A lively sensation was produced, the next forenoon, when a youth and a girl, in a one-horse wagon, with a big dog and a small trunk, arrived at Lord Betterson's "castle."
Link dashed into the house, screaming, "They've come! they've come!"
"Who has come?" gasped poor Mrs. Betterson, with a start of alarm, glancing her eye about the disordered room.
"Jack What's-his-name! the fellow that shot the deer and lost his horse. It's Aunt Lavinny with him, I bet!"
And out the boy rushed again, to greet the new-comers.
Lill, who was once more washing dishes at the table, stepped down from her stool, and ran out too, drying her fingers on her apron by the way. Five-year-old Chokie got up from his holes in the earth by the doorstep, and stood with dangling hands and sprawling fingers, grinning, dirty-faced.
Vinnie, springing to the ground with Jack's help, at the side door caught Lill in her arms, and gave her an ardent kiss.
"I have heard of you!" she said; for she had recognized the bright, wistful face.
"Dear auntie!" said the child, with tears and smiles of joy, "I'm so glad you've come!"
"Here is Link—my friend Link," said Jack. "Don't overlook him."
"I've heard a good deal about you too, Link!" said Vinnie, embracing him also, but not quite so impulsively.
"Ye needn't mind kissing me!" said Link, bashfully turning his face. "And as for him,"—as she passed on to the five-year-old,—"that's Chokie; he's a reg'lar prairie gopher for digging holes; you won't find a spot on him big as a sixpence clean enough to kiss, I bet ye two million dollars!"
Vinnie did not accept the wager, convinced, probably, that she would lose it if she did. As she bent over the child, however, the report of a kiss was heard,—a sort of shot in the air, not designed to come very near the mark.
"I'm didding a well," said Chokie, in a solemn voice, "so the boys won't have to go to the spring for water."
Mrs. Betterson tottered to the door, convulsively wrapping her red shawl about her.
"Lavinia! Is it sister Lavinia?"
At sight of her, so pale and feeble, Vinnie was much affected. She could hardly speak; but, supporting the emaciated form in her strong, embracing arms, she led her back into the house.
"You are so good to come!" said Mrs. Betterson, weeping, as she sank in her chair. "I am worse than when I wrote to you; and the baby is no better; and Cecie—poor Cecie! though she can sit up but little, she does more than any of us for the sick little thing."
Vinnie turned to the lounge, where Cecie, with the baby in her arms, lay smiling with bright, moist eyes upon the new-comer. She bent over and kissed them both; and, at sight of the puny infant,—so pitiful a contrast to Mrs. Lanman's fair and healthy child,—she felt her heart contract with grief and her eyes fill.
Then, as she turned away with an effort at self-control, and looked about the room, she must have noticed, too, the painful contrast between Jack's home and this, which was to be hers; and have felt a sinking of the heart, which it required all her strength and courage to overcome.
"We are not looking fit to be seen; I know it, Lavinia!" sighed Mrs. Betterson. "But you'll excuse it—you've already excused so many things in the past! It seems a dreadful, unnatural thing for our family to be so—so very—yet don't think we are absolutely reduced, Lavinia. Mr. Betterson's connections, as everybody knows, are very wealthy and aristocratic, and they are sure to do something for him soon. This is my husband, sister Lavinia." And, with a faint simper of satisfaction, she looked up at a person who just then entered from an adjoining room.
He was a tall, well-made man, who looked (Vinnie could not help thinking) quite capable of doing something for himself. He might have been called fine-looking, but that his fine looks, like his gentility, of which he made a faded show in his dress and manners, appeared to have gone somewhat to seed. He greeted Vinnie with polite condescension, said a few commonplace words, settled his dignified chin in his limp dicky, which was supported by a high, tight stock (much frayed about the edges), and went on out of the house.
"Now you have seen him!" whispered Mrs. Betterson, as if it had been a great event in Vinnie's life. "Very handsome, and perfectly well-bred, as you observe. Not at all the kind of man to be neglected by his family, aristocratic as they are; do you think he is? Yes, my dear Lavinia," she added, with a sickly smile, "you have seen a real, live Betterson!"
These evidences of a foolish pride surviving affliction made poor Vinnie more heartsick than anything else; and for a moment the brave girl was almost overcome with discouragement.
In the meanwhile the real, live Betterson walked out into the yard, where Jack—who had not cared to follow Vinnie into the house—was talking with Link.
"Will you walk in, sir?" And the stately Betterson neck bent slightly in its stiff stock.
"No, I thank you," replied Jack. "But I suppose this trunk goes in."
"Ah! to be sure. Lincoln,"—with a wave of the aristocratic Betterson hand,—"show the young man where to put the trunk. He can take it to Cecie's room."
"I can, can I? That's a privilege!" thought Jack. He was perfectly willing to be a porter, or anything else, in a good cause; and it was a delight for him to do Vinnie a service; but why did the noble Betterson stand there and give directions about the trunk, in that pompous way, instead of taking hold of one end of it? Jack, who had a lively spirit, and a tongue of his own, was prompted to say something sarcastic, but he wisely forbore.
