note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) in happy valley by john fox, jr. illustrated by f. c. yohn new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , , by charles scribner's sons published october, copyright, , , by p. f. collier & son, incorporated to hope, little daughter of richard harding davis. contents the courtship of allaphair the compact of christopher the lord's own level the marquise of queensberry his last christmas gift the angel from viper the pope of the big sandy the goddess of happy valley the battle-prayer of parson small the christmas tree on pigeon illustrations "you stay hyeh with the baby," he said quietly, "an' i'll take yo' meal home." "you got him down!" she cried. "jump on him an' stomp him!" "mammy," he said abruptly, "i'll stop drinkin' if you will." "let 'em loose!" he yelled. "git at it, boys! go fer him, ham--whoop-ee-ee!" "miss hildy, jeems henery is the bigges' liar on viper." "i'm a-goin' to give it back to 'em. churches, schools, libraries, hospitals, good roads." night and day, and through wind and storm, she had travelled the hills, healing the sick. "o lawd ... hyeh's another who meddles with thy servant and profanes thy day." the courtship of allaphair preaching at the open-air meeting-house was just over and the citizens of happy valley were pouring out of the benched enclosure within living walls of rhododendron. men, women, children, babes in arms mounted horse or mule or strolled in family groups homeward up or down the dusty road. youths and maids paired off, dallying behind. emerged last one rich, dark, buxom girl alone. twenty yards down the road two young mountaineers were squatted in the shade whittling, and to one she nodded. the other was a stranger--one jay dawn--and the stare he gave her was not only bold but impudent. "who's goin' home with _that_ gal?" she heard him ask. "nobody," was the answer; "_that_ gal al'ays goes home _alone_." she heard his snort of incredulity. "well, i'm goin' with her right now." the other man caught his arm. "no, you ain't"--and she heard no more. athwart the wooded spur she strode like a man. her full cheeks and lips were red and her black, straight hair showed indian blood, of which she was not ashamed. on top of the spur a lank youth with yellow hair stood in the path. "how-dye, allaphair!" he called uneasily, while she was yet some yards away. "how-dye!" she said unsmiling and striding on toward him with level eyes. "allaphair," he pleaded quickly, "lemme----" "git out o' my way, jim spurgill." the boy stepped quickly from the path and she swept past him. "allaphair, lemme walk home with ye." the girl neither answered nor turned her head, though she heard his footsteps behind her. "allaphair, uh, allaphair, please lemme--" he broke off abruptly and sprang behind a tree, for allaphair's ungentle ways were widely known. the girl had stooped for a stone and was wheeling with it in her hand. gingerly the boy poked his head out from behind the tree, prepared to dodge. "you're wuss'n a she-wolf in sucklin' time," he grumbled, and the girl did not seem displeased. indeed, there was a grim smile on her scarlet lips when she dropped the stone and stalked on. it was almost an hour before she crossed a foot-log and took the level sandy curve about a little bluff, whence she could see the two-roomed log cabin that was home. there were flowers in the little yard and morning-glories covered the small porch, for, boyish as she was, she loved flowers and growing things. a shrill cry of welcome greeted her at the gate, and she swept the baby sister toddling toward her high above her head, fondled her in her arms, and stopped on the threshold. within was another man, slight and pale and a stranger. "this is the new school-teacher, allaphair," said her mother. "he calls hisself iry combs." "how-dye!" said the girl, but the slight man rose and came forward to shake hands. she flashed a frown at her mother a moment later, behind the stranger's back; teachers boarded around and he might be there for a week and perhaps more. the teacher was mountain born and bred, but he had been to the bluegrass to school, and he had brought back certain little niceties of dress, bearing, and speech that irritated the girl. he ate slowly and little, for he had what he called indigestion, whatever that was. distinctly he was shy, and his only vague appeal to her was in his eyes, which were big, dark, and lonely. it was a disgrace for allaphair to have reached her years of one-and-twenty without marrying, and the disgrace was just then her mother's favorite theme. feeling rather poorly, the old woman began on it that afternoon. allaphair had gone out to the woodpile and was picking up an armful of firewood, and the mother had followed her. said allaphair: "i tell you agin an' agin i hain't got no use fer 'em--a-totin' guns an' knives an' a-drinkin' moonshine an' fightin' an' breakin' up meetin's an' lazin' aroun' ginerally. an' when they ain't that way," she added contemptuously, "they're like that un thar. look at him!" she broke into a loud laugh. ira combs had volunteered to milk, and the old cow had just kicked him over in the mud. he rose red with shame and anger--she felt more than she saw the flash of his eyes--and valiantly and silently he went back to his task. somehow the girl felt a pang of pity for him, for already she saw in his eyes the telltale look that she knew so well in the eyes of men. with his kind it would go hard; and right she was to the detail. she herself went to st. hilda to work and learn, but one morning she passed his little schoolhouse just as he was opening for the day. from a gable the flag of her country waved, and she stopped mystified. and then from the green, narrow little valley floated up to her wondering ears a song. abruptly it broke off and started again; he was teaching the children the song of her own land, which she and they had never heard before. it was almost sunset when she came back and the teacher was starting for home. he was ahead of her--she knew he had seen her coming--but he did not wait for her, nor did he look back while she was following him all the way home. and next sunday he too went to church, and after meeting he started for home alone and she followed alone. he had never made any effort to speak to her alone, nor did he venture the courting pleasantries of other men. only in his telltale eyes was his silent story plain, and she knew it better than if he had put it into words. in spite of her certainty, however, she was a little resentful that sunday morning, for his slender figure climbed doggedly ahead, and suddenly she sat down that he might get entirely out of her sight. she got down on her hands and knees to drink from the little rain-clear brook that tinkled across the road at the bottom of the hill, and all at once lifted her head like a wild thing. some one was coming down the hill--coming at a dog-trot. a moment later her name was called, and it was the voice of a stranger. she knew it was jay dawn, for she had heard of him--had heard of his boast that he would keep company with her--and she kept swiftly on. again and again he called, but she paid no heed. she glared at him fiercely when he caught up with her--and stopped. he stopped. she walked on and he walked on. he caught her by the arm when she stopped again, and she threw off his hold with a force that wheeled him half around, and started off on a run. she stooped when she next heard him close to her and whirled, with a stone in her hand. "go 'way!" she panted. "i'll brain ye!" he laughed, but he came no nearer. "all right," he said, as though giving up the chase, but when she turned the next spur there jay was waiting for her by the side of the road. "how-dye," he grinned. three times he cut across ledge and spur and gave her a grinning how-dye. the third time she was ready for him and she let fly. the first stone whistled past his head with astonishing speed. the second he dodged and the third caught him between the shoulders as he leaped for a tree with an oath and a yell. and there she left him, swearing horribly and frankly at her. jay dawn did not go back to logging that week. report was that he had gone to "courtin' an' throwin' rocks at woodpeckers." both statements were true, but jay was courting at long range. he hung about her house a great deal. going to mill, looking for her cow, to and fro from the mission, allaphair never failed to see jay dawn. he always spoke and he never got answer. he always grinned, but his eye was threatening. to the school-teacher he soon began to give special notice, for that was what allaphair seemed to be doing herself. he saw them sitting in the porch together alone, going out to milk or to the woodpile. passing her gate one flower-scented dusk, he heard the drone of their voices behind the morning-glory vines and heard her laugh quite humanly. he snorted his disgust, but once when he saw the girl walking home with the teacher from school he seethed with rage and bided his time for both. he did spend much time throwing at woodpeckers, ostensibly, but he was not practising for a rock duel with allaphair. he had picked out the level stretch of sandy road not far from allaphair's house, which was densely lined with rhododendron and laurel, and was carefully denuding it of stones. when any one came along he was playing david with the birds; a moment later he was "a-workin' the public road," but not to make the going easier for the none too dainty feet of allaphair. indeed, the girl twice saw him at his peculiar diversion, but all suspicion was submerged in scorn. the following sunday things happened. on the way from church the girl had come to the level stretch of sand. beyond the vine-clad bluff and "a whoop and a holler" further on was home. midway of the stretch jay dawn stepped from the bushes and blocked her way, and with him were his grin and his threatening eye. "i'm goin' to kiss ye," he said. right, left, and behind she looked for a stone, and he laughed. "thar hain't a rock between that poplar back thar and that poplar thar at the bluff; the woodpeckers done got 'em all." there was no use to run--the girl knew she was trapped and her breast began to heave. slowly he neared her, with one hand outstretched, as though he were going to halter a wild horse, but she did not give ground. when she slapped at his hand he caught her by one wrist, and then with lightning quickness by the other. quickly she bent her head, caught one of his wrists with her teeth, and bit it to the bone, so that with an open cry of pain he threw her loose. then she came at him with her fists like a man, and she fought like a man. blow after blow she rained on him, and one on the chin made him stagger. he could not hit back, so he closed in, and then it was cavewoman and caveman. he expected her to bite again and scratch, but she did neither--nor did she cry for help. she kept on like a man, and after one blow in his stomach which made him sick she grappled like a wrestler, which she was, and but for his own quickness would have thrown him over her left knee. each was in the straining embrace of the other now and her heaving breast was crushed against his, and for a moment he stood still. "this suits me exactly," he cackled, and that made her furious and turned her woman again. to keep her now from biting him he thrust his right forearm under her chin and bent her slowly backward. her right fist beat his muscular back harmlessly--she caught him by the hair, but unmindful he bent her slowly on. "i'll have ye killed," she said savagely--"i'll have ye killed"; and then suddenly he felt her collapse, submissive, and his lips caught hers. "thar now," he said, letting her loose; "you need a leetle tamin', you do," and he turned and walked slowly away. the girl dropped to the ground, weeping. but there was an exultant look in her eyes before she reached home. the teacher was sitting in the porch. "_he_ never would 'a' done it," she muttered, and she hardly spoke to him. a message from jay dawn reached the school-teacher the morning after the "running of a set" at the settlement school. jay had infuriated allaphair by his attentions to polly stidham from quicksand. allaphair had flirted outrageously with ira combs the teacher, and in turn jay got angry, not at her but at the man. so he sent word that he would come down the next saturday and knock "that mullet-headed, mealy-mouthed, spindle-shanked rat into the middle of next week," and drive him from the hills. "whut you goin' to do about it?" asked allaphair, secretly thrilled. to her surprise the little man seemed neither worried nor frightened. "nothing," he said, adding the final _g_ with irritating precision; "but i have never backed out of a fight in my life." allaphair could hardly hold back a hoot of contempt. "why, he'll break you to pieces with his hands." "perhaps--if he gets hold of me." the girl almost shrieked. "you hain't going to run?" "i'm _not_ going to run; it's no disgrace to get licked." "but if he crows over ye atterwards--whut'll you do then?" the teacher made no answer, nor did he answer jay's message. he merely went his way, which was neither to avoid nor seek; so jay sought him. allaphair saw him the next friday afternoon, waiting by the roadside--waiting, no doubt, for ira combs. her first impulse was to cross over the spur and warn the teacher, but curiosity as to just what the little man would do got the better of her, and she slipped aside into the bushes and crept noiselessly to a spot whence she could peer out and see and hear all that might happen. soon she saw the school-teacher coming, as was his wont, leisurely, looking at the ground at his feet and with his hands clasped behind his back. he did not see the threatening figure waiting until jay rose. "stop thar, little iry," he sneered, and he whipped out his revolver and fired. the girl nearly screamed, but the bullet cut into the dust near ira's right foot. "yuh danced purty well t'other night, an' i want to see ye dance some more by yo'self. git at it!" he raised his gun again and the school-teacher raised one hand. he had grown very red and as suddenly very pale, but he did not look frightened. "you can kill me," he drawled quietly, "but i'm not going to dance for you. suppose you whoop me instead--i heard that was your intention." jay laughed. "air ye goin' to fight me?" he asked incredulously. "i'd rather be licked than dance." "all right," said jay. "i'll lam' ye aroun' a little an' spank ye good an' mebbe make ye dance atterwards." he unbuckled his pistol and tossed it into the grass by the roadside. "will you fight fair?" asked ira, still formal in speech. "no wrestling, biting, or gouging." "no wrasslin', no bitin', no gougin'," mimicked jay, beginning to revolve his huge fists around each other in country fashion. the little man waited, his left arm outstretched and bent and his right across and close to his chest, and the watching girl almost groaned. still his white, calm face, his steady eyes, and his lithe poise fascinated her. she would not let jay hurt him badly--she would come out and take a hand herself. jay opened one fist, and with his open hand made a powerful, contemptuous sweep at ira's head, and the girl expected to see the little teacher fly off into the bushes and the fight over. to her amazement ira gave no ground at all. his feet never moved, but like a blacksnake's head his own darted back; jay's great hand fanned the air, and as his own force whirled him half around, allaphair had to hold back a screech of laughter, for ira had _slapped him_. jay looked puzzled, but with fists clinched, he rushed fiercely. right and left he swung, but the teacher was never there. presently there was another stinging smack on his cheek and another, as ira danced about him like the shadow of a magic lantern. "he's a-tirin' him down," thought allaphair, but she was wrong; ira was trying to make him mad, and that did not take much time or trouble. jay rushed him. "no wrasslin'," called ira quietly, at the same time stopping the rush with a left-hand swing on jay's chin that made the head wabble. "i reckon he must be left-handed," thought the wondering allaphair. there are persons who literally do grind their teeth with rage and it is audible. the girl heard jay's now. "he's goin' to kill him," she thought, and she got ready to do her part, for with a terrible, hoarse grunt jay had rushed. like a greased rod of steel the boy writhed loose from the big, crooked talons that reached for his throat, and his right fist, knobbed on the end of another bar of steel, came up under jay's bent head with every ounce of the whole weight behind it in the blow. it caught the big man on the point of the chin. jay's head snapped up and back violently, his feet left the ground, and his big body thudded the road. [illustration] "my god, he's knocked him down! my god, he's knocked him down!" muttered the amazed girl. "you got him down!" she cried. "jump on him an' stomp him!" he turned one startled look toward her and--it is incredible--the look even at that moment was shy; but he stood still, for ira had picked up the ethics as well as the skill of the art, of which nothing was known in happy valley or elsewhere in the hills. so he stood still, his hands open, and waited. for a while jay did not move, and his eyes, when they did open, looked dazed. he rose slowly, and as things came back to him his face became suddenly distorted. nothing alive could humiliate him that way and still live; he meant to kill now. "look out!" screamed the girl. jay rushed for the gun and ira darted after him; but there was a quicker flash from the bushes, and jay found his own gun pointed at his own breast and behind it allaphair's black eyes searing him. "huh!" she grunted contemptuously, and the silence was absolute while she broke the pistol, emptied the cartridges into her hand, and threw them far over into the bushes. "less go on home, iry," she said, and a few steps away she turned and tossed the gun at jay's feet. he stooped, picked it up, and, twirling it in his hand, looked foolishly after them. presently he grinned, for at bottom jay was a man. and two hours later, amid much wonder and many guffaws, he was telling the tale: "the damned leetle spindle-shank licked me--licked _me_! an' i'll back him agin anybody in happy valley or anywhar else--ef you leave out bitin', gougin', and wrasslin'." "did ye lose yo' gal, too?" asked pleasant trouble. "huh!" said jay, "i reckon _not_--she knows _her_ boss." the two walked home slowly and in silence--ira in front and allaphair, as does the woman in the hills, following close behind, in a spirit quite foreign to her hitherto. the little school-teacher had turned shy again and said never a word, but, as he opened the gate to let her pass through, she saw the old, old telltale look in his sombre eyes. her mother was crooning in the porch. "no ploughin' termorrer, mammy. me an' iry want the ole nag to go down to the couht house in the mornin'. iry's axed me to marry him." perhaps every woman does not love a master--perhaps allaphair had found hers. the compact of christopher the boy had come home for sunday and must go back now to the mission school. he picked up his battered hat and there was no good-by. "i reckon i better be goin'," he said, and out he walked. the mother barely raised her eyes, but after he was gone she rose and from the low doorway looked after his sturdy figure trudging up the road. his whistle, as clear as the call of a quail, filled her ears for a while and then was buried beyond the hill. a smaller lad clutched her black skirt, whimpering: "wisht i c'd go to the mission school." "thar hain't room," she said shortly. "the teacher says thar hain't room. i wish to god thar was." still whistling, the boy trudged on. now and then he would lift his shrill voice and the snatch of an old hymn or a folk-song would float through the forest and echo among the crags above him. it was a good three hours' walk whither he was bound, but in less than an hour he stopped where a brook tumbled noisily from a steep ravine and across the road--stopped and looked up the thick shadows whence it came. hesitant, he stood on one foot and then on the other, with a wary look down the road and up the ravine. "i said i'd _try_ to git back," he said aloud. "i said i'd _try_." and with this self-excusing sophistry he darted up the brook. the banks were steep and thickly meshed with rhododendron, from which hemlock shot like black arrows upward, but the boy threaded through them like a snake. his breast was hardly heaving when he reached a small plateau hundreds of feet above the road, where two branches of the stream met from narrower ravines right and left. to the right he climbed, not up the bed of the stream, but to the top of a little spur, along which he went slowly and noiselessly, stooping low. a little farther on he dropped on his knees and crawled to the edge of a cliff, where he lay flat on his belly and peeked over. below him one jeb mullins, a stooping, gray old man, was stirring something in a great brass kettle. a tin cup was going the round of three men squatting near. on a log two men were playing with greasy cards, and near them another lay in drunken sleep. the boy grinned, slid down through the bushes, and, deepening his voice all he could, shouted: "throw up yo' hands!" the old man flattened behind the big kettle with his pistol out. one of the four men leaped for a tree--the others shot up their hands. the card-players rolled over the bank near them, with no thought of where they would land, and the drunken man slept on. the boy laughed loudly. "don't shoot!" he cried, and he came through the bushes jeering. the men at the still dropped their hands and looked sheepish and then angry, as did the card-players, whose faces reappeared over the edge of the bank. but the old man and the young one behind the tree, who alone had got ready to fight, joined in with the boy, and the others had to look sheepish again. "come on, chris!" said the old moonshiner, dipping the cup into the white liquor and handing it forth full, "hit's on me." christmas is "new christmas" in happy valley. the women give scant heed to it, and to the men it means "a jug of liquor, a pistol in each hand, and a galloping nag." there had been target-shooting at uncle jerry's mill to see who should drink old jeb mullins's moonshine and who should smell, and so good was the marksmanship that nobody went without his dram. the carousing, dancing, and fighting were about all over, and now, twelve days later, it was the dawn of "old christmas," and st. hilda sat on the porch of her mission school alone. the old folks of happy valley pay puritan heed to "old christmas." they eat cold food and preserve a solemn demeanor on that day, and they have the pretty legend that at midnight the elders bloom and the beasts of the field and the cattle in the barn kneel, lowing and moaning. the sun was just rising and the day was mild, for a curious warm spell, not uncommon in the hills, had come to happy valley. already singing little workers were "toting rocks" from st. hilda's garden, corn-field, and vineyard, for it was monday, and every monday they gathered--boys and girls--from creek and hillside, to help her as volunteers. far up the road she heard among them taunting laughter and jeers, and she rose quickly. a loud oath shocked the air, and she saw a boy chasing one of the workers up the vineyard hill. she saw the pursuer raise his hand and fall, just as he was about to hurl a stone. then there were more laughter and jeers, and the fallen boy picked himself up heavily and started down the road toward her--staggering. on he came staggering, and when he stood swaying before her there was no shocked horror in her face--only pity and sorrow. "oh, chris, chris!" she said sadly. the boy neither spoke nor lifted his eyes, and she led him up-stairs and put him to bed. all day he slept in a stupor, and it was near sunset when he came down, pale, shamed, and silent. there were several children in the porch. "come, chris!" st. hilda said, and he followed her down to the edge of the creek, where she sat down on a log and he stood with hanging head before her. "chris," she said, "we'll have a plain talk now. this is the fourth time you've been"--the word came with difficulty--"drunk." "yes'm." "i've sent you away three times, and three times i've let you come back. i let you come back after new christmas, only twelve days ago." "yes'm." "you can't keep your word." "no'm." "i don't know what to do now, so i'm going to ask you." she paused and chris was silent, but he was thinking, and she waited. presently he looked straight into her eyes, still silent. "what do _you_ think i'd better do?" she insisted. "i reckon you got to whoop me, miss hildy." "but you know i can't whip you, chris. i never whip anybody." several times a child had offered to whip himself, had done so, and she wondered whether the boy would propose that, but he repeated, obstinately and hopelessly: "you got to whoop me." "i won't--i can't." then an idea came. "your mother will have to whip you." chris shook his head and was silent. he was not on good terms with his mother. it was a current belief that she had "put pizen in his daddy's liquer." she had then married a man younger than she was, and to the boy's mind the absence of dignity in one case matched the crime in the other. "all right," he said at last; "but i reckon you better send somebody else atter her. you can't trust me to git by that still"--he stopped with a half-uttered oath of surprise: "look thar!" a woman was coming up the road. she wore a black cotton dress and a black sunbonnet--mourning relics for the dead husband which the living one had never had the means to supplant--and rough shoes. she pushed back the bonnet with one nervous, bony hand, saw the two figures on the edge of the creek, and without any gesture or call came toward them. and only the woman's quickness in st. hilda saw the tense anxiety of the mother's face relax. the boy saw nothing; he was only amazed. "why, mammy, whut the--whut are you doin' up hyeh?" the mother did not answer, and st. hilda saw that she did not want to answer. st. hilda rose with a warm smile of welcome. "so this is chris's mother?" the woman shook hands limply. "hit's whut i passes fer," she said, and she meant neither smartness nor humor. the boy was looking wonderingly, almost suspiciously at her, and she saw she must give him some explanation. "i been wantin' to see the school hyeh an' miss hildy. i had to come up to see aunt sue morrow, who's might' nigh gone, so i jes kep' a-walkin' on up hyeh." "miss hildy hyeh," said the boy, "was jes about to send fer ye." "to sen' fer _me_?" "i been drunk agin." the mother showed no surprise or displeasure. "hit's the fourth time since sorghum time," the boy went on relentlessly. "i axed miss hildy hyeh to whoop me, but she says she don't nuver whoop nobody, so she was jes a-goin' to send fer you to come an' whoop me when you come a-walkin' up the road." this was all, and the lad pulled out an old barlow knife and went to a hickory sapling. the two women watched him silently as he cut off a stout switch and calmly began to trim it. at last the woman turned to the teacher and her voice trembled. "i don't see chris thar more'n once or twice a year, an' seems kind o' hard that i got to whoop him." the boy turned sharply, and helplessly she took the switch. "and hit hain't his fault nohow. his stepdaddy got him drunk. he tol' me so when he come home. i went by the still to find chris an' cuss out ole jeb mullins an' the men thar. an' i come on hyeh." "set down a minute, mammy," said chris, dropping on the log on one side of st. hilda, and obediently the mother sat down on the other side. [illustration] "mammy," he said abruptly, "i'll stop drinkin' if you will." st. hilda almost gasped. the woman lifted her eyes to the mountainside and dropped her gaze presently to her hands, which were twisting the switch in her lap. "i'll stop if you will," he repeated. "i'll try, chris," she said, but she did not look up. "gimme yo' hand." across st. hilda's lap she stretched one shaking hand, which the boy clasped. "put yo' hand on thar, too, miss hildy," he said, and when he felt the pressure of her big, strong, white hand for a moment he got up quickly and turned his face. "all right, mammy." st. hilda rose, too, and started for the house--her eyes so blurred that she could hardly see the path. midway she wheeled. "don't!" she cried. the mother was already on her way home, breaking the switch to pieces and hiding her face within the black sunbonnet. the boy was staring after her. the lord's own level the blacksmith-shop sat huddled by the roadside at the mouth of wolf run--a hut of blackened boards. the rooftree sagged from each gable down to the crazy chimney in the centre, and the smoke curled up between the clapboard shingles or, as the wind listed, out through the cracks of any wall. it was a bird-singing, light-flashing morning in spring, and lum chapman did things that would have set all happy valley to wondering. a bareheaded, yellow-haired girl rode down wolf run on an old nag. she was perched on a sack of corn, and she gave lum a shy "how-dye" when she saw him through the wide door. lum's great forearm eased, the bellows flattened with a long, slow wheeze, and he went to the door and looked after her. professionally he noted that one hind shoe of the old nag was loose and that the other was gone. then he went back to his work. it would not be a busy day with uncle jerry at the mill--there would not be more than one or two ahead of her and her meal would soon be ground. several times he quit work to go to the door and look down the road, and finally he saw her coming. again she gave him a shy "how-dye," and his eyes followed her up wolf run until she was out of sight. the miracle these simple acts would have been to others was none to him. he was hardly self-conscious, much less analytical, and he went back to his work again. a little way up that creek lum himself lived in a log cabin, and he lived alone. this in itself was as rare as a miracle in the hills, and the reason, while clear, was still a mystery: lum had never been known to look twice at the same woman. he was big, kind, taciturn, ox-eyed, calm. he was so good-natured that anybody could banter him, but nobody ever carried it too far except a bully from an adjoining county one court day. lum picked him up bodily and dashed him to the ground so that blood gushed from his nose and he lay there bewildered, white, and still. lum rarely went to church, and he never talked religion, politics, or neighborhood gossip. he was really thought to be quite stupid, in spite of the fact that he could make lightning calculations about crops, hogs, and cattle in his head. however, one man knew better, but he was a "furriner," a geologist, a "rock-pecker" from the bluegrass. to him lum betrayed an uncanny eye in discovering coal signs and tracing them to their hidden beds, and wide and valuable knowledge of the same. once the foreigner lost his barometer just when he was trying to locate a coal vein on the side of the mountain opposite. two days later lum pointed to a ravine across the valley. "you'll find that coal not fer from the bottom o' that big poplar over thar." the geologist stared, but he went across and found the coal and came back mystified. "how'd you do it?" lum led him up wolf run. where the vein showed by the creek-side lum had built a little dam, and when the water ran even with the mud-covered stones he had turned the stream aside. the geologist lay down, sighted across the surface of the water, and his eye caught the base of the big poplar. "hit's the lord's own level," said lum, and back he went to his work, the man looking after him and muttering: "the lord's own level." hardly knowing it, lum waited for grinding day. there was the same exchange of "how-dyes" between him and the girl, going and coming, and lum noted that the remaining hind shoe was gone from the old nag and that one of the front ones was going. this too was gone the next time she passed, and for the first time lum spoke: "yo' hoss needs shoein'." "she ain't wuth it," said the girl. two hours later, when the girl came back, lum took up the conversation again. "oh, yes, she is," he drawled, and the girl slid from her sack of meal and watched him, which she could do fearlessly, for lum never looked at her. he had never asked her name and he did not ask her now. "i'm jeb mullins's gal," she said. "pap'll be comin' 'long hyeh some day an' pay ye." "my name's lum--lum chapman." "they calls me marthy." he lifted her bag to the horse's bony withers with one hand, but he did not offer to help her mount. he watched her again as she rode away, and when she looked back he turned with a queer feeling into his shop. two days later jeb mullins came by. "whad' i owe ye?" he asked. "nothin'," said lum gruffly. the next day the old man brought down a broken plough on his shoulder, and to the same question he got the same answer: "nothin'." so he went back and teased martha, who blushed when she next passed the door of the shop, and this time lum did not go out to watch her down the road. sunday following, parson small, the circuit-rider, preached in the open-air "meetin'-house," that had the sky for a roof and blossoming rhododendron for walls, and--wonder of wonders--lum chapman was there. in the rear he sat, and everybody turned to look at lum. so simple was he that the reason of his presence was soon plain, for he could no more keep his eyes from the back of martha mullins's yellow head than a needle could keep its point from the north pole. the circuit-rider on his next circuit would preach the funeral services of uncle billy hall, who had been dead ten years, and uncle billy would be draped with all the virtues that so few men have when alive and that so few lack when dead. he would marry such couples as might to marriage be inclined. there were peculiar customs in happy valley, due to the "rider's" long absences, so that sometimes a baby might without shame be present at the wedding of its own parents. to be sure, lum's eyes did swerve once when the preacher spoke of marriage--swerved from where the women sat to where sat the men--to young jake kilburn, called devil jake, a name of which he was rather proud; for martha's eyes had swerved to him too, and jake shot back a killing glance and began twisting his black mustache. and then the preacher told about the woman whom folks once stoned. lum listened dully and waited helplessly around at the end of the meeting until he saw martha and jake go down the road together, martha shy and conscious and jake the conquering daredevil that he was known to be among women. lum went back to his cabin, cooked his dinner, and sat down in his doorway to whittle and dream. lum went to church no more. when martha passed his shop, the same "how-dye" passed between them and no more. twice the circuit-rider came and went and martha and devil jake did not ask his services. a man who knew jake's record in another county started a dark rumor which finally reached lum and sent him after the daredevil. but jake had fled and lum followed him almost to the edge of the bluegrass country, to find that jake had a wife and child. he had meant to bring jake back to his duty, but he merely beat him up, kicked him to one side of the road like a dog, and came back to his shop. old jeb mullins came by thereafter with the old nag and the sack of corn, and lum went on doing little jobs for him for nothing, for jeb was a skinflint, a moonshiner, and a mean old man. he did not turn martha out of his hut, because he was callous and because he needed her to cook and to save him work in the garden and corn-field. martha stayed closely at home, but she was treated so kindly by some of the neighbors that once she ventured to go to church. then she knew from the glances, whispers, and gigglings of the other girls just where she stood, and she was not seen again very far from her own door. it was a long time before lum saw her again, so long, indeed, that when at last he saw her coming down wolf run on a sack of corn she carried a baby in her arms. she did not look up as she approached, and when she passed she turned her head and did not speak to him. so lum sat where he was and waited for her to come back, and she knew he had been waiting as soon as she saw him. she felt him staring at her even when she turned her head, and she did not look up until the old nag stopped. lum was barring the way. "yo' hoss needs shoein'," he said gravely, and from her lap he took the baby unafraid. indeed, the child dimpled and smiled at him, and the little arm around his neck gave him a curious shiver that ran up the back of his head and down his spine. the shoeing was quickly done, and in absolute silence, but when they started up wolf run lum went with them. "come by my shack a minit," he said. the girl said nothing; that in itself would be another scandal, of course, but what was the difference what folks might say? at his cabin he reached up and lifted mother and child from the old nag, and the girl's hair brushed his cheek. [illustration] "you stay hyeh with the baby," he said quietly, "an' i'll take yo' meal home." she looked at him with mingled trust and despair. what was the difference? it was near sundown when lum got back. smoke was coming out of his rickety chimney, and the wail of an old ballad reached his ears. singing, the girl did not hear him coming, and through the open door he saw that the room had been tidied up and that she was cooking supper. the baby was playing on the floor. she turned at the creak of his footstep on the threshold and for the first time she spoke. "supper'll be ready in a minit." a few minutes later he was seated at the table alone and the girl, with the baby on one arm, was waiting on him. by and by he pushed back his chair, pulled out his pipe, and sat down in the doorway. dusk was coming. in the shadowy depths below a wood-thrush was fluting his last notes for that day. then for the first time each called the other by name. "marthy, the circuit-rider'll be 'roun' two weeks from next sunday." "all right, lum." the marquise of queensberry i thus it had happened. pleasant trouble was drunk one day and a fly lit on his knee. he whipped his forty-four from its holster. "i'll show ye who _you_ air lightin' on!" he swore, and blazed away. of course he killed the fly, but incidentally he shattered its lighting-place. had he been in a trench anywhere in france, his leg would have been saved, but he was away out in the kentucky hills. if he minded the loss of it, however, no one could see, for with chin up and steady, daredevil eyes he swung along about as well on his crutch as if it had been a good leg. down the road, close to the river's brim, he was swinging now--his voice lifted in song. ahead of him and just around the curve of the road, with the sun of happy valley raining its last gold on her golden bare head, walked the marquise; but neither pleasant nor she herself knew she was the marquise. a few minutes later the girl heard the crunch of the crutch in the sandy road behind her, and she turned with a smile: "how-dye, pleaz!" the man caught the flapping brim of his slouch-hat and lifted it--an act of courtesy that he had learned only after happy valley was blessed by the advent of the mission school: making it, he was always embarrassed no little. "how-dye, miss mary!" "going down to the dance?" "no'm," he said with vigorous severity, and then with unctuous virtue--"i hain't nuver run a set or played a play in my life." the word "dance" is taboo among these calvinists of the hills. they "run sets" and "play plays"--and these are against the sterner morals that prevail--but they do not _dance_. the mission teacher smiled. this was a side-light on the complex character of pleasant trouble that she had not known before, and she knew it had nothing to do with his absent leg. a hundred yards ahead of them a boy and a girl emerged from a ravine--young king camp and polly sizemore--and plainly they were quarrelling. the girl's head was high with indignation; the boy's was low with anger, and now and then he would viciously dig the toe of his boot in the sand as he strode along. pleasant grinned. "i won't holler to 'em," he said; "i reckon they'd ruther be alone." "pleasant," said miss mary, "you drink moonshine, don't you?" "yes'm." "you sometimes _make_ it, don't you?" "i've been s'picioned." "you were turned out of church once, weren't you, for shooting up a meeting?" "yes," was the indignant defense, "but i proved to 'em that i was drunk, an' they tuk me back." the girl had to laugh. "and yet you think dancing wrong?" "yes'm." the girl gave it up--so perfunctory and final was is reply. indeed, he seemed to have lost interest. twice he had looked back, and now he turned again. she saw the fulfilment of some prophecy in his face as he grunted and frowned. "thar comes ham cage," he said. turning, the girl saw an awkward youth stepping into the road from the same ravine whence polly and young king had come, but she did not, as did pleasant, see ham shifting a revolver from his hip to an inside pocket. "those two boys worry the life out of me," she said, and again pleasant grunted. they were the two biggest boys in the school, and in running, jumping, lifting weights, shooting at marks, and even in working--in everything, indeed, except in books--they were tireless rivals. and now they were bitter contestants for the favor of polly sizemore--a fact that pleasant knew better than the mission girl. flirts are rare in the hills. "if two boys meets at the same house," pleasant once had told her, "they jes makes the gal say which one she likes best, and t'other one gits!" but with the growth of the mission school had come a certain tolerance which polly had used to the limit. indeed, st. hilda had discovered a queer reason for a sudden quickening of interest on polly's part in her studies. polly had to have the letters she got read for her, and the letters she sent written for her, and thus st. hilda found that at least three young men, who had gone into the army and had learned to write, thought--each of them--that he was first in her heart. polly now wanted to learn to read and write so that she could keep such secrets to herself. she had been "settin' up" with ham cage for a long time, and now she was "talkin' to" young king camp. king was taking her to the dance, and it was plain to pleasant that trouble was near. he looked worried. "well," he said, "i reckon thar hain't so much harm the way you school folks run sets because you don't 'low drinkin' or totin' pistols, an' you make 'em go home early. i heerd miss hildy is away--do you think you can manage the bad uns?" "i think so," smiled miss mary. "well, mebbe i will come around to-night." "come right along now," said the girl heartily, but pleasant had left his own gun at home, so he shook his head and started up the mountain. ii happy valley was darkening now. the evening star shone white in the last rosy western flush, and already lanterns glowed on the porch of the "big house" where the dancing was to be. from high in the shadows a voice came down to the girl: "i hain't got a gun an' i hain't had a drink to-day. hit's a shame when miss hildy's always a-tryin' to give us a good time she has to _beg_ us to behave." the young folks were gathering in. on the porch she saw polly sizemore in a chair and young king camp slipping into the darkness on the other side of the house. a few minutes later ham cage strolled into sight, saw polly, and sullenly dropped on the stone steps as far away from her as possible. the little teacher planned a course of action. "ham," she said, as she passed, "i want you to run the first set with me." ham stared and she was rather startled by his flush. "yes'm," he stammered. a moment later young king reappeared at the other end of the porch. "king," she said, "i want you to run the second set with me," and king too stared, flushed, and stammered assent, while polly flashed indignation at the little teacher's back. it had been miss mary's plan to break up the hill custom of one boy and one girl dancing together all the time--and she had another idea as well. pleasant trouble swung into the circle of light from the porch just as the first set started, and he sat down on the stone steps to look on. it was a jolly dance. some elderly folks were there to look on, and a few married couples who, in spite of miss mary's persuasions, yet refused to take part. it was soon plain that polly sizemore and the little teacher were the belles of the ball, though of the two polly alone seemed to realize it. pleasant could hardly keep his eyes off the mission girl. she was light as a feather, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks grew rosy, her laugh rang out, and the flaming spirit of her was kindling fires of which she never dreamed. pleasant saw her dance first with ham and then with king, and he grinned with swift recognition of her purpose. and he grinned the more when he saw that she was succeeding beyond her realization--saw it by the rage in polly's black eyes, which burned now at ham and now at king, for miss mary had no further need to ask either of them to dance--one or the other was always at her side. indeed the marquise, without knowing it, was making a pretty triangular mess of things, and pleasant chuckled unholily--chuckled until he saw things were getting serious, and then his inner laughing ceased and his sharp eyes got wary and watchful. for first ham and then king would disappear in the darkness, and each time they came back their faces were more flushed and their dancing was more furious. now, polly was winging arrows of anger at the little teacher, and presently pleasant rose lightly and with incredible swiftness swung across the floor just as the climax came. from the other side polly too darted forward. ham and king were glaring at each other over the teacher's pretty head--each claiming the next dance. miss mary was opening her mouth for a mild rebuke when the two boys sprang back, the right hand of each flashing to his hip. king drew first, and pleasant's crutch swished down on his wrist, striking his pistol to the floor. polly had caught ham's hand with both her own, and ham felt the muzzle of pleasant's forty-four against his stomach. "stop it!" said pleasant sternly. "miss mary don't like sech doin's." so quickly was it on and over that the teacher hardly realized that it had come on and was over. her bewildered face paled, but the color came back with a rush, and when her indignant eyes began their deadly work pleasant knew there was no further need of him, and he stepped back as though to escape penalty even for playing peacemaker in a way so rude. "you--you--you two!" breathed miss mary helplessly, but only for a moment. "give me that gun, ham. pick that one up, king." both she handed to pleasant, and then--no torrent came. she turned with a wave of her hand. "you can all go home now." there had been a moment of deadly quiet, but in the mountains even boys and girls do not take such events very seriously; the hubbub and tittering that had started again ceased again, and all left quickly and quietly--all but the teacher, pleasant, and the two boys, for polly too was moving away. king turned to go after her. "wait a moment, king," said miss mary, and polly cried fiercely: "he can stay till doomsday fer all o' me. i hain't goin' with ary one uv 'em." and she flirted away. "i am not going to talk to you two boys until to-morrow," said miss mary firmly, "and then i'm going to put a stop to all this. i want both of you to be here when school closes. i want you too, pleasant, and i want you to bring lum chapman." pleasant trouble was as bewildered as the two shamefaced boys--did she mean to have him hold a gun on the two boys while lum, the blacksmith, whaled them? "me?--lum?--why, whut----" "never mind--wait till to-morrow. will you all be here?" "yes'm," said all. "go with them up the river, pleasant. don't let them quarrel, and see that each one goes up his own creek." the two boys moved away like yoked oxen. at the bottom step pleasant turned to look back. very rigid and straight the little teacher stood under the lantern, and the pallor and distress of her face had given way to a look of stern determination. "whew!" he breathed, and he turned a half-circle on his crutch into the dark. iii miss mary holden was a daughter of the old dominion, on the other side of the cumberland range, and she came, of course, from fighting stock. she had gone north to school and had come home horrified by--to put it mildly--the southern tendency to an occasional homicide. there had been a great change, to be sure, within her young lifetime. except under circumstances that were peculiarly aggravating, gentlemen no longer peppered each other on sight. the duel was quite gone. indeed, the last one at the old university was in her father's time, and had been, he told her, a fake. a texan had challenged another student, and the seconds had loaded the pistols with blank cartridges. after firing three times at his enemy the texan threw his weapon down, swore that he could hit a quarter every time at that distance, pulled forth two guns of his own and demanded that they be used; and they had a terrible time appeasing the westerner, who, failing in humor, challenged then and there every member of his enemy's fraternity and every member of his own. thereafter it became the custom there and at other institutions of learning in the state to settle all disputes fist and skull; and of this miss holden, who was no pacifist, thoroughly approved. now she was in a community where the tendency to kill seemed well-nigh universal. st. hilda was a gentle soul, who would never even whip a pupil. she might not approve--but miss holden had the spirit of the pioneer and she must lead these people into the light. so she told her plan next day to pleasant trouble and lum chapman, who were first to come. stolid lum would have shown no surprise had she proposed that the two boys dive from a cliff, and if one survived he won; but the wonder and the succeeding joy in pleasant's face disturbed miss holden. and when pleasant swung his hat from his head and let out a fox-hunting yelp of pure ecstasy she rebuked him severely, whereat the man with the crutch lapsed into solemnity. "will they fight this way?" she asked. "them two boys will fight a bee-gum o' sucklin' wildcats--tooth and toe-nail." "they aren't going to fight that way," protested miss holden. "they will fight by the marquis of--er--somebody's rules." she explained the best she could the intervals of action and of rest, and her hearers were vastly interested. "they can't kick?" asked pleasant. "no." "ner bite?" "no!" "ner gouge?" "what do you mean by 'gouge'?" pleasant pantomimed with a thumbnail crooked on the outer edge of each eye-socket. "no!" was the horrified cry. "jest a square, stand-up and knock-down fight?" "yes," she said reluctantly but bravely. "lum will be timekeeper and referee to make them break away when they clinch." when she explained that pleasant scratched his head. "they can't even _wrassle_?" miss holden understood and did not correct. "they can't even _wrassle_. and you and i will be the seconds." "seconds--whut do we do?" "oh, we--we fan them and--and wash off the blood," she shivered a little in spite of herself. pleasant smiled broadly. "which one you goin' to wash off?" "i--i don't know." pleasant grinned. "well, we better toss up fer it an' _atter they git hyeh_." she did not understand his emphasis. "very well," she assented carelessly. up the road came ham cage now, and down the road came king camp--both with a rapid stride. though both had sworn to shoot on sight, they had kept away from each other as they had promised, and now without speaking they glowered unwinking into each other's eyes. nor did either ask a question when the little teacher, with two towels over one arm, led the way down the road, up over a little ridge, and down to a grassy hollow by the side of a tinkling creek. it was hard for the girl to believe that these two boys meant to shoot each other as they had threatened, but pleasant had told her they surely would, and that fact held her purpose firm. without a word they listened while she explained, and without a word both nodded assent--nor did they show any surprise when the girl repeated what she had told pleasant trouble and lum chapman. "jes' a plain ole square, stand-up an' knock-down fight," murmured pleasant consolingly, pulling forth a silver quarter, "heads--you wipe ham; tails--you wipe king." miss holden nodded, and for the first time the two lads turned their angry eyes from each other to the girl and yet neither asked a question. tails it was, and the girl motioned king to a log on one side of the hollow, and pleasant and ham to another log on the other side. she handed pleasant one of the towels, dropped her little watch into lum's huge palm, and on second thought took it back again: it might get broken, and lum might be too busy to keep time. only pleasant saw the gritting of ham's teeth when she took her stand by king's side. "take off your coats!" she said sharply. the two obeyed swiftly. "time!" she called, and the two leaped for each other. "stop!" she cried, and they halted. "i forgot--shake hands!" both shook their heads instead, like maddened bulls, and even lum looked amazed; he even spoke: "whut's the use o' fightin', if they shakes hands?" miss holden had no argument ready, and etiquette was waived. "time!" she repeated, and then the two battering-rams, revolving their fists country-fashion, engaged. half-forgotten homeric phrases began to flit from a faraway schoolroom back into the little teacher's mind and she began to be consoled for the absence of gloves--those tough old ancients had used gauges of iron and steel. the two boys were evenly matched. after a few thundering body blows they grew wary, and when the round closed their faces were unmarked, they had done each other no damage, and miss holden was thrilled--it wasn't so bad after all. each boy grabbed his own towel and wiped the sweat off his own face. "git at it, ham--git at it!" encouraged pleasant, and ham got at it. he gave king a wallop on the jaw; king came back with a jolt on the chin, and the two embraced untenderly. "break away!" cried the girl. "lum, make them break!" lum thrust one mighty arm between them and, as they flailed unavailingly over it, threw them both back with a right-and-left sweep. both were panting when the girl called time, and the first blood showed streaming from king's nose. miss holden looked a little pale, but gallantly she dipped the towel in the brook and went about her work. again pleasant saw his principal's jaw work in a gritting movement, and he chuckled encouragement so loudly that the girl heard him and looked around indignantly. it was inevitable that the seconds, even unconsciously, should take sides, and that point was coming fast. the girl did not hear herself say: "shift your head and come back from underneath!" and that was what king proceeded to do, and ham got an upper-cut on the chin that snapped his head up and sprinkled the blue sky with stars for him just as the bell of the girl's voice sounded time. meanwhile, up the road below them came a khaki-clad youth and a girl--polly sizemore and one of her soldier lovers who was just home on a furlough. polly heard the noises in the hollow, cocked an ear, put her finger on her lips, and led him to the top of the little ridge whence she could peak over. her amazed eyes grew hot seeing the mission girl, and she turned and whispered: "that fotched-on woman's got 'em fightin'." the soldier's face radiated joy indeed, and as unseen spectators the two noiselessly settled down. "whur'd they learn to fight this way?" whispered the soldier--the army had taught him. polly whispered back: "_she's_ a-larnin' 'em." the khaki boy gurgled his joy and craned his neck. "whut they fightin' about?" polly flushed and turned her face. "i--er--i don't know." the soldier observed neither her flush nor her hesitation, for king and ham were springing forward for another round; he only muttered his disgust at their awkwardness and their ignorance of the ring in terms that were strange to the girl by his side. "the mutts, the cheeses, the pore dawgs--they don't know how to guard an' they ain't _got_ no lefts." pleasant was advising and encouraging his principal now openly and in a loud voice, and ham's face began to twist with fury when he heard the mission girl begin to spur on king. with bared teeth he rushed forward and through the wild blows aimed at him, got both underholds, and king gave a gasping grunt as the breath was squeezed quite out of him. "break!" cried the girl. lum tugged at the locked hand and wrist behind king's back and king's hands flew to ham's throat. "break! break!" and lum had literally to tear them apart. "time!" gasped the girl. she was on the point of tears now, but she held them back and her mouth tightened--she would give them one more round anyhow. when the battling pair rose pleasant lost his head. he let loose a fox-hunting yell. he forgot his duty and the rules; he forgot the girl--he forgot all but the fight. [illustration] "let 'em loose!" he yelled. "git at it boys! go fer him, ham--whoop--ee--ee!" the girl was electrified. lum began cracking the knuckles of his huge fingers. polly and the soldier rose to their feet. that little dell turned eons back. the people there wore skins and two cavemen who had left their clubs at home fought with all the other weapons they had. the mission girl could never afterward piece out the psychology of that moment of world darkness, but when she saw ham's crooked thumbs close to king's eyes a weird and thrilling something swept her out of herself. her watch dropped to the ground. she rushed forward, seized two handfuls of ham's red hair, and felt polly's two sinewy hands seizing hers. like a tigress she flashed about; just in time then came the call of civilization, and she answered it with a joyous cry. bounding across the creek below came a tall young man, who stopped suddenly in sheer amaze at the scene and as suddenly dashed on. with hair and eyes streaming, the girl went to meet him and rushed into his arms. from that haven she turned. "it's a draw!" she said faintly. "shake--" she did not finish the sentence. ham and king had risen and were staring at her and the stranger. they looked at each other, and then saw polly sidling back to the soldier. again they looked at each other, grinned at each other, and, as each turned for his coat--clasped hands. "oh!" cried the girl, "i'm so glad." "this is not my brother," she said, leading the stranger forward. if she expected to surprise them, she didn't, for in the hills brothers and sisters do not rush into each other's arms. "it's my sweetheart, and he's come to take me home. and you won't shoot each other--you won't fight any more?" and ham said: "not jes' at present"; and king laughed. "i'm so glad." pleasant swung back to the mission house with the two foreigners, and on the way miss holden explained. the stranger was a merry person, and that part of happy valley rang with his laughter. "my! i wish i had got there earlier--what were they fighting about?" "why, polly sizemore, that pretty girl with black hair who lost her head when--when--i caught hold of ham." the shoulder of pleasant trouble that was not working up and down over his crutch began to work up and down over something else. "what's the matter, pleasant?" asked the girl. "nothin'." but he was grinning when they reached the steps of the mission, and he turned on miss holden a dancing eye. "polly nothin'--them two boys was a-fightin' about _you_!" and he left her aghast and wheeled chuckling away. next afternoon the marquise bade her little brood a tearful good-by and rode with her lover up happy valley to go over the mountain, on to the railroad, and back into the world. at the mouth of wolf run pleasant trouble was waiting to shake hands. "tell polly good-by for me, pleasant," said miss holden. "she wasn't there." "polly and the soldier boy rid up to the leetle jedge o' happy valley last night to git married." "oh," said miss holden, and she flushed a little. "and ham and king weren't there--where do you suppose they are?" pleasant pointed to a green little hollow high up a ravine. "they're up thar." "alone?" pleasant nodded and miss holden looked anxious. "they aren't fighting again?" "oh, no!" "do you suppose they are _really_ friends now?" "ham an' king air as lovin' as a pair o' twins," said pleasant decidedly and miss holden looked much pleased. "what on earth are they doing up there?" "well," drawled pleasant, "when they ain't huggin' an' shakin' hands they're wrasslin' with a jug o' moonshine." the mission girl looked disturbed, and the merry stranger let loose his ringing laugh. "oh, dear! now, where do you suppose they got moonshine?" "i tol' you," repeated pleasant, "that i didn't know nobody who couldn't git moonshine." miss holden sighed, her lover laughed again, and they rode away, pleasant watching them till they were out of sight. "whut i aimed to say was," corrected pleasant mentally, "i didn't know nobody who _knowed me_ that couldn't git it." and he jingled the coins in his pockets that at daybreak that morning had been in the pockets of ham and king. his last christmas gift the sergeant got the wounded man to his feet and threw one arm around his waist. then he all but carried him, stumbling along, with both hands clasped across his eyes, down the ravine that looked at night like some pit of hell. for along their path a thousand coke-ovens spat forth red tongues that licked northward with the wind, shot red arrows into the choking black smoke that surged up the mountainside, and lighted with fire the bellies of the clouds rolling overhead. "whar you takin' me?" "hospital." the mountainer stopped suddenly. "why, i can't see them ovens!" "you come on, jim." next morning jim lay on a cot with a sheet drawn to his chin and a grayish, yellow bandage covering forehead and eyes down to the tip of his nose. when the surgeon lifted that bandage the nurse turned her face aside, and what was under it, or rather what was not under it, shall not be told. only out in the operating-room the smooth-faced young assistant was curiously counting over some round leaden pellets, and he gave one low whistle when he pushed into a pile a full fourscore. "he said he was a-lookin' through a keyhole," the sergeant reported, "an' somebody let him have it with both barrels--but that don't go. jim wouldn't be lookin' through no keyhole; he'd bust the door down." nor could the sergeant learn more. he had found the man stumbling down possum hollow, and up that hollow the men and women of the mining camp did not give one another away. "it might 'a' been any one of a dozen fellers i know," the sergeant said, for jim was a feudsman and had his enemies by the score. the man on the cot said nothing. once, to be sure, when he was crossing the border of etherland, and once only, he muttered: "yes, she come from happy valley, but she was a cat, no doubt about that. yes, sir, the old girl was a cat." but when he was conscious that much even he never would say again. he simply lay grim, quiet, uncomplaining, and not even the surgeon, whose step he got quickly to know, could get him to tell who had done the deed. on the fourth day he showed some cheer. "look here, doc," he said, "when you goin' to take this rag off o' my eyes? i hain't seen a wink since i come in here." "oh, pretty soon," said the surgeon, and