The man dropped back into his former position, feet raised, arm held ready to strike with the knife.
Before it reached him, it dropped forward, without in the least pausing, and, propelled by both arms and legs, shot in a great, froglike leap through the air.
The shock, as it landed upon him, drove Ed Hardin’s knees back against his chest. His right arm, held ready to strike with the knife, was pinned and twisted painfully.
The knife slipped from his hand. A long arm shot forward and talon-like fingers clutched his hair. With his legs doubled back as they were, once more he was seized in that giant embrace, and he felt that his knees were being pressed into his chest until it soon must crush in like a shattered eggshell.
Then consciousness left him.
... When his senses slowly returned, he became aware of lights flashing and horses stamping, and the sound of men’s voices.
Jonas Keil was speaking, and Ed had the rare experience of hearing himself discussed after he was thought to be dead.
“--’Most on my bended knees ter git ’im not ter do it. But he said he wouldn’t feel right ter let Death run loose unhindered, long as he was livin’ an’ with strength ter fight. An’ when he rid out single-handed an’ alone, the bravest man what ever drawed breath was kilt.”
From his position, he judged that he had been placed on the grass at the side of the road. Near him was someone who, from an occasional quivering intake of breath, seemed to have been sobbing.
He tried to turn and see who it was, and he found that he could not so much as twitch a finger.
He heard three new arrivals come up the road, a man on horseback and two runners, the two evidently holding by the rider’s stirrup leathers. The rider, as soon as he drew up, said:
“We come soon’s we heerd you-all was gone ter foller Ed. Arn’s bringin’ the waggin. Hit’ll be here terreckly; we passed hit er piece back. But Arn didn’ git the straights from Cy when he come atter the waggin what hit was kilt Ed. Po’ ole Ed!”
Old Rensie Bucker, the negro who once had been a sailor, speaking with the _patois_ of foreign birth, replied to him:
“Hit ees Jonas, de chile-minded neegar who was shanghaed from his mammy’s shack down on de point ten year back. He had de mind of er chile an’ de strength ob five men, wid his beeg wide shoulders an’ short neck; wid de hump on his back an’ his arms hangin’ mos’ ter his ankles. He was gentle in dem days; but de East Indee folks tuck heem off an’ dey brought heem back er beast. He’s frum de schooner, by his clothes, an’ dey must have sot heem on de swamp road at night ter watch an’ keel.
“Dere he lies, dead. De stump ’gin which he struck when he pull Meester Ed Hardin frum his hoss had er sliver which stuck mos’ through heem. Den when he fit wid Meester Ed de hurt must have killed heem, because there is no other wound.”
The man beside Ed Hardin spoke, and Ed recognized him.
“Alex,” he said huskily.
There was a cry of amazement. Alex called for a light. Someone else, evidently startled by the voice coming from what all had thought to be a dead man, started to run, kicked over a lantern, and was cursed roundly by the others, who were crowding up.
When the wagon arrived, he was so far recovered that, with the assistance of the others, he was able to clamber painfully in and sink to the blankets on the bottom, every joint in his body aching.
The two Buntlys had called the younger men to one side and they were whispering excitedly together. Presently the riding-horses all were tied at the side of the road, and when the wagon creaked its way homeward, Ed was accompanied only by Alex, who had refused to leave him, and by old Arner. Rensie had gone with the others.
Two days later, he was able to creep out to the front porch of Arner’s little home and sit in the cool of a breeze that swept up from the bayou. After a space of silence, he asked:
“Arn, what’d them fellers do the yuther night? I can’t git er peep outen ’em.”
“They foun’ right smart of stuff in boxes, what Rensie said was some sorter dope, bein’ unloaded from the schooner. But they th’owed hit in the water.”
“I ain’t intrusted in no dope, Arn. I say what’d they do?”
“The leader of the gang confessed, after he’d been questioned by Rensie, an’ when he saw the jig was up, anyhow. They had sot Jonas ter keep folks skeerd off the swamp road at night, by killin’ whosomever come there. They was goin’ ter git er truck an’ haul that stuff off somewheres.”