"I'll place it here for the present," he said, and set the trunk down by the doorstep. He thought it would be better for him to see Vinnie and bid her good-by a little later, after the meeting between the sisters should be well over; so he turned to Link, and asked where his big brothers were.
"I d'n' know," said Link; "guess they're down in the lot hunting prairie hens."
"Let's go and find 'em," said Jack.
Both Link and Lion were delighted with this proposal, and they set off in high glee, boy and dog capering at each side of the more steady-going Jack.
"A well?" said Jack, as they passed a curb behind the house. "I thought you had to go to the spring for water."
"So we do," said Link.
"Why don't you use the well?"
"I d'n' know; 't ain't good for anything. 'T ain't deep enough."
"Why wasn't it dug deeper?"
"I d'n' know; father got out of patience, I guess, or out of money. 'T was a wet time, and the water came into it, so they stunned it up; and now it's dry all summer."
They passed a field on the sunny slope, and Jack said, "What's here?"
"I d'n' know; 't was potatoes, but it's run all to weeds."
"Why didn't you hoe them?"
"I d'n' know; folks kind o' neglected 'em, till 't was too late."
Beyond the potatoes was another crop, which the weeds, tall as they were, could not hide.
"Corn?" said Jack.
"Meant for corn," replied Link. "But the cattle and hogs have been in it, and trampled down the rows."
"I should think so! They look like the last rows of summer!" Jack said. "Why don't you keep the cattle and hogs out?"
"I d'n' know; 't ain't much of a fence; hogs run under and cattle jump over."
"Plenty of timber close by,—why don't your folks make a better fence?"
"I d'n' know; they don't seem to take a notion."
Jack noticed that the river was quite near, and asked if there was good boating.
"I d'n' know,—pretty good, only when the water's too low."
"Do you keep a boat?"
"Not exactly,—we never had one of our own," said Link. "But one came floating down the river, and the boys nabbed that. A fust-rate boat, only it leaked like a sieve."
"Leaked? Doesn't it leak now?"
"No?" said Link, stoutly. "They hauled it up, and last winter they worked on it, odd spells, and now it don't leak a drop."
Jack was surprised to hear of so much enterprise in the Betterson family, and asked,—
"Stopped all the leaks in the old boat! They puttied and painted it, I suppose?"
"No, they didn't."
"Calked and pitched it, then?"
"No, they didn't."
"What did they do to it?"
"Made kindling-wood of it," said Link, laughing, and hitching up his one suspender.
Jack laughed too, and changed the subject.
"Is that one of your brothers with a gun?"
"That's Wad; Rufe is down on the grass."
"What sort of a crop is that,—buckwheat?"
Link grinned. "There's something funny about that! Ye see, a buckwheat-lot is a great place for prairie hens. So one day I took the old gun, and the powder and shot you gave me for carrying you home that night, and went in, and scared up five or six, and fired at 'em, but I didn't hit any. Wad came along and yelled at me. 'Don't you know any better 'n to be trampling down the buckwheat?' says he. 'Out of there, quicker!' And he took the gun away from me. But he'd seen one of the hens I started light again on the edge of the buckwheat; so he went in to find her. 'You're trampling the buckwheat yourself!' says I. 'No, I ain't,' says he,—'I step between the spears; and I'm coming out in a minute.' He stayed in, though, about an hour, and went all over the patch, and shot two prairie chickens. Then Rufe came along, and he was mad enough, 'cause Wad was treading down the buckwheat. 'Come out of that!' says he, 'or I'll go in after ye, and put that gun where you won't see it again.' So Wad came out; and the sight of his chickens made Rufe's eyes shine. 'Did ye shoot them in the buckwheat?' says he. 'Yes,' says Wad; 'and I could shoot plenty more; the patch is full of 'em.' Rufe said he wanted the gun to go and shoot ducks with, on the river; but he didn't find any ducks, and coming along back he thought he would try his luck in the buckwheat,—treading between the spears! He had shot three prairie chickens, when father came along, and scolded him, and made him come out. 'I've heard you fire twenty times,' says father; 'you're wasting powder and ruining the crop. Let me take the gun.' 'But you mustn't ruin the crop,' says Rufe. Father's a splendid shot,—can drop a bird every time,—only he don't like to go hunting very often. He thought 't would pay for him to go through the patch once; besides, he said, if the birds were getting the buckwheat, we might as well get the birds. He thought he could tread between the spears! Well, since then," said Link, "we've just made a hunting-ground of that patch, always treading between the spears till lately; now it's got so trampled it never'll pay to cut it; so we just put it through. See that hen!"
There was a sound of whirring wings,—a flash, a loud report, a curl of smoke,—a broken-winged grouse shooting down aslant into the buckwheat, and a young hunter running to the spot.
"That's the way he does it," said Rufe, getting up from the grass.
He greeted Jack good-naturedly, inquired about Snowfoot, heard with surprise of Vinnie's arrival, and finally asked if Jack would like to try his hand at a shot.
