him, and running her fingers into the crisp masses of his red hair, tilted his head back and laid her lips on his forehead. Then she stepped back and phased him. Good boy, she said in a voice that wavered from the throbbing of her shaken heart. Dear boy, I knew you could do it. I knew it was in you. Freckles, when you go into the world, if you can face a big audience and sing like that just once, you will be immortal, and anything you want will be yours. Anything, gasped Freckles. Anything, said the angel. Freckles rose, muttered something, and catching up his old bucket plunged into the swamp blindly on a pretense of bringing water. The angel walked slowly across the study, sat on the rustic bench and through narrowed lids, intently studied the tip of her shoe. On the trail the bird-woman wheeled to the plane with a dumb-founded look. God, he muttered. At last the bird-woman spoke. Do you think the angel knew? She did that? She asked softly. No, said McLean. I do not. But the poor boy knew it. Heaven help him. The bird-woman stared across the gentle waving swale. I don't see how I am going to blame her, she said at last. It's so exactly what I would have done myself. Say the remainder, demanded McLean hoarsely, through him justice. He was born a gentleman, conceded the bird-woman. He took no advantage. He never even offered to touch her. Whatever that kiss meant to him, he recognized it was the loving impulse of a child under stress of strong emotion. He was fine and manly, as any man ever could have been. McLean lifted his hat. Thank you, he said simply, and parted the bushes for her to enter Freckles' room. It was her first visit. Before she left, she sent for her cameras and made studies of each side of it and of the cathedral. She was entranced with a delicate beauty of the place, while her eyes kept following Freckles, as if she could not believe that it could be his conception and work. That was a happy day. The bird-woman had brought a lunch, and they spread it, with Freckles' dinner, on the study floor, and sat, resting, and enjoying themselves. But the angel put her banjo into its case, silently gathered her music, and no one mentioned the concert. The bird-woman left McLean and the angel to clear away the lunch, and with Freckles examined the walls of his room and told him all she knew about his shrubs and flowers. She analyzed a cardinal flower and showed him what he had wanted to know all summer, why the bees buzzed ineffectually around it, while the hummingbirds found it in an ever-ready feast. Some of his specimens were so rare that she was unfamiliar with them, and with the flower book between them, they knelt, studying the different varieties. She wandered the length of the cathedral aisle with him, and it was at her suggestion that he lighted his altar with a row of flaming fox-fire. As Freckles came to the cabin, from his long day at the swamp, he saw Mrs. Chicken sweeping to the south, and wondered where she was going. He stepped into the bright cozy little kitchen, and as he reached down the wash-basin, he asked Mrs. Duncan a question. Mother Duncan, the kisses wash off. So warm a wave swept her heart that a half-flesh mantled her face. She straightened her shoulders and glanced at her hands tenderly. Lord, not, Freckles, she cried. At least the ones you get from people you love, Dina, they Dina stay on the outside. They strike in until they find the center of your heart and make their stopping place there, and nothing can take them from you. I doubt if even death. Nay, lad, you can reach to sure it kisses Dina wash off. Freckles set the basin down and muttered when he plunged his hot, tired face into the water. I needn't be afraid of washing, then, for that one struck in. I wish, said Freckles at breakfast one morning, that I had some way to be sending a message to the bird woman. I've something at the swamp that I'm believing never happened before, and surely she'll be wanting it. What now, Freckles? asked Mrs. Duncan. Why, the oddest thing you ever heard of, said Freckles, the whole insect-tribe gone on a spree. I'm supposing it's my doings, but it all happened by accident-like. You see, on the soil-side of the line, right against me trail, there's one of these scrub-wild crab-trees. Where the grass grows thicker round it is the finest place you ever conceived of for snakes. Having women about has set me trying to clear out those fellows a bit, and yesterday I noticed that tree in passing. It struck me that it would be a good idea to be taking it out. First I thought I'd take me hatch it and cut it down, for it ain't thicker than my upper arm. Then I remembered how it was blooming in the spring and filling all the air with sweetness. The colouring of the blossoms is beautiful, and I hated to be killing it. I just cut the grass short all around it. Then I started at the ground, trimmed up the trunk, near the height of my shoulder, and left the top spreading. That made it look so truly ornamental that, Idle-like. I chips off the rough places neat, and this morning, on my sole, it's a sight. You see, cutting off the limbs and trimming up the trunk sets the sap running. In this hot sun it ferments in a few hours. There isn't much room for more things to crowd on that tree than there are, and to get drunker isn't nowadays possible. Well, I'll be dawn-dawn, exclaimed Mrs. Duncan. What kind of things do you mean, freckles? Why, just an army of black ants. Some of them are sucking away like old topers. Some of them are setting up on their tails and hind legs, fiddling with their forefeet and wiping their eyes. Some are rolling on the ground, contented. There are quantities of big, blue bottle flies all over the bark, and hanging on the grasses around. Too drunk to steer, of course, flying, so they just buzz away like flying, and all the time, sitting still. The snake-feeders are too full to feed anything, even more sap to themselves. There's a lot of hard-backed