Luke Baldwin's Vow Page 6

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Another Kind of Wise Man

  They would sit down at the table with the screened windows wide open and a cool breeze blowing from the lake. At that time of year, the end of May, it was chilly when the sun went down, but Uncle Henry couldn’t get enough fresh air. There was no use complaining of the draft from the window. Aunt Helen was convinced that no one got a cold from a draft or from feeling cold; one got a cold only from a germ. These positive opinions embarrassed Luke, who couldn’t get used to them. It was not like home. And on the table the knives and forks and spoons were not set down as his father’s housekeeper would have done it. Big bowls of food were put down on the table. And the smell of the house was different; it was a fine clean smell, but it had not yet become the smell of his own house, or he would not still be noticing it.

  “What’s on your mind, son?” Uncle Henry asked suddenly.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Luke,” Aunt Helen said.

  “I wasn’t really thinking anything.”

  “Oh, come on, son, you were in a dream.”

  “I was wondering about that Mr. Kemp. He’s a queer man, isn’t he?”

  “What’s queer about him, Luke?”

  “I don’t know; he’s just queer – different.”

  “Maybe he’s queer, Luke,” Uncle Henry said, “but a pretty shrewd fellow. In some ways I’ve a lot of respect for Mr. Kemp. Mind you, I don’t agree with him about many things, Luke, but he’s a good neighbor, and an intelligent man. I have a lot of respect for him.”

  “Isn’t he just a farmer, like other farmers around here?”

  “Why, yes, and he has those cows. Look here, Luke. You tell me why you think he’s queer.” Turning to his wife he added, “A boy often has a shrewd insight into people. I’m interested in what Luke sees in Mr. Kemp. Maybe the boy has real insight.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking anything important, Uncle Henry,” Luke said quickly.

  “I know. I know. But what do you make of Mr. Kemp? What did you notice about him?”

  “Well, he certainly seems able to take his time. I noticed the way he takes his time – for one thing.”

  “That’s true. Yes, Luke, go on.”

  “And he sort of lazes around – as if he never got excited. Does he ever get excited, Uncle Henry?”

  “I don’t think he does, Luke. Come to think of it.”

  “I don’t mean he’s lazy, Uncle Henry.”

  “Oh, I know what you mean. He’s certainly not lazy.”

  “It’s as if – well, as if he’s sort of smiling to himself inside.”

  “A philosopher,” Aunt Helen said brightly.

  “Is that what he is, Aunt Helen? What’s a philosopher?”

  “Oh, he’s just a nice old man, Luke. I suppose that’s what a philosopher is – a nice old man.”

  “Let Luke go on, Helen.”

  “I’m not stopping him, Henry.”

  “I liked him. It was just a feeling I had,” Luke said deprecatingly to Uncle Henry’s nodding seriously. Luke couldn’t imagine that anything he had to say about people would be truly illuminating to such a shrewd man as Uncle Henry. “I guess I mean,” he blurted out, “that Mr. Kemp seems to have been looking at places and things a long time and maybe he knows what’s important and what’s not important.”

  “No. No. No, Luke,” Uncle Henry protested vigorously. “There you go wrong. There I disagree with you. Although, mind you, my boy, you’ve been very shrewd about Mr. Kemp. You have eyes in your head, Luke. The making of a man of good judgment. It’s all a man needs. You can’t get anywhere in the world unless you can appraise people at their proper value.”

  Reaching over, he patted Luke’s shoulder approvingly. “Very good, my boy.” Clearing his throat like a chairman taking charge of a meeting to sum up and make the whole matter clear, he went on, “It’s true Mr. Kemp has been looking at places and things a long time, Luke. But at the one place, the one sky, the one lake, his own wood lot – for fifty years. Why, Luke, old Mr. Kemp has a university education. His father, you know, left him some money, and what did he do? Why he’s come back to this place and he sits up there growing old with his land and just taking his time. Ah, it’s a regrettable thing, Luke, when an intelligent, educated man like Mr. Kemp doesn’t try to do anything with the world. No feeling for action at all. And you’re wrong in thinking he knows what’s important. I don’t think he knows what’s important. He doesn’t at all. That man has got things all twisted. But it puzzles me. It’s hard to explain. If he only applied himself to functioning usefully, he would see things differently, and he wouldn’t puzzle me.”

  “But, Henry, he has the best dairy cows around here. You must admit that,” Aunt Helen said.

