The Streak of Gray

The Streak of Gray 1

By Milford W. Foshay

Phelphs laughed accepting the compliment. "No," he returned in answer to my remark that he had not grown old-looking, "nor old-feeling, either;" ant* he ran his fingers through his hair, black as it was thirty years before, in a boyish way. Then he noticed my eyes rest on a peculiar gray streak in the black mass, and he laughed again. "Thought the whole of it ought to begin to show like that streak, eh?" he inquired, in a joking tone. "Well, I guess it would, if it had the same reason." We were sitting on the porch of his small but comfortable home, our faces toward the rocky sides of the canyon as they loomed up in the glare of the afternoon sun, and talking of what had taken place back East during the thirty years of his absence. Here was an opening to learn a little of what his life had been filled with all this time, and I seized it eagerly, asking, "Why, what is the reason for that gray streak? Let's have it." "Alright, seeing it was about this time of day, and right up there;" and he pointed to the side of the canyon on his left. Then he settled back in his chair and, with an amused look at his wife who was sitting with us, told me of the wild chase that brought him the streak of gray. There had been bad blood between Simmons and Phelps, on the other side of the Divide at a little village down in the San Luis valley. This was three years before they unwittingly settled side by side on the Whitewater. When Phelps came to the village, he found Simmons there, and with the reputation already established of being the meanest man in the place. After two or three small transactions, he accepted the verdict, and thereafter had as little as possible to do with him. One day, Simmons tried to cheat a widow in selling a horse for her. Half a dozen men found it out, and went down to visit him, Phelps leading the way. At the end of ^ short parley, the latter voiced the general sentiment. 'Simmons," he said, "we can't stand you any longer in this village. Get to some place where you're not known, and see if you can't be decent. If it were not for your wife and chijd,

*This story received first place in the May, 1918, Era story contest.

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you'd have to leave without ceremony; but for their sakes, you — may disappear anytime within a week but that doesn't mean eight days!" Simmons sneeringly said he'd be mighty glad to see the last of them, but that he would go when he got good and ready. He stayed until the end of the seventh day, but) knew better than to overstep the mark. Up to the last, he did all the mean things he dared, but these were put up with for the sake of his family. His wife was well liked, and his boy, Little Jim every- body called him, was one of the brightest and handsomest tots in the village. They all hated to see him and his mother go, but were relieved to see the last of his father. They did give the latter credit, however, for treating his wife and child as a man ought to. Some two years after the affair with Simmons, Phelps de- cided to move over on the Whitewater, where he had taken land. When he reached it, he was surprised, and mad as a hor- net, to find Simmons on the piece next to his. "What in the name of cussedness made -you settle down here?" was the greeting Simmons got, when they first met. "Didn't. you see the board that said this land was taken?" "Sure I did," Simmons growled. "My eyesight's alright, yet. But how'd I know you were the galoot who had done the job? Anyhow, I've got a good strip along here, and I'm going to stay! I've as much legal right as you have. You tend to your business, and I'll tend to mine;" and he turned his back. The two shacks were not more than ten rods apart, and a few minutes later. Phelps saw Mrs. Simmons come out. of theirs and make as if to start to come over. Her husband evidently spoke to her, then put his hand gently on her shoulder and pushed her back into the house. No doubt his wife was as, lonesome to see another woman as a winter lighthouse keeper is to hear the news, but Simmons had no notion of letting her

be friendly. That sort of thing, however, could not last. Some weeks later, Little Jim was taken sick,and his father was glad enough to let the mother bring Mrs. Phelps over to see him. Then, a month or so after, Mrs. Phelps sprained her ankle. Phelps and Simmons were both away, and she called to her neighbor, who came at once, and, necessarily, brought Little Jim. When the men got back, she was still there, and Simmons had to put up with it.

