The Manager of the B. & A.: A NovelKester, Vaughan
General
The Manager of the B. & A.: A Novel
Kester, Vaughan
American fiction; Railroad stories
When he left the store he took the one road out of the place, and half a
mile farther on forsook the road for the woods.
It was nearly midnight when he went into camp. He built a fire and
toasted some thin strips of bacon. He made his supper of these and a
few crackers. He realized that he must harbor his slender stock of
provisions.
He had told himself over and over that he was not fit to live among
men. He would have to dwell alone like a dangerous animal, shunning his
fellows. The solitude and the loneliness suited him. He would make a
permanent camp somewhere close to the lakes, in the wildest spot he
could find, and end his days there.
He carried in his pocket a small railroad map of the State, and in the
morning, after a careful study of it, marked out his course. That day,
and for several days following, he plodded on and on in a tireless,
patient fashion, and with but the briefest stops at noon for his meagre
lunch. Each morning he was up and on his way with the first glimmer of
light, and he kept his even pace until the glow faded from the sky in
the west.
Beyond Barrow's Saw Mills the pine-woods stretched away to the north in
one unbroken wilderness. At long intervals he passed loggers' camps, and
more rarely a farm in the forest; but he avoided these. Instinct told
him that the news of Ryder's murder had travelled far and wide. In all
that range of country there was no inhabited spot where he dare show his
face.
Now that he had evolved a definite purpose he was quite cheerful
and happy, save for occasional spells of depression and bitter
self-accusation, but the excitement of his flight buoyed him up
amazingly.
He had distanced and outwitted pursuit, and his old pride in his
physical strength and superiority returned. The woods never ceased to
interest him. There was a mighty freedom about them, a freedom he shared
and joyed in. He felt he could tramp on forever, with the scent of the
pines filling his nostrils and the sweep of the wind in his ears. His
muscles seemed of iron. There was cunning and craft, too, in the life he
was living.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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