“That’s what you pulled out of the fire,” said Jard, turning accusingly to Vane. Then, “What’s he comin’ here for?” he asked McPhee.
“To live till he rebuilds, that’s all. He says Molly’s biscuits ain’t fit to eat.”
“He will find mine worse,” said Miss Hassock grimly. “But that ain’t the point. It’s Joe I’m worryin’ about. Them Danglers is all rough an’ tough, men an’ women alike. It was a bad day for Joe old Dave Hinch’s house burnt down. If I was a man I’d bust up that bunch on Goose Crick if I was killed for it.”
“It’s been there nigh onto a hundred years; an’ I reckon there’s as good men hereabouts as anywhere,” objected McPhee. “If the law can’t fasten nothin’ onto them, what can us fellers do?”
“The law!” exclaimed Liza derisively. “An’ what about the officers of the law? The law’s no more than printed words if it ain’t worked by human hands.”
Vane gave Jard Hassock the slip next morning and went for a walk. He halted at the top of the hill above the upper end of the village and lit his pipe and looked around. He saw black woods and white clearings up hill and down dale, a few scattered farmhouses with azure smoke ascending to a blue sky washed with sunshine, the roofs of the village crawling down to the low black ruins that had been old Dave Hinch’s house, and to the covered bridge across the white stream, and the twisting road and climbing hills beyond the bridge. He saw the fork in the river, above the bridge, after which the village had been named. He thought of the queer chance that had brought him to this place just in time to save the great-granddaughter of Mark Dangler from death by fire. He saw a man issue from the back door of the nearest house, run to the road and ascend the hill toward him at a brisk jog. He waited, under the impression that he was the man’s objective. He was right. The countryman came up to him, grinning apologetically.
“Can you spare me a few matches, stranger?” he asked.
Vane was surprised at the question, but instantly produced a dozen or more loose matches and handed them over. They were gratefully received and carefully tucked away in an inner pocket.
“I always carry a-plenty now, an’ pick up more ever’ chance I get, for once I was caught with only one,” explained the villager. “An’ that one was bad.” He smiled knowingly. “I reckon it ain’t likely I’ll ever be caught with only one match ag’in.”
Vane saw something unusual about the fellow’s eyes. They were bright, they were gentle, though intent in their glance, and yet in their expression something expected was lacking, and something unlooked for was present. The effect was disconcerting. Otherwise the man looked normal enough. His full beard and heavy mustache were dark brown streaked with gray.