Chapter X: The Widow's Mite

"I see ye from the windy," said the old woman, "an' I sez, quick as winkin', there goes the sheriff a-lookin' for whoever shot Amos Hammond, sez I. So I lights out an' takes a short cut an' tops the fences like a breechy steer, an' here I be."

"How's that?" exclaimed old Hercules. "Someone shoot Amos Hammond?"

"Aye, he got a pepperin' with partridge shot," returned Widow Wilson brightly. "But I wisht it had been buckshot," she added, yet more brightly.

"Ye're right, Mrs. Wilson," said the sheriff. "An' I may's well be open an' above-board about it in this company, now's ye've mentioned it. Amos Hammond ain't hurt serious, but he's most scart to death, an' he charges James Todhunter with the shootin'."

"What's that?" cried old Hercules. "Amos Hammond's a liar an' a fool! Jim shoot a man? Only a liar would say it an' only a fool would believe it! I know that lad. We all know 'im in this house. Ye're barkin' up the wrong tree, Sheriff. Ain't I right, Flora?"

But Flora didn't answer. She sat with bowed head and averted face. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and the knuckles were white as ivory.

"Reckon yer right this time," said old Archie McKim. "Right in part, anyhow. Jim's quality. If he was desperate enough to shoot a man he'd use a bullet an' have a proper duel. He ain't the kind to pump no partridge shot into any man."

"Aye, that's right," said Widow Wilson, with her clear, smiling glance still upon the long arm of the law. "That young gentleman didn't shoot Amos Hammond. It was me shot 'im. An' who's got a better right to shoot that flinty-hearted weasel, I'd like to know? Ye didn't reckon the poor old widdy woman had the spunk to up an' fire off a gun, did ye now? I borrowed the ca'tridges from the young gentleman--I know a gentleman when I see 'im, an' always did--an' told 'im how I was huntin' rabbits. So he driv off to the village an' I waited round in the woods an' kep' an eye on the road, for I knew Amos Hammond was up-river at his dirty work. I waited till he come drivin' down the road, an' then I see the young gentleman a-drivin' home. Hammond, he pulls up fair in the middle of the track an' starts right in sassin' the lad an' miscallin' this house. Out hops Mr. Todhunter an' jerks Amos Hammond down from his seat an' slaps his face an' drags 'im round an' scrudges his face in the snow an' then heaves 'im up into the sleigh again. Then he jumps into his pung an' drives off up the glen. 'That's good,' sez I to meself, 'but it ain't enough. There be more a-comin' to 'im, even afore he's smit by the wrath o' God. He's been cheatin' an' lyin' an' slanderin' an' persecutin' all these years,' sez I to meself--an' so I ups an' shoots a shoot into his dirty carcass."

"_You_ did it?" cried Flora, turning a bloodless face and stricken eyes upon the old woman.

"Sure I done it; an' I wisht it was buckshot," replied the brisk old dame.

The girl got out of her chair clumsily, crossed the kitchen with bowed head and vanished up the back stairs. The others gazed after her, some anxiously, all inquiringly.

"She needn't feel that bad for me," said Mrs. Wilson. "It's real sweet of her, bless her heart, but I ain't worryin'."

"Ain't ye tryin' to play a joke on us, ma'am?" asked the sheriff.

"The joke was on Amos Hammond, if it was a joke," replied the widow cheerily.

"Maybe ye've imagined it all in yer own mind, ma'am."

"In my own mind? It would have been buckshot, an' he'd be dead now, if that was the way of it!"

"Ye ain't yerself to-day, ma'am. Yer troubles have got onto yer brain. Yer thoughts have got the better of yer judgment, so to speak."

"What d'ye mean by that, Bruce Hart? Be ye tryin' to make me out a loony? Well, ye best quit right now! My troubles have nigh broke my heart, but my mind's as good as ever it was an' I know what I'm about. Take me along to Amos Hammond, an' ye'll soon see whether I be cracked or sane. I'll tell 'im how it was me who shot 'im, an' why; an' if he puts the law onto me, then I'll tell the jedge why I done it. But he won't put the law onto me, never fear! Where'd he be then, him an' his psalm-singin', if I was to git up in front of a jedge an' jury an' tell all I know about 'im? All ye got to do's take me to 'im an' see if he dare make a charge agin me. Do ye dooty, Sheriff!"

Old Hercules began to chuckle and slap his knee.

"She be right," he exclaimed. "Dead right. She knows what she's about; an' she knowed what she was about when she pulled the trigger. She got Amos Hammond by the short hair, whatever way ye take it! Fetch her back here as soon's she's had her little say to Amos. There be a plate an' a chair an' a bed for her under this roof as long as she wants to use 'em."

Twenty minutes later, the sheriff and the cheerful widow drove amiably off together. Ten minutes after that, Flora left the house, stealthily by way of the seldom-used front door. She carried a pack and a shotgun and snowshoes, and was clothed for both warmth and action. She made a cautious detour of the farmstead before pausing to slip her feet into the toe-straps of the snowshoes and tie the leather thongs. The two dogs came leaping and yelping about her; and, after a moment's hesitation, she decided to let them accompany her. Then she and the enthusiastic dogs struck westward in Jim Todhunter's tracks. A light drift of snow had obliterated the tracks in open places, but in the lee of thickets and in the woods they were deep and plain.

Flora carried food, blankets, and a belt ax in her pack. She traveled at a good pace for half an hour, after which the weight of the pack began to tell on her, but she held anxiously on her way. The sun went down behind the black forests of the west, and a rind of new moon and many white stars did their best to replace it; and the girl hoisted the pack higher and continued to advance. Soon after the setting of the sun, a wind started up and set the dry snow running in open places and awoke many weird voices among the harsh spires of the spruces and in the crowns of tall pines. Flora was glad that she had allowed the dogs to come along with her. The dogs ceased their hunting of rabbits to right and left after the sun went down and kept to the trail of Jim's snowshoes. The trail was all in the forest now, under shaking branches, in a whispering gloom pierced here and there by a rift of pale shine.

Flora was not accustomed to carrying a pack and she had to drop it at last. She made a shelter in the heart of a thicket of young firs, built a good fire, cut small boughs for her bed, fed the dogs, ate her own cold supper and rolled herself in three double blankets. But several hours passed before sleep came to her. It was her first night in the woods and, warm as she was, she shivered continually, and a creeping chill played on the nape of her neck at every rush and whisper and sly footfall of wind and wood and frosty snow. But her conscience disturbed her even more than her fears. At last she fell asleep, with a big dog curled on either side.

It was close upon supper time when Mrs. Ducat went to Flora's room and discovered her absence. A note on the dressing table said:

"I have gone to look for Jim. Don't worry."

The grandfathers toddled forth and took a look around by lantern-light but the tracks of the snowshoes were already drifted full. They agreed that both Jim and the girl had gone north and that, as they had plenty of grub, there was nothing to worry about.