bugs, beetles, I guess, colored like the brown, blue, and black of a peacock's tail. They hang on until their legs, of them, are so weak, they can't stick a minute longer. And then they break away and fall to the ground. They just lay there on their backs, fably claw on air. When it wears a bit, up they get, and go crawling back for more. And they so full, they bump into each other and roll over. Sometimes they can't climb the tree until they wait to sober up a little. There's a lot of big, black-and-gold bumble-bees done for entire, stumbling over the bark and rolling on the ground. They just lay there on their backs, rocking from side to side, singing to themselves like fat, happy babies. The wild bees keep up a steady buzzing with the beating of their wings. The butterflies are the worst old topers of them all. They're just a circus. You never saw the like of the beauties. They come every color you could be naming, and every shape you could be thinking up. They drink and drink until, if I'm driving them away, they stagger as they fly and turn some results in the air. If I leave them alone, they cling to the grasses, shivering, happy-like. And I'm blessed, Mother Duncan, if the best of them could be unlocking the front door with a lead pencil even. I never heard of anything say surprising, said Mrs. Duncan. It's a rare sight to watch them, and no one ever made a picture of a thing like that before. I'm for thinking, said Freckles earnestly. Now, said Mrs. Duncan, you can be pretty sure they didn't. The bird woman must have word in some way. If he walked the line, and I walked a town of teller, if you think he can wait until after supper, I am most sure you can gung yourself, for Duncan is coming home, and he'd be glad to watch for you. If he doesn't come, and not any passes that I can send word with today, I really will gung early in the morning, and tell her myself. Freckles took his lunch and went to the swamp. He walked and watched eagerly. He could find no trace of anything, yet he felt a tense nervousness, as if trouble might be brooding. He examined every section of the wire, and kept watchful eyes on the grasses of the swale, in an effort to discover if anyone had passed through them. But he could discover no trace of anything to justify his fears. He tilted his hat, brimmed to shade his face, and looked for his chickens. They were hanging almost beyond sight in the sky. Gee, he said, if I only had your sharp eyes in convenient location now, I wouldn't need be trouble in so. He reached his room, and cautiously scanned the entrance before he stepped in. Then he pushed the bushes apart with his right arm and entered, his left hand on the butt of his favorite revolver. Instantly he knew that someone had been there. He stepped to the center of the room, closely scanning each wall and the floor. He could find no trace of a clue to confirm his belief, yet so intimate was he with the spirit of the place that he knew. How he knew he could not have told, yet he did know that someone had entered his room, sat on his benches, and walked over his floor. He was surest about the case. Nothing was disturbed, yet it seemed to freckles that he could see where prying fingers had tried the lock. He stepped behind the case, carefully examining the ground, all around it, post beside the tree to which it was nailed he found a deep, fresh footprint in the spongy soil. A long, narrow print that was never made by the foot of Wesner. His heart tugged in his breast as he mentally measured the print, but he did not linger, for now the feeling arose that he was being watched. It seemed to him that he could feel the eyes of some intruder at his back. He knew he was examining things too closely. If anyone were watching, he would not want him to know that he felt it. He took the most open way, and carried water for his flowers and moss as usual. But he put himself in no position in which he was fully exposed, and his hand was close to his revolver constantly. Growing restive at last under the strain, he plunged boldly into the swamp and searched minutely all around his room, but he could not discover the least thing to give him further cause for alarm. He unlocked his case, took out his wheel, and for the remainder of the day he rode and watched as he never had before. Several times he locked the wheel and crossed the swamp on foot, zigzagging to cover all the space possible. Every rod he traveled, he used the caution that sprang from knowledge of danger, and the direction from which it would probably come. Several times he thought of sending for McLean, but for his life he could not make up his mind to do it, and with nothing more tangible than one footprint to justify him. He waited until he was sure Duncan would be home, if he were coming for the night before he went to supper. The first thing he saw as he crossed the swale was the big bays in the yard. There had been no one passing that day, and Duncan readily agreed to watch until freckles rode to town. He told Duncan of the footprint, and urged him to guard closely. Duncan said that he may rest easy, and filling his pipe, and taking a good revolver, the man went to the limberlost. Freckles made himself clean and neat and raced to town, but it was night, and the stars were shining before he reached the home of the bird woman. From afar he could see that the house was ablaze with lights. The lawn and veranda were strung with fancy lanterns, and alive with people. He thought his errand important, so to turn back never occurred to Freckles. This was all the time or opportunity he would have. He must see the bird woman, and see her at once. He leaned his wheel inside the fence, and walked up at the broad front entrance. As he neared the steps he saw that the place was swarming with young people, and the angel, with an excuse to a group that surrounded her, came hurrying to him. Oh, Freckles! she cried delightedly. So you could come? We were so