"I should," replied Jack, "if it wasn't for treading down your buckwheat."
"That's past caring for," said Rufe, with a laugh. "Here, Wad, bring us the gun."
"Is that your land the other side of the fence?" Jack asked.
"That lot belongs to old Peakslow," said Rufe, speaking the name with great contempt. "And he pretends to claim a big strip this side too. That's what caused the feud between our families."
"He hates you pretty well, I should judge," replied Jack; and he told the story, as Vinnie had told it to him, of her encounter with Peakslow on the deck of the schooner.
"He's the ugliest man!" Rufe declared, reddening angrily. "You may thank your stars you've nothing to do with him. Now take the gun,"—Wad had by this time brought it,—"go through to the fence and back, and be ready to fire the moment a bird rises. Keep your dog back, and look out and not hit one of Peakslow's horses, the other side of the fence."
"He brought home a new horse from Chicago a day or two ago," said Wad; "and he's just been out there looking at him and feeling for ringbones. If he's with him now, and if you should happen to shoot one of 'em, I hope it won't be the horse!"
Jack laughed, and started to go through the buckwheat. He had got about half-way, when a hen rose a few feet from him, at his right. He was not much accustomed to shooting on the wing; and it is much harder to hit birds rising suddenly, at random, in that way, than when they are started by a trained dog. But good luck made up for what he lacked in skill; and at his fire the hen dropped fluttering in the grass that bordered the buckwheat.
"I'll pick her up!" cried Link; and he ran to do so; while Wad carried Jack the powder and shot for another load.
"But I ought not to use up your ammunition in this way!" Jack protested.
"I guess you can afford to," replied Wad. "It was mostly bought with money we sold that fawn-skin for."
Jack was willing enough to try another shot; and, the piece reloaded, he resumed his tramp.
He had nearly reached the fence, when a bird rose between it and him, and flew over Peakslow's pasture. Jack had brought the gun to his shoulder, and was about to pull the trigger, when he remembered Peakslow's horses, and stopped to give a hasty glance over the fence.
Down went the gun, and Jack stood astonished, the bird forgotten, and his eyes fixed on an object beyond.
What Wad said of their neighbor having brought out a new horse from Chicago, together with what the captain of the Heron said of one of Peakslow's span being a light roan, rushed through his thoughts. He ran up to the fence, and looked eagerly over; then gave a shout of joy.
After all his futile efforts to find him,—chasing about the country, offering rewards, scattering hand-bills,—there was the lost horse, the veritable Snowfoot, grazing quietly in the amiable Mr. Peakslow's pasture!
Jack left the gun standing by the fence, leaped over, gave a familiar whistle, and called, "Come, Snowfoot! Co' jock! co' jock!"
There were two horses feeding in the pasture, not far apart. But only one heeded the call, lifted head, pricked up ears, and answered with a whinny. It was the lost Snowfoot, giving unmistakable signs of pleasure and recognition, as he advanced to meet his young master.
Jack threw his arms about the neck of his favorite, and hugged and patted and I don't know but kissed him; while the Betterson boys went up to the fence and looked wonderingly over.
In a little while, as they did not venture to go to him, Jack led Snowfoot by the forelock up to the rails, which they had climbed for a better view.
"Is he your horse?" they kept calling to him.
"Don't you see?" replied Jack, when he had come near enough to show the white feet and the scars; and his face gleamed with glad excitement. "Look! he and the dog know each other!"
It was not a Betterson, but a Peakslow style of fence, and Lion could not leap it; but the two animals touched noses, with tokens of friendly recognition, between the rails.
"I never expected such luck!" said Jack. "I've not only found my horse, but I've saved the reward offered."
"You haven't got him yet," said Rufe. "I guess Peakslow will have something to say about that."
"What he says won't make much difference. I've only to prove property, and take possession. A stolen horse is the owner's, wherever he finds him. But of course I'll act in a fair and open way in the matter; I'll go and talk with Peakslow, and if he's a reasonable man—"
"Reasonable!" interrupted Wad. "He holds a sixpence so near to his eye, that it looks bigger to him than all the rest of the world; he can't see reason, nor anything else."
"I'll make him see it. Will you go and introduce me?"
"You'd better not have one of our family introduce you, if you want to get anything out of Dud Peakslow!" said Rufe. "We'll wait here."
Jack got over the fence, and walked quickly along on the Betterson side of it, followed by Lion, until he reached the road. A little farther down was a house; behind the house was a yard; and in the yard was a swarthy man with a high, hooked nose, pulling a wheel off a wagon, the axletree of which, on that side, was supported by a propped rail. Close by was a boy stirring some grease in a pot, with a long stick.
Jack waited until the man had got the wheel off and rested it against the wagon; then said,—
"Is this Mr. Peakslow?"
"That happens to be my name," replied the man, scarcely giving his visitor a glance, as he turned to take the stick out of the grease, and to rub it on the axletree.
The boy, on one knee in the dirt, holding the grease-pot to catch the drippings, looked up and grinned at Jack.