From this, Little Jim got to running over to the Phelps' house, and was soon talking at home about "Uncle Joe" and "Aunt Nellie." His father tried to break it up, but he was tend- er of the little chap, and his efforts were fruitless. All he could

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do was to act as ugly as he could himself, and for this he let no occasion slip. Once, he told Phelps that if he didn't stop en- ticing the boy over to his place, he'd kill his stock if he went to the penitentiary for life for it. Phelps laughed at the sense- less threat, and asked, "Shall I take a stick to him, whenever he comes over?" "If you do, I'll kill you!" This was the state of feeling, when, one afternoon, Phelps came out of the house and walked across the yard to the corral, where he began to gather up some loose alfalfa. As soon as he came in view, a mountain lion sank softly down beside a stunted cedar a few yards to the right. Little Jim had been in the house with Mrs. Phelps, and was supposed to be with her yet. Instead, he trailed along behind his Uncle Joe, to help him with the hay. The lion saw him approach, and crouched lower. "Well," suddenly ejaculated Phelps, looking down at the bunch of hay that had been trampled, "I believe the deer were down here last night, to get a nibble." This was not a belief with the tawny form under the cedar, but a known fact. More, it knew' that the deer had been there this afternoon, and that it had come down the trail to get a chance at them— and missed, which was the reason for that jerking of the tail it kept up so persistently. At the sound of the voice, the movement of the tail ceased. All at once, the light in the watching eyes grew deeper as they caught a glimpse of the advancing five-year-old. Phelps went on throwing up the alfalfa, sometimes facing the cedar, sometimes with his back to it. As the boy drew nearer to the point where he must pass within a few feet of the tree, in order to get to his Uncle Joe, happy youngster, the fierce green eyes decided the right moment had come, and, with a last wriggle, the lithe form shot out. But that last wriggle made a difference with the outcome. Phelps had just turned his face in the direction of the bush, fork uplifted, when he noticed it tremble. Instinctively he looked to see the cause of the agitation, and at the same instant the lion leaped. The hand holding the fork was already drawn back, and by the time the brute was well in the air the fork was on the way to meet it. Naturally, the tines of the tool were slanting downward to pick up the stalks of alfalfa. Had it not been for this, so true would have gone straight to the throat of the was the aim, they beast. As it was, they struck the ground and the turning handle gave it a stiff blow on the ear. On this account a paw hit the child on the shoulder instead of on the neck, where it was

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aimed. Little Jim went down as if he had met a cannon ball, his head striking hard on a stone. With an angry snarl, the lion caught him by the back and sprang swiftly up the side of the canyon. Phelps let out an agonized yell, and leaped forward. He was too late. Little Jim was beyond his reach. Catching up the fork as he ran, he started in pursuit with an agility that spoke of twenty-five instead of fifty-five years of living. He was a young man, judged by the muscles that had been hardened and seasoned for nearly thirty years in the in- vigorating climate but now he was likely to need all the service ;

they could give him, and all the breath of his lungs as well. The lion tried to go straight up the side, and it was making some remarkable jumps; but many of the clifts were too sheer, and it was obliged to turn to the left. Phelps saw this, and knowing each foot of the ascent as one does the walks of his own grounds, he ran along the pathway he had made to the park above, and so kept well up with his quarry. Up and up, and up still farther, for this was one of the high points. The pace soon began to tell on the man, and on the beast as well. No living thing can put every ounce of energy in motion in this climate for many minutes, without feel- ing the heart pound and the ears sing. But the straining pur- suer was a man who saw a little child in danger, as well as a mountaineer, and the combination was one for desperate chances rather than cool calculation. Besides, in this case, the human was almost as native as the beast, and, with the load the latter was carrying, there was likely to be a close conflict in short order. The lion was now at a face it could not scale, and turned still farther to the left and closer to Phelps. The. latter saw the sit- uation, and moved out of the path with a quick spring to the right, bringing him nearer where the lion must run. But the brute was as aware of the pinch as Phelps, and bounded forward in great leaps. It passed ahead of him by about fifteen feet, and he launched the fork. Fearful of hurting the child, he threw it too far back, and it did nothing more than brush the long tail.