afraid you could not. I'm as glad as I can be. I don't understand, said Freckles. Were you expecting me? Why, of course, exclaimed the angel. Haven't you come to my party? Didn't you get my invitation? I sent you one. By mail? asked Freckles. Yes, said the angel. I had to help with the preparations, and I couldn't find time to drive out. But I wrote you a letter. And I told you that the bird woman was giving a party for me, and I wanted you to come, surely. I told them at the office to put it with Mr. Duncan's mail. Then that's likely where it is at present, said Freckles. Duncan comes to town only once a week, and at times not that. He's home tonight for the first in a week. He's watching an hour for me until I come to the bird woman with a bit of work I thought she'd be caring to hear about. Is she where I can see her? The angels' face clouded. What a disappointment! she cried. I did so want all my friends to know you. Can't you stay, anyway? Freckles glanced from his waiting boots to the patent leathers of some of Angel's friends, and smiled whimsically. But there was no danger of his ever misjudging her again. You know I cannot, Angel, he said. I am afraid I do, she said, roofily. It's too bad. But there's the thing I want for you more than to come to my party, and that is to hang on and win with your work. I think of you every day, and I just pray that those thieves are not getting ahead of you. Oh, Freckles, do watch closely. She was so lovely a picture, as she stood before him, ardent in his cause, that Freckles could not take his eyes from her to notice what her friends were thinking. If she did not mind, why should he? Anyway, if they really were the Angel's friends, probably they were better accustomed to her ways than he. Her face and bared neck and arms were like the wild rose bloom. Her soft frock of white toll lifted and stirred around her with the gentle evening air. The beautiful golden hair that crept around her temples and ears, as if it loved to cling there, was caught back and bound with broad blue satin ribbon. There was a sash of blue at her waist, and knots of it catching up her draperies. Must I go after the bird woman, she pleaded? In days you must, answered Freckles firmly. The Angel went away, but returned to say the bird woman was telling a story to those inside, and she could not come for a short time. You won't come in, she pleaded. I must not, said Freckles. I'm not dressed to be among your friends, and I might be forgetting myself and stay too long. Then, said the Angel, you mustn't go through the house, because it would disturb the story. But I want you to come outside way to the conservatory and have some of my birthday lunch and some cake to take to Mrs. Duncan and the babies. Won't that be fun? Freckles thought that it would be more than fun and followed delightedly. The Angel gave him a big glass, brimming with some icy sparkling liquid that struck his palate as it had never been touched before, because a combination of frosty fruit juices had not been a frequent beverage with him. The night was warm, and the Angel most beautiful and kind. A triple delirium of spirit, mind, and body seized upon him and developed a boldness all unnatural. He slightly parted the heavy curtains that separated the conservatory from the company and looked between. He'd almost stopped breathing. He had read of things like that, but he never had seen them. The open space seemed to stretch through half a dozen rooms, all ablaze with lights perfumed with flowers and filled with elegantly dressed people. There were glimpses of polished floors, sparkling glass and fine furnishings. From somewhere the voice of his beloved bird woman arose and fell. The Angel crowded beside him and was watching also. Doesn't it look pretty? she whispered. Do you suppose heaven is any finer than that? asked Freckles. The Angel began to laugh. Do you want to be laughing harder than that, queried Freckles? A laugh is always good, said the Angel. A little more avois du pois won't hurt me. Go ahead. Well then, said Freckles, it's only that I feel all over as if I belonged here. I could wear fine clothes and move over those floors and hold me on against the best of them. But where does my laugh come in? demanded the Angel, as if she had been defrauded. And you ask me where the laugh comes in, looking me in the face after that, marveled Freckles. I wouldn't be so foolish as to laugh at such a manifest truth as that, said the Angel. Anyone who knows you even half as well as I do, knows that you are never guilty of a discurtecy, and you move with twice the grace of any man here. Why shouldn't you feel as if you belonged where people are graceful and courteous? On my soul, said Freckles, you are kind to me thinking it. You are doubly kind to be saying it. The curtains parted and a woman came toward them. Her silks and laces trailed across the polished floors. The lights gleamed on her neck and arms and flashed from rarer jewels. She was smiling brightly, and until she spoke, Freckles had not realized fully that it was his loved bird woman. Noticing his bewilderment, she cried, Why, Freckles, don't you know me in my wore clothes? I do in the uniform in which you fight the limberlost, said Freckles. The bird woman laughed. Then he told her why he had come, but she scarcely could believe him. She could not say exactly when she would go, but she would make it as soon as possible, for she was most anxious for the study. While they talked, the Angel was busy packing a box of sandwiches, cake, fruit, and flowers. She gave him a last frosty glass, thanked him repeatedly for bringing news of new material. Then Freckles went into the night. He rode toward the limberlost with his eyes on the stars. Presently he removed his hat, hung it to his belt, and ruffled his hair to the sweep of the night wind. He filled the air all the way, with snatches of oratorios, gospel hymns, and dialect, and koon songs, in a