"I should like a few minutes' talk with you, Mr. Peakslow, when you are at leisure," said Jack, hardly knowing how to introduce his business.
"I'm at leisure now, much as I shall be to-day," said Mr. Peakslow with the air of a man who did not let words interfere with work. "I've got to grease this wagon, and then harness up and go to haulin'. I haven't had a hoss that would pull his share of a decent load till now. Tend to what you're about, Zeph!"
"I have called to say," remarked Jack as calmly as he could, though his heart was beating fast, "that there is a horse in your pasture which belongs to me."
The man straightened his bent back, and looked blackly at the speaker, while the grease dripped from the end of the stick.
"A hoss in my pastur' that belongs to you! What do ye mean by that?"
"Perhaps you haven't seen this handbill?" And Jack took the printed description of Snowfoot from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to the astonished Peakslow.
"'Twenty dollars reward,'" he read. "'Stolen from the owner—a light, reddish roan hoss—white forefeet—scar low down on the near side, jest behind the shoulder—smaller scar on the off hip.' What's the meanin' of all this?" he said, glancing at Jack.
"Isn't it plain enough?" replied Jack, quietly standing his ground. "That is the description of the stolen horse; the horse is down in your pasture."
"Do you mean to say I've stole your hoss?" demanded Peakslow, his voice trembling with passion.
"Not by any means. He may have passed through a dozen hands since the thief had him. All I know is, he is in your possession now."
"And what if he is?"
"Why, naturally a man likes to have what is his own, doesn't he? Suppose a man steals your horse; you find him after a while in my stable; is he your horse, or mine?"
"But how do I know but this is a conspyracy to cheat me out of a hoss?" retorted Peakslow, looking again at the handbill, with a terrible frown. "It may have all been cut and dried aforehand. You've your trap sot, and, soon as ever the animal is in my hands, ye spring it. How do I know the hoss is yourn, even if ye have got a description of him? Anybody can make a description of anybody's hoss, and then go and claim him. Besides, how happens it a boy like you owns a hoss, anyway?"
In a few words Jack told his story, accounting at once for his ownership, and for the scars on the horse's side and hip.
"There are two other scars I can show you, under his belly. I didn't mention them in the handbill, because they are not noticeable, unless one is looking for them."
"Ye may show me scars all over him, fur's I know," was Peakslow's reply to this argument. "That may prove that he's been hurt by suth'n or other,—elephant, or not; but it don't prove you ever owned him."
"I can satisfy you with regard to that," said Jack, confidently. "Do you object to going down with me and looking at him?"
"Not in the least, only wait till I git this wheel on. Ye may go and see the hoss in my presence, but ye can't take the hoss, without I'm satisfied you've the best right to him."
"That's all I ask, Mr. Peakslow; I want only what belongs to me. If you are a loser, you must look for redress to the man who sold you my property; and he must go back on the next man."
"How's that?" put in Zeph, grinning over his grease-pot. "Pa thinks he's got a good deal better hoss than he put away; and you ain't agoin' to crowd him out of a good bargain, I bet!"
"Hold your tongue!" growled Peakslow. "I can fight my own battles, without any of your tongue. I put away a pooty good hoss, and I gin fifteen dollars to boot."
"What man did you trade with?" Jack inquired.
"A truckman in Chicago. He liked my hoss, and I liked hisn, and we swapped. He wanted twenty dollars, I offered him ten, and we split the difference. He won't want to give me back my hoss and my money, now; and ye can't blame him. And the next man won't want to satisfy him. Grant the hoss is stole, for the sake of the argyment," said Peakslow. "I maintain that when an animal that's been stole, and sold, and traded, finally gits into an honest man's hands, it's right he should stay there."
"Even if it's your horse, and the honest man who gets him is your neighbor?" queried Jack.
"I do'no'—wal—yes!" said Peakslow. "It's a hard case, but no harder one way than t' other."
"But the law looks at it in only one way," replied Jack. "And with reason. Men must be careful how they deal with thieves or get hold of stolen property. How happens it that you, Mr. Peakslow, didn't know that such a horse had been stolen? Some of your neighbors knew it very well."
"Some of my neighbors I don't have nothin' to say to," answered Peakslow, gruffly. "If you mean the Bettersons, they're a pack of thieves and robbers themselves, and I don't swap words with none of 'em, without 't is to tell 'em my mind; that I do, when I have a chance."
"You use pretty strong language when you call them thieves and robbers, Mr. Peakslow."
"Strong or not, it's the truth. Hain't they cheated me out o' the best part of my farm?"
"The Bettersons—cheated you!" exclaimed Jack.
They were now on the way to the pasture; and Peakslow, in a sort of lurid excitement, pointed to the boundary fence.
"My line, by right, runs five or six rod t' other side. I took up my claim here, and Betterson bought hisn, 'fore ever the guv'ment survey run through. That survey fixed my line 'way over yender in their cornfield. And there I claim it belongs, to this day."