the nurse turned away again with drops in her eyes that would never be for the wounded man's eyes to shed again. on the sixth day his pulse was fast and his blood was high--and that night the nurse knew precisely what meant the look in the surgeon's face when he motioned her to leave the room. then he bent to lift the bandage once more. "why don't you take 'em all off, doc? i'd like to see the old girl again. has she gone back to happy valley?" "no--she's here." "won't she come to see me?" "yes, she'll come, but she can't now--she's sick abed." the man grinned. "yes, i know them spells." "jim," said the surgeon suddenly, "i'm going to be very busy to-morrow, and if you've got any message to send to anybody or anything to say to me, you'd better say it before i go." he spoke carelessly, but with a little too much care. the sheet moved over the hands clasped across jim's breast. "why, doc, you don't mean to say--" he stopped and drew in one breath slowly. "oh, no, but you can't always tell, and i might not get back till late, and i thought you might have something to tell me about--" he paused helplessly, and the man on the cot began moving his lips. the surgeon bent low. "why, doc," he said very slowly, "you--don't--really--mean--to--say--that the old--" his voice dropped to a whisper, "has finished me this time?" "who finished you, jim--who'd you say finished you?" a curious smile flitted over the coarse lips and passed. then the lips tightened and the thought behind the bandage made its way to the surgeon's quick brain, and there was a long silence. at last: "doc, d'you ever hear tell of a woman bein' hung?" "yes, jim." and then: "doc, am i goin' shore?" this question the surgeon answered with another, bending low. "jim, what message shall i give your wife?" the curious smile came back. "doc, this is christmas, ain't it?" "yes, jim." "doc, you're shore, air ye, that nobody knows who done it?" "nobody but you, jim." the man had been among men the terror of the hills for years, but on the last words that passed his gray lips his soul must have swung upward toward the soul of the man who lived and died for the peace of those hills. "doc," he said thickly, "you jus' tell the old girl jim says: 'happy christmas!'" the surgeon started back at the grim cheer of that message, but he took it like a priest and carried it back through the little hell that flared down the ravine on jim now through the window. and like a priest he told it to but one living soul. the angel from viper he had violet eyes, the smile of a seraph, and a halo of yellow hair, and he came from viper, which is a creek many, many hills away from happy valley. he came on foot and alone to st. hilda, who said sadly that she had no room for him. but she sighed helplessly when the angel smiled--and made room for him. to the teachers he became willie--to his equals he was bill. in a few weeks he got homesick and, without a word, disappeared. a fortnight later he turned up again with a little brother, and again he smiled at st. hilda. "jeems henery hyeh," he said, "'lowed as how _he'd_ come along"--and james henry got a home. jeems was eight, and the angel, who was ten, was brother and father to him. he saw to it that jeems henery worked and worked hard and that he behaved himself, so that his concern for the dull, serious little chap touched st. hilda deeply. that concern seemed, indeed, sacrificial--and was. when spring breathed on the hills the angel got restless. he was homesick again and must go to see his mother. "but, willie," said st. hilda, "you told me your mother died two years ago." "she come _might' nigh_ dyin'," said the angel. "that's what i said." st. hilda reasoned with him to no avail, and because she knew he would go anyhow gave him permission. "miss hildy, i'm a-leavin' jeems henery with ye now, an' i reckon i oughter tell you somethin'." "yes, willie," answered st. hilda absently. [illustration] "miss hildy, jeems henery is the bigges' liar on viper." "yes," repeated st. hilda; "_what_?" "the truth ain't in jeems henery," the angel went on placidly. "you can't lam' it inter 'im an' tain't no use to try. you jus' watch him close while i'm gone." "i will." half an hour later the angel put his hand gently on st. hilda's knee, and his violet eyes were troubled. "miss hildy," he said solemnly, "jeems henery is the cussin'est boy on viper. i reckon jeems henery is the cussin'est boy in the world. you've got to watch him while i'm gone, or no tellin' whut he _will_ larn them young uns o' yours." "all right. i'll do the best i can." "an' that ain't all," added the angel solemnly. "jeems henery"--st. hilda almost held her breath--"jeems henery is the gamblin'est boy on viper. jeems henery jes' can't _look_ at a marble without tremblin' all over. if you don't watch him like a hawk while i'm gone i reckon jeems henery'll larn them young uns o' yours all the devilment in the world." "gracious!" james henry veered into view just then around the corner of the house. "jeems henery," called the angel sternly, "come hyeh!" and james henry stood before the bar of the angel's judgment. "jeems henery, air you the gamblin'est boy on viper?" james henry nodded cheerfully. "air you the cussin'est boy on viper?" again there was a nod of cheerful acknowledgment. "jeems henery, air you the bigges' liar on viper?" james henry, looking with adoring eyes at the angel, nodded shameless shame for the third time, and the angel turned triumphantly. "thar now!" astounded, st. hilda looked from one brother to the other. "well, not one word of this have i heard before." "jeems henery is a sly un--ain't you, jeems henery?" "uh-huh." "ain't nobody who can ketch up jeems henery 'ceptin' me." "well, willie, if this is more than i can handle, don't you think you'd better not go home but stay here and help me with james henry?" the angel did not even hesitate. "i reckon i better," he said, and he visibly swelled with importance. "i had to lam' jeems henery this mornin', an' i reckon i'll have to keep on lammin' him 'most every day." "don't you lam' james henry at all," said st. hilda decisively. "all right," said the angel. "jeems henery, git about yo' work now." thereafter st. hilda kept watch on james henry and he was, indeed, a sly one. there was gambling going on. st. hilda did not encourage tale-bearing, but she knew it was going on. still she could not catch james henry. one day the angel came to her. "i've got jeems henery to stop gamblin'," he whispered, "an' i didn't have to lam' him." and, indeed, gambling thereafter ceased. the young man who had come for the summer to teach the boys the games of the outside world reported that much swearing had been going on but that swearing too had stopped. "i've got jeems henery to stop cussin'," reported the angel, and so st. hilda rewarded him with the easy care of the nice new stable she had built on the hillside. his duty was to clean it and set things in order every day. some ten days later she was passing near the scene of the angel's new activities, and she hailed him. "how are you getting along?" she called. "come right on, miss hildy," shouted the angel. "i got ever'thing cleaned up. come on an' look in the _furthest_ corners!" st. hilda went on, but ten minutes later she had to pass that way again and she did look in. nothing had been done. the stable was in confusion and a pitchfork lay prongs upward midway of the barn door. "how's this, ephraim?" she asked, mystified. ephraim was a fourteen-year-old boy who did the strenuous work of the barn. "why, miss hildy, i jes' hain't had time to clean up yit." "_you_ haven't had time?" she echoed in more mystery. "that isn't your work--it's willie's." it was ephraim's turn for mystery. "why, miss hildy, willie told me more'n a week ago that you said fer me to do _all_ the cleanin' up." "do you mean to say that you've been doing this work for over a week? what's willie been doing?" "not a lick--jes' settin' aroun' studyin' an' whistlin'." st. hilda went swiftly down the hill, herself in deep study, and she summoned the angel to the bar of her judgment. the angel writhed and wormed, but it was no use, and at last with smile, violet eyes, and halo the angel spoke the truth. then a great light dawned for st. hilda, and she played its searching rays on the angel's past and he spoke more truth, leaving her gasping and aghast. "why--why did you say all that about your poor little brother?" the angel's answer was prompt. "why, i figgered that you _couldn't_ ketch jeems henery an' _wouldn't_ ketch me. an'," the angel added dreamily, "it come might' nigh bein' that-a-way if i just had----" "you're a horrid, wicked little boy," st. hilda cried, but the angel would not be perturbed, for he was a practical moralist. "jeems henery," he called into space, "come hyeh!" and out of space james henry came, as though around the corner he had been waiting the summons. "jeems henery, who was the gamblin'est, cussin'est, lyin'est boy on viper?" "my big brother bill!" shouted jeems henery proudly. "who stopped gamblin', cussin', an' lyin'?" "my big brother bill!" "who stopped all these young uns o' miss hildy's from cussin' an' gamblin'?" and jeems henery shouted: "my big brother bill!" the angel, well pleased, turned to st. hilda. "thar now," he said triumphantly, and seeing that he had reduced st. hilda to helpless pulp he waved his hand. "git back to yo' work, jeems henery." but st. hilda was not yet all pulp. "willie," she asked warily, "when did _you_ stop lying?" "why, jes' now!" there was in the angel's face a trace of wonder at st. hilda's lack of understanding. "how did james henry know?" the mild wonder persisted. "jeems henery knows _me_!" st. hilda was all pulp now, but it was late afternoon, and birds were singing in the woods, and her little people were singing as they worked in fields; and her heart was full. she spoke gently. "go on back to work, willie," she was about to say, but the angel had gone a-dreaming and his face was sad, and she said instead: "what is it, willie?" "i know whut's been the matter with me, miss hildy--i hain't been the same since my mother died six year ago." for a moment st. hilda took a little silence to gain self-control. "you mean," she said sternly, "'come _might' nigh_ dyin',' willie, and _two_ years ago." "well, miss hildy, hit 'pears like six." her brain whirled at the working of his, but his eyes, his smile, and the halo, glorified just then by a bar of sunlight, were too much for st. hilda, and she gathered him into her arms. "oh, willie, willie," she half-sobbed; "i don't know what to do with you!" and then, to comfort her, the angel spoke gently: "miss hildy, jes' don't do--nothin'." the pope of the big sandy he entered a log cabin in the kentucky hills. an old woman with a pair of scissors cut the tie that bound him to his mother and put him in swaddling-clothes of homespun. now, in silk pajamas, with three doctors and two nurses to make his going easy, he was on his way out of a suite of rooms ten stories above the splendor of fifth avenue. it was early morning. a taxi swung into the paved circle in front of the hotel below and a little man in slouch-hat and black frock coat, and with his trousers in his boots, stepped gingerly out. he took off the hat with one hand, dropped his saddle-pockets from the other, and mopped his forehead with a bandanna handkerchief. "my god, brother," he said to the grinning driver, "i tol' ye to hurry, but i didn't 'low you'd _fly_! how much d' i owe ye an' how do i git in hyeh?" a giant in a gold-braided uniform had picked up the saddle-pockets when the little man turned. "well, now, that's clever of ye," he said, thrusting out his hand, "i reckon you air the proprietor--how's the pope?" "sure, i dunno, sor--this way, sor." the astonished giant pointed to the swinging door and turned for light to the taxi man who, doubled with laughter over his wheel, tapped his forehead. at the desk the little man pushed his hat back and put both elbows down. "whar's the pope?" "the pope!" from behind, the giant was making frantic signs, but the clerk's brow cleared. "oh, yes--front!" the little man gasped and swayed as the elevator shot upward, but a moment later the little judge of happy valley and the pope of the big sandy were hand in hand. "how're yo' folks, judge?" "stirrin'--how're you, jim?" "ain't stirrin' at all." "shucks, you'll be up an' aroun' in no time." "i ain't goin' to git up again." "don't you git stubborn now, jim." a nurse brought in some medicine and the pope took it with a wry face. the judge reached for his saddle-pockets and pulled out a bottle of white liquor with a stopper of corn-shucks. "this'll take the bad taste out o' yo' mouth." "the docs won't let me--but lemme smell it." the judge had whipped out a twist of long green and again the pope shook his head: "can't drink--can't chaw!" "oh, lord!" the judge bit off a mouthful and a moment later walked to the window and, with his first and second fingers forked over his lips, ejected an amber stream. "good lord, judge--don't do that. you'll splatter a million people." he called for a spittoon and the judge grunted disgustedly. "i'd hate to live in a place whar a feller can't spit out o' his own window." "don't you like it?" "hit looks like circus day--i got the headache already." a telegram was brought in. "been seein' a lot about you in the papers," said the judge, and the pope waved wearily to a pile of dailies. there were columns about him in those papers--about his meteoric rise: how he started a poor boy in the mountains, studied by candle-light, taught school in the hills: how a vision of their future came to him even that early and how he clung to that vision all his life, turning, twisting for option money on coal lands, making a little sale now and then, but always options and more options and sales and more sales, until now the poor mountain boy was a king among the coal barons of the land. "judge," said the pope, "the votin's started down home." "how's it goin'?" "easy." "been spendin' any money?" "not a cent." "ole bill maddox is." "why, judge, i'm the daddy an' grandaddy o' that town. i built streets and sidewalks for it out o' my own pocket. i put up two churches for 'em. i built the water-works, the bank, an' god knows what all. ole bill maddox can't turn a wheel against _me_." the little judge was marvelling: here was a man who had refused all his life to run for office, who could have been congressman, senator, governor; and who had succumbed at last. "jim, what in blue hell do you want that office fer?" "to make folks realize their duties as citizens," said the pope patiently; "to maintain streets and sidewalks and water-works and sewers an' become an independent community, instead o' layin' back on other folks!" "how about all them churches you been buildin' all over them mountains--air they self-sustainin'?" "well, they do need a little help now and then." the judge grunted. through the morning many cards were brought the pope, but the doctors allowed no business. to amuse himself the pope sent the judge into the sitting-room to listen to the million-dollar project of one sleek young man, and the judge reported: "nothin' doin'--he's got a bad eye." "right," said the pope. at twelve o'clock the judge looked at his watch: "dinner-time." and the pope ordered his old mountain friend cabbage, bacon, and greens. "judge, i got to sleep now. i've got a car down below. after dinner you can take a ride or you can take a walk." "you can't git me into a automobile an' i'm afeard to walk. i'd git run over. i'll jus' hang aroun'." another telegram was brought in. "runnin' easy an' winnin' in a walk," said the pope. "it's a cinch. you can open anything else that comes while i'm asleep." the judge himself had not slept well on the train; so he took off his boots, put his yarn-stockinged feet in one chair, and sitting up in another took a nap. an hour later the pope called for him. the last telegram reported that he was so far ahead that none others would be sent until the committee started to count ballots. "i've made you an executor in my will, judge," he said, "an' i want you to see that some things are done yourself." the judge nodded. "i want you to have a new church built in happy valley. i want you to give st. hilda and that settlement school five thousand a year. an'"--he paused--"you know ole bill maddox cut me out an' married sally ann spurlock--how many children they got now, judge?" "ten--oldest, sixteen." "well, i want you to see that every gol-durned one of 'em gits the chance to go to school." now, old bill maddox was running against the pope, and was fighting him hard, and the judge hated old bill maddox; so he said nothing. the pope too was silent a long while. "judge, i got all my money out o' the mountain folks. i robbed 'em right and left." "you ain't never robbed nobody in happy valley," said the judge a little grimly, and the pope chuckled. "no, you wouldn't let me. i got all my money from 'em an' do you know what i'm goin' to do?" "git some more, i reckon." [illustration] the pope chuckled again: "i'm a-goin' to give it back to 'em. churches, schools, libraries, hospitals, good roads--any durned thing in the world that will do 'em any good. it's all in my will. an', judge," he added with a little embarrassment, "i've sort o' fixed it so that when you want to help out a widder or a orphan in happy valley you can do it without always diggin' down into yo' own jeans." "shucks, don't you worry about me or the folks in happy valley--you done enough fer them lettin' 'em alone; an' that durned ole bill maddox, he's a fightin' you right now afore yo' face an' behind yo' back. he's the meanest----" "makes no difference. his children ain't to blame an' thar's sally ann." the pope yawned and his brow wrinkled with pain. "i better take a little more sleep, judge." a doctor came in and felt the pope's pulse and the judge left the room worried by the physician's face and his whispered direction to the nurse to summon another doctor. an hour later the pope called him back, and his voice was weak: "bring in every telegram, judge." "you mustn't bother," interposed the doctor firmly, and the pope's mouth set and the old dominant gleam came into his eyes. "bring in every telegram," he repeated. outside, in the hallway, the judge waylaid the doctor. "ain't he goin' to pull through?" "one chance in a thousand," was the curt answer. about three o'clock the judge got a telegram that made him swear fearfully, and thereafter they came fast. the pope would use no money. the judge wired the pope's manager warily offering a thousand of his own. the answer came--"too late." at five o'clock they were running neck and neck. ten minutes before the polls closed old bill maddox rounded up twenty more votes and victory was his. and all the while the judge was making reports to the pope: "runnin' easy." "it's a cinch." "ole bill fighting tooth and toe-nail but you got him, jim." "countin' the votes now." "air ye shore, jim, you want to leave all that money fer ole bill's brats?--he's a hound." "ole bill comin' up a little, jim." and then came that last telegram, reporting defeat, and with it crushed in his hand the judge made his last report: "all over. you've got 'em, jim. hooray! can't you hear 'em yell?" the pope's white mouth smiled and his eyelids flickered, but his eyes stayed closed. "jim, i wouldn't give _all_ that money to old bill's brats--just some fer sally ann." "all of it for old bill's--for sally ann's children, the mountain folks, an' the old home town." the pope opened his eyes and he spoke: "all of you--nurses an' docs--git out o' here, please." and knowing that the end was nigh they quietly withdrew. "judge, you ain't no actor--you're a ham!" "whut you mean, jim?" asked the judge, for in truth he did not understand--not just then. the roar of the city rose from below, but the sunset came through the window as through all windows of the world. the pope's hand reached for the judge's hand. his lips moved and the judge bent low. "beat!" whispered the pope; "beat, by god! beat--for--councilman--in--my--own home town." and because he knew his fellow man, the good and the bad, the pope passed with a smile. the goddess of happy valley i the professor stood at the window of his study waiting for her to come home. the wind outside was high and whipped her skirts close to her magnificent body as, breasting it unconcernedly, she came with a long, slow stride around a corner down the street. now, as always whenever he saw her move, he thought of the line in virgil, for even in her walk she showed the goddess. and juno was her name. he met her at the door and he did not have to stoop to kiss her. "what is it, dear?" he said quickly, for deep in her eyes, which looked level with his, he saw trouble. she handed him a letter and walked to the window--looking out at the gathering storm. the letter was from her home away down in the kentucky hills--from the mission teacher in happy valley. there was an epidemic of typhoid down there. it was spreading through the school and through the hills. they were without nurses or doctors, and they needed help. "too bad, too bad," he murmured, and he turned anxiously. "i must go," she said, with a catch in her breath. "one cabin is built above another all the way up the creeks down there. the springs are by the stream. high water floods all of them, and the infection goes with the tide. and the poor things don't know--they don't know. oh, i must go!" for a moment he was silent, and then he got up and put his arms about her. he was smiling. "then, i'll go with you." she wheeled quickly. "no, no, no! you can't leave your work, and--remember!" he did remember how useless it had been to argue with her, and he knew it was useless now. moreover, if she was going at all, it was like her to go at once--like her to go up-stairs at once to her packing and leave him in the darkened study alone. they had been married two years. he had seen her first entering his own classroom, and straightway that latin line took permanent quarters in his brain, so that he was almost startled when he learned her olympic name. it was not long before he found himself irresistibly drawn to her big, serious eyes that never wandered in a moment's inattention, found himself expounding directly to her--a fact already discovered by every girl in the classroom except juno herself; and she never did discover, for no one was intimate enough to tell her seriously, and there was that about her that forbade the telling in badinage. with all secrecy, and shyly almost, he set about to learn what he could about her, and that was little indeed. she came from the mountains of kentucky, she had won a scholarship in the bluegrass region of the same state, had come north, and was living with painful economy working her way through college, he heard, as a waitress in the dining-hall. he was rather shocked to hear of one incident. the girl who was the head of all athletics in college had once addressed rather sharp words to juno, who had been persuaded to try for the basket-ball team. the mountain girl did not respond in kind. instead, her big eyes narrowed to volcanic slits, she caught the champion shot-putter by the shoulders, shook her until her hair came down, and then, with fists doubled, had stood waiting for more trouble. when the term closed the professor stayed on to finish some experiments he had on hand, and at dinner in his boarding-house the next night he nearly overturned his soup-plate, for it was the goddess who had placed it before him. she was there for the summer--not having money to go home--as a general helper in the household and living under the same roof. she too was going on with her studies, and he offered to help her. he found her a source of puzzling surprises. while she was from the south, she was not southern in speech, sentiments, ideas, or ideals. her voice was not southern and, while she elided final consonants, her intonation was not of the south. indeed she would startle him every now and then by dropping some archaic word or old form of expression that made him think of chaucer. her feeling toward the negro was precisely what his was, and once when he halted in some stricture on the confederacy and started to apologize she laughed. "all my folks," she said, "fit fer the union--as we say down there," she added with a smile. so that gradually he began to realize that the appalachian range, while being parts of the southern states, was not of them at all, but was a region _sui generis_, and that its inhabitants were the only americans who had never swerved in fealty to the flag. by midsummer it was all over with him, and he shocked his own reticent soul by blurting out one day: "i want you to marry me." the words had been shot from him by some inner dynamic force, and at the moment he would have given anything he had could he have taken them back. he waited in terror and very frankly and proudly she lifted her heavy lashes, looked straight into his eyes, and firmly said: "no!" he went away then, but his relief was not what he thought it would be. he could not forget that her mouth quivered slightly, and that there seemed to be a faint weakening in the depths of her eyes when he told her good-by. he could climb no mountain that he did not see her striding as from olympus down it. he walked by no seashore that he did not see her rising from the waves, and again he went to her, and again he asked. and this time, just as frankly and proudly, she looked him in the eyes and said: "yes--on one condition." "name it." "that you don't go to my home and my people for five years." he laughed. "why, you big, beautiful, silly young person, i know mountains and mountaineers." "yes--of europe--but not mine." "very well," he said, and, not knowing women, he asked: "why didn't you say 'yes' the first time?" "i don't know," she said. ii she had lifted her voice first, one spring dawn, in a log cabin that clung to the steep bank of clover fork, and her wail rose above the rush of its high waters--above the song of a wood-thrush in the top of a poplar high above her. somewhere her mother had heard the word juno, and the mere sound of the word appealed to her starved sense of beauty as did one of the old-fashioned flowers she planted in her tiny yard. so the mother gave the child that name and, like the name, the child grew up, tall, slow, and majestic of movement, singularly gentle and quiet, except when aroused, and then her wrath and her might were primeval. st. hilda, the mission teacher, was the first from the outside world to be drawn to her. she had stopped in at the cabin on clover one day to find the mother of the family ill in bed, and twelve-year-old juno acting as cook and mother for a brood of ten. a few months later she persuaded the father to let the girl come down to her school, and in the succeeding years she became st. hilda's right hand and the mainstay in the supervision of the kitchen, housework, and laundry, and even in the management of the mission's farm. no one had the subtle understanding of st. hilda's charges as had juno--no one could handle them quite so well. so that it was with real grief and great personal loss that st. hilda opened the way for juno to go to school in the bluegrass. and now, one sunset in mid-may, she was back at the mission in happy valley, and the two were in each other's arms. happy valley it was no longer, for throughout it the plague had spread fear or sickness or death in every little home. st. hilda had gathered her own little sufferers in tents collected from a railway-camp over the mountains, a surveying party, and from the bluegrass. a volunteer doctor had come from the "settlements," and two nurses, and so juno took to the outside work up and down the river, up every little creek, and out in the hills. all day and far into the night she was gone. sometimes she did not for days come back to the mission. her face grew white and drawn, and her cheeks hollow from poor food, meagre snatches of sleep, and untiring work. the doctor warned her, st. hilda warned her, she got anxious warning letters from her husband, but on she went. and the inevitable happened. one hot midday, as she watched by the bedside of a little patient with a branch of maple in her hand to keep the flies away, she drowsed, and one of the wretched little insects lighted on her moist red lips. soon thereafter the "walking typhoid" caught her as she was striding past lum chapman's blacksmith-shop. instinctively she kept on toward home, and reached there raving: "don't let him come--don't let him come!" and when the news got about the heart of happy valley almost bled. only st. hilda guessed what the mutterings of the sick girl meant, but she did not heed them, and the professor from new england soon crossed mason and dixon's line for the first time in his life. for the first time he fell under the spell of the southern hills--graceful, gracious big hills, real mountains, densely wooded like thickets to their very tops--so densely wooded, indeed, that they seemed overspread with a great shaggy green rug that swept on and on over the folds of the hills as though billowed up by a mighty wind beneath. and the lights, the mists, the drifting cloud shadows! why had juno not wanted him to see them? and when he took to horseback and mounted through that billowing rug, through ferns stirrup-high, with flowers innumerable nodding on either side of the trail and the air of the first dawn in his nostrils--mounted to the top of the big black, rode for miles along its gently waving summit, and saw at every turn of the path the majestic supernal beauty of the mighty green waves that swept on and on before him, in wonder he kept asking himself: "why--why?" he had not come into contact yet with the humanity in those hills. the log cabins he had seen from the train--clinging to the hillsides, nestling in little coves amid apple-trees, or close to the banks of rushing little creeks--had struck him as most picturesque and charming, and an occasional old mill, with its big water-wheel, boxed-in, grass-hung mill-race half hidden by weeping willows, had given him sheer delight; but now he was meeting the people in the road and could see them close at hand in doorway and porches of the wretched little houses that he passed. how mean, meagre, narrow, and poverty-stricken must be their lives! at one cabin he had to stop for midday dinner, for the word "lunch," he found, was unknown. a slatternly woman with scraggling black hair, and with three dirty children clinging to her dirty apron, "reckoned she mought git him a bite," and disappeared. flies swarmed over him when he sat in the porch. the rancid smell of bedding struck his sensitive nostrils from within. he heard the loud squawking of a chicken cease suddenly, and his hunger-gnawed stomach almost turned when he suddenly realized just what it meant. when called within, it was dirt and flies, flies and dirt, everywhere. he sat in a chair with a smooth-worn cane bottom so low that his chin was just above the table. the table-cover was of greasy oilcloth. his tumbler was cloudy, unclean, and the milk was thin and sour. thick slices of fat bacon swam in a dish of grease, blood was perceptible in the joints of the freshly killed, half-cooked chicken, and the flies swarmed. as he rode away he began to get a glimmer of light. perhaps juno--his juno--had once lived like that; perhaps her people did yet. there was another mountain to climb, and a stranger who was going his way offered to act as guide. the stranger was a kentuckian, he said, from the bluegrass region, and he was buying timber through the hills. he volunteered this, but the new england man made no self-revealment. instead he burst out: "_how_ do these people live this way?" "they have to--they're pretty poor." "they don't have to keep--dirty." "they've got used to it, and so would you if your folks had been living out in this wilderness for a hundred years." from a yard that they passed, a boy with a vacant face and retreating forehead dropped his axe to stare at them. "that's the second one i've seen," said the professor. "yes, idiots are not unusual in these mountains--inbreeding!" "do they still have moonshining and feuds and all that yet?" "plenty of moonshining. the feuds are all over practically, though i did hear that the big feud over the mountain was likely to be stirred up again--the old camp and adkin feud." a question came faintly from behind: "do you know any of the camps?" "used to know old red king camp, the leader. he's in the penitentiary now for killing a man. what's the matter?" he turned in his saddle, but the new englander had recovered himself. "nothing--nothing. it seems awful to a northern man." the stranger thought he had heard a groan behind him, and he had--king camp was the name of the northern man's father-in-law. ah, he was beginning to understand; but why did juno not want him to come for five years? "is--is red king camp--how long was his sentence?" "let's see--he's been in two years, and i heard he had three years more. yes, i remember--he got five years." once more the bluegrass man thought he heard a groan, but the other was only clearing his throat. the new englander asked no more questions, and about two hours by sun they rode over a ridge and down to the bed of clover fork. "well, stranger, we part here. you go up to the head of the creek, and anybody'll tell you where red king lives. there's plenty of moonshining up that way, and if anybody asks your name and your business--tell 'em quick. they won't bother you. and if i were you i wouldn't criticise these people to _anybody_. they're morbidly sensitive, and you never know when you are giving mortal offense. and, by the way, most offenses _are_ mortal in these hills." "thank you. good-by--and thank you." everybody knew where old king camp lived--"fust house a leetle way down t'other side o' the mountain from the head of clover." and nobody asked him his name or his business. near dusk he was at the head of little clover and looking down on happy valley. the rimming mountains were close overhung with motionless wet clouds. above and through them lightning flashed, and thunder cracked and boomed like encircling artillery around the horizon. the wind came with the rush of mighty wings, and blackness dropped like a curtain. by one flash of lightning he saw a great field of corn, by another a big, comfortable barn, a garden, a trim picket-fence, a yard full of flowers, and a log house the like of which he had not seen in the hills--and a new light came--juno's work! a torrent of rain swept after him as he stepped upon the porch and knocked on the door. a moment later he was looking at the kindest and most motherly face and into the kindest eyes he had ever seen. "i'm juno's husband," he said simply. for a moment she blinked up at him bewilderedly through brass-rimmed spectacles, and then she put her arms around him and bent back to look up at him again. then, still without a word, she led him on tiptoe to an open door and pointed. "she's in thar." and there she lay--his juno--thin, white, unconscious, her beauty spiritualized, glorified. he sat simply looking at her--how long he did not know--until he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. it was juno's mother beckoning him to supper. going out he saw juno's hand in everything--the hand-woven rag carpet, the curtains at the windows, the andirons at the log fire--for summer nights in those hills are always cool--saw it in the kitchen, the table-cloth, napkins, even though they were in rings, the dishes, the food, the neatness in everything. he could see the likeness of juno to the gentle-voiced old woman who would talk of nothing but her daughter. in a moment she was calling him "jim," and few others than his dead mother had ever called him that. and when at bedtime she said, "don't let her die, jim," he leaned down and kissed her--something her own sons when grown up had never done. "no, mother," he said, and the word did not come hard. iii juno had been delirious since the day she was stricken. her mutterings had been disjointed and unintelligible, but that night, while mother camp and the new englander sat at her bedside, she said again: "don't let him come." "she ain't said that for three days now," said mother camp. "whut d' you s'pose she means?" the husband shook his head. next morning the nurse for whom st. hilda had sent arrived from the bluegrass, and the new englander started down little clover to the settlement school to consult the doctor and see st. hilda. it was a brilliant, drenched june day, and never, he believed, had his eyes rested on such a glory of green and gold. already he had been heralded in the swift way common in the hills, and all who saw him coming knew who he was. he was juno's man, and the people straightway called him--jim. when he stood on st. hilda's porch her words and her drawn, anxious face went straight to his heart. there was nobody like juno, and without juno she did not know how she could get along. her own little sufferers were in tents about her, and there was only one nurse for them. juno, said the doctor, might be unconscious for a long time, and her nurse must be with her night and day: so who would take juno's place throughout the hills she did not know. at once the new englander, who knew a good deal about medicine and something of typhoid, found himself offering to do all he could. then and there the mission teacher gave him a list of patients, and then and there, with a thermometer in his pocket and a medicine-case in his hand, he started on his first round. the people were very shy with him at first. in a few days he was promoted to doctor jim, and soon he was plain "doc" to all. by every mouth that opened he found juno's name blessed, and many were the tales of what she had done. she had saved wild jay dawn's little girl and lum chapman's firstborn. she had brought old aunt sis stidham back from the shadow of the grave, and had turned that tart, irreverent old person's erring feet back into the way of the lord. [illustration] night and day, and through wind and storm, she had travelled the hills, healing the sick and laying out and helping to bury the dead. apparently there was not a man, woman, or child in happy valley who did not love her or have some reason to be grateful, and when in the open-air meeting-house parson small told of her work and prayed that her life be spared, there were fervent "amens," or tears and sobs, from all. doctor jim soon found himself getting deeply interested in the people, and when he contrasted the lives of those whom the influence of the mission school had not yet reached with the folks in happy valley he began to realize the amazing good that st. hilda was doing in the hills. what a place he was earning for himself he was yet to learn, but through some mystification an inkling came. to be sure, everybody spoke to him as though he were a fixture in the land. he could pass no door that somebody did not ask him to come in and rest a spell, or stay all night. he never went by the mill that aunt jane did not have a glass of buttermilk for him and uncle jerry did not try to entice him in for a talk. several times the little judge of happy valley had ridden down to ask after juno and to talk with him. pleasant trouble waved his crutch from a hillside and shouted himself at doctor jim's disposal for any purpose whatever. but one sunset he had stopped at lum chapman's blacksmith-shop just as a big, black-haired fellow, with a pistol buckled around him, was reeling away. the men greeted him rather solemnly, and he felt that they wanted to say something to him, but no one spoke. he saw jay dawn nod curtly to pleasant trouble, who got briskly up and walked up the road with him until they were in sight of juno's home. for three days thereafter pleasant was waiting for him at the shop and walked the same space with him. the next day jay dawn spoke with some embarrassment to him: "have you got a gun?" "no." jay handed forth one. "oh, no!" said doctor jim. "go on!" said jay shortly; "i got another un." "but why do i need a gun?" jay was distinctly embarrassed. "well," he drawled, "thar's some purty bad fellers 'bout hyeh, an' when they gits drunk they might do somethin'. now that jerry lipps you seed hyeh t'other day a-staggerin' off drunk--he's bad. an' you do a heap o' travellin' alone. this ain't fer you to kill nobody but jus' kind o' to pertect yerself." "all right," laughed doctor jim. "i couldn't hit a barn--" but to humor jay he took the weapon, and this time pleasant trouble did not walk home with him. later he mentioned the matter to st. hilda, who looked very grave. "yes, jerry lipps is a bad man. he's just out of the penitentiary. pleasant walked home with you to protect you from him. they won't let him do anything to you openly. and jay gave you that gun in case he should attack you when nobody was around." "but what has the fellow got against me?" the teacher hesitated. "well, jerry used to be in love with juno, but she would never have anything to do with him and he never would let her have anything to do with anybody else. he shot one boy, and shot at another, and he has always sworn that he would kill the man she married." "nonsense!" he said, but going home that night doctor jim carried the gun where he could get at it quickly. "my god!" he muttered with grim humor; "no wonder juno didn't want me to come." it was only a few days later that doctor jim came out of lum chapman's house and paused in the path looking up wolf run. jerry lipps's sister lived half a mile above and he had just heard that her little daughter was down with the fever. jerry might be staying with the sister, but doctor jim's duty was now up there and, in spite of the warnings given him, he did not hesitate. the woman stared when he told who he was and why he had come, but she nodded and pointed to the bed where the child lay. he put his pistol on the bed, thrust a thermometer into the little girl's mouth and began taking her pulse. a hand swept the pistol from the bed and, when he turned around, about all he could think was: "how extraordinary!" jerry, red with rage and drink, was at the kitchen door fumbling at the butt of his pistol, while his sister had doctor jim's gun levelled at her brother's heart. "you can't tech him," she said coolly, "an' if you pull that gun out an inch furder i'll kill ye as shore as thar's a god in heaven." and at that moment the door opened and pleasant trouble swung in on his crutch and grinned. doctor jim then heard the tongue-lashing of his life. the woman's volubility was like a mill-race, and her command of vitriolic epithets was beyond his ken. she recited what juno had done, doctor jim was doing, the things jerry had done and left undone, and wound up: "you never was wuth juno's little finger, an' you ain't wuth _his_ little finger-nail now. take his gun, pleas. take him to the state line, an' don't you boys let him come back agin until he's stopped drinkin', got a suit o' clothes, an' a job." "why, mandy," said pleasant, "hit's kind o' funny, but lum an' jay an' me fixed hit up about an hour ago that we aimed to do that very thing. i seed doc a-comin' up hyeh, an' was afeard i mought be too late: but if i'd 'a' knowed you was hyeh i wouldn't 'a' worried." again doctor jim was thinking, "how extraordinary!" but this time how extraordinary it was that the man really meant to shoot him. somehow he began to understand. still grinning, pleasant trouble had swung across the room, whipped jerry's pistol from the holster, and with it motioned the owner toward the door. then doctor jim rose. "hold on!" he said, and he took the pistol from the woman's hands, strode straight up to jerry and smiled. now, from the top of virginia down through seven southern states to georgia there are some three million mountaineers, and it is doubtful if among them all any other three pairs of ears ever heard such words as professor james blagden of new england spoke now: "jerry, i don't blame you for having loved juno, or for loving her now. i wouldn't blame anybody. i even understand now why you wanted to kill me, but that would have been--silly. give him back his gun, pleasant," he added, still smiling, "and give this one back to jay." he reached in his pocket, pulled forth two cigars and handed one to each. "now you two sit down and smoke, and in a moment i'll go along with you, and we'll help jerry get a job." and thereupon doctor jim turned around to his little patient. dazed and a bit hypnotized, jerry took the cigar and thrust his pistol into his holster. "i'll be gittin' along," he said sullenly, and made for the door. pleasant followed him. at the road jerry turned one way and pleasant the other. "you heered whut mandy and me said," drawled pleasant. "if you poke yore nose over the line 'bout three of us will shoot you on sight. we'd do it fer juno, an' if she ain't alive we'll do it fer doctor jim." "i was a-goin' over thar anyways," said jerry, "an' i'll come back when i please. you one-legged limb o' satan--you go plum'"--pleasant's eyes began to glitter--"back to him." pleasant laughed, and as they walked their separate ways the same question was in the minds of both: "now, whut the hell did he mean by 'silly'?" iv only the next morning a happy day dawned. old king camp came home with his sons--two stalwart boys and a giant father. doctor jim looked long at old king's hair, which was bushy and jet-black. he stood it as long as he could and then he asked: "why do people on the other side of the mountain call you _red_ king camp?" he asked. "they don't--not more'n once," was the grim answer. "i'm _black_ king camp. red's my cousin, but i don't claim him." one load was off doctor jim's heart. his father-in-law was like his name in many ways, and doctor jim liked him straightway and black king liked doctor jim. old king shook his head. "i don't see why juno didn't bring you down here long ago," he said, and doctor jim did not try to explain--he couldn't. it must have been fear of jerry--and he believed that jerry, too, was now out of the way. about noon juno came back for the first time from another world. she did not open her eyes, but she heard voices and knew what they were saying. her mother was talking in the next room to somebody whom she called jim. who could jim be? and then she heard the man's voice. her eyes opened slowly on the nurse, her lips moved, but before she could frame the question her heart throbbed so that she went back into unconsciousness again. but the nurse saw and told, and when juno came back again she saw her husband and smiled without surprise or fright. "i dreamed you were here," she whispered, "and i'm dreaming right now that you are here. why, i see you." gently he took her face in his hands, and when she felt his touch she looked at him wildly and the tears sprang. from that day on she gained fast, and from the nurse, her mother, and the neighbors she soon knew the story of doctor jim. "so you thought red king was my father," she said, "and that he was in the penitentiary?" doctor jim nodded shamefacedly. "well, even that wouldn't have been so bad--not down here. and maybe you thought i didn't want you to come on account of jerry lipps." again doctor jim nodded admission, and juno laughed. "i never thought of that, and if i had," she added proudly and scornfully, "i never would have been afraid--for _you_." "then why didn't you want me to come?" "i didn't know _you_--didn't know the big, _big_ man you are. now i'm shamed--and happy." one morning, three weeks later, jay dawn and lum chapman brought up a litter that lum had made, and they two and black king and doctor jim made ready to carry juno down the mountain. jerry lipps was passing in the road when they bore her out the gate, and he started to sidle by with averted eyes. doctor jim halted. "here, jerry!" he called. "you take my place." and jerry, red as an oak leaf in autumn, stepped up to the litter, and up at her old lover juno smiled. "doc," said jerry, "i got a job." behind, pleasant trouble swung along with doctor jim. mother camp followed on horseback. people ran from every house to greet juno, or from high on the hillsides waved their hands and shouted "how-dyes" down to her. soon they were at the mission, where st. hilda and uncle jerry and aunt jane were waiting on the porch, and where pale little boys and girls trooped weakly from the tents to welcome her. and then at a signal from doctor jim the four picked up the litter. "why, where are you going?" asked juno. "never you mind," said doctor jim. through the little vineyard they went, up a little hill underneath cedars and blooming rhododendrons, and there on the top was a little cabin built of logs with the bark still on them, with a porch running around all sides but one, and supported by the trunks of little trees. the smell of cedar came from the open door, and all was as fresh and clean as the breath of the forest from which everything came--a home that had been the girl's lifelong dream. the goddess of happy valley had her own little temple at last. on the open-air sleeping-porch they sat that night alone. "i'm going to help raise some money for that mission down there," said doctor jim. "i don't know where any more good is being done, and i don't know any people who are more worth being helped than--your people." happy valley below was aswarm with fireflies. the murmur of the river over shallows rose to them. the cries of whippoorwills encircled them from the hillsides and over the mountain majestically rose the moon. "and you and i are coming down every summer--to help." juno gathered his hand in both her own and held it against her cheek. "jim--doctor jim--_my_ jim." the battle-prayer of parson small parson small rose. from the tail-pocket of his long broadcloth coat he pulled a red bandanna handkerchief and blew his nose. he put the big blunt forefinger of his right hand on the text of the open bible before him. "suffer--" he said. he glanced over his flock--the blacksmith, his wife, and her child, the old miller and aunt betsey, the mission teacher and some of her brood, past pleasant trouble with his crutch across his half a lap, and to the heavy-set, middle-aged figure just slipping to a seat in the rear with a slouched hat in his hand. the parson's glance grew stern and he closed the great book. jeb mullins, the newcomer, was--moonshiner and undesirable citizen in many ways. he had meant, said the parson, to preach straight from the word of god, but he would take up the matter in hand, and he glared with doubtful benevolence at jeb's moon face, grayish whiskers, and mild blue eyes. many turned to follow his glance, and jeb moved in his seat and his eyes began to roll, for all knew that the matter in hand was jeb. straightway the parson turned his batteries on the very throne of king alcohol and made it totter. men "disguised by liquer" were not themselves. whiskey made the fights and the feuds. it broke up meetings. it made men lie around in the woods and neglect their families. it stole brains and weakened bodies. it made women unhappy and debauched children. it turned holy christmas into a drunken orgy. and "right thar in their very midst," he thundered, was a satellite of the devil-king, "who was a-doin' all these very things," and that limb of satan must give up his still, come to the mourner's bench, and "wrassle with the sperit or else be druv from the county and go down to burnin' damnation forevermore." and that was not all: this man, he had heard, was "a-detainin' a female," an' the little judge of happy valley would soon be hot on his trail. the parson mentioned no name in the indictment, but the stern faces of the women, the threatening looks of the men were too much for jeb. he rose and bolted, and the parson halted. "the wicked flee when no man pursueth!" he cried, and he raised hands for the benediction. "thar's been so much talk about drinkin'," muttered aunt sis stidham as she swayed out, "that hit's made me plum' thirsty. i'd like to have a dram right now." pleasant trouble heard her and one eye in his solemn face gave her a covert wink. the women folks had long clamored that their men should break up jeb's still; and the men had stood the nagging and remained inactive through the hanging-together selfishness of the sex, for with jeb gone where then would they drink their drams and play old sledge? but now jeb was "a-detainin' of a female," and that was going too far. for a full week jeb was seen no more, for three reasons: he was arranging an important matter with pleasant trouble; he was brooding over the public humiliation that the parson had visited on him; and he knew that he might be waited upon any day by a committee of his fellow citizens and customers headed by a particular enemy of his. and indeed such a committee, so headed, was formed, and as chance would have it they set forth the following sunday morning just when jeb himself set forth to halt the parson on his way to church. the committee caught sight of jeb turning from the roadside into the bushes and the leader motioned them too into the rhododendron, whispering: "wait an' we'll ketch him in some mo' devilment." in the bushes they waited. soon the parson hove in view on a slowly pacing nag, with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle and deep in meditation. jeb stepped out into the road and the hidden men craned their necks from the bushes with eyes and ears alert. "good mornin', parson small!" the old nag stopped and the parson's head snapped up from his revery. "good mornin', jeb mullins." the parson's greeting was stern and somewhat uneasy, for he did not like the look on old jeb's face. "parson small," said jeb unctuously, "las' sunday was _yo'_ day." the men in the bushes thrust themselves farther out--they could hear every word--"an' this sunday is _mine_." "every sunday is the lawd's, jeb mullins--profane it not." "well, mebbe he'll loan me this un, parson. you lambasted me afore all happy valley last sunday an' now i'm a-goin' to lick you fer it." the parson's eye gleamed faintly and subsided. "i'm on my way to preach the word of god, jeb mullins." "you'll git thar in time, parson. git off yo' hoss!" "i've got my broadcloth on, jeb mullins, an' i don't want to muss it up--wait till i come back." "you can take it off, parson, or brush off the dust atterwards--climb off yo' hoss." again the parson's eye gleamed and this time did not subside. "i reckon you'll give me time to say a prayer, jeb mullins!" "shore--you'll need it afore i git through with ye." with a sigh the parson swung offside from jeb, dexterously pulling a jackknife from his trousers-pocket, opening it, and thrusting it in the high top of his right boot. then he kneeled in the road with uplifted face and eyes closed: [illustration] "o lawd," he called sonorously, "thou knowest that i visit my fellow man with violence only with thy favor and in thy name. thou knowest that when i laid jim thompson an' si marcum in thar graves it was by thy aid. thou knowest how i disembowelled with my trusty knife the miserable sinner hank smith." here the parson drew out his knife and began honing it on the leg of his boot. "an' hyeh's another who meddles with thy servant and profanes thy day. i know this hyeh jeb mullins is offensive in thy sight an' fergive me, o lawd, but i'm a-goin' to cut his gizzard plum' out, an' o lawd--" here parson small opened one eye and jeb mullins did not stand on the order of his going. as he went swiftly up the hill the committee sprang from the bushes with haw-haws and taunting yells. at the top of the hill jeb turned: "i was a-goin' anyhow," he shouted, and with his thumb at his nose he wriggled his fingers at them. "he'll never come back now--he'll be ashamed." "friends," called the parson, "the lawd is with me--peace be unto you." and the committee said: "amen!" the japanese say: be not surprised if the surprising does not surprise. when jeb walked into meeting the following sunday no citizen of happy valley had the subtlety to note that of them all pleasant trouble alone, sitting far in the rear, showed no surprise. pleasant's face was solemn, but in his eyes was an expectant smile. women and men glared, and the parson stopped his exhortation to glare, but jeb had timed his entrance with the parson's call for sinners to come to the mourners' bench. it was the only safe place for him and there he went and there he sat. the parson still glared, but he had to go on exhorting--he had to exhort even jeb. and jeb responded. he not only "wrassled with the sperit" valiantly but he "came through"--that is, he burst from the gloom of evil and disbelief into the light of high purpose and the glory of salvation. he rose to confess and he confessed a great deal; but, as many knew, not all--who does? he had driven the woman like hagar into the wilderness; he would go out right now and the folks of happy valley should see him break up his own still with his own hands. "praise the lawd," said the amazed and convinced parson; "lead the way, brother mullins." _brother_ mullins! the smile in pleasant's eyes almost leaped in a laugh from his open mouth. the congregation rose and, led by jeb and the parson, started down the road and up a ravine. the parson raised a hymn--"climbing up zion's hill." at his shack jeb caught up an axe which he had left on purpose apparently at his gate, and on they went to see jeb bruise the head of the serpent and prove his right to enter the fold. with a shout of glory jeb plunged ahead on a run, disappeared down a thickened bank, and, as they pushed their way, singing, through the bushes, they could hear him below crashing right and left with his axe, and when they got to him it was nearly all over. many wondered how he could create such havoc in so short a time, but the boiler was gashed with holes, the worms chopped into bits, and the mash-tub was in splinters. happy valley dispersed to dinner. lum chapman took the parson and his new-born father-in-law home with him, his wife following with her apron at her eyes, wiping away grateful tears. at sunset pleasant trouble swung lightly up wolf run on his crutch and called jeb down to the gate: "you got a good home now, jeb." "i shore have." jeb's religious ecstasy had died down but he looked content. the parson was mounting his nag and pleasant opened the gate for him. "hit's sort o' curious, parson," said jeb, "but when you prayed that prayer jes' afore i was about to battle with ye i begun to see the errer o' my ways." "the lawd, brother mullins," said the parson, dryly but sincerely, "moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform." the two watched him ride away. "the new still will be hyeh next week," said pleasant out of one corner of his mouth. one solemn wink they exchanged and pleasant trouble swung lightly off into the woods. the christmas tree on pigeon the sun of christmas poured golden blessings on happy valley first; it leaped ten miles of intervening hills and shot winged shafts of yellow light into the mouth of pigeon; it darted awakening arrows into the coves and hollows on the head of pigeon, between brushy ridge and pine mountain; and one searching ray flashed through the open door of the little log schoolhouse at the forks of pigeon and played like a smile over the waiting cedar that stood within--alone. down at the mines below, the young doctor had not waited the coming of that sun. he had sprung from his bed at dawn, had built his own fire, dressed hurriedly, and gone hurriedly on his rounds, leaving a pill here, a powder there, and a word of good cheer everywhere. that was his christmas tree, the cedar in the little schoolhouse--his and hers. the marquise of queensberry, he called her--and she was coming up from the gap that day to dress that tree and spread the joy of christmas among mountain folks, to whom the joy of christmas was quite unknown. an hour later the passing mail-carrier, from over black mountain, stopped with switch uplifted at his office-door. "them fellers over the ridge air comin' over to shoot up yo' christmas tree," he drawled. the switch fell and he was gone. the young doctor dropped by his fire--stunned; for just that thing had happened ten years before to the only christmas tree that had ever been heard of in those immediate hills, except his own. out of that very schoolhouse some vandals from over pine mountain had driven the pigeon creek people after a short fight, and while the surprised men, frightened women and children, and the terrified teacher scurried to safety behind rocks and trees had shot the tree to pieces. that was ten years before, but even now, though there were some old men and a few old women who knew the bible from end to end, many grown people and most of the children had never heard of the book, or of christ, or knew that there was a day known as christmas day. that such things were so had hurt the doctor to the heart, and that was why, as christmas drew near, he had gone through the out-of-the-way hollows at the head of pigeon and got the names and ages of all the mountain children; why now, long after that silly quarrel with the marquise, he had humbled his pride and written her please to come and help him; why she had left the christmas of happy valley in st. hilda's hands and was coming; and why now the cedar-tree stood in the little log schoolhouse at the forks of pigeon. moreover, there was yet enmity between the mountaineers of pigeon and the mountaineers over pine mountain, who were jealous and scornful of any signs of the foreign influence but recently come into the hills. the meeting-house, courthouse, and the schoolhouse were yet favorite places for fights among the mountaineers. there was yet no reverence at all for christmas, and the same vandals might yet regard a christmas tree as an imported frivolity to be sternly rebuked. the news was not only not incredible, it probably was true; and with this conclusion some very unpleasant lines came into the young doctor's kindly face, and he sprang for his horse. two hours later he had a burly mountaineer with a winchester posted on the road leading over pine mountain, another on the mountainside overlooking the little valley, several more similarly armed below, while he and two friends, with revolvers buckled on, waited for the marquise, with their horses hitched in front of his office-door. this christmas tree was to be. meanwhile his mind was busy with memories of the previous summer. once again he was bounding across a brook in a little ravine in happy valley to see two young mountaineers in a fierce fight--with his sweetheart and a one-legged man named pleasant trouble as referees, and once again that distracted sweetheart was rushing for refuge to his arms. she had got the two youths to fight with fists instead of pistols and according to such rules of the ring as she could remember, and that was why thereafter he had called her the marquise. then had come that silly quarrel and, instead of to the altar, she had gone back to happy valley to teach again. now he would see her once more and his hopes were high. outside he heard the creaking of wheels. a big spring wagon loaded with christmas things drew up in front of his door and amidst them sat the superintendent's daughter and two girl friends, who shouted cheery greetings to him. he raised his eyes and high above saw the muffled figure of the marquise coming through the snowy bushes down the trail. behind her rode a man with a crutch across his saddle-bows--pleasant trouble, self-made bodyguard to the little teacher: nowhere could she go without him at her heels. pleasant grinned, and the faces of the lovers, suddenly suffused, made their story quite plain. the doctor lifted her from her horse and helped her into the wagon, to meet three pairs of mischievous