"All right, then. Good night."
Pitt had given Lyman minute directions as to the road he should take, a pathway through the woods and across fields, and leading to the county road at a point not far from the ruined dam. The path was not straight, and in the dark woods he kept it with difficulty, having to pat with his foot to find the hard ground, but in the turned-out fields the way was well-defined and he walked rapidly. Once he crossed a stretch of ripening oats, and in a dip-down where the growth was rank he heard voices and a song—hired men lying out to wear off the effect of a visit to the distillery. He came to the dam much sooner than he had expected, and near the trickling water he sat down upon a rock to rest. An island of willows had grown up in the broad shallow pond. Out from this dark thicket, a great bird flew and with its wings slapped the face of the quiet water, and the frogs hushed and the world was still, save the trickling from the dam, till the frogs began again. For days, there had been in his mind the vague form of a story, and he strove to summon it now, but the forms that came were shadows with no light in their eyes. Throughout all the dark woods this dim web of a plot had not come to him, though he had thought to ponder over it before setting out, but had forgotten it when once on the road. He sent his mind back over the course he had followed, to pick up any little suggestions that might have come to him to be held for a moment and dropped, but there was none. Instead, everywhere in the spread of his mind there was an illuminated spot, shifting, and in the bright spot sat a figure on a rock, a brown head, a face with one freckle, and an impetuous, graceful foot that sometimes stamped in impatience. Into the light there came another figure, strong, ruddy, and with a calico skirt tucked up. One was refinement, the other strength; one nerves, the other muscle. Onward he strode, the road damp from its nearness to the creek. Out upon the higher land he turned, the shale clicking under his feet. He had the feeling that some one was walking slowly behind him, stealing the noise of his footsteps to conceal a stealthier tread, and he smiled at his fear, but he halted to listen. He thought of a poem, "The Stab," and he repeated it as he walked along, and the swift falling of the knife, "Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown," found an echo in his footsteps. He came to the creek wherein the old horse had stood to cool his hot knees; he crossed the foot-log and was about to step down again into the road when he heard the furious galloping of horses and the rattle of a buggy. The team plunged into the creek, not directly at the ford; the buggy struck a rock and flew into fragments; the horses came plunging on, leaving a man in the water. Lyman rushed forward as the horses dashed past him. By the light of the stars he saw the flying fragments of the buggy—saw the water splash where the man fell. The man made no effort to get up, and Lyman thought that surely he must have been killed. But when Lyman reached him he was trying to crawl against the shallow but swift current. Lyman seized him, dragged him to the shore, stretched him upon the ground.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, feeling for his heart. The man muttered something. Lyman struck a match, looked at the man's face, blew out the match, tossed the burnt stem into the road and said to himself: "Of course I had to be the one to find him. Are you hurt, Sawyer?"
"You fling me 'n creek?" he muttered, filling the air with the fumes of whisky. "Fling me 'n creek, got me to whip. Tell you that, hah? Hear what I said? Got me to whip."
"Blackguard, I don't know but I ought to have let you drown."
"Good man to drown me, tell you that," he said, sitting up. "Horses gone?"
"Yes, and your buggy is smashed all to pieces."
"I believe it is. Bring me the pieces, won't you." He leaned over and laughed like an idiot. "Stopped at a distillery, and stopped too long. Don't take a man long to stop too long at a distillery. What's your name? You ain't Jim, are you? What's your name, anyway; why don't you talk to a feller."
"It won't do to leave him here," said Lyman, looking about as if searching for the light from a house. "Do you think you can walk?" he asked.
"Walk a thousand miles. Hear what I said? Thousand miles. Where do you want to go, Jim?"