Just David, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  THE TRAIL

  A curious strength seemed to have come to the man. With almost steadyhands he took down the photographs and the Sistine Madonna, packingthem neatly away in a box to be left. From beneath his bunk he draggeda large, dusty traveling-bag, and in this he stowed a little food, afew garments, and a great deal of the music scattered about the room.

  David, in the doorway, stared in dazed wonder. Gradually into his eyescrept a look never seen there before.

  "Father, where are we going?" he asked at last in a shaking voice, ashe came slowly into the room.

  "Back, son; we're going back."

  "To the village, where we get our eggs and bacon?"

  "No, no, lad, not there. The other way. We go down into the valley thistime."

  "The valley--MY valley, with the Silver Lake?"

  "Yes, my son; and beyond--far beyond." The man spoke dreamily. He waslooking at a photograph in his hand. It had slipped in among the loosesheets of music, and had not been put away with the others. It was thelikeness of a beautiful woman.

  For a moment David eyed him uncertainly; then he spoke.

  "Daddy, who is that? Who are all these people in the pictures? You'venever told me about any of them except the little round one that youwear in your pocket. Who are they?"

  Instead of answering, the man turned faraway eyes on the boy and smiledwistfully.

  "Ah, David, lad, how they'll love you! How they will love you! But youmustn't let them spoil you, son. You must remember--remember all I'vetold you."

  Once again David asked his question, but this time the man only turnedback to the photograph, muttering something the boy could notunderstand.

  After that David did not question any more. He was too amazed, toodistressed. He had never before seen his father like this. With nervoushaste the man was setting the little room to rights, crowding thingsinto the bag, and packing other things away in an old trunk. His cheekswere very red, and his eyes very bright. He talked, too, almostconstantly, though David could understand scarcely a word of what wassaid. Later, the man caught up his violin and played; and never beforehad David heard his father play like that. The boy's eyes filled, andhis heart ached with a pain that choked and numbed--though why, Davidcould not have told. Still later, the man dropped his violin and sankexhausted into a chair; and then David, worn and frightened with itall, crept to his bunk and fell asleep.

  In the gray dawn of the morning David awoke to a different world. Hisfather, white-faced and gentle, was calling him to get ready forbreakfast. The little room, dismantled of its decorations, was bare andcold. The bag, closed and strapped, rested on the floor by the door,together with the two violins in their cases, ready to carry.

  "We must hurry, son. It's a long tramp before we take the cars."

  "The cars--the real cars? Do we go in those?" David was fully awake now.

  "Yes."

  "And is that all we're to carry?"

  "Yes. Hurry, son."

  "But we come back--sometime?"

  There was no answer.

  "Father, we're coming back--sometime?" David's voice was insistent now.

  The man stooped and tightened a strap that was already quite tightenough. Then he laughed lightly.

  "Why, of course you're coming back sometime, David. Only think of allthese things we're leaving!"

  When the last dish was put away, the last garment adjusted, and thelast look given to the little room, the travelers picked up the bag andthe violins, and went out into the sweet freshness of the morning. Ashe fastened the door the man sighed profoundly; but David did notnotice this. His face was turned toward the east--always David lookedtoward the sun.

  "Daddy, let's not go, after all! Let's stay here," he cried ardently,drinking in the beauty of the morning.

  "We must go, David. Come, son." And the man led the way across thegreen slope to the west.

  It was a scarcely perceptible trail, but the man found it, and followedit with evident confidence. There was only the pause now and then tosteady his none-too-sure step, or to ease the burden of the bag. Verysoon the forest lay all about them, with the birds singing over theirheads, and with numberless tiny feet scurrying through the underbrushon all sides. Just out of sight a brook babbled noisily of its delightin being alive; and away up in the treetops the morning sun playedhide-and-seek among the dancing leaves.

  And David leaped, and laughed, and loved it all, nor was any of itstrange to him. The birds, the trees, the sun, the brook, the scurryinglittle creatures of the forest, all were friends of his. But theman--the man did not leap or laugh, though he, too, loved it all. Theman was afraid.

  He knew now that he had undertaken more than he could carry out. Stepby step the bag had grown heavier, and hour by hour the insistent,teasing pain in his side had increased until now it was a torture. Hehad forgotten that the way to the valley was so long; he had notrealized how nearly spent was his strength before he even started downthe trail. Throbbing through his brain was the question, what if, afterall, he could not--but even to himself he would not say the words.