eyes, so that quite gruffly for him, he said: "on your way now--and hustle!" a black-snake whip cracked and up pigeon the wagon bumped with the doctor, his two friends, and pleasant trouble on horseback alongside; past the long batteries of coke-ovens with grinning darkies, coke-pullers, and loaders idling about them; up the rough road through lanes of snow-covered rhododendrons winding among tall oaks, chestnuts, and hemlocks; through circles and arrows of gold with which the sun splashed the white earth--every cabin that they passed tenantless, for the inmates had gone ahead long ago--and on to the little schoolhouse that sat on a tiny plateau in a small clearing, with snow-tufted bushes of laurel on every side and snowy mountains rising on either hand. the door was wide open and smoke was curling from the chimney. a few horses and mules were hitched to the bushes near by. men, boys, and dogs were gathered around a big fire in front of the building; and in a minute women, children, and more dogs poured out of the schoolhouse to watch the coming cavalcade. since sunrise the motley group had been waiting there, and the tender heart of the little marquise began to ache: the women thinly clad in dresses of worsted or dark calico, and a shawl or short jacket or man's coat, with a sunbonnet or "fascinator" on their heads, and men's shoes on their feet--the older ones stooped and thin, the younger ones carrying babies, and all with weather-beaten faces and bared hands; the men and boys without overcoats, their coarse shirts unbuttoned, their necks and upper chests bared to the biting cold, their hands thrust in their pockets as they stood about the fire, and below their short coat-sleeves their wrists showing chapped and red; while to the little boys and girls had fallen only such odds and ends of clothing as the older ones could spare. quickly the doctor got his party indoors and to work on the christmas tree. not one did he tell of the impending danger, and the colt's . bulging under this man's shoulder or on that man's hip, and the winchester in the hollow of an arm here and there were sights too common in those hills to arouse suspicion in anybody's mind. the cedar-tree, shorn of its branches at the base and banked with mosses, towered to the angle of the roof. there were no desks in the room except the one table once used by the teacher. long, crude wooden benches with low backs faced the tree, with an aisle leading from the door between them. lap-robes were hung over the windows, and soon a gorgeous figure of santa claus was smiling down from the very tiptop of the tree. with her flushed face, eager eyes, and golden hair the busy marquise looked like its patron saint. ropes of gold and silver tinsel were swiftly draped around and up and down; enmeshed in these were little red santas, gayly colored paper horns filled with candy, colored balls, white and yellow birds, little colored candles with holders to match, and other glittering things; while over the whole tree a glistening powder was sprinkled like a mist of shining snow. many presents were tied to the tree, and under it were the rest of the labelled ones in a big pile. in a semicircle about the base sat the dolls in pink, yellow, and blue, and looking down the aisle to the door. packages of candy in colored japanese napkins and tied with a narrow red ribbon were in another pile, with a pyramid of oranges at its foot. and yet there was still another pile for unexpected children, that the heart of none should be sore. then the candles were lighted and the door flung open to the eager waiting crowd outside. in a moment every seat was silently filled by the women and children, and the men, stolid but expectant, lined the wall. the like of that tree no soul of them had ever seen before. only a few of the older ones had ever seen a christmas tree of any kind, and they but one; and they had lost that in a free-for-all fight. and yet only the eyes of them showed surprise or pleasure. there was no word--no smile, only unwavering eyes mesmerically fixed on that wonderful tree. the young doctor rose, and only the marquise saw and wondered that he was nervous, restless and pale. as best he could he told them what christmas was and what it meant to the world; and he had scarcely finished when a hand beckoned to him from the door. leaving one of his friends to distribute the presents, he went outside to discover that one vandal had come on ahead, drunk and boisterous. promptly the doctor tied him to a tree and, leaving pleasant trouble to guard him, shouldered a winchester and himself took up a lonely vigil on the mountainside. within, christmas went on. when a name was called a child came forward silently, usually shoved to the front by some relative, took what was handed to it, and, dumb with delight, but too shy even to murmur a word of thanks, silently returned to its seat with the presents hugged to its breast--presents that were simple, but not to those mountain mites: colored pictures and illustrated books they were, red plush albums, simple games, fascinators, and mittens for the girls; pocket-knives, balls, firecrackers, horns, mittens, caps, and mufflers for the boys; a doll dressed in everything a doll should wear for each little girl, no one of whom had ever seen a doll before, except what was home-made from an old dress or apron tied in several knots to make the head and body. twice only was the silence broken. one boy quite forgot himself when given a pocket-knife. he looked at it suspiciously and incredulously, turned it over in his hand, opened it and felt the edge of the blade, and, panting with excitement, cried: "hit's a shore 'nough knife!" and again when, to make sure that nobody had been left out, though all the presents were gone, the master of ceremonies asked if there was any other little boy or girl who had received nothing, there arose a bent, toothless old woman in a calico dress and baggy black coat, her gray hair straggling from under her black sunbonnet and her hands gnarled and knotted from work and rheumatism. simply as a child she spoke: "i ain't got nothin'." gravely the giver of the gifts asked her to come forward, and while, nonplussed, he searched the tree for the most glittering thing he could find, a tiny gold safety-pin was thrust into his hand, the whiter hollow of the marquise's white throat became visible, and that old woman was made till death the proudest in the hills. then all the women pressed forward and then the men, until all the ornaments were gone, even the half-burned candles with their colored holders, which the men took eagerly and fastened in their coats, clasping the holders to their lapels or fastening the bent wire in their buttonholes, and pieces of tinsel rope, which they threw over their shoulders--so that the tree stood at last just as it was when brought from the wild woods outside. straightway then the young doctor hurried the departure of the merrymakers. already the horses stood hitched, and, while the lap-robes were being carried out, a mountaineer who had brought along a sack of apples lined up the men and boys, and at a given word started running down the road, pouring out the apples as he ran while the men and boys scrambled for them, rolling and tussling in the snow. just then a fusillade of shots rang from the top of the mountain, but nobody paid any heed. as the party moved away, the mountaineers waved their hands and shouted good-by to the doctor, too shy still to pay much heed to the other "furriners" in the wagon. the doctor looked back once with a grateful sigh of relief, but no one in the wagon knew that there had been any danger that day. how great the danger had been not even the doctor knew till pleasant trouble galloped up and whispered behind his hand: the coming vandals had got as far as the top of the dividing ridge, had there quarrelled and fought among themselves, so that, as the party drove away, one invader was at the minute cursing his captors, who were setting him free, and high upon the ridge another lay dead in the snow. that night the doctor and the marquise, well muffled against the cold, sat on the porch of the superintendent's bungalow while the daughter sat discreetly inside. the flame-light of the ovens licked the snowy ravine above and below; it was their first chance for a talk, and they had it out to the happy end. "you see," said the doctor, "there is even more to do over here than in happy valley." "there is much to do everywhere in these hills," said the marquise. "and _i_ need you--oh, how i do need you!" most untimely, the daughter appeared at the door. "then you shall have me," whispered the marquise. "bedtime!" called the girl, and only with his eyes--just then--could the doctor kiss the little marquise. but the next morning, when he went with her as far as the top of the mountain and pleasant trouble rode whistling ahead, he had better luck. "when?" he asked. "not till june," she said firmly. and again he asked: "when?" "oh, about two o'clock," smiled the marquise. "the first two o'clock?" "too early!" "the second," he said decidedly. for answer the marquise leaned from her saddle toward him and he kissed her again. later, by just five months and one week, the doctor mounted his horse for happy valley. he had to go up pigeon, and riding by the little schoolhouse, he stopped at the door and from his horse pushed it open. the christmas tree stood just as he had left it on christmas day, only, like the evergreens on the wall and over the windows, it too was brown, withered, and dry. gently he closed the door and rode on. and on the clock-stroke of two in happy valley there was a wedding that blessed first june afternoon. the mystery of witch-face mountain charles egbert craddock the mystery of witch-face mountain and other stories by charles egbert craddock boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, , by mary n. murfree. _all rights reserved._ _the riverside press, cambridge, mass., u. s. a._ electrotyped and printed by h. o. houghton & co. contents. page the mystery of witch-face mountain taking the blue ribbon at the county fair the casting vote the mystery of witch-face mountain. i. the beetling crags that hang here and there above the gorge hold in their rugged rock sculpture no facial similitudes, no suggestions. the jagged outlines of shelving bluffs delineate no gigantic profile against the sky beyond. one might seek far and near, and scan the vast slope with alert and expectant gaze, and view naught of the semblance that from time immemorial has given the mountain its name. yet the imagination needs but scant aid when suddenly the elusive simulacrum is revealed to the eye. in a certain slant of the diurnal light, even on bright nights at the full of the moon, sometimes in the uncanny electric flicker smitten from a storm-cloud, a gigantic peaked sinister face is limned on the bare, sandy slope, so definite, with such fixity of lineament, that one is amazed that the perception of it came no earlier, and is startled when it disappears. disappearing as completely as a fancy, few there are who have ever seen it who have not climbed from the herder's trail across the narrow wayside stream and up the rugged mountain slopes to the spot where it became visible. there disappointment awaits the explorer. one finds a bare and sterile space, from which the hardy chickweed can scarcely gain the sustenance for timorous sproutings; a few outcropping rocks; a series of transverse gullies here and there, washed down to deep indentations; above the whole a stretch of burnt, broken timber that goes by the name of "fire-scald," and is a relic of the fury of the fire which was "set out" in the woods with the mission to burn only the leaves and undergrowth, and which, in its undisciplined strength, transcended its instructions, as it were, and destroyed great trees. and this is all. but once more, at a coigne of vantage on the opposite side of the gorge, and the experience can be utilized in differentiating the elements that go to make up the weird presentment of a human countenance. it is the fire-scald that suggests the great peaked brown hood; the oblong sandy stretch forms the pallid face; the ledges outline the nose and chin and brow; the eyes look out from the deep indentations where the slope is washed by the currents of the winter rains; and here and there the gullies draw heavy lines and wrinkles. and when the wind is fresh and the clouds scud before it, in the motion of their shadows the face will seem to mow at the observer, until the belief comes very readily that it is the exact counterpart of a witch's face. always the likeness is pointed out and insisted on by the denizens of witch-face mountain, as if they had had long and intimate acquaintance with that sort of unhallowed gentry, and were especially qualified to pronounce upon the resemblance. "ain't it jes' like 'em, now? ain't it the very moral of a witch?" constant hite demanded, one gusty day, when the shadows were a-flicker in the sun, and the face seemed animated by the malice of mockery or mirth, as he pointed it out to his companion with a sort of triumph in its splenetic contortions. he was a big, bluff fellow, to whose pride all that befell him seemed to minister. he was proud of his length of limb, and his hundred and eighty pounds of weight, and yet his slim appearance. "ye wouldn't believe it now, would ye?" he was wont to say when he stepped off the scales at the store of the hamlet down in the cove. "it's solid meat an' bone an' muscle, my boy. keep on the friendly side of one hunderd an' eighty," with a challenging wink. he was proud of his bright brown eyes, and his dark hair and mustache, and smiling, handsome face, and his popularity among the class that he was pleased to denominate "gal critters." he piqued himself upon his several endowments as a hardy woodsman, his endurance, his sylvan craft, his pluck, and his luck and his accurate aim. the buck--all gray and antlered, for it was august--that hung across the horse, behind the saddle, gave token of this keen exactitude in the tiny wound at the base of the ear, where the rifle-ball had entered to pierce the brain; it might seem to the inexpert that death had come rather from the gaping knife-stroke across the throat, which was, however, a mere matter of butcher-craft. he was proud of the good strong bay horse that he rode, which so easily carried double, and proud of his big boots and long spurs; and he scorned flimsy town clothes, and thought that good home-woven blue jeans was the gear in which a man who was a man should clothe himself withal. he glanced more than once at the different toggery of his companion, evidently a man of cities, whom he had chanced to meet by the wayside, and with whom he had journeyed more than a mile. he had paused again and again to point out the "witch-face" to the stranger, who at first could not discern it at all, and then when it suddenly broke upon him could not be wiled away from it. he dismounted, hitching his horse to a sapling, and up and down he patrolled the rocky mountain path to study the face at various angles; constant hite looking on the while with an important placid satisfaction, as if he had invented the illusion. "some folks, though, can't abide sech ez witches," he said, with a tolerant smile, as if he were able to defy their malevolence and make light of it. "ye see that cabin on the spur over yander around the bend?" it looked very small and solitary from this height, and the rail fences about its scanty inclosures hardly reached the dignity of suggesting jackstraws. "waal, the hanways over thar hev a full view of the old witch enny time she will show up at all. folks in the mountings 'low the day be onlucky when she appears on the slope thar. the old folks at hanway's will talk 'bout it cornsider'ble ef ye set 'em goin'; they hev seen thar time, an' it rests 'em some ter tell 'bout'n the spites they hev hed that they lay ter the witch-face." the ugly fascination of the witch-face had laid hold, too, on the stranger. twice he had sought to photograph it, and constant hite had watched him with an air of lenient indulgence to folly as he pottered about, now adjusting his camera, now changing his place anew. "and i believe i have got the whole amount of nothing at all," he said at last, looking up breathlessly at the mountaineer. albeit the wind was fresh and the altitude great, the sun was hot on the unshaded red clay path, and the nimble gyrations of the would-be artist brought plentiful drops to his brow. he took off his straw hat, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, while he stared wistfully at the siren of his fancy, grimacing maliciously at him from the slope above. "if the confounded old woman would hold still, and not disappear so suddenly at the wrong minute, i'd have had her charming physiognomy all correct. i believe i've spoiled my plates,--that's all." and once more he mopped his bedewed forehead. he was a man of thirty-five, perhaps, of the type that will never look old or grow perceptibly gray. his hair was red and straight, and cut close to his head. he had a long mustache of the same sanguine tint. the sun had brought the blood near the surface of his thin skin, and he looked hot and red, and thoroughly exasperated. his brown eyes were disproportionately angry, considering the slight importance of his enterprise. he was evidently a man of keen, quick temper, easily aroused and nervous. his handsome, well-groomed horse was fractious, and difficult for so impatient a rider to control. his equestrian outfit once more attracted the covert glance of con hite, whose experience and observation could duplicate no such attire. he was tall, somewhat heavily built, and altogether a sufficiently stalwart specimen of the genus "town man." "i'll tell you what i'll do!" he exclaimed suddenly. "i'll sketch the whole scene!" "now you're shoutin'," said con hite capably, as if he had always advocated this method of solving the difficulty. his interlocutor could not for a moment have dreamed that he had never before seen a camera, had never heard of a photograph, had not the least idea of what the process of sketching might be which he so boldly approved; nay, the very phrase embodying his encouragement of the project was foreign to his vocabulary,--a bit of sophisticated slang which he had adopted from his companion's conversation, and readily assimilated. "you stay just where you are!" cried the stranger, his enthusiasm rising to the occasion; "just that pose,--that pose precisely." he ran swiftly across the path to remove the inefficient camera from the foreground, and in a moment was seated on a log by the wayside, his quick eye scanning the scene: the close file of the ranges about the horizon, one showing above another, and one more faintly blue than another, for thus the distance was defined; then the amphitheatre of the cove, the heavy bronze-green slopes of the mountains, all with ripple marks of clear chrome-green ruffling in the wake of the wind; in the middle distance the still depths of the valley below, with shadows all a-slumber and silent, and on the projecting spur the quiet, lonely little house, so slight a suggestion of the presence of man amidst the majestic dominance of nature; here, to the right, across the savage gorge, with its cliffs and with its currents in the deep trough, the nearest slope of the mountain, with the great gaunt bare space showing that face of ill omen, sibylline, sinister, definite indeed,--he wondered how his eyes were holden that he should not have discerned it at once; and in the immediate foreground the equestrian figure of the mountaineer, booted and spurred, the very "moral," as hite would have called it, of an athlete, with his fine erect pose distinct against the hazy perspective, his expression of confident force, the details of his handsome features revealed by the brim of his wide black hat turned up in front. "it's a big subject, i know; i can't get it all in. i shall only suggest it. just keep that pose, will you? hold the horse still. 'stand the storm, it won't be long!'" the artist said, smiling with renewed satisfaction as his pencil, not all inapt, went briskly to work on the horizontal lines of the background. but it was longer than he had thought, so still sat the contemplative mountaineer, so alluring were the details of the landscape. the enthusiasm of the amateur is always a more urgent motive power than the restrained and utilitarian industry of the professional. few sworn knights of the crayon would have sat sketching so long in that temperature as he did, with the sun blazing through his straw hat and his blood mustering under his thin skin; but he stopped at a point short of sunstroke, and it was with a tumultuous sense of success that he at last arose, and, with the sketch-book still open, walked across the road and laid it on the pommel of the mountaineer's saddle. constant hite took it up suspiciously and looked at it askance. it is to be doubted if ever before he had seen a picture, unless perchance in the primary reading-book of his callow days at the public school, spasmodically opened at intervals at the "church house" in the cove. he continued to gravely gaze at the sketch, held sideways and almost reversed, for some moments. "bless gawd! hyar's whitefoot's muzzle jes' ez nat'ral--an' _me_--waal, sir! don't _i_ look proud!" he cried suddenly, with a note of such succulent vanity, so finely flavored a pride, that the stranger could but laugh at the zest of his triumph. "do you see the witch-face?" he demanded. "hesh! hesh!" cried the mountaineer hilariously. "don't 'sturb me 'bout yer witch-face. ef thar ain't the buck,--yes, toler'ble fat,--an' with all his horns! an' look at my boot,--actially the spur on it! an' my hat turned up;" he raised his flattered hand to the brim as if to verify its position. "you didn't know you were so good looking, hey?" suggested the amused town man. "my lord, naw!" declared hite, laughing at himself, yet laughing delightedly. "i dunno _how_ the gals make out to do without me at all!" the pleased artist laughed, too. "well, hand it over," he said, as he reached out for the book. "we must be getting out of this sun. i'm not used to it, you see." he put his foot in the stirrup as he spoke, and as he swung himself into the saddle the mountaineer reluctantly closed and relinquished the book. "i'd like ter see it agin, some time or other," he observed. he remembered this wish afterward, and how little he then imagined where and in what manner he was destined to see it again. they rode on together into the dense woods, leaving the wind and the sunshine and the flying clouds fluctuating over the broad expanse of the mountains, and the witch-face silently mowing and grimacing at the world below, albeit seen by no human being except perchance some dweller at the little house on the spur, struck aghast by this unwelcome apparition evoked by the necromancy of the breeze and the sheen and the shadow, marking this as an unlucky day. "that's right smart o' a cur'osity, ain't it?" said constant hite complacently, as they jogged along. "when the last gover'mint survey fellers went through hyar, they war plumb smitten by the ole 'oman, an' spent cornsider'ble time a-stare-gazin' at her. they 'lowed they hed never seen the beat." "what was the survey for?" asked the town man, with keen mundane interest. constant hite was rarely at a loss. when other men were fain to come to a pause for the lack of information, the resources of his agile substitutions and speculations were made manifest. "they war jes' runnin' a few lines hyar an' thar," he said negligently. "they lef' some tall striped poles planted in the ground, red an' sich colors, ter mark the way; an' them mounting folks over yander in the furderest coves,--they air powerful ahint the times,--they hed never hearn o' sech ez a survey, noway, an' the poles jes' 'peared ter them sprung up thar like jonah's gourd in a single night, ez ef they kem from seed; an' the folks, they 'lowed 't war the sign o' a new war." he laughed lazily at the uninstructed terrors of the unsophisticated denizens of the "furderest coves." "they'd gather around an' stare-gaze at the poles, an' wonder if they'd hev ter fight the rebs agin; them folks is mos'ly union." then his interest in the subject quickening, "them survey fellers, they ondertook, too, ter medjure the tallness o' some o' the mountings fur the gover'mint. now what good is that goin' ter do the nunited states?" he resumed grudgingly. "the mountings kin be medjured by the eye,--look a-yander." he pointed with the end of his whip at a section of the horizon, visible between the fringed and low-swaying boughs of hemlock and fir as the trail swept closer to the verge of the range, on which was softly painted, as on ivory and with an enameled lustre, two or three great azure domes, with here and there the high white clouds of a clear day nestling flakelike on the summits. "they air jes' all-fired high, an' that's all. do it make 'em seem enny taller ter say they air six thousand or seben thousand feet? man ain't used ter medjurin' by the thousand feet. when he gits ter the ground he goes by the pole. i dunno how high nor how long a thousand feet air. the gover'mint jes' want ter spend a leetle money, i reckon. it 'pears toler'ble weak-kneed in its mind, wunst in a while. but ef it wants ter fool money away, it's mighty well able ter afford sech. it hev got a power o' ways a-comin' at money,--we all know that, we all know that." he said this with a gloomy inflection and a downward look that might have implied a liability for taxes beyond his willingness to pay. but, barring the assessment on a small holding of mountain land, constant hite seemed in case to contribute naught to his country's exchequer. "it needs all it can get, now," replied the stranger casually, but doubtless from a sophisticated knowledge, as behooved a reader of the journals of the day, of the condition of the treasury. he could not account for the quick glance of alarm and enmity which the mountaineer cast upon him. it roused in him a certain constraint which he had not experienced earlier in their chance association. it caused him to remember that this was a lonely way and a wild country. he was an alien to the temper and sentiment of the people. he felt suddenly that sense of distance in mind and spirit which is the true isolation of the foreigner, and which even an identity of tongue and kindred cannot annul. looking keenly into the mountaineer's half-averted, angry, excited face, he could not for his life discern how its expression might comport with the tenor of the casual conversation which had elicited it. he did not even dimly surmise that his allusion to the finances of the government could be construed as a justification of the whiskey tax, generally esteemed in the mountains a measure of tyrannous oppression; that from his supposititious advocacy of it he had laid himself liable to the suspicion of being himself of the revenue force,--his mission here to spy out moonshiners; that his companion's mind was even now dwelling anew, and with a rueful difference, on that masterly drawing of himself in the stranger's sketch-book. "but what do that prove, though?" hite thought, a certain hope springing up with the joy of the very recollection of the simulacrum of the brilliant rural coxcomb adorning the page. "jes' that me is _me_. all he kin say 'bout me air that hyar i be goin' home from huntin' ter kerry my game. _that_ ain't agin the law, surely." the "revenuers," he argued, too, never rode alone, as did this man, and spies and informers were generally of the vicinage. the stranger was specially well mounted, and as his puzzled cogitation over the significant silence that had supervened between them became so marked as to strike hite's attention, the mountaineer sought to nullify it by an allusion to the horse. "that feller puts down his feet like a kitten," he said admiringly. "i never seen nuthin' ez wears shoes so supple. shows speed, i s'pose? built fur it." "makes pretty fair time," responded the stranger without enthusiasm. the doubt, perplexity, and even suspicion which his companion's manner had evoked were not yet dissipated, and the allusion to the horse, and the glow of covetous admiration in hite's face as his eyes dwelt upon the finely fashioned creature so deftly moving along, brought suddenly to his mind sundry exploits of a gang of horse-thieves about these coves and mountains, detailed in recent newspapers. these rumors had been esteemed by urban communities in general as merely sensational, and had attracted scant attention. now, with their recurrence to his recollection, their verisimilitude was urged upon him. the horse he rode was a valuable animal, and moreover, here, ten or twenty miles from a habitation, would prove a shrewd loss indeed. nevertheless, it was impossible to shake off or evade his companion; the wilderness, with its jungle of dense rhododendron undergrowth on either side of the path, was impenetrable. there was no alternative practicable. he could only go on and hope for the best. a second glance at the mountaineer's honest face served in some sort as reassurance as to the probity of his character. gradually a vivid interest in the environment, which had earlier amazed and amused constant hite, began to be renewed. the stranger looked about to identify the growths of the forest with a keen, fresh enthusiasm, as if he were meeting old friends. once, with a sudden flush and an intent eye, he flung the reins to the man whom he had half suspected of being a horse-thief ten minutes before, to hastily dismount and uproot a tiny wayside weed, which he breathlessly and triumphantly explained to the wondering mountaineer was a rare plant which he had never seen; he carefully bestowed it between the leaves of his sketch-book before he resumed the saddle, and hite was moved to ask, "how d' ye know its durned comical name, ef ye never seen it afore? by gosh! it's got a name longer 'n its tap-root!" the town man only laughed a trifle at this commentary upon the botanical latin nomenclature, and once more he was leaning from his saddle, peering down the aisles of the forest with a smiling, expectant interest, as if they held for him some enchantment of which duller mortals have no ken. a brown geode, picked up in the channel of a summer-dried stream, showed an interior of sparkling quartz crystal, when a blow had shattered it, which hite had never suspected, often as he had seen the rugged spherical stones lying along the banks. all the rocks had a thought for the stranger, close to his heart and quick on his tongue, and as hite, half skeptical, half beguiled, listened, his suspicion of the man as a "revenuer" began to fade. "the revenuers ain't up ter no sech l'arnin' ez this," he said to himself, with a vicarious pride. "the man, though he never war in the mountings afore, knows ez much about 'em ez ef he hed bodaciously built 'em. fairly smelt that thar cave over t' other side the ridge jes' now, i reckon; else how'd he know 't war thar?" a certain hollow reverberation beneath the horse's hoofs had caught his companion's quick ear. "have you ever been in this cave hereabout?" he had asked, to hite's delighted amazement at this brilliant feat of mental jugglery, as it seemed to him. even the ground, when the repetitious woods held no new revelation of tree or flower, or hazy, flickering insect dandering through the yellow sunshine and the olive-tinted shadow and the vivid green foliage, the very ground had a word for him. "this formation here," he said, leaning from his saddle to watch the path slipping along beneath his horse's hoofs, like the unwinding of coils of brown ribbon, "is like that witch-face slope that we saw awhile ago. it seems to occur at long intervals in patches. you see down that declivity how little grows, how barren." the break in the density of the woods served to show the mountains, blue and purple and bronze, against the horizon; an argosy of white clouds under full sail; the cove, shadowy, slumberous, so deep down below; and the oak leaves above their heads, all dark and sharply dentated against the blue. hite had suddenly drawn in his horse. an eager light was in his eye, a new idea in his mind. he felt himself on the verge of imminent discovery. "now," said he, lowering his voice mysteriously, and laying his hand on the bridle of the other's horse,--and so far had the allurements of science outstripped merely mundane considerations that the stranger's recent doubts and anxieties touching his animal were altogether forgotten, and he was conscious only of a responsive expectant interest,--"air thar ennything in that thar 'formation,' ez ye calls it ez could gin out fire?" "no, certainly not," said the man of science, surprised, and marking the eager, insistent look in hite's eyes. both horses were at a standstill now. a jay-bird clanged out its wild woodsy cry from the dense shadows of a fern-brake far in the woods on the right, and they heard the muffled trickling of water, falling on mossy stones hard by, from a spring so slight as to be only a silver thread. the trees far below waved in the wind, and a faint dryadic sibilant singing sounded a measure or so, and grew fainter in the lulling of the breeze, and sunk to silence. "ennyhow," persisted hite, "won't sech yearth gin out light somehows,--in some conditions sech ez ye talk 'bout?" he added vaguely. "spontaneously? certainly not," the stranger replied, preserving his erect pose of inquiring and expectant attention. "why, then the mounting's 'witched sure enough,--that's all," said hite desperately. he cast off his hold on the stranger's horse, caught up his reins anew, and made ready to fare onward forthwith. "does fire ever show there?" demanded his companion wonderingly. "it's a plumb meracle, it's a plumb mystery," declared constant hite, as they went abreast into the dense shadow of the closing woods. "i asked ye this 'kase ez ye 'peared ter sense so much in rocks, an' weeds, an' birds, an' sile, what ain't revealed ter the mortal eye in gineral, ye mought be able ter gin some nateral reason fur that thar sile up thar round the old witch-face ter show fire or sech. but it's beyond yer knowin' or the knowin' o' enny mortal, i reckon." "how does the fire show?" persisted the man of science, with keen and attentive interest. "and who has seen it?" "stranger," said hite, lowering his voice, "i hev viewed it, myself. but fust it war viewed by the hanways,--them ez lives in that house on the spur what prongs out o' the range nigh opposite the slope o' the witch-face. one dark night,--thar war no moon, but thar warn't no storm, jes' a dull clouded black sky, ez late august weather will show whenst it be heavy an' sultry,--all of a suddenty, ez the hanway fambly war settin' on the porch toler'ble late in the night, the air bein' close in the house, the darter, narcissa by name, she calls out, 'look! look! i see the witch-face!' an' they all start up an' stare over acrost the deep black gorge. an' thar, ez true ez life, war the witch-face glimmerin' in the midst o' the black night, and agrinnin' at 'em an' a-mockin' at 'em, an' lighted up ez ef by fire." "and did no one discover the origin of the fire?" asked the stranger. "thar war no fire!" constant hite paused impressively. then he went on impulsively, full of his subject: "ben hanway kem over ter the still-house arter me, an' tergether we went ter examinate. but the bresh is powerful thick, an' the way is long, an' though we seen a flicker wunst or twict ez we-uns pushed through the deep woods, 't war daybreak 'fore we got thar, an' nare sign nor smell o' fire in all the woods could we find; nare scorch nor singe on the ground, not even a burnt stick or chunk ter tell the tale; everythin' ez airish an' cool an' jewy an' sweet ter the scent ez a summer mornin' is apt ter be." "how often has this phenomenon occurred?" said the stranger coolly, but with a downcast, thoughtful eye and a pursed-up lip, as if he were less surprised than cogitating. "twict only, fur we hev kep' an eye on the old witch, ben an' me. ben wants a road opened out up hyar, stiddier jes' this herder's trail through the woods. ben dunno how it mought strike folks ef they war ter know ez the witch-face hed been gin over ter sech cur'ous ways all of a suddenty. they mought take it fur a sign agin the road, sech ez b'lieves in the witch-face givin' bad luck." after a pause, "then _i_ viewed it wunst,--wunst in the dead o' the night. i war goin' home from the still, an' i happened ter look up, an' i seen the witch-face,--the light jes' dyin' out, jes' fadin' out. she didn't hev time ter make more 'n two or three faces at me, an' then she war gone in the night. it's a turr'ble-lookin' thing at night, stranger. so ye can't tell what makes it,--the sile, or what?" he turned himself quite sideways as he spoke, one hand on the carcass of the deer behind the saddle, the other on his horse's neck, the better to face his interlocutor and absorb his scientific speculations. and in that moment an odd idea occurred to him,--nay, a conviction. he perceived that his companion knew and understood the origin of the illumination; and more,--that he would not divulge it. "the soil? assuredly not the soil," the stranger said mechanically. he was looking down, absorbed in thought, secret, mysterious, yet not devoid of a certain inexplicable suggestion of triumph; for a subtle cloaked elation, not unlike a half-smile, was on his face, although its intent, persistent expression intimated the following out of a careful train of ideas. "then what is it?" demanded hite arrogantly, as if he claimed the right to know. "i really couldn't undertake to say," the stranger responded, his definite manner so conclusive an embargo on further inquiries that hite felt rising anew all his former doubts of the man, and his fears and suspicions as to the errand that had brought him hither. could it be possible, he argued within himself, that to the agency of "revenuers" was due that mysterious glow, more brilliant than any ordinary fire, steady, suffusive, continuous, rising in the dark wilderness, in the deep midnight, to reveal that ominous face overlooking all the countryside, with subtle flickers of laughter running athwart its wonted contortions, more weird and sinister in this ghastly glare than by day? and what significance might attend these strange machinations? revolving the idea, he presently shook his head in conclusive negation as he rode along. the approach of raiders was silent and noiseless and secret. whatever the mystery might portend it was not thus that they would advertise their presence, promoting the escape of the objects of their search. hite's open and candid mind could compass no adequate motive for concealment in all the ways of the world but the desire to evade the revenue law, or to practice the shifts and quirks necessary to the capture of the wary and elusive moonshiner. nevertheless, it was impossible, on either of these obvious bases, to account for the fact of something withheld in the stranger's manner, some secret exultant knowledge of the phenomenon which baffled the mountaineer's speculation. hite, all unaware that in his impulsive speech he had disclosed the fact of his hazardous occupation, began to feel that, considering his liability to the federal law for making brush whiskey, he had somewhat transcended the limit of his wonted hardihood in so long bearing this stranger company along the tangled ways of the herder's trail through the wilderness. "he _mought_ be a revenuer arter all, an' know all about me. the rest o' the raiders mought be a-waitin' an' a-layin' fur me at enny turn," he reflected. "leastwise he knows a deal more'n he's a-goin' ter tell." he drew up his horse as they neared an open bluff where the beetling rocks jutted out like a promontory above the sea of foliage below. they might judge of the long curvature of the conformation of the range just here, for on the opposite height was visible at intervals the road they had traveled, winding in and out among the trees, ascending the mountain in serpentine coils; they beheld the cove beneath from a new angle, and further yet the barren cherty slope on which, despite the distance, the witch-face could still be discerned by eyes practiced in marking its lineaments, trained to trace the popular fantasy. the stranger caught sight of it at the same moment that hite lifted his hand toward it. "thar it is!" hite exclaimed, "fur all the cove's a shadder, an' fur all the wind's a breath." for clouds had thickened over the sky, and much of the world was gray beneath, and the scene had dulled in tint and spirit since last they had had some large outlook upon it. only on the slopes toward the east did the sunshine rest, and in the midst of a sterile, barren slant it flickered on that semblance of ill omen. "an onlucky day, stranger," hite said slowly. the man of science had drawn in his restive horse, and had turned with a keen, freshened interest toward the witch-face. it was with a look of smiling expectancy that he encountered the aspect of snarling mockery, half visible or half imaginary, of that grim human similitude. the mountaineer's brilliant dark eyes dwelt upon him curiously. however, if he had forborne from prudential motives from earlier asking the stranger's name and vocation, lest more than a casual inquisitiveness be thereby implied, exciting suspicion, such queries were surely not in order at the moment of departure. for hite had resolved on parting company. "an onlucky day," he reiterated, "an onlucky day. an' this be ez far ez we spen' it tergether. i turn off hyar." so ever present with him was his spirituous conscience--it could hardly be called a bad conscience--that he half expected his companion to demur, and the posse of a deputy marshal to spring up from their ambush in the laurel about them. but the stranger, still with a flavor of preoccupation in his manner, only expressed a polite regret to say farewell so early, and genially offered to shake hands. as with difficulty he forced his horse close to the mountaineer's saddle, hite looked at the animal with a touch of disparagement. "that thar beastis hev got cornsider'ble o' the devil in him; he'll trick ye some day; ye better look out. waal, far'well stranger, far'well." the words had a regretful cadence. whether because of the unwonted interest which the stranger had excited, or the reluctance to relinquish his curiosity, still ungratified, or the pain of parting to an impressionable nature, whose every emotion is acute, hite hesitated when he had gone some twenty yards straight up the slope above, pushing his horse along a narrow path through the jungle of the laurel, and turned in his saddle to call out again, "far'well!" the stranger, still at the point where hite had quitted him, waved his hand and smiled. the jungle closed about the mountaineer, once more pushing on, and still the smiling eyes dwelt on the spot where he had disappeared. "farewell, my transparent friend," the stranger said, with a half-laugh. "i hope the day is not unlucky enough to put a deputy marshal on your track." and with one more glance at the witch-face, he gathered the reins in his hand and rode on alone along the narrow tangled ways of the herder's trail. now and again, as the day wore on, constant hite was seized with a sense of something wanting, and he presently recognized the deficit as the expectation of the ill fortune which should befall the time, and which still failed to materialize. so strong upon him was the persuasion of evil chances rife in the air to-day that he set himself as definitely to thwart and baffle them as if rationally cognizant of their pursuit. he would not return to his wonted vocation at the distillery, but carried his venison home, where his father, a very old man, with still the fervors of an æsthetic pride, pointed out with approbation the evidence of a fair shot in the wound at the base of the buck's ear, and his mother, active, wiry, practical-minded, noted the abundance of fat. "he fed hisself well whilst he war about it," she commented, "an' now he'll feed us well. what diff'unce do it make whether con's rifle-ball hit whar he aimed ter do or no, so he fetched him down somewhar?" the afternoon passed peacefully away. it seemed strangely long. the sun, barring a veiled white glister in a clouded gray sky, betokening the solar focus, disappeared; the wind fell; the very cicadæ, so loud in the latter days of august, were dulled to long intervals of silence; in the distance, a tree-toad called and called, with plaintive iteration, for rain. "ye'll git it, bubby," con addressed the creature, as he stood in the cornfield--a great yellow stretch--pulling fodder, and binding the long pliant blades into bundles. the clouds still thickened; the heat grew oppressive; the long rows of the corn were motionless, save the rustling of the blades as hite tore them from the stalk. even his mother's spinning-wheel, wont to briskly whir through the long afternoons, from the window of the little cabin on the rise, grew silent, and his father dozed beneath the gourd vines on the porch. the sun went down at last, and the gray day imperceptibly merged into the gray dusk. then came the lingering darkness, with a flicker of fireflies and broad wan flares of heat lightning. con woke once in the night to hear the rain on the roof. the wind was blaring near at hand. in its large, free measures, like some deliberate adagio, there was naught of menace; but when he slept again, and awoke to hear its voice anew, his heart was plunging with sudden fright. a human utterance was in its midst,--a human voice calling his name through the gusty night and the sibilant rush of the rain from the eaves. he listened for a moment at the roof-room window. he recognized with a certain relief the tones of the constable of the district. he opened the shutter. a new day was near to breaking. he saw the wan sky above the periphery of dense dark woods about the clearing. a brown dusk obscured the familiar landmarks, but beneath a gnarled old apple-tree by the gate several men were dimly suggested, and another, more distinct, by the wood-pile, was in the act of gathering a handful of chips to throw at the shutter again. he desisted as he marked the face at the window. "kem down," he said gruffly, clearing his throat in embarrassment. "kem down, constant. no use roustin' out the old folks." "what do you want?" asked hite in a low voice, his heart seeming to stand still in suspense. the constable hesitated. the cold rain dashed into hite's face. the rail fences, in zigzag lines, were coming into view. a mist was floating white against the dark densities of the woods. he heard the water splashing from the eaves heavily into the gullies below, and then the constable once more raucously cleared his throat. "thar's a man," he drawled, "a stranger hyarabouts, killed yestiddy in the bridle-path. the cor'ner hev kem, an' he 'lows ye know suthin' 'bout'n it, constant,--'bout'n the killin' of him. i be sent ter fetch ye." ii. a chimney, half of stone, half of clay and stick, stood starkly up in the gray rain and the swooping, shifting gray fog. it marked the site of a cabin burned long ago, and in such melancholy wise as it might it told of the home that had been. now and again far-away lightning flashed on its fireless hearth; a vacant bird's-nest in a cranny duplicated the suggestions of desertion; the cold mist crept in and curled up out of the smokeless flue with a mockery of semblance. the fire that had wrought its devastating will in the black midnight in the deep wilderness, so far from rescue or succor, had swiftly burned out its quick fury, and was sated with the humble household belongings. the barn, rickety, weather-beaten, deserted, and vacant, still remained,--of the fashion common to the region, with a loft above, and an open wagonway between the two compartments below,--and it was here that the inquest was held. it was near the scene of the tragedy, and occasionally a man would detach himself from the slow, dawdling, depressed-looking group of mountaineers who loitered in the open space beneath the loft, and traverse the scant distance down the bridle-path to gaze at the spot where the stranger's body had lain, whence it had been conveyed to the nearest shelter at hand, the old barn, where the coroner's jury were even now engaged in their deliberations. sometimes, another, versed in all the current rumors, would follow to point out to the new-comer the details, show how the rain had washed the blood away, and fearfully mark the tokens of frantic clutches at the trees as the man had been torn from his horse. the animal had vanished utterly; even the prints of his hoofs were soon obliterated by the torrents and the ever-widening puddles. and thus had arisen the suspicion of ambush and foul play, and the implication of the mysterious gang of horse-thieves, whose rumored exploits seemed hardly so fabulous with the disappearance of the animal and the violent death of the rider in evidence. the locality offered no other suggestion, and it was but a brief interval before the way would be retraced by the awe-stricken observer, noting with a deep interest impossible hitherto all the environment: the stark chimney of the vanished house, monumental in the weed-grown waste; the dripping forest; the roof of the barn, sleek and shining, and with rain pouring down the slant of its clapboards and splashing from its eaves; the groups of horses hitched to the scraggy apple-trees of the deserted homestead; and here and there the white canvas cover of an ox-wagon, with its yoke of steers standing with low-hung heads in the downpour. the pallid circling mists enveloped the world, and limited the outlook to a periphery of scant fifty paces; occasionally becoming tenuous, as if to suggest the dark looming of the mountain across the narrow valley, and the precipice close at hand behind the building, then once more intervening, white and dense of texture, forming a background which imparted a singular distinctness to the figures grouped in the open space of the barn beneath the shadowy loft. the greater number of the gathering had been summoned hither by a sheer curiosity as coercive as a subpoena, but sundry of the group were witnesses, reluctant, anxious, with a vague terror of the law, and an ignorant sense of an impending implication that set both craft and veracity at defiance. they held their heads down ponderingly, as they stood; perhaps rehearsing mentally the details of their meagre knowledge of the event, or perhaps canvassing the aspect of certain points which might impute to them blame or arouse suspicion, and endeavoring to compass shifty evasions, to transform or suppress them in their forthcoming testimony. at random, one might have differentiated the witnesses from the mass of the ordinary mountaineer type by the absorbed eye, or the meditative moving lip unconsciously forming unspoken words, or the fallen dismayed jaw as of the victim of circumstantial evidence. it was a strange chance, the death that had met this casual wayfarer at their very doors, and one might not know how the coroner would interpret it. his power to commit a suspect added to his terrors, and gave to the capable, astute official a mundane formidableness that overtopped the charnel-house flavor of his more habitual duties. he was visible through the unchinked logs of the little room where the inquest was in progress, barely spacious enough to contain the bier, the jury, and the witness under examination; and yet so great was the sound of the rain outside and the stir of the assemblage that little or naught was overheard without. now and again the waiting witnesses looked with doubt and curiosity and suspicion at a new-comer, with an obvious disposition to hope and believe that others knew more of the matter than they, and thus were more liable to accusation. occasionally, a low-toned, husky query would be met by a curt rejoinder suggesting a cautious reticence and a rising enmity, blockading all investigation save the obligatory inquisition of a coroner's jury. an object of ever-recurrent scrutiny was a stranger in the vicinity, who had been subpoenaed also. the facial effect of culture and sophistication was illustrated in his inexpressive, controlled, masklike countenance. he was generally known as the "valley man with the lung complaint," who had built a cabin on the mountain during the summer, banished hither by the advice of his physician for the value to the lungs of the soft, healing air. he wore a brown derby hat, a fawn-colored suit, and a brown overcoat, with the collar upturned. he was blond and young, and so impassive was his sober, decorous aspect that the aptest detective could have discerned naught of significance as he stood, quite silent and composed, in the centre of the place where it was dry, exempt from the gusts of rain that the wind now and again flung in spray upon the outermost members of the group, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, the other toying with a cigar which so far he held unlighted. of the two women present, one, seated upon the beam of a broken plough, refuse of the agricultural industry long ago collapsed here, was calmly smoking her pipe,--a wrinkled, unimpressed personality, who had seen many years, and whose manner might imply that all these chances of life and death came in the gross, and that existence was a medley at best. the other, a witness, was young. more than once the "valley man" cast a covert glance at her as, clad in a brown homespun dress, she leaned against the log wall, her face, which was very pale, half turned toward it, as if to hide the features already much obscured by the white sunbonnet drawn far over it. one arm was lifted, and her hand was passed between the unchinked logs in a convulsive grasp upon them. her figure was tall and slender, and expressive in its rigid constraint; it was an attitude of despair, of repulsion, of fear. it might have implied grief, or remorse, or anxiety. often the eyes of the prescient victims of circumstantial evidence rested dubiously upon her. to the great majority of men, the presence of women in affairs of business is an intrusive evil of times out of joint. now, since matters of life and liberty were in the balance, the primitive denizens of witch-face mountain felt that the admission of narcissa hanway's testimony to consideration and credibility evinced an essential defect in the law of the land, and the fallibility of all human reasoning. what distorted impression might not so appalling an event make upon one so young, so feminine, so inexperienced! what exaggerated wild thing might she not say, unintentionally inculpating half witch-face mountain in robbery and murder! constant hite, as he bluffly entered the passageway, his head up, his eyes wide and bright, his vigorous step elastic and light, gave no token of the spiritual war he had waged as he came. already he felt in great jeopardy. on account of his illicit vocation he could ill abide the scrutiny of the law. with scant proof, he argued, a moonshiner might be suspected of highway robbery and murder. as he had journeyed hither with the constable and his fellows, who conserved the air of disinterested spectators, but who he knew had been summoned to aid the officer in case he should evade or delay, when he would have been forthwith arrested, he had been sorely tempted to deny having ever seen the stranger, in whose company he had spent an hour or so of the previous day. he had been able to put the lie from him with a normal moral impulse. he did not appreciate the turpitude of perjury. he esteemed it only a natural lie invested with pomp and circumstance; and the new testament on which he should be sworn meant no more to his unlettered conscience than the horn-book, since he knew as little of its contents. but a lie is a skulking thing, and he had scant affinity with it. he thought, with a sort of numb wonderment, that it was strange he should feel no more compassion for the object stretched out here, dumb, dead, bruised, and bloody, which so short a space since he had seen full of life and interest, animated by a genial courtesy and graced with learning and subtle insight; now so unknowing, so unlettered, so blind! whither went this ethereal investiture of life?