"But, Mr. Peakslow, how does it happen that a man like Mr. Betterson has been able to rob a man like you,—take a part of your farm before your very eyes? He is a rather slack, easy man; while you, if I'm not greatly mistaken, are in the habit of standing up for your rights."
"I can gin'ly look out for myself," said Peakslow. "And don't suppose that Lord Betterson took me down and put his hands in my pockets, alone."
"Nine men, with masks on," cried Zeph, "come to our house one night, and told pa they'd jest tear his ruf right down over his head, and drive him out of the county, if he didn't sign a deed givin' Betterson that land."
"Hold your yawp, Zeph!" muttered Peakslow. "I can tell my own story. There was nine of 'em, all armed, and what could I do?"
"This is a most extraordinary story!" exclaimed Jack. "Did you sign the deed?"
"I couldn't help myself," said Peakslow.
"It seems to me I would have helped myself, if the land was rightfully mine!" cried Jack. "They might tear my house down,—they might try to drive me out of the county,—I don't believe I would deed away my land, just because they threatened me, and I was afraid."
"It's easy to talk that way," Peakslow replied. "But, come case in hand,—the loaded muzzles in your face,—you'd change your mind."
"Didn't they pay for the land they took?"
"Barely nothin'; jest the guv'ment price; dollar 'n' a quarter an acre. But jest look at that land to-day,—the best in the State,—wuth twenty dollars an acre, if 't is a cent."
"What was Betterson's claim?" Jack asked; "for men don't often do such things without some sort of excuse."
"They hild that though the survey gin me the land, it was some Betterson had supposed belonged to his purchase. Meanwhile he had j'ined a land-claim society, where the members all agreed to stand by one another; and that was the reason o' their takin' sich high-handed measures with me."
Jack was inclined to cross-question Peakslow, and sift a little this astonishing charge against Betterson and the land-claim society. But they had now reached the pasture bars, and the question relating to the ownership of the horse was to be settled.
The Betterson boys were still sitting on the fence, where Jack had left them; but Snowfoot had returned to his grazing.
"Call him," said Jack. "If he doesn't come for you, then see if he will come for me."
Peakslow grumblingly declined the test.
"He doesn't always come when I call him," said Jack. "I'll show you what I do then. Here, Lion!"
He took from his pocket an ear of corn he had picked by the way, placed one end of it between the dog's jaws, saying, "Bring Snowfoot, Lion! bring Snowfoot!" and let him through the bars.
Lion trotted into the pasture, trotted straight up to the right horse, coaxed and coquetted with him for a minute, and then trotted back. Snowfoot followed, leering and nipping, and trying to get the ear of corn.
Lion brought the ear to Jack, and Jack gave it to Snowfoot, taking him at the same time by the forelock.
"What do you think of that?" he said, looking round in triumph at Peakslow.
"I don't see as it's anything to make sich a fuss over," said Peakslow, looking angrily across at the spectators on the boundary fence, as they cheered the success of the man[oe]uvre. "It shows you've larnt your dog tricks,—nothin' more. 'Most any hoss would foller an ear of corn that way."
"Why didn't your hoss follow it?"
"The dog didn't go for my hoss."
"Why didn't he go for your horse, as soon as for mine?" urged Jack.
To which Peakslow could only reply,—
"Ye needn't let down the top bar; ye can't take that hoss through! I traded for him, and paid boot, and you've got to bring better evidence than your say-so, or a dog's trick, 'fore I give up my claim."
"I'll bring you evidence," said Jack, turning away in no little impatience and disgust.
He hastened back to Mr. Betterson's house, and was met by the boys as he came into the yard.
"What did I tell you?" said Rufe. "Couldn't get him, could you?"
"No, but I will!" replied Jack, untying the horse, which he had left hitched to an oak-tree. "I'm going for a witness." He backed the wagon around. "Get in, if you like,"—to Rufus.
Rufus did like; and the two rode off together, to the great dissatisfaction of Wad and Link, who also wanted to go and see the fun.
"Did Peakslow say anything to you about our folks?" Rufe asked.
"I rather think he did!" said Jack; and he repeated the story of the land robbery.
Rufe showed his contempt for it by a scornful laugh. "I'll tell you just what there is in it; and it will show you the sort of man you have to deal with. We haven't an inch of his land. Do you think father is a man to crowd a neighbor?"
"And a neighbor like Peakslow! That's just what I told him," said Jack.
"You see," said Rufe, "these claims through here were all taken up before the government survey. Most of the settlers were decent men; and they knew that when the survey came to be made, there would be trouble about the boundaries, if they didn't take measures beforehand to prevent it. So they formed a society to protect each other against squatters and claim-jumpers, and particularly to settle disputed boundary questions between themselves. They all signed a paper, agreeing to 'deed and redeed,'—that is, if your land adjoined mine, and the government survey didn't correspond with our lines, but gave you, for instance, a part of the land I had improved, then you agreed to redeed that part to me, for the government price; just as I agreed to redeed to my neighbors what the survey might give me of their claims."
"I understand," said Jack.
