 | Hoosier mosaics |  |
Big Medicine.
The corner brick storehouse—in fact the
only brick building in Jimtown—was to be
sold at auction; and, consequently, by ten
o'clock in the morning, a considerable body of
men had collected near the somewhat dilapidated
house, directly in front of which the
auctioneer, a fat man from Indianapolis,
mounted on an old goods box, began crying,
partly through his tobacco-filled mouth and
partly through his very unmusical nose, as
follows:—
“Come up, gentlemen, and examine the
new, beautiful and commodious property I
now offer for sale! Walk round the house,
men, and view it from every side. Go into it,
if you like, up stairs and down, and then give
me a bid, somebody, to start with. It is a
very desirable house, indeed, gentlemen.”
With this preliminary puff, the speaker
paused and glanced slowly over his audience
with the air of a practiced physiognomist.
an interesting one. Its most prominent individual,
and the hero of this sketch, was Dave
Cook, sometimes called Dr. Cook, but more
commonly answering to the somewhat savage
sounding sobriquet of Big Medicine—a man
some thirty-five years of age, standing six feet
six in his ponderous boots; broad, bony, muscular,
a real giant, with a strongly marked
Roman face, and brown, shaggy hair. He was
dressed in a soiled and somewhat patched suit
of butternut jeans, topped off with a wide
rimmed wool hat, wonderfully battered, and
lopped in every conceivable way. He wore a
watch, the chain of which, depending from the
waistband of his pants, was of iron, and would
have weighed fully a pound avoirdupois. He
stood quite still, near the auctioneer, smoking
a clay pipe, his herculean arms folded on his
breast, his feet far apart. As for the others
of the crowd, they were, taken collectively,
about such as one used always to see in the
“dark corners” of Indiana, such as Boone
county used to be before the building of any
railroads through it, such as the particular
locality of Jimtown was before the ditching
law and the I. B. & W. Railway had lifted
the fog and enlightened the miasmatic swamps
of elms, burr oaks, frogs and herons. Big
Medicine seemed to be the only utterly complacent
man in the assembly. All the others
discovered evidences of much inward disturbance,
muttering mysteriously to each other,
and casting curious, inquiring glances at an
individual, a stranger in the place, who, with
a pair of queer green spectacles astride his
nose, and his arms crossed behind him, was
slowly sauntering about the building offered
for sale, apparently examining it with some
care. His general appearance was that of a
well dressed gentleman, which of itself was
enough to excite remark in Jimtown, especially
when an auction was on hand, and
everybody felt jolly.
“Them specs sticks to that nose o' his'n like
a squir'l to a knot!” said one.
“His pantaloons is ruther inclined to be
knock-kneed,” put in an old, grimy sinner
leaning on a single barrelled shot gun.
“Got lard enough onto his hair to shorten a
mess o' pie crust,” added a liver colored boy.
“Walks like he'd swallered a fence rail,
too,” chimed in a humpbacked fellow split
almost to his chin.
“Chaws mighty fine terbacker, you bet.”
“Them there boots o' his'n set goin' an'
comin' like a grubbin' hoe onto a crooked
han'le.”
“Well, take 'm up one side and down t'other,
he's a mod'rately onery lookin' feller.”
These remarks were reckoned smart by those
who perpetrated them, and were by no means
meant for real slurs on the individual at whom
they were pointed. Indeed they were delivered
in guarded undertones, so that he might
not hear them; and he, meanwhile, utterly
ignorant of affording any sport, continued his
examination of the house, the while some happy
frogs in a neighboring pond rolled out a rattling,
jubilant chorus, and the summer wind
poured through the leafy tops of the tall elms
and athletic burr oaks with a swash and roar
like a turbulent river.
“What am I now offered for this magnificent
property? Come, give me a bid! Speak
up lively! What do I hear for the house?”
