Love of the Wild. Archie P. McKishnie

the frying meat whetted Watson’s appetite, and he needed no second invitation to “set up and eat hearty.” He ate wolfishly, his little eyes darting from his food to the face of McTavish, his heavy jaws working, and the muscles of his throat contracting with boa-like elasticity, as he gulped down huge mouthfuls of meat and bread. At last he pushed his chair back from the table and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

      “Now, Mac,” he said affably, “we’ll just have you sign those papers, and I’ll turn you over this deed I hold here in exchange for the one you now have. Says I to Smythe this morning: ‘Smythe, it’s a nice sort of glow a fellow feels after doing a worthy act, anyway. Think what this will mean to the McTavishes.’ And do you know he was that soft-hearted he couldn’t answer me, and stood there swallowing with tears in his eyes.”

      “I’m thinkin’ that we won’t make any swap,” said Big McTavish quietly. “Neither me nor Boy nor any of us care to leave this big woods. We’ve been here so long we’ve grown into it somehow. You see we’re not hankerin’ to leave.”

      Watson sat up with a jerk, and the pipe he was filling fell to the floor and broke into a dozen pieces.

      “What!” he cried, “do you mean to say, McTavish, that you won’t deal?”

      “That’s what I mean,” nodded the big man.

      “And you won’t exchange this block of tangled brush for one hundred acres of good, cultivated land?” Mr. Watson leaned forward. “Are you sure you realize what you are missing?” he asked impressively.

      “All I know is, we’re thankful to God for what we have now,” said Big McTavish fervently. “We don’t feel like insultin’ Him by tradin’ what He’s given us, sight and unseen.”

      “Oh, come now, McTavish,” blustered Watson, “you must be crazy. Why, man, you will never get another chance such as the one we offer you. Besides, you can’t stay here very much longer, anyway. Of course, you’ve heard what Colonel Hallibut intends to do with you Bushwhackers?”

      A deep line appeared between Big McTavish’s eyes.

      “We don’t want any trouble with Colonel Hallibut,” he said. “We hear that he has his eyes on our timber. When he comes after it he’ll find us here. As for you, Mr. Watson, I wouldn’t take your sand farm as a gift, thankin’ you just the same.”

      “Then why in hell have you been letting me waste my breath on you for the last hour?” snarled Watson, his face purple.

      McTavish stood up.

      “That’ll do now,” he warned. “There’s Gloss comin’ up the path, and swearin’ is somethin’ she has never heard in this house, and before I’ll have her hear you usin’ cuss-words I’ll cram this down your throat, and don’t you forget it.”

      He lifted a hairy fist, then sat down and resumed his smoking.

      Gloss entered the room, singing blithely. Her shapely arms were bare to the elbows. Her big gray eyes, dancing with life and health, swept the room and rested wonderingly on Watson. He in turn gazed at the girl, and an ashy whiteness wiped out the mottled color of his cheeks. He drew back whispering something under his breath.

      “This is Mr. Watson, Gloss,” said Big McTavish.

      “Good-morning, sir,” saluted the girl. “I didn’t know that we had a visitor. I see uncle has got you your breakfast, but surely you’ll enjoy a glass of fresh buttermilk. I’ll fetch it.”

      She slipped from the room, and Watson looked across at Big McTavish.

      “That girl,” he asked quickly, “is she your own child?”

      The big man looked up, astonishment written on his face.

      “No,” he answered, “but she’s just as dear as though she was our own. Her dyin’ mother sent her to us. Why do you ask that?”

      Watson was reaching for his cap and rifle. Perhaps he did not hear the question. At any rate he did not reply.

      Fifteen minutes later he mounted the weary gray horse and without so much as a word of adieu rode away through the timber.

      McTavish stood on the edge of the clearing, his long arms folded, and watched his visitor disappear. Turning, he found the daft child beside him.

      “Well, Davie,” he said kindly, “hadn’t you best run home now, lad? You’re all wet with the dew.”

      The boy waved his arms above his head and imitated an eagle’s scream. Then he pointed to the white patch that marked the first blaze of the long trail.

      “You mean the man on the white horse, Davie?” asked McTavish, smiling. “Yes, lad, I know.”

      The boy gazed about him with wide and expressive eyes. Then once more he waved his arms like an ascending eagle, gave a wild call of victory and defiance, and, bending, sped swiftly away and was lost in the heavy shadow.