"Well, father and almost everybody in the county joined the society; but there were some who didn't. Peakslow was one."
"What were his objections?"
"He couldn't give any good ones. All he would say was, 'I'll see; I'll think about it.' He was just waiting to see if there was any advantage to be gained over his neighbors by not joining with them. Finally, the survey came through; and the men run what they called a 'random line,' which everybody thought, at first, was the true line. According to that, the survey would have given us a big strip of Peakslow's farm, including his house and barn. That frightened him. He came over, and shook his fist in father's face, and threatened I don't know what, if he took the land.
"'You really think I ought to redeed to you all your side of our old line?' says father.
"'Of course I do!' says Peakslow. 'It's mine; you never claimed it; and I'll shoot the fust man who sets foot on 't, to take it away from me.'
"'Then,' says father, 'why don't you join the society, and sign the agreement to redeed, with the rest of us? That will save trouble.'
"So Peakslow rushed off in a fearful hurry, and put his name to the paper. Then—what do you think? The surveyors, in a few days, run the correct line, and that gave Peakslow a strip of our farm."
"Capital!" laughed Jack.
"It wasn't capital for us! He was then, if you will believe it, more excited than when the boot seemed to be on the other leg. He vowed that the random line was a mere pretence to get him to sign the agreement; that it was all a fraud, which he never would submit to; that he wouldn't redeed, but that he would have what the survey gave him. That's the kind of man he is," added Rufus.
"But he did redeed?"
"Yes, in some such way as he told you. The dispute came before the society for arbitration, and of course the decision was in father's favor. But Peakslow still held out, and talked of shooting and all that sort of thing, till the society got tired of his nonsense. So, one night, nine men did give him a call; they had called on a claim-jumper down the river a few nights before, and made kindling-wood of his shanty; Peakslow knew it, and knew they were not men to be trifled with. They told him that if he expected to live in the county, he must sign the deed. And he signed it. My father wasn't one of the men, but Peakslow turned all his spite against him."
"He imagines he has been wronged," said Jack.
"I suppose so, for he is one of that kind who never can see any side to a quarrel but their own. The land is growing more valuable every year; he covets it accordingly, and so the ferment in his mind is kept up. Of course," Rufe confessed, "we have done, or neglected to do, a good many things which have kept adding fuel to the fire; for it's impossible to live peaceably alongside of such a selfish, passionate, unreasonable neighbor. We boys have taken up the quarrel, and now I owe that Zeph a cudgelling, for hurting Cecie."
"How did he hurt her?"
"We had a swing up in the woods. The Peakslows are always interfering in our affairs, and, one day, when Link and the girls went to swing, they found a couple of little Peakslows there. Link drove 'em away, and they went off bellowing to their big brothers. In a little while Zeph came along, when Cecie happened to be in the swing; and he pushed her so hard that she fell out."
"I shouldn't think cudgelling him would give you much satisfaction," said Jack. "It was a dreadful thing to happen! But did he intend it?"
"I don't think he is sorry for it. Father went to see Mr. Peakslow about it; but he got nothing but abuse from him. What do you think he said? 'The swing,' says he, 'is on a part of the land you robbed me of; if you had gin me what the guv'ment survey did, then your children wouldn't have been there, and the thing wouldn't have occurred.' That is the man who has got your horse."
Meanwhile, they had driven past Peakslow's house, proceeding down the river road; and now once more Jack reined up before old Wiggett's cabin.
At the sight of the wagon approaching three or four half-naked little barbarians ran into the house, like wild creatures into their hole, giving an alarm which brought out old Wiggett himself, stooping through the low doorway.
"Mr. Wiggett, do you remember me?" said Jack.
"Wal, I reckon!" said the old man, advancing to the wagon, reaching up, and giving Jack's hand a hearty shake. "You're the young chap that found my section corner."
"And do you remember my horse?"
"I 'low I oughter; for your elephant story, and the scars you showed me, was drea'ful curi's. I heard the hoss was stole."
"He was stolen. But I have found him; and I want you to go with me and identify him, if you will be so good. Mr. Peakslow has him."
"Peakslow?" said the old man, with a dubious shake of the head. "It's nigh about the easiest thing in the world to git into trouble with Dud Peakslow. I gener'ly go my way, and let Peakslow go hisn, and waste few words on him. But I don't mind gwine with ye, if ye say so. How did Peakslow come by him?"
Jack told the story, whilst driving back to Peakslow's house. There he left Rufus in the wagon, and walked on with Mr. Wiggett into the barnyard.
Peakslow had finished greasing his wheels, and was about harnessing a pair of horses which Zeph held by their halters at the door of a log-stable. One of the horses was Snowfoot.
"Please wait a minute, Mr. Peakslow," said Jack, turning pale at the sight. "I've brought a witness to prove my property."
Peakslow looked at his neighbor Wiggett, and gave a grunt.
"So you've come to interfere in this business, hey?"
Mr. Wiggett made no reply, but walked up to Snowfoot, stroked his sides, examined the scars, looked at him before and behind, and nodded slowly several times. Then he spoke.