The auctioneer, as he spoke, let his eyes
wander up the walls of the old, dingy building,
to where the blue birds and the peewees had
built in the cracks and along the warped cornice
and broken window frames, and just then
it chanced that a woman's face appeared at
one of those staring holes, which, with broken
called a window. The face was a plump,
cheerful one, the more radiant from contrast
with the dull wall around it—a face one could
never forget, however, and would recall often,
if for nothing but the fine fall of yellow hair
that framed it in. It was a sweet, winning,
intellectual face, full of the gentlest womanly
charms.
“Forty dollars for the house, 'oman and
all!” cried Big Medicine, gazing up at the
window in which, for the merest moment, the
face appeared.
The man with the green spectacles darted a
quick glance at the speaker.
“I am bid forty dollars, gentlemen, forty
dollars, do all hear? Agoing for forty dollars!
Who says fifty?” bawled the auctioneer.
The crowd now swayed earnestly forward,
closing in solid order around the goods box.
Many whiskered, uncouth, but not unkindly
faces were upturned to the window only in
time to see the beautiful woman disappear
quite hastily.
“Hooray for the gal!” cried a lusty youth,
whose pale blue eyes made no show of contrast
with his faded hair and aguish complexion.
“Dad, can't ye bid agin the doctor so as I kin
claim 'er?”
“Fifty dollars!” shouted the sunburnt man
addressed as Dad.
This made the crowd lively. Every man
nudged his neighbor, and the aguish, blue-eyed
boy grinned in a ghastly, self-satisfied
way.
“Agoing at fifty dollars! Fiddlesticks! The
house is worth four thousand. No fooling here
now! Agoing at only fifty dollars—going—”
“Six hundred dollars,” said he of the green
glasses in a clear, pleasant voice.
“Six hundred dollars!” echoed the auctioneer
in a triumphant thunderous tone.
“That sounds like business. Who says the
other hundred?”
“Hooray for hooray, and hooray for hooray's
daddy!” shouted the tallow-faced lad.
The frogs pitched their song an octave
higher, the blue birds and peewees wheeled
through the falling floods of yellow sunlight,
and lower and sweeter rose the murmur of the
tide of pulsating air as it lifted and swayed
the fresh sprays of the oaks and elms. The
well dressed stranger lighted a cigar, took off
his green glasses and put them carefully in his
pocket, then took a cool straight look at Big
Medicine.
The Roman face of the latter was just then
more than words could rightly convey. Six
hundred dollars, cash down, was a big sum
for the crazy old house, but he had made up
his mind to buy it, and now he seemed likely
to have to let it go or pay more than it was
worth. The stem of his clay pipe settled back
full three inches into his firmly-set mouth, so
that there seemed imminent danger to the
huge brown moustache that overhung the
fiery bowl. He returned the stare of the
stranger with interest, and said—
“Six hundred an' ten dollars.”
“Agoing, a—,” began the auctioneer.
“Six twenty,” said the stranger.
“Ago—.”
“Six twenty-one!” growled Big Medicine.
“Six twenty-five!” quickly added his antagonist.
Big Medicine glanced heavenward, and for
a moment allowed his eyes to follow the flight
of a great blue heron that slowly winged its
way, high up in the yellow summer reaches of
splendor, toward the distant swamps where
the white sycamores spread their fanciful arms
above the dark green maples and dusky witch-hazel
thickets. The auctioneer, a close observer,
saw an ashy hue, a barely discernible
Big Medicine said, in a jerking tone:
“Six twenty-five and a half!”
The stranger took his cigar from his mouth
and smiled placidly. No more imperturbable
countenance could be imagined.
“Six twenty-six!” he said gently.
“Take the ole house an' be derned to you!”
cried Big Medicine, looking furiously at his
antagonist. “Take the blamed ole shacke-merack
an' all the cussed blue-birds an' peer-weers
to boot, for all I keer!”
