The big man told it all as far as it concerned his first meeting with the Setons, his subsequent visit to the saloon, and, afterwards, his meeting with Fyles. The only thing he kept to himself was his final meeting with Kate Seton.
At the end of this story Charlie reopened his eyes, and, to any one more observant than Big Brother Bill, it was plain that his condition had improved. A keen light was shining in them, a light of interest and perfectly clear understanding.
“Thanks, Bill,” he said, “I’m glad you’ve told me all that.” Then he rose from his chair, and his movements had become more certain, more definite. “Guess I’ll get off to bed. It’s no use discussing all this. It can lead nowhere. Still, there is one thing I’d like to say before we quit. I’m glad, I’m so mighty glad you’ve come along out here to join me I can’t just say it all to you. I’m ready to tumble headlong into any schemes you’ve got in your head. But there’s things in my life I’ve got to work out in my own way. Things I can’t and don’t want to talk about. Maybe I’ll often be doing things that seem queer to you. But I want to do ’em, and intend to do ’em. Drink is not one of ’em. You’ll find I’m a night bird, too. But, again, my night wanderings are my own. You’ll hear folks say all sorts of things about me. You’ll see Fyles very busy. Well, it’s up to you to listen or not. All I say is don’t fight my battles. I can fight them in my own way. Two of us are liable to mess them all up. Get me? I live my life, and you can share as much in it as you like, except in that—well, that part of it I need to keep to myself. There’s just one thing I promise you, Fyles’ll never get me inside any penitentiary. I promise you that, sure, because I know from your manner that’s the trouble in the back of your silly old head. Good night.”
He passed out of the room without giving the astonished Bill any opportunity to do more than respond to his “good night.” Anyway, the latter had nothing else to say. He was too taken aback, too painfully startled at the tacit admission to all the charges he had been warned the people and police of Leaping Creek were making against his brother. What could he say? What could he do? Nothing—simply nothing.
He remained where he was against the table. He had forgotten his wet clothes. He had forgotten everything in the overwhelming nature of his painful feelings. His own beliefs, Kate’s loyally expressed convictions, had been utterly negatived. It was all true. All painfully, dreadfully true. Charlie was not only a drunkard still, but the “crook” he was supposed to be. He was a whisky-runner. He was against the law. His ultimate goal was the penitentiary. Good God, the thought was appalling! This was where drink had led him. This was the end of his spoiled and wayward brother’s career. What a cruel waste of a promising life. His good-natured, gentle-hearted brother. The boy he had always admired and loved in those early days. It was cruel, terrible. By his own admission he was against the law, a “crook,” and—the penitentiary was looming.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE ARM OUTREACHING
The morning was gloriously fine. It was aglow with the fulness of summer. Far as the eye could see the valley was bathed in a golden light which the myriad shades of green made intoxicating to senses drinking in this glory of nature’s splendor. Leaping Creek gamboled its tortuous way through the heart of a perfect garden.
A veritable Eden thought Stanley Fyles—complete to the last detail.