  “Oh, y es, yes, but he simply indulges himself with those cows.”

  “Well, he asked me to come up with Dan and bring the cows in with him,” Luke said. “What do you think?”

  “Why, go ahead, Luke.”

  “I think I’ll go up tonight,” Luke said.

  Walking up the road later on with Dan, Luke wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to get the cows with old Mr. Kemp. The desire to be with someone who seemed to share his appreciation of Dan, which was the real reason, was not clear to him and he imagined that he was only seeking a little fun doing something he had never done before.

  It was about seven-thirty and the sun was like a big red ball rolling across the tips of the trees to the west. Up the road, far beyond the end of the road and over the town, the blue mountains gleamed with patches of yellow light and purple tinge. On the road, which was made of pounded gravel, were small jutting rocks, and Dan walked delicately at the side of the road in the grass where the walking was easier on the paws. When they came to Mr. Kemp’s house Luke hesitated shyly, looking at the tall three-storied brick structure with the small veranda. If Mr. Kemp had been sitting on the veranda reading the paper, everything would have been easy, but he wasn’t there.

  “Maybe we won’t go in, eh, Dan?” he asked, as Dan looked at him expectantly. “Maybe we’ll just go on for a walk by ourselves.” But Dan, now going lazily up the path as if on familiar ground, turned to wait for him. If he had ready a few noncommittal, nonchalant remarks to make as soon as he saw Mr. Kemp, Luke thought, he might justify his presence there. He could say, “Dan turned in here, Mr. Kemp, so I thought I might as well come in, too.” If Mr. Kemp were busy he could say, “Come on, Dan, we’ve got to get on our way.”

  With a self-conscious swagger he loafed up the path kicking idly at little stones and sticks as he listened apprehensively. He went on to the back of the house and from there he could see the cow sheds which didn’t look like battered old sheds; they were splendidly clean and painted white. A hired man in a blue shirt was raking up the ground in front of one of the sheds. As this hired man looked up, and Luke prepared to withdraw, Mr. Kemp came out of the back door. He was wearing a windbreaker and a straw hat. “Hello, there, Luke,” he called, waving his hand enthusiastically. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” and he snapped his fingers at Dan, who trotted to him.

  “I was out for a walk and Dan turned in here,” Luke began solemnly. “I thought I’d come in, Mr. Kemp.”

  “Why, you wouldn’t be much of a neighbor if you didn’t come in, Luke. Say, you certainly did a good job on Dan. He looks about ten pounds thinner, a fine, sleek dog.”

  “He looks younger, don’t you think, Mr. Kemp?”

  “Years younger, Luke.”

  “Uncle Henry didn’t think so.”

  “Maybe your uncle didn’t really look at him.”

  “Oh, he looked at him, all right.”

  “But not as if he had never seen him before.”

  “Yeah. That’s right, and that’s important, eh, Mr. Kemp?”

  “It certainly is important, Luke. Come on, let’s get those cows.”

  “Well, what do we do, Mr. Kemp?” Luke asked enthusiastically.

  “I’ll tell you what I
do, Luke,” Mr. Kemp said amiably as they passed the stable and headed for the open pasture land stretching out from the back of the house. “I just get behind the last cow in the field and say, ‘Co boss,’ and throw a little pebble at her heels and she lurches along like a drunken sailor, and soon they all start moving. There are only about twelve of them. But an energetic lad like you with a smart dog might round them up like a cowboy riding the range. See what I mean?”

  Turning to the left, they cut by the corner of the Kemp wood lot and ahead was the pasture land stretching out, rolling a little, in the rising mist. From there you could see the grazing cows, fat brown-and-white Jersey cows. “I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Kemp said, when they came to a smooth flat stone. “I’m a lazy man. I could sit here and smoke a pipe and watch you and Dan handle the job, Luke. You might have the making of a great cowboy. How do I know? Don’t be afraid of making a little noise, and if you want to you can ride herd on them. Let’s see how you can handle this, son.”

  With a happy grin on his face he sat down and fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. What pleased Luke was that he could see that Mr. Kemp enjoyed being there with him and would also enjoy watching him round up the cows. In the little silence between them their eyes met, and Luke had the strange feeling that Mr. Kemp knew all that he, Luke, would like to do, and that these things were right and good because they had been done many times before; the contemplation of these things seemed to give Mr. Kemp a simple pleasure in being alive in the world. Of course, Luke didn’t express it to himself in this way. But he had a sudden friendly awareness that everything, simply everything, the time of the evening, the cows in the field, the sun going down, himself there with the dog, was all as it should be. Grinning, he said, “I think I can get them heading this way, Mr. Kemp.”