--for it was not mere being; one might exist hardily enough without it. did the darkness close over it, too, or was it not the germ of the soul, the budding of that wider knowledge and finer aspiration to flower hereafter in rarer air? he did not know; he only vaguely cared, and he reproached himself dully that he cared no more. for he--his life was threatened! with the renewal of the thought he experienced a certain animosity toward the man that he should not have known enough to take better care of himself. why must he needs die here, in this horrible unexplained way, and leave other men, chance associates, to risk stretching hemp for murder? he felt his strong life beating in his throat almost to suffocation at the mere suggestion. again the lie tempted him, to be again withstood; and as he strode into the room upon the calling of his name, he saw how futile, how flimsy, was every device, for, fluttering in the coroner's hand, he recognized the sketch of the "witch-face" which the dead man had made, and the masterly drawing of his own imposing figure in the foreground. he had forgotten it utterly for the time being. in the surprise and confusion that had beset him, it had not occurred to him to speculate how he had chanced to be subpoenaed, how the idea could have occurred to the coroner that he knew aught of the stranger. as he stood against the batten door, the pale light from the interstices of the unchinked logs, all the grayer because it alternated with the sombre timbers, falling upon his face and figure, his hat upturned in front, revealing his brow with a forelock of straight black hair, his brilliant dark eyes, and his distinctly cut definite features, the sketch-book was swiftly passed from one to another of the jury, reluctantly relinquished here and there, and more than once eliciting half-smothered exclamations of delighted wonder from the unsophisticated mountaineers, as they glanced back and forth from the man leaning against the door to the counterfeit presentment on the paper. constant hite experienced a glow of vicarious pride as he remembered the satisfaction that the artist had taken in the sketch, and he wished that that still thing on the bier could know how his work, most wonderful it seemed, was appreciated. and then, with a swift revulsion of feeling, he realized that it was this which had entrapped him; this bit of paper had brought him into fear and trouble and risk of his life. the man might be of the revenue force. he might have encountered other moonshiners, and thus have come to his violent death. if this were his vocation, it brought hite into dark suspicion by virtue of the fact, known to a few of the neighborhood, that he himself was a distiller of brush whiskey. no one else had seen the stranger till the finding of the body. he gathered this from the trend of the inquiry after the formal preliminary queries. the seven men, as they sat together on a bench made by passing a plank between the logs of the wall diagonally across the corner of the room, chewed meditatively their quids of tobacco, and now and then spat profusely on the ground, their faces growing more perplexed and graver as the examination progressed. when hite disclosed the circumstance that on the previous day he had encountered a "stranger man" near the "witch-face," there was a palpable sensation among them. they glanced at one another meaningly, and a sudden irritation was perceptible in the coroner's manner as he sat in a rickety chair near the improvised bier. he was a citizen of the valley region, a trifle more sophisticated than the jury, and disposed to seriously deprecate the introduction of any morbid or superstitious element into so grave a matter. he had a bald head, a lean face, the bones very clearly defined about the temple and cheek and jaw, a scanty grizzled beard; and he was dressed somewhat farmer fashion, in blue jeans, with his boots drawn high over his trousers, but with a stiffly starched white shirt,--the collar and cravat in evidence, the cuffs, however, vanished up the big sleeves of his coat. "the exact place of the meeting is not material," he said frowningly. but hite's mercurial interest in the drawing had revived anew. "thar she be," he exclaimed, so suddenly that the jury started with a common impulse, "the ole witch-face,"--he pointed at the sketch in the coroner's hand,--"a mite ter the east an' a leetle south in the pictur', ez nat'ral ez life!" one of the jurymen asked to see the sketch again. evidently, in the hasty delineation of the contours of the slope they had not noticed the gigantic grimacing countenance which they all knew so well; the picturesque figure of the mountaineer in the foreground had so impressed the stranger that it was much more nearly complete than the landscape, being definite in every detail, and fully shaded. the book was handed along the row of men, each recognizing the semblance, once pointed out, with a touch of dismayed surprise that alarmed the coroner for the sanity of the verdict; his rational estimate rated spells and bewitchments and omens as far less plausible agencies in disaster than horse-thieves, highwaymen, and moonshiners. "look at the face of the deceased," he said, with a sort of spare enunciation, coercive somehow in its inexpressiveness. "ye are sure ye never viewed that man afore yestiddy?" "i hev said so an' swore it," said hite, a trifle nettled. "ye rode in comp'ny a hour or mo' an' never asked his name?" "i never axed him no questions, nor he me," replied hite, "'ceptin' 'bout'n the witch-face. he was powerful streck by that. an' i tole him 't war a onlucky day." the jury, a dreary row of unkempt heads, and bearded anxious faces, and crouching shoulders askew, cleared their throats, and two uncrossed and recrossed their legs, the plank seat creaking ominously with the motion under their combined weight. a shade of disappointment was settling on the coroner's face. this was slight information indeed from the only person who had seen the man alive. there was silence for a moment. the splashing of the rain on the roof became drearily audible in the interval. the stir of the group in the space outside was asserted anew, with their low-toned fitful converse; a black-and-white ox in the weed-grown garden emitted a deep, depressed low of remonstrance against the rain, and the irking of the yoke, and the herbage just beyond his reach. the jurymen might see him through the logs, and now and again one of them mechanically ducked his head to look out upon the dismal aspect of the chimney and orchard, round which so many horses and wagons had not gathered since the daughter of the house was long ago married here. there was a sprinkle of gray in his hair, and he remembered the jollities of the wedding,--incongruous recollection,--and once more he looked at the stark figure, its face covered with a white cloth, which had been done in a sentiment of atonement for the unseemly publicity of its fate. in sparsely settled communities, death, being rare, retains much of the terror which custom lessens in the dense crowds of cities. there death is met at every corner. it goes on 'change. it sits upon the bench. it is chronicled in the columns of every newspaper. daily its bells toll. its melancholy pageantry traverses the streets of wealthy quarters, and it stalks abroad hourly in the slums, and few there are who gaze after it. but here it comes so seldom that its dread features are not made smug by familiarity. when hite was told to look again at the face and see if memory might not have played him false, to make sure he had never seen the man before yesterday, he hesitated, and advanced with such reluctance, and started back, dropping the cloth, with such swift repulsion, that the coroner, habituated to such matters, gazed at him with a doubtful scrutiny. "oh, he looked nowise like that," he exclaimed in a raised, nervous voice that caught the attention of the crowd outside, and resulted in a sudden cessation of stir and colloquy, "though it's him, sure enough! and," with a burst of regret, "he war a mighty pleasant man!" the coroner, intentionally taking him at a disadvantage, asked abruptly, "what do you work at mostly?" hite turned shortly from the bier. "i farms some," he hesitated; "dad bein' mos'ly out o' the field, nowadays, agin' so constant." "what do you work at mostly?" reiterated the official. hite divined his suspicion. some flying rumor had doubtless come to his ears, how credible, how unimpugnable, the moonshiner could not tell. nevertheless, his loyalty to that secret vocation of his had become a part of his nature, so continuous were its demands upon his courage, his strategy, his foresight, his industry. it was tantamount to his instinct of self-defense. he held his head down, with his excited dark eyes looking up from under his brows at the coroner. but he would not speak. he would admit naught of what was evidently known. "warn't ye afeard he might be a revenuer?" suggested the officer. "i never war afeard, so ter say, o' one man at a time," hite ventured. "didn't ye think he might take a notion that you were a moonshiner?" "he never showed no suspicion o' me, noways," replied hite warily. "we rid tergether free an' favored. he 'peared a powerful book-l'arned man,--like no revenuer ever i see." "where did you part company?" hite sought to identify the spot by description; and then he was allowed to pass out, his spirits flagging with the ordeal, and with the knowledge that his connection with the manufacture of brush whiskey was suspected by the coroner's jury, suggesting an adequate motive on his part for waylaying a stranger supposed to be of the revenue force. he felt the dash of the rain in his face as he stood aside to make way for the "valley man with the lung complaint," who was passing into the restricted apartment; and despite his whirl of anxiety and excitement and regret and resentment, he noted with a touch of surprise the cool unconcern of the man's face and manner, albeit duly grave and adjusted to the decorums of the melancholy occasion. he was sworn, and gave his name as alan selwyn. the jury listened with interest to his fluent account of his occupation in the valley, which had been mercantile, of his temporary residence here for a bronchial affection; and when he was asked to identify the man who had so mysteriously come to his death, they marked his quick, easy stride as he crossed the room, with his hat in his hand, and his unmoved countenance as he looked fixedly down into the face of the dead. he remained a longer interval than was usual with the witnesses, as if to make sure. then, still quite businesslike and brisk, he stated that he could not identify him, having certainly never seen him before. "the only papers which he had on him," said the coroner, watching the effect of his words, "were two letters addressed to you." the young man started in palpable surprise. as he looked at the exterior of the letters, which were stamped and postmarked, he observed that they must have been taken out of the post-office at sandford cross-roads, to expedite their delivery; the postmaster doubtless consenting to this request on the part of so reputable-looking a person or a possible acquaintance. "were you expecting a visitor?" asked the coroner. "not at all," responded the puzzled witness. he was requested to open the letters, read and show them. but he waived this courtesy, asking the coroner to open and read them to the jury. they were of no moment, both on matters of casual business, and mr. alan selwyn was dismissed; the coroner blandly regretting that, in view of his malady, he had been required to come out in so chilly a rain. notwithstanding his composure he was in some haste to be gone. he went quickly through the crowd, drawing down his hat over his brow, and deftly buttoning his overcoat across his chest and throat. he had reached his horse, and had placed one foot in the stirrup, when, chancing to glance back over his shoulder, he saw narcissa hanway's white, flowerlike face, her bonnet pushed far back on her tawny yellow hair, both arms outstretched in a gesture of negation and repulsion toward the apartment where the jury sat, while a dark-haired, slow man urged her forward, one hand on her shoulder, and the old mountain woman followed with insistence and encouragement. he hesitated for a moment; then putting spurs to his horse, he rode off swiftly through the slanting lines of rain. iii. a sense of helplessness in the hands of fate is in some sort conducive to courage. doubtless many an act of valor which has won the world's applause was precipitated in a degree by desperation and the lack of an alternative. the appearance of stolidity with which the cluster of witnesses--those whose testimony was yet to be given as well as those who had told the little they knew--noted the uncontrolled agitation, the wild eyes, the hysteric sobs, with which narcissa hanway was ushered into the contracted apartment where the inquest was in progress, had no correlative calmness of mind or heart. what haphazard accusation might not result from her fear, or her desire to shield another, or the mere undisciplined horror of the place and the fact! when one dreads the sheer possibilities, the extremes of terror are reached. more than one of the bearded, unkempt, hardy mountaineers, trudging back and forth in the sheltered space beneath the loft, steadily chewing their quids of tobacco and eying the rain, would have fled incontinently, had there been any place to run to out of reach of the constable, who was particularly brisk to-day, participating in exercises of so unusual an interest. the girl's brother, standing beside the door after she had passed within, was unconscious of a certain keen covert scrutiny of which he was the subject. he had a square determined face, dark hair, slow gray eyes, and a tall powerful frame; he held his head downward, his hand on the door, his even teeth set in the intensity of his effort to distinguish the voices within. there had been some secret speculation as to whether the man were altogether unknown to the brother and sister, such deep feeling she had evinced, such coercion he had exerted to induce her to give her testimony. still, the girl was a mere slip of a thing, unused to horrors; and as to recalcitrant witnesses, they all knew the jail had a welcome for the silent until such time as they might find a voice. nevertheless, though his urgency had been in the stead of the constable's stronger measures, they eyed him askance as he stood and sought to listen, with his hand on the door. the old woman turned around, her arms falling to her sides with a sort of flounce of triumph, her eyes twinkling beneath the shining spectacles set upon her brow among the limp ruffles of her thrust-back sunbonnet, a laugh of satisfaction widening her wrinkled face. "thar now!" she chuckled, "nar'sa jes' set it down she _wouldn't_ testify, an' crossed her heart an' hoped she'd fall dead fust. but, ben, we beat her that time!" and she chuckled anew. the man answered not a word, and listened to the tumult within. it is seldom, doubtless, that the patience of a coroner's jury is subjected to so strong a strain. but the information which had so far been elicited was hardly more than the bare circumstance which the body presented,--a man had ridden here, a stranger, and he was dead. if the girl knew more than this, it would necessitate some care in the examination to secure the facts. she was young, singularly willful and irresponsible, and evidently overcome by grief, or fear, or simply horror. when she was asked to look at the face of the stranger, she only caught a glimpse of it, as if by accident, and turned away, pulling her white bonnet down over her face, and declaring that she would not. "i hev viewed him wunst, an' i won't look at him again," she protested, with a burst of sobs. "now set down in this cheer, daughter, an' tell us what ye know about it all,--easy an' quiet," said the coroner in a soothing, paternal strain. "oh, nuthin', nuthin'!" exclaimed the girl, throwing herself into the chair in the attitude of an abandonment of grief. "air ye cryin' 'kase ye war 'quainted with him ennywise?" demanded one of the jurymen, with a quickening interest. he was a neighbor; that is, counting as propinquity a distance of ten miles. the girl lifted her head suddenly. "i never seen him till yestiddy," she protested steadily. "i be a heap apter ter weep 'kase my 'quaintances _ain't_ dead!" she gave him a composed, sarcastic smile, then fell to laughing and crying together. to the others the discomfiture of their _confrère_ was the first touch of comedy relief in the tragic situation. they cast at one another a glance of appreciation trenching on a smile, and the abashed questioner drew out a plug of tobacco, and with a manner of preoccupation gnawed a bit from it; then replaced it in his pocket, with a physical contortion which caused the plank on which the jury were seated to creak ominously, to the manifest anxiety of the worthies ranged thereon. "how did you happen to see the man?" he asked, as if he had perceived no significance in her previous answer. "'kase i didn't happen ter be blind," her half-muffled voice replied. her arm was thrown over the back of the chair, and her face was hidden on her elbow. the coroner interposed quickly: "where were you goin', an' what did you see?" she sobbed aloud for a moment. then ensued an interval of silence. suddenly the interest of the subject seemed to lay hold upon her, and she began to speak very rapidly, lifting her white tear-stained face, and pushing her bonnet back on her rough curling auburn hair:-- "i war a-blackberryin', thar bein' only a few lef' yit, an' i went fur an' furder yit from home; an' ez i kem out'n the woods over yon," half rising, and pointing with a free gesture, "i viewed--or yit i _'lowed_ i viewed--the witch-face through a bunch o' honey locust, the leaves bein' drapped a'ready, they bein' always the fust o' the year ter git bare. an' stiddier leavin' it be, i sot my bucket o' berries at the foot o' a tree', an started down the slope todes the bluff, ter make sure an' view it clar o' the trees." the girl paused, her eyes widening, her voice faltering, her breath coming fast. "an' goin' swift, some hawgs, stray, half grown, 'bout twenty shoats feedin' in the woods--my rustlin' in the bushes skeered 'em i reckon--they sot out to run, possessed by the devil, like them the scriptur' tells about." she paused again, panting, her hand to her heart. the disaffected juryman turned to one side, recrossing his legs, and spitting disparagingly on the ground. "she can't swear them hawgs war possessed by the devil," he said in a low tone to his next neighbor. "oh, why not," exclaimed the girl, "when we know so many men air possessed by the devil,--why not them shoats, bein' jes' without clothes, an' without the gift o' speech to mark the diff'unce!" she paused again, and the coroner, standing a trifle back of her chair, shook his head at the obstructive juryman, and asked her in a commonplace voice what the hogs had to do with it. "that's what i wanter know!" she cried, half turning in her chair to look up at him. "i started 'em, an' i be at the bottom o' it all, ef it's like i think,--_me_, yearnin' ter look at the old witch-face! the hawgs run through the woods like fire on dry grass, an' i be 'feared they skeered the stranger man's horse--he had none whenst i seen him, though. i hearn loud talkin', or hollerin', a cornsiderable piece off, an' then gallopin' hoofs"-- "more horses than one, do you think?" demanded the coroner. "oh, how kin i swear to that? i seen none. fur when i got thar, this man war lyin' in the herder's trail, bruised and bloody--oh, like ye see--an' his eyes opened; an' he gin a sort o' gasp whenst i tuk his han'--an' he war dead. an' i skeered the hawgs, an' they skeered his horse, an' he killed him; an' i be 'sponsible fur it all, an' i wisht ye'd hang me fur it quick, an' be done with it!" she burst into sobs once more, and hid her face on her arm on the back of the chair. then, suddenly lifting her head, she resumed: "i jes' called and called ben, an' bein' he hain't never fur off, he hearn me, an' kem. an' then he rid fur the neighbors, an' kem down the valley arter you-uns," with a side glance at the coroner. "an' he lef' me a shootin'-iron, in case of a fox, or a wolf, or suthin' kem along. 'bout sunset the neighbors kem. an' till then i sot thar keepin' watch, an' a-viewin' the witch-face 'crost the cove, plumb till the sun went down." she bowed her head again on her arm, and a momentary silence ensued. then the coroner, clearing his throat, said reassuringly, "thar ain't nuthin' in the witch-face, nohow. it's jes' a notion. man and boy, i have knowed that hillside fur forty year, an' i never could see no witch-face; it's been p'inted out ter me a thousand times." she looked at him in dumb amazement for a moment; then broke out, "waal, what would ye think ef ye hed seen, like me, the witch-face shining in the darkest night, nigh on ter midnight, like the ole 'oman had lighted her a candle somewhars,--jes' shinin', an' grinnin', an' mockin', plain ez daybreak? that's what _i_ hev viewed--an' i 'low ter view it agin--oh, i do, i do!" he looked at her hard, but he did not say what he thought, and the faces of the jurymen, which had implied a strong exception to his declaration of skepticism touching the existence of the ominous facial outline on the hillside, underwent a sudden change of expression. she was hardly responsible, they considered, and her last incredible assertion had gone far to nullify the effect of her previous testimony. she was overcome by the nervous shock, or had told less than she knew and was still concealing somewhat, or was so credulous and plastic and fanciful as to be hardly worthy of belief. she was dismissed earlier than she had dared to hope: and with this deterioration of the testimony of the witness who was nearest the time and place of the disaster, the jury presently went to work to evolve out of so slender a thread of fact and so knotty a tangle of possibility their verdict. for a long time, it seemed to the curious without, and to the agitated, nervous witnesses peering through the unchinked logs of the wall, they sat on their comfortless perch, half crouching forward, and chewed, and discussed the testimony. there were frequent intervals of silence, and in one of these con hite was disturbed to see the sketch of the "witch-face" once more passed from hand to hand. they grew to have a harried, baited look; and after a time, the rain having slackened, they came out in a body, and walked to and fro quite silently in the clearing, chewing their quids and their knotty problem, with apparently as much chance of getting to the completion of the one as of the other. they were evidently refreshed, however, by the change of posture and scene, for they soon resumed the subject and were arguing anew as they paused upon the bluff, their gestures wonderfully distinct, drawn upon the sea of mist that filled the valley below and the air above. it revealed naught of the earth, save here and there a headland, as it were, thrusting out its dark, narrow, attenuated demesne into the impalpable main. further and further one might mark this semblance of a coast-line as the vapor grew more tenuous, till far away the series of shadowy gray promontories alternating with the colorless inlets was as vague of essence as the land of a dream. near at hand, a cucumber-tree, with its great broad green leaves and its deep red cones, leaning over the rocks, and spanning this illusive gray landscape from the zenith to the immediate foreground, gave the only touch of color to the scenic simulacrum in many a gradation of neutral tone. the jurymen hovered about under the boughs for a time, and then came back, still harassed and anxious, to their den, with perhaps some new question of doubt. for those without could perceive that once more they were crowding about the bier and talking together in knots. again they called in the country physician who had testified earlier, an elderly personage, singularly long and thin and angular, but who had a keen, intent, clever face and the accent of an educated man. he seemed to reiterate some information in a clear, concise manner, and when he came out it was evident that he considered his utility here at an end, for he made straight for his horse and saddle. a sudden sensation supervened among the outsiders,--a flutter, and then a breathless suspense; for within the inclosure, barred with the heavy shadows of the logs of the walls alternating with the misty intervals, could be seen the figures of the seven, successively stooping at the foot of the bier to sign each his name to the inquisition at last drawn up. one by one they came slowly out, looking quite exhausted from their long restraint, the unwonted mental exercitations, and the nervous strain. then it was developed, to the astonishment and disappointment of the little crowd, tingling with excitement and anxiety, that this document simply set forth the fact that at an inquisition holden on witch-face mountain, kildeer county, before jeremiah flaxman, coroner, upon the body of an unknown man, there lying dead, the jurors whose names were subscribed thereto, upon their oaths, did say that he came to his death from concussion of the brain consequent upon being thrown or dragged from his horse by means or by persons to the jury unknown. there was a palpable dismay on constant hite's expressive face. he had hoped that the verdict might be death by accident. others had expected the implication of horse-thieves, of whose existence the jury being of the neighborhood were well advised, and the disappearance of the man's horse might well suggest this explanation. the coroner would return this inquisition to the criminal court together with a list of the material witnesses. thus the matter was left as undecided as before the inquest, the jeopardy, the terrors of circumstantial evidence, all still impending, dark with doom, like the black cloud which visibly overshadowed the landscape. iv. since the knight-errantry of wolf and bear and catamount and fox has scant need of milestones, or signposts, or ferries, or the tender iteration of road-taxes, the casual glance might hardly perceive the necessity of opening a thoroughfare through this wilderness, for these freebooters seemed likely to be its chief beneficiaries. a more rugged district could not be found in all that massive upheaval of rocks and tangled wooded fastnesses stretching from the northeast to the southwest some twenty miles, and known as witch-face mountain; a more scantily populated region than its slopes and adjacent coves scarcely exists in the length and breadth of the state of tennessee. the physical possibilities were arrayed against the project, so steep was the comblike summit on either side, so heavy and tortuous the outcropping rock that served as the bony structure of the great mountain mass. true, the river pierced it, the denudation of solid sandstone cliffs, a thousand feet in height, betokening the untiring energy of the eroding currents of centuries agone. this agency, however, man might not summon to his aid, being "the act of god," to use the pious language of the express companies to describe certain contingencies for which they very properly decline the responsibility. against the preëmptions of the gigantic forests and the gaunt impassable crags and the abysmal river might be enlisted only such enterprise as was latent in the male inhabitants of the vicinity over eighteen years of age and under fifty, thus subject to the duty of working on the public roads. nevertheless, the county court had, in a moment of sanguine exuberance, entertained and granted an application from the adjacent landowners to order a jury of view to lay out a public road and to report at the next quarterly session. precursors of the jury of view in some sort two young people might have seemed, one afternoon, a fortnight, perhaps, after the inquest, as they pushed through the woody tangles to the cliffs high above the river, the opposite bank of which was much nearer than the swirling currents, crystal brown in the romantic shadows below. they walked in single file, the jury of view in their minds, and now and then referred to in their sparse speech. "mought make it along hyar, ben." the girl, in advance, paused, bareheaded, each uplifted hand holding out a string of her white sunbonnet, which, thus distended, was poised, winglike, behind the rough tangle of auburn hair and against the amber sky. she turned as she spoke, to face her companion, taking a step or two backward as she awaited his answer. "look out how ye air a-walkin', narcissa! ye'll go over the bluff back'ards, fust thing ye know," the man called out eagerly, and with a break of anxiety in his voice. she stretched the sunbonnet still wider with her upreaching arms, and with a smile of tantalizing glee, showing her white teeth and narrowing her brown eyes, she continued to walk backward toward the precipice,--with short steps, however; cautious enough, doubtless, but calculated to alarm one whose affection had given much acuteness to fear. still at too great a distance for interference, ben affected indifference. "we-uns'll hev the coroner's jury hyar agin, afore the jury o' view, ef ye keep on; an' ye ain't got on yer bes' caliker coat, noways." he climbed swiftly up the ascent and joined her, out of breath and with an angry gleam in his eyes. but she had turned her face and steps in the opposite direction, the mirth of the situation extinguished for the present. "quit talkin' that-a-way 'bout sech turr'ble, turr'ble things!" she cried petulantly, making a motion as if to strike him, futile at the distance, and with her frowning face averted. "sech ez yer new coat? i 'lowed 't war the apple o' yer eye," he rejoined with a feint of banter. she held her face down, with her features drawn and her eyes half closed, rejecting the vision of recollection as if it were the sight itself. "i can't abide the name o' cor'ner's jury,--i never wants ter hear it nor see it agin! i never shall furgit how them men all looked a-viewin' the traveler's body what i fund dead in the road; they looked like jes' so many solemn, peekin', heejus black buzzards crowdin' aroun' the corpse; then a-noddin' an' a-whisperin' tergether, an' a-findin' of a verdic' ez they called it. they fund nuthin' at all. 't war _me_ ez done the findin'. i fund the man dead in the road. an' _i_ ain't a-goin' ter be a witness no mo'. nex' time the law wants me fur a witness i'll go ter jail; it's cheerfuller, a heap, i'll bet!" as she still held her head down, her bonnet well on it now, her face with its _riant_ cast of features incongruously woebegone, overshadowed by the tragedy she recounted even more definitely than by the brim of her headgear or the first gray advance of the dusk, he made a clumsy effort to divert her attention. "i 'lowed ye war mightily in favor of juries; ye talk mighty nigh all day 'bout the jury of view." "i want a road up hyar," she exclaimed vivaciously, raising her eyes and her joyous transfigured face, "a reg'lar county road! in the fall o' the year the folks would kem wagonin' thar chestnuts over ter sell in town, an' camp out. an' all the mounting would go up an' down it past our big gate ter the church house in the cove. i'd never want ter hear no mo' preachin'. i'd jes' set on our front porch, an' look, an' look, an' look!" she cast up her great bright eyes with as vivid and immediate an irradiation as if the brilliant procession which she pictured deployed even now, chiefly in ox-wagons, before them. she caught off her bonnet from her head,--it seemed a sort of moral barometer; she never wore it when the indications of the inner atmosphere set fair. she swung it gayly by one string as she walked and talked; now and again she held the string to her lips and bit it with her strong, even teeth, reckless of the havoc in the clumsy hem. "then county court days,--goin' to county court, an' comin' from county court,--sech passels an' passels o' folks! i wisht we-uns hed it afore the jury o' view kem, so we-uns mought view the jury o' view." "it's along o' the jury o' view ez we-uns will git the road,--ef we do git it," the young man said cautiously. it was one of his self-imposed duties to moderate, as far as he might, his sister's views, to temper her enthusiasms and abate her various and easily excited anger. he had other duties toward her which might be said to have come to him as an inheritance. "ben's the boy!" his consumptive mother had been wont to say; "he's sorter slow, but mighty sure. 'brag is a good dog, but hold-fast is a better.' ef he don't sense nare 'nother idee in this life, he hev got ter l'arn ez it's his business ter take keer o' nar'sa. folks say nar'sa be spoiled a'ready. so be, fur whilst ben be nuthin' but a boy he'll l'arn ter do her bid, an' watch over her, an' wait on her, an' keer for her, an' think she be the top o' creation. it'll make her proud an' headin', i know,--she'll gin her stepmammy a sight o' trouble, an' i ain't edzactly lamentin' 'bout'n that,--but ben'll take keer o' her all her life, an' good keer, havin' been trained ter it from the fust." but his mother had slept many a year in the little mountain graveyard, and her place was still empty. the worldly wise craft of the simple mountain woman, making what provision she might for the guardianship of her daughter, was rendered of scant effect, since her husband did not marry again. the household went on as if she still sat in her accustomed place, with not one deficiency or disaster that might have served in its simple sort as a memorial,--so little important are we in our several spheres, so promptly do the ranks of life close up as we drop dead from their alignment. the panoply against adversity with which narcissa had been accoutred by a too anxious mother, instead of being means of defense, had become opportunities of oppression. her brother's affectionate solicitude and submissiveness were accepted as her bounden due, as the two grew older; her father naturally adapted himself to the predominant sentiment of the household; and few homes can show a tyrant more arrogant and absolute than the mountain girl whose mother had so predicted for her much hardship and harshness, and a troubled and subordinate existence. it was with that instinct to guard her from all the ills of life, great and small, that ben sought to prepare her for a possible disappointment now. "mought n't git the road through, nohow, when all's said," he suggested. "what fur not?" she exclaimed, bringing her dark brows together above eyes that held a glitter of anger. "waal, some o' the owners won't sign the application, an' air goin' ter fight it in the court." she put her bonnet on, and looked from under its brim up at the amber sky. it was growing faintly green near the zenith, toward which the lofty topmost plumes of the dark green pines swayed. the great growths of the forest rose on every side. there was no view, no vista, save the infinitely repeated umbrageous tangle beneath the trees, where their boles stood more or less distinct or dusky till merged indefinitely into shadow and distance. looking down into the river, one lost the sense of monotony. the ever-swirling lines of the current drew mystic scrolls on that wonderfully pellucid brown surface,--so pellucid that from the height above she could see a swiftly darting shadow which she knew was the reflection of a homeward-bound hawk in the skies higher yet. leaves floated in a still, deep pool, were caught in a maddening eddy, and hurried frantically away, unwilling, frenzied, helpless, unknowing whither, never to return,--allegory of many a life outside those darkling solemn mountain woods, and of some, perhaps, in the midst of them. the reflection of the cliffs in the never still current, of the pines on their summits, of the changing sky growing deeper and deeper, till its amber tint, erstwhile so crystalline, became of a dull tawny opaqueness, she marked absently for a while as she cogitated on his answer. "what makes 'em so contrairy, ben?" she asked at last. "waal, old man sneed 'lows thar'll be a power o' cattle-thievin', with the road so open an' convenient. an' jeremiah sayres don't want ter pay no road-taxes. an' silas boyd 'lows he don't want ter be obligated ter work on no sech rough road ez this hyar one air obleeged ter be; an' i reckon, fust an' last, it _will_ take a power o' elbow grease." he paused, and looked about him at the great shelving masses of rock and the steep slants, repeated through leagues and leagues of mountain wilderness. then seating himself on one of the ledges of the cliff, his feet dangling unconcernedly over the abysses below, he continued: "an' con hite,--he's agin it, too." she lifted her head, with a scornful rising flush. "con hite dunno _what_ he wants; _he_ ain't got a ounce o' jedgmint." "waal, one thing he _don't_ want is a road. he be 'feared it'll go too close ter the still, an' the raiders will nose him out somehows. now he be all snug in the bresh, an' the revenuers none the wiser." "an' con none the wiser, nuther," she flouted. "the raiders hev smoked out 'sperienced old mountain foxes a heap slyer'n con be. he ain't got the gift. he can't hide nuthin'. i kin find out everythin' he knows by jes' lookin' in his eye." "that's just 'kase he's fool enough ter set a heap o' store by ye, nar'sa. he ain't so easy trapped." "fool enough fur ennythin'," she retorted. "an' then thar 's old dent kirby. he 'lows the road will be obligated ter pass by the witch-face arter it gits over yander nigh ter the valley, whar the ruver squeezes through the mounting agin. he be always talkin' 'bout signs an' spells an' sech, an' he 'lows the very look o' the witch-face kerries bad luck, an' it'll taint all ez goes for'ard an' back'ard a-nigh it." "ben," said the girl in a low voice, "do you-uns b'lieve ef thar war passin' continual on a sure enough county road that thar cur'ous white light would kem on the old witch's face in the night-time? ain't that a sort'n spell fur the dark an' the lonesomeness ter tarrify a few quaking dwellers round about? surely many folks comin' an' goin' wouldn't see sech. ghostful things ain't common in a crowd." she moved a little nearer her brother, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "some folks can't see the witch-face at all, noways," he replied stolidly. "i hearn the coroner 'low he couldn't." narcissa spoke with sudden asperity: "i reckon he hev got sense enough ter view a light whenst it shines inter his eyes. he 'pears ter be feeble-minded ginerally, and mought n't be able ter pick out the favor o' the features on the hillside, but surely he'd blink ef a light war flickered inter his eyeballs." the road was her precious scheme, and she steadfastly believed that with the order of the worshipful quarterly county court declaring it open, with a duly appointed overseer and a gang of assigned work-hands and the presidial fostering care of a road commissioner, the haggard old semblance must needs desist from supernatural emblazonment in the awe-stricken nights, and that logic and law would soon serve to exorcise its baleful influence. her mien grew graver as she reflected on the résumé of objections to the project. her white bonnet threw a certain white reflection on her flushed face. her eyes were downcast as she looked at the river below, the long lashes seeming almost to touch her cheek. she scarcely moved them as she turned her gaze upon her brother, who was still seated on the verge of the cliff. "waal, sir, i wonder that the pore old road petition hed life enough in it ter crawl ter the court-house door. with all them agin it, thar ain't nobody ter be fur it, sca'cely." "oh, yes," he admitted. "them air fur it ez b'lieves highways improves proputty, an' hev got land lyin' right alongside whar the road is axed ter be run; them ez ain't got proputty alongside ain't nigh so anxious. but that thar strange valley man ez they say hev got a lung complaint, he won't sign nuther. he owns the house he built up thar on the flat o' the mounting an' cornsider'ble land, though he don't keep no stock nor nuthin'. 'lows the air be soft an' good for the lung complaint. he 'lows he hev been tryin' ter git shet o' the railroads an' dirt roads an' human folks, an' he s'posed he _hed_ run ter the jumpin'-off place, the e-ends o' the yearth; but hyar kems the road o' civilization a-pursuin' him like the sarpient o' the pit, with the knowledge o' good an' evil,--a grain o' wheat an' a bushel o' chaff,--an' he reckons he'll hev ter cut an' run again." narcissa's lips parted slightly. she listened in amazement to this strange account of an aversion to that gay world in processional, chiefly in white-covered wagons, which she longed to see come down the county road. "he be a powerful queer man," said ben slowly, "this hyar alan selwyn." and she felt that this was true. she sat down beside her brother on the rock, and together they looked down meditatively on the river. it was reddening now with the reflection of the reddening clouds. the water, nevertheless, asserted itself. lengths of steely brilliancy showed now and again amidst the roseate suffusion, and anon spaces glimmered vacant of all but a dusky brown suggestion of depth and a liquid lustre. "nar'sa," he said at last in a low voice, "ye know they 'lowed that the traveler what war killed, some say by his runaway horse, war a-comin' ter see _him_,--this alan selwyn." the white bonnet seemed to focus and retain the lingering light in the landscape. without its aid he might hardly have made shift to see her face. "they 'lowed they knowed so by the papers the traveler had on him, though this selwyn 'lowed _he_ couldn't identify the dead man," he continued after a pause. she gazed wonderingly at him, then absently down at the sudden scintillating white glitter of the reflection of the evening star in the dusky red water. it burned with a yet purer, calmer radiance in the roseate skies. she felt the weight of the darkening gloom, gathering beneath the trees around her, as if it hung palpably on her shoulders. "waal," he resumed, "i b'lieve ef that thar traveler had been able ter speak ter ye when ye fund him, like ye said he tried ter do, i b'lieve he would hev tole ye suthin' 'bout that thar valley man. _he_'s enough likelier ter hev bed suthin' ter do with the suddint takin' off o' the feller than con hite." her face was suddenly aghast. "who says con hite-- why?" she paused, her voice failing. "waal, ye know con be a-moonshinin' again, an' some 'lows ez this hyar traveler warn't a traveler at all, but a revenuer,--strayed off somehows from the rest o' 'em." "oh, how i wish he'd stop moonshinin' an' sech!" she moved so suddenly on the edge of the precipice, as she lifted her hands and drew down her sunbonnet over her face, that ben's glance was full of terror. "move back a mite, nar'sa; ye'll go over the bluff, fust thing ye know! yes, con's mighty wrong ter be moonshinin'. the law is the right thing. it purtects us. it holps us all. we-uns owe it obejiunce, like i hearn a man say in a speech down yander in"-- "the law!" cried narcissa, with scorn. "con hite kin tromp on the revenue law from hyar ter the witch-face, fur all i keer. purtects! i pity a man ez waits fur the law ter purtect him; it's a heap apter ter grind him ter pomace. _i_ mind moonshinin' 'kase it's dangersome fur the moonshiners. the law--i don't count the fibble old law!" she sat brooding for a time, her face downcast. then she spoke in a low voice:-- "whyn't ye find out, ben? what ails ye ter be so good-fur-nuthin'? thar be other folks beside con ez air law-breakers." she edged nearer to him, laying her hand on his arm. "ye've got to find out, ben," she said insistently. "keep an eye on that thar valley man, an' find out all 'bout'n him. else the killin' 'll be laid ter con, who never done nuthin' hurtful ter nobody in all his life." "the idee jes' streck me ter-day whenst i viewed him along about that road. whenst that thar dead man tuk yer han' an' tried ter find a word of speech-- why, hullo, narcissa!" with a short cry she had struggled to her feet. the gathering gloom, the recollection of the tragedy, the association of ideas, bore too heavily on her nerves. she struck petulantly at his astounded face. "why air ye always remindin' me?" she exclaimed, with a sharp upbraiding note. and then she began to cry out that she could see again the coroner's jury pressing close about the corpse, with a keen ravenous interest like the vile mountain vultures, and then colloguing together aside, and nodding their heads and saying they had found their verdict, when they had found nothing, not even the poor dead man; and she saw them here, and she saw them there, and everywhere in the darkling mountain woods, and she would see them everywhere as long as she should live, and she wished with all her heart that they were every one at the bottom of the black mountain river. and the slow ben wondered, as he sought to soothe her and take her home, that a woman should be so sensitive to the mention of one dead man, and yet given to such wishes of the wholesale destruction of the harmless coroner's jury, because their appearance struck her amiss, and they collogued together, and nodded their heads unacceptably, and found their verdict. v. except in so far as his sedulously cultivated fraternal sentiments were concerned, the peculiar domestic training to which ben hanway had been subjected had had slight effect in softening a somewhat hard and stern character. to continue the canine simile by which his mother had described him, his gentleness and watchful care toward his sister were not more reassuring to the public at large than is the tender loyalty of a guard-dog toward the infant of a house which claims his fealty; that the dog does not bite the baby is no fair augury that he will not bite the peddler or the prowler. the fact that the traveler had borne letters addressed to alan selwyn, and no other papers, and yet alan selwyn could not or would not identify him, had already furnished hanway with an ever-recurrent subject of cogitation. it had been the presumption of the coroner's jury, since confirmed by inquiry of the postmaster, that, going for some purpose to alan selwyn's lodge in the wilderness, the unknown traveler had, in passing, called for his prospective host's mail at the cross-roads, some fifteen miles distant and the nearest post-office, such being the courtesy of the region. a visitor often insured a welcome by thus voluntarily expediting the delivery of the mail some days, or perhaps some weeks, before its recipient could have hoped to receive it otherwise. hanway had long been cognizant of this habit of the cross-roads postmaster to accede to such requests on the part of reputable people, but he was reminded forcibly of it the next morning. a neighbor, homeward bound from a visit to the valley, had paused at hanway's house to leave a letter, with which he had charged himself, addressed to selwyn. "i 'lowed ye mought be ridin' over thar some day, bein' ez ye air toler'ble nigh neighbors," he said. and hanway the more willingly undertook the delivery of the missive since it afforded him a pretext for the reconnoissance which he had already contemplated. rain-clouds had succeeded those fine aerial flauntings of the sunset splendors, and he set out in the pervasive drizzle of a gray day. torn and ragged with the rain and the gusts, the white mist seemed to come to meet him along the vistas of the dreary dripping woods. the tall trees that shut off the sky loomed loftily through it. sometimes, as the wind quickened, it deployed in great luminously white columns, following the invisible curves of the atmospheric current; and anon, in flaky detached fragments, it fled dispersed down the avenues like the scattered stragglers of a routed army. the wind was having the best of the contest; and though it still rained when he reached the vicinity of alan selwyn's lonely dwelling, the mist was gone, the clouds were all resolved into the steady fall of the torrents, and the little house on the slope of the mountain and all its surroundings were visible. a log cabin it was, containing two rooms and the unaccustomed luxury of glass windows; so new that the hewn cedar logs had not yet weathered to the habitual dull gray tone, but glowed jauntily red as the timbers alternated with the white and yellow daubing. a stanch stone chimney seemed an unnecessary note of ostentation, since the more usual structure of clay and sticks might serve as well. it reminded ben hanway that its occupant was not native to the place, and whetted anew his curiosity as he looked about, the reins on his horse's neck in his slow approach. it was a sheltered spot; the great mountain's curving summit rose high toward the north and west above the depression where the cabin stood; across the narrow valley a still more elevated range intercepted the east wind. only to the south was the limited plateau open, sloping down to great cliffs, giving upon a vast expanse of mountain and valley and plain and far reaches of undulating country, promising in fair weather high, pure, soft air, a tempered gentle breeze, and the best that the sun can do. he noted the advantages of the situation in reference to the "lung complaint," feeling a loser in some sort; for he had begun to suspect that the consumptive tendencies of the stranger were a vain pretense, assumed merely to delude the unwary. he could not have doubted long, for when he dismounted and hitched his horse to the rail fence he heard the door of the house open, and as its owner, standing on the threshold in the wind and the gusty rain, called out to him a welcoming "hello," the word was followed by a series of hacking coughs which told their story as definitely as a medical certificate. ben hanway was not a humane man in any special sense, but he was conscious of haste in concluding the tethering of the animal and in striding across the vacant weed-grown yard striped with the ever-descending rain. "ye'd better git in out'n all this wind an' rain," he said in his rough voice. "a power o' dampness in the air." "no matter. there's no discount on me. don't take cold nowadays. i've got right well here already." the passage-way was dark, but the room into which ben was ushered, illumined by two opposite windows, was as bright as the day would allow. a roaring wood fire in the great chimney-place reinforced the pallid gray light with glancing red and yellow fluctuations. the apartment was comfortable enough, although its uses were evidently multifarious,--partly kitchen, and dining-room, and sitting-room. its furniture consisted of several plain wooden chairs, a table and crockery, a few books on a shelf, a lounge in the corner, and a rifle, after the manner of the mountaineers, over the mantelpiece. upon the shelf a cheap clock ticked away the weary minutes of the lonely hours of the long empty days while the valley man abode here, exiled from home and friends and his accustomed sphere, and fought out that hopeless fight for his life. ben hanway gave him a keen, covert stare, as he slowly and clumsily accepted the tendered chair and his host threw another log on the fire. hanway had seen him previously, when selwyn testified before the coroner's jury, but to-day he impressed his visitor differently. he was tall and slight, twenty-five years of age, perhaps, with light brown hair, sleek and shining and short, a quick blue eye, a fair complexion with a brilliant flush, and a long mustache. but the bizarre effect produced by this smiling apparition in the jaws of death seemed to hanway's limited experience curiously enhanced by his attire. its special peculiarity was an old smoking-jacket, out at the elbows, ragged at the cuffs, and frayed at the silk collar; hanway had never before seen a man wear a red coat, or such foot-gear as the slipshod embroidered velvet slippers in which he shuffled to a chair and sat down, tilted back, with his hands in the pockets of his gray trousers. to be sure, he could but be grave when testifying before a coroner's jury, but hanway was hardly prepared for such exuberant cheerfulness as his manner, his attire, and his face seemed to indicate. "ain't ye sorter lonesome over hyar?" he ventured. "you bet your sweet life i am," his host replied unequivocally. a shade crossed his face, and vanished in an instant. "but then," he argued, "i didn't have such a soft thing where i was. i was a clerk--that is, a bookkeeper--on a salary, and i had to work all day, and sometimes nearly all night!" he belittled his former vocation with airy contempt, as if he did not yearn for it with every fibre of his being,--its utility, its competence, its future. the recollection of the very feel of the fair smooth paper under his hand, the delicate hair-line chirography trailing off so fast from the swift pen, could wring a pang from him. he might even have esteemed an oath more binding sworn on a ledger than on the new testament. "and we were a small house, anyway, and the salary was no great shakes," he continued jauntily, to show how little he had to regret. "an' now ye ain't got nuthin' ter do but ter read yer book," said the mountaineer acquiescently, realizing, in spite of his clumsy mental processes, how the thorn pierced the bosom pressed against it. selwyn followed his guest's glance to the shelf of volumes with an unaffected indifference. "yes, but i don't care for it. i wish i did, since i have the time. but the liking for books has to be cultivated, like a taste for beer; they are both a deal too sedative for me!" the laugh that ensued was choked with a cough, and the tactless hanway was moved to expostulate. "i wonder ye ain't 'feared ter be hyar all by yerse'f hevin' the lung complaint." "why, man alive, i'm well, or so near it there's no use talking. i could go home to-morrow, except, as i have had the house built, i think i'd better stay the winter in it. but before the cold weather comes on they are going to send up a darky to look after me. i only hope _i_ won't have to wait on _him_,--awful lazy nigger! he used to be a porter of ours. loafing around these woods with a gun on his shoulder, pretending to hunt, will be just about his size. he's out of a job now, and comes cheap. i couldn't afford to pay him wages all the time, but winter is winter." he was silent a moment, gazing into the fire; then hanway, gloomily brooding and disturbed, for the conversation had impressed him much as if it had been post-mortem, so immediate seemed his companion's doom, felt selwyn's eye upon him, as if his sentiment were so obvious that the sense of sight had detected it. "you think i'm going to die up here all by myself. now i tell you, my good fellow, dying is the very last thing that i expect to do." he broke out laughing anew, and this time he did not cough. hanway could not at once cover his confusion. he looked frowningly down at the steam rising from his great cowhide boots, outstretched as they dried in the heat of the fire, and slowly shifted them one above the other. the flush on his sunburned cheek rose to the roots of his dark hair, and overspread his clumsy features. his appearance did not give token of any very great delicacy of feeling, but he regretted his transparency, and sought to nullify it. "not that," he said disingenuously; "but bein' all by yerse'f, i wonder ye ain't willin' fur the county road ter be put through. 't would run right by yer gate, an' ye could h'ist the winder an' talk to the folks passin'. ye wouldn't be lonely never." for the first time selwyn looked like a man of business. his eyes grew steady. his face was firm and serious and non-committal. he said nothing. hanway cleared his throat and crossed his legs anew. the thought of his true intention in coming hither, not his ostensible errand, had recurred more than once to his mind,--to lay bare the secret touching the visitor to selwyn's remote dwelling, whom he could not or would not identify; and if there were aught amiss, as the mountaineer suspected, to take such action thereupon as in the fullness of his own good judgment seemed fit. but since the man was evidently so sharp, hanway had hitherto feared even indirectly to trench upon it; here, however, the opening was so natural, so propitious, that he was fain to take advantage of it. "an' see," he resumed, "what dangers kem o' hevin' no road. that thar man what war killed las' month, ef we hed hed a reg'lar county road, worked on an' kep' open, stiddier this hyar herder's trail, this-a-way an' that, he could hev rid along ez free an' favored, an'"-- "why," selwyn broke in, "the testimony was to the effect that he was riding a young, skittish horse, which was startled by stray hogs breaking at a dead run through the bushes, and that the horse bolted and ran away. and the man died from concussion of the brain. that would have happened if we had had a road of the first class, twenty feet wide, instead of this little seven-foot freak you all are so mashed on." his face had not lost a tinge of its brilliant color. his animated eyes were still fired by that inward flame that was consuming his years, his days, even his minutes, it might seem. his hands, fine, white, and delicate, were thrust jauntily into the pockets of his red jacket, and hanway felt himself no nearer the heart of the mystery than before. the subject, evidently, was not avoided, held naught of menace. he went at it directly. "seems strange he war a-comin' ter visit you-uns, an' hed yer mail in his pocket, an' ye never seen him afore," he hazarded, "nor knowed who he war." "but i have found out since," selwyn said, his clear eyes resting on his visitor without the vestige of an affrighted thought. "he was mr. keith, a chemist from glaston; he was quite a notable authority on matters of physical science generally. i had written to him about--about some points of interest in the mountains, and as he was at leisure he concluded to come and investigate--and--take a holiday. he didn't let me know, and as i had never seen him i didn't at first even imagine it was he." there was a silence. selwyn's blue eyes dwelt on the fast-descending lines of rain that now blurred all view of the mountains; the globular drops here and there adhering to the pane, ever dissolving and ever renewed, obscured even the small privilege of a glimpse of the dooryard. the continual beat on the roof had the regularity and the tireless suggestion of machinery. "how did ye find out?" demanded hanway, his theory evaporating into thin air. "why, as he didn't reply to my letter about a matter of such importance"--he checked himself suddenly, then went on more slowly--"it occurred to me that he might have decided to come, and might have been the man who was killed. so i wrote to his brother. he had not been expected at home earlier. his brother doesn't incline to the foul-play theory. the horse he rode is a wild young animal that has run away two or three times. he had been warned repeatedly against riding that horse, but he thought him safe enough. the horse has returned home,--got there the day my letter was received. so the brother and an officer came and exhumed the body: he was buried, you know, after the inquest, over in the little graveyard yonder on the slope of the mountain." selwyn shivered slightly, and the fine white hands came out of the gaudy red pockets, and fastened the frogs beneath the lapels across his chest, to draw the smoking-jacket closer. "great scott! what a fate,--to be left in that desolate burying-ground! death is death, there." "death is death anywhar," said the mountaineer gloomily. "no. get you a mile or two of iron fence, and stone gates, and lots of sculptured marble angels around, and death is peace, or rest, or heaven, or paradise, according to your creed and the taste of the subject; but here you are done for and dead." hanway, in the limited experience of the mountaineer, could not follow the theory, and he forbore to press it further. "well," selwyn resumed, "they took him home, and i was glad to see him go. i was glad to see them filling that hole up. i took a pious interest in that. i should have felt it was waiting for me. i shoveled some of the earth back myself." the wind surged around the house, and shook the outer doors. the rain trampled on the roof like a squadron of cavalry. with his fate standing ever behind him, almost visibly looking over his shoulder, although he saw it not, the valley man was a pathetic object to the mountaineer. hanway's eyes were hot and burned as he looked at him; if he had been but a little younger, they might have held tears. but hanway had passed by several years his majority, and esteemed himself exempt from boyish softness. selwyn shook off the impression with a shiver, and bent forward to mend the fire. "where were you yesterday?" he asked, seeking a change of subject. "at home sowin' turnip seed, mos'ly. i never hearn nuthin' 'bout'n it all." selwyn threw himself back in his chair, his brow corrugated impatiently at this renewal of the theme, and in the emergency he even resorted to the much-mooted point of the thoroughfare. "i suppose all the family there are dead gone on that road?" he sought to make talk. "dad an' aunt m'nervy don't keer one way nor another, but my sister air plumb beset fur the jury of view to put it through." "why?" selwyn had a mental vision of some elderly, thrifty mountain dame with a long head turned toward the enhancement of the values of a league or so of mountain land. hanway, slow and tenacious of impressions, could not so readily rouse a vital interest in another subject. he still gazed with melancholy eyes at the fire, and his heart felt heavy and sore. "waal," he answered mechanically, "she 'lows she wants ter see the folks go up an' down, an' up an' down." selwyn's blue eyes opened. "folks?" he asked wonderingly. the rarest of apparitions on witch-face mountain were "folks." hanway roused himself slightly, and raucously cleared his throat to explain. "she 'lows thar'll be cornsider'ble passin'. folks, in the fall o' the year, mought be a-wagonin' of chestnuts over the mounting an' down ter colb'ry; an' thar's the quarterly court days; some attends, leastwise the jestices; an' whenst they hev preachin' in the cove; an' wunst in a while thar _mought_ be a camp-meetin'. she sets cornsider'ble store on lookin' at the folks ez will go up an' down." there was a swift movement in the pupils of the valley man's eyes. it was an expression closely correlated to laughter, but the muscles of his face were still, and he remained decorously grave. there was some thought in his mind that held him doubtful for a moment. his craft was cautious of its kind, and his manner was quite incidental as he said, "and the others of the family?" "thar ain't no others," returned hanway, stolidly unmarking. "oh, so you are the eldest?" "by five year. narcissa ain't more 'n jes' turned eighteen." the valley man's face was flushed more deeply still; his brilliant eyes were elated. "_narcissa!_" he cried, with the joy of delighted identification. "she is the girl, then, that testified at the inquest. _narcissa!_" hanway lifted his head, with a strong look of surly objection on his heavy features. selwyn noted it with a glow of growing anger. he felt that he had said naught amiss. people could not expect their sisters to escape attracting notice, especially a sister with a remarkable name and endowed with a face like this one's. "narcissa,--that's an odd name," he said, partly in bravado, and partly in justification of the propriety of his previous mention of her. "i knew a man once named narcissus. must be the feminine of narcissus. good name for her, though." the recollection of the white flower-like face, the corolla of red-gold hair, came over him. "looks just like 'em." hanway, albeit all alert now, descried in this naught more poetical than the fact that selwyn considered that his sister resembled a man of his acquaintance. as for that fairest of all spring flowers, it had never gladdened the backwoods range of his vision. the exclusive tendency of the human mind is tested by this discovery of a casual resemblance to a stranger. one invariably sustains an affront at its mention. whatever one's exterior may be, it possesses the unique merit of being one's own, and the aversion to share its traits with another, and that other a stranger, is universal. in this instance the objection was enhanced by the fact that the stranger was a man; _ergo_, in hanway's opinion, more or less clumsy and burly and ugly; the masculine type of his acquaintance presenting to his mind few of the superior elements of beauty. he resented the liberty the stranger took in resembling narcissa, and he resented still more selwyn's effrontery in discovering the likeness. "not ez much alike ez two black-eyed peas, now. i reckon not,--i reckon not," he sneered, as he rose to bring his visit to an end. his host's words of incipient surprise were checked as hanway slowly drew forth from his pocket a letter. "old man binney war at the cross-roads sad'day, an' he fotched up some mail fur the neighbors. he lef' this letter fur you-uns at our house, 'lowin' ez i would fetch it over." selwyn sat silent for a moment. he felt that severe reprehension and distrust which a man of business always manifests upon even the most trifling interference with his vested rights in his own mail matter. the rural method of aiding in distributing the mail was peculiarly unpalatable to him. he much preferred that his letters should lie in the post-office at the cross-roads until such time as it suited his convenience to saddle his horse and ride thither for them. the postmaster, on the contrary, seized the opportunity whenever responsible parties were "ridin' up inter the mounting" to entrust to them the neighborhood mail, thus expediting its delivery perhaps by three weeks, or even more, and receiving in every instance the benediction of his distant beneficiaries of the backwoods. "i'll write to the postmaster this very day!" selwyn thought, as he tore the envelope open and mastered its contents at a swift glance. a half-suppressed but delighted excitement shone suddenly in his eyes, and smoothed every line of agitation and anxiety from his brow. "i'm a thousand times obliged to you for bringing it," he exclaimed, "and for staying awhile and talking! i wish you would come again. but i'm coming to see you, to return your call." he laughed gayly at the sophisticated phrase. "coming soon." hanway's growl of pretended pleasure in the prospect was rendered nearly inarticulate by the thought of narcissa. he had not anticipated a return of the courtesy. he had no welcome for this stranger, and somehow he felt that he did not altogether understand narcissa at times; that she had flights of fancy which were beyond him, and took a mischievous pleasure in tantalizing him, and was freakish and hard to control. moreover, under the influence of this reaction of feeling, a modicum of his doubts of selwyn had revived. not that he suspected him, as heretofore, but a phrase that had earlier struck his attention came back to him. selwyn had written, he said, to the traveler to come and "investigate," and he had hesitated and chosen his phrases, and half discarded them, and slurred over his statement. what was there to "investigate" in the mountains? what prospect of profit worth a long, lonely journey and a risk that ended in death? the capture of moonshiners was said to be a paying business, and an informer also reaped a reward. hanway wondered if con hite could be the point of "investigation," if the dead man were indeed of the revenue force. "oh, you needn't shut the door on me," selwyn said, as they stood together in the passage, and hanway, with his instinct to cut him off, had made a motion to draw the door after him; "this mountain air is so bland, even when it is damp." he paused on the dripping threshold, with his hands in the pockets of his red jacket, and surveyed with smiling complacence the forlorn, weeping day, and the mountains cowering under their misty veil, and the sodden dooryard, and the wild rocks and chasms of the gorge, adown the trough of which a stream unknown to the dry weather was tumbling with a suggestion of flight and trouble and fear in its precipitancy. "i'm well, well as a bear; and i'm getting fat as a bear, doing nothing. feel my arm. i'm just following the example of the bears about this time of the year,--hibernating, going into winter quarters. i'm going to get this place into good shape to sell some day. i have bought that land over there all down the gorge from squire helm; and last july i bought all that slope at the tax sale, but that is subject to redemption; and then i am trying to buy in the rear of my wigwam, too,--a thousand acres." "ye kin sell it higher ef the road goes through," said hanway doubtfully. it seemed very odd that the man who protested that his stay in the mountains was so temporary, and whose stay in the world was evidently so short, should spend his obviously scanty substance in purchase after purchase of the worthless mountain wilderness. to be sure, the land was cheap, but it cost something. and hanway looked again at the frayed cuffs and elbows of the red smoking-jacket. in his infrequent visits to colbury, he had noted the variance of the men's costumes with the mountain standard of dress. he saw naught like this, but he knew that if ever the sober burghers lent themselves to this sort of fantastic toggery, it was certainly whole. "say, my friend, what day does the jury of view hold forth?" selwyn called out after the slouching figure, striped with the diagonal lines of rain and flouted by the wind, tramping across the weeds of the yard to his horse. "nex' chewsday week," hanway responded hoarsely. "well, if this weather holds out, it is to be hoped that the gentlemen of the jury are web-footed!" selwyn exclaimed. he shut the door, and as he went back to his lonely hearth his eyes fell upon the letter lying on the table. "now," he said as he took it again in his hand, "if fate should truly cut such a caper as to make my fortune in this forlorn exile, i could find it in my heart to laugh the longest and the loudest at the joke." vi. if it had been within the power of the worshipful quarterly county court to issue a mandamus to compel fair weather on that notable tuesday when the jury of view were to set forth, the god of day could scarcely have obeyed with more alacrity that peremptory writ once poetically ranked as "one of the flowers of the crown." the burnished yellow sunshine had a suggestion of joyous exuberance in its wide suffusions. even the recurrent fluctuations of shadow but gave its pervasive sheen the effect of motion and added embellishment. the wind, hilarious, loud, piping gayly a tuneful stave, shepherded the clouds in the fair fields of the high sky, driving the flocculent white masses here and there as listed a changing will. the trees were red and yellow, the leaves firm, full-fleshed, as if the ebbing sap of summer still ran high in every fibre; their tint seemed no hectic dying taint, but some inherent chromatic richness. fine avenues the eye might open amongst the rough brown boles that stood in dense ranks, preternaturally dark and distinct, washed by the recent rains, and thrown into prominence by the masses of yellow and red leaves carpeting the ground, and the red and yellow boughs hanging low above. they dispensed to the light, clarified air an aromatic richness that the lungs rejoiced to breathe, and all their flare of color might have seemed adequate illumination of their demesne without serving writs of mandamus on the sun; and indeed, the quarterly county court was fain to concern itself with far lesser matters, and wield slighter weapons. the jury of view, in a close squad, ambling along at an easy gait, mounted on nags as diverse in appearance, age, and manner as the riders, sufficiently expressed its authority and their own diligence in its behests, and their spirits had risen to the propitious aspect of the weather and the occasion. their advent into this secluded region of the district--for to secure a strict impartiality they were not of the immediate neighborhood, and had no interest which could be affected by their report--was not hailed with universal satisfaction. "jes' look at 'em, now," said old man binney, as he stood in his door, leaning on his stick, to watch them pass,--"a jury o' view. an' who ever viewed a jury a-horseback afore? an' thar ain't but seben on 'em!"