“Well, what’d the boys do?”
Reflectively, Arner stroked his short, heavy beard. He spat into the yard. Then he turned to the deputy:
“Ed,” he said slowly, “yo’ comin’ down here, an’, single-handed an’ alone, huntin’ out the critter what was killin’ us off will be remembered an’ talked about in generations ter come--when these here swamps is cleared off an’ drained an’ producin’ corn an’ taters. But sich er little matter as er schooner lyin’ at the bottom of the bayou gatherin’ barnacles is soon forgot, an’ let’s you an’ me fergit that part of hit, too.”
[Illustration]
The Basket
_An Odd Little Tale_
_By_ HERBERT J. MANGHAM
Mrs. Buhler told him at first that she had no vacancies, but as he started away she thought of the little room in the basement.
He turned back at her call.
“I have got a room, too,” she said, “but it’s a very small one and in the basement. I can make you a reasonable price, though, if you’d care to look at it.”
The room was a problem. She always hesitated to show it to people, because so often they seemed insulted at her suggestion that they would be satisfied with such humble surroundings. If she gave it to the first applicant, he would likely be a disreputable character who might detract from the respectability of her house, and she would have to face the embarrassment of getting rid of him. So she was content for weeks at a time to do without the pittance the room brought her.
“How much is it?” asked the man.
“Seven dollars a month.”
“Let me see it.”
She called her husband to take her place at the desk, picked up a bunch of keys and led the way to the rear of the basement. The room was a narrow cell, whose one window was slightly below the level of a tiny, bare back yard, closed in by a board fence.
A tottering oak dresser was pushed up close to the window, and a small square table, holding a pitcher and washbowl, was standing beside it. An iron single-bed against the opposite wall left barely enough space for one straight-backed chair and a narrow path from the door to the window. A curtain, hanging across one corner, and a couple of hooks in the wall provided a substitute for a closet.
“You can have the use of the bathroom on the first floor,” said Mrs. Buhler. “There is no steam heat in the basement, but I will give you an oil stove to use if you want it. The oil won’t cost you very much. Of course, it never gets real cold in San Francisco, but when the fogs come in off the bay you ought to have something to take the chill off the room.”
“I’ll take it.”
The man pulled out a small roll of money and counted off seven one-dollar bills.
“You must be from the East,” remarked Mrs. Buhler, smiling at the paper money.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Buhler, looking at his pale hair and eyes and wan mustache, never thought of asking for references. He seemed as incapable of mischief as a retired fire horse, munching his grass and dreaming of past adventures.
He told her that his name was Dave Scannon.
And that was all the information he ever volunteered to anybody in the rooming-house.
* * * * *
An hour later he moved in. By carrying in one suitcase and transferring its contents to the dresser drawers he was installed.
The other roomers scarcely noticed his advent. He always walked straight across the little lobby without looking directly at anyone, never stopping except to pay his rent, which he did promptly on the fifth of every month.
He did not leave his key at the desk when he went out, as was the custom of the house, but carried it in his pocket. The chambermaid never touched his room. At his request she gave him a broom, and every Sunday morning she left towels, sheets and a pillowcase hanging on his doorknob. When she returned, she would find his soiled towels and linen lying in a neat pile beside his door.
Impelled by curiosity, Mrs. Buhler once entered the room with her master key. There was not so much as a hair to mar the bare tidiness. A comb and brush on the dresser and a pile of newspapers were the only visible evidences of occupancy. The oil stove was gathering dust in the corner: it had never been used. She carried it out with her: it would be just the thing for that old lady in the north room who always complained of the cold in the afternoons, when the rest of the hotel was not uncomfortable enough to justify turning on the steam.
The old lady was sitting in the lobby one afternoon when he came home from work.
“Is that your basement roomer?” she asked.
She watched him until he disappeared at the end of the hall.