  “Take it easy, son. Once they pass this stone they’re on their way, and Joe, my hired man, will get them in the sheds.”

  “Come on, Dan,” Luke called, and they both began to trot across the pasture. Before they had gone fifty paces he felt himself imbued with a strange excitement, stimulating his imagination and giving a fantastic glow to the whole scene. The mist from the lush pasture land rose around him like the low thin smoke from campfires; hovering over the ground it swirled like smoke settling after artillery fire. The cows became a great herd that had to be rounded up quickly and driven along the pass in the direct fire of the rustlers who were there in the campfire smoke. His regular trot became a gallop. As Dan galloped with him and he called softly, “Will we ride ’em, Dan? Give the word, Dan. Of course, there’s only you and me.” He addressed Dan as the leader, as if he recognized that Dan, from then on in their play and in his dreams, was to be the one who was older and possessed of an ancient, instinctive wisdom.

  When they were far across the field beyond the last lazy brown cow, Luke suddenly swerved as if reining in his mount, a mount that only he could ride, and Dan swerved too. Luke didn’t deign to pick up a stone or stick and hurl it at the lazy cow grazing there peacefully. He yelled, “Just as you say, Dan. Hi, hi, to the hills. To the hills. Sure, we’ll ride ’em, Dan,” and he rushed at the cows. Dan, now barking fiercely, darted at the legs of the startled cow, which jerked up its head, backed away, lashing its flanks with its tail, and trotted heavily away from the boy and the dog.

  Forgetting about his lame leg the collie swerved around crazily with Luke, hurling himself at the rear hoofs and cutting in recklessly under the belly. Each time Luke yelled, “Hi, hi, hi,” the old dog barked with fierce excitement. But the mist was rising, the mist like a terrible barrage smoke from the hidden gunfire, coming closer. While Dan circled and barked and drove the herd together, Luke was left alone to face the rustlers. Panting, he dropped to his knees as if the horse, perfectly trained, was kneeling beside him; he took aim; he heard the roar of his gun. But that little twinge in his shoulder – a hot stab – yes – he had been hit, the shoulder suddenly became painful. He let his left arm fall heavily at his side. But he couldn’t abandon the position, not when Dan counted on him; not when Dan, riding as he never rode before and firing in the air, had three of the herd trotting along in the beginning of the stampede. “Good old Dan, he can do the job alone if they don’t wing him,” Luke whispered to his horse. “Come on, boy, on your feet.” Mounting, he rode after Dan, ducking low on the saddle.

  “Hi, hi, Dan,” he yelled. And Dan trotted back to him, panting and blowing and limping badly now. “I’m sorry, Dan. Maybe I let you down. But they got me in the shoulder. Oh, Dan, they got you in the leg.” Dan’s good eye only danced and shone with pleasure. From one of the cows came a long moo-oo, and then an answering moo-oo, from across the field.

  “They’re all in motion now, Dan. It’s just as you figured it. Soon we’ll be out of danger. I’ll try and hold out, Dan. Soon the whole great herd will be in motion. And woe betide those rustlers if they try to stop them. They’ll be trampled underfoot, pounded to a pulp. Don’t worry about me, Dan, I’m taking it easy.”

  As they rode off again across the field, he saw with concern that Dan, limping badly, wasn’t swerving and barking. Though tiring, he wanted to go on. With his good eye he said he wanted to go on. So Luke, too, began to limp badly. “Oh, oh,” he moaned. “They got me in the leg, too, Dan. I’m afraid I’m holding you back.”

  His moan was so real that Dan, wheeling, looked up with the same intelligent and sympathetic concern that Luke had offered to him; the dog tried to jump up and put his paws on Luke’s chest; the tongue came out, reaching for Luke’s hands. “I can hold out if you can, Dan,” Luke cried. And they whirled on after the cows.

  Driven on by the shouting, circling and barking, the twelve cows now in a group moved slowly in the direction of the corner of the wood lot and to the lane leading to the sheds. No longer could they be startled into trotting, they loafed along, mooing and swinging their heads at the barking dog. But they were like a real herd with their lashing tails, their big surprised eyes and their snorting nostrils. And to Luke their animal smell was like a strange intoxicating odor, belonging to his dream in which he rode along, lean and tired on his saddle now, chatting with his boss, Dan, for the herd was filing past the outpost, where Mr. Kemp waited.