--laboriously counting, "five, six, seben. thar's _twelve_ men on a sure enough jury! i counted the panel ez hung ezekiel tilbuts fur a-murderin' of his wife. i war thar in town whenst they fetched in thar verdic'. i dunno what the kentry be a-comin' ter! shucks! i ain't a-goin' ter abide by the say-so o' no sech skimpy jury ez this hyar. i'll go ter town an' see old lawyer gryce 'bout it, fust." and with this extremest threat of vengeance he brought his stick down on the floor with so vigorous a thump that it had a certain profane effect; then having from under his bushy gray eyebrows gazed at the diminishing group till it was but a dim speck in the distance, he went in muttering, banging the door as if to shut out and reject the sight. his objection might have been intensified had he known that the days were at hand when legislative wisdom would still further reduce this engine of the law, making it consist of one road commissioner and two freeholders, the trio still pridefully denominated a "jury of view." others, however, favoring the enterprise, cheerfully fell into the line of march; and as the way lengthened the cavalcade grew, mustering recruits as it went. disputatious voices suddenly sounded loud on the clear air in front of them, mingled with the thud of horses' hoofs, the jingle of spurs, and now and again the whinny of a colt; and at the intersection of the trail with a narrow winding path there rode into view old "persimmon" sneed,--as he was sometimes disrespectfully nicknamed, owing to a juvenile and voracious fondness for the most toothsome delicacy of autumn woods,--arguing loudly, and with a lordly intolerance of contradiction, with two men who accompanied him, while his sleek claybank mare also argued loudly with her colt. she had much ado to pace soberly forward, even under the coercion of whip and spur, while her madcap scion galloped wildly ahead or lagged far in the rear, and made now and then excursions into the woods, out of sight, to gratify some adolescent curiosity, or perhaps, after the fashion of other and human adolescents, to relish the spectacle of the maternal anxiety. ever and anon the sound of the mare's troubled call rang on the air. then the colt would come with a burst of speed, a turbulent rush, out of the underbrush, and, with its keen head-tones of a whinny, all funnily treble and out of tune, dash on in advance. the rider of this preoccupied steed was a grizzled, lank, thin-visaged mountaineer, with a tuft of beard on his chin, but a shaven jowl, where, however, the black-and-gray stubble of several days' avoidance of the razor put forth unabashed. he shook his finger impressively at the jury of view as he approached them. "ef ye put this hyar road through my land," he said solemnly, "i'll be teetotally ruinationed. the cattle-thievin' that'll go on, with the woods so open an' the road so convenient, an' yit no travel sca'cely, will be a scandal ter the jay-bird. i won't hev so much lef' ez the horn of a muley cow!" and with this extreme statement he whirled his horse and rode on at the head of the cavalcade in dignified silence. he was not a dweller in the immediate vicinity, but hailed from the cove,--a man of substance and a large cattle-owner, pasturing his herds, duly branded, on a tract of unfenced wilderness, his mountain lands, where they roamed in the safe solitudes of those deep seclusions during the summer, and were rounded up, well fattened, and driven home at the approach of winter. he was the typical man of convictions, one who entertains a serious belief that he possesses a governing conscience instead of an abiding delight in his own way. he had a keen eye, with an upward glance from under the brim of his big wool hat, and he looked alert to descry any encroachment on his vested rights to prescribe opinion. the jury of view were destined to find it a doubtful boon that the road law interposed no insurmountable obstacle to prevent their hearing thus informally the views of those interested. persimmon sneed's deep feeling on the subject had been evinced by his dispensing with the customary salutations, and one of the jury of view, with a mollifying intention, observed that they would use their best judgment to promote the interests of all parties. "ai-yi!" said persimmon sneed, ruefully shaking his head. "but s'pose ye hev got mighty pore jedgmint? ye'll be like mos' folks i know, ef ye hev. i'd ruther use my own best jedgmint, a sight." at which another of the jury suavely remarked that they would seek to be impartial. "that's jes' what i kem along fur," exclaimed persimmon sneed triumphantly,--"ter show ye edzac'ly whar the bull's eye be. thar ain't no use fur this road, an' ye air bound ter see it ef ye ain't nowise one-sided and partial." the jury relapsed into silence and rode steadily on. the true raw material of contradiction lay in three younger men among the spectators, contumacious, vehement, and, albeit opposed to the road, much inclined to spoke the wheel of old persimmon sneed, however that wheel might revolve. "i got caught on a jury in a criminal case with him wunst," silas boyd, a heavy, thick-set, tall young fellow with a belligerent eye and a portentously square jaw, said _sotto voce_ to his next comrade. "i hev sarved on a jury with him,--locked up fur a week 'thout no verdic'. he ain't got no respec' fur no other man's say-so. an' he talks 'bout _his_ oath ez ef he war the only man in tennessee ez ever war swore on the 'holy evangelists o' almighty gawd' in the court-house. he fairly stamped on my feelin's, in that jenkins case, ter make me agree with him; but i couldn't agree, an' it hung the jury, ez they say. i wisht they hed hung the foreman! by hokey, i despise a hard-headed, 'pinionated man." "look at his back," rejoined jeremiah sayres, a man of theory, who had a light undecided tint of hair and beard and scraggy mustache, and a blond complexion burned a permanent solid red by the summer sun. "i'd know his dispositions by his back." he waved his hand at the brown jeans coat that draped a spare and angular but singularly erect back, which scarcely seemed to move in response to the motions of the mare pacing briskly along. "what sorter back is that fur a man risin' fifty year old?--straight ez a ramrod, an' ez stiff. but, silas, ef ever ye git the better o' him, ye hev got ter break it." "i hearn his third wife married him ter git rid o' him," put in peter sims, given to gossip. "she 'lowed he warn't nigh so tarrifyin' 'roun' his own house, a-feedin' the peegs, an' ploughin' an' cuttin' wood, an' sech, _occupied somehows_, ez he war a-settin' up in his sunday best at her house, with nuthin' ter do, allowin' she _hed_ ter marry him, whether or not, 'kase he wouldn't hev 'no' fur a answer." "an' look at it now!" exclaimed silas boyd, unexpectedly reinforced by the matrimonial phase of the question. "that thar man hev bodaciously argued an' contradicted two wimmin out'n this vale o' tears. an' everybody knows it takes a power o' contradiction to out-do a woman. he oughter be indicted for cold-blooded murder! that's what!" he nodded vindictively at the straight jeans-clad back in advance of him. over and again the party called a halt, to push about in search of a practicable seven-foot passage amongst crags and chasms, and to contend with the various insistence touching devious ways preferred by the honorary attendants, who often seemed to forget that they themselves were not in the exercise of a delegated jury duty. tangles impeded, doubts beset them, although the axe by which the desired route had been blazed out aforetime by the petitioners had been zealous and active; but the part of a pioneer in a primeval wilderness is indeed the threading of a clueless labyrinth, and both sun and compass were consulted often before the continued direction of the road could be determined and located. in such cases, to the lovers of the consistent in character, the respective traits of old persimmon sneed and silas boyd were displayed in all their pristine value; for although their interests were identical, both being opposed to the opening of the road, the dictatorial arrogations of the elder man and the pugnacious persistence of the younger served to antagonize them on many a minor point in question, subsidiary to the main issue, as definitely as if they were each arrayed against the other, instead of both being in arms under the "no road" banner. "mighty nigh ez interestin' ez a dog-fight," said jeremiah sayres in an aside to one of the jury. midday found them considerably advanced on their way, but brought to a halt by an insistence on the part of silas boyd that the road should be diverted from a certain depression showing marshy tendencies to a rugged slope where the footing was dry but difficult. "that's under water more 'n haffen the winter, i'll take my everlastin' oath. ef the road runs thar, that piece will take enough mendin' in a season ter keep up ten mile o' dry road," he argued vehemently. "water ain't dangersome, nowise," retorted the elderly persimmon, with a snarling smile. "healthier 'n whiskey, my frien',--_heap_ healthier 'n whiskey." boyd's serious countenance colored darkly red with wrath. among the aggressive virtues of old persimmon sneed were certain whiskey-proof temperance principles, the recollection of which was peculiarly irritating to silas boyd, known to be more than ordinarily susceptible to proof whiskey. "i be a perfessin' baptis', mr. sneed," he retorted quickly. "i got no objection ter water, 'ceptin' fur the onregenerate an' spurners o' salvation." now persimmon sneed had argued the plan of atonement on every possible basis known to his extremely limited polemical outlook, and could agree with none. if any sect of eclectics had been within his reach, he would most joyfully have cast his spiritual fortunes with them, for he felt himself better than very many conspicuous christians; and as he would have joyed in a pose of sanctity, the reproach of being a member of no church touched him deeply. "i ain't no ransomed saint, i know," he vociferated,--"i ain't no ransomed saint! but ef the truth war known, ye ain't got no religion nuther! that leetle duckin' ez ye call 'immersion' jes' diluted the 'riginal sin in ye mighty leetle. ye air a toler'ble strong toddy o' iniquity yit. that thar water tempered the whiskey ye drink mighty leetle,--mighty leetle!" the christian grace of silas boyd was put to a stronger test than it might have been deemed capable of sustaining. but sneed was a far older man, and as nothing short of breaking his stiff neck might suffice to tame him, silas boyd summoned his self-control, and held his tingling hands, and gave himself only to retort. "i wouldn't take that off'n ye, mr. sneed, 'ceptin' i be a perfessin' member, an' pity them ez is still in the wiles an' delusions o' satan." what might have ensued in the nature of counterthrust, as persimmon sneed heard himself called by inference an object of pity, the subsidiary group were spared from learning, for at that moment the sound of steps heralded an approach, and ben hanway came into the circle, and sought to claim the attention of the party, inviting them to dine and pass the nooning hour at his house. his countenance was adjusted to the smile of hospitality, but it wore the expression like a mask, and he seemed ill at ease. he had been contending all the morning with narcissa's freakishness, which he thought intensified by the presence of the valley man, who was returning the civility of that ill-omened visit, and who, by reason of the abnormal excitements of the day, had been received with scant formality, and was already upon the footing of a familiar friend. selwyn stood smilingly in the way hard by, speaking to those of the men as they passed who gave his presence the meed of a start and a stare of blank surprise, or a curt nod. narcissa lingered in the background, beneath a great oak; her chin was a little lifted with a touch of displeasure; the eyelids drooped over her brown eyes; her hands, with her wonted careless gesture and with a certain mechanical effort to dispel embarrassment, were raised to the curtain of her white sunbonnet, and spread its folds wingwise behind her auburn hair. sundry acquaintances among the honorary attendants paused to greet her pleasantly as they passed, but old sneed's disapprobation of a woman's appearance on so public an occasion was plainly expressed on his features. for all the turks are not in turkey. she followed with frowning, disaffected eyes the procession of men and horses and dogs and colts wending up to the invisible house hidden amongst the full-leaved autumn woods. "well, that's the jury of view; and what do you think of them?" asked selwyn, watching too, but smilingly, the cavalcade. "some similar ter the cor'ner's jury. but _they_ hed suthin' ter look tormented an' tribulated 'bout," said the girl, evidently disappointed to find the jury of view not more cheerful of aspect. "but mebbe conversin' a passel by the way with old persimmon sneed is powerful depressin' ter the sperits." selwyn's face grew grave at the mention of the coroner's jury. "i'm afraid that poor fellow missed something good," he said. still holding out her sunbonnet in wide distention, she slowly set forth along the path, not even turning back, for sheer perversity, as she saw ben look anxiously over his shoulder to descry if she followed in the distance. "thar ain't much good in life nohow. things seem set contrariwise." then, after a moment, and turning her eyes upon him, for she had an almost personal interest in the man whose tragic fate she had first of all discovered, "what sorter good thing did he miss?" she asked, as she settled her sunbonnet soberly on her head. "well"--selwyn began; then he hesitated. he had spoken rather than thought, for he thought little, and he was not used to keeping secrets. moreover, despite his courageous disbelief in his coming fate, he must have had some yearnings for sympathy; the iron of his exile surely entered his soul at times. the girl, so delicately framed, so flower-like of face, seemed alien to her rude surroundings and the burly, heavy, matter-of-fact folk about her. her spirituelle presence did away in a measure with the realization of her limitations, her ignorance, and the uncouth surroundings. even her dress seemed to him hardly amiss, for there then reigned a fleeting metropolitan fashion of straight full flowing skirts and short waists and closely fitting sleeves,--a straining after picture-like effects which narcissa's attire accomplished without conscious effort, the costume of the mountain women for a hundred years or more. the sunbonnet itself was but the defensive appurtenance of many a southern city girl, when a-summering in the country, who esteems herself the possessor of a remarkably beautiful complexion, and heroically proposes to conserve it. unlike the men, narcissa's personality did not suggest the distance between them in sophistication, in culture, in refinement, in the small matters of external polish. she seemed not so far from his world, and it was long since he had walked fraternally by the side of some fair girl, and talked freely of himself, his views, his plans, his vagaries, as men, when very young, are wont to do, and as they rarely talk to one another. he had so sedulously sought to content himself with the conditions of his closing existence that the process of reconciling the habit of better things was lost in simple acceptance. he was still young, and the sun shone, and the air was clear and pure and soft, and he walked by the side of a girl, fair and good and not altogether unwise, and he was happy in the blessings vouchsafed. after a moment he replied: "well, i thought he might have made a lot of money. i thought i might go partners with him. i had written to him." her face did not change; it was still grave and solicitous within the white frame of her sunbonnet, but its expression did not deepen. she did not pity the dead man because he died without the money he had had a chance to make. she evidently had not even scant knowledge of that most absorbing passion, the love of gain, and she did not value money. "somehow whenst folks dies by accident, it 'pears ter me a mistake--somehows--ez ef they war choused out'n time what war laid off fur them an' their'n by right." evidently she did not lack sensibility. "yes," he rejoined, "and you know money makes a lot of difference in people's lives there in the valley towns. lord knows, 't would in mine." he swung his riding-whip dejectedly to and fro in his hand as he spoke, and she pushed back her sunbonnet to look seriously at him. he was a miracle of elegance in her estimation, but the fawn-colored suit which he wore owed its nattiness rather to his own symmetry than the cut or the cloth, and he had worn it a year ago. his immaculate linen, somewhat flabby,--for the mountain laundress is averse to starch,--had been delicately trimmed by a deft pair of scissors around the raveling edges of the cuffs and collar, and showed rather what it had been than what it was. his straw hat was pushed a trifle back from his face, in which the sunburn and the inward fire competed to lay on the tints. she did not see how nor what he lacked. still, if he wanted it, she pitied him that he did not have it. "waal, can't you-uns make it, the same way?" she asked this sympathetically. she was beginning to experience a certain self-reproach in regard to him, and it gave her unwonted gentleness. she felt that she had been too quick to suspect. since ben's report of the reconnoitring interview on which she had sent him in con hite's interest, she had dismissed the idea that selwyn was in aught concerned with the traveler's sudden and violent death; and she did not incline easily to the substituted suspicion that the dead man was a "revenuer," and that selwyn had written to him to recommend the investigation of con hite, whose implication in moonshining he had some cause to divine. narcissa had marked with displeasure ben's surly manner to the valley man, connecting it with these considerations, and never dreaming that it was her acquaintance which her brother grudged the stranger. "i ought never ter hev set ben after him," she thought ruefully. "he'll hang on ter him like a bulldog." but aloud she only said, "you kin make the money all the same." "oh, i'll try, like a little man!" he exclaimed, rousing himself to renewed hope. "i have written to another scientific fellow, and he has promised to come and investigate. i hope to heaven he won't break his neck, too." she also marked the word "investigate," which had so smitten ben's attention, and marveled what matter it might be in the mountains worth investigating, and promissory of gain, if not the still-hunt, as it were, of the wily moonshiners. but yet her faith in selwyn's motives and good will, so suddenly adopted, held fast. "con hite mus' l'arn ter look out fur hisse'f," she thought fretfully, for she could not discern into what disastrous swirl she might be guiding events as she took the helm. "he's big enough, the lord knows." the little log cabin on the slope of the ascent had come into sight. they had followed but slowly; the horses were already tethered to the rails of the fence, and the jury of view and its escort had disappeared within. a very spirited fracas was in progress between the visiting dogs and the inhospitable home canines, and once ben appeared in the passageway and hoarsely called his hounds off. "i ain't a-goin' ter hurry," narcissa remarked cavalierly. "let ben an' aunt minervy dish up an' wait on 'em. they won't miss me. thar's nuthin' in this worl' a gormandizin' man kin miss at meal-times,--'ceptin' teeth." selwyn made no comment on this touch of reprisal in narcissa's manner. if old persimmon sneed had deemed her coming forth to meet them superfluous, she in her own good judgment could deem her presence at table an empty show. "i ain't a-goin' in," she continued. "ye kin go," she added, with a hasty afterthought. "thar's a cheer sot ter the table fur you-uns. i'm goin' ter bide hyar. they 'll git done arter a while." she sat languidly down on a step of a stile that went over the fence at a considerable distance from the house, and selwyn, protesting that he wanted no dinner, established himself on the protruding roots of a great beech-tree that, like gigantic, knuckled, gnarled fingers, visibly took a great grasp of the earth before sinking their tips far out of sight beneath. the shade was dense; the sound of water trickling into the rude horse-trough on the opposite side of the path that was to be a road was delicious in its cool suggestion, for the landscape, far, far to see, blazed as with the refulgence of a summer sun. the odor of the apple orchard, heavily fruited, was mellow on the air, and the red-freighted boughs of an old winesap bent above the girl's head as she sat with her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. she gazed dreamily away at those vividly blue ranges, whither one might fancy summer had fled, so little affinity had their aspect with the network of intermediate brown valleys, and nearer garnet slopes, and the red and yellow oak boughs close at hand, hanging above the precipice and limiting the outlook. "yes," he said, after a moment's cogitation, while he absently turned a cluster of beech-nuts in his hands, "i'll try it, for keeps, you may bet,--if you were a betting character. there's lots of good things going in these mountains; that is, if a fellow had the money to get 'em out." he looked up a trifle drearily from under the brim of his straw hat at the smiling summertide of those blue mountains yonder. oh, fair and feigning prospect, what wide and alluring perspectives! he drew a long sigh. is it better to know so surely that winter is a-coming? "an' the sense, too," remarked narcissa, her eyes still dreamily dwelling on the distance. he roused himself. the unconsciously flattering inference was too slight not to be lawfully appropriated. "yes, the sense and the enterprise. now, these mountaineers,"--he spoke as if she had no part among them, forgetting it, indeed, for the moment,--"they let marble and silver and iron, and gold too, all sorts of natural wealth, millions and millions of the finest hard-wood timber, lie here undeveloped, without making the least effort to realize on it, without lifting a finger. they have got no enterprise in the world, and they are the most dilatory, slowest gang i ever ran across in my life." a dimple deepened in the soft fairness of her cheek under the white sunbonnet. "they got enterprise enough ter want a road," she drawled, fixing her eyes upon him for a moment, then reverting to her former outlook. he was a trifle embarrassed, and lost his balance. "oh, _i_'ll want a road, too, after a while," he returned. "all in good time." he laughed as if to himself, a touch of mystery in his tone, and he took off his hat and jauntily fanned himself. "sorter dil'tory yerse'f now; 'pears ter be a ketchin' complaint, like the measles." perhaps she secretly resented the reflection on the mountaineers, for there was a certain bellicose intention in her eye, a disposition to push him to his last defenses. "no; but a body would think a fellow might get enough intelligent coöperation in any promising matter from right around here without corresponding all over the country. and the mountaineers don't know anything, and they don't want to learn anything. now," convincingly, "what would any of those fellows in there say if i should tell them that i could take a match "--he pulled a handful of lucifers from, his pocket--"and set a spring afire?" she gazed at him in dumb surprise. "they'd say i was lying, i reckon," he hazarded. with an ebullition of laughter, he hastily scrambled to his feet and unhitched his horse; then, as he put his foot in the stirrup, he paused and added, "or else, 'better leave it be, sonny,'" with the effrontery of mimicry. "'mought set the mounting afire.'" he forthwith swung himself into the saddle, and, with a jaunty wave of the hand in adieu, fared forth homeward, leaving her staring after him in wide-eyed amazement. vii. the love of contention served, in the case of old persimmon sneed, in the stead of industry, of rectitude, of perseverance, of judgment, of every quality that should adorn a man. so eager was he to be off and at the road again that he could scarcely wait to swallow his refection. all the charms of the profusely spread board had not availed to decoy him from the subject, and the repast of the devoted jury of view was seasoned with his sage advice and vehement argument against the project, which its advocates, fully occupied, failed for the nonce to combat. now and again mrs. minerva slade sought to interpose in their behalf, and many a tempting trencher was thrust to his elbow to divert the tenor of his discourse. but despite his youthful vulnerability to the dainty which had won him his sobriquet, persimmon sneed's palate was not more susceptible to the allurements of flattery than his hard head or his obdurate heart. there was, however, at intervals, a lively clatter of his knife and fork, and some redoubtable activity on the part of his store teeth, frankly false, and without doubt the only false thing about him. then he hustled up the jury of view and their _confrères_ to the resumption of their duties, and was the first man to put foot in stirrup. certain other mountaineers would fain have lingered, as was manifest by the triangular slices of "apple custard pie" in their hands, as they stood, still munching, on the porch, watching the departing jury of view with their active and aged precursor, and by their loitering farewells and thanks to aunt minerva slade. a beaming countenance did she wear this day. she had cooked to some cheerful purpose. not one failure had marred the _menu_, in testimony of which, as she afterward remarked, "i never seen scraps so skimpy." her spectacles reflected the bland light of the day as smilingly as the eyes above which they were poised, as she stood in the doorway, and with fluttering graciousness received the homage of her beneficiaries. "that youngest one, con hite, was sorter mild-mannered an' meek," she afterward said, often recounting the culinary triumphs of the great day, "an' i misdoubts but he hed the deespepsy, fur he war the only one ez didn't pitch in an' eat like he war tryin' to pervide fur a week's fastin'. i reckon they all knowed what sort'n pitiful table they sets out at mis' cornely hood's, t'other side the mounting, whar they expected ter stop fur supper, an' war a-goin' ter lay up suthin' agin destitution." for an hour, perhaps, before reaching hanway's, con hite had ridden with the jury of view. he had not much expectation of influencing the fate of the road in any respect by his presence, but he felt it was a matter of consistency to appear with the others of the opposition. he desired, too, to publicly urge, as his reason for objecting to the project, the insufficiency of hands in so sparsely populated a region to make a road and keep it in repair; lest another reason, the wish to preserve the seclusion so dear to the moonshiner, be attributed to him. this matter of policy had been made very palatable by the probability that he would see narcissa, and it was with a deep disappointment that he beheld selwyn beside her, and received only a slight movement of her drooping eyelids as a token of recognition and welcome. he had been minded to dismount and walk with her, but his heart burned with resentment. of what worth now were all his buoyant anticipations, while she was listening to the sugared flatteries of the "town cuss"? he had this subject for cogitation, while, in a stifling room, he was regaled with hard cider and apple-jack by no more fascinating hebe than old mrs. slade, with her withered sallow skin, her excited, anxious eye, her fluttered, tremulous, skinny fingers, her hysteric cap with its maddeningly flying strings, and her wonderfully swift venerable scamper in and out of the kitchen. con hite was the last to go. he led his horse down to the watering-trough, oblivious of the stream, with its ample supply, a hundred yards or so further on and in full view; and as he stood there, with his hand on the animal's shoulder, he turned his eyes, somewhat wistful, though wont to be so bold and bright, upon narcissa, still seated on the stile. her own brown long-lashed eyes had a far-away look in them. they evidently passed him over absently, and followed the squad of men swiftly trotting adown the road, all in good heart and good temper again, to take up their duty where they had laid it down. no faint vestige of a dimple was now in her daintily white cheek. "ye be powerful sparin' o' speech ter-day," he remarked. her eyes did not move from the distant landscape. "folks ez hev got nuthin' ter say would do well ter say it." he flushed. "ye hed mo' ter say ter the stranger-man." "don't see him so powerful frequent. when a thing is sca'ce, it's apt ter be ch'ice," she retorted. she experienced a certain satisfaction in her acridity. for his sake, lest suspicion befall him, she had sought to inaugurate an investigation--nay, a persecution--of this man, and he a stranger; and but that circumstance was kind to him, her effort might have resulted cruelly. and now that she had done so much for con hite, it was her pleasure to take it out on him, as the phrase goes. all unaware of this curious mental attitude, he winced under her satire. "waal, i kin make myself sca'ce, too," he said, an impulse of pride surging in his heart. "it mought be better fur ye," she replied indifferently. his momentary independence left him suddenly. "narcissa," he said reproachfully, "ye didn't always talk this way ter me." "that ain't news ter me. ben 'lows ez i talk six ways fur sunday." "ye dunno how i feel, not knowin' how ye be set towards me, an' hevin' ter see ye so seldom, a-workin' all the time down yander, a-moonshinin'"-- "i wouldn't talk 'bout it so turr'ble loud." she glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. "an' ye'd better quit it, ennyhows." "ye 'lows it be wrong," he said, his bold bright eyes all softened as he looked at her, "bein' agin the law?" "i ain't keerin' fur the law. ef the truth war knowed, the law is aimin' ter git all the benefit o' whiskey bein' drunk itself. that's whar the law kems in. i only keer fur"--she stopped abruptly. she had nearly revealed to him that she cared only lest some disaster come to him in his risky occupation; that she would like him to be ploughing in a safe level field at the side of a cabin, where she might sit by the window and sew, and look out and see that no harm befell this big bold man, six feet two inches high. "con hite!" she exclaimed, her face scarlet, "i never see a body ez hard-hearted an' onmerciful ez ye air. whyn't ye water that sufferin' beast, ez air fairly honing ter drink? waal," she continued, after a pause in which he demonstrated the axiom that one may lead a horse to water, but cannot make him drink, "then whyn't ye go? i ain't got time ter waste, ef ye hev." she rose as if for departure, and he put his foot in the stirrup. "i wish ye wouldn't be so harsh ter me, narcissa," he said meekly. "waal, thar be a heap o' saaft-spoken gals ter be hed fur the askin'. ye kin take yer ch'ice." and with this he was fain to be content, as he mounted and rode reluctantly away. she sat down again, and was still for a long time after the last echo of his horse's hoofs had died on the air. her thoughts did not follow him, however. they turned again with renewed interest to the fair-haired young stranger. somehow she was ill at ease and vaguely disillusioned. she watched mechanically, and with some unaccustomed touch of melancholy, the burnished shimmering golden haze gradually invest far blue domes and their purple slopes, and the brown valleys, and the rugged rocky mountains nearer, with a certain idealized slumberous effect like the landscape of a dream. in these still spaces naught moved now save the imperceptible lengthening of the shadows. it had never occurred to her to deem the scene beautiful; it was the familiar furniture of her home. upon this her eyes had first opened. she had never thought to compare it to aught else,--to the suffocating experience of one visit to the metropolitan glories of the little town in the flat woods known as colbury. it had seemed, indeed, magnificent to her ignorance, and the temerity of the architecture of a two-story house had struck her aghast. she had done naught but wonder and stare. the trip had been a great delight, but she had never desired to linger or to dwell there. certain sordid effects came over her; reminiscences of the muddy streets, the tawdry shops, the jostling, busy-eyed people. "ain't this ez good?" she said to herself, as the vast scene suddenly fluctuated beneath a flare of wind amidst the sunshine, and light, detached white flakes of cloud went winging athwart the blue sky; their shadows followed them fast across the sunlit valley,--only their dark and lifeless semblances, like the verbal forms of some white illumined thought that can find no fit expression in words. the breath of the pines came to her, the sound of the water, the sudden fanfare of the unseen wind in the sky heralding the clouds. "ain't this ez good?" she said again, with that first deadly, subtle distrust of the things of home, that insidious discontent so fatal to peace. he evidently did not deem it as good, and the obvious fact rankled in her. the mountain men, and their lack of enterprise, and their drawling speech which he had mimicked,--they too shared his disparagement; and she was conscious that she herself did not now think so well of them,--so conscious that she made a loyal struggle against this sentiment. "so shif'less, so thrif'less," she echoed his words. "an' i dunno ez _i_ ever viewed a waste-fuller critter'n this hyar very mister man." she stooped down, gathering together the handful of matches that selwyn had inadvertently pulled from his pocket with the one which he had used in illustrating his suggestion of setting the waters of a spring afire. "ef he keeps on ez wasteful ez this, he'll get out o' matches whar he lives over yander; an' i misdoubts ef, smart ez he 'lows he be, he could kindle the wood ter cook his breakfus' by a flint rock,--ef he air so boastful ez ter 'low ez he kin set spring water afire." she made the matches into a compact little budget and slipped them into her pocket, and as she rose and looked about uncertainly, she heard her aunt minerva calling to her from the house that it was high time to go and drive up the cows. aunt minerva had not bethought herself to summon the girl to dinner. the whole world seemed surfeited to her, so had dinner occupied her day. narcissa herself, under the stress of the abnormal excitements, felt no lack as she slowly trod the familiar paths in search of the bovine vagrants. her thoughts bore her company, and she was far from home when the aspect of the reddening sun smote her senses. she stood and watched the last segment of the vermilion sphere sink down out of sight, and, as she turned, the october dusk greeted her on every side. the shadows, how dense in the woods; the valleys, darkling already! only on the higher eastern slopes a certain red reflection spoke of the vanishing day. she looked vainly as yet for some faint silvery suffusion which might herald the rising of the moon; for it was to be a bright night. she was glad of the recollection. she had not hitherto realized it, but she was tired. she would rest for a little while, and thus refreshed she would be the sooner home. she sat down on a ledge of the outcropping rock and looked about her. the spot was unfamiliar, but in the far stretch of the darkening scene she identified many a well-known landmark. there was the gleaming bend of the river in the valley, lost presently amidst the foliage of its banks; and here was an isolated conical peak on a far lower level than the summit of the range, and known as thimble mountain; and nearer still, across a narrow bight of the cove, was a bare slope. as she glanced at it she half rose from her place, for there was the witch-face, twilight on the grim features, yet with the aid of memory so definitely discerned that they could hardly have been more distinct by noonday,--a face of inexplicably sinister omen. "oh, why did i see it to-day!" she exclaimed, the presage of ill fortune strong upon her, with that grisly mask leering at her from across the valley. but the day was well-nigh gone; only a scant space remained in which to work the evil intent of fate. she seated herself anew, for in the shadowy labyrinth of the woods her path could scarcely be found. she must needs wait for the moon. she wondered, as she sat and gazed about, how far she might be from that new dwelling where he lived who so scorned the mountain, and who owed to it his every breath. there was no sound, no suggestion of human habitation. the shadowy woods stood dense about the little open ledgy space on three sides; toward the very verge of the mountain the rocks grew shelving and precipitous, and beyond the furthest which she could see, the gray edge of which cut sharply against the base of a distant dun-tinted range, she knew the descent was abrupt to the depths of the valley. looking up, she beheld the trembling lucid whiteness of a star; now and again the great rustling boughs of an oak-tree swayed beneath it, and then its glister was broken and deflected amidst the crisp autumnal leaves, but still she saw it shine. it told, too, that there was water near; she caught its radiant multiplied reflection, like a cluster of scintillating white gems, on the lustrous dark surface of a tiny pool, circular and rock-bound, close beneath the ledge on which she sat. she leaned over, and saw in its depths the limpid fading red sky, and the jagged brown border of the rocks, and a grotesque moving head, which she recognized, after a plunge of the heart, as her own sunbonnet. she drew back in dismay; she would have no more of this weird mirror of the rocks and woods, and looked up again at the shining of the star amidst the darkening shadows of the scarlet oak. how tall that tree was, how broad of girth! and how curiously this stranger talked! what was there to do with all these trees! would he cut down all the trees on the mountain? a sudden doubt of his sanity crossed her mind. it was the first, and her heart stood still for a moment. but as she slowly canvassed the idea, it accounted for much otherwise impossible to comprehend: his evident poverty and his efforts toward the purchase of lands; his illness and his bluff insistence on his strength; his wild talk of enterprise and his mysterious intimations of phenomenal opportunities. confirmations of the suspicion crowded upon her; above all, the mad boast that with a match he could set the waters of a spring afire. with a sad smile at the fatuity of the thing, in her idle waiting she drew one of his matches from her pocket; then she struck it briskly on the rugged rock, and cast it, blazing lightly, into the bubbling waters of the spring. the woods, the rocks, the black night, the fleering, flouting witch-face, all with an abrupt bound sprang into sudden visibility. a pyramid of yellow flame was surging up from the bubbling surface of the water. long, dark, slim shadows were speeding through the woods, with strange slants of yellow light; the very skies were a-flicker. she cowered back for a moment, covering her face with her hands. then, affrighted at her own sorceries, she fled like a deer through the wilderness. viii. one by one, as the afternoon wore on, the spectators began to desert the jury of view, their progress over the mountain being slower than had been anticipated. so often, indeed, did insoluble difficulties arise touching the location of the road and questions of dispute that it might be wondered that the whole body did not perish by faction. after the party had passed the boundary line of persimmon sneed's tract, where he seemed to consider the right of eminent domain merged in nothingness in comparison to his lordly prerogatives as owner in fee simple, he ceased to urge as heretofore. he dictated boldly to the jury. he rode briskly on in advance, as if doing the honors of his estate to flattered guests, now and again waving his hand to illustrate his proposition, his keen, high-pitched voice overcoming in its distinct utterance the sound of hoofs and spurs, and the monotonous bass contradictions proffered by silas boyd. and the jury of view, silent and circumspect, rode discreetly on. persimmon sneed's mare seemed as fresh as himself, and when he would turn, as he often did, to face the fatigued, wilted, overwhelmed jury jogging along on their jaded steeds, tired out with the long day's jaunt and the rough footing, the mare would move swiftly backward in a manner that would have done credit to the manege of a circus. and at this extreme advantage persimmon sneed and his raised adjuring forefinger seemed impossible to be gainsaid. his arguments partook of the same unanswerable character. "ye don't see none o' my cattle, do ye?" he waved his hand toward the woods flecked with the long slantings of the sun. "i hev got more 'n a hunderd head grazin' right hyar in the bresh. cattle-thieves could call an' salt 'em easy enough, but they couldn't drive 'em off through the laur'l thar; it's thick ez hell!" pointing to the dense jungle. "but ef we-uns hed this hyar road what ye air aimin' ter lay off, why, a leetle salt an' a leetle drivin' an' a moonlight night would gather 'em, an' the whole herd would be in georgy by daybreak. i wouldn't hev the hawn of a muley cow lef'. now, ez it be, them cattle air ez safe from sight ez ef i hed swallowed 'em!" and he whirled again, and led the column. the jury of view rode disconsolately on. they experienced a temporary relief when they had passed the confines of his tract,--for it was across but a protruding tongue of the main body of his land that the road was expected to run,--and entered upon the domain of the "valley man with the lung complaint;" for this diverted persimmon sneed to the more amiable task of narrating how the stranger had sought to buy land of him, and the high prices he had scornfully refused, the adaptability of his land to his own especial needs being so phenomenally apt. a sudden query from silas boyd rendered their respite short: "what's that man selwyn want so much land fur, ennyhows? he hev been tryin' ter buy all that 'crost the gorge, too." he waved his hand toward the gloomy woods darkening on the opposite slope. "ter graze cattle, o' course," promptly surmised persimmon sneed. "jes' look at my fine chance o' yearlin's, a-layin' on fat an' bone an' muscle every day, with no expense nor attendance, an' safe an' sound an' sure. an' now," he cried suddenly, and the shuddering jury saw the collocation of ideas as it bore down upon them, and persimmon sneed swiftly turned, facing them, while the mare nimbly essayed a _passado_ backward, "ye air talkin' 'bout changin' all this, ruinationin' the vally o' my land ter me. ye 'low ye want ter permote the interus' o' the public! waal," raising an impressive forefinger, "ain't _i_ the public?" no one ventured a reply. the jury of view rode desperately on. they had presently more cause for depression of spirit. it began to be evident that with the dusk some doubt had arisen in the minds of the mountaineers of the party as to the exact trend of the herder's trail. the doubt intensified, until further progress proved definitively that the indistinct trail was completely lost. darkness came on apace; the tangled ways of the forest seemed momently more tortuous; wolves were not rare in the vicinity; rumors of a gang of horse-thieves were rife. after much discussion, the jury of view agreed that they would go no further at present, but wait for the rising of the moon, on the theory that it would then be practicable to make their way to the hood cabin, on the other side of the mountain, which was their immediate goal, and which they had expected to reach by sunset; unaware that in their devious turnings they had retraced several miles of their course, and were now much nearer selwyn's dwelling in the woods than the terminus of their route. despite their uncertainty and anxiety, the rest was grateful. the shades of night were cool and refreshing after the glare of the day, as they sat smoking on the rocks about the verge of the mountain. the horses had been unsaddled, and were picketed in an open glade at a little distance: in recurrent pauses in the talk, the sound of their grazing on the scanty grass came to the ear; all else was silence save the tinkling of a mountain rill,--a keen detached appoggiatura rising occasionally above the monody of its murmurous flow,--and the melancholy chiming of some lingering cicada, the latest spared of the frost. the night was as yet very dark; the stars were dull in a haze, the valley was a vague blur; even the faces of the men could not be dimly distinguished. strange, then, that an added visibility suddenly invested the woods and the sky-line beyond a dense belt of timber. "'pears ter me toler'ble early fur the moon," observed one of the men. "she's on the wane now, too." "'tain't early, though," replied the sullen bass voice of silas boyd from the darkness; it was lowered, that the others might not hear. "that thar old perverted philistine of a persimmon sneed kep' us danderin' roun' hyar till mighty nigh eight o'clock, i'll bet, a-persistin' an' a-persistin' he knowed the road, when he war plumb lost time we got on that cowpath. an' the jury o' view, they hed ter take persimmon sneed's advice, he bein' the oldest, an' wait _hyar_ fur the risin' moon. persimmon sneed will repent he picked out this spot,--he'll repent it sure!" this dictum was only the redundancy of discontent; but when, in the light of subsequent events, it was remembered, and special gifts of discernment were attributed to silas boyd, he did not disclaim them, for he felt that his words were surely inspired by some presentiment, so apt were they, and so swiftly did the fulfillment follow the prophecy. there was a sudden stir among the group. the men were getting quickly to their feet, alert, tense, with broken whispers and bated breath. for there, on a bare slope, viewed diagonally across the gorge and illumined with a wavering pallor, the witch-face glared down at them from the dense darkness of the woods. the quick chilly repulsion of the strangers as they gazed spellbound at the apparition was outmatched by the horror of those who had known the fantasy from childhood;--never thus had they beheld the gaunt old face! what strange unhallowed mystery was this, that it should smile and grimace and mock at them from out the shadowy night, with flickers of light as of laughter running athwart its grisly lineaments? what evil might it portend? they all stood aghast, watching this pallid emblazonment of the deep night. "boys," said old dent kirby tremulously, "thar's suthin' powerful cur'ous 'bout this 'speriunce. that thar light war never kindled in heaven or yearth." "let's go!" cried jeremiah sayres. "we hev got ter git out'n this somehows." "go whar?" croaked silas boyd, his deep bass voice lowered to a whisper. "i be 'feard ter quit the trail furder. 'pinnock's mis'ry' be hyar-abouts somewhar, a plumb quicksand, what a man got into an' floundered an' sank, an' floundered agin, an' whenst they fund him his hair war white an' his mind deranged. or else we-uns mought run off'n a bluff somewhar, an' git our necks bruk." now persimmon sneed was possessed of a most intrusive curiosity, and he was further endowed with a sturdy courage. "i'll jes' step off a leetle way to'des that light, an' view whar it kems from," he observed coolly. "the woods air too wet to burn." he would not listen to protest. "the witch-face ain't never blighted me none," he rejoined stoutly as he set forth. ix. the thick tangled mass of the undergrowth presently intervened, so that, as he broke his way through it, he wondered that its bosky dimness should be so visible beneath the heavy shadows of the great trees looming high overhead. once he stopped dubiously; the glow evidently came rather from below than above. it is too much to say that a thrill of fear tried the fibres of persimmon sneed's obdurate old heart. but he listened for a moment to hear, perchance, the sound of voices from the group he had left, or the champing of the picketed steeds. he was an active man, and had come fast and far since quitting his companions. not even a vague murmur rose from the silent autumnal woods. the stillness was absolute. as he moved forward once more, the impact of his foot upon the rain-soaked leaves, the rustle of the boughs as he pressed among them, the rise and fall of his own breathing, somewhat quicker than its wont, served to render appreciable to persimmon sneed the fact that he possessed nerves which were more susceptible to a quaver of doubt than that redoubtable endowment called his hard head. "somebody hev jes' sot out fire in the woods,--though powerful wet," he muttered, his intellectual entity seeking to quiet that inward flutter of his mere bodily being. "but i'm a-goin' on," he protested obstinately, "ef it be bodaciously kindled by the devil!" and as he spoke, his heart failed, his limbs seemed sinking beneath him, his pulses beat tumultuously for a moment, and then were abruptly still; he had emerged from the woods in a great flickering glare which pervaded an open, rocky space shelving to a precipice, and beheld a tall, glowing yellow flame rising unquenched from the illuminated surface of a bubbling mountain spring. his senses reeled; a myriad of tawny red and yellow flashes swayed before his dazzled eyes. he had heard all his life of the wild freaks of the witches in the woods. had he chanced on their unhallowed pastimes in the solitudes of these untrodden mountain wildernesses? was this miraculous fire, blazing from the depths of the clear water, necromancy, the work of the devil? the next moment his heart gave a great throb. he found his voice in a wild halloo. among the fluttering shadows of the trees he had caught sight of the figure of a man, and, a thousand times better, of a face that he knew. the man was approaching the fire, with a stare of blank amazement and fear as his distended eyes beheld the phenomenon of the blazing spring. their expression changed instantly upon the sound. his face was all at once alert, grave, suspicious, a prosaic anxiety obliterating every trace of superstitious terror. his right hand was laid upon his hip in close proximity to a pistol-pocket, and persimmon sneed remembered suddenly that his own pistol was in its holster on his saddle, he could not say how far distant in these wild, trackless woods, and that this man was a notorious offender against the law, sundry warrants for his arrest for horse-stealing having been issued at divers times and places. there had been much talk of an organized band who had assisted in these and similar exploits in secluded districts of the county, but persimmon sneed had given it scant credence until he beheld several armed men lagging in the rear, their amazed, uncouth faces, under their broad-brimmed hats, all weird and unnatural in the pervasive yellow glow. they had, evidently, been led to the spot by the strange flare in the heart of the woods; but nick peters could well enough pretermit his surprise and whatever spiritual terrors might assail him till a more convenient season for their indulgence. a more immediate danger menaced him than the bodily appearance of the devil, which he had momently expected as he gazed at the flaming water. he had seen the others of his own party approaching, and he walked quickly across the clear space to persimmon sneed. he was a little, slim, wiry man, with light, sleek hair, pink cheeks, high cheek-bones, and a bony but blunt nose. he had a light eye, gray, shallow, but inscrutable, and there was something feline in his aspect and glance, at once smooth and caressing and of latent fierceness. "why, mr. persimmon sneed," he exclaimed in a voice as bland as a summer's day, "how did you-uns an' yer frien's do sech ez that?" and he pointed at the flaring pyramid on the surface of the water. persimmon sneed, in his proclivity to argument, forgot his lack of a pistol and his difficult position, unarmed and alone. "i'll hev ye ter remember i hev no dealin's with the devil. i dunno how that water war set afire, nor my friends nuther," he said stiffly. "whar air they?" nick peters's keen, discerning eye had been covertly scanning the flickering shadows and the fluctuating slants of yellow light about them. now he boldly threw his glance over his shoulder. persimmon sneed caught himself sharply. "they ain't hyar-abouts," he said gruffly, on his guard once more. a look of apprehension crossed the horse-thief's face. the denial was in the nature of an affirmation to his alert suspicion; for it is one of the woes of the wicked that, knowing no truth themselves, they cannot recognize it in others, even in a transient way, as a chance acquaintance. he must needs have heed. a number of men, doubtless, well armed, were in the immediate vicinity. as he whirled himself lightly half around on his spurred heel, his manner did not conform to his look. "did you-uns an' them kem all the way from the valley ter view the blazin' spring?" he asked. "looks some like hell-fire," he added incidentally, and with the tone of one familiar with the resemblance he descried. "naw; we-uns never hearn on it afore; i jes' run on it accidental," sneed replied succinctly, hardly daring to trust himself to an unnecessary word; for the staring men that had gathered at a respectful distance about the blazing spring numbered nine or ten, and an ill-advised tongue might precipitate an immediate attack on the dismounted, unarmed group awaiting his return at the verge of the bluff. a genuine thrill of terror shook him as he realized that at any moment he might be followed by men as ill prepared as he to cope with the horse-thief's gang. "i see ye rid," said nick peters, observing his acquaintance's spurs. "yer frien's rid, too, i s'pose?" persimmon sneed, desirous of seeming unsuspicious, merely nodded. he seemed as suspicious, in fact, as watchful, as stanch, as ready to spring, as a leopard in a cage. his thin lips were set, his alert eyes keen, his unshaven, stubbly jaws rigid, his whole body at a high tension. the man of quicker perceptions was first to drop the transparent feint, but only to assume another. "now, mr. sneed," he said, with an air of reproach and upbraiding, "do ye mean ter tell me ez ye hev kem up hyar with the sheriff or dep'ty ter nose me out; me, who hev got no home,--folks burned my house ter the yearth, namin' _me_ 'horse-thief' an' sech,--nor frien's, nor means, nor havin's, plumb run ter groun' like a fox or sech?" "ef ye did"--said a gigantic ruffian who had come up, backed by a shadow twice his size, and stood assisting at the colloquy, looking over the shoulder of his wiry little chief. he left the sentence unfinished, a significant gesture toward the handle of the pistol in his belt rendering the omission of slight moment. "some o' them boys war wondering ef that fire out'n the water would burn," observed a fat, greasy, broad-faced lout, with a foolish, brutal grin. "it mought make out ter singe this stranger's hair an' hide, ef we war ter gin him a duckin' thar." "air ye a-huntin' of me, too, mr. sneed,--ye that war 'quainted with me in the old times on tomahawk creek?" peters reiterated his demand in a plaintive, melodramatic tone, which titillated his fancy, somehow, and, like virtue, was its own exceeding great reward; for both he and persimmon sneed knew right well that their acquaintance amounted only to a mere facial recognition when they had chanced to pass on the country road or the village street, years before. nevertheless, under the pressure of the inherent persuasiveness of the suggested retribution, persimmon sneed made haste to aver that his errand in the mountains was in no sense at the sheriff's instance. and so radical and indubitable were his protestations that nick peters was constrained to discard this fear, and demand, "what brung ye ter witch-face mounting then, mr. sneed?" "waal, some fellows war app'inted by the county court ter view the road an' report on it," said persimmon, "an' i kem along ter see how it mought affect my interust." how far away, how long ago, how infinitely unimportant, seemed all those convolutions of trail and argument in which he had expended the finest flowers of his contradictory faculties, the stanch immobility of his obstinacy, his unswerving singleness of purpose in seeing only one side of a question, this afternoon, a few short hours since! the mutability of the affairs of the most immutable of human beings! this reflection was cut short by observing the stare of blank amazement on nick peters's face. "road!" he said. "thar ain't no road." "they air app'inted ter lay out an' report on openin' one," explained persimmon sneed. evidently nick peters's experience of the law was in its criminal rather than in its civil phases, but the surprise died out of his face, and he presently said, with a beguiling air of frankness, "now, mr. sneed, ye see this happens right in my way of trade. jes' tell me whar them loafers air, an' how many horses they hev got along, an' i'll gin ye the bes' beastis i hev got ter ride, an' a pair o' shootin'-irons and set ye in the valley road on the way home. ye kin say ye war lost from them." it is true that in this moment persimmon sneed remembered each of his contumacious comrades, and saw that they outnumbered by one the horse-thief's gang; he realized that they were out of leading-strings, and amply capable of taking care of themselves. he had that wincing terror which an unarmed man experiences at the sight of "shootin'-irons" in the grasp of other and antagonistic men. more than all, he looked at those hell-lighted flames, as he esteemed them, rising out of the lustrous water, and believed the jocose barbarity of the threat of the brutal henchman might be serious earnest in its execution. but the jury of view and their companions were all unprepared for molestation in such wise as menaced them. he reflected anew upon their dismounted condition, the horses hitched at a distance, the saddles scattered on the ground in the darkness, with the holsters buckled to them and the pistols within. a sudden attack meant a successful robbery and perchance bloodshed. "i'll die fust!" he said loudly, and he had never looked more painfully obstinate. "i'll die fust!" he lifted his quivering hand and shook it passionately in the air. "i ain't no ransomed saint, an' i know it, but afore i'll betray that thar jury o' view what's been app'inted by the county court ter lay off the damned road, i'll die fust! i ain't no ransomed saint, i ain't, but i'll _die_ fust! i ain't no ransomed"-- "stop, boys, stop!" cried the wiry little horse-thief, as the others gathered about sneed with threatening eyes and gestures, while he vociferated amongst them, as lordly as if he were in his oft-time preëminence as the foreman of a jury. nick peters's face had changed. there was a sudden fear upon it, uncomprehended by persimmon sneed. it did not occur to him until long afterward that he had for the first time used the expression "a jury of view," and that the horse-thief's familiarity with the idea of a jury was only in the sense of twelve men. peters spoke aside to the others, only a word or so, but there was amongst them an obvious haste to get away, of which persimmon sneed was cognizant, albeit his head was swimming, his breath short, his eyes dazzled by the fire which he feared. his understanding, however, was blunted in some sort, it seemed to him, for he could make no sense of nick peters's observation as he took him by the arm, although afterward it became plain enough. "ye'll hev ter go an' 'bide along o' we-uns fur awhile, mr. sneed," he said, choking with the laughter of some occult happy thought. "ye ain't a ransomed saint yit, but ye will be arter awhile, i reckon, ef ye live long enough." their shadows skulked away as swiftly as they themselves, even more furtively, running on ahead, in great haste to be gone. the fire-light slanted through the woods in quick, elusive fluctuations, ever dimmer, ever recurrently flaring, and when the jury of view and their companions, alarmed by the long absence of persimmon sneed, followed the strange light through the woods to the brink of the burning spring, they found naught astir save the vagrant shadows of the great boles of the trees, no longer held to their accustomed orbit, but wandering through the woods with a large freedom. that this fire, blazing brilliantly on the surface of the clear spring water, was kindled by supernatural power was not for a moment doubted by the mountaineers who had never before heard of such a phenomenon, and the spiriting away of persimmon sneed they promptly ascribed to the same agency. with these thoughts upon them, they did not linger long at the spot where he had met so mysterious a fate. their ringing halloos, with which the woods were enlivened, took on vaguely appalled cadences; the echoes came back to them like mocking shouts; and they were glad enough to ride away at last through the quiet moonlit glades, their faltering voices silent, leaving that mystic fire slowly dying where it had blazed so long on the face of the water. * * * * * a more extended search, later, resulting as fruitlessly, the idea that persimmon sneed had been in some way lured bodily within the grasp of the devil prevailed among the more ignorant people of the community; they dolorously sought to point the moral how ill the headstrong fare, and speculated gloomily as to the topic on which he had ventured to argue with satan, who in rage and retaliation had whisked him away. but there was a class of citizens in colbury who hearkened with elated sentiments to this story of the burning spring. a company of capitalists was promptly organized, every inch of attainable land on the mountain was quietly bought, and machinery for boring for oil was already at the spring