it was not quite dark when piney left miss sally madeira in the garden back of madeira place, the grierson letter in the inside band of his hat. the pretty spring day had closed in grey and sullen, and a high wind tore through the bluffs. up in canaan people were going anxiously to their windows, and trying to decide what was about to happen out there in that whirl of dust and wind and high-spattering rain. down at madeira place it was grey, windy, and damp, but the rain had not come on yet. piney went down the bridle-path from the madeira grounds and out into the river road at a gallop, and the pony sped on like mad toward the little shack down stream at redbud. all the way piney kept a watch on the di, which was sucking and booming. long before he reached redbud the boy had begun to hope that steering had not put through his evening programme to that last number of going back to redbud by water, after the haunting visit to the waters about madeira place. the river seemed very black and restless with the long urge of the spring rains within her. now and again, he called loudly, prompted by some fear, he knew not what:
"steerin'! steerin'! steerin'!"
he reached redbud by and by, to find no steering, only the little empty shack. the lean bunks, swaddled roughly in their bedding, looked strangely deserted. piney sat down on steering's bunk for a moment to take breath. once his hand patted the covers, and once he stooped down and clung to the pillow.
"oh, may god bless you! for i love him, my dear piney! bless you, for i love him, my dear piney!" he kept saying over and over, with an hysterical quaver in his voice, his lips pale and moving constantly. "oh, may god bless you, for i love him, my dear piney!" it was what salome madeira had said to him when he had left her, a white, angelic figure, swaying a little toward him, there in the garden back of madeira place. "oh, may god--for i love him!"
the odour of bruce's cigars hung about the shack. piney jumped up suddenly and went down close to the di to wait and think. at redbud the river seemed fiercer than farther up-stream. one of the two skiffs that rocked there usually was there now, swashing up and down in the current, but the other was gone. there was a strong eddy in front of redbud. the bar, singing sand, and the deerlick rocks choked up the bed of the river and made the water dash vehemently through a narrow channel. logs went by and branches of trees. piney paced the bank in a rising fever of impatience, calling, calling; but for a long time his call was without avail, the wind roared so defeatingly in the trees. close into deerlick rocks drifted a great fleet of logs.
"mist' steerin'! mist' steerin'!" the sweet tenor broke again and again, but again and again piney pitched a vast effort into it. and, at last, an answer:
"halloo! that you, uncle bernique? i've been----" the voice was wind-blown, and slipped weakly away.
"it's me! where are you?" no answer. "where are you? hi! is that you by the bar? lif' your han' above the drif'-wood! cayn't you lif' your han'?"
a hand shot up from the back of a log that was well hidden by other flotsam, then fell back weakly. "ay, here i am! dead-beat, piney----" a long roar of wind shut off the rest.
"hold to your log. i'm a-comin'! comin'! comin'!" the tenor rang and rang across the water as piney loosed the skiff from its moorings, took up the oars, and pushed out into the di. with the force in that whirl of black water he realised that there was danger; the skiff trembled and leaped as though some wrathful aegir caught and shook it. it was well for steering that piney was strong, with the strength of the hills and the woods and the quiet.
as he went on some sort of revulsion seized piney. he stopped calling and began to mutter blackly. "wisht you'd draown! wisht you uz dead! wish-to-hell, you never needa been!"
the log, with its one lamed passenger was drifting slowly in toward singing sand, and piney came on, hard after it. when he reached it at last, steering was quite speechless, but, with the boy's help, scrambled into the skiff, where he slipped like water to the bottom, the fight back being altogether piney's.
when steering could talk at all, he gasped out how it had happened. he had gone much farther up than madeira place, and had not put his boat about until two hours before; and then only because a great many logs were coming down, and he decided that he did not want to be caught among them when night should drop. he had got along all right until a log smashed into his skiff and overturned him. he thought he must have struck his head as he went over. at any rate, things were very mixed for a good while. he knew that he had swum for what seemed to be hours, and that then he had realised that he was numb, and had used what little strength he had left to climb upon another log that passed him. he had been on it ever since, flat out, an eternity.
piney was getting the skiff inshore fast, as steering talked, and once steering stopped to admire his youthful vigour. he was a strong man himself, and it was a new sensation to lie weakly admiring strength in somebody else. "do you know, piney, i'm dead-beat," he whispered.
"you've had a good deal to stan' in more ways than one to-day," replied piney.
"what do you mean by that?" asked steering.