startlingly varied program. The one thing Freckles knew that he could do was to sing. The Duncan's heard him coming a mile up the corduroy and could not believe their senses. Freckles unfastened the box from his belt, and gave Mrs. Duncan and the children all the edibles it contained, except for one big piece of cake that he carried to the sweet-loving Duncan. He put the flowers back in the box and set it among his books. He did not say anything, but they understood it was not to be touched. That's Freckles' flowers, said a tiny Scotsman, but he added cheerfully. It's our sweeties. Freckles' face slowly flushed as he took Duncan's cake and started toward the swamp. While Duncan ate, Freckles told him something about the evening, as well as he could find words to express himself, and the big man was so amazed he kept forgetting the treat in his hands. Then Freckles mounted his wheel and began a spin that terminated only when the biggest Plymouth rock in Duncan's coop saluted a new day, and long lines of light reddened the east. As he rode, he sang. While he sang, he worshipped. But the God he tried to glorify was a doom, and far away, mystery. The angel was warm flesh and blood. Every time he passed the little bark-covered imprint on the trail he dismounted, removed his hat, saw lonely knelt, and laid his lips on the impression. Because he kept no account himself, only the laughing-faced old man of the moon knew how often it happened, and is from the beginning to the follies of earth that gentleman has ever been kind. With the near approach of Don Freckles turned his last note, worried almost to falling, he turned from the trail into the path leading to the cabin for a few hours' rest. END OF CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. OF FRECKLES. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. FRECKLES. By Gene Stratton Porter. CHAPTER XII. Where in black Jack captures Freckles, and the angel captures Jack. As Freckles left the trail from the swale close to the south entrance, four large muscular men arose and swiftly and carefully entered the swamp by the wagon-road. Two of them carried a big saw. The third, coils of rope and wire, and all of them were heavily armed. They left one man on guard at the entrance. The other three made their way through the darkness as best they could, and were soon at Freckles' room. He had left the swamp on his wheel from the west trail. They counted on his returning on the wheel and circling the east line before he came there. A little below the west entrance to Freckles' room, black Jack stepped into the swale, and, binding a wire tightly around a scrub oak, carried it below the waving grasses, stretched it taut across the trail, and fastened it to a tree in the swamp. Then he obliterated all signs of his work, and arranged the grass over the wire until it was so completely covered that only minute examination would reveal it. They entered Freckles' room with coarse oaths and jests. In a few moments his specimen case, with its precious contents, was rolled into the swamp, while the saw was eating into one of the finest trees of the limber lost. The first report from the man on watch was that Duncan had driven to the south camp, the second that Freckles was coming. The man watching was sent to see on which side the boy turned into the path. As they had expected, he took the east. He was a little tired, and his head was rather stupid, for he had not been able to sleep as he had hoped, but he was very happy. Although he watched until his eyes ached, he could see no sign of anyone having entered the swamp. He called a cheery greeting to all his chickens. At Sleepy Snake Creek he almost fell from his wheel with surprise. The saw-bird was surrounded by four lanky youngsters, clamoring for breakfast. The father was strutting, with all the importance of a drum-major. No use to expect the bird woman to-day, said Freckles, but now wouldn't she be jumping for a chance at that? As soon as Freckles was far down the east line, the watch was posted below the room on the west to report his coming. It was only a few moments before the signal came. Then the saw stopped, and the rope was wrought out and uncoiled close to a sapling. Wessner and Black Jack crowded to the very edge of the swamp, a little above the wire, and crouched, waiting. They heard Freckles before they saw him. He came gliding down the line swiftly, and as he rode he was singing softly. Oh, do you love? Oh, say you love! He got no farther. The sharply driven wheel struck the tense wire and bounded back. Freckles shot over the handle-bar and coasted down the trail on his chest. As he struck, Black Jack and Wessner were upon him. Wessner caught off an old felled hat and clapped it over Freckles' mouth, while Black Jack twisted the boy's arms behind him and they rushed him into his room. Almost before he realized that anything had happened he was trusted to a tree and securely gagged. Then three of the men resumed working on the tree. The other followed the path Freckles had worn to little chicken's tree, and presently he reported that the wires were down and two teams with the loading apparatus coming to take out the timber. All the time the saw was slowly eating, eating into the big tree. Wessner went to the trail and removed the wire. He picked up Freckles' wheel. That did not seem to be injured, and leaned it against the bushes so that if anyone did pass on the trail he would not see it doubled in the swamp grass. Then he came and stood in front of Freckles and laughed in devilish hate. To his own amazement Freckles found himself looking fear in the face and marveled that he was not afraid. Four to one. The tree halfway eaten through, the wagons coming up the road, he bound and gagged. The men with Black Jack and Wessner had belonged to the McLean's gang when last he had heard of them, but who those coming with the wagons might be he could not guess. If they secured that