when the news was brought to selwyn by hanway, who, not having seen the young stranger for the past week or so, feared he was ill. the flakes of the first snow of the season were whirling past the windows--no more on autumn leaves they looked, no more on far-off bare but azure mountains, feigning summer. the distant ranges were ghostly white. the skeleton woods near at hand were stark and black, and trembled with sudden starts, and strove wildly with the winds, and were held in an inexorable fate, and cried and groaned aloud. hanway was right in his surmise, for selwyn was ill, and lay on the lounge wheeled up to the fire. his cheeks seemed still touched with color, the reflection from the ragged red smoking-jacket which he wore, but a sort of smitten pallid doom was on his brow and in his eyes. his gaze dwelt insistently on the doctor, the tall, thin practitioner of the surrounding country, who had just finished an examination and was slowly returning his spectacles to their case as he stood before the fire. it seemed as if the patient expected him to speak, but he said nothing, and looked down gravely into the red coals. then it was that hanway narrated the sensation of the neighborhood. it roused selwyn to a frenzy of excitement; his disjointed, despairing exclamations, in annotation, as it were, of the story, disclosed his own discovery of the oil, his endeavors to secure the opinion of an expert as to its value, his efforts to buy up the land, his reasons for opposing the premature opening of a road which might reveal the presence of the oil springs, when the law discriminating in favor of oil works and similar interests would later make the way thither a public thoroughfare at all events. he cried out upon his hard fate, when money might mean life to him; upon the bitter dispensation of the mysterious kindling of those hidden secluded waters to blazon his secret to the world, to enrich others through his discovery which should have made him so rich. the dry, spare tone of the physician interrupted,--a trite phrase interdicting agitation. "why, doctor," said selwyn, suddenly comprehending, "you think my present wealth will last out my time!" once more the physician looked silently into the fire. he had seen a great deal of dying, but he had lived a quiet ascetic life, which made his sensibilities tender, and he did not get used to death. "i wish you would stay with him, if you can," he said to hanway at the outer door. "it will be a very short time now." it was even shorter than they thought. the snow, falling then, had not disappeared from the earth when the picks of the grave-diggers cleft through the clods in the secluded little mountain burying-ground. it was easier work than they had anticipated, although the earth was frozen; and the grave was almost prepared when they realized that the ground had been broken before, and that here was the deserted resting-place of the stranger who had come so far to see him. hanway remembered selwyn's words, his aversion to the idea that the spot was awaiting him, but the dark november day was closing in, the storm clouds were gathering anew, so they left him there, and this time the grave held its tenant fast. x. one day a letter was mailed in colbury by an unknown hand, addressed to mrs. persimmon sneed and it fared deliberately by way of sandford cross-roads to its destination. it awoke there the wildest excitement and delight, for although it brazenly asserted that mr. persimmon sneed was in the custody of the writer, and that he would be returned safely to his home only upon the payment of one hundred dollars in a mysterious manner described,--otherwise the writer would not answer for consequences,--it gave assurance that he was alive and well, and might even hope to see friends and home and freedom once more. in vain the sheriff of the county expostulated with mrs. sneed, representing that the law was the proper liberator of persimmon sneed, and that the payment of money would encourage crime. the contradictory man's wife was ready to commit crime, if necessary, in this cause, and would have cheerfully cracked the bank in colbury. and certainly this seemed almost unavoidable at one time, for to possess herself of this sum of her husband's hoard his signature was essential. the poor woman, in her limp sunbonnet and best calico dress, clung to the grating of the teller's window, and presented in futile succession her husband's bank-book, his returned checks, and even his brand-new check-book, each with a gush of tears, while the perplexed official remonstrated, and explained, and rejected each persuasion in turn, passing them all back beneath the grating, and alas! keeping the money on his side of those inexorable bars. it seemed to poor mrs. sneed that the bank was of opinion that persimmon corporally was of slight consequence, the institution having the true value of the man on deposit. to accommodate matters, however, and that the poor woman should not be weeping daily and indefinitely on the maddened teller's window, an intermediary money-lender was found, who, having vainly sought to induce the bank to render itself responsible, then mrs. sneed, who had naught of her own, then a number of friends, who deemed the whole enterprise an effort at robbery and seemed to consider persimmon a good riddance, took heart of grace and made the plunge at a rate of interest which was calculated to cloy his palate forever after. the money forthwith went a roundabout way according to the directions of the letter. it came to its destination in this wise. con hite's distilling enterprise was on so small a scale that one might have imagined it to be altogether outside the purview of the law, which, it is said, does not take note _de minimis_. one of those grottoes under a beetling cliff, hardly caves, called in the region "rock houses," sufficed to contain the small copper and its appurtenances, himself and his partner and the occasional jolly guest. it was approached from above rather than from below, by a winding way, beside the cliff between great boulders, which was so steep and brambly and impracticable that it was hardly likely to be espied by "revenuers." the rock house opened on space. beyond the narrow path at its entrance the descent was sheer to the bottom of the gorge below. in this stronghold, one night, con hite sat gloomy and depressed beside the little copper still for the sake of which he risked so much. it held all it could of singlings, and it seemed to him a cheery sight in the shadowy recesses of the rock house. he regarded it with mingled pride and affection, often declaring it "the smartest still of its capacity in the world." to him it was at once admirable as an object of art and a superior industrial agent. "an' i dunno why narcissa be so set agin it," he muttered. "but for it i wouldn't hev money enough ter git a start in this world. my mother an' she couldn't live in the same house whenst we git married." he meditated for a moment, and shook his head in solemn negation, for his mother was constructed much after the pattern of narcissa herself. "an' _i_ wouldn't live a minit alongside o' ben hanway ef i war nar'sa's husband. ben wouldn't let me say my soul's my own. i be 'bleeged ter mak the money fur a start o' cattle an' sech myse'f, an' hev a house an' home o' my own." and then he took the pipe from his mouth and sighed. for even his care seemed futile. it was true that the fair-haired young stranger was dead, and he had a pang of self-reproach whenever he thought of his jealousy, as if he had wished him ill. but she had worn a cold white unresponsive face when he had seen her last; she did not listen to what he said, her mind evidently elsewhere. she looked at him as if she did not see him. she did not think of him. he was sure that this was not caprice. it was some deep absorbing feeling in which he had no share. the moon, like some fair presence, looked in at the broad portal. outside, the white tissues of her misty diaphanous draperies trailed along the dark mountain slopes beneath the dim stars as she wended westward. afar down the gorge one might catch glimpses of a glossy lustre where the evergreen laurel, white with frost, moved in the autumn wind. he lifted his head to mark its melancholy cadence, and while he listened, the moonlight was suddenly crowded from the door as three men rushed in, half helping and half constraining a fourth man forward. "durn my boots ef i didn't furgit the password!" cried nick peters with his little falsetto laugh, that seemed keyed for a fleer, although it was most graciously modulated now. "ye mought hev shot us fur revenuers." "i mought hev shot ye fur wuss," con hite growled, rising slowly from his chair, his big dark eyes betokening his displeasure. "i dunno how _ye_ ever kem ter know this place." "it'll go no furder, con, i'll swear," said the horse-thief, lifting his hand to hite's shoulder, and affecting to see in his words an appeal for secrecy. "this," he added blandly, "is mr. persimmon sneed, ez hev been a-visitin' me. lemme make ye acquainted." he seemed to perceive nothing incongruous in the fact that mr. persimmon sneed should be blindfolded. but as con hite looked at the elder man, standing helpless, his head held slightly forward, the sight apparently struck his risibilities, and his wonted geniality rose to the occasion. "an' do mr. persimmon sneed always wear blinders?" he asked, with a guffaw. peters seemed immeasurably relieved by the change of tone. "whilst visitin' me, he do," he remarked. "mr. persimmon hev got sech a fine mem'ry fur localities, ye see." hite with a single gesture pulled off the bandage. "waal, let him look about him hyar. i s'pose ye hev ter be more partic'lar 'n me 'count o' that stranger man's horse." peters changed countenance, his attention riveted. "what horse?" he demanded. "the horse of the man ez war kilt,--ye know folks hev laid that job ter you-uns. jerry," turning aside to his colleague, who had done naught but stare, "whar's yer manners? why n't ye gin the comp'ny a drink?" hite shoved the chair in which he had been seated to persimmon sneed, who was lugubriously rubbing his eyes, and flung himself down on a boulder lying almost outside of the recess in the moonlight, his long booted and spurred legs stretching far across the entrance. his hat on the back of his head, its brim upturned, revealed his bluff open face--it held no craft surely; he hardly seemed to notice how insistently peters pressed after him, unmindful of his henchmen and jerry imbibing appreciatively the product of the cheerful little copper still. "but i never done sech ez that," protested peters. "i always stop short o' bloodshed. i never viewed the man's beastis, ye'll bear me witness, con." "me?" said con, with a laugh. "i dunno nuthin' 'bout yer doin's. whar's mr. sneed's horse?" "never seen him,--never laid eyes on him! how folks kin hev the heart ter 'cuse me of sech doin's ez i never done!" he lifted his eyes as if appealing to heaven. "the killin' 's the wust; an' mr. sneed's critter bein' gone too mought make folks lay it ter ye fur sure," persisted hite. "i ain't seen mr. sneed's horse. mr. sneed--ye wouldn't b'lieve it ter look at him, but he's a ransomed saint! ha! ha! the money fur him will be fotched hyar ter yer still. i sent fur it ter kem by jake glenn; he knows ye, an' ye know him." con hite's open brow did not cloud. if there were any significance perceptible in the fact that mr. persimmon sneed, with so fine a head for locality, should be able to identify only the still among his various shelters during his "visit" to nick peters, con hite made no sign. "lord, how glad i'll be ter git rid o' him!" peters said in an undertone to hite. "he hev mighty nigh argufied me ter death,--'bout sperits, an' witches, an' salvation, an' law, an' craps, an' horse-flesh, an' weather signs. i be sorter 'feard his wife won't pay nuthin' ter git him again. he 'pears sorter under the weather now, or eavesdroppin' or suthin'. the money 'll pay me mighty pore fur my trouble. thar--what's that?" he paused to listen; there was a sound other than the tinkling of the little rill near at hand or the blare of the autumn wind. a stone came rolling down the path, dislodged by a cautious step,--then another. hite drew a revolver from his pocket, and, holding it in his right hand, stepped out on the rugged little parapet and stood there, with the depths of the gorge below him, looking up the ascent with the moonlight in his face. he spoke in a low voice to some one approaching, and was answered in the same tone. he stepped back to give the new-comer space to enter, and as jake glenn came in held out his hand for the package the messenger bore. "let's see it, nick," he said, tearing it open; "it's the money sure enough." old persimmon sneed turned his head with a certain alert interest. perhaps he himself had doubted whether his wife would think him worth the money. there was a general flutter of good-natured gratulation, and it seemed at the moment only some preposterous mistake that con hite should put it into persimmon sneed's lean paw and close his trembling fingers over it. "now, scoot!" he bawled out at the top of his voice, the little den ringing with the echoes of his excitement, a second revolver drawn in his left hand. "i'll gin ye a day's start o' these fellers." he presented the muzzle of one pistol to peters's head, and with the other he covered one of the two henchmen in the recess of the little rock house. the other sprang up from a barrel where he sat wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; but jerry, suddenly realizing the situation, put out a dexterous foot, and the horse-thief fell full length upon the floor, his pistol discharging as he went down. in the clamor of the echoes, and the smoke and the flare, persimmon sneed disappeared, hearing as he went a wild protest, and a nimbleness of argument second hardly to his own, as nick peters cried out that he was robbed, his hard earnings were wrested from him, the money was his, paid him as a price, and con hite had let mr. persimmon sneed run off with it, allowing him nothing for his trouble. "it war his money," con hite averred, when they had grown calmer, and jake glenn had returned from a reconnoissance with the news that hite's father had lent the fleeing persimmon a horse, and he was by this time five miles away in the cove. "_he_ could have paid you for yer trouble in ketchin' him ef he had wanted ter." "it war _not_ his money," protested peters, with tears in his eyes. "it war sent ter me willingly, fur a valid consideration, an' ye let him hev the money, an' his wife hev got the valid consideration--an' hyar i be lef' with the bag ter hold!" it may be that peters had absorbed some of the craft of argument by mere propinquity to persimmon sneed, or that con hite's conscience was unduly tender, for he long entertained a moral doubt touching his course in this transaction,--whether he had a right to pay the ransom money which nick peters had extorted from persimmon sneed's wife to persimmon sneed himself, thereby defrauding nick peters of the fruit of his labor. perhaps this untoward state of dubitation came about from narcissa's scornful comment. "ye mought hev known that old man persimmon sneed would have made off with the money," she said, remembering his reproving glare at her. "i wouldn't hev trested him with a handful o' cornfield peas." "but i expected him ter make off with it," protested the amazed con; "that's why i gin it ter him." "then ye air jes' ez bad ez he is," she retorted coldly. and thus it was he examined his conscience. persimmon sneed had no doubts whatever as to the ownership of the money in his pocket, when one fine morning he walked into his own door, as dictatorial, as set in his own opinion as ever; the only change to be detected in his manners and conversation thereafter was the enigmatical assertion at times that he was a "ransomed saint," followed by a low chuckle of enjoyment. those who heard this often made bold to say to one another that he "didn't act like it," and this opinion was shared by the sheriff who futilely sought some information from him touching the lair of the horse-thieves, looking to brilliant exploits of capture. such details as he could secure were so uncertain and contradictory as to render him suspicious that the truth was purposely withheld. "ye oughter remember these men air crim'nal offenders agin the law, mr. sneed," he said. "mebbe so," assented persimmon sneed, "mebbe so;" but the situation of con hite's still was the only locality which he had visited of which he was sure, and in gratitude to his rescuer he held his peace. that he was not so softened to the world at large was manifested in the fact that he threatened to plead usury against the money-lender, and forthwith brought him down with a run to the beggaries of the legal rate. he was wont, moreover, to go to the teller of the bank at colbury and demand of that distracted man such of his papers as were from time to time lost or mislaid, having learned from his wife that she had made the official the custodian of his valuables, these being his bank-book, the ancient returned checks, and the unused check-book. the points which he had so laboriously made plain to the jury of view proved a total loss of perspicacious reasoning, for the land was forthwith condemned and the road opened, any oil-boring company being allowed by law a right of way thirty feet wide. the heavy hauling of the oil company had already made a tolerable wagon track, and the passing back and forth of the men and teams and machinery added an element of interest and excitement to the thoroughfare such as narcissa's wildest dreams had never prefigured. she had no heart for it now. when the creak of wheels on the frozen ground, and the cries of the drivers, and the thud of the hoofs of the straining four-horse teams heralded an approach, she was wont to draw close the batten shutter of the window and sit brooding over the fire, staring with moody eyes into the red coals, where she saw much invisible to the simple ben. he knew vaguely that her grief was for the fair-haired stranger, but he could not dream in what remorseful wise. she had not failed to perceive her own agency in the betrayal of his secret, when the story of the discovery of the oil was blazoned to all the world by those mystically flaring waters in the deeps of the mountain night. it was she who had idly kindled them; she who had robbed him of his rights, of the wealth that these interlopers were garnering. she had sent him to his grave baffled, beaten, forlorn, wondering at the mystery of the hand that out of the dark had smitten him. she kept her own counsel. her white face grew set and stern. her words were few. she had no tears. and ben, who found his tyrant only the harder and the colder, scarcely remonstrated, and could only marvel when one keen, chill afternoon she sprang up, throwing her brown shawl over her head, and declared that she was going to the oil wells to see for herself what progress was making there. all sylvan grace had departed from the spot. as the two stood on the verge of the clear space, now gashed deep in every direction in the woods and larger by a hundred acres, grim derricks rose sharply outlined against the wintry sky. it was barred with strata of gray clouds in such sombre neutrality of tint that one, in that it was less gloomy than the others, gave a suggestion of blue. patches of snow lay about the ground. cinders and smoke had blackened them here and there. the steam-engine, with its cylindrical boiler, seemed in the dusk some uncanny monster that had taken up its abode here, and rejoiced in the desolation it had wrought, and lived by ill deeds. it was letting off steam, and now and then it gave a puffing sigh as if it were tired after its day's work. the laborers were of a different type from the homely neighbors, and returned the contempt with which the mountaineers gazed upon them. great piles of wood showed how the forests were being rifled for fuel. many trees had been felled in provident foresight, and lay along the ground in vast lengths, awaiting the axe; so many that adown the avenues thus opened toward the valley a wan glimmering caught the girl's eye, and she recognized the palings of the little mountain graveyard. she clutched her brother's arm and pointed to it. her eyes grew dilated and wild, her face was pale and drawn; her hand trembled as she held it out. "ye see, ben, he's close enough ter view it all--an' mebbe he does--an' he knows now who he hev got ter thank fur it all--an' i wisht he war hyar, whar i am, an' i war thar, whar he is." her brother thought for the moment that she was raving. the next she caught her shawl over her head, hoodwise, the wind tossing her bright hair, and declared that she was cold, and upbraided him for bringing her on this long, chilling tramp, and protested that she would come never again. he came often afterward. the spot seemed to have a fascination for him. and within sound of the cheerful hubbub and busy whir of the industry he would lean over the palings and look at the grave, covered sometimes with a drift of leaves, and sometimes with a drift of snow, and think of the two men that it had successively housed, and nurse his grudge against the company. with an unreasoning hatred of it, hanway felt that both were victims of the great strong corporation that was to reap the value of the discovery which was not its own save by accident. he could not appraise the justice of the dispensation by which the keen observation of the one man, and the science and experience that the other had brought to the enterprise, should fall so far short of achievement, while an idle story, the gossip of the day, should fill the hands of those who were strangers to the very thought. he grudged every augury of success; he welcomed every detail of difficulty. as time went on, the well was said to be of intermittent flow, and new borings resulted in naught but vast floods of sulphur water. finally, when the admitted truth pervaded the community,--that the oil was practically exhausted, that it had long since ceased to pay expenses, that the company was a heavy loser by the enterprise,--he was as a man appeased. the result was succeeded by a change in narcissa so radical and immediate that constant hite could but perceive the fact that it was induced by the failure and abandonment of the work. she grew placid as of yore, and was softened, and now and again the gentle melancholy into which she fell suggested sad and reminiscent pleasure rather than the remorseful and desperate sorrow that she had known. he began to realize that it was no sentimental and love-stricken grief she had felt for selwyn, but a sympathy akin to his own and to her brother's; and since the disappointment of the hope of fortune must needs have come to selwyn at last, they made shift to resign themselves, and were wont to talk freely of the dead with that affectionate and immediate interest which seems to prolong the span of a mortal's day on earth, like the tender suffusive radiance of the afterglow of a sunken sun. the road fell quickly into disuse after the abandonment of the work. in the storms of winter, trees were uprooted and thrown athwart the way; overhanging rocks, splitting in the freeze, precipitated obstructive avalanches upon the dim serpentine convolutions; the wind piled drifts of dead leaves above the turns; and in the spring grass began to grow in the tracks of the wheels. it held no woeful memories now for narcissa. she loved to sit on the step of the stile and watch through the leafless sunlit trees the silver haze shimmering in the valley, where the winter wheat was all of an emerald richness, and the blue mountains afar off so near akin to the aspect of heaven that one might hardly mark where the horizon line merged the sweet solitudes of earth into the solitary sky. many a day, the spring, loitering along the shadow-flecked vistas, with the red maple-blooms overhead and violets underfoot, was the only traveler to be seen on the deserted road. and the pensive dusk was wont to deepen into the serene vernal night, sweet with the scent of the budding wild cherry, and astir with timorous tentative rustlings as of half-fledged breezes, and illumined only with the gentle lustre of the white stars; for never again was the darkness emblazoned with that haggard incandescence so long the mystery of witch-face mountain. taking the blue ribbon at the county fair. jenks hollis sat on the fence. he slowly turned the quid of tobacco in his cheek, and lifting up his voice spoke with an oracular drawl:-- "ef he kin take the certif'cate it's the mos' ez he kin do. he ain't never a-goin' ter git no premi-_um_ in this life, sure 's ye air a born sinner." and he relapsed into silence. his long legs dangled dejectedly among the roadside weeds; his brown jeans trousers, that had despaired of ever reaching his ankles, were ornamented here and there with ill-adjusted patches, and his loose-fitting coat was out at the elbows. an old white wool hat drooped over his eyes, which were fixed absently on certain distant blue mountain ranges, that melted tenderly into the blue of the noonday sky, and framed an exquisite mosaic of poly-tinted fields in the valley, far, far below the grim gray crag on which his little home was perched. despite his long legs he was a light weight, or he would not have chosen as his favorite seat so rickety a fence. his interlocutor, a heavier man, apparently had some doubts, for he leaned only slightly against one of the projecting rails as he whittled a pine stick, and with his every movement the frail structure trembled. the log cabin seemed as rickety as the fence. the little front porch had lost a puncheon here and there in the flooring--perhaps on some cold winter night when hollis's energy was not sufficiently exuberant to convey him to the wood-pile; the slender posts that upheld its roof seemed hardly strong enough to withstand the weight of the luxuriant vines with their wealth of golden gourds which had clambered far over the moss-grown clapboards; the windows had fewer panes of glass than rags; and the chimney, built of clay and sticks, leaned portentously away from the house. the open door displayed a rough, uncovered floor; a few old rush-bottomed chairs; a bedstead with a patch-work calico quilt, the mattress swagging in the centre and showing the badly arranged cords below; strings of bright red pepper hanging from the dark rafters; a group of tow-headed, grave-faced, barefooted children; and, occupying almost one side of the room, a broad, deep, old-fashioned fireplace, where winter and summer a lazy fire burned under a lazy pot. notwithstanding the poverty of the aspect of the place and the evident sloth of its master, it was characterized by a scrupulous cleanliness strangely at variance with its forlorn deficiencies. the rough floor was not only swept but scoured; the dark rafters, whence depended the flaming banners of the red pepper, harbored no cobwebs; the grave faces of the white-haired children bore no more dirt than was consistent with their recent occupation of making mudpies; and the sedate, bald-headed baby, lying silent but wide-awake in an uncouth wooden cradle, was as clean as clear spring water and yellow soap could make it. mrs. hollis herself, seen through the vista of opposite open doors, energetically rubbing the coarse wet clothes upon the resonant washboard, seemed neat enough in her blue-and-white checked homespun dress, and with her scanty hair drawn smoothly back from her brow into a tidy little knot on the top of her head. spare and gaunt she was, and with many lines in her prematurely old face. perhaps they told of the hard fight her brave spirit waged against the stern ordering of her life; of the struggles with squalor,--inevitable concomitant of poverty,--and to keep together the souls and bodies of those numerous children, with no more efficient assistance than could be wrung from her reluctant husband in the short intervals when he did not sit on the fence. she managed as well as she could; there was an abundance of fine fruit in that low line of foliage behind the house--but everybody on old bear mountain had fine fruit. something rarer, she had good vegetables--the planting and hoeing being her own work and her eldest daughter's; an occasional shallow furrow representing the contribution of her husband's plough. the althea-bushes and the branches of the laurel sheltered a goodly number of roosting hens in these september nights; and to the pond, which had been formed by damming the waters of the spring branch in the hollow across the road, was moving even now a stately procession of geese in single file. these simple belongings were the trophies of a gallant battle against unalterable conditions and the dragging, dispiriting clog of her husband's inertia. his inner life--does it seem hard to realize that in that uncouth personality concentred the complex, incomprehensible, ever-shifting emotions of that inner life which, after all, is so much stronger, and deeper, and broader than the material? here, too, beat the hot heart of humanity--beat with no measured throb. he had his hopes, his pleasure, his pain, like those of a higher culture, differing only in object, and something perhaps in degree. his disappointments were bitter and lasting; his triumphs, few and sordid; his single aspiration--to take the premium offered by the directors of the kildeer county fair for the best equestrian. this incongruous and unpromising ambition had sprung up in this wise: between the country people of kildeer county and the citizens of the village of colbury, the county-seat, existed a bitter and deeply rooted animosity manifesting itself at conventions, elections for the legislature, etc., the rural population voting as a unit against the town's candidate. on all occasions of public meetings there was a struggle to crush any invidious distinction against the "country boys," especially at the annual fair. here to the rustics of kildeer county came the tug of war. the population of the outlying districts was more numerous, and, when it could be used as a suffrage-engine, all-powerful; but the region immediately adjacent to the town was far more fertile. on those fine meadows grazed the graceful jersey; there gamboled sundry long-tailed colts with long-tailed pedigrees; there greedy berkshires fattened themselves to abnormal proportions; and the merinos could hardly walk, for the weight of their own rich wardrobes. the well-to-do farmers of this section were hand-in-glove with the town's people; they drove their trotters in every day or so to get their mail, to chat with their cronies, to attend to their affairs in court, to sell or to buy--their pleasures centred in the town, and they turned the cold shoulder upon the country, which supported them, and gave their influence to colbury, accounting themselves an integrant part of it. thus, at the fairs the town claimed the honor and glory. the blue ribbon decorated cattle and horses bred within ten miles of the flaunting flag on the judges' stand, and the foaming mountain-torrents and the placid stream in the valley beheld no cerulean hues save those of the sky which they reflected. the premium offered this year for the best rider was, as it happened, a new feature, and excited especial interest. the country's blood was up. here was something for which it could fairly compete, with none of the disadvantages of the false position in which it was placed. hence a prosperous landed proprietor, the leader of the rural faction, dwelling midway between the town and the range of mountains that bounded the county on the north and east, bethought himself one day of jenkins hollis, whose famous riding had been the feature of a certain dashing cavalry charge--once famous, too--forgotten now by all but the men who, for the first and only time in their existence, penetrated in those war days the blue mountains fencing in their county from the outer world, and looked upon the alien life beyond that wooded barrier. the experience of those four years, submerged in the whirling rush of events elsewhere, survives in these eventless regions in a dreamy, dispassionate sort of longevity. and jenkins hollis's feat of riding stolidly--one could hardly say bravely--up an almost sheer precipice to a flame-belching battery came suddenly into the landed magnate's recollection with the gentle vapors and soothing aroma of a meditative after-dinner pipe. quivering with party spirit, squire goodlet sent for hollis and offered to lend him the best horse on the place, and a saddle and bridle, if he would go down to colbury and beat those town fellows out on their own ground. no misgivings had hollis. the inordinate personal pride characteristic of the mountaineer precluded his feeling a shrinking pain at the prospect of being presented, a sorry contrast, among the well-clad, well-to-do town's people, to compete in a public contest. he did not appreciate the difference--he thought himself as good as the best. and to-day, complacent enough, he sat upon the rickety fence at home, oracularly disparaging the equestrian accomplishments of the town's noted champion. "i dunno--i dunno," said his young companion doubtfully. "hackett sets mighty firm onto his saddle. he's ez straight ez any shingle, an' ez tough ez a pine-knot. he come up hyar las' summer--war it las' summer, now? no, 't war summer afore las'--with some o' them other colbury folks, a-fox-huntin', an' a-deer-huntin, an' one thing an' 'nother. i seen 'em a time or two in the woods. an' he kin ride jes' ez good 'mongst the gullies and boulders like ez ef he had been born in the hills. he ain't a-goin' ter be beat easy." "it don't make no differ," retorted jenks hollis. "he'll never git no premi-_um_. the certif'cate's good a-plenty fur what ridin' he kin do." doubt was still expressed in the face of the young man, but he said no more, and, after a short silence, mr. hollis, perhaps not relishing his visitor's want of appreciation, dismounted, so to speak, from the fence, and slouched off slowly up the road. jacob brice still stood leaning against the rails and whittling his pine stick, in no wise angered or dismayed by his host's unceremonious departure, for social etiquette is not very rigid on old bear mountain. he was a tall athletic fellow, clad in a suit of brown jeans, which displayed, besides the ornaments of patches, sundry deep grass stains about the knees. not that piety induced brice to spend much time in the lowly attitude of prayer, unless, indeed, diana might be accounted the goddess of his worship. the green juice was pressed out when kneeling, hidden in some leafy, grassy nook, he heard the infrequent cry of the wild turkey, or his large, intent blue eyes caught a glimpse of the stately head of an antlered buck, moving majestically in the alternate sheen of the sunlight and shadow of the overhanging crags; or while with his deft hunter's hands he dragged himself by slow, noiseless degrees through the ferns and tufts of rank weeds to the water's edge, that he might catch a shot at the feeding wild duck. a leather belt around his waist supported his powder-horn and shot-pouch,--for his accoutrements were exactly such as might have been borne a hundred years ago by a hunter of old bear mountain,--and his gun leaned against the trunk of a chestnut-oak. although he still stood outside the fence, aimlessly lounging, there was a look on his face of a half-suppressed expectancy, which rendered the features less statuesque than was their wont--an expectancy that showed itself in the furtive lifting of his eyelids now and then, enabling him to survey the doorway without turning his head. suddenly his face reassumed its habitual, inexpressive mask of immobility, and the furtive eyes were persistently downcast. a flare of color, and cynthia hollis was standing in the doorway, leaning against its frame. she was robed, like september, in brilliant yellow. the material and make were of the meanest, but there was a certain appropriateness in the color with her slumberous dark eyes and the curling tendrils of brown hair which fell upon her forehead and were clustered together at the back of her neck. no cuffs and no collar could this costume boast, but she had shown the inclination to finery characteristic of her age and sex by wearing around her throat, where the yellow hue of her dress met the creamy tint of her skin, a row of large black beads, threaded upon a shoe-string in default of an elastic, the brass ends flaunting brazenly enough among them. she held in her hand a string of red pepper, to which she was adding some newly gathered pods. a slow job cynthia seemed to make of it. she took no more notice of the man under the tree than he accorded to her. there they stood, within twelve feet of each other, in utter silence, and, to all appearance, each entirely unconscious of the other's existence: he whittling his pine stick; she, slowly, slowly stringing the pods of red pepper. there was something almost portentous in the gravity and sobriety of demeanor of this girl of seventeen; she manifested less interest in the young man than her own grandmother might have shown. he was constrained to speak first. "cynthy"--he said at length, without raising his eyes or turning his head. she did not answer; but he knew without looking that she had fixed those slumberous brown eyes upon him, waiting for him to go on. "cynthy"--he said again, with a hesitating, uneasy manner. then, with an awkward attempt at raillery, "ain't ye never a-thinkin' 'bout a-gittin' married?" he cast a laughing glance toward her, and looked down quickly at his clasp-knife and the stick he was whittling. it was growing very slender now. cynthia's serious face relaxed its gravity. "ye air foolish, jacob," she said, laughing. after stringing on another pepper-pod with great deliberation, she continued: "ef i war a-studyin' 'bout a-gittin' married, thar ain't nobody round 'bout hyar ez i'd hev." and she added another pod to the flaming red string, so bright against the yellow of her dress. that stick could not long escape annihilation. the clasp-knife moved vigorously through its fibres, and accented certain arbitrary clauses in its owner's retort. "ye talk like," he said, his face as monotonous in its expression as if every line were cut in marble--"ye talk like--ye thought ez how i--war a-goin' ter ax ye--ter marry me. i ain't though, nuther." the stick was a shaving. it fell among the weeds. the young hunter shut his clasp-knife with a snap, shouldered his gun, and without a word of adieu on either side the conference terminated, and he walked off down the sandy road. cynthia stood watching him until the laurel-bushes hid him from sight; then sliding from the door-frame to the step, she sat motionless, a bright-hued mass of yellow draperies and red peppers, her slumberous deep eyes resting on the leaves that had closed upon him. she was the central figure of a still landscape. the mid-day sunshine fell in broad effulgence upon it; the homely, dun-colored shadows had been running away all the morning, as if shirking the contrast with the splendors of the golden light, until nothing was left of them except a dark circle beneath the wide-spreading trees. no breath of wind stirred the leaves, or rippled the surface of the little pond. the lethargy of the hour had descended even upon the towering pine-trees, growing on the precipitous slope of the mountain, and showing their topmost plumes just above the frowning, gray crag--their melancholy song was hushed. the silent masses of dazzling white clouds were poised motionless in the ambient air, high above the valley and the misty expanse of the distant, wooded ranges. a lazy, lazy day, and very, very warm. the birds had much ado to find sheltering shady nooks where they might escape the glare and the heat; their gay carols were out of season, and they blinked and nodded under their leafy umbrellas, and fanned themselves with their wings, and twittered disapproval of the weather. "hot, hot, red-hot!" said the birds--"broiling hot!" now and then an acorn fell from among the serrated chestnut leaves, striking upon the fence with a sounding thwack, and rebounding in the weeds. those chestnut-oaks always seem to unaccustomed eyes the creation of nature in a fit of mental aberration--useful freak! the mountain swine fatten on the plenteous mast, and the bark is highly esteemed at the tan-yard. a large cat was lying at full length on the floor of the little porch, watching with drowsy, half-closed eyes the assembled birds in the tree. but she seemed to have relinquished the pleasures of the chase until the mercury should fall. close in to the muddiest side of the pond over there, which was all silver and blue with the reflection of the great masses of white clouds, and the deep azure sky, a fleet of shining, snowy geese was moored, perfectly motionless too. no circumnavigation for them this hot day. and cynthia's dark brown eyes, fixed upon the leafy vista of the road, were as slumberous as the noontide sunshine. "cynthy! whar _is_ the gal?" said poor mrs. hollis, as she came around the house to hang out the ragged clothes on the althea-bushes and the rickety fence. "cynthy, air ye a-goin' ter sit thar in the door all day, an' that thar pot a-bilin' all the stren'th out 'n that thar cabbige an' roas'in'-ears? dish up dinner, child, an' don't be so slow an' slack-twisted like yer dad." * * * * * great merriment there was, to be sure, at the kildeer fair grounds, situated on the outskirts of colbury, when it became known to the convulsed town faction that the gawky jenks hollis intended to compete for the premium to be awarded to the best and most graceful rider. the contests of the week had as usual resulted in colbury's favor; this was the last day of the fair, and the defeated country population anxiously but still hopefully awaited its notable event. a warm sun shone; a brisk autumnal breeze waved the flag flying from the judges' stand; a brass band in the upper story of that structure thrilled the air with the vibrations of popular waltzes and marches, somewhat marred now and then by mysteriously discordant bass tones; the judges, portly, red-faced, middle-aged gentlemen, sat below in cane-bottom chairs critically a-tilt on the hind legs. the rough wooden amphitheatre, a bold satire on the stately roman edifice, was filled with the denizens of colbury and the rosy rural faces of the country people of kildeer county; and within the charmed arena the competitors for the blue ribbon and the saddle and bridle to be awarded to the best rider were just now entering, ready mounted, from a door beneath the tiers of seats, and were slowly making the tour of the circle around the judges' stand. one by one they came, with a certain nonchalant pride of demeanor, conscious of an effort to display themselves and their horses to the greatest advantage, and yet a little ashamed of the consciousness. for the most part they were young men, prosperous looking, and clad according to the requirements of fashion which prevailed in this little town. shut in though it was from the pomps and vanities of the world by the encircling chains of blue ranges and the bending sky which rested upon their summits, the frivolity of the mode, though somewhat belated, found its way and ruled with imperative rigor. good riders they were undoubtedly, accustomed to the saddle almost from infancy, and well mounted. a certain air of gallantry, always characteristic of an athletic horseman, commended these equestrian figures to the eye as they slowly circled about. still they came--eight--nine--ten--the eleventh, the long, lank frame of jenkins hollis mounted on squire goodlet's "john barleycorn." the horsemen received this ungainly addition to their party with polite composure, and the genteel element of the spectators remained silent too from the force of good breeding and good feeling; but the "roughs," always critically a-loose in a crowd, shouted and screamed with derisive hilarity. what they were laughing at jenks hollis never knew. grave and stolid, but as complacent as the best, he too made the usual circuit with his ill-fitting jeans suit, his slouching old wool hat, and his long, gaunt figure. but he sat the spirited "john barleycorn" as if he were a part of the steed, and held up his head with unwonted dignity, inspired perhaps by the stately attitudes of the horse, which were the result of no training nor compelling reins, but the instinct transmitted through a long line of high-headed ancestry. of a fine old family was "john barleycorn." a deeper sensation was in store for the spectators. before jenkins hollis's appearance most of them had heard of his intention to compete, but the feeling was one of unmixed astonishment when entry no. rode into the arena, and, on the part of the country people, this surprise was supplemented by an intense indignation. the twelfth man was jacob brice. as he was a "mounting boy," one would imagine that, if victory should crown his efforts, the rural faction ought to feel the elation of success, but the prevailing sentiment toward him was that which every well-conducted mind must entertain concerning the individual who runs against the nominee. notwithstanding the fact that brice was a notable rider, too, and well calculated to try the mettle of the town's champion, there arose from the excited countrymen a keen, bitter, and outraged cry of "take him out!" so strongly does the partisan heart pulsate to the interests of the nominee! this frantic petition had no effect on the interloper. a man who has inherited half a dozen violent quarrels, any one of which may at any moment burst into a vendetta,--inheriting little else,--is not easily dismayed by the disapprobation of either friend or foe. his statuesque features, shaded by the drooping brim of his old black hat were as calm as ever, and his slow blue eyes did not, for one moment, rest upon the excited scene about him, so unspeakably new to his scanty experience. his fine figure showed to great advantage on horseback, despite his uncouth, coarse garb; he was mounted upon a sturdy, brown mare of obscure origin, but good-looking, clean-built, sure-footed, and with the blended charm of spirit and docility; she represented his whole estate, except his gun and his lean, old hound, that had accompanied him to the fair, and was even now improving the shining hour by quarreling over a bone outside the grounds with other people's handsomer dogs. the judges were exacting. the riders were ordered to gallop to the right--and around they went. to the left--and there was again the spectacle of the swiftly circling equestrian figures. they were required to draw up in a line, and to dismount; then to mount, and again to alight. those whom these manoeuvres proved inferior were dismissed at once, and the circle was reduced to eight. an exchange of horses was commanded; and once more the riding, fast and slow, left and right, the mounting and dismounting were repeated. the proficiency of the remaining candidates rendered them worthy of more difficult ordeals. they were required to snatch a hat from the ground while riding at full gallop. pistols loaded with blank cartridges were fired behind the horses, and subsequently close to their quivering and snorting nostrils, in order that the relative capacity of the riders to manage a frightened and unruly steed might be compared, and the criticism of the judges mowed the number down to four. free speech is conceded by all right-thinking people to be a blessing. it is often a balm. outside of the building and of earshot the defeated aspirants took what comfort they could in consigning, with great fervor and volubility, all the judicial magnates to that torrid region unknown to polite geographical works. of the four horsemen remaining in the ring, two were jenkins hollis and jacob brice. short turns at full gallop were prescribed. the horses were required to go backward at various gaits. bars were brought in and the crowd enjoyed the exhibition of the standing-leap, at an ever-increasing height and then the flying-leap--a tumultuous confused impression of thundering hoofs and tossing mane and grim defiant faces of horse and rider, in the lightning-like moment of passing. obstructions were piled on the track for the "long jumps," and in one of the wildest leaps a good rider was unhorsed and rolled on the ground while his recreant steed that had balked at the last moment scampered around and around the arena in a wild effort to find the door beneath the tiers of seats to escape so fierce a competition. this accident reduced the number of candidates to the two mountaineers and tip hackett, the man whom jacob had pronounced a formidable rival. the circling about, the mounting and dismounting, the exchange of horses were several times repeated without any apparent result, and excitement rose to fever heat. the premium and certificate lay between the three men. the town faction trembled at the thought that the substantial award of the saddle and bridle, with the decoration of the blue ribbon, and the intangible but still precious secondary glory of the certificate and the red ribbon might be given to the two mountaineers, leaving the crack rider of colbury in an ignominious lurch; while the country party feared hollis's defeat by hackett rather less than that jenks would be required to relinquish the premium to the interloper brice, for the young hunter's riding had stricken a pang of prophetic terror to more than one partisan rustic's heart. in the midst of the perplexing doubt, which tried the judges' minds, came the hour for dinner, and the decision was postponed until after that meal. the competitors left the arena, and the spectators transferred their attention to unburdening hampers, or to jostling one another in the dining-hall. everybody was feasting but cynthia hollis. the intense excitement of the day, the novel sights and sounds utterly undreamed of in her former life, the abruptly struck chords of new emotions suddenly set vibrating within her, had dulled her relish for the midday meal; and while the other members of the family repaired to the shade of a tree outside the grounds to enjoy that refection, she wandered about the "floral hall," gazing at the splendors of bloom thronging there, all so different from the shy grace, the fragility of poise, the delicacy of texture of the flowers of her ken,--the rhododendron, the azalea, the chilhowee lily,--yet vastly imposing in their massed exuberance and scarlet pride, for somehow they all seemed high colored. she went more than once to note with a kind of aghast dismay those trophies of feminine industry, the quilts; some were of the "log cabin" and "rising sun" variety, but others were of geometric intricacy of form and were kaleidoscopic of color with an amazing labyrinth of stitchings and embroideries--it seemed a species of effrontery to dub one gorgeous poly-tinted silken banner a quilt. but already it bore a blue ribbon, and its owner was the richer by the prize of a glass bowl and the envy of a score of deft-handed competitors. she gazed upon the glittering jellies and preserves, upon the biscuits and cheeses, the hair-work and wax flowers, and paintings. these latter treated for the most part of castles and seas rather than of the surrounding altitudes, but cynthia came to a pause of blank surprise in front of a shadow rather than a picture which represented a spring of still brown water in a mossy cleft of a rock where the fronds of a fern seemed to stir in the foreground. "i hev viewed the like o' that a many a time," she said disparagingly. to her it hardly seemed rare enough for the blue ribbon on the frame. in the next room she dawdled through great piles of prize fruits and vegetables--water-melons unduly vast of bulk, peaches and pears and pumpkins of proportions never seen before out of a nightmare, stalks of indian corn eighteen feet high with seven ears each,--all apparently attesting what they could do when they would, and that all the enterprise of kildeer county was not exclusively of the feminine persuasion. finally cynthia came out from the midst of them and stood leaning against one of the large pillars which supported the roof of the amphitheatre, still gazing about the half-deserted building, with the smouldering fires of her slumberous eyes newly kindled. to other eyes and ears it might not have seemed a scene of tumultuous metropolitan life, with the murmuring trees close at hand dappling the floor with sycamore shadows, the fields of indian corn across the road, the exuberant rush of the stream down the slope just beyond, the few hundred spectators who had intently watched the events of the day; but to cynthia hollis the excitement of the crowd and movement and noise could no further go. by the natural force of gravitation jacob brice presently was walking slowly and apparently aimlessly around to where she was standing. he said nothing, however, when he was beside her, and she seemed entirely unconscious of his presence. her yellow dress was as stiff as a board, and as clean as her strong, young arms could make it; at her throat were the shining black beads; on her head she wore a limp, yellow calico sunbonnet, which hung down over her eyes, and almost obscured her countenance. to this article she perhaps owed the singular purity and transparency of her complexion, as much as to the mountain air, and the chiefly vegetable fare of her father's table. she wore it constantly, although it operated almost as a mask, rendering her more easily recognizable to their few neighbors by her flaring attire than by her features, and obstructing from her own view all surrounding scenery, so that she could hardly see the cow, which so much of her time she was slowly poking after. she spoke unexpectedly, and without any other symptom that she knew of the young hunter's proximity. "i never thought, jacob, ez how ye would hev come down hyar, all the way from the mountings, to ride agin my dad, an' beat him out'n that thar saddle an' bridle." "ye won't hev nothin' ter say ter me," retorted jacob sourly. a long silence ensued. then he resumed didactically, but with some irrelevancy, "i tole ye t'other day ez how ye war old enough ter be a-studyin' 'bout gittin' married." "they don't think nothin' of ye ter our house, jacob. dad 's always a-jowin' at ye." cynthia's candor certainly could not be called in question. the young hunter replied with some natural irritation: "he hed better not let me hear him, ef he wants to keep whole bones inside his skin. he better not tell me, nuther." "he don't keer enough 'bout ye, jacob, ter tell ye. he don't think nothin' of ye." love is popularly supposed to dull the mental faculties. it developed in jacob brice sudden strategic abilities. "thar is them ez does," he said diplomatically. cynthia spoke promptly with more vivacity than usual, but in her customary drawl and apparently utterly irrelevantly:-- "i never in all my days see no sech red-headed gal ez that thar becky stiles. she's the red-headedest gal ever i see." and cynthia once more was silent. jacob resumed, also irrelevantly:-- "when i goes a-huntin' up yander ter pine lick, they is mighty perlite ter me. they ain't never done nothin' agin me, ez i knows on." then, after a pause of deep cogitation, he added, "nor hev they said nothin' agin me, nuther." cynthia took up her side of the dialogue, if dialogue it could be called, with wonted irrelevancy: "that thar becky stiles, she's got the freckledest face--ez freckled ez any turkey-aig" (with an indescribable drawl on the last word). "they ain't done nothin' agin me," reiterated jacob astutely, "nor said nothin' nuther--none of 'em." cynthia looked hard across the amphitheatre at the distant great smoky mountains shimmering in the hazy september sunlight--so ineffably beautiful, so delicately blue, that they might have seemed the ideal scenery of some impossibly lovely ideal world. perhaps she was wondering what the unconscious becky stiles, far away in those dark woods about pine lick, had secured in this life besides her freckled face. was this the sylvan deity of the young hunter's adoration? cynthia took off her sunbonnet to use it for a fan. perhaps it was well for her that she did so at this moment; it had so entirely concealed her head that her hair might have been the color of becky stiles's, and no one the wiser. the dark brown tendrils curled delicately on her creamy forehead; the excitement of the day had flushed her pale cheeks with an unwonted glow; her eyes were alight with their newly kindled fires; the clinging curtain of her bonnet had concealed the sloping curves of her shoulders--altogether she was attractive enough, despite the flare of her yellow dress, and especially attractive to the untutored eyes of jacob brice. he relented suddenly, and lost all the advantages of his tact and diplomacy. "i likes ye better nor i does becky stiles," he said moderately. then with more fervor, "i likes ye better nor any gal i ever see." the usual long pause ensued. "ye hev got a mighty cur'ous way o' showin' it," cynthia replied. "i dunno what ye 're talkin' 'bout, cynthy." "ye hev got a mighty cur'ous way o' showin' it," she reiterated, with renewed animation--"a-comin' all the way down hyar from the mountings ter beat my dad out'n that thar saddle an' bridle, what he's done sot his heart onto. mighty cur'ous way." "look hyar, cynthy." the young hunter broke off suddenly, and did not speak again for several minutes. a great perplexity was surging this way and that in his slow brains--a great struggle was waging in his heart. he was to choose between love and ambition--nay, avarice too was ranged beside his aspiration. he felt himself an assured victor in the competition, and he had seen that saddle and bridle. they were on exhibition to-day, and to him their material and workmanship seemed beyond expression wonderful, and elegant, and substantial. he could never hope otherwise to own such accoutrements. his eyes would never again even rest upon such resplendent objects, unless indeed in hollis's possession. any one who has ever loved a horse can appreciate a horseman's dear desire that beauty should go beautifully caparisoned. and then, there was his pride in his own riding, and his anxiety to have his preeminence in that accomplishment acknowledged and recognized by his friends, and, dearer triumph still, by his enemies. a terrible pang before he spoke again. "look hyar, cynthy," he said at last; "ef ye will marry me, i won't go back in yander no more. i'll leave the premi-_um_ ter them ez kin git it." "ye're foolish, jacob," she replied, still fanning with the yellow calico sunbonnet. "ain't i done tole ye, ez how they don't think nothin' of ye ter our house? i don't want all of 'em a-jowin' at me, too." "ye talk like ye ain't got good sense, cynthy," said jacob irritably. "what's ter hender me from hitchin' up my mare ter my uncle's wagon an' ye an' me a-drivin' up hyar to the cross-roads, fifteen mile, and git pa'son jones ter marry us? we'll get the license down hyar ter the court house afore we start. an' while they'll all be a-foolin' away thar time a-ridin' round that thar ring, ye an' me will be a-gittin' married." ten minutes ago jacob brice did not think riding around that ring was such a reprehensible waste of time. "what's ter hender? it don't make no differ how they jow then." "i done tole ye, jacob," said the sedate cynthia, still fanning with the sunbonnet. with a sudden return of his inspiration, jacob retorted, affecting an air of stolid indifference: "jes' ez _ye_ choose. i won't hev ter ax becky stiles twict." and he turned to go. "i never said no, jacob," said cynthia precipitately. "i never said ez how i wouldn't hev ye." "waal, then, jes' come along with me right now while i hitch up the mare. i ain't a-goin' ter leave yer a-standin' hyar. ye're too skittish. time i come back ye'd hev done run away i dunno whar." a moment's pause and he added: "is ye a-goin' ter stand thar all day, cynthy hollis, a-lookin' up an' around, and a-turnin' yer neck fust this way and then t'other, an' a-lookin' fur all the worl' like a wild turkey in a trap, or one o' them thar skeery young deer, or sech senseless critters? what ails the gal?" "thar'll be nobody ter help along the work ter our house," said cynthia, the weight of the home difficulties bearing heavily on her conscience. "what's ter hender ye from a-goin' down thar an' lendin' a hand every wunst in a while? but ef ye're a-goin' ter stand thar like ye hedn't no more action than a--a-dunno-what,--jes' like yer dad, i ain't. i'll jes' leave ye a-growed ter that thar post, an' i'll jes' light out stiddier, an' afore the cows git ter pine lick, i'll be thar too. jes' ez ye choose. come along ef ye wants ter come. i ain't a-goin' ter ax ye no more." "i'm a-comin'," said cynthia. there was great though illogical rejoicing on the part of the country faction when the crowds were again seated, tier above tier, in the amphitheatre, and the riders were once more summoned into the arena, to discover from jacob brice's unaccounted-for absence that he had withdrawn and left the nominee to his chances. in the ensuing competition it became very evident to the not altogether impartially disposed judges that they could not, without incurring the suspicions alike of friend and foe, award the premium to their fellow-townsman. straight as a shingle though he might be, more prepossessing to the eye, the ex-cavalryman of fifty battles was far better trained in all the arts of horsemanship. a wild shout of joy burst from the rural party when the most portly and rubicund of the portly and red-faced judges advanced into the ring and decorated jenkins hollis with the blue ribbon. a frantic antistrophe rent the air. "take it off!" vociferated the bitter town faction--"take it off!" a diversion was produced by the refusal of the colbury champion to receive the empty honor of the red ribbon and the certificate. thus did he except to the ruling of the judges. in high dudgeon he faced about and left the arena, followed shortly by the decorated jenks, bearing the precious saddle and bridle, and going with a wooden face to receive the congratulations of his friends. the entries for the slow mule race had been withdrawn at the last moment; and the spectators, balked of that unique sport, and the fair being virtually over, were rising from their seats and making their noisy preparations for departure. before jenks had cleared the fair-building, being somewhat impeded by the moving mass of humanity, he encountered one of his neighbors, a listless mountaineer, who spoke on this wise:-- "does ye know that thar gal o' yourn--that thar cynthy?" mr. hollis nodded his expressionless head--presumably he did know cynthia. "waal," continued his leisurely interlocutor, still interrogative, "does ye know jacob brice?" ill-starred association of ideas! there was a look of apprehension on jenkins hollis's wooden face. "they hev done got a license down hyar ter the court house an' gone a-kitin' out on the old b'ar road." this was explicit. "whar's my horse?" exclaimed jenks, appropriating "john barleycorn" in his haste. great as was his hurry, it was not too imperative to prevent him from strapping upon the horse the premium saddle, and inserting in his mouth the new bit and bridle. and in less than ten minutes a goodly number of recruits from the crowd assembled in colbury were also "a-kitin'" out on the road to old bear, delighted with a new excitement, and bent on running down the eloping couple with no more appreciation of the sentimental phase of the question and the tender illusions of love's young dream than if jacob and cynthia were two mountain foxes. down the red-clay slopes of the outskirts of the town "john barleycorn" thunders with a train of horsemen at his heels. splash into the clear fair stream whose translucent depths tell of its birthplace among the mountain springs--how the silver spray showers about as the pursuers surge through the ford leaving behind them a foamy wake!