II
Saturday was deliciously warm and springlike, the hens woke in the early dawn with a jocund note in their throats, and the young cattle frisked about the barn-yard, moved to action by the electrical influences of the south wind.
"Clear as a bell overhead," Deacon Williams said.
But Jack Dunlap, Sarah's hand, said, "Nobody travels that way."
Long before dawn the noise of the melting water could be heard running with musical tinkle under the ice. The ponds crashed and boomed in long reverberating explosions, as the sinking water heaved it up and let it fall with crackling roar; flights of ducks flashed over, cackling breathlessly as they scurried straight into the north.
Deacon and Sarah arrived early and took possession, for Sarah was to have the eighty which included the house. They were busy getting things ready for the partition. The Deacon, assisted by Jack, the hired man, was busy hauling the machinery out of the shed into the open air, while Sarah and a couple of neighbors' girls, with skirts tucked up and towels on their heads, were scouring up pots and pans and dusting furniture in the kitchen.
The girls, strong and handsome in their unsapped animal vigor, enjoyed the innocent display of their bare arms and petticoats.
People from Sand Lake passing by wondered what was going on. Gideon Turner had the courage to pull up and call out, for the satisfaction of his wife:—
"What's going on here this fine morning?"
"Oh, we're goin' to settle up the estate!" said Sarah. "Why! how de do, Mrs. Turner?"
"W'y, it's you, is it, Serry?"
"Yes; it's me,—what they is left of me. I been here sence six o'clock. I'm getting things ready for the division. Deacon Williams is the ex-ecutor, you know."
"Aha! Less see, you divide equally, I hear."
"Near's we can get at it. Uncle left me the house eighty, and the valley eighty to Emmy. Deacon's goin' to parcel out the belongin's."
Turner looked sly. "How'd Harkey feel?"
Sarah smiled. "I don't know and care less. He'll make trouble if he can, but I don't see how he can. He agreed to have the Deacon do the dividin', and he'll have to stand by it so far as I can see."
Mrs. Turner looked dubious. "Well, you know Ike Harkey. He looks as though sugar wouldn't melt in his mouth, but I tell you I'd hate to have dealin's with him."
Turner broke in: "Well, we must be movin'. I s'pose you'll move right in?"
"Yes. Just as soon's as this thing's settled."
"Well, good-by. Come up."
"You come down."
Sarah was a heavy, good-natured woman, a widow with "a raft of children." Probably for that reason her uncle had left her the house, which was large and comfortable. As she stood looking down the road, one of the girls came out to the gate. She was a plump, strong creature, a neighbor's girl who had volunteered to help.
"Yes. I guess—no, it's going the other way. Ain't it a nice day?"
That was as far as she could carry the utterance of her feeling, but all the morning she had felt the wonderful power of the air. The sun had risen incredibly warm. The wind was in the south, and the crackling, booming roar of ice in the ponds and along the river was like winter letting go its iron grip upon the land. Even the old cows shook their horns, and made comical attempts to frisk with the yearlings. Sarah knew it was foolish, but she felt like a girl that morning—and Bill was coming up the road.
In the midst of the joy of the spring day stood the house, desolate and empty, out of which its owner had been carried to a bed in the cold, clinging clay of the little burying-ground.
The girls and Sarah worked swiftly, brushing, cleaning, setting aside, giving little thought to even the beauty of the morning, which entered their blood unconsciously.
"Well, how goes it?" asked a quick, jovial voice.
The girls gave screams of affected fright.
"Why, Deacon! You nearly scared the life out of us."
Deacon Williams was always gallant.
"I didn't know I was given to scaring the ladies," he said. "Well, who's here?"
"Nobody but us so far."
"Hain't seen nothing o' Harkey?"
"Not a thing. He sent word he'd be on hand, though."
"M—, well, we've got the machinery invoiced. Guess I'll look around and kind o' get the household things in my mind's eye," said the Deacon, taking on the air of a public functionary.
"All right. We'll have everything ready here in a few minutes."
They returned to work, dusting and scrubbing. The girls with their banter put death into the background as an obscure and infrequent incident of old age.
Sarah again studied the road down the Coolly.
"Well there! I see a team coming up the Coolly now; wonder if it's Emmy."
"Looks more like Bill Gray's team," said one of the girls, looking slyly at Sarah, who grew very red.
"Oh, you're too sharp, ain't you?"
It was perfectly ridiculous (to the young people) to see these middle-aged lovers courting like sixteen-year-olds, and they had no mercy on either Bill or Sarah.
Bill drove up in leisurely way, his horses steaming, his wagon-wheels loaded with mud. Mrs. Gray was with him, her jolly face shining like the morning sun.
"Hello, folkses, are you all here?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Gray," said the Deacon, approaching to help her out. "Hello, Bill, nice morning."
Bill looked at Sarah for a moment. "Bully good," he said, leaving his mother to scramble down the wagon-wheel alone—at least so far as he was concerned, but the Deacon stood below courageously.
Mrs. Gray cried out in her loud good humor: "Look out, Deacon, don't git too near me—if I should fall on you there wouldn't be a grease spot left. There! I'm all right now," she said, having reached ground without accident. She shook her dress and looked briskly around. "Wal, what you done, anyway? Emmy's folks come yet?"