Everybody laughed, and the auctioneer continued:
“Agoing for six twenty-six! Who says
seven hundred? Bid up lively! Agoing
once, agoing twice—once, twice, three-e-e-e-e
times! Sold to Abner Golding for six hundred
and twenty-six dollars, and as cheap as dirt
itself!”
“Hooray for the man who hed the most
money!” shouted the tallow-faced boy.
The sale was at an end. The auctioneer
came down from his box and wiped his face
with a red handkerchief. The crowd, as if
blown apart by a puff of wind, scattered this
way and that, drifting into small, grotesque
groups to converse together on whatever topic
seemed inclined to be alone, but the irrepressible
youth of the saffron skin ambled up
to him and said, in a tone intended for comic:
“Golly, doctor, but didn't that 'ere gal
projuce a orful demand for the ole house!
Didn't she set the ole trap off when she peeked
out'n the winder!”
Big Medicine looked down at the strapping
boy, much as a lion might look at a field rat
or a weasel, then he doubled his hand into
an enormous fist and held it under the youth's
nose, saying in a sort of growl as he did so:
“You see this 'ere bundle o' bones, don't
ye?”
“Guess so,” replied the youth.
“Well, would you like a small mess of it?”
“Not as anybody knows of.”
“Well, then, keep yer derned mouth shet!”
Which, accordingly, the boy proceeded to
do, ambling off as quickly as possible.
About this time, the stranger, having put
the green spectacles back upon his nose,
walked in the direction of 'Squire Tadmore's
office, accompanied by the young woman who
had looked from the window. When Big
Medicine saw them he picked up a stick and
began furiously to whittle it with his jackknife.
look of chagrin, wonder, and something like a
new and thrilling delight. He puffed out
great volumes of smoke, making his pipe
wheeze audibly under the vigor of his draughts.
He was certainly excited.
“Orful joke the boys 'll have on me arter
this,” he muttered to himself. “Wonder if
the 'oman's the feller's wife? Monstrous
poorty, shore's yer born!”
He soon whittled up one stick. He immediately
dived for another, this time getting
hold of a walnut knot. A tough thing to
whittle, but he attacked it as if it had been a
bit of white pine. Soon after this 'Squire Tadmore's
little boy came running down from his
father's office to where Big Medicine stood.
“Mr. Big Medicine,” cried he, all out of
breath, “that 'ere man what bought the ole
house wants to see you partic'ler!”
“Mischief he does! Tell 'im to go to—;
no, wait a bit. Guess I'll go tell 'im myself.”
And, so saying, he moved at a slashing
pace down to the door of the 'Squire's office.
He thrust his great hirsute head inside the
room, and glaring at the mild mannered
stranger, said:
“D'ye want to see me?”
Mr. Golding got up from his seat and coming
out took Big Medicine familiarly by the arm,
meanwhile smiling in the most friendly way.
“Come one side a little, I wish to speak
with you privately, confidentially.”
Big Medicine went rather sulkily along.
When they had gone some distance from the
house Mr. Golding lifted his spectacles from
his nose, and turning his calm, smiling eyes
full upon those of Big Medicine, said, with a
shrug of his finely cut shoulders:
“I outbid you a little, my friend, but I'm
blessed if I haven't got myself into a ridiculous
scrape on account of it.”
“How so?” growled Big Medicine.
“Why, when I come to count my funds I'm
short a half dollar.”
“You're what?”
“I lack just a half dollar of having enough
money to pay for the house, and I thought I'd
rather ask you to loan me the money than anybody
else here.”
Big Medicine stood for a time in silence, whittling
away, as if for dear life, on the curly knot.
Dreamy gusts of perfumed heat swept by from
adjacent clover and wheat fields, where the
blooms hung thick; little whirlwinds played
in the dust at their feet as little whirlwinds always
made tenderly musical by distance, were heard
the notes of a country dinner-horn. Big Medicine's
ample chest swelled, and swelled, and
then he burst at the mouth with a mighty bass
laugh, that went battling and echoing round
the place. Mr. Golding laughed too, in his own
quiet, gentlemanly way. They looked at each
other and laughed, then looked off toward the
swamps and laughed. Big Medicine put his
hands in his pockets almost up to the elbows,
and leaned back and laughed out of one corner
of his mouth while holding his pipe in the other.