tree, McLean lost his wager and lost his faith in him. The words of the angel hammered in his ears. Oh Freckles, do watch closely. The saw worked steadily. When the tree was down and loaded, what would they do? Pull out and leave him there to report them? It was not to be hoped for. Place always had been lawless. It could mean one thing. A mist swept before his eyes while his head swam. Was it only last night that he had worshipped the angel in a delirium of happiness? And now what? Wessner, released from a turn at the saw, walked to the flower bed and tearing up a handful of rare ferns by the roots started toward Freckles. His intention was obvious. Black Jack stopped him with an oath. You see here, Dutchy, he bawled. Maybe you think you'll wash his face with that, but you won't. A contract's a contract. We agreed to take these trees and leave him for you to dispose of whatever way you please, provided you shut him up eternally on this deal. But I'll not see a tied man tormented by a fellow that he can lick up the ground with loose and that's flat. It raises my gorge to think what he'll get when we're gone, but you didn't think you're free to begin before. Don't you lay a hand on him while I'm here. What do you say, boys? I say yes, growled one of McLean's latest deserters. What's more, we're a pack of fools to risk the dirty work of silencing him. You had him face down, and you on his back. Why the hell didn't you cover his head and roll him into the bushes until we were gone? When I went into this, I didn't understand that he was to see all of us, and that there was murder on that ticket. I'm not up to that. I don't mind lifting trees we came for, but I'm cursed if I want blood on my hands. Well, you ain't going to get it, fellow Jack. You fellow's only contracted to help me get out my marked trees. He belongs to Westner and it ain't our deal what happens to him. Yes, and if Westner finishes him safely we are practically in for murder as well as stealing the trees, and if he don't, all hell's to pay. I think you've made a damnable bugle of this thing. That's what I think. And keep your thoughts to yourself, cry Jack. We're doing this, and it's all planned safe and sure. As for killing that buck, come to think of it. Killing is what he needs. He's way too good for this world of woe anyhow. I tell you, it's all safe enough. His dropping out won't be the only secret the old Limberlost has never told. It's too dead easy to make it look like he helped take the timber and then cut. Why, he's played right into our hands. He was here at the swamp all last night, and back again in an hour or so. When we get our plan worked out, even old fool Duncan won't lift a finger to look for his carcass. We couldn't have him going in better shape. You just bet, said Westner. I owe him all he'll get, and I'll be damned to you, but I'll pay, he snarled the freckles. So it was killing then. They were not only after this one tree, but many, and with his body it was their plan to kill his honor. To brand him a thief with them before the angel, the bird woman, the dear boss, and the Duncan's freckles and sick despair sagged against the ropes. Then he gathered his forces and thought swiftly. There was no hope of McLean's coming. They had chosen a day when they knew he had a contract at the South Camp. The boss would not come before tomorrow by any possibility, and there would be no tomorrow for the boy. Duncan was on his way to the South Camp, and the bird woman had said she would come as soon as she could. After the fatigue at the party, it was useless to expect her and the angel today, and God saved them from coming. The angel's father had said they would be as safe in the limberlost as at home. What would he think of this? The sweat broke on Freckles' forehead. He tugged at the ropes whenever he felt that he dared, but they were passed around the tree and his body several times and knotted on his chest. He was helpless. There was no hope. No help. And after they had conspired to make him a pure, runaway thief to his loved ones, what was it that Wesner would do to him? Whatever it was, Freckles lifted his head and resolved that he would bear in mind what he had once heard the bird woman say. He would go out bonnily. Never would he let them see if he grew afraid. After all, what did it matter what they did to his body if by some scheme of the devil they could encompass his disgrace? Then hope suddenly rose and Freckles pressed. They could not do that. The angel would not believe. Neither would McLaine. He would keep up his courage, kill them they could, dishonor him they could not. Yet some on all the fortitude he might, that saw eating into the tree, rasped his nerves worse and worse. With whirling brain he gazed into the limberloss, searching for something he knew not what, and in blank horror found his eyes focusing on the angel. She was quite a distance away, but he could see her white lips and angry expression. Last week he had taken her and the bird woman across the swamp over the path he followed in going from his room to the chicken tree. He had told them the night before that the butterfly tree was in the line close to this path. In figuring not their coming that day he failed to reckon with the enthusiasm of the bird woman. They must be there for the study, and the angel had risked crossing the swamp in search of him. Or was there something in his room they needed? The blood surged in his ear as the roar of the limberlast in the wrath of a storm. He looked again, and it had been a dream. She was not there. Had she been? For his life Freckles could not tell whether he had really seen the angel or whether his strange senses had played him the most cruel trick of all. Or was it not the kindest? Now he could go on with the vision of her lovely face, fresh with him. Thank you for that, oh God, whispered Freckles, it was more than kind of you, and I don't suppose I ought to be wanting anything else. But