"No, but I guess that's them comin' now. I hope Ike won't come, though."
Mrs. Gray stared at the Deacon. "Why not?"
"Well, he's just sure to make a fuss," said Jack, "he's so afraid he won't get his share."
Bill chewed on a straw and looked at Sarah abstractedly.
"Well, what's t' be done?" inquired Mrs. Gray, after a pause.
"Can't do much till Emmy gets here," said Sarah.
"Oh, I guess we can. Bill, you put out y'r team, we won't get away 'fore dinner."
The men drove off to the barn, leaving the women to pick their way on chips and strips of board laid in the mud, to the safety of the chip-pile, and thence to the kitchen, which was desolately littered with utensils.
Deacon assumed command with the same alertness, and with the same sunny gleam in his eye, with which he directed the funeral a few days before.
"Now, Bill, put out your team and help Jack and me pen them hogs. Women folks 'll git things ready here."
Emma came at last, driven by Harkey's brother and his hired man. They were both brawny fellows, rude and irritable, and the Deacon lifted his eyebrows and whistled when he saw them drive in with a lumber wagon.
The women swarmed out to greet Emma, who was a thin, irritable, feeble woman.
"Better late than never. Where's Ike?" inquired Mrs. Gray.
"Well, he—couldn't git away very well—he's got t' clean up some seed-oats," she answered nervously. After the men drove off, however, she added: "He thought he hadn't ought to come; he didn't want to cause no aidgewise feelin's, so he thought he hadn't better come—he'd just leave it to you, Deacon."
The Deacon said, "All right, all right! We'll fix it up!" but he didn't feel so sure of it after that, though he set to work bravely.
The sun, growing warmer, fell with pleasant gleam around the kitchen door and around the chip-pile where the hens were burrowing. The men worked in their shirt-sleeves.
"Well, now, we'll share the furniture an' stuff next," said the Deacon, looking around upon his little interested semicircle of spectators. "Now, put Emmy's things over there and Serry's things over here. I'll call 'em off, and, if they's no objection, you girls can pass 'em over."
He cleared his throat and began in the voice of one in authority:—
"Thirteen pans, six to Emmy, seven to Serry;" then hastened to add: "I'll balance that by giving the biggest of the two kittles to Emmy. Rollin' pin and cake board to Serry, two flat-irons to Emmy, small tub to Emmy, large one to Serry, balanced by the tin water pail. Dozen clo'se-pins; half an' half, six o' one, half-dozen t'other," he said with a smile at his own joke, while the others actively placed the articles in separate piles.
"Stove to Serry, because she has the house, bureau to Emmy."
At this point Mrs. Gray said, "I guess that ain't quite even, Deacon; the bureau ain't worth much."
"Oh, no, no, that's all right! Let her have it," Emma protested nervously.
"Give her an extry tick, anyway," said Sarah, not to be outdone in magnanimity.
"Settle that between ye," said the Deacon.
He warmed to his work now, and towels, pans, crockery, brooms, mirrors, pillows, and bedticks were rapidly set aside in two groups on the soft soil. The poverty of the home could best be seen in the display of its pitiful furniture.
The two nieces looked on impassively, standing side by side. The men came to move the bureau and other heavy things and looked on, while the lighter things were being handed over by Mrs. Gray and the girls.
At noon they sat down in the empty kitchen and ate a cold snack—at least, the women took seats, the men stood around and lunched on hunks of boiled beef and slices of bread. There was an air of constraint upon the male portion of the party not shared by Mrs. Gray and the girls.
"Well, that settles things in the house," beamed the Deacon as he came out with the women trailing behind him; "an' now in about two jerks of a dead lamb's tail, we'll git at the things out in the barn."
"Wal, we don't know much about machines and things, but I guess we'd better go out and keep you men from fightin'," said Mrs. Gray, shaking with fun; "Ike didn't come because he didn't want to make any trouble, but I guess he might just as well 'a' come as send two such critters as Jim 'n' Hank."
The women laughed at her frankness, and in very good humor they all went out to the barn-yard.
"Now, these things can't be laid out fast as I call 'em off, but we'll do the best we can."
"Let's try the stawk first," said Jim.
The women stood around with shawls pinned over their heads while the division of the stock went forward. The young men came often within chaffing distance of the girls.
There were nine shotes nearly of a size, and the Deacon said, "I'll give Serry the odd shote."
"Why so?" asked Jim Harkey, a sullen-faced man of thirty.
"Because a shote is hard to carry off and I can balance—"
"Well, I guess you can balance f'r Em 'bout as well as f'r Serry."
The Deacon was willing to yield a point. "Any objection, Bill? If not, why—"
"Nope, let her go," said Bill.
"What 'ave you got to say 'bout it?" asked Jim, insolently.
Bill turned his slow bulk. "I guess I've a good 'eal to say—haven't I, Serry?"
Sarah reddened, but stood beside him bravely. "I guess you have, Bill, about as much as I have." There was a moment of dramatic tension and the girls tingled with sympathy.
