The Promise Page 23

  CHAPTER XXII

  CREED SEES A GHOST

  When Bill awoke, yellow lamplight flooded the room and Daddy Dunniganwas busy about the stove, from the direction of which came a cheerfulsizzling and the appetizing odor of frying meat and strong coffee.

  For several minutes he lay in a delicious drowse, idly watching the oldman as he hobbled deftly from stove to cupboard, and from cupboard totable.

  So this was the man, he mused, of whom his mother had so often spokenwhen, as a little boy, he had listened with bated breath to her talesof the fighting McKims.

  He remembered how her soft eyes would glow, and her lips curve withpride as she recounted the deeds of her warrior kin.

  But, most of all, she loved to tell of Captain Fronte, the big,fighting, devil-may-care brother who was her childish idol; and of one,James Dunnigan, the corporal, who had followed Captain Fronte throughall the wars, and to whose coolness and courage her soldier brotherowed his life on more than one occasion, and whose devotion and loyaltyto the name of McKim was a byword throughout the regiment, and inKerry.

  "And now," thought Bill, "that I have found him, I will never losesight of him. He needs someone to look after him in his old age."

  Over the little flat-topped stove the leathern old world-rover mutteredand chuckled to himself as he prodded a fork into the browningpork-chops, shooting now and then an affectionate glance toward thebunk.

  "Saints be praised!" he muttered. "Oi'd av know'd um in hiven or hell,or Hong-Kong. Captain Fronte's own silf, he is, as loike as two peas.An' the age av Captain Fronte befure he was kilt, phwin he was th'besht officer in all th' British ar-rmy--or an-ny ar-rmy.

  "Him that c'd lay down th' naygers in windrows all day, an' dhrink, an'play car-rds, an' make love all noight--an' at 'em agin in th' marnin'!An' now Oi've found um Oi'll shtay by um till wan av us burries th'other. For whilst a McKim roams th' earth James Dunnigan's place is tofolly um.

  "An', Lord be praised, he's a foightin' man--but a McKim that don'tdhrink! Wurrah! Maybe he wasn't failin' roight, or th' liquor didn'tlook good enough fer um. Oi'll thry um agin."

  Bill threw off the blankets and sat up on the edge of the bunk.

  "That grub smells good, Daddy," he sniffed.

  "Aye, an 'twill tashte good, too, av ye fly at ut befure ut gits cold.Ye've had shleep enough fer two min--Captain Fronte'd git along ferwakes at a toime on foorty winks in th' saddle."

  "I am afraid I will have a hard time living up to Captain Fronte'sstandard," laughed Bill, as he adjusted his bandages.

  "Well, thin, Oi'll tell yez th' fir-rst thing Captain Fronte'd donephwin his two feet hit th' flure: he'd roar fer a dhrink av goodliquor. An' thin he'd ate a dozen or two av thim pork-chops, an' wash'em down wid a gallon av black coffee--an' he'd be roight feran-nything from a carouse wid th' brown dancin' Nautch gir-rls, to abrush in th' hills wid their fightin' brown brothers.

  "Th' liquor's waitin'--ut moightn't be as good as ye're used, but Oi'veseen Captain Fronte himself shmack his lips over worse. An' as fer th'tin cup--he'd dhrink from a batthered tomaty can or a lady's shlipper,an' rasp th' dhregs from his t'roat wid a cur-rse or a song, as beshtfitted th' toime or th' place he was in."

  The old man began to pour out the liquor: "Say phwin," he cried, "an'Oi've yit to see th' McKim 'twud hurry th' wor-rd."

  Bill crossed to the old man, who, propped against the table, watchedthe contents of the bottle gurgle and splash into the huge tin cup, andlaid a hand upon his arm.

  "That will do, Daddy," he said.

  The man ceased to pour and peered inquisitively into the cup. "'Tainthalf full yit!" he protested, passing it to Bill, who set it before himupon the table, where the rich fumes reached his nostrils as he spoke:

  "This whisky," he began, "smells good--plenty good enough for any man.But, you don't seem to understand. I don't drink whisky--good whisky,or bad whisky, or old whisky, or new whisky, or red, white, and bluewhisky--or any other kind of booze.

  "I have drunk it--bottles of it--kegs of it--barrels of it, I suppose,for I played the game from Harlem to the Battery. And then I quit."

  "Ye ain't tellin' me ye're timperence?" The old man inquired withconcern as he would have inquired after an ailment.

  "No; that is, if you mean am I one of those who would vote the worldsober by prohibiting the sale of liquor. It is a personal questionwhich every man must meet squarely--for himself--not for his neighbor.I am not afraid of whisky. I am not opposed to it, as an issue. Infact, I respect it, for, personally, it has given me one peach of ascrap--and we are quits."

  The old man listened with interest.

  "Ye c'n no more kape a McKim from foightin' thin ye c'n kape a dacoitfrom staylin," he chuckled. "So ye tur-rned in an' give th' craytherhimsilf a foight--an' ye win ut? An' phwat does th' gir-rl think avut?"

  "What!"

  "Th' gir-rl. Is she proud av ye? Or is she wan av thim that thinks utaisy to quit be just lavin' ut alone? For, sure, ut niver intered th'head av man--let alone a McKim, to tur-rn ag'in' liquor, lessen theywas a gir-rl at th' bottom av ut. An' phwin ar-re ye goin' to bemarrit? For, av she's proud av ye, ye'll marry her--but av she takes utas a mather av coorse--let some wan ilse git stung."