  At noon they paused for luncheon, and at night they camped where thechattering brook had stopped to rest in a still, black pool. The nextmorning the man and the boy picked up the trail again, but without thebag. Under some leaves in a little hollow, the man had hidden the bag,and had then said, as if casually:--

  "I believe, after all, I won't carry this along. There's nothing in itthat we really need, you know, now that I've taken out the luncheonbox, and by night we'll be down in the valley."

  "Of course!" laughed David. "We don't need that." And he laughed again,for pure joy. Little use had David for bags or baggage!

  They were more than halfway down the mountain now, and soon theyreached a grass-grown road, little traveled, but yet a road. Stilllater they came to where four ways crossed, and two of them bore themarks of many wheels. By sundown the little brook at their sidemurmured softly of quiet fields and meadows, and David knew that thevalley was reached.

  David was not laughing now. He was watching his father with startledeyes. David had not known what anxiety was. He was finding outnow--though he but vaguely realized that something was not right. Forsome time his father had said but little, and that little had been in avoice that was thick and unnatural-sounding. He was walking fast, yetDavid noticed that every step seemed an effort, and that every breathcame in short gasps. His eyes were very bright, and were fixedly benton the road ahead, as if even the haste he was making was not hasteenough. Twice David spoke to him, but he did not answer; and the boycould only trudge along on his weary little feet and sigh for the dearhome on the mountain-top which they had left behind them the morningbefore.

  They met few fellow travelers, and those they did meet paid scantattention to the man and the boy carrying the violins. As it chanced,there was no one in sight when the man, walking in the grass at theside of the road, stumbled and fell heavily to the ground.

  David sprang quickly forward.

  "Father, what is it? WHAT IS IT?"

  There was no answer.

  "Daddy, why don't you speak to me? See, it's David!"

  With a painful effort the man roused himself and sat up. For a momenthe gazed dully into the boy's face; then a half-forgotten somethingseemed to stir him into feverish action. With shaking fingers he handedDavid his watch and a small ivory miniature. Then he searched hispockets until on the ground before him lay a shining pile ofgold-pieces--to David there seemed to be a hundred of them.

  "Take them--hide them--keep them. David, until you--need them," pantedthe man. "Then go--go on. I can't."

  "Alone? Without you?" demurred the boy, aghast. "Why, father, Icouldn't! I don't know the way. Besides, I'd rather stay with you," headded soothingly, as he slipped the watch and the miniature into hispocket; "then we can both go." And he dropped himself down at hisfather's side.

  The man shook his head feebly, and pointed again to the gold-pieces.

  "
Take them, David,--hide them," he chattered with pale lips.

  Almost impatiently the boy began picking up the money and tucking itinto his pockets.

  "But, father, I'm not going without you," he declared stoutly, as thelast bit of gold slipped out of sight, and a horse and wagon rattledaround the turn of the road above.

  The driver of the horse glanced disapprovingly at the man and the boyby the roadside; but he did not stop. After he had passed, the boyturned again to his father. The man was fumbling once more in hispockets. This time from his coat he produced a pencil and a smallnotebook from which he tore a page, and began to write, laboriously,painfully.

  David sighed and looked about him. He was tired and hungry, and he didnot understand things at all. Something very wrong, very terrible, mustbe the matter with his father. Here it was almost dark, yet they had noplace to go, no supper to eat, while far, far up on the mountain-sidewas their own dear home sad and lonely without them. Up there, too, thesun still shone, doubtless,--at least there were the rose-glow and theSilver Lake to look at, while down here there was nothing, nothing butgray shadows, a long dreary road, and a straggling house or two insight. From above, the valley might look to be a fairyland ofloveliness, but in reality it was nothing but a dismal waste of gloom,decided David.

  David's father had torn a second page from his book and was beginninganother note, when the boy suddenly jumped to his feet. One of thestraggling houses was near the road where they sat, and its presencehad given David an idea. With swift steps he hurried to the front doorand knocked upon it. In answer a tall, unsmiling woman appeared, andsaid, "Well?"

  David removed his cap as his father had taught him to do when one ofthe mountain women spoke to him.

  "Good evening, lady; I'm David," he began frankly. "My father is sotired he fell down back there, and we should like very much to staywith you all night, if you don't mind."

  The woman in the doorway stared. For a moment she was dumb withamazement. Her eyes swept the plain, rather rough garments of the boy,then sought the half-recumbent figure of the man by the roadside. Herchin came up angrily.

  "Oh, would you, indeed! Well, upon my word!" she scouted. "Humph! Wedon't accommodate tramps, little boy." And she shut the door hard.