“I say, mister,” said he at length, “a'n't you
railly got but six hundred and twenty-five an'
a half?”
“Just that much to a cent, and no more,”
replied Mr. Golding, with a comical smile and
bow.
Big Medicine took his pipe from his mouth,
gave the walnut knot he had dropped a little
kick and guffawed louder and longer than before.
To have been off at a little distance
watching them would have convinced any one
that Mr. Golding was telling some rare anecdote,
and that Big Medicine was convulsed
with mirth, listening.
“Well I'm derned if 'taint quare,” cried the
attitudes in the ecstasy of his amusement.
“You outbid me half a dollar and then
didn't have the half a dollar neither! Wha,
wha, wha-ee!” and his cachinnations sounded
like rolling of moderate thunder.
At the end of this he took out a greasy wallet
and paid Mr. Golding the required amount
in silver coin. His chagrin had vanished before
the stranger's quiet way of making friends.
A week passed over Jimtown. A week of
as rare June weather as ever lingered about
the cool places of the woods, or glimmered
over the sweet clover fields all red with a blush
of bloom, where the field larks twittered and
the buntings chirped, and where the laden bees
rose heavily to seek their wild homes in the
hollows of the forests. By this time it was
generally known in Jimtown that Mr. Golding
would soon receive a stock of goods with which
to open a “store” in the old corner brick; but
Big Medicine knew more than any of his neighbors,
for he and Golding had formed a partnership
to do business under the “name and
style” of Cook & Golding.
This Abner Golding had lately been a
wealthy retail man in Cincinnati, and had lost
everything by the sudden suspension of a bank
His creditors had made a run on him and he
had been able to save just the merest remnant
of his goods, and a few hundred dollars in
money. Thus he came to Jimtown to begin
life and business anew.
To Big Medicine the week had been a long
one; why, it would not be easy to tell. No
doubt there had come a turning point in his
life. In those days, and in that particular
region, to be a `store keeper' was no small
honor. But Big Medicine acted strangely.
He wandered about, with his hands in his
pockets, whistling plaintive tunes, and often
he was seen standing out before the old corner
brick, gazing up at one of the vacant windows
where pieces of broken lattice were swaying
in the wind. At such times he muttered softly
to himself:
“Ther's wher I fust seed the gal.”
Four big road wagons (loaded with boxes),
three of them containing the merchandise and
one the scanty household furniture of Mr.
Golding and his daughter Carrie, came rumbling
into Jimtown. Big Medicine was on
hand, a perfect Hercules at unloading and unpacking.
Mr. Golding was sadly pleasant;
Carrie was roguishly observant, but womanly
and quiet.
The tallow-faced youth and two or three
others stood by watching the proceedings. The
former occasionally made a remark at which
the others never failed to laugh.
“Ef ye'll notice, now,” said he, “it's a fac 'at
whenever Big Medicine goes to make a big
surge to lift a box, he fust takes a peep at the
gal, an' that 'ere seems to kinder make 'im
`wax strong an' multiply,' as the preacher
says, an' then over goes the box!”
“Has a awful effect on his narves,” some
one replied.
“I'm a thinkin',” added tallow-face, “'at ef
Big Medicine happens to look at the gal about
the time he goes to make a trade, it 'll have
sich a power on 'im 'at he'll sell a yard o' caliker
for nigh onto forty dollars!”
“Er a blanket overcoat for 'bout twelve an'
a half cents!” put in another.
“I'm kinder weakly,” resumed tallow-face
with a comical leer at Big Medicine; “wonder
if 't wouldn't be kinder strengthnin' on me ef
I'd kinder sidle up towards the gal myself?”