"we're a'most in."
it was only a few minutes later that piney effected his landing, and, river-lashed and dripping, both scrambled out and fell on the bank by the redbud shack. for a little while, even piney was past any further exertion, but when he could use himself again, he got up agilely, hunted up dry wood and made a roaring fire. the twilight had closed into night now; the rain had shifted with the wind and passed by redbud. piney brought a blanket from the shack and wrapped steering in it. before the fire, steering lay with his eyes shut for a time, a smile on his face. "you are precious good to stand by me like this, piney," he said once. "where have you been for so long, you stingy nigger? why have you cut me lately?"
"well, i--oh, i d'n know adzackly." piney's voice was flat, his face tragic. he was heaping wood on the fire, and in the yellow flare he looked pale with the exhaustion of his work on the river and the excitement under which he was labouring. during this last half hour that he had been working hard to save steering, taking care of him, helping him, he had had another revulsion of feeling that had swung him up close to his hero again. but crisis was still following crisis in his emotions.
"well, you turned up at just the right minute for me, piney. how did you happen along?"
"oh, i wuz a-huntin' fer you, i reckon. i wuz sent aout to hunt fer you. i gotta letter fer you,--f'm--f'm miss madeira."
steering opened his drowsy eyes and regarded piney.
"yes, i have. i gotta letter fer you. y'see, miss sally, she's found aout sumpin--sumpin that you didn' want her to find aout." the fire leaped and crackled; bruce leaned away from its scorch, nearer to piney. "y'see, she knows abaout the tigmores naow," went on piney steadily. "unc' bernique didn' tell her. i told her."
"piney!" steering, warm with wrath, turned upon piney savagely, "you little fool! you brutal little fool!" he cried fiercely. "it's a good thing that you're just a boy, piney--and you, you! profess to love----"
"mist' steerin'." piney had a man's dignity all in a minute. "i didn' ast you fer no leave to tell her, an' i don't ast you fer nothin' naow. but she had to know. i hearn unc' bernique tellin' you abaout that grierson letter. i hearn you read the letter. i hearn you an' unc' bernique swear. then i swore, too. then i went an' told her. and then she saw her father, an' she leffen it to her father to make things right, an' he's made things right. she told me i wuz to tell you that. she showed him that he was safe to keep the tigmores if he wanted to keep 'em, but he didn't want to keep 'em. she told me to tell you that. an' she told me to give you this letter." piney's young body rocked now with a hushed, sobbing fervour; he lifted his peaked hat from his head, took the letter from the inner band, and pushed it into bruce's hand. "this letter kim to her father a long time ago, and she ast me to ast you to think of her father abaout it gentle as you can--an' i'm a-astin' you to think of him gentle," the lad's voice suddenly rose shrilly, and he jumped to his feet, "an' i'm a-bustin' to have you say you won't think of him gentle, er sumpin 'at i cayn't stan' an 'll hit you fer! i'm jesta boy, mist' steerin', but good god!"
bruce got to his feet, too. when he caught piney's flaming eye at last, they stood and faced each other a great moment, then bruce put his hand out.
"piney," he said, "i wish i were half the man that you are."
"oh, mist' steerin'! mist' steerin'!" on bruce's shoulder, he sobbed like a child until the terrific strain that he had been on for hours slackened, and he could talk again.
"she's waitin' fer you," he said at last. "she's up yonder in the garden, waitin'. she loves you, mist' steerin'. don't you go fergit that, with y'all's pride an' all. she loves you."
"what? what's that you are saying, piney?"
"she loves you. i know it, mist' steerin'. an' i'm a-tellin' ev' durn thing i know!" declared piney vehemently, with a high-toned, stubborn self-justification in his voice.
"dog-on you, old man," bruce said, turning to grip piney's hand again. he had it in mind to say a great many other things, in the way of appreciation, thanks, enthusiasms, but all he said was "dog-on you, old man, dog-on you," gripping piney's hand as he said it. "you make yourself comfortable here in the shack to-night, will you, old man, and i'll go on up there. they are in a little trouble over this up there, piney." steering tore the grierson letter to bits as he spoke, and, then, his eyes wet and shining, he found piney's pony and went to her in the garden.
piney lay back on the ground beside the fire. the glow fell squarely over his features, relaxed and softened now. he looked very hopefully and comfortingly young. there was a big, shy gratification on his face.
"'old man,'" he muttered once or twice. "'old man.'" a little sob shivered through him. he got up quickly and went into the shack bunk, where he fell asleep at once--because he was so young--and dreamed fine dreams of italy--because he, too, was fine.