  It was David's turn to stare. Just what a tramp might be, he did notknow; but never before had a request of his been so angrily refused. Heknew that. A fierce something rose within him--a fierce new somethingthat sent the swift red to his neck and brow. He raised a determinedhand to the doorknob--he had something to say to that woman!--when thedoor suddenly opened again from the inside.

  "See here, boy," began the woman, looking out at him a little lessunkindly, "if you're hungry I'll give you some milk and bread. Goaround to the back porch and I'll get it for you." And she shut thedoor again.

  David's hand dropped to his side. The red still stayed on his face andneck, however, and that fierce new something within him bade him refuseto take food from this woman.... But there was his father--his poorfather, who was so tired; and there was his own stomach clamoring to befed. No, he could not refuse. And with slow steps and hanging headDavid went around the corner of the house to the rear.

  As the half-loaf of bread and the pail of milk were placed in hishands, David remembered suddenly that in the village store on themountain, his father paid money for his food. David was glad, now, thathe had those gold-pieces in his pocket, for he could pay money.Instantly his head came up. Once more erect with self-respect, heshifted his burdens to one hand and thrust the other into his pocket. Amoment later he presented on his outstretched palm a shining disk ofgold.

  "Will you take this, to pay, please, for the bread and milk?" he askedproudly.

  The woman began to shake her head; but, as her eyes fell on the money,she started, and bent closer to examine it. The next instant she jerkedherself upright with an angry exclamation.

  "It's gold! A ten-dollar gold-piece! So you're a thief, too, are you,as well as a tramp? Humph! Well, I guess you don't need this then," shefinished sharply, snatching the bread and the pail of milk from theboy's hand.

  The next moment David stood alone on the doorstep, with the sound of aquickly thrown bolt in his ears.

  A thief! David knew little of thieves, but he knew what they were. Onlya month before a man had tried to steal the violins from the cabin; andhe was a thief, the milk-boy said. David flushed now again, angrily, ashe faced the closed door. But he did not tarry. He turned and ran tohis father.

  "Father, come away, quick! You must come away," he choked.

  So urgent was the boy's voice that almost unconsciously the sick mangot to his feet. With shaking hands he thrust the notes he had beenwriting into his pocket. The little book, from which he had torn theleaves for this purpose, had already dropped unheeded into the grass athis feet.

  "Yes, son, yes, we'll go," muttered the man. "I feel better now. Ican--walk."

  And he did walk, though very slowly, ten, a dozen, twenty steps. Frombehind came the sound of wheels that stopped close beside them.

  "Hullo, there! Going to the village?" called a voice.

  "Yes, sir." David's answer was unhesitating. Where "the village" was,he did not know; he knew only that it must be somewhere away from thewoman who had called him a thief. And that was all he cared to know.

  "I'm going 'most there myself. Want a lift?" asked the man, stillkindly.

  "Yes, sir. Thank you!" cried the boy joyfully. And together they aidedhis father to climb into the roomy wagon-body.

  There were few words said. The man at the reins drove rapidly, and paidlittle attention to anything but his horses. The sick man dozed andrested. The boy sat, wistful-eyed and silent, watching the trees andhouses flit by. The sun had long ago set, but it was not dark, for themoon was round and bright, and the sky was cloudless. Where the roadforked sharply the man drew his horses to a stop.

  "Well, I'm sorry, but I guess I'll have to drop you here, friends. Iturn off to the right; but 't ain't more 'n a quarter of a mile foryou, now" he finished cheerily, pointing with his whip to a cluster oftwinkling lights.

  "Thank you, sir, thank you," breathed David gratefully, steadying hisfather's steps. "You've helped us lots. Thank you!"

  In David's heart was a wild desire to lay at his good man's feet all ofhis shining gold-pieces as payment for this timely aid. But cautionheld him back: it seemed that only in stores did money pay; outside itbranded one as a thief!

  Alone with his father, David faced once more his problem. Where shouldthey go for the night? Plainly his father could not walk far. He hadbegun to talk again, too,--low, half-finished sentences that Davidcould not understand, and that vaguely troubled him. There was a housenear by, and several others down the road toward the village; but Davidhad had all the experience he wanted that night with strange houses,and strange women. There was a barn, a big one, which was nearest ofall; and it was toward this barn that David finally turned his father'ssteps.

  "We'll go there, daddy, if we can get in," he proposed softly. "Andwe'll stay all night and rest."