“I'll sidle up to you!” growled Big Medicine;
and making two strides of near ten feet
each, he took the youth by his faded flaxen
hair, and holding him clear of the ground, administered
a half dozen or so of resounding
fell in a heap on the ground. When he got on
his feet again he began to bristle up and show
fight, but when Big Medicine reached for him
he ambled off.
In due time the goods were all placed on the
shelves and Mr. Golding's household furniture
arranged in the upper rooms where he purposed
living, Carrie acting as housekeeper.
On the first evening after all things had been
put to rights, Mr. Golding said to Big Medicine:
“I suppose we ought to advertise.”
“Do how?”
“Advertise.”
“Sartinly,” said Big Medicine, having not
the faintest idea of what his partner meant.
“Who can we get to paint our fence advertisements?”
A gleam of intelligence shot from Big Medicine's
eyes. He knew now what was wanted.
He remembered once, on a visit to Crawfordsville,
seeing these fence advertisements. He
comprehended in a moment.
“O, I know what ye mean, now,” he said,
with a grin, as if communing with himself on
some novel suggestion. “I guess I kin 'tend
to that my own self. The moon shines to-night,
don't it?”
“Yes; why?”
“I'll do the paintin' to-night. A good ijee
has jist struck me. You jist leave it all to me.”
So the thing was settled, and Big Medicine
was gone all night.
The next day was a sluice of rain. It poured
incessantly from daylight till dark. Big Medicine
sat on the counter in the corner brick
and chuckled. His thoughts were evidently
very pleasant ones. Mr. Golding was busy
marking goods and Carrie was helping him.
The great grey eyes of Big Medicine followed
the winsome girl all the time. When night
came, and she went up stairs, he said to
Golding:
“That gal o' your'n is a mighty smart little
'oman.”
“Yes, and she's all I have left,” replied Mr.
Golding in a sad tone.
Big Medicine stroked his brown beard, whistled
a few turns of a jig tune, and, jumping
down from the counter, went out into the drizzly
night. A few rods from the house he turned
and looked up at the window. A little form
was just vanishing from it.
“Ther's wher I fust seed the gal,” he murmured,
then turned and went his way, occupied
with strange, sweet imaginings. As a matter
dwell upon the probable turn taken by his
thoughts as he slowly stalked through the
darkness and rain that night; but I shall not
trench on what, knowing all that I do, seems
sanctified and hallowed. It would be breaking
a sacred confidence. Who has stood and
watched for a form at a window? Who has
expressed, in language more refined, to the
inner fountain of human sympathy, the idea
conveyed in the rough fellow's remark? Who
that has, let him recall the time and the place
holy in his memory.
“Ther's wher I fust seed the gal,” said the
man, and went away to his lonely bed to dream
the old new dream. All night the rain fell,
making rich music on the roof and pouring
through his healthy slumber a sound like
the flowing of strange rivers in a land of new
delights—a land into which he had strayed
hand in hand with some one, the merest touch
of whose hand was rapture, the simplest utterance
of whose voice was charming beyond
expression. The old new dream. The dream
of flesh that is divine—the vision of blood
that is love's wine—the apocalypse that bewildered
the eyes of the old singer when from
a flower of foam in the sweet green sea rose
the dream and found it sweet.
It is quite probable that no fence advertisements
ever paid as well, or stirred up as big a
“muss” as those painted by Big Medicine on
the night mentioned heretofore. As an artist
our Hoosier was not a genius, but he certainly
understood how to manufacture a notoriety.
If space permitted I would copy all those rude
notices for your inspection; but I must be content
with a few random specimens taken from
memory, with an eye to brevity. They are
characteristic of the man and in somewhat an
index of the then state of society in and
around Jimtown. On Deacon Jones's fence
was scrawled the following: “Dern yer ole
sole, ef yer want good Koffy go to Cook &
Golding's nu stoar.”