"I hain't come over to interfere in nobody's business, Mr. Peakslow. But I happen to know this yer young man; and I know this yer hoss. At his request, I've come over to say so. I could pick out that animal, and sw'ar to him, among ten thousan'."
"What can you swear to?" Peakslow demanded, poising a harness.
"I can sw'ar this is the hoss the young man druv the day he come over to find my section corner."
"That all?"
"Isn't that enough?" said Jack.
"No!" said Peakslow, and threw the rattling harness upon Snowfoot's back. "It don't prove the hoss belonged to you, if ye did drive him. And, even though he did belong to you, it don't prove but what ye sold him arterward, and then pretended he was stole, to cheat some honest man out of his prop'ty. Hurry up, boy! buckle them hames." And he went to throw on the other harness.
Jack stepped in Zeph's way. "This is my horse, and I've a word to say about buckling those hames."
"Ye mean to hender my work?" roared Peakslow, turning upon him. "Ye mean to git me mad?"
Jack had before been hardly able to speak, for his rising wrath and beating heart; but he was now getting control of himself.
"I don't see the need of anybody's getting mad, Mr. Peakslow. There's a right and a wrong in this case; and if we both want the right, we shall agree."
"Every man has his own way o' lookin' at the right," said Peakslow, slightly mollified. "The right, to your notion, is that I shall give ye up the hoss. I've got possession of the hoss, and I mean to keep possession; and that's what's about right, to my notion."
"I want only what is lawfully my own," Jack answered, firmly. "If you want what isn't yours, that's not right, but wrong. There's such a thing as justice, aside from our personal interest in a matter."
Probably Peakslow had never thought of that.
"Wal, what ye goin' to do about it?" he asked.
"I am going to have my horse," replied Jack. "If you let me take him peaceably, very well. If you compel me to go to law, I shall have him all the same, and you will have the costs to pay."
Peakslow winced. The threat of costs touched him in his tenderest spot.
"How's that?" he anxiously asked.
"I haven't been about the country looking for my horse, without knowing something of the law for the recovery of stolen property," replied Jack. "If I find him in your hands, and you give him up, I've no action against you. If you hold on to him, I can do one of two things. I can go to a magistrate, and by giving bonds to an amount that will cover all damages to you or anybody else if I fail to make good my claim, get out a writ of replevin, and send a sheriff with it to take the horse. Or I can let you keep him, and sue you for damages. In either case, the one who is beaten will have the costs to pay," Jack insisted, turning the screw again where he saw it pinch.
The swarthy brow was covered with perspiration, as Peakslow answered, making a show of bluster,—
"I can fight ye with the law, or any other way, 's long's you want to fight. I've got money. Ye can't scare me with your sheriffs and writs. But jest look at it. I'm to be throwed out of a hoss at a busy time o' year. You wouldn't like that, Mr. Wiggett—you nor nobody else."
"No," said Mr. Wiggett, who stood looking on in an impartial way, "it moutn't feel good, I allow. And it don't seem like it would feel much better, to have to stan' by and see a hoss that was stole from me, bein' worked by a neighbor. This yer young man tells a straightfor'ard story, and there's no doubt of its bein' his hoss. You've no doubt on't in your own mind, Dudley Peakslow. If he goes to law, he'll bring his proofs,—he's got friends to back him,—and you'll lose. Then why not come to a right understanding and save right smart o' trouble and cost. I 'low that'll be best for both."
"Wal, what's your idee of a right understandin'?" said Peakslow, flushed and troubled, turning to Jack. "My hoss is in Chicago—that is, if this hoss ain't mine. I might go in and see about gittin' on him back, but I don't want to spend the time, 'thout I can take in a little jag o' stuff; and how can I do that, if you break up my team?"
"Mr. Peakslow," replied Jack, quickly making up his mind what he would do, "while I ask for my rights, I don't wish to put you or any man to an inconvenience." He took Snowfoot by the bridle. "Here is my horse; and, with Mr. Wiggett for a witness, I make you this offer: you may keep him one week, and do any light work with him you please. You may drive him to Chicago, and use him in recovering your horse from the truckman. But mind, you are to be responsible for him, and bring him back with you. Is that a fair proposal?"
"Wal, I do'no' but what 't is; I'll think on 't."
"I want you to say now, in Mr. Wiggett's presence, whether you accept it."
"I'll agree to bring him back; but I do'no' 'bout deliverin' on him up to you," said Peakslow.
"Leave it so, then," replied Jack, with a confident smile. "I call you to witness, Mr. Wiggett, that the horse is in my possession now" (he still held Snowfoot by the bridle), "and that I lend him to Mr. Peakslow. Now you can buckle the hames, Zeph," letting go the bridle, and stepping back.
"Gi' me a copy o' that handbill," said Peakslow. "I shall want that, and I ought to have a witness besides, to make the truckman hear to reason."
"If he happens to be an unreasonable man," said Jack, with a smile, "you have the same remedy which I have,—a suit for damages. I don't believe he will wait for that. I'll see you in one week. Good-day, Mr. Peakslow."