  Bill regarded the old man sharply, but in his bearing was no hint ofjesting nor raillery, and the little eyes were serious.

  "Yes, there _was_ a girl," said Bill slowly; "but she--she does notknow."

  "So ye've had a scrap wid her, too! But, tell me ye didn't run awayfrom ut--ye're goin' back?" Bill made no reply, and the old manconveyed the food to the table, muttering to himself the while:

  "Sure they's more foightin' goin' on thin Oi iver thought to see ag'in.Ut ain't rid war, but ut ain't so bad--werwolves, Moncrossen, booze,Creed, a bit av a gir-rl somewheres, Shtromberg--th' wor-rld is growin'bether afther all, an' Oi'm goin' to be in th' thick av ut!"

  Supper over, Bill donned mackinaw, cap, and mittens.

  "Phwere ye goin'?" asked Dunnigan.

  "To find Creed."

  "Wait a bit, 'tis early yit. In half an hour he'll be clost aroundBurrage's shtove, tellin' th' b'ys about th' bur-rnt shack atMelton's."

  Bill resumed his chair.

  "Oi've been thinkin' ut out," continued Daddy, between short puffs athis cutty-pipe. "Ye'll have no fun lickin' Creed--'tis shmallsatisfaction foightin' a man that won't foight back. An-ny-how, a blackeye or a bloody nose is soon minded. An' av ye tur-rn um over to th'authorities ye ain't got much on um, an' ye can't pr-rove phwat ye havegot.

  "But listen: Creed's a dhrivlin' jobbernowl that orders his comin's beth' hang av th' moon, an' his goin's be th' dhreams av his head. Hethinks y're dead. Now, av ye shtroll into Burrage's loike nothin' outav th' oordinary has happened, he'll think ye're a ghost--an' th' fearin his heart will shtay by um.

  "Oi'll loaf down there now, same as ivery noight. In about a half anhour ye'll come limpin' in an' ask fer Dunnigan, an' will he cook outth' sayson fer Moncrossen? 'Twill be fun to watch Creed. He'll bescairt shtiff an' white as a biled shirt, or he'll melt down an'dhribble out t'rough a crack av th' flure."

  And so, a half-hour later, Bill Carmody for the second time pushed openHod Burrage's door and made his way to the stove.

  The scene in no wise differed from the time of his previous visit.Slabs of bacon still hung from the roof logs beside the row of tincoffee-pots; the sawdust-filled box was still the object ofintermittent bombardment by the tobacco-chewers, the uncertainty ofwhose aim was mutely attested by the generous circumference ofbrown-stained floor of which the box was the center.

  Grouped about the stove, upon counter, barrel-head, and up-ended goodsbox, were the same decaying remnants of the moldering town's vanishingpopulation.

  The thick, cloudy glass with its sticky edges still circulated for thecommon good, and above the heads of the unkempt men the air reeked graywith the fumes of rank tobacco.

  Only the man who entered had changed. In his bearing was no hint ofsuperiority nor intole
rance; he advanced heartily, hailing these men asequals and friends. Near the stove he halted, leaning upon his crutch,and swept the group with a glance.

  "Good evening! Do any one of you men happen to be named Dunnigan?"

  From the moment the tap of Bill's crutch sounded upon the wooden floor,Creed, who had paused in the middle of a sentence of his highly colorednarrative, stared at the newcomer as one would ordinarily stare when aperson known to be dead casually steps up and bids one good evening.

  His mouth did not open, his lower jaw merely sagged away from his face,exposing his tongue lying thick and flabby upon yellow teeth. Hisout-bulging eyes fixed the features of the man before him with aglassy, unwinking stare, like the stare of a fish.

  Into his brain, at first, came no thought at all merely a dumb sense ofunreasoning terror under which his muscles went flaccid, and out ofcontrol, so that his body shrank limp and heavy against its backing ofbolt-goods.

  Then, suddenly a rush of thoughts crowded his brain, tangled thoughts,and weird--of deep significance, but without sequence nor reason.

  What had they told of this man in the woods? How he had battled hand toclaw with the werwolf and received no hurt. How he had cowed the bosswith a look, and laid the mighty Stromberg cold in the batting of aneye.

  He himself had, but twenty hours since, seen this man lying helplessupon the floor of a locked shack, ringed round with roaring flames,beyond any human possibility of escape.

  And here he stood, crippled beyond peradventure of trail-travel, yetfresh and unfatigued, forty miles from the scene of his burning! A thintrickle of ice crept downward along his spine and, overmastering allother emotions, came the desire to be elsewhere.

  He slid from the counter and, as his feet touched the floor, his kneescrumpled and he sprawled his length almost at the feet of the man whocould not die.

  As a matter of fact, Creed aged materially during his journey to thedoor, but to the onlookers his exit seemed a miracle of frantic hasteas he clawed and scrambled the length of the room on hands and knees ina maudlin panic of terror.

  And out into the night, as he ran in the first direction he faced, theupper most thought in his mind was a blind rage against Moncrossen.

  The boss himself was afraid of this man, yet he had sent him, Creed, tomake away with him--alone--in the night! The quavering breath left histhroat in long moans as he ran on and on and on.

  "Your friend seems to have been in something of a hurry," venturedBill, as Burrage gave a final twist to the old newspaper in which hewas wrapping Fallon's jug.

  The storekeeper regarded his customer quizzically and spat withsurprising accuracy into the box.

  "Yes," he replied dryly, "Creed, he's mostly in a hurry when they'sstrangers about. But to-night he seemed right down _anxious_ thataway."