"Let 'er go," said Bill, splitting a straw with his knife. He had not proposed to Sarah before and he felt an unusual exaltation to think it came so easy after all.
When they reached the cattle, Jim objected to striking a balance with a "farrer cow," and threw the Deacon's nice calculation all out of joint.
"Let it go, Jim," pleaded Emma.
"I won't do it," Ike said—"I mean I know he don't want no farrer cow, he's got two now."
The Deacon was a little nettled. "I guess that's going to stand," he said sharply.
Jim swore a little but gave in, and came back with an access of ill humor on a division of the horses.
"But I've give you the four heavy horses to balance the four others and the two-year-old," said the Deacon.
"I'll be damned if I stand that," said Jim.
"I guess you'll have to," said the Deacon.
Emma pleaded, "Let it go, Jim, don't make a fuss."
Jim raged on, "I'll be cawn-demmed if I'll stand it. I don't—Ike don't want them spavined old crows; they're all ring-boned and got the heaves." His long repressed ill-nature broke out.
"Toh, toh!" said the Deacon, "Don't kick over the traces now. We'll fix it up some way."
Emma tried to stop Jim, but he shook her off and continued to walk back and forth behind the horses munching on quietly, unconscious of any dispute about their value.
Bill sat on the oat box in his hulking way, his heels thumping a tune, his small gray eyes watching the angry man.
"Don't make a darn fool of yourself," he said placidly.
Jim turned, glad of the chance for a row, "You better keep out of this."
Bill continued to thump, the palms of his big hands resting on the edge of the box. "I'm in it," he said conclusively.
"Well, you git out of it! I ain't goin' to be bulldozed—that ain't what I come here for."
"No, I see it ain't," said Bill. "If you're after a row you can have it right here. You won't find a better place."
"There, there," urged the Deacon. "What's the use? Keep cool and don't tear your shirts."
Mrs. Gray went up to Jim and took him by the arm. "You need a good spankin' to make you good-natured," she said. "I think the Deacon has done first rate, and you ought 'o—"
"Let go o' me," he snarled, raising his hand as if to strike her.
Bill's big boot lunged out, catching Harkey in the ribs, and if the Deacon had not sprung to his assistance Jim would have been trampled to pieces by the scared horse under whose feet he found himself. He was wild with dizzy, breathless rage.
"Who hit me?" he demanded.
Bill's shapeless hulk straightened up and stood beside him as if his pink flesh had suddenly turned to oak. Out of his fat cheeks his gray eyes glared.
"I did. Want another?"
The Deacon and Jack came between and prevented the encounter which would have immediately followed. Bill went on:—
"They cain't no man lay a hand on my mother and live long after it." He was thoroughly awake now. There was no slouch to his action at that moment, and Jim was secretly pleased to have the encounter go by.
"You come here for a fuss and you can have it, both of you," Bill went on in unusual eloquence. "Deacon's tried to do the square thing, Emmy's tried to do the square thing, and Serry's kep' quiet, but you've been sour and ugly the whole time, and now it's goin' to stop."
"This ain't the last of this thing," said Jim.
"You never'll have a better time," said Bill.
Mrs. Gray and the Deacon turned in now to quiet Bill, and the settlement went on. Jim kept close watch on the proceedings, and muttered his dissent to his friends, but was careful not to provoke Bill further.
In dividing the harnesses they came upon a cow-bell hanging on a nail. The Deacon jingled it as he passed. "Goes with the bell-cow," he said, and nothing further was said of it. Jim apparently did not consider it worth quarrelling about.
At last the work was done, a terribly hard day's work. The machines and utensils were piled in separate places, the cattle separated, and the grain measured. As they were about to leave, the Deacon said finally:—
"If there's any complaint to make, let's have it right now. I want this settlement to be a settlement. Is everybody satisfied?"
"I am," said Emmy. "Ain't you, Serry?"
"Why, of course," said Sarah, who was a little slower of speech. "I think the Deacon has done first rate. I ain't a word of fault to find, have you, Bill?"
"Nope, not an ioty," said Bill, readily.
Jim did not agree in so many words, but, as he said nothing, the Deacon ended:—
"Well, that settles it. It ain't goin' to rain, so you can leave these things right here till Monday. I guess I'll be gettin' out for home. Good evening, everybody."
Emma drove away down the road with Jim, but Sarah remained to straighten up the house. Harkey's hired hand went home with Dade Walker who considered that walk the pleasant finish to a very interesting day's work. She sympathized for the time with the Harkey faction.
Sunday forenoon, when Bill and Sarah drove up to the farm to put things in order in the house, they found Ike Harkey walking around with that queer side glance he had, studying the piles of furniture, and mentally weighing the pigs.
He greeted them smoothly: "Yes, yes, I'm purrfickly satisfied, purrfickly! Not a word to say—better'n I expected," he added.
Bill was not quite keen enough to perceive the insult which lay in that final clause, and Sarah dared not inform him for fear of trouble.
As Harkey drove away, however, Bill had a dim feeling of dissatisfaction with him.
"He's too gol-dang polite, that feller is; I don't like such butter-mouth chaps—they'd steal the cents off'n a dead nigger's eyes."