  “Well, Luke,” Mr. Kemp called, “that was a great show.”

  “Eh? Was it?” Luke answered with an embarrassed smile, for in his mind he was still far away from Mr. Kemp; but now, coming closer to him in his thoughts, and then suddenly very close to him, he smiled shyly.

  “Where’s Dan?” he asked awkwardly. “Hey, Dan, come here. Here we are back with Mr. Kemp.” He seemed to be apologizing to Dan for restoring him to the reality of the pasture land, and Mr. Kemp, and the sawmill, and making him an old dog again. But Dan was now willing to be quiet. He flopped down at Luke’s feet. “Was it all right the way we did it, Mr. Kemp?” Luke asked.

  “It was never done better, Luke.”

  “Well, that’s fine.”

  “Yes, Luke, it was done with dash and distinction and splendid imagination.”

  “Dan’s a little lame. I hope his leg won’t get worse, Mr. Kemp. I hope it doesn’t stiffen up. I don’t think he’s such a very old dog, do you, Mr. Kemp?”

  “Oh, Dan’s good for a few years yet, Luke.”

  “If you owned him you wouldn’t want to get rid of him, would you, Mr. Kemp?”

  “Me? Well, not if he meant much to me, Luke. A man never deliberately gets rid of anything he loves, Luke, does he? But the trouble is, a dog often has more loyalty than a man and sometimes he can’t count of his owner’s loyalty. Come on, sit down and rest awhile, Luke.”

  As Luke sat down Mr. Kemp said rhetorically, “‘Let’s sit upon the ground awhile and tell sad stories of the death of kings.’ That’s a quotation from Richard II, son, a play. In our case, it’s the death of dogs we’re talking about.”

  He began to tell a story about a dog he had owned when he was a boy, a dog which had grown up with him. He talked in a slow, drawling tone. It wa
s getting a little cooler and the night breeze that follows the sinking sun was rustling through the leaves of the trees. Luke, sitting beside the eloquent old man, had his face raised to him, his eyes wondering.

  “And this dog, a little Boston bull, was pretty old,” Mr. Kemp went on. “I don’t know how old, maybe twelve years. It was going along the road with me one day, trotting on ahead, and suddenly it seemed to stiffen and roll over. Well, it was a heart attack. Now here’s the funny thing, son. That dog knew it was finished. Yet it kept trying to twist its body around in a pathetic convulsive movement so it could turn its head to me and look at me, look right into my eyes. It wanted to make this last gesture of affectionate loyalty as it died on the road.”

  “I guess that dog liked you, Mr. Kemp. It must have liked you a lot.”

  “Of course I liked the dog, too.”

  After a long pause, Luke said suddenly. “My father died of a heart attack, Mr. Kemp.”

  “Is that a fact? I’m sorry, son. I didn’t know.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Kemp. But what you just said about that dog is, well . . . it’s an important story,” Luke said solemnly.

  “Yes, it is, Luke. In some ways a dog has a much superior instinct to a man. And mind you, a spiritual instinct, Luke. They say dogs have no souls, don’t they? Well, how they know that is beyond me. Of course, the plain truth is, they don’t know. The plain fact is that a dog’s sense of love and loyalty and devotion is often greater than that of its owner.”

  They had got up and were going slowly along the path, the smoke from Mr. Kemp’s pipe rising in blue wisps, and they were talking as one man to another, pondering over the inexplicable mysteries of human conduct.

  “Now take a fellow I knew who had a cottage way down the lake there. Name of Brown. Your Uncle Henry knew him well, Luke. This man lived alone with his dog, a collie with a little husky in it, and they were inseparable companions. Used to see them everywhere and that fellow claimed he was never lonely when his dog was around. Now you’d think, wouldn’t you, Luke, that that fellow would be heartbroken if anything happened to his friend. Well, as the dog grew old we used to say, ‘Poor old Brown, what’ll he do when that dog goes?’ Then one day the dog died and I happened to be down that way and I saw old Brown dragging it into the woods to bury it. And then what? Well, two days later Brown had another dog. That was all there was to it. I asked him if he didn’t miss his old pet and he said the new dog was just as good, and served exactly the same purpose. All our sympathy for Brown’s broken heart was wasted. See what I mean, Luke?”