--and now they are pressing hard up the steep ascent of the opposite bank, and galloping furiously along a level stretch of road, with the fences and trees whirling by, and the september landscape flying on the wings of the wind. the chase leads past fields of tasseled indian corn, with yellowing thickly swathed ears, leaning heavily from the stalk; past wheat-lands, the crops harvested and the crab-grass having its day at last; past "woods-lots" and their black shadows, and out again into the september sunshine; past rickety little homes, not unlike hollis's own, with tow-headed children, exactly like his, standing with wide eyes, looking at the rush and hurry of the pursuit--sometimes in the ill-kept yards a wood-fire is burning under the boiling sorghum kettle, or beneath the branches of the orchard near at hand a cider-mill is crushing the juice out of the red and yellow, ripe and luscious apples. homeward-bound prize cattle are overtaken--a durham bull, reluctantly permitting himself to be led into a fence corner that the hunt may sweep by unobstructed, and turning his proud blue-ribboned head angrily toward the riders as if indignant that anything except him should absorb attention; a gallant horse, with another floating blue streamer, bearing himself as becometh a king's son; the chase comes near to crushing sundry grunting porkers impervious to pride and glory in any worldly distinctions of cerulean decorations, and at last is fain to draw up and wait until a flock of silly over-dressed sheep, running in frantic fear every way but the right way, can be gathered together and guided to a place of safety. and once more, forward; past white frame houses with porches, and vine-grown verandas, and well-tended gardens, and groves of oak and beech and hickory trees--"john barleycorn" makes an ineffectual but gallant struggle to get in at the large white gate of one of these comfortable places, squire goodlet's home, but he is urged back into the road, and again the pursuit sweeps on. those blue mountains, the long parallel ranges of old bear and his brothers, seem no more a misty, uncertain mirage against the delicious indefinable tints of the horizon. sharply outlined they are now, with dark, irregular shadows upon their precipitous slopes which tell of wild ravines, and rock-lined gorges, and swirling mountain torrents, and great, beetling, gray crags. a breath of balsams comes on the freshening wind--the lungs expand to meet it. there is a new aspect in the scene; a revivifying current thrills through the blood; a sudden ideal beauty descends on prosaic creation. "'pears like i can't git my breath good in them flat countries," says jenkins hollis to himself, as "john barleycorn" improves his speed under the exhilarating influence of the wind. "i'm nigh on to sifflicated every time i goes down yander ter colbury" (with a jerk of his wooden head in the direction of the village). long stretches of woods are on either side of the road now, with no sign of the changing season in the foliage save the slender, pointed, scarlet leaves and creamy plumes of the sourwood, gleaming here and there; and presently another panorama of open country unrolls to the view. two or three frame houses appear with gardens and orchards, a number of humble log cabins, and a dingy little store, and the cross-roads are reached. and here the conclusive intelligence meets the party that jacob and cynthia were married by parson jones an hour ago, and were still "a-kitin'," at last accounts, out on the road to old bear. the pursuit stayed its ardor. on the auspicious day when jenkins hollis took the blue ribbon at the county fair and won the saddle and bridle he lost his daughter. they saw cynthia no more until late in the autumn when she came, without a word of self-justification or apology for her conduct, to lend her mother a helping hand in spinning and weaving her little brothers' and sisters' clothes. and gradually the _éclat_ attendant upon her nuptials was forgotten, except that mrs. hollis now and then remarks that she "dunno how we could hev bore up agin cynthy's a-runnin' away like she done, ef it hedn't a-been fur that thar saddle an' bridle an' takin' the blue ribbon at the county fair." the casting vote. i. an election of civil and judicial officers was impending in kildeer county when a comet appeared in the july sky, a mysterious, aloof, uncanny presence, that invaded the night and the stereotyped routine of nature with that gruesome effect of the phenomenal which gives to the mind so definite a realization of how dear and secure is the prosaic sense of custom. all the lenses of the great observatories of the world had, in a manner, sought to entertain the strange visitant of the heavens. the learned had gone so far as to claim its acquaintance, to recognize it as the returning comet of a date long gone by. it even carried amidst its shining glories, along the far unimagined ways of its orbit, the name of a human being--of the man who had discovered it on its former visit, for thus splendidly does astronomy honor its votaries. less scientific people regarded it askance as in some sort harbinger of woe, and spoke of presage, recalling other comets, and the commotions that came in their train--from the deluge, with the traditional cometary influences rife in the breaking up of "the fountains of the great deep," to the victories of mohammed ii. and the threatened overthrow of christendom, and even down to our own war of . others, again, scorned superstition, and entertained merely practical misgivings concerning the weight, density, and temperature of the comet, lest the eccentric aerial wanderer should run amuck of the earth in some confusion touching the right of way through space. meanwhile, it grew from the semblance of a vaporous tissue--an illuminated haze only discernible through the telescope, the private view of the favored few--till it gradually became visible to the unassisted eye of the _profanum vulgus_, and finally it flamed across the darkling spaces with its white crown of glory, its splendid wing-like train, and its effect of motion as of a wondrous flight among the stars--and all the world, and, for aught we know, many worlds, gazed at it. only in some great desert, the vast stretches of unsailed seas, or the depths of uninhabited forests, were its supernal splendors unnoted. it sunk as wistful, as tremulous, a reflection in a lonely pool in the dense mountain wilds as any simple star, a familiar of these haunts, that had looked down to mark its responsive image year after year, for countless ages, whenever the season brought it, in its place in the glittering mail of the archer, or among the jewels of the northern crown, once more to the spot it had known and its tryst with its fair semblance in the water. the great silver flake which the comet struck out upon the serene surface lay glinting there among the lesser stellar reflections, when a man, kneeling in a gully of the steep bank sloping to the "salt lick," leaned forward suddenly to gaze at it; then, with a gasp, turned his eyes upward to that flaming blade drawn athwart the peaceful sky. he did not utter a sound. the habit of silence essential to the deer-hunter kept its mechanical hold upon his nerves. only the hand with which he grasped the half-exposed roots of a great sycamore-tree, denuded in some partial caving of the bank long ago, relaxed and trembled slightly. he was a man of scant and narrow experience, his world the impenetrable mountain wilderness, and, though seemingly the pupil of nature, versed in the ways of beast and bird, the signs of the clouds, the seasons of bourgeoning and burr, it was but of casual external aspects. he knew naught of its wondrous history, its subtler significance, its strange record--the flood-tides registered on that cliff beyond the laurel; the reptilian trail in the ledge beneath the butt of his rifle, the imprint still fast in the solid rock, albeit the species extinct; the great bones of ancient unknown beasts sunk in the depressions of this saline quagmire, which herds of them had once frequented for the salt, as did of late the buffalo, and now the timorous deer, wont to come, like shadows wavering in the wind, to lick the briny earth. the strange, glinting blade overhead had no claim on his recognition as the "comet of aristotle," or the "evil-disposed comet" personified by the italians as sir great-lance, _il signor astone_, or halley's comet, or donati's. self is the centre of the solar system with many souls, and around this point do all its incidents revolve. for _him_ that wondrous white fire was kindled in the skies, for _him_, in special relation to his small life, to the wish nearest his hot human heart, to the clumsy scheme dear to his slow, crude brain. he thought it a warning then: and later he thought this still. some vague stir--the wind perhaps, or perhaps a light-footed dryad--flitted past and was gone. the surface of the "lick" rippled with her footprints, and was smooth again. all the encompassing masses of trees and undergrowth about the place were densely black and opaque, giving the sense of absolute solidity and weight, except upon the verges, which were somehow shaded off into a cloudy brown against the translucent dove-tinted tissues in which the night seemed enveloped and obscured save for the white gleaming of the stars. this was the clear color that the brackish water wore as it reflected the night. it reflected suddenly a face--a face with a long velvety muzzle, a pair of spreading antlers, and dark eyes, gentle, timorous, liquidly bright. the water stirred with a sibilant lapping sound as the buck's tongue licked at the margin. once he held up his head to listen, with his hoof lifted, then he bent again to the ripples. there was slight relation between him, the native of these woods, and that wayward waif of the skies; but among the unnumbered influences and incidents of its course it served to save that humble sylvan life for a space. the hunter neither saw nor heard. it was only when the deer with a sudden snort and a precipitate bound fled crashing through the laurel that walter hoxon became aware of his presence, and of the stealthy approach that had alarmed him. the approach was stealthy no longer. a quick, nervous tread, a rustling of the boughs, and as the hunter rose to his feet his elder brother emerged from the undergrowth, taller than he as they stood together on the margin of the lick, more active, sinewy, alert. "whyn't ye take a shot at him, wat?" cried justus hoxon tumultuously. "i'll be bound ye war nappin'," he added in keen rebuke. a pause, then walter hoxon pulled himself together and retorted:-- "nappin'!" in scornful falsetto. "how _could_ i get a shot, with ye a-trompin' up ez n'isy ez a herd o' cattle?" the reproach evidently struck home, for the elder said nothing. with the thoroughness characteristic of the habitual liar, walter proceeded to add circumstance to his original statement. "i seen the buck whenst he fust kem sidlin' an' slippin' up ter the water, oneasy an' onsartain from the fust minute. i hed jes' sighted my rifle. an' hyar ye kem, a-bulgin' out o' the lau'l, an' sp'iled my shot." as the verisimilitude of his representations bore upon him, he unconsciously assumed the sentiments natural to the situation simulated. "who tole ye ez i war hyar, anyhows?" he demanded angrily. "'dosia," replied justus hoxon in a mild tone. then, with an effort at exculpation, "i 'lowed ye'd be keen--plumb sharp set--fur news 'bout the prospec's o' the 'lection. an' she 'lowed ez ye hed kem down hyar hopin' ter git a deer. 't war the'dosia." at the name the other had turned slightly away and looked down, a gesture that invidious daylight might have interpreted as anxiety, or faltering, or at the least replete with consciousness. but even if open to observation, it could scarcely have signified aught to justus hoxon, wrapped in his own thoughts, and in his absorbing interest in the events of the day. his mental attitude was so apparent to his brother, albeit his form was barely distinguishable as they stood together by the salt lick, that wat ventured a question--a bold one, it seemed to him, and he felt a chill because of its temerity. "glad ter see ye, i s'pose?" "plumb tickled ter death," exclaimed justus, his laughing voice full of reminiscent enthusiasm. "thar war a big crowd at the cross-roads ter hear the speakin', an' a toler'ble gatherin' at sycamore gap. everybody inquired partic'lar arter ye, an' whenst i tole 'em ye war tuk sick, an' couldn't be thar, an' i war 'lectioneerin' in yer place, they shuck han's, an' shuck han's. one ole man--ole sam coggins, up ter sims's mill--says ter me, he says, 'i dunno yer brother, justus hoxon; but blister my boots, ef i don't vote fur anybody ez air kin ter you-uns, an' ez ye hev set yer heart on 'lectin' ter office.' an' the way folks inquired arter ye, an'"-- "i ain't talkin' 'bout the 'lection," wat broke in brusquely. "i war axin' 'bout 'dosia. she war"--he hesitated--"liable ter be glad ter see ye, i reckon." there was a note of surprise in his brother's voice from which wat shrank in sudden alarm. "oh, _'dosia_! course she war glad. i seen her jes' now, an' she told me ez ye hed kem down ter the lick ter git a shot at the deer, bein' ez she hed 'lowed the venison war powerful good 'bout now. i never stayed but a minute. i says, ''dosia, ye an' me hev got the rest o' our lives ter do our courtin' in, but this 'lection hev got ter be tended ter _now_, kase ef wat ain't 'lected it'll set him back all his life. some folks 'low ez 't ain't perlite an' respec'ful, nohow, fur pore folks like we-uns ter run fur office, like ez ef we war good ez anybody.' an' 'dosia she jes' hustled me out'n the house. 'g'long! g'long! do _everything_ 'bout'n the 'lection! turn every stone! time enough fur courtin' arterward! time enough!'" once more justus laughed contentedly. the man beside him stirred uneasily, then broke out irritably: "waal, _i'm_ powerful tired o' this 'lection foolishness, fur one. i wisht i hed never let ye push an' boost me inter it. i reckon them war right ez 'lowed pore folks like we-uns ain't fit ter run fur office, an' ain't goin' ter git 'lected. i'd never hev dreamt o' sech ef it hedn't been fur you-uns--never in this worl'." walter's voice sunk moodily, and he had a flouting gesture as he turned aside. a vicarious ambition is the most ungrateful of passions. there was something more than anger, than eager affection, than urgent reproach, than prescient alarm, albeit all rang sharply forth, in his brother's voice raised to reply; it was a keen note of helplessness, from which walter's nerves recoiled with a sense of pain, so insistently clamorous it was. "how kin ye say that!" cried justus. "fur ye ter stan' thar, ready ter throw away all yer good chances, jes' kase ye hev got the rheumatics an' don't feel like viewin' the people--though it 'pears like ye air well enough ter go huntin' of deer of a damp night at a salt lick! an' then, kase a mean-spirited half-liver flings dirt on ye an' yer fambly, fur ye ter sit down on a low stool, an' fill yer mouth with mud, an' 'low this air plenty good enough fur we-uns! 'pore folks ain't fit ter git 'lected ter office!'" with scornful iteration. "my lord! this hyar is a democratic kentry!" with an echo from the stump speeches of the day. "leastwise the folks yander at sycamore gap 'peared ter think so. this hyar tom markham he war speakin' on the issues o' the day, an' bein' he's a frien' o' sheriff quigley's, he tuk a turn at me an' you-uns, o' course. tole the folks how my dad an' mam died whenst i war twelve year old, an' how the only reason the fambly warn't sent ter the pore-house war kase the county folks war dil'tory, an' put it off, till they 'lowed our own house war pore enough. an' then he sot out ter be mighty funny, an' mocked the way i useter call the t'other chil'n 'fambly,' sech ez--'fambly, kem ter dinner, fambly!' 'shet up yer cryin', fambly!' an' then he tole how i cooked--gathered all sorts o' yarbs an' vegetables tergether an' sot a pot ter bile, an' whenever 'fambly' war hongry 'fambly' tuk a snack, an' gracefully eat out'n the pot with thar fingers. an' sometimes 'fambly' war moved ter wash thar clothes, an' they all repaired ter the ruver-bank, an' rubbed out thar rags, an' hung 'em on the bushes ter dry--an', duty done, 'fambly' went a-wadin'. everybody jes' laffed an' laffed!" there was a strained tone in his voice, not far foreign to a sob, as he repeated these derisive flouts at his early and forlorn estate. "an' now," resuming their rehearsal, "this enlightened constituency was asked ter bestow on a scion o' this same 'fambly'--ignorant, scrub, pauper--an office of great importance to the people, that needed to fill it a man o' eddication an' experiunce, varsed in the ways o' the world--asked to bestow the office o' sheriff o' the county on a man who war so obviously incomp'tent an' illit'rate that he darsn't face the people ter make his perposterous demand!" the wind came and went. the darkling bushes bowed and bent again. the leaves took up their testimony in elusive, sibilant mutterings. justus hoxon's eyes were cast upward for a moment, as he watched a massive bough of an oak-tree sway against the far sky, shutting off the stars, which became visible anew as the elastic branch swung back once more. only the pallor of his face and a certain lustrous liquid gleam betokening his eyes were distinguishable to his brother, who nevertheless watched him with anxiety and quickened breathing as he went on:-- "that thar feller hed sca'cely stepped down off'n that thar stump afore i war on ter it. i asked fur a few minutes' attention, an' 'lowed, i did, that mr. markham's account o' the humble beginnin's of me an' 'fambly' war accurate an' exac'. (everybody hed looked fur me ter deny it, or ter git mad, or suthin', an' they war toler'ble s'prised.) 'fambly' _did_ eat out'n the pot permiscuous, an' made a mighty pore dinner thar many a day. an' 'fambly' washed thar clothes ez described, infrequent enough, an' no doubt war ez ragged an' dirty ez they war hongry. but, i said, mr. markham hedn't told the haffen o' it. cold winter nights, when the snow sifted in through the cracks, an' the wind blew in the rotten old door, 'fambly' liked ter hev friz ter death. they hed the pneumonia, an' whoopin'-cough, an' croup; an' in summer, bein' a perverse set o' brats, 'fambly' hed fever an' ager, an' similar ailments common ter the young o' the human race, _the same ez ef 'fambly' war folks_! 't war 'stonishin', kem ter think of it, how 'fambly' hed the insurance ter grow up ter _look_ like folks, let alone settin' out ter run fur office; an' ef god hedn't raised 'em up some mighty good frien's in this county, i reckon thar wouldn't be much o' 'fambly' left. some folks 'low ez providence hev got mighty leetle jedgmint in worldly affairs, an' this mus' be one o' the strikin' instances of it. these frien's gin the bigges' boy work ter do, an' that holped ter keep 'fambly's' bodies an' souls tergether. i reckon, says i, that i hev ploughed in the fields o' haffen the men in our deestric'; i hev worked in the tan-yard; i hev been striker in the blacksmith shop; an' all the time that pot, aforesaid, b'iled at home, an' 'fambly' tuk thar dinner thar constant, _with_ thar fingers, _ez aforesaid_. but 'fambly' warn't so durned ragged, nuther. good neighbors gin 'em some clothes wunst in a while, an' l'arned the gals ter sew an' cook some. an' thar kem ter be a skillet an' a fryin'-pan on the h'a'th ter holp the pot out. why, 'fambly' got so prosperous that one day, whenst a' ole, drunken, cripple, ragged man war passin', they enj'yed themselves mightily, laffin' at somebody po'rer than themselves. an' ole pa'son tyson war goin' by in his gig, an' _he_ tuk note o' the finger o' scorn, an' he stopped. he said mighty leetle, but he tuk the trouble ter cut a stout hickory sprout, an' he gin 'fambly' a good thrashin' all roun'. it lasted 'fambly' well. they ain't laffed at 'god's pore' sence! waal, 'fambly' 's takin' up too much o' this enlightened assembly's attention. enough to tell what's kem o' 'fambly.' the oldes' gal went ter free school, l'arned ter read, write, an' cipher, an' married pa'son tyson's son, ez air a minister o' the gospel a-ridin' a methodis' circuit in north georgy now. an' the second gal"--his voice faltered--"_she_ went ter free school, l'arned mo' still o' readin' an' writin' an' cipherin', an' taught school two year down on bird creek, an' war goin' ter be married ter a good man, well-ter-do, who had built her a house, not knowin' ez god hed prepared her a mansion in the skies. she is livin' _thar_ now! an' las', the benjamin o' all the tribe, kems my brother walter. _he_ went ter school; kin read, write, an' cipher; he's been taught ez much ez any man ez ever held the office he axes ter be 'lected ter, an' air thoroughly competent. fac' is, gentlemen, thar's nothin' lef' ter show fur the humble 'fambly' mr. markham's be'n tellin' 'bout, but me. i never went ter school, 'ceptin' in yer fields. i l'arned ter cure hides, an' temper steel, an' shoe horse-critters, so that pot mought be kep' a-b'ilin', an' 'fambly' mought dine accordin' to thar humble way in them very humble days that somehow, gentlemen, i ain't got an' can't git the grace ter be 'shamed of yit." he paused abruptly as he concluded the recital of his speech, and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "i wisht ye could hev hearn them men cheer. they jes' hollered tharse'fs hoarse. they shuck hands till they mighty nigh yanked my arm out'n its socket." with the recollection, he rubbed his right arm with a gesture of pain. something there was in the account of this ovation that smote upon the younger brother's sense of values, and he hastened to take possession of it. "oh, i knowed i war powerful pop'lar in the sycamore gap deestric'," he said, dropping his lowering manner, that had somehow been perceptible in the darkness, and wagging his head from side to side with a gesture of great security in the affections of sycamore gap. "sycamore gap's all right, i know; i'll poll a big majority thar, sure." "i reckon ye will; but i warn't so sure o' that at fust," replied the elder. "they 'peared ter me at fust ter be sorter set ag'in us--leastwise _me_, though arter a while i could hardly git away from 'em, they war so durned friendly." walter cast a keen look upon him; but he evidently spoke from his simple heart, and was all unaware that he was personally the source of this sudden popularity in sycamore gap--his magnetism, his unconscious eloquence, and his character as shown in the simple and forlorn annals of "fambly." and yet he was not crudely unthinking. he perceived the incongruity of his brother's successive standpoints. "i dunno how ye kin purtend ter be so all-fired sure o' sycamore gap," he said suddenly. "'t ain't five minutes sence ye war 'lowin' ez pore folks couldn't git 'lected ter office, an' ye wished ye hed hed nothin' ter do with sech, an' 't war me ez bed jes' pushed an' boosted ye inter it." the resources of subterfuge are well-nigh limitless. walter hoxon was an adept in utilizing them. he had seen a warning in the skies, and it had struck terror and discouragement to his heart; but not to his political prospects had he felt its application. other schemes, deeper, treacherous, secret, seemed menaced, and his conscience, or that endowment to quake with the fear of requital that answers for conscience in some ill-developed souls, was set astir. nevertheless, the election might suffice as scapegoat. "look a-yander, justus," he said suddenly, pointing with the muzzle of his gun at the brilliant wayfarer of the skies, as if he might in another moment essay a shot. "that thar critter means mischief, sure ez ye air born." the other stepped back a pace or two, and lifted his head to look. "the comic?" he demanded. walter's silence seemed assent. "laws-a-massy, ye tomfool," justus cried, "let it be a sign ter them ez run ag'in' ye! count the comic in like a qualified voter--it kem hyar on account o' the incumbent's incompetence in office. signs! rolf quigley is sign enough,--if ye want signs in 'lections,--with money, an' frien's, an' a term of office, an' the reg'lar nominee o' the party, an' ye jes' an independent candidate. no star a-waggin' a tale aroun' the sky air haffen ez dangerous ter yer 'lection ez him. an' he ain't lookin' at no comic! he looked this evenin' like he'd put his finger in his mouth in one more minute, plumb 'shamed ter his boot-sole o' the things markham hed said. an' markham he kem up ter me before a crowd o' fellers, an' says, says he: 'mr. hoxon, i meant no reflections on yer fambly in alludin' ter its poverty, an' i honor ye fur yer lifelong exertions in its behalf. i take pride, sir, in makin' this apology.' an' i says: 'i be a' illit'rate, humble man, mr. markham; but i will venture the liberty to tell ye ez ye mought take mo' pride in givin' no occasion fur apologies ter poverty.' them fellers standin' aroun' jes' laffed. i knowed he didn't mean a word he said then, but war jes' slickin' over the things he _hed_ said on quigley's account, kase the crowd seemed ter favor me. i say, comic! let rolf quigley take the comic fur a sign." it is easy to pluck up fears that have no root. "oh, i be goin' ter 'lectioneer all the same ez ever. whar 's the nex' place we air bound fur?" walter put his hand on his brother's shoulder as he asked the question, and in the eager unfolding of plans and possibilities the two, as justus talked, made their way along the deer-path beside the salt lick, leaving the stars coldly glittering on the ripples, with that wonderful streak of white fire reflected among them; leaving, too, the vaguely whispering woods, communing with the wind as it came and went; reaching the slope of the mountain at last, where was perched, amid sterile fields and humble garden-patch, the little cabin in which "fambly" had struggled through its forlorn youth to better days. * * * * * the door was closed after this. a padlock knocked against it when the wind blew, as if spuriously announcing a visitor. the deceit failed of effect, for there was no inmate left, and the freakish gust could only twirl the lock anew, and go swirling down the road with a rout of dust in a witches' dance behind it. the passers-by took note of the deserted aspect of things, and knew that the brothers were absent electioneering, and wondered vaguely what the chances might be. this passing was somewhat more frequent than was normal along the road; for when the mists that had hung about the mountains persistently during a warm, clammy, wet season had withdrawn suddenly, and one night revealed for the first time the comet fairly ablaze in the sky, a desire to hear what was said and known about it at the cross-roads and the settlement and the blacksmith shop took possession of the denizens of the region, and the coteries of amateur astronomers at these centres were added to daily. some remembered a comet or two in past times, and if the deponent were advanced in years his hearers were given to understand that the present luminary couldn't hold a tallow dip to the incandescent terrors he recollected. there were utilitarian souls who were disquieted about the crops, and anxiously examined growing ears of corn, expecting to find the comet's influence tucked away in the husks. some looked for the end of the world; those most obviously and determinedly pious took, it might seem, a certain unfraternal joy in the contrast of their superior forethought, in being prepared for the day of doom, with the uncovenanted estate of the non-professor. a revival broke out at new bethel; the number of mourners grew in proportion as the comet got bigger night by night. small wonder that as evening drew slowly on, and the flaring, assertive, red west gradually paled, and the ranges began to lose semblance and symmetry in the dusk, and the river gloomed benighted in the vague circuit of its course, and a lonely star slipped into the sky, darkening, too, till, rank after rank, and phalanx after phalanx, all the splendid armament of night had mustered, with that great, glamourous guidon in the midst--small wonder that the ignorant mountaineer looked up at the unaccustomed thing to mark it there, and fear smote his heart. at these times certain of the little sequestered households far among the wooded ranges got them within their doors, as if to place between them and the uncanny invader of the night, and the threatening influences rife in the very atmosphere, all the simple habitudes of home. the hearthstone seemed safest, the door a barrier, the home circle a guard. others spent the nocturnal hours in the dooryard or on the porch, marking the march of the constellations, and filling the time with vague speculations, or retailing dreadful rumors of strange happenings in the neighboring coves, and wild stories of turmoil and misfortune that comets had wrought years ago. it was at one of these makeshift observatories that justus hoxon stopped the first evening after his electioneering tour in the interest of his brother. the weather had turned hot and fair; a drought, a set-off to the surplusage of recent rain, was in progress; the dooryard on the high slope of the mountain, apart from its availability for the surveillance of any eccentric doings of the comet, was an acceptable lounging-place for the sake of the air, the dew, the hope of a vagrant breeze, and, more than all, the ample "elbow-room" which it offered the rest of the family while he talked with theodosia blakely. the rest of the family--unwelcome wights!--were not disposed to make their existence obtrusive; on the contrary, they did much to further his wishes, even to the sacrifice of personal predilection. mrs. blakely, her arms befloured, her hands in the dough, had observed him at the gate, while she stood at the biscuit-block in the shed-room, and although pining to rush forth and ask the latest news from the settlement and the comet, she only called out in a husky undertone: "'dosia, 'dosia, yander's justus a-kemin' in the gate! put on yer white apern, chile." because she had been adjured to put on her white apron, theodosia did not put it on. she advanced to the window, about which grew, with its graceful habit, a hop-vine. a little slanting roof was above the lintel, a mere board or so, with a few warped shingles; but it made a gentle shadow, and theodosia thought few men besides the one at the gate would have failed to see her there. he lingered a little, turning back to glance over the landscape, and then he deflected his course toward a rough bench that was placed in a corner of the rail fence, threw himself upon it, and fanned himself with his broad-brimmed hat. "the insurance o' the critter! i'm a mind ter leave ye a-settin' thar by yerse'f till ye be wore out waitin'," she muttered. she hesitated a moment, then took her sunbonnet and went out to meet him. the scene was like some great painting, with this corner in the foreground left unfinished, so minute was the detail of the distance, so elaborate and perfect the coloring of the curves of purple, and amethyst, and blue mountains afar off, rising in tiers about the cup-shaped valley. above it hung a tawny tissue of haze, surcharged with a deeply red, vinous splendor, as if spilled from the stirrup-cup of the departing sun. he was already out of sight, spurring along unknown ways. the sky was yellow here and amber there, and a pearly flake, its only cloud, glittered white in the midst. up the hither slope the various green of the pine and the poplar, the sycamore and the sweet-gum, was keenly differentiated, but where the rail fence drew the line of demarkation, art seemed to fail. a crude wash of ochre had apparently sufficed for the dooryard; no weed grew here, no twig. it was tramped firm and hard by the feet of cow, and horse, and the peripatetic children, and poultry. the cabin was drawn in with careless angles and lines by a mere stroke or two; and surely no painter, no builder save the utilitarian backwoodsman, would have left it with no relief of trees behind it, no vineyard, no garden, no orchard, no background, naught; in its gaunt simplicity and ugliness it stood against its own ill-tended fields flattening away in the rear. such as it was, however, it satisfied all of justus hoxon's sense of the appropriate and the picturesque when theodosia blakely stepped out from the door and came slowly to meet him. the painter's art, if she were to be esteemed part of the foreground, might have seemed redeemed in her. her dress was of light blue homespun; her sunbonnet of deep red calico, pushed back, showed her dark brown hair waving upward in heavy undulations from her brow, her large blue eyes with their thick black lashes, her rich brunette complexion, her delicate red lips cut in fine lines, and the gleam of her teeth as she smiled. she had a string of opaque white, wax-like beads around the neck of her dress, and the contrast of the pearly whiteness of the bauble with the creamy whiteness and softness of her throat was marked with much finish. her figure was hardly of medium height, and, despite the suppleness of youth, as "plump as a partridge," according to the familiar saying. the clear iris of her eyes gave an impression of quick shifting, and by them one could see her mood change as she approached. she looked at him intently, speculatively, a sort of doubtful curiosity furtively suggested in her expression; but there was naught subtle or covert in the gaze that met hers--naught but the frankest pleasure and happiness. he did not move, as she advanced, nor offer formal greeting; he only smiled, secure, content, restful, as she came up and sat down on the end of the bench. the children, playing noisily in the back yard on the wood-pile, paused for a moment to gaze with callow interest at them; but the spectacle of "the'dosia's sweetheart" was too familiar to be of more than fleeting diversion, and they resorted once more to their pastime. mrs. blakely too, who with rolling-pin in her hand had turned to gaze out of the window, went back to rolling out the dough vigorously, with only the muttered comment, "wish the'dosia didn't know how much i'd like that man fur a son-in-law, then she'd be willin' ter like him better herse'f." he was unconscious of them all, as he leaned his elbow on the projecting rails of the fence at their intersection close at hand. "hev ye hed yer health, the'dosia?" he said. "don't i look like it?" she replied laughingly. there was something both of cordiality and coquetry in her manner. her large eyes narrowed as she laughed, and albeit they glittered between their closing lids, the expression was not pleasant. levity did not become her. "yes, ye do," he said seriously. "ye 'pear ter be real thrivin' an' peart an' healthy." his look, his words, were charged with no sort of recognition or value of her beauty: clearly her challenge had fallen to the ground unnoticed. "he'd like me jes' ez well ef i war all pitted up with the smallpox, or ez freckled ez a tur-r-key-aig," she thought, flushing with irritation. beauty is jealous of preëminence, and would fain have precedence even of love. she could take no sort of satisfaction in a captive that her bright eyes had not shackled. somehow this love seemed to flout, to diminish, her attractions. it was like an accident. she could account for his subjection on no other grounds. as she sat silent, grave enough now and very beautiful, gazing askance and troubled upon him, he went on:-- "i war so oneasy an' beset lest suthin' hed happened on the mounting, whilst i war away, ter trouble you-uns or some o' yer folks. i never hed time ter study much 'bout sech in the day, but i dreamt 'bout ye in the night, an' _all night_,"--he laughed a little,--"all sort'n mixed up things. i got ter be a plumb joseph fur readin' dreams--only i could read the same one forty diff'rent ways, an' every way made me a leetle mo' oneasy than the t'other one. i s'pose ye hev been perlite enough ter miss me a leetle," he concluded. she flashed her great eyes at him with a pretended stare of surprise. "my--no!" she exclaimed. "we-uns hev hed the comet ter keep us comp'ny--we ain't missed nobody!" he laughed a little, as at a repartee, and then went on:-- "waal, the comic war a-cuttin' a pretty showy figger down yander at colbury. 'ston-ishin' how much store folks do 'pear ter set on it! they hed rigged up some sort'n peepin'-glass in the court-house yard, an' thar war mighty nigh the whole town a-squinchin' up one eye ter examinate the consarn through it--all the court off'cers, 'torney-gin'ral, an' sech, an' old doctor kane an' jedge peters, besides a whole passel o' ginerality folks. they 'lowed the glass made it 'pear bigger." "did it?" she asked, with sudden interest. "bless yer soul, chile, _i_ didn't hev time ter waste on it. jedge peters he beckoned ter me, an' 'lowed he'd interjuce me ter it; but i 'lowed the comic outside war plenty big enough fur me. 'jedge,' i says, 'my mission hyar air ter make onnecessary things seem _small_, not magnified. that's why i'm continually belittlin' rolf quigley. wat kin go on lookin' cross-eyed at the stars, ef so minded, but i be bound ter tend ter the 'lection.' an' the jedge laffed and says: 'justus, nex' time i want ter git 'lected ter office, i'm goin' ter git _ye_ ter boost me in. ye hev got it a sight mo' at heart than yer brother.' fur thar war wat, all twisted up at the small e-end o' the tellingscope, purtendin' ter be on mighty close terms with the comic, though lots o' other men said it jes' dazed thar eyes, an' they couldn't see _nuthin'_ through it, an' mighty leetle arterward through sightin' so long one-eyed." "waal, how's the prospects fur the 'lection?" she asked. "fine! fine!" he answered with gusto. "folks all be so frien'ly everywhar ter we-uns." he leaned his shoulder suddenly back against the rough rails of the fence. his hat was in his hand. his hair, fine, thin, chestnut-brown, and closely clinging about his narrow head, was thrown back from his forehead. his clear blue eyes were turned upward, with the light of reminiscence slowly dawning in them. it may have been the reflection of the dazzling flake of cloud, it may have been some mental illumination, but a sort of radiance was breaking over the keen, irregular lines of his features, and a flush other than the floridity of a naturally fair complexion was upon his thin cheek and hollow temple. "o the'dosia," he cried, "i can't holp thinkin', hevin' so many frien's nowadays,--whenst it's 'hail!' hyar, an' 'howdy!' thar, an' a clap on the shoulder ter the east, an' a 'how's yer health?' ter the west, an' a handshake ter the north, an' 'take a drink?' ter the south, from one e-end o' the county ter the t'other,--how i fared whenst i hed jes' _one_ frien' in the worl', an' that war yer mother! an' how she looked the fust day she stood in the door o' my cabin up thar--kem ter nuss elmiry through that spell she hed o' the scarlet fever. an' arterward she says ter me: 'ye do manage s'prisin', justus; an' i be goin' ter save ye some gyardin seed out'n my patch this year, an' ef ye'll plough my patch i'll loan ye my horse-critter ter plough your'n. an' the gals kin kem an' l'arn ter sew an' churn, an' sech, long o' 'dosia.' an' how they loved ye, 'dosia--special elmiry!" his eyes filled with sudden tears. they did not fall; they were absorbed somehow as he resumed:-- "sech a superflu'ty o' frien's nowadays! ef 't warn't they'd count fur all they're wuth in the ballot-box, i'd hev no use fur 'em. i kin sca'cely 'member thar names. but then i hed jes' _one_--jes' _one_ in all the worl'--yer mother! bless her soul!" he concluded enthusiastically. he was still and reflective for a moment. then he made a motion as though he would take one of theodosia's hands. but she clasped both of them demurely behind her. "i don't hold hands with no man ez blesses another 'oman's soul by the hour," she said, with an affectation of primness. there may have been something more serious in her playful rebuff, but in the serenity of his perfect security he did not feel it or gauge its depth. a glimpse of her mother at the window added its suggestion--a lean, sallow, lined face, full of anxious furrows, with a rim of scanty gray-streaked hair about the brow, with spectacles perched above, and beneath the flabby jaw a scraggy, wrinkled neck. "an' she's so powerful pretty!" theodosia exclaimed, with an irreverent burst of laughter, "i don't wonder ye feel obligated ter bless her soul." "she 'pears plumb beautiful to my mind," he said unequivocally,--"all of a piece with her beautiful life." theodosia was suddenly grave, angered into a secret, sullen irritation. these were words she loved for herself: it was but lately she had learned so to prize them. her eyes were as bright as a deer's! had not some one protested this, with a good round rural oath as attestation? her hair on the back of her head, and its shape to the nape of her neck, were so beautiful--she had never seen it: how could she say it wasn't? her chin and her throat--well, if people could think snow was a prettier white, he wouldn't give much for _their_ head-stuffin'. and her blush! her blush! it was her own fault. he would not have taken another kiss if she had not blushed so at the first that he must needs again see her cheek glow like the wild rose. these were echoes of a love-making that had lately taken hold of her heart, that had grown insistently sweet and dear to her, that had established its sway impetuously, tyrannically, over her life, that had caused her to seem more to herself, and as if she were infinitely more to her new lover. she wondered how she could ever have even tolerated this dullard, with his slow, measured preference, his unquestioning security of her heart, his doltish credulity in her and her promise, his humble gratitude to her mother,--who had often enough, in good sooth, got full value in return for aught she gave,--who appeared "beautiful" to his mind. she broke forth abruptly, her cheeks flushing, her eyes brave and bright, the subject nearest her heart on her lips, in the sudden influx of courage set astir by the mere contemplation of it. "waal now, tell 'bout wat--how he enj'ys bein' a candidate, an' sech." then, with a tremor because of her temerity: "i have hearn o' that thar beautisome old 'oman a time or two afore, but wat ez a candidate air sorter fraish an' new." he turned his clear, unsuspicious eyes upon her. he had replaced his wide wool hat on his head, and he leaned forward, resting his cheek on his hand and his elbow on his knee. he aimlessly flicked his long spurred boot, as he talked, with a willow wand which he carried in lieu of horsewhip. "waal, wat is some similar ter a balky horse. he don't seem ter sense a word i say, nor ter be willin' ter do a thing i advise, nor even ter take heart o' grace 'bout bein' 'lected, till we gets out 'mongst folks, an' _thar_ handshakin's and frien'liness seems ter hearten up the critter. i hev jes' hed ter baig an' baig, an' plead an' plead, with that boy 'bout this an' that an' t'other, till i wouldn't go through ag'in what i _hev_ been through ter git 'lected doorkeeper o' heaven. but," with a sudden change of tone and a flush of pride, "the'dosia, ye dunno what a' all-fired pretty speaker wat hev got ter be. jes' stan's up ez straight an' smilin' afore all the crowd, an' jes' tells off his p'ints, one, two, three, ez nip! an' the crowd always cheers an' cheers--jes' bawls itse'f hoarse. whenever thar's a chance ter speak, wat jes' leaves them t'other candidates nowhar." ah, theodosia's beauty well deserved the guerdon of sweet words. she might have been pictured as a thirsting hebe. she had a look of quaffing some cup of nectar, still craving its depths, so immediate a joy, so intense a light, were in her widely open eyes; her lips were parted; the spray of blackberry leaves that she held near her cheek did not quiver, so had her interest petrified every muscle. she was leaning slightly forward; her red sunbonnet had fallen to the ground, and the wind tossed her dark brown hair till the heavy masses, with their curling ends disheveled, showed tendrils of golden hue. her round, plump arm was like ivory. the torn sleeve fell away to the elbow, and her mother, glancing out of the window, took remorseful heed of it, and wished that she herself had set a stitch in it. "the'dosia shows herself so back'ard 'bout mendin', an' sech--she air enough ter skeer any man away. an' justus knows jes' what sech laziness means. kin mend clothes hisse'f ez good ez the nex' one, an' useter do it too, strong an' taut, with a double thread, whenst the fambly war leetle chil'n an' gin ter bustin' out'n thar gear." but justus took no note of the significance of the torn sleeve. "why, 'dosia," he went on, "everybody 'lowed ez wat's speeches seemed ter sense what the people wanted ter hear. him an' me we'd talk it over the night before, an' wat he'd write down what we said on paper an' mem'rize it; an' the nex' day, why, folks that wouldn't hev nuthin' ter say ter him afore he spoke would be jes' aidgin' up through the crowd ter git ter shake han's with him." she smiled with delight at the picture. if it were sweet to him to praise, how sweet it was to her to listen! "tell on!" she said softly. her interest flattered him; it enriched the reminiscence, dear though his memory held it. he had no doubt as to the unity of feeling with which they both regarded the incidents he chronicled. he went on with the certainty of responsive sentiment, the ease, the serenity of a man who opens his heart to the woman he loves. "why, 'dosia," he said, "often, often if it hed n't been fur the folks, i could hev run up an' dragged him off'n the rostrum an' hugged him fur pride, he looked so han'some an' spoke so peart! an' ter think 't war jes' our leetle wat--the fambly's leetle wat--growed up ter be sech a man! ye'll laff at me--other folks did--whenst i tell ye that ag'in an' ag'in i jes' cotch' myse'f cheerin' with the loudest. i could n't holp it." "he'll be 'lected, justus?" she breathlessly inquired, and yet imperatively, as if, even though she asked, she would brook no denial. "oh, they all say thar's no doubt--no doubt at all." she drew a long breath of contentment, of pleasure. she leaned back, silent and reflective, against the rail fence behind the bench, her eyes fixed, absorbed, following the outline of other scenes than the one before them, which indeed left no impression upon her senses, scenes to come, slowly shaping the future. all trace of the red glow of the sun had departed from the landscape. no heavy, light-absorbing, sad-hued tapestries could wear so deep a purple, such sombre suggestions of green, as the circling mountains had now assumed: they were not black, and yet such depths of darkness hardly comported with the idea of color. the neutral tints of the sky were graded more definitely, with purer transparency, because of the contrast. the fine grays were akin to pearl color, to lavender, even, in approaching the zenith, to the palest of blue--so pale that the white glitter of a star alternately appeared and was lost again in its tranquil inexpressiveness. the river seemed suddenly awake; its voice was lifted loud upon the evening air, a rhythmic song without words. the frogs chanted by the waterside. fireflies here and there quivered palely over the flat cornfields at the back of the house. there was a light within, dully showing through the vines at the window. "an' then, 'dosia," said justus softly, "when the 'lection is over, it's time fur ye an' me ter git married." she roused herself with an obvious effort, and looked uncomprehendingly at him for a moment, as if she hardly heard. "the las' one o' fambly will be off my han's then. fambly will hev been pervided fur--every one, wat an' all. i hev done my bes' fur fambly, an' i dunno but i hev earned the right ter think some fur myse'f now." he would not perhaps have arrogated so much, except to the woman by whom he believed himself beloved. she said nothing, and he went on slowly, lingering upon the words as if he loved the prospect they conjured up. "we-uns will hev the gyardin an' orchard, an' pastur' an' woods-lot an' fields, ter tend ter, an' the cows an' bees, an' the mare an' filly, an' peegs an' poultry, ter look arter. an' the house air all tight, the roof an' all in good repair, an' we-uns will have it all ter ourselves." she turned upon him with sudden interest. "what will kem o' wat?" "oh, he mus' live in town whilst sher'ff, bein' off'cer o' the court an' official keeper o' jail, though he kin app'int a jailer." "live in colbury!" she exclaimed in wonderment. justus laughed in triumph. "oh, i tell ye, wat's 'way up in the pictur's! he'll be a reg'lar town man 'fore long, i reckon, dandified an' sniptious ez the nex' one, marryin' one o' them finified town gals ez wear straw hats stiddier sunbonnets,--though they _do_ look ter be about ez flimsy an' no-'count cattle ez any i ever see," the sterling rural standpoint modifying his relish of walter's frivolous worldly opportunities. she tossed her head in defiance of some sudden unspoken thought. as she lifted her eyes, fired by pride, she saw the comet all a-glitter in the darkening sky. she hardly knew that he had seized her hand; but his importunity must be answered. "d'rec'ly after the 'lection--'lection day, 'dosia?" he urged. "ain't ye got no jedgmint," she temporized, laughing unmirthfully, "axin' sech a question ez that under that onlucky comet!" "i hev been waitin' so long, 'dosia!" it was the first suggestion of complaint she had ever heard from him. "then ye air used ter waitin', an' 't won't kill ye ter wait a leetle longer. i'll let ye know 'lection day." ii. it was a hot day in the little valley town, the first thursday in august, the climax of a drought, with the sun blazing down from dawn to dusk, and not a cloud, not a vagrant mist, not even the stir of the impalpable ether, to interpose. the mountains that rimmed the horizon all around colbury shimmered azure, through the heated air. no wind came down those darker indentations that marked ravines. a dazzling, stifling stillness reigned; yet now and again an eddying cloud of dust would spring up along the streets, and go whirling up-hill and down, pausing suddenly, and settling upon the overgrown shrubbery in the pretty village yards, or on white curtains hanging motionless at the windows of large, old-fashioned frame houses. even the shade was hot with a sort of closeness unknown in the open air, yet as it dwindled to noontide proportions some alleviation seemed withdrawn; and though the mercury marked no change, all the senses welcomed the post-meridian lengthening of the images of bough and bole beneath the trees, and the fantastic architecture of the shadows of chimney and gable and dormer-window, elongated out of drawing, stretching across the grassy streets and ample gardens. there among the grape trellises, and raspberry bushes, and peach and cherry trees, the locusts chirred and chirred a tireless, vibrating panegyric on hot weather. the birds were hushed; sometimes under a clump of matted leaves one of the feathered gentry might be seen with wings well held out from his panting sides. the beautiful green beetle, here called the "june-bug," hovered about the beds of thyme, its jeweled, enameled green body and its silver gauze wings flashing in the sun, although june was far down the revolving year. blue and lilac lizards basked in the garden walks, which were cracked by the heat. little stir was in the streets; the languid business of a small town was transacted if absolute need required, and postponed if a morrow would admit of contemplation. the voters slowly repaired to the polls with a sense of martyrdom in the cause of party, and the election was passing off in a most orderly fashion, there being no residuum of energy in the baking town to render it disorderly or unseemly. often not a human being was to be seen, coming or going. to theodosia it was all vastly different from the picture she had projected of colbury with an election in progress. in interest, movement, populousness, it did not compare with a county-court day, which her imagination had multiplied when she estimated the relative importance of the events. she had made no allowance for the absence of the country people, specially wont to visit the town when the quarterly court was in session, but now all dutifully in place voting in their own remote districts. the dust, the suffocating heat, the stale, vapid air, the indescribable sense of a lower level--all these affected her like a veritable burden, accustomed as she was to the light and rare mountain breeze, to the tempered sun, the mist, and the cloud. the new and untried conditions of town life trammeled and constrained her. she had a certain pride, and she feared she continually offended against the canons of metropolitan taste. in every passing face she saw surprise, and she fancied contempt. in every casual laugh she heard ridicule. her brain was a turmoil of conflicting anxieties, hopes, resolutions, and in addition these external demands upon her attention served to intensify her absorbing emotions and to irritate her nerves rather than to divert or soothe them. she had escaped from the relative at whose house she was making a visit, craftily timed to include election day, on the plea that she wished to see something of the town. "ye don't live up on the mounting, cousin anice, 'mongst the deer, an' b'ar, an' fox, like me," she had said jestingly, "or ye'd want ter view all the town ye kin." and once outside the shabby little palings, she returned no more for hours. along the scorching streets she wandered, debating within herself anxious questions which, she felt, affected all her future, and unfitting herself still further to reach that just and wise conclusion she desired to compass. she could not altogether abstract her mind, despite the interests which she had at stake. she noticed that her unaccustomed feet stumbled over the flag-stones of the pavement--"fit fur nothin' but followin' the plough!" she muttered in irritation. she hesitated at the door of a store, then sidled sheepishly in, tearing her dress on a nail in a barrel set well in the corner and out of the way. but while looking over the pile of goods which she had neither the wish nor the money to purchase, she could have sunk with shame with the sudden thought that perhaps it was not the vogue in colbury to keep a clerk actively afoot to while away the idle time of a desperately idle woman. she could not at once decide how she might best extricate herself, and for considerable time the empty show of an impending purchase went on. "i'll--i'll kem an' see 'bout'n it ter-morrer," she faltered at last. "much obleeged." "no trouble to show goods," said the martyr of the counter, politely. in truth he had in the course of his career shown them as futilely to women who were much older and far, far uglier, and contemplating purchase as remotely. she went out scarlet, slow, tremulous, and walking close into the wall like an apprehensive cat, looking now and again over her shoulder. she wondered if he laughed when he was alone. her shadow was long now as it preceded her down the street, lank, awkward, clumsy. she took note of the late hour which it intimated, and followed the extravagant, lurching caricature of herself to her cousin's house, a little unpainted, humble building set far back in the yard, against the good time coming when a more ornate structure should be prefixed. the good time seemed still a long way off. her cousin's ironing-board was on the porch, and presently a lean, elderly, active woman whisked out, her flat-iron in her hand. "cousin anice," called theodosia from the gate, "how's the 'lection turned out?" cousin anice paused to put her finger in her mouth; thus moistened, she touched it to the flat-iron, which hissed smartly, and which she applied then to the apron on the board. "laws-a-massy! chile, the polls is jes' closed, an' all the country deestric's ter be hearn from. we won't know till ter-morrer--till late ter-night, nohow." theodosia leaned against the gate. how could she wait! how could she endure the suspense! she thought of justus, and of her promise to fix the date of the wedding on election day, but only as an additional factor of trouble in her own anxiety and indecision. "wat's been hyar ez cross ez two sticks," said mrs. elmer. she paused to hold up the apron, exquisitely white, and sheer, and stiff, and to gaze with critical professional eyes upon it; she was what is known as a "beautiful washer and ironer," although otherwise not comely. "wat's beat plumb out o' sight, ef the truth war knowed, i reckon. he 'lows he's powerful 'feared. ef't war justus, now, _he'd_ hev been 'lected sure. justus is a mighty s'perior man; pity he never hed no eddication. he could hev done anything--sharp ez a brier. yes; wat's beat, i reckon." in the instant theodosia's heart sank. but she turned from the palings, and sauntered resolutely on. it well behooved her to take counsel with herself. "i mought hev made a turr'ble, turr'ble mistake," she muttered. she was sensible of a sharp pang pervading her consciousness. nevertheless, judgment clamored for recognition. "everybody gins justus a good name, better'n wat," she argued. "an' ef wat _ain't_ 'lected"-- she walked down the street with a freer step, her head lifted, her self-respect more secure. with the possible collapse of her prospect of living in colbury, and her ambition to adjust herself to the exigent demands of its more ornate civilization, her natural untrained grace was returning to her. she felt that she was certainly stylish enough for the hills, where she was likely to live all her days, and with this realization she quite unconsciously seemed easy enough, unconstrained enough, graceful enough, to pass muster in a wider sphere. her heart was beating placidly now with the casting away of this new expectation that had made all its pulses tense. the still air was cooler, or at least darker. a roseate suffusion was in the sky, although a star twinkled there. more people were in the streets; doors and windows were open, and faces appeared now and again among the vines and curtains. as she hesitated on the street corner, two young girls in white dresses and with fair hair passed her. she watched them with darkening brow as they drew hastily together, and suddenly she overheard the half-smothered exclamation which had a dozen times to-day barely escaped her ears. "what a pretty, pretty girl! oh, my! how pretty, how pretty!" theodosia stood like one bewitched; a light like the illumination of jewels was in her sapphire eyes; the color surged to her cheek; she lifted up her head on its round, white throat; her lips curved. "oh, poor fool!" she thought in pity for herself, for this was what the colbury people had been saying all day in their swift, recurrent glances, their half-masked asides, their furtive turning to look after her. and she--to have given herself a day of such keen misery unconscious of their covert encomiums! "i live up thar in the wilderness till i jes' don't sense nothin'," she said. all the wilting prospects of life were refreshed as a flower in the perfumed dew-fall. she felt competent, able to cope with them all; her restored self-confidence pervaded her whole entity, spiritual and material. she walked back with an elastic step, a breezy, debonair manner, and she met justus hoxon at the gate of her cousin's yard with a jaunty assurance, and with all the charm of her rich beauty in the ascendant. he would fain have detained her in the twilight. "what's that ye promised to tell me 'lection day?" "i 'lowed the day wat war 'lected," she temporized, laying her hand on the gate, which his stronger hand kept still closed. "waal, this is the day wat is 'lected." she drew back. even in the dim light he could see her blue eyes widening with inquiry as she looked at him. "i 'lowed the returns warn't all in," she said doubtfully. "they ain't, but enough hev kem in sence the polls closed ter gin him a thumpin' majority. he's safe." the tense ring of triumph was in his voice. the scene was swimming before her; she was dazed by the sudden alternations of hope and despair, of decision and counter-decision, by the seeming instability of all this. once more she thought, in a tremble, and with a difference, of the mistake she might have made. she held to the gate to keep her feet, no longer to open it. "what did ye promise ter tell me 'lection day?" he demanded once more, clasping her hand as it lay on the palings. "'lection day?" she said with a forced laugh--"'t ain't e-ended yit. an'," with a sudden resolution of effecting a diversion--"afore it _is_ e-ended i want ter git a peep through that thar thing they call a tellingscope, ef they let women folks look through it." he was instantly intent. "laws-a-massy, yes!" he exclaimed. "i seen mis' dr. kane and mis' jedge peters, an' thar darters, an' a whole passel o' women folks over thar one night las' week. the young folks jes' amble up an' down the court-house yard, bein' moonlight, like a lot o' young colts showin' thar paces. an' even ef they ain't thar ter-night, i'll take ye over thar arter supper, with yer cousin anice ter keep ye in countenance." but after supper there was a sufficiency of fluttering white dresses astir in the court-house yard, and now and again crossing the wide, ill-paved street thither, to warrant theodosia in dispensing with her cousin's company, much to that sophisticated worthy's relief. "i hev seen all colbury's got ter show," she said with sated pride. "an' bein' ez i hev hed a hard day's ironin', i hev got a stitch in my side." "i'd onderstan' that better if ye hed hed a hard day's sewin'," said justus. he was in high feather, eager, jubilant, drinking in all the rich and subtle flavors of success with the gusto of personal triumph. "he air prouder'n wat," more than one observer opined. there was another fine exhibition of pride on display in the court-house yard that evening. one might have inferred that dr. kane had made the comet, from his satisfaction in its proportions, his accurate knowledge and exposition of its history, its previous appearances, and when its coming again might be expected. he was the principal physician of the place, and the little telescope was his property, and he had thus generously loaned it to the public with the hope of illuminating the general ignorance by a nearer view of the starry heavens, while it served his own and his neighbors' interest in the nightly progress of the great comet. total destruction had been prophesied as the imminent fate of the telescope, but it had so far justified its owner's confidence in the promiscuous politeness of kildeer county, and had been a source of infinite pleasure to the country folks from the coves and mountains, who had never before seen, nor in good sooth heard of, such an instrument. for weeks past almost all night curious groups took possession of it at intervals, and doubtless it did much to enlarge their idea of science and knowledge of celestial phenomena, for often dr. kane's idle humor induced him to stand by and explain the various theories touching comets,--their velocity, their substance or lack of substance, their recurrence, their status in the astral economy,--and