if you can, oh, I wish I could know before this ends, if it was my mother. Freckles could not even whisper the words, for he hesitated a second and ended. If it was my mother did it. Freckles! Freckles! Oh, Freckles! The voice of the angel came calling. Freckles swayed forward and wrenched at the rope until it cut deeply into his body. Hell cried Blackjack! Who is that, do you know? Freckles nodded. Jack whipped out a revolver and snatched the gag from Freckles' mouth. Say quick, or it's up with you right now, and whoever that is with you. It's the girl the bird woman takes with her, whispered Freckles, through dry swollen lips. They ain't due here for five days yet, said Wesner. We got on to that last week. Yes, said Freckles, but I found a tree covered with butterflies and things along the east line yesterday that I thought the bird woman would want extra. And I went to town to tell her last night. She said she'd come soon, but she didn't say when. They must be here. I take care of the girl while the bird woman works, and tie me quick until she is gone. I'll try to send her back, and then you can go on with your dirty work. He ain't lying, volunteered Wesner. I saw that tree covered with butterflies and him watching around it when we were spying on him yesterday. Nah, he leaves lying to your sort, snapped Blackjack, as he undid the rope and pitched it across the room. Remember that you're covered every move you make, my buck, he cautioned. Freckles! Freckles! came the angel's impatient voice closer and closer. I must be answering, said Freckles, and Jack nodded. Right here, he called, and to the men, you go on with your work and remember one thing yourselves. The work of the bird woman is known all over the world. This girl's father is a rich man, and she is all he has. If you offer hurt of any kind to either of them, this world has no place far enough away or dark enough for you to be hiding in. Hell will be easy to what any man will get if he touches either of them. Freckles! Where are you? demanded the angel. Sol sick with fear for her. Freckles went toward her and parted the bushes that she might enter. She came through without apparently giving him a glance, and the first words she said were, Why have the gang come so soon? I didn't know you expected them for three weeks yet. Or is this some special tree that Mr. McLean needs to fill in order right now? Freckles hesitated. Would a man dare lie to save himself? No. But to save the angel? Surely that was different. He opened his lips, but the angel was capable of saving herself. She walked among them, exactly as if she had been reared in a lumber camp and never waited for an answer. Why, your specimen case, she cried. Look, haven't you noticed that it's tipped over? Said it straight, quickly. A couple of the men stepped out and carefully righted the case. There, that's better, she said. Freckles, I'm surprised at you being so careless. It would be a shame to break those lovely butterflies for one old tree. Is that a valuable tree? Why didn't you tell us last night that you were going to take out a tree this morning? Oh, say, did you put your case there to protect that tree from that stealing old blackjack in his gang? I bet you did. Well, if that wasn't right, what kind of a tree is it? It's a white oak, said Freckles. Like those they make dining-room tables and sideboards from? Yes. My, how interesting, she cried. I don't know a thing about Timber, but my father wants me to learn just everything I can. I'm going to ask him to let me come here and watch you until I know enough to boss a gang myself. Do you like to cut trees, gentlemen? She said with angelic sweetness of the men. Some of them appeared foolish and some grim, but one managed to say they did. Then the angel's eyes turned full on blackjack, and she gave the most natural little start of astonishment. Oh, I almost thought that you were a ghost, she cried. But I see now that you are really and truly. Were you ever in Colorado? No, said Jack. I see you weren't the same man, said the angel. You know, we were in Colorado last year, and there was a cowboy who was the handsomest man anywhere around. He'd come riding into town every night, and all we girls just adored him. Oh, but he was a beauty. I thought at first glance you were really he, but I see now he wasn't nearly so tall nor so broad as you, and only half as handsome. The men began to laugh while Jack flushed crimson. The angel joined in the laugh. Well, I'll leave it to you. Isn't he handsome, she challenged? As for that cowboy's face, it couldn't be compared to yours. The only trouble with you is that your clothes are spoiling you. It's the dress those cowboys wear that make half the attraction. If you were properly clothed, you could break the heart of the prettiest girl in the country. With one accord the other man looked at Black Jack, and for the first time realized that he was a superb specimen of manhood. For he stood six feet tall, was broad, well rounded, and had dark even skin, big black eyes, and full red lips. I'll tell you what, exclaimed the angel. I just love to see you on horseback. Nothing sets a handsome man off so splendidly. Do you ride? Yes, said Jack, and his eyes were birding on the angel, as if he could fathom the depths of her soul. Well, said the angel winsomely. I know what I just wish you do. I wish you would let your hair grow a little longer. Then wear a blue flannel shirt, a little open at the throat, a red tie, and a broad brim-felt hat, and ride past my house of evenings. I'm always at home, then, and almost always on the veranda, and—oh! But I would like to see you. Will you do that for me? It is impossible to describe the art with which the angel asked the question. She was looking straight into Jack's face, coarse and hardened with sin and careless living, which was now taking on a wholly different expression. The evil lines of it were softening and fading under her