"Looks like you was takin' a big resk, to let him drive the hoss to Chicago," Mr. Wiggett remarked confidentially, following Jack out of the yard.
"I don't see that it is," Jack replied, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I didn't wish to be hard on him. It does men good, sometimes, to trust them."
"Mabbe. But Dud Peakslow ain't like no other man ye ever see. He's got some quirk in his head, or he never'd have agreed to be responsible for the hoss and bring him back; ye may bet on that. He means to take some advantage. Now I'm interested in the case, and I shall hate to see you swindled."
Jack thanked the old man warmly; but he failed to see what advantage Peakslow could hope to gain.
"I know him a heap better 'n you dew," said Mr. Wiggett. "Now, it struck me, when he said he might need a witness, I'd offer to go with him to Chicago. I could help him with the truckman, and mabbe find out what new trick he's up tew. Anyhow, I could look arter your hoss a little."
"That would oblige me ever so much!" exclaimed Jack. "But I see no reason why you should take that trouble for me."
"I take a notion tew ye, in the fust place. Next place, I've been gwine to Chicago for the past tew weeks, but couldn't somehow git started. Now, banged if I won't go in with Peakslow!"
Having parted with Jack, the old man returned to propose the arrangement to his neighbor. He was just in time to hear Peakslow say to his son,—
"I see a twist in this matter 't he don't, shrewd as he thinks he is. If I lose a good bargain, I'm bound to make it up 'fore ever this hoss goes out of my hands. You ag'in, Wiggett?"
It was Mr. Wiggett, who concluded that he was quite right in saying that Peakslow had a quirk in his head.
Vinnie learned only too soon why Jack had dreaded so much to have her enter the Betterson household; and, in a momentary depression of spirits, she asked herself whether, if she had known all she was undertaking, she would not have shrunk from it.
The sight of the sick ones, the mother enfeebled in mind as well as in body, Lord Betterson pompous and complacent in the midst of so much misery, little Lill alone making headway against a deluge of disorder,—all this filled her with distress and dismay.
She could think of no relief but in action.
"I shall stifle," thought she, "unless I go to work at once, setting things to rights."
And the thought of helping others cheered herself.
She needed something from her trunk. That was at the door, just where Jack had left it. She went out, and found that Chokie had changed his mind with regard to digging a well, and was building a pyramid, using the door-yard sand for his material, a shingle for a shovel, and the trunk for a foundation.
"Why, Chokie!" she said; "what are you doing?"
"I makin' a Fourth-of-Duly," replied Chokie, flourishing his shingle. "After I dit it about twice as bid as the house, I doin' to put some powder in it, and tout'th it off."
"O dear!" said Vinnie; "I'm afraid you'll blow my trunk to pieces; and I must have my trunk now!"
"I doin' to blow it to pieces, and you tan't have it," cried Chokie, stoutly.
"But I've something for you in it," said Vinnie, "and we never can get it for you, if you touch off your Fourth-of-July on it."
"O, wal, you may dit it." And he began to shovel the sand off, throwing it into his clothing, into the house, and some into Vinnie's eyes.
Lord Betterson, who was walking leisurely about his castle, now came forward, and, seeing Vinnie in some distress, inquired, in his lofty way, if he could do anything for her.
"If you please," she replied, laughing, as she brushed the sand away from her eyes, "I should like to have this trunk carried in."
Betterson drew himself up with dignified surprise; for he had not meant to proffer any such menial service. Vinnie perceived the little mistake she had made; but she was not so overpoweringly impressed by his nobility as to think that an apology was due. She even permitted herself to be amused; and, retiring behind the sand in her eyes, which she made a great show of winking and laughing away, she waited to see what he would do.
He looked around, and coughed uncomfortably.
"Where are the boys?" he asked. "This—hem—is very awkward. I don't know why the trunk was left here; I directed that it should be taken to Cecie's room."—
Vinnie mischievously resolved that the noble Betterson back should bend beneath that burden.
"It is quite light," she said. "If you want help, I can lift one end of it."
The implication that it was not greatness of character, but weakness of body, which kept him above such service, touched my lord. As she, at the same time, actually laid hold of one handle, he waived her off, with ostentatious gallantry.
"Permit me!" And, with a smile of condescension, which seemed to say, "The Bettersons are not used to this sort of thing; but they can always be polite to the ladies," he took up the trunk by both handles, and went politely backward with it into the house, a performance at which Jack would have smiled. I say performance advisedly, for Betterson showed by his bearing, lofty and magnificent even under the burden, that this was not an ordinary act of an ordinary man.
Having set down the trunk in its place, he brushed his fingers with a soiled handkerchief, and retired, exceedingly flushed and puffy in his tight stock.
Vinnie thanked him with charming simplicity; while Cecie, on her lounge, laughed slyly, and Mrs. Betterson looked amazed.
"Why, Lavinia! how did you ever dare?"
"Dare what?"
"To ask Mr. Betterson to carry your trunk?"