John Butler, a nice old quaker, had the
following daubed on his gate: “Yu thievin'
duk-legged ya and na ole cuss, ef the sperit
muves ye, go git a broad-brimmed straw hat
at Cook & Golding's great stand at Jimtown.”
The side of William Smith's pig pen bore
this: “Bill, ye ornery sucker, come traid with
Cook & Golding at the ole corner brick in Jimtown.”
Old Peter Gurley found writing to the
following effect on his new wagon bed: “Ef
of ri licker at Cook & Golding's.” On a large
plank nailed to a tree at Canaan's Cross Roads
all passers by saw the following: “Git up
an brindle! Here's yer ole and faithful mewl!
Come in gals and git yer dofunny tricks and
fixens, hats, caps, bonnets, parrysols, silk
petty-coat-sleeves and other injucements too
noomerous too menshen! Rip in—we're on it!
Call at Cook & Golding's great corner brick!”
These are fair specimens of what appeared
everywhere. How one man could have done
so much in one night remains a mystery.
Some people swore, some threatened to prosecute,
but finally everybody went to the corner
brick to trade. Jimtown became famous on
account of Big Medicine and the corner brick
store.
The sun rose through the morning gate beyond
the quagmires east of Jimtown and set
through the evening gate past the ponds and
maple swamps to the west. The winds blew
and there were days of calm. The weather
ran through its mutations of heat and cold.
The herons flew over, the blue birds twittered
and went away and came again, and the peewees
disappeared and returned. A whole year
had rolled round and it was June again, with
railroad through Jimtown.
During this flow of time Big Medicine had
feasted his eyes on the bright curls and brighter
eyes of Carrie Golding, till his heart had become
tender and happy as a child's. They
rarely conversed more than for him to say,
“Miss Carrie, look there,” or for her to call out,
“Please, Mr. Cook, hand me down this bolt of
muslin.” But Big Medicine was content.
It was June the 8th, about ten o'clock in the
morning, and Big Medicine was slowly making
his way from his comfortable bachelor's cabin
to the corner brick. A peculiar smile was on
his face, his heart was fluttering strangely,
and all on account of a little circumstance of
the preceding day, now fresh in his memory.
Great boy that he was, he was poring over a
single sweet smile Carrie Golding had given
him!
The mail hack stood at the post-office door,
whence Mr. Golding was coming with a letter
in his hand. Big Medicine stopped and looked
up at the window. There stood Carrie. She
was looking hopefully toward her father. Big
Medicine smiled and murmured:
“Ther's wher I fust seed the gal—bless her
sweet soul!” There was a whole world of sincere
happiness in the tones of his voice.
Mr. Golding passed him hastily, his green
spectacles on his nose, and a great excitement
flashing from his face. Big Medicine gazed
wonderingly after his partner till he saw him
run up stairs to Carrie's room. Then he thought
he heard Carrie cry out joyfully, but it may
have been the wind.
When an hour had passed Mr. Golding and
Carrie came down dressed for travelling.
How strangely, wondrously beautiful the girl
now looked! Mr. Golding was as nervous as
an old woman. He rubbed his thin white
hands together rapidly and said:
“Mr. Cook, I have glorious news this morning!”
“And what mought it be?” asked Big Medicine,
as a damp chilliness crept over him, and
his face grew pinched and almost as white as
his shirt bosom.
“Krofton & Kelly, the bankers, have resumed
payment, and I'll get all my money!
It is glorious news, is it not, my friend?”
Big Medicine was silent. He tried to speak,
but his mouth was dry and powerless. A
mist drifted across his eyes. He hardly realized
where he was or what was said, but he
knew all.
“I have concluded to give you this house and
refuse. I haven't time to make the transfer
now, but I'll not neglect it. Carrie and I must
hasten at once to Cincinnati. The hack is
waiting; so good bye, my dear friend, God
bless you!” Mr. Golding wrung his partner's
cold, limp hand, without noticing how fearfully
haggard that Roman face had suddenly grown.