clear gaze. A dull red flamed into his bronze cheeks while his eyes were growing brightly tender. Yes, he said, and the glance he gave the men was of such a nature that no one saw a fit even to change continents. Oh, goody! she cried, tilting on her toes. I'll ask all the girls to come see, but they needn't stick it. We can get along without them, can't we? Jack leaned toward her. He was the charmed, fluttering bird while the angel was the snake. Well, I rather guess, he cried. The angel drew a deep breath and surveyed him rapturously. My but your tall, she commented. Do you suppose I will ever grow to reach your shoulders? She stood on tiptoe and measured the distance with her eyes. Then she developed timid confusion while her glance sought the ground. I wish I could do something, she half whispered. Jack seemed to increase an inch in height. What? he asked hoarsely. Larry at Bill always used to have a bunch of red flowers in his shirt pocket. The red lit up his dark eyes and olive cheeks and made him splendid. May I put some red flowers on you? Freckles stared as he wheezed for breath. He wished the earth would open and swallow him. Was he dead or alive? Since his angel had seen Black Jack, she had never glanced his way. Was she completely bewitched? Would she throw herself at the man's feet before them all? Couldn't she give him even one thought? Hadn't she seen that he was gagged and bound? Did she truly think that these were McLean's men? Why, she could not. It was only a few days ago that she had been close enough to this man and angry enough with him to peel the hat from his head with a shot. Suddenly a thing she had said jestingly to him one day came back with startling force. You must take angels on trust. Of course you must. She was his angel. She must have seen. His life and what was far more her own was in her hands. There was nothing he could do but trust her. Surely she was working out some plan. The angel knelt beside his flower bed and recklessly tore up by the roots a big bunch of fox fire. These stems are so tough and sticky, she said. I can't break them. Lawn me your knife, she ordered freckles. As she reached for the knife her back was for one second toward the men. She looked into his eyes and deliberately winked. She severed the stems, tossed the knife to freckles, and walking to Jack laid the flowers over his heart. Freckles broke into a sweat of agony. He had said she would be safe in her herd of howling savages. Would she? If Black Jack even made a motion toward touching her, freckles knew that from somewhere he would muster the strength to kill him. He mentally measured the distance to where his club lay and set his muscles for a spring. But no, by the splendor of God. The big fellow was bearing his head with a hand that was unsteady. The angel pulled one of the long silver pins from her hat and fastened her flowers securely. Freckles was quaking. What was to come next? What was she planning, and oh did she understand the danger of her presence among these men, the real necessity for action? As the angel stepped from Jack, she turned her head to one side and peered at him quite as freckles had seen the little yellow fellow do on the line a hundred times. And said, well, that does the trick. Isn't that fine? See how it sets him off, boys. Don't you forget the ties to be read. And the first ride soon. I can't wait very long. Now I must go. The bird woman will be ready to start, and she will come here hunting for me next, for she is busy today. What did I come here for, anyway? She glanced inquiringly around, and several of the men laughed. Oh, the delight of it! She had forgotten her errand for him. Jack had a second increase in height. The angel glanced helplessly as if seeking a clue. Then her eyes fell, as if by accident, on freckles, and she cried, Oh, I know! It was those magazines the bird woman promised you. I came to tell you that we put them under the box where we hide things at the entrance of the swamp as we came in. I knew I would need my hands crossing the swamp, so I hid them there. You'll find them at the same old place. Then freckles spoke. It's mighty risky for you to be crossing the swamp alone, he said. I'm surprised that the bird woman would be letting you try it. I know it's a little further, but it's begging you I am to be going back by the trail. That's bad enough, but it's far safer than the swamp. The angel laughed merrily. I'll stop your nonsense, she cried. I'm not afraid, not in the least. The bird woman didn't want me to try following a path that I'd been over only once, but I was sure I could do it, and I'm rather proud of my performance. Now don't go babying, you know I'm not afraid. No, said freckles gently. I know you're not, but that has nothing to do with the fact that your friends are afraid for you. On the trail you can see your way a bit ahead, and you've all the world a better chance if you meet a snake. Then freckles had an inspiration. He turned to Jack imploringly. You tell her, he pleaded. Tell her to go by the trail. She will for you. The implication of this statement was so gratifying to Blackjack that he seemed again to expand and take on an increase before their very eyes. You bet, exclaimed Jack, and to the angel. You better take freckles' word for it, miss. He knows the old swamp better than any of us except me, and if he says go by the trail, you best do it. The angel hesitated. She wanted to recross the swamp and try to reach the horse. She knew freckles would brave any danger to save her crossing the swamp alone, but she really was not afraid while the trail added over a mile to the walk. She knew the path. She intended to run for dear life the instant she felt herself from their sight, and, tucked in the folds of her blouse, was a fine little thirty-two-caliber revolver that her father had presented her for, her share in what he was pleased to call her military exploit. One last glance at freckles showed