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Updated: July 26, 2025
"I allow you've never seen John Shadrack's widder," said he. "I'd like to, Tip. Will you take me with you to Happy Valley?" The smile left Tip's face, and he gazed at me, open-mouthed with astonishment. "You would go over the mountain?" he said, drawling every word. Over the mountain there is peace!
Shadrack's expression was comical: his eyes were wide and he was gazing about him apprehensively, yet still with that twinkle of amusement. "'Board 'board," cried the conductor. Tom could hear the rapid puffing of the engine as the wheels slipped on the wet rails; then the puffing became more laborious. There was a rattle of loose couplings, and the train jerked forward. It was lighter now.
"You have some pretty bad rainstorms in this part of the country, don't you?" Wilson asked. While Wilson was speaking, Tom nudged Shadrack, and muttered, "Be careful don't talk too much." Shadrack's eyes lighted in puzzled surprise. After a long silence, the farmer spoke: "You men better turn around again an' go back to yer homes. Yer folks need you more than the South does.
At first I thought it was the turban, but a sharp pain told me that there was a spot there that might be well worth seeing. For a long time I lay with my eyes closed, trying not to care, and when I opened them again, John Shadrack's widow was still on the edge of the bed, smoking. "Feel better now?" she asked calmly. "Yes," I answered. "The ache has gone some." "I was powwowin' agin!" she said.
Tom started back for the center of the car, found the side door and put his head out for a breath of clean air. Then he drew the door shut and made his way to the rear end again. That would keep the smoke from Shadrack as he climbed to the top of the car. Tom clung there, holding to the brake bar and the ladder, looking up. He saw Shadrack's legs disappear over the edge.
Had I never heard of her before, had I opened my eyes as I did that day to see her sitting before me, I should have exclaimed, "It's John Shadrack's widder!" So, with the crayon portrait, gilt-framed, that hung on the wall behind her, I should have cried, "And that is John Shadrack!" This crayon "enlargement" presented John with very black skin and spotless white hair.
It was hurting, despite the Modern Miracle, and I closed my eyes to bear it better. Over me, away off, as if from the heavens, I heard a sonorous rumble of mystery words. I felt a hand softly stroking my brow. But I didn't care. It was only Dutch, a foolish charm, a heritage of barbarity and ignorance, but I was too weary to protest. It entertained John Shadrack's widow, and I was going to sleep.
One man was breaking the walls of the car with the iron bar, throwing the boards back as he pounded and wrenched them loose. Then, suddenly, the blaze increased and the car was filled with smoke. Flames leaped several feet in the air, mounting high and higher until they spread out against the roof of the car. "More logs, Tom." Tom recognized Shadrack's voice. He passed log after log back.
"You must come agin," she cried, on the morning of that ninth day, as she stood in the doorway of her little log-house and waved her apron at us. "It's been a treat to have you." So we went away, Tip and I, with Harmon Shadrack's mule and the battered buggy. Our backs were turned to the Sunset Land. Our faces were toward the East and the red glow of the early morning.
For nine long days more John Shadrack's widow entertained the two strangers who had sought a refuge in Happy Valley, and found it. Rare pleasure did John Shadrack's widow have from our visit. There seemed no way she could repay us. It did her old heart good to have someone to whom she could recount the manifold virtues of her John and a wonderful man John was, I judge.
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