“Good bye, Mr. Cook,” said Carrie in her
sweet, sincere way. “I'm real sorry to leave
you and the dear old house—but—but—good
bye, Mr. Cook. Come to see us in Cincinnati.
Good bye.” She gave him her hand also.
He smiled a wan, flickering smile, like the
last flare of a fire whose fuel is exhausted.
Carrie's woman's heart sank under that look,
though she knew not wherefore.
The hack passed round the curve of the
road.
They were gone!
Big Medicine stood alone in the door of the
corner brick. He looked back over his shoulders
at the well filled shelves and muttered:
“She ain't here, and what do I want of the
derned old store?”
The wind rustled the elm leaves and tossed
the brown locks of the man over his great forehead;
the blue birds sang on the roof; the
and, high over head, in the yellow mist of the
fine June weather, sailed a great blue heron,
going to the lakes. Big Medicine felt like one
deserted in the wilderness. He stood there a
while, then closed and locked the door and
went into the woods. A month passed before
he returned. Jimtown wondered and wondered.
But when he did return his neighbors
could not get a word out of him. He was
silent, moody, listless. Where had he been?
Only hunting for Mr. Golding and Carrie. He
found them, after a long search, in a splendid
residence on the heights just out of Cincinnati.
Mr. Golding greeted him cordially, but somehow
Big Medicine felt as though he were
shaking hands with some one over an insurmountable
barrier. That was not the Mr.
Golding he had known.
“Carrie is out in the garden. She will be
glad to see you. Go along the hall there.
You will see the gate.”
Mr. Golding waved his hand after the manner
of a very rich man, and a patronizing tone
would creep into his voice. Somehow Big
Medicine looked terribly uncouth.
With a hesitating step and a heart full of
unreal sensations, Big Medicine opened the
Suddenly a vision, such as his fancy had never
pictured, burst on his dazzled eyes. Flowers
and vines and statues and fountains; on every
hand rich colors; perfumes so mixed and intensified
that his senses almost gave way;
long winding walks; fairy-like bowers and
music. He paused and listened. A heavy
voice, rich and manly, singing a ballad—some
popular love song—to the sweet accompaniment
of a violin, and blended through it all,
like a silvery thread, the low sweet voice of
Carrie Golding. The poor fellow held his
breath till the song was done.
Two steps forward and Big Medicine towered
above the lovers.
Carrie sprang to her feet with a startled
cry; then, recognizing the intruder, she held
out her little hand and welcomed him. Turning
to her lover she said:
“Henry, this is Mr. Cook, lately papa's
partner in Indiana.”
The lover was a true gentleman, so he took
the big hard hand of the visitor and said he
was glad to see him.
Big Medicine stood for a few moments holding
a hand of each of the lovers. Presently a
tremor took possession of his burly frame.
He did not speak a word. His breast swelled
Carrie's hand in that of her lover and turned
away. As he did so a tear, a great bitter drop,
rolled down his haggard cheek. A few long
strides and Big Medicine was gone.
Shrilly piped the blue birds, plaintively sang
the peewees, sweetly through the elms and
burr oaks by the corner brick blew the fresh
summer wind, as, just at sunset, Big Medicine
once more stood in front of the old building
with his eyes fixed on the vacant, staring window.
It was scarcely a minute that he stood
there, but long enough for a tender outline of
the circumstances of the past year to rise in
his memory.
A rustling at the broken lattice, a sudden
thrill through the iron frame of the watching
man, a glimpse of a sweet face—no, it was
only a fancy. The house was still, and old and
desolate. It stared at him like a death's head.
Big Medicine raised his eyes toward heaven,
which was now golden and flashing resplendently
with sunset glories. High up, as if
almost touching the calm sky, a great blue
heron was toiling heavily westward. Taking
the course chosen by the lone bird, Big Medicine
went away, and the places that knew him
once know him no more forever.
| Hoosier mosaics | |