her the agony in his eyes, and immediately she imagined he had some other reason. She would follow the trail. All right, she said, giving Jack a thrilling glance. If you say so, I'll return by the trail to please you. Good-bye, everybody. She lifted the bushes and started toward the entrance. You damn fool! Stop her, growled Wessner! Keep her till we've loaded anyhow. You're playing hell. Can't you see that when this thing is found out, there shall be to ruin all of us? If you let her go, every man of us has got to cut, and some of us will be caught, sure. Jack sprang forward. Freckles' heart muffled in his throat. The angels seemed to divine Jack's coming. She was humming a little song. She deliberately stopped and began pulling the heads of the curious grasses that grew all around her. When she straightened, she took a step backward and called, Ho! Freckles! The bird woman once had natural history pamphlet returned. It belongs to a set she is going to have bound. That's one of the reasons we put it under the box. You be sure to get them as you go home tonight, for fear it rains or becomes damp with the heavy doos. All right! said Freckles. But it was in a voice he had never heard before. Then the angels turned and sent a parting glance at Jack. She was overwhelmingly human and bewitchingly lovely. You won't forget that ride in the red tie. She half asserted, half questioned. Jack succumbed. Freckles was his captive. But he was the angels' soul and body. His face wore the holiest look it had ever known, as he softly re-eckled Freckles. All right! With her head held well up. The angel walked slowly away and Jack turned to the men. Drop your damn staring and saw wood, he shouted. Don't you know a thing at all about how to treat a lady? It might have been a question. Which of the cronies that crouched over green wood fires in the cabins of Wildcat Hollow, eternally sucking a corn-cop pipe, and stirring the endless kettles of stewing coon and possum, had taught him to do even as well as he had by the angel. The men muttered and threatened among themselves. But they began working desperately. Someone suggested that a man be sent to follow the angel and to watch her and the bird woman leave the swamp. Freckles' heart sank within him. But Jack was in a delirium and passed all caution. Yes, he sneered. Maybe all of you had better give over on the saw and run after the girl. I guess not. Seems to me I got the favors. I don't see no bouquets on the rest of you. If anybody follows her, I do. And I'm needed here among such a pack of idiots. There's no danger in that, baby-face. She wouldn't give me away. You double and work like forty, while me and Wesner will take the axes and begin to cut in on the other side. What about the noise? asked Wesner. No difference about the noise. Answered Jack. She took us to be from McLean's gang. Slick as grease. Make the chips fly. So all of them attacked the big tree. Freckles sat on one of his benches and waited. In their haste to fell the tree and load it, so that the teamsters could start, and leave them free to attack another, they had forgotten to rebind him. Ah, the angel was on the trail and safely started. The cold perspiration made Freckles' temples clammy, and ran in little streams down his chest. It would take her more time to follow the trail, but her safety was Freckles' sole thought in urging her to go that way. He tried to figure on how long it would require to walk to the carriage. He wondered if the bird woman had unhinged. He followed the angel every step of the way. He figured on when she would cross the path of the clearing, pass the deep pool where his find-out frog lived, cross Sleepy Snake Creek, and reach the carriage. He wondered what she would say to the bird woman, and how long it would take them to pack and start. He knew now that they would understand, and the angel would try to get the boss there in time to save his wager. She could never do it, for the saw was over half through, and Jack and Wesner cutting into the opposite side of the tree. It appeared as if they could fell at least that tree before a claim could come, and if they did, he lost his wager. When it was down, would they rebind him, and leave him for Wesner to wreck his insane vengeance on? Or would they take him along to the next tree, and dispose of him when they had stolen all the timber they could? Jack had said that he should not be touched until he left. Surely he would not run all that risk for one tree, when he had many others a far greater value marked. Freckles felt that he had some hope to cling to now, but he found himself praying that the angel would hurry. Once Jack came to Freckles, and asked if he had any water. Freckles arose, and showed him where he kept his drinking water. Jack drank in great gulps, and as he passed back the bucket, he said, When a man's got a chance of catching a fine girl like that, he ought not be mixed up in any dirty business. I wished to God I was out of this. Freckles answered heartily, I wish I was too. Jack stared at him a minute, and then broke into a roar of rough laughter. Blessed if I blame you, he said. But you had your chance. We offered you a fair thing. And you gave Wesner his answer. I ain't envying you when he gives you his. You're six to one, answered Freckles. It will be easy enough for you to be killing the body of me, but curse you all, you can't blacken me soul. Well, I'd give anything you could name if I had your honesty, said Jack. When the mighty tree fell, the limberlost shivered, and screamed with the echo. Freckles groaned in despair, but the gang took heart. There was so much accomplished. They knew where to dispose of it safely, with no questions asked. Before the day was over, they could remove three others all suitable for veneer and worth far more than this. Then they would leave Freckles to Wesner and scatter for safety, with more money than they had ever hoped for in their possession.