The extra exertion told heavily on both, and the race was kept up at a much slower pace. In a minute more, a sort of platform was reached, and the cat acted as if inclined to turn — and fight for the possession of the boy or drop him; but Phelps was pressing too close for a pause to be safe, and it bounded on to the next ridge. ,

This was a peculiar formation, slanting downward to an- other ledge a few feet below, while a tangled growth ran along the lower edge. The lion had to turn in this direction, in order

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to reach a place low enough to jump over. Phelps was not more than six or eight feet behind, as it struggled through the bushes and then jumped to the top and disappeared. The panting pursuer jammed and crushed through the growth to follow, for the ledge was only about five feet high, and he knew that it sloped away on the farther side. The lion was probably loping down that now, faster than he could go; — but the thought of quitting did not come to him he couldn't quit, whether or not he could keep on breathing, with Little Jim in the lion's mouth! His foot on a bent bush, Phelps put his left hand on the top of the ledge to look over as he drew himself up, while the fork was poised in his right. The instant his head appeared above the rim, he saw the lion crouching a few feet away. It had dropped the boy, and before Phelps had time to realize much of anything, the yellow body was coming through the air towards him. Like an electric shock, the instinctive desire to dodge pas- sed through him; but before it had time to operate, it was count- eracted, and, grasping the fork with both hands, the tines were turned to meet the impact. The lion launched into it full tilt, and beast and man were carried over backward to the platform below, where Phelps struck solidly and lay without motion. The lion gave a number of strong convulsions, then also became quiet. Nothing stirred, anywhere. The late afternoon sun was sink- ing, and, in the still atmosphere that precedes the rushing of the cold mountain air into the valley at nightfall, the shadows were creeping over the rocks and bushes. For a minute it looked as if the participants in the life-for-life race were to be left a prey to night prowlers. Then Phelps lifted a hand and followed the motion by turning his head. A moment later, he sat up and wiped blood from his face. The lion was stretched out, not a muscle twitching, several feet beyond him. As his brain cleared, Phelps got to one knee, and the first thing he saw were the head and shoulders of Simmons coming over the lower ledge. Catching his breath in short, rasping coughs, and with terror in his eyes, he staggered to the side of Phelps, gasping out, — — "Where is " when a weak cry reached their ears. "Uncle Joe! Daddy!" Phelps started to struggle to his feet, but before he could manage it, Simmons wobbled in desperate haste toward the up- per ledge, where the sound seemed to come from. By the time he got to it, Little Jim was there, and he fell forward into his father's arms. "O God, I thank thee!" Phelps heard Simmons ejaculate

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the first time any man ever heard that Name on his lips, except as an oath. Then he fell to hugging the little fellow, and blub- bered over him with endearing words such as his mother might have used. Phelps turned away, and found relief in viciously kicking the body of the lion, which was stone dead, with the tines of the fork through the windpipe. He was rolling its head with his foot and thinking that a man with as much genuine feeling in- side of him as his neighbor was showing ought to have a decent outside to him if it could be discovered, when he heard a step and looked up to see Simmons standing at his elbow, Little Jim in the hollow of his left arm. His face was a study, but from his eyes shone the look of a man. "Phelps," he said, in a shaking voice, "I'd like to be a neigh- bor to you, if you'll let me, after all I've done;" and he extended his hand. Phelps took it in an iron grip, gulped a few times, then tos- sed his head, and exploded with, "You bet, I'll let you!" "Joe!" Both turned quickly, at the sharp cry. Coming over the ledge were Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Simmons, breathing heavily, and each carrying her rifle her husband did not have time to get hold of. "Here!" Phelps responded to his wife's call, and in a minute they were with the men. "But, Joe, you're hurt," his wife said suddenly, stepping closer and reaching her hand up to his head. "There's a raw place here," she added, parting the hair. He looked down, then stopped and took a wisp of hair from between the claws of the dead lion, holding it up to view. At the end dangled a small piece of flesh. "I'm dreadfully afraid it'll make a streak of gray when it comes in;" and Mrs. Phelps voice was full of distress. "That broke the tension," Phelps declared, laying his hand on my knee as he finished the story. "The rest of us burst out laughing to hear the note of sorrow she sounded over the pros- pect of a few gray hairs, while she took quite coolly the fact that I came out of the scrimmage safely. Well, it did make a streak of gray alright," he concluded, simply, "and it was worth what it cost to get it, to say nothing of saving Little Jim; Simmons

is the best neighbor a man ever had."

Painesville, Ohio