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Chapter 10
The tattered man stood musing.
"Well, he was a reg'lar jim-dandy fer nerve, wa'n't he," said he
finally in a little awestruck voice. "A reg'lar jim-dandy."
He thoughtfully poked one of the docile hands with his foot.
"I wonner where he got 'is stren'th from? I never seen a man
do like that before. It was a funny thing. Well, he was a
reg'lar jim-dandy."
The youth desired to screech out his grief. He was stabbed, but
his tongue lay dead in the tomb of his mouth. He threw himself
again upon the ground and began to brood.
The tattered man stood musing.
"Look-a-here, pardner," he said, after a time. He regarded the
corpse as he spoke. "He 's up an' gone, ain't 'e, an' we might
as well begin t' look out fer ol' number one. This here thing is
all over. He 's up an' gone, ain't 'e? An' he 's all right here.
Nobody won't bother 'im. An' I must say I ain't enjoying any great
health m'self these days."
The youth, awakened by the tattered soldier's tone, looked quickly up.
He saw that he was swinging uncertainly on his legs and that his face
had turned to a shade of blue.
"Good Lord!" he cried, "you ain't goin' t'--not you, too."
The tattered man waved his hand. "Nary die," he said.
"All I want is some pea soup an' a good bed. Some pea soup,"
he repeated dreamfully.
The youth arose from the ground. "I wonder where he came from.
I left him over there." He pointed. "And now I find 'im here.
And he was coming from over there, too." He indicated a new direction.
They both turned toward the body as if to ask of it a question.
"Well," at length spoke the tattered man, "there ain't no use in
our stayin' here an' tryin' t' ask him anything."
The youth nodded an assent wearily. They both turned to gaze
for a moment at the corpse.
The youth murmured something.
"Well, he was a jim-dandy, wa'n't 'e?" said the tattered man as
if in response.
They turned their backs upon it and started away. For a time
they stole softly, treading with their toes. It remained
laughing there in the grass.
"I'm commencin' t' feel pretty bad," said the tattered man,
suddenly breaking one of his little silences. "I'm commencin' t'
feel pretty damn' bad."
The youth groaned. "Oh Lord!" He wondered if he was to be the
tortured witness of another grim encounter.
But his companion waved his hand reassuringly. "Oh, I'm not goin'
t' die yit! There too much dependin' on me fer me t' die yit.
No, sir! Nary die! I CAN'T! Ye'd oughta see th' swad a'
chil'ren I've got, an' all like that."
The youth glancing at his companion could see by the
shadow of a smile that he was making some kind of fun.
As the plodded on the tattered soldier continued to talk.
"Besides, if I died, I wouldn't die th' way that feller did.
That was th' funniest thing. I'd jest flop down, I would.
I never seen a feller die th' way that feller did.
"Yeh know Tom Jamison, he lives next door t' me up home.
He's a nice feller, he is, an' we was allus good friends.
Smart, too. Smart as a steel trap. Well, when we was a-fightin'
this atternoon, all-of-a-sudden he begin t' rip up an' cuss an'
beller at me. 'Yer shot, yeh blamed infernal!'--he swear
horrible--he ses t' me. I put up m' hand t' m' head an' when I
looked at m' fingers, I seen, sure 'nough, I was shot. I give a
holler an' begin t' run, but b'fore I could git away another one
hit me in th' arm an' whirl' me clean 'round. I got skeared when
they was all a-shootin' b'hind me an' I run t' beat all, but I
cotch it pretty bad. I've an idee I'd a been fightin' yit,
if t'was n't fer Tom Jamison."
Then he made a calm announcement: "There's two of 'em--little
ones--but they 're beginnin' t' have fun with me now. I don't
b'lieve I kin walk much furder."
They went slowly on in silence. "Yeh look pretty peek'ed yerself,"
said the tattered man at last. "I bet yeh 've got a worser one
than yeh think. Ye'd better take keer of yer hurt. It don't do
t' let sech things go. It might be inside mostly, an' them
plays thunder. Where is it located?" But he continued his
harangue without waiting for a reply. "I see a feller git hit
plum in th' head when my reg'ment was a-standin' at ease onct.
An' everybody yelled to 'im: 'Hurt, John? Are yeh hurt much?'
'No,' ses he. He looked kinder surprised, an' he went on
tellin' 'em how he felt. He sed he didn't feel nothin'.
But, by dad, th' first thing that feller knowed he was dead.
Yes, he was dead--stone dead. So, yeh wanta watch out.
Yeh might have some queer kind 'a hurt yerself. Yeh can't
never tell. Where is your'n located?"
The youth had been wriggling since the introduction of this topic.
He now gave a cry of exasperation and made a furious motion with
his hand. "Oh, don't bother me!" he said. He was enraged against
the tattered man, and could have strangled him. His companions
seemed ever to play intolerable parts. They were ever upraising
the ghost of shame on the stick of their curiosity. He turned
toward the tattered man as one at bay. "Now, don't bother me,"
he repeated with desperate menace.
"Well, Lord knows I don't wanta bother anybody," said the other.
There was a little accent of despair in his voice as he replied,
"Lord knows I 've gota 'nough m' own t' tend to."
The youth, who had been holding a bitter debate with himself and
casting glances of hatred and contempt at the tattered man, here
spoke in a hard voice. "Good-by," he said.
The tattered man looked at him in gaping amazement. "Why--why,
pardner, where yeh goin'?" he asked unsteadily. The youth looking
at him, could see that he, too, like that other one, was beginning
to act dumb and animal-like. His thoughts seemed to be floundering
about in his head. "Now--now--look--a--here, you Tom Jamison--now--
I won't have this--this here won't do. Where--where yeh goin'?"
The youth pointed vaguely. "Over there," he replied.
"Well, now look--a--here--now," said the tattered man,
rambling on in idiot fashion. His head was hanging forward and
his words were slurred. "This thing won't do, now, Tom Jamison.
It won't do. I know yeh, yeh pig-headed devil. Yeh wanta go
trompin' off with a bad hurt. It ain't right--now--Tom Jamison
--it ain't. Yeh wanta leave me take keer of yeh, Tom Jamison.
It ain't--right--it ain't--fer yeh t' go--trompin' off--with
a bad hurt--it ain't--ain't--ain't right--it ain't."
In reply the youth climbed a fence and started away.
He could hear the tattered man bleating plaintively.
Once he faced about angrily. "What?"
"Look--a--here, now, Tom Jamison--now--it ain't--"
The youth went on. Turning at a distance he saw the tattered man
wandering about helplessly in the field.
He now thought that he wished he was dead. He believed he envied
those men whose bodies lay strewn over the grass of the fields
and on the fallen leaves of the forest.
The simple questions of the tattered man had been knife thrusts
to him. They asserted a society that probes pitilessly at
secrets until all is apparent. His late companion's chance
persistency made him feel that he could not keep his crime
concealed in his bosom. It was sure to be brought plain by one
of those arrows which cloud the air and are constantly pricking,
discovering, proclaiming those things which are willed to be
forever hidden. He admitted that he could not defend himself
against this agency. It was not within the power of vigilance.
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