cognate themes. as he was a man of very considerable reading and mental qualifications, of some means for the indulgence of his taste, and a good deal of leisure, the synopsis of astronomical science presented in the successive expositions was very well worth listening to, especially by the more ignorant of the community, who were thus enlightened as to facts hitherto foreign even to their wildest imaginings. but following hard on every benefaction is the trail of ingratitude, and certain of the irreverent in the crowd found a piquant zest in secret derision of the doctor, who sometimes did, in truth, present the air of a showman with a panorama. more especially was this the case when his enthusiasm waxed high, and his satisfaction in the glories of the comet partook of a positive personal pride. "what's he goin' ter do about it?" demanded one grinning rustic of another on the outskirts of the crowd. "put salt on its tail," responded his interlocutor. others affected to believe that the doctor was performing a great feat with the long bow, especially in the tremendous measurements of which he seemed singularly prodigal. a reference to the height of the mountains of the moon as compared with the neighboring ranges elicited a whispered hope that the roads were better there than those of the great smoky; and an inquiry concerning the probable fate of the comet provoked a speculation that when he was done with it he would sell it at public outcry to the highest bidder at the east door of the court-house. close about the stand, however, the crowd took on something of the demeanor of a literary society. discussions were in order, questions asked and answered, authorities quoted and refuted: the other physician, who practiced much in consultation with dr. kane, two or three clergymen, several of the officers of the court, and a number of lawyers, all taking part. the more youthful members of the gathering affected the role of peripatetic philosophers, and sauntered to and fro, arm in arm, in the light of the waxing moon. the big black shadows of the giant oaks were all dappled with silver as the beams pierced the foliage and fell to the ground below; only the cornice of the building threw an unbroken image, massive and sombre, on the sward. the low clustering roofs of the town had a thin bluish haze hovering about them, and were all softly and blurringly imposed on the vaguely blue sky and the dim hills beyond. among them a vertical silver line glinted, sharply metallic,--the steeple of a church. here and there a yellow light gleamed from a lamp within a window. no sound came from the streets; all the life of the place seemed congregated here. there was a continual succession of postulants to gaze through the telescope, some gravely curious, some stolidly iconoclastic and incredulous, others with covert levity, and still others, self-conscious, solicitous, secretly determined to affect to see all that other people could see, lest some subtle incapacity, some flagrant rusticity, be inferred from failure. these last were hasty observers, scarcely waiting to adjust the eye to the lens, fluttered, and prolific of inapt exclamations, which too often betrayed the superficial character of the investigation. to this class did theodosia belong. "plumb beautiful!" she murmured under her breath, after a momentary contact of her dazzled eye with the brass rim of the telescope. "try ag'in, 'dosia!" exclaimed justus, aghast at this perfunctory dismissal of the comet, as she turned to go away. she winced a little from his voice, clear, vibrant and urgent, for justus had no solicitude concerning the superior canons of colbury touching etiquette, and suffered none of her anxieties. she caught dr. kane's eyes fixed upon him as she moved hastily away, and then he came up beside justus, who stood near the telescope. "let me explain the thing to you, hoxon," he said. "try a peep yourself." justus glanced after her. walter had joined her--not so soon, however, but that she heard a half-suppressed criticism on her lover as he turned to the telescope and dr. kane's exposition. "pity he's got no education--smart fellow, but can't even read and write." "smart" enough to be an apt pupil. the others pressed close around, listening to the measured voice of the physician and the quick, pertinent questions of the star-gazer. it is as an open scroll, that magnificent, wonder-compelling cult of the skies, not the sealed book of other sciences. since the days of the chaldean, all men of receptive soul in solitary places, the sailor, the shepherd, the hunter, or the hermit, whether of the wilderness of nature or the isolation of crowds, have read there of the mystery of the infinite, of the order and symmetry of the plan of creation, of the proof of the existence of a god, who controls the sweet influences of pleiades and makes strong the bands of orion. the unspeakable thought, the unformulated prayer, the poignant sense of individual littleness, of atomic unimportance, in the midst of the vast scheme of the universe, inform every eye, throb in every breast, whether it be of the savant, with all the appliances of invention to bring to his cheated senses the illusion of a slightly nearer approach, or of the half-civilized llanero of the tropic solitudes, whose knowledge suffices only to note the hour by the bending of the great southern cross. it is the heritage of all alike. for justus hoxon, who had followed the slow march of the stars through many a year in the troubled watches of the night, when anxiety and foreboding could make no covenant with sleep, there was, in one sense, little to learn. he knew them all in their several seasons, the time of their rising, when they came to the meridian, and when they were engulfed in the west, till with another year they sparkled on the eastern rim of the sky. he listened to dr. kane's explanation of this with an air of acceptance, but he hardly heeded the detail of their distance from the earth and from one another--he knew that they were far,--and he shook his head over speculations as to their physical condition, vegetation, and inhabitation. "ye ain't got no sort o' means o' knowin' sech, doctor," he said reprehensively, gauging the depths of the ignorance of the wise man. he heard their names with alert interest, and repeated them swiftly after his mentor to set them in his memory. "by george!" he cried delightedly, "i hed no idee they hed names!" and as the amateur astronomer, pleased with so responsive a glow, began the tracing of the fantastic imagery of the constellations, detailing the story of each vague similitude, he marked the sudden dawn of a certain enchantment in his interlocutor's mind, the first subtle experience of the delights of the ideal and the resources of fable. it exerted upon dr. kane a sort of fascinated interest, the observation of this earliest exploration of the realms of fancy by so keen and receptive an intelligence. the comet, the telescope, the crowd, were forgotten, as with hoxon at his elbow he made the tour of the court-house yard, from point to point, wherever the best observation might be had of each separate sidereal etching on the deep blue. for a time the crowd casually watched them with a certain good-natured ridicule of their absorption, and the telescope maintained its interest to the successive wights who peered through at the comet still splendidly ablaze despite the light of the gibbous moon. the ranks of young people promenaded up and down the brick walks and the grassy spaces. elder gossips sat on the court-house steps, or stood in groups, and discussed the questions of the day. gradually disintegration began. the clangor of the gate rose now and then as homeward-bound parties passed through, becoming constantly more frequent. still the shifting back and forth of the thinning ranks of the peripatetic youth went on, and laughter and talk resounded from the court-house steps. at intervals the telescope was deserted; the motionless trees were bright with the moon and glossy with the dew. the voice of guard-dogs was now and again reverberated from the hills. the languid sense of a late hour had dulled the pulses, and when justus hoxon turned back to earth it was to an almost depopulated scene, the realization of the approach of midnight, and the sight of theodosia sitting alone in the moonlight on the steps of the east door of the court-house, waiting for him with a touching patience, as it seemed to him at the moment. "air you-uns waitin' fur me, 'dosia, all by yerse'f?" he demanded hastily, with a contrite intonation. "i _'pear_ to be all by myse'f," she said, with a playful feigning of uncertainty, glancing about her. she gave a forced laugh, and the constraint in her tone struck his attention. "i 'lowed ez wat war with ye," he said apologetically. "air ye ready ter go over ter yer cousin anice's now?" he was standing leaning against one of the columns of the portico, his face half in the shadow of his hat and half in the moonlight. she sat still upon the steps, looking up at him, her upturned eyes taking an appealing expression from her lowly attitude. she was silent for a moment, as if at a loss. then suddenly her eyes fell. "'pears ter me ter be right comical ter hev ter remind _ye_ o' what _i_ promised ter tell ye 'lection day," she said. "why, 'dosia," he broke in vehemently, "i hev axed ye twice ter-day, an' i didn't ax ye jes' now 'kase ye hed been hyar so long alone, an' i wanted ter take ye ter yer cousin anice's ef so be ye wanted ter go." he stopped for a moment. then, with a change of tone, "ye can't make out ez i hev been anything but hearty in lovin' ye--nearly all yer life long!" his voice rang out with a definite note of conviction, of assertion. reproach was an untenable ground. she desisted from the effort. her eyes wandered down the street that lay shadowy with gable, and dormer-window, and long chimneys, in sharp geometric figures in the moonshine, alternating with the deeper shadow of the trees. there were no lights save a twinkle here and there in an upper window. a flush rose to his pale cheeks. his heart was beating fast with heavy presage. he hesitated to demand his fate at so untoward a moment. he took off his hat, mechanically fanning with its broad brim, and gazing about him at the slowly dulling splendor of the moonlight as the disk tended further and further toward the west. the stars were brightening gradually, and within the range of his vision flared the great comet, every moment the lustre of its white fire intensifying. he only saw; he did not note. his every faculty was concentrated on the girl's drawling voice as she began again, hesitating, and evidently at a loss. "waal, i hate ter tell ye, justus, but i hev ter do it, an' i mought ez well the day that i promised ter set _the day_. it's--it's--_never_! i ain't goin' ter marry ye at all!" he recoiled as from a blow. and yet he could not accept the fact. "the'dosia," he said, "air ye mad with me 'kase ye 'low i forgot ye this evenin'?" theodosia had recovered her poise. now that she had begun she felt suddenly fluent. it did not accord with her estimate of her own attractions to dismiss a lover because he had forgotten her. she began to find a relish in the situation, and sought to adjust its details more accurately to her preferences. "justus, i know ye never furgot me fur one minute. i kin find no fault with yer likin' fur me." she had never seen a stage. she had never heard of a theatre, but she was posing and playing a part as definitely as if it graced the boards. he detected a certain spurious note in her voice. it bewildered him. he stared silently at her. "i can't marry you-uns. i never kin." "why?" he demanded in a measured tone. "how kem ye hev changed yer mind? ye hev told me often that ye would." "w-a-al," she drawled, looking away at the skies, her unthinking eyes arrested, too, by the blazing comet, "i _did_ 'low wunst i would. but a man with eddication would suit me bes', an' ye hain't got none." "no more hev ye," he argued warmly. he was clinging for dear life to his vanishing hope of happiness. he did not realize depreciation in his words--only the facts that made them suited to each other. "ye know ye _wouldn't_ take l'arnin' at school--an' i _couldn't_ git it; 'pears ter me we air 'bout ekal." "it air a differ in a 'oman," said theodosia, quickly. "a 'oman hev got no call to be l'arned like a man." this very subordinate view failed in this instance of the satisfaction it is wont to give to the masculine mind. "waal, ye didn't git enough l'arnin' ter hurt ye," he retorted. then, relenting, he added, "but i don't find no fault with ye fur that nuther." the color flared into her face. how she resented his clemency to her ignorance! she still sat in her lowly posture on the step, leaning her bare head against the column of the porch, for her bonnet lay on the floor beside her; but there was a suggestion of self-assertion in her voice. "i ain't expectin' ter live all my days in the woods, like a deer or suthin' wild. i expec' ter live in town with eddicated folks, ez be looked up ter, an' respected by all, an' kin make money, an' hev a sure-enough house." her ambitious eyes swept the shadowy gables down the street. he broke out laughing; his voice was softer; his face relaxed. "laws-a-massy! dosia," he exclaimed, "yer head's plumb turned by one day's roamin' round town. ye won't be in sech a hurry ter turn me off whenst we git back ter the mountings." "i ain't goin' back ter the mountings!" she cried; "i be a-goin' ter marry a town man ez hev got position, an' eddication, an' place." she paused, stung by the fancied incredulity in his eyes. "why not? ain't i good-lookin' enough?" she had risen to her feet; her eyes flashed upon him; her beautiful face wore a look of pride. it might have elicited from another man a protest of its beauty. he stared at her with an expression of alarm that was almost ghastly. "other men like me fur my looks, ef ye don't, justus hoxon," she said in indignation. "ef they jes' likes ye fur yer looks they won't like ye long," hoxon said severely. "i'll like ye when yer brown head is ez white ez cotton--ez much ez i like ye now--more!--_more_, i'll be bound! o 'dosia," with a sudden renewal of tenderness, "don't talk this hyar cur'ous way! i dunno what's witched ye. but let's go home ter the mountings, ter yer mother, an' see ef she can't straighten out any tangle yer feelin's hev got inter." it needed only this--the allusion to her commonplace mother, the recollection of the forlorn little mountain home, the idea of her mother's insistent championship of justus hoxon--to bring the avowal so long trembling on her lips. "i won't! i ain't likin' ye nowadays, justus hoxon, nor fur a long time past. i ain't keerin' nothin' 'bout ye." there was something in her tone that carried conviction. "air ye in earnest?" he said, appalled. "dead earnest." he gazed at her in the ever dulling light, that yet was clear enough to show every lineament--even the long black eyelashes that did not droop or quiver above her great blue eyes. "then thar's no more to be said." he spoke in a changed voice, calm and clear, and she stared at him in palpable surprise. she had expected an outburst of reproach, of beseechings, of protestation. she had braced herself to meet it, and she felt the reaction. she was hardly capable of coping with seeming indifference. it touched her pride. she missed the tribute of the withheld pleadings. she sought to rouse his jealousy. "it's another man i like," she said, "better--oh, a heap better--than you-uns." "that's all right, then." he wondered to hear the words so glibly enunciated. his lips seemed to him stiff, petrifying. he looked very white about them. she did not heed. she was angered, wounded, perplexed, by his acquiescence, his calmness, his taciturnity. a wave of anxiety that was half regret went over her. she felt lost in the turmoil of these complex emotions. with that destructive impulse to hurl down, to tear, to strike, that is an element of a sort of blind irritation, she went on tumultuously: "he is a man ez hev got eddication, an' a place, an' a fine chance an' show in life--it's--it's--yer brother walter." her aim was true that time. her shaft struck in the very core of his heart: but the satisfaction of this knowledge was denied her. he looked very white, it is true, but the pale moonlight was on his face; and he only said in an undertone: "walter!" she laughed aloud, a sort of mockery of glee. she had expected to enjoy the revelation, and her laughter was an incident of the scene as she had planned it. "we war a-courtin' consider'ble o' the time whilst ye war off electioneerin'," she said, with the side glance of her old coquetry. she saw his long shadow on the pavement bend forward and recoil suddenly. she did not look at him. "an' so ter-night," she went on briskly,--she had truly thought it a very good joke,--"whilst you-uns war a-star-gazing an' sech, wat an' me jes stepped inter the register's office thar, an' the squair married us. we 'lowed ye didn't see nothin' of it through the tellingscope, did ye? so wat said i must tell ye, ez _he_ didn't want ter tell ye." she could not see his face, the light was dulling so, and he had replaced his wide hat. there was a moment's silence. then his voice rang out quite strong and cheerful, "why, then thar's no more to be said." he stood motionless an instant longer. then suddenly he turned with a wave of his hand that was like a gesture of farewell, and she marked how swiftly his shadow seemed to slink from before him as he walked away, and passed the corner of the house, and disappeared from view. she gazed silently after him for a moment. then, leaning against the column, she burst into a tumult of tears. * * * * * daylight found justus hoxon far on the road to the mountains. in the many miles, as he fared along, his thoughts could hardly have been pleasant company. as he sought to discover fault or flaw in himself, search as he might, he could find naught that might palliate the flippant faithlessness of his beloved, or the treachery of his brother. his ambition might have been too worldly a thing, but not a pulse of that most vital emotion beat for himself. he realized it now--he realized his life in looking back upon this completed episode, as he might have done in the hour of death. he had so expended himself in the service of others that there was naught left for him. he had no gratulation in it, no sense of the virtue of unselfishness, no preception of achievement; it only seemed to him that his was the most flagrant folly that ever left a man in the world, but with no place in it. a sorry object for pride he seemed to himself, but he quivered, and scorched, and writhed in its hot flames. his one object was to take himself out of the sight and sound of colbury, till he might have counsel within himself, and perfect his scheme of revenge--not upon the woman. poor theodosia, with her limitations, could hardly have conceived how she had shattered the ideal to which her image had conformed in his mind, as she had stood on the porch and vaunted her beauty, and her belief in its power, and her pitiful ambitions. the woman was heartily welcome to the lot she had chosen. but the treacherous man,--it was not in justus hoxon's scheme of things to receive a blow and return nothing. a "hardy fighter" he was esteemed, albeit his prowess was eclipsed by his more peaceful virtues. this, however, should be returned in kind. he would make no attack to be put in the wrong, arrested, perhaps, after the colbury interpretation of assault and battery. but walter had many a weak point in his armor, glaringly apparent now to the once fond brother. only a surly, bitter word he had for greeting to the few neighbors whom he met, and who went their way in the conviction that his brother had lost his election; for none ascribed any emotion of justus hoxon's to his own sake. he reached in the evening the little cabin where the padlock hung on the door, and the heavy, untrodden dust of the drought lay without; and so it was that the old days when "fambly" had struggled through their humble experiences came back to him with that incomparable sweetness of the irrevocable past. hardships! how could there be, with fond faith in one another, and in all the world! poverty--so rich they were in love! life, after all, is more than meat, and there is no hunger like that of a famished heart. he reviewed that forlorn, anxious, struggling orphanage, transfigured in the subtle glow of regretful, loving memory, as one might gaze into the rich glamours of a promised land. alas, that our promised land should be so often the land we made haste to leave! as he sat down on the step he saw the ragged cluster of children troop down the road from twenty years agone, almost as if he actually beheld them, himself at the head. he could still feel their plump palms clinging to his hand at the first suggestion of danger. he had led them a right thorny path, each to a successful goal. and now could he turn against "fambly"? should he denounce the treachery of one of the little group that he could see huddling together for warmth on the meagre hearthstone, while outside the snows of a long-vanished winter were a-whirl? should he pull down the temple on walter's success--the pride of them all? he remembered how his sisters, with that feminine necessity of hero-worship in their untaught little hearts, had clung about walter. he remembered too that almost every thought of his own life had been given to this man, who had ruthlessly and secretly robbed him of all that was dear to him, and in such wise as to hold him up to ridicule, a scoffing jest, a very good joke! so walter considered it, and so doubtless would all colbury. it would have surprised walter, but his sometime mentor's cheek burned with shame for him. no; the claims of "fambly" were paramount. he gave it precedence, as in the old days he had denied himself when "fambly" dined at the skillet, and the bone and the broken bit he took for his share. he could not bring discredit upon it. he would not lift his hand against it. it was the object of a lifelong allegiance, and he only marveled that, since the uses of the loyalty were at an end, the empty life should go on. he gazed mechanically at the padlock as he sat there with his dreary thoughts, remembering with what different heart he had turned the key. ah, happiness--to pass out from a door, and knock there never again! he rose at last, his burden adjusted to his strength. he had never worked for thanks. it hardly mattered to him now how his efforts were requited. and though he encountered treachery at close quarters,--of his own household,--it was not in his heart to be a traitor to "fambly" and its obvious interests. so he too went out from the door in the footprints of happiness--likewise to return no more. * * * * * walter hoxon had not altogether ill-gauged the general proclivity to deem all fair in love or war. he was accounted to have performed something of a feat in the clever outwitting of his unsuspecting rival, and to the minds of the many there was an element of the romantic in this hasty wedding of the damsel of his choice almost under the eyes of the expectant bridegroom. he had added to the prestige of success in politics the lustre of valiance in the lists of love, and he encountered laughing congratulations from his friends and political supporters, which served much to reassure him and to banish a vague and subtle anxiety as to public opinion that had begun to gnaw at his heart. they all seemed to think he had done a very fine thing, and that it was a very good joke, and he was soon most jauntily of their persuasion. he could not know that here and there people were saying to one another, aside, the words he had feared to hear in reproach--that the swain whom he and his lady-love had conspired to dupe was his brother, who had done everything for him--had, as a mere child, encountered and vanquished poverty, had clothed and educated this man and his sisters, had served his every interest with a perfect self-abnegation all his life; that it was his brother who had won his election, being a man of much influence and untaught eloquence, and of great native tact and intelligence; that the secrecy, the conspiracy, and the publicity of the dramatic dénouement, in lieu of an open rivalry, rendered it a case of the most flagrant ingratitude, and argued much unworthiness in the people's choice. but suddenly a doubt began to prevail as to whether he were the people's choice. in the returns from the farthest districts, not heard from till quite late in the day, in which walter hoxon had felt secure, quigley developed unexpected strength. in great perturbation walter swiftly patrolled the town in search of justus; unprecedented developments were imminent, and he hardly dared face the emergency without his valiant backer at hand. justus had disappeared as utterly as if the night had swallowed him up. "consarn the tormentin' critter!" exclaimed walter, mopping his brow as he stood at the little gate of mrs. elmer's yard, returning thither, after his fruitless searching, in the hope of finding his brother among the familiar faces. "mad ez a hornet, i'll be bound, an' lef' me in the lurch. beat arter all, i'll bet!" theodosia listened, tremulous, aghast. all the fine prospects that had seemed so near, into whose charming perspectives she might in another moment have stepped as actually as upon that path to the gate, were drawing away, dissolving, as tenuous, as intangible, as those morning sunlit mists shifting and rising from before the massive blue ranges of the great smoky mountains, and dallying with the distances into invisibility. "i tole ye ag'in an' ag'in ye bes' not be _too sure_," she said, a sob in her throat, with an obvious disposition to wreak her disappointment upon him. it was crushed in the moment. he turned a frowning face full upon her. "hold yer jaw!" he cried violently. "ef 't warn't for you-uns i'd hev justus hyar, an' i'll be bound _he_ could fix it. ye miserable deceitful critter--settin' two own brothers at loggerheads! i'll take no word from _you-uns_--sure!" he shook his head indignantly at her, clapped his hat upon it, and turned desperately away as a man came running up. "have ye found justus?" wat exclaimed. "justus? no. but they say it's a tie--a tie!" for the news was already bruited throughout the town--in a ferment of excitement, because of the closeness of the contest--that the two candidates, racing gallantly neck and neck, had come under the wire together with not so much as the point of a nose to distinguish the winner. walter stood still for a moment, his dark eyes dilated with eagerness and anxiety. suddenly he leaned back against the gate-post with a deep sigh of relief and relaxation. "then it's all right," he exclaimed breathlessly. "the coroner's my frien', ef i ain't got another in the worl'. old beckett will stan' by me, _sure_!" as the coroner held the election, the sheriff himself being a candidate, it was his duty to give the casting vote. this prolongation of the jeopardy of the result heightened the popular interest, the more as the officer did not immediately decide upon his action in the matter. "i want a leetle time ter think it over--a leetle time fur the casting vote," he said, as he gnawed at a plug of tobacco, then crossed his ponderous legs while he leaned back in a splint-bottomed chair in the register's office. he was a tall, portly man, with a large, round imperious face, thatched heavily with iron-gray hair. he wore no beard, and was dressed in brown jeans, which imparted a certain sallowness to his dark complexion. he had small gray eyes, at once shrewd and good-natured, but his manner was bluff, imperative, and all the judiciary of the state could hardly have compassed an expression of a greater sense of importance. he was observed with much interest by a number of men who lounged about the room. a tense sub-current of curiosity underlay the suspense natural to the occasion, for it was well known to the gossips about the court-house that he and the sheriff had not been on the best of terms; when their official functions had happened to bring them into contact they had clashed smartly, and the county rang with their feuds. his course was obvious to all--his hesitation only an affectation, lest a too vehement animosity be imputed to him. "poor quigley's cake is dough," observed one of the incumbent's friends in an undertone, standing with his hands in his pockets, and gazing through the long dark vista of the hall out of the door into the sunlight's glow, as it fell upon the few houses and the great stretch of arable land beyond. a horizontal shadow of a cloud lay at its extremity, as definite as a material barrier, and far above it rose tiers of green and bronze hills like a moulding to the base of the lapis-lazuli-tinted mountains. "this never happened in this county before," said the register, glancing up from a big book in which he was copying the doings of "the party of the first part" and "the party of the second part"--the familiar spirits of his den. "why, no!" exclaimed the coroner, with a pleased laugh. "to me the castin' vote is ez _phee_-nomenal an' ez astonishin' ez the comet." he chuckled--the fat man's unctuous laugh. "something like the comet, too: it has its place in the legal firmament, but 't ain't often necessary to use it." "that war a toler'ble funny tale 'bout the comet they air a-tellin' roun' town," observed a young countryman pausing in front of the two, his hands in his pockets, his hat on the back of his red head, a wide grin of enjoyment on his freckled face,--"about the feller that hed his sweetheart a-courtin' out hyar in the yard last night, an' tuk ter lookin' at the comet through the spy-glass, an' whilst he war busy a-star-gazin' the comet, another feller stepped up with the squair, an' married his gal--ha! ha! ha!" beckett looked up interested. incongruously enough a vein of romance ran through the massive strata of conceit, and intolerance, and vainglory, and pertinacity, and pugnacity that made up the very definite structure of his nature. he dearly loved a lover. he was as sentimental as a girl of eighteen, and he melted instantly into suavest amenities at the first intimation of a love-story in abeyance. "i ain't heard 'bout that," he said in a mellifluous voice. "ye know i was tucked up in yonder"--he jerked his thumb over his shoulder--"tendin' to the countin' of the votes, bein' returnin'-officer. who married?" "why this hyar walter hoxon--him ez is candidate fur sher'ff," said the red-haired interlocutor, widening his grin. beckett elevated his heavy, grizzled eyebrows. a sudden, secret, important look, as if he were colloguing with some one vanquished in argument, crossed his face. he nodded once or twice, but only said acquiescently: "ah--ha! ah--ha! toler'ble enterprisin'. run fur office an git married 'lection day." he smiled broadly. any innovation on the stereotyped methods appealed to him with the grace and relish of a new metre to a neophytic rhymester. "wat's a nice boy, a mighty good boy, too," he went on, with his oily voice quite soft. "run mighty well in this 'lection, too. he's a mighty smart, good boy." he nodded his big head approvingly. "i don't wonder he cut the t'other feller out. mighty fine feller wat is." "well, now," said the register, suddenly putting his pen behind his ear, and leaving the party of the first part and the party of the second part to their own devices, "i'm blest if i don't think justus is worth a hundred of wat, lock, stock, an' barrel." once more the grizzled eyebrows went up toward the iron-gray thatch of the coroner's forehead. "_justus!_ i'm free ter say i dunno nobody equal ter justus. i hev known justus sence he war knee-high ter a pa'tridge--the way he did keer fur them chil'n, an' brung 'em up ter be equal ter anybody in the lan'! an' smart--_smart_ ain't the word fur him! ef he hed education he could do anything; but he hed ter stan' back an' let the t'other chil'n git it. whar would wat be ef 't warn't fur justus?" "that's what makes me say 't was a mighty mean trick he played on justus," the register broke in. "who? how?" demanded the coroner. "why, justus was the t'other feller. wat an' the girl never let _him_ have an inklin' of it. they just fooled him along, believin' she was goin' ter marry _him_. an' las' night when it was reported all over town that wat was elected, an' justus took time from electioneerin' fur his brother to breathe, they tolled him out to look at the comet, an' slipped off an' married." the man of sentiment, with the election in his hand, sat looking loweringly about him. his satisfaction was wilted; his fat hung flabbily on his big bones; his small eyes were hard and cold. "waal," he said, rising at last, "these extry an' occasional opportunities like comets an' castin' votes oughter be took full advantage of--full advantage of; no doubt about that." and thus it was that the casting vote tipped the scale in favor of the incumbent. "he's ez hard-headed, an' _ty_rannical, an' _per_verse, an' cantankerous a critter ez ever lived, with no feelin's, nor softness, nor perliteness in him--but he's a square man. he'll do the _fair_ thing--every time," the coroner said in explanation. and so he braced himself for another term of official wrangling. * * * * * poor theodosia! she never forgot that return home, through all the dust of the drought and the glare of the midsummer sun. even to herself her nature seemed too small for the magnitude of the various anguish which she was called upon to endure. the sharp alternations of certainty and doubt which she had undergone seemed slight, seemed naught, in comparison with the desolate finality of despair, the fang of hopeless regret, and the dread of the veiled future with which she had made no covenant of expectation or preparation, that preyed upon every plodding step as she went. her anxiety as to the wisdom of her course was not assuaged by the aghast dismay of her mother's face, when she reached the little house overlooking the encircling mountains,--as still, as meditative, as majestically unmoved, as if no more troublous world existed,--and unfolded the story of her visit to colbury. she felt for the first time in her life how justus hoxon's friend merited his confidence. her mother had no reproaches, no sarcasms, no outbursts of grief. she addressed herself to the support and the comforting of her daughter, but with so evident a hopelessness and an expectation of bitter things to come that the girl burst out sobbing afresh. "d' ye think wat air so wuthless ez all that!" the discipline of life began for her here. as the price of his political defeat, walter had scant relish for the triumph he had scored in love. he was surly, taciturn, or else loud with reproaches and criminations, which grew more vehement and contumelious if she answered, seeking to exculpate or justify herself; and if she were silent, her submission seemed to exasperate him and to develop a crafty ingenuity in finding fault. he brooded grimly on his brother's probable exultation when he should return and hear the news of the casting vote. to fortify himself for the encounter he spent much time at the still, and his drunken, reasonless wrath was even more formidable to the object of his displeasure than his sober, surly resentment against her as the cause of all his disasters. but justus did not come. walter began to doubt if the news of the untoward result of the election, in which he had spent all his energies, had reached him. he also began to desire, contradictorily enough, that his brother should know it. for although justus must needs recognize it as a mortal blow to his dearest foe, it had the capacity of doing much execution in its recoil. justus had had the election so greatly at heart; he had struggled, and planned, and managed with such preternatural activity and tact and energy from the first, that it would smite him hard to know that it was all in vain. and then his vicarious ambitions, his pride, his pleasure, in the elevation of "fambly"! walter cast about futilely for an assurance that he might have the satisfaction of reducing all this. he knew that justus, in his mistaken certainty of the result of the election, would not ask for information, and that he could not read the newspapers. a letter--even if there were any remote presumption as to his address--would lie indefinitely in the mail, and find its way at last to the dead letter office. walter realized after a time that justus intended to return no more--the woman he loved was his brother's wife. justus had probably put the breadth of the state between them, walter sneeringly concluded. he made haste to quarrel with his wife's mother, in his perverse relish of aught that might give theodosia pain, and they quitted her home and took up their residence in the house in which theodosia had once expected to live, the scene of the early struggles of "fambly." theodosia's beauty could hardly be said to fade; it disappeared in the overblowing. she grew very fat and unwieldy as the years wore on; her face broadened, her florid complexion degenerated into a mottled red and purple. she was no prettier than her mother had been when she ridiculed her lover's eulogy of her mother's spiritual beauty. she had a hard life with her drunken, idle, slothful husband, who habitually imputed to her agency every evil that had ever befallen him, holding it to excuse him from all exertion to better their very poor estate, and whose affection had been easily kindled by her beauty and as easily extinguished. * * * * * justus, self-exiled from the mountains, tramped the valley roads, hardly caring whither, and drifted finally to the outskirts of one of the large manufacturing towns of tennessee. he worked for some seasons doggedly, drudgingly, on a farm near by, but found a sort of entertainment in the sights and sounds within the city limits, as having no association with the past which his memory dreaded. he prospered in some sort, for although he was ignorant of all methods of skilled labor, fidelity is an art with so few proficients that friends and opportunities were not lacking. his progress was somewhat hampered, however, despite his evident intelligence, by a doubt which prevailed concerning his mental balance. he was often observed to stand and gaze smilingly, fondly, after any group of ragged, dirty children; he, although of the poorest, was profuse in gratuities to any callow beggar who did not know enough of the world's ways to expect nothing of such as he, as did the older ones. he could not read, but he bought newspapers from the smallest of the guild of newsboys, and meditatively turned the sheets in his hand, and then softly and slowly tore them to bits. and these things created a doubt of his sanity, for who could know how "fambly" looked at him from the pinched face of every poor, and cold, and hungry child? at last, despite this unsuspected drawback, a congenial occupation came to him. he was night watchman at a great factory, and as he paced, all solitary, back and forth in the yard, he was wont to note the stars as the infallible seasons brought them into place; and he began to remember their names, and to trace the strange configuration of the constellations, and to con again the stories woven into their shining meshes which he heard at the time that the great comet blazed among them. and this is his never failing interest--dark summer nights, when the galaxy opens a broad avenue of constellated light across the heavens, seeming a veritable road, as if it might be the way to god's throne, beaten hard and bright by the feet of saints and martyrs; or when the moon is full, and autumnal glamours reign, and only the faint sidereal outlines prevail; or when winter winds are high, and the snow lies on slanting roofs, and spires gleam with icicles, and orion draws his scintillating blade; or when, all bedight in scarlet, "arcturus and his sons" are guided into the vernal sky. books by "charles egbert craddock." (mary n. murfree.) in the tennessee mountains. short stories. mo, $ . . down the ravine. for young people. illustrated. mo, $ . . the prophet of the great smoky mountains. a novel. mo, $ . . in the clouds. a novel. mo, $ . . the story of keedon bluffs. for young people. mo, $ . . the despot of broomsedge cove. a novel. mo, $ . . where the battle was fought. a novel. mo, $ . . his vanished star. a novel. mo, $ . . the mystery of witch-face mountain. mo, $ . . houghton, mifflin and company, boston and new york. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- "smiles" a rose of the cumberlands ----------------------------------------------------------------------- by eliot h. robinson "smiles": a rose of the cumberlands . . . $ . smiling pass: being a further account of the career of "smiles": a rose of the cumberlands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $ . mark gray's heritage . . . . . . . . . . $ . the maid of mirabelle: a romance of lorraine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $ . man proposes; or, the romance of john alden shaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . $ . go get 'em! the true adventures of an american aviator of the lafayette flying corps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $ . by eliot h. robinson and lieutenant william a. wellman. with old glory in berlin; or, the story of an american girl's life and trials in germany and her escape from the huns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $ . by eliot h. robinson and josephine therese. the page company beacon street, boston ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [illustration: "a man and a woman--as it was in the beginning" (see page )] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- "smiles" a rose of the cumberlands by eliot h. robinson author of "man proposes" illustrated by h. weston taylor the page company boston--publishers ----------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright, , by the page company entered at stationers' hall, london all rights reserved first impression, may, second impression, june, third impression, july, fourth impression, august, fifth impression, september, sixth impression, october, seventh impression, december, eighth impression, february, ninth impression, september, tenth impression, august, ----------------------------------------------------------------------- to my boys this story of a girl who loved children is affectionately dedicated ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the keynote of life is love-- lacking it, naught is worth while-- the symbol of service, the cross and the sign of courage, a smile. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- an acknowledgment i wish to acknowledge, most gratefully, the valuable assistance rendered to me, in the preparation of the chapters dealing with the medical and hospital incidents, by robert w. guiler, m.d.; by alonzo j. shadman, m.d., to whom i am indebted for my description of the unusual operation in chapter xxi; and by miss elizabeth e. sullivan, superintendent of nurses at the boston children's hospital. and, above all, i desire to make acknowledgment of the debt of gratitude that i owe to mr. henry wightman packer for his helpful criticism throughout the writing of this story. eliot harlow robinson. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- contents chapter page i. donald macdonald, m.d. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii. enter big jerry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iii. an innocent serpent in eden . . . . . . . . . . . iv. "smiles" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v. giving and receiving . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi. an unaccepted challenge . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii. "smiles'" gift and the "writing" . . . . . . . . . viii. some of several epistles . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix. the high hills, and "god's man" . . . . . . . . . x. "smiles'" consecration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi. adoption by blood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xii. the three of hearts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii. gathering clouds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiv. sowing the wind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xv. reaping the whirlwind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvi. the aftermath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii. the parting pledge and passing days . . . . . . . xviii. the added burden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xix. "smiles'" appeal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx. the answer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxi. a modern miracle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxii. vicarious atonement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxiii. two letters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxiv. new scenes, new friends . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxv. the first milestone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxvi. the call of the red cross . . . . . . . . . . . . xxvii. the goal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxviii. "but a rose has thorns" . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxix. an interlude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx. donald's homecoming . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxxi. the valley of indecision . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxxii. the storm and the sacrifice . . . . . . . . . . . xxxiii. what the cricket heard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxxiv. a lost brother . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxxv. the hallowed moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ----------------------------------------------------------------------- list of illustrations page "a man and a woman--as it was in the beginning" (see page ) . . . . . . . . . . . . frontispiece "one dusty, but dainty, foot was held between her hands" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "she was kneeling beside a low, rounded mound" . . . . . . "read the brief article twice, mechanically, and almost without understanding" . . . . . . . . . . . . . "holding the girl in clinging white close to him" . . . . . ----------------------------------------------------------------------- chapter i donald macdonald, m.d. the man came to a stop, a look of humiliation and deep self-disgust on his bronzed face. with methodical care he leaned his rifle against the seamed trunk of a forest patriarch and drew the sleeve of his hunting shirt across his forehead, now glistening with beads of sweat; then, and not until then, did he relieve his injured feelings by giving voice to a short but soul-satisfying expletive. at the sound of his deep voice the dog, which had, panting, dropped at his feet after a wild, purposeless dash through the underbrush, looked up with bright eyes whose expression conveyed both worship and a question, and, as the man bent and stroked his wiry coat, rustled the pine needles with his stubby tail. the picture held no other animate creatures, and no other sound disturbed the silence of the woods. by the hunter's serviceable nickeled timepiece the afternoon was not spent; but the sun was already swinging low over the western mountaintop, and its slanting rays, as they filtered through the leafy network overhead, had begun to take on the richer gold of early evening, and the thick forest foliage of oddly intermingled oak and pine, beech and poplar, was assuming deeper, more velvety tones. there was solemn beauty in the scene; but, for the moment, the man was out of tune with the vibrant color harmonies, and he frankly stated the reason in his next words, which were addressed to his unlovely canine companion, whose sagacity more than compensated for his appealing homeliness. "mike, we're lost!" city born and bred though he was, the man took a not unjustifiable pride in the woodcraft which he had acquired during many vacations spent in the wilds; hence it was humiliating to have to admit that fact--even to his dog. to be sure, the fastnesses of the border cumberlands were new to him; but his vanity was hurt by the realization that he had tramped for nearly an hour through serried ranks of ancient trees and crowding thickets of laurel and rhododendron--which seemed to take a personal delight in impeding the progress of a "furriner"--and over craggy rocks, only to find, at the end of that time, that he was entering one end of a short ravine from the other end of which he had started with the vague purpose of seeking the path by which he had climbed from the valley village. moreover, a subtle change was taking place in the air. faint breezes, the sighing heralds of advancing evening, were now beginning to steal slowly out from the picturesque, seamed rocks of the ravine and from behind each gnarled or stately tree, with an unmistakable warning. there was clearly but one logical course for him to pursue--head straight up the mountainside until he should arrive at some commanding clearing whence he could recover his lost bearings and establish some landmarks for a fresh start downward. with his square jaw set in a decisive manner, the man picked up his gun, threw back his heavy shoulders, and began to climb, driving his muscular body forcibly through the underbrush. the decision and the action were both characteristic of donald macdonald, in whose yankee veins ran the blood of a dour and purposeful scottish clan. aggressive determination showed in every lineament of his face, of which his nearest friend, philip bentley, had once said, "the great sculptor started to carve a masterpiece, choosing granite rather than marble as his medium, and was content to leave it rough hewn." every feature was strong and rugged, which gave his countenance an expression masterful to the point of being almost surly when it was in repose; but it was a face which caused most men--and women over thirty--to turn for a second glance. to-day, the effect of strength was further enhanced by a week's growth of blue-black beard. but his eyes, agate gray and flecked with the green of the "moss" variety, were the real touchstones of his character, and they belied the stern lines of his mouth and chin and spoke eloquently of a warm, kindly heart within the powerful body, a body which, to the city dweller, suggested the fullback on a football team. indeed, such he had been in those days when great power counted more heavily than speed and agility. not but that he possessed these attributes as well, in a degree unusual in one who tipped the scales at one hundred and ninety. to some it seemed an inexplicable anomaly that a man of his type should have selected, as the work to which he had dedicated his life, the profession of medicine, and still more strange that he had become a specialist in the diseases of children. yet such was the case, and many a mother, whose heartstrings were plucked by the lean fingers of despair, had cause to bless the almost uncanny surgical skill which his highly-trained brain exercised through the medium of his big, spatulate, gentle fingers. as "mac" had, in the old days, smashed his way through the opposing line of blue-jerseyed giants on the football field, and as he now plowed through the laurel and rhododendron, so had he won his way to the forefront of the younger generation of his profession until, at the age of thirty-five, he had become recognized as one of the most able children's specialists in america. a "man's man," blunt of speech to the point of often offending at first the cultured women with whom his labors brought him into contact, he was worshipped in hundreds of homes as an angel of mercy in strange guise, and was the idol of hundreds of little folk to whom he had brought new health and happiness. the toilsome upward climb brought its reward at length, and donald's eye caught sight of a clearing, and unmistakable signs of near-by civilization, if a scattering mountain settlement of primitive dwellers in that feudal country which lies half in west virginia, half in kentucky, may be so designated. no sooner had he stepped into the partially cleared land, and caught sight of a small, isolated cabin beyond, so toned by wind and weather that it seemed almost an integral part of its natural surroundings, than his own presence was detected, as the sharp and surly barking of an unseen dog evidenced. mike made answer to the challenge, and instantly other, more distant, canine voices joined in the growing clamor. as man and dog advanced across the clearing, not one, but half a dozen gaunt curs, summoned to the spot by a warning which meant the approach of a stranger, much as their clannish masters might have been in other years, mysteriously appeared from all sides and rushed forward, their lips drawn back from threatening teeth, their bristling throats rumbling ominously. donald sharply commanded the likewise bristling mike to keep to heel, threw his rifle to hip and backed hastily toward the cabin. he had no wish to employ his weapon, and as retreat was the other alternative, for his companion's sake, if not his own, indeed, discretion seemed to be, by all odds, valor's better part. a noisy and exciting moment brought him to the cabin's door, still face to the enemy. fumbling behind him with his left hand, donald found and lifted the latch. the door swung suddenly open under his weight, mike scurried between his legs, and the combination resulted in his downfall, precipitate and sprawling. simultaneously came a startled exclamation in a treble voice, the clatter of a fallen kettle and then a quick cry of pain. in an instant donald had scrambled ungracefully to his feet and found himself face to face with a picture that he was destined never to forget. backed by a big stone fireplace, in which the embers were glowing ruddily, stood a young girl clad in a simple one-piece dress, which left neck, arms and legs bare. one dusty, but dainty, foot was held between her hands, while she balanced on the other. a tumbling mass of rich brown curls, shot with gleaming threads like tiny rays of captive sunshine, fell, unbound, over her shoulders, and partly veiled a childlike face, tanned to an indian brown and now twisted with pain, but nevertheless so startlingly sweet and appealing that the man gasped in astonishment. [illustration: "one dusty, but dainty, foot was held between her hands"] as it is with many who wear bluntness like a cloak, donald possessed a deep-seated appreciation of the beautiful, without being capable of expressing it. but now he vaguely realized that here, where he would last have looked for it, he had blundered upon a child whom mother nature had designed lovingly and with painstaking care, perhaps in order to satisfy herself that, in the bustle of creation which nowadays left her little time for attention to fine detail, her hands had not wholly lost the cunning which was theirs when the world was young and women were few and fair. her face had the qualities of a sweet wild-flower, delicate of form yet hardy enough to stand up under the stress of a storm. a critic might have declared the sensitive mouth a shade too broad for the tapering lines which formed the firmly rounded chin; he might have said that the upper lip, against which its companion was now tightly pressed to check its trembling, was too short for classic beauty; but he would hardly have been able to find a flaw in the molding of the straight, slender nose or the broad forehead, or the cheeks which curved as symmetrically as the petals of a damask rose, or--if he were human--with the faint shadows at the corners of the lips which were not dimples, but fascinatingly suggested them. but, above all, it was the child's eyes, heavy with a sudden rush of unshed tears that merely added to their appealing charm, which left the strongest impression on the man. they were remarkable eyes, long of lash and of a deep blue with limpid purple shadows and golden highlights. her form, untrammelled by confining clothing and bending naturally, was slender and lithesome, but full of curves which told that the bud of childhood was just beginning to open into the blossom of early maturity--about fifteen or sixteen years old, donald guessed her to be. at her feet lay an overturned kettle the contents from which, a simple stew, was sending up a cloud of steam from the rough floor, and explained the reason for the misty eyes and tenderly nursed ankle. the whole picture was graven on his mind in a single glance; but, the next instant the sunniest, most appealing of smiles broke through the girl's pain-drawn tears. "yo' ... yo' looked so funny a-fallin' over thet thar dawg, an' a-rollin' on the floor," her words bubbled forth. "i'm glad that you have something to laugh about, but dev ... deucedly sorry that i made you burn yourself, child," answered donald, awkwardly. "it must hurt like the ... the mischief," he added, as he stepped forward to examine the injury with a quick return to his professional manner. "wall, hit _do_ burn, kinder. but taint nothin'." she sniffed bravely, but a tear overflowed its reservoir and made a channel through a smudge on her cheek. "well, i happen to be a doctor--when i'm not on a vacation--so i can do a little toward repairing the damage i caused." he was already unfastening the small first-aid kit which experience had taught him never to go without. "taint nothin', sir, really. i'll jest put some lard on hit, an' ..." began the girl, timidly backing away. donald did not stop to argue, but placed his strong hands on either side of her slender waist and lifted her lightly to the homemade table, while she gasped and again the wonderful smile, more shy this time, transformed her tear-stained face. in silence, and with flying, experienced fingers, the physician applied a soothing salve to the blotchy red, fast-swelling burn on the ankle, and deftly bandaged it. "there," he said. "you won't know, in a few minutes, that anything has happened." "thank ye, sir," said the girl, as he lifted her again and allowed her to slip gently to the floor. "yo' shore knows how ter do up a foot." she hopped gingerly over to the fireplace, and began to clear up the wreck of supper, first calmly lifting the dog away from the steaming hot meat which his quivering nose was inquisitively approaching. "be careful. mike might ..." "oh, he won't bite _me_." she broke into his warning, and gave a playful tug at the coarse hair on the animal's neck. somewhat to donald's surprise, the dog wiggled ecstatically at the friendly advances and paid his lowly homage by licking her bare foot. "never mind that mess, i'll clean it up if you'll get me a shovel. and of course i mean to pay for it," said donald hastily. "in course yo' won't do no sech thing. we-all's got plenty uv pertaties,--i growed 'em myself,--this yere meat haint hurt a mite, an' water's cheap," she responded. "yo' jest take a cheer, mister, an' yo' kin hev supper along with us as soon as grandpap comes, which'll be right soon, i reckon. we-all don't see stranger folks much up yere, an' he'll be plumb glad thet ye drapped in." she tossed a morsel of meat to the expectant mike; then added shyly, "an' so be i." "well, i certainly 'drapped,'" laughed donald. "it looked as though all the dogs south of the mason-dixon line had gathered to give mike and me a warm, if not cordial, welcome, so we didn't stop to knock before coming in." "lucky fer ye thet yo' struck a cabin whar the latch string air allus out," she answered, her silver laughter echoing his. "i hadn't a' ought ter hev been so skeered, but i warn't payin' no attention ter all the barkin', fer i jest allowed thet the dawgs hed treed a coon, er somep'n. yo' see they haint exactly fond o' strangers, an' they be powerful fierce. i reckon they'd hev gobbled mike right up." donald glanced affectionately at the wiry mass of bone and sinew which went to make the police dog every inch a warrior, and doubted it. the child had finished her task, and started the stew to heating again over the fire, and now she turned, swept back the mass of curls from her heated face with a graceful motion of her shapely arm, and stood regarding him with frank curiosity. donald had no intention of remaining longer, or accepting the hospitable invitation, but there was a touch of romance in the adventure, and a strong appeal in the girl herself, which caused him to hesitate, and linger to ask a few questions about the neighborhood and her life. when he did regretfully pick up his cap and rifle, and call the dog, who turned protestingly from her-who-dispensed-savory-pieces-of-meat, he found that he had suffered the fate of all who hesitate, for a glance through the window showed him that, although the glowing, iridescent reflection from the western sky still lingered in the mountain top, embroidering its edge with gold, it was fast fading, and already night had spread her dusky mantle over the eastern slope. already darkness had blotted out the lower reaches. chapter ii enter big jerry as donald stopped, uncertain, there came the sound of measured, heavy footfalls on the beaten dirt path outside the cabin. the girl's face lighted up joyfully; she hopped to the door, flung it open, and a slightly stooping, but gigantic, form stepped in out of the darkness, caught her up in his huge arms and submitted with a quizzical smile while she pulled his face toward hers by tugging at his long beard, and kissed him. across the tumbled masses of her hair the newcomer's still piercing dark eyes, blinking a little under their shaggy brows as the fire leaped in the draft from the open door, caught sight of donald as he stood back among the shadows. he straightened up suddenly, and his brows drew together in a suspicious scowl. the city man knew enough of the primitive code of the mountain people to understand that the presence of a man,--especially a strange man,--alone in the house with a young woman, was fraught with unpleasant possibilities. but, before he could speak, the child-woman had launched into a vivacious, if ungrammatical, explanation and story of what had occurred. in substantiation she now raised her short skirt and lifted the bandaged foot, with utter freedom from embarrassment, and laughed deliciously until an answering smile crept slowly into the eyes of the old mountaineer. with a simple courtesy, which seemed to hold something of innate majesty, he stepped forward, and extended a weatherbeaten hand, several sizes larger than donald's, and boomed out in a deep voice that matched his physical proportions, "yo're suttinly welcome, stranger. what happened warn't no fault o' yourn, and i'm plumb obleeged ter ye fer fixin' up my granddarter's hurt. draw up a cheer fer the stranger, smiles, he'll jine us in a bite er supper. the fare's simple, but i war raised on't, and 'pears ter me thet i top ye some." "i should say that you did. you make me feel small, and it's not often any man does that ... physically, i mean." the two clasped hands, and donald winced as his own powerful fingers cracked under the crushing pressure of those of the older man, who seemed to take a boyish delight in this display of his tremendous strength. "what a colossus he is," thought donald, as he gritted his teeth to keep back the involuntary exclamation of pain, for, although the massive shoulders and jovian head of the mountaineer were stooped forward, he towered fully three inches above the six foot city athlete, and his iron-gray beard, rusted with tobacco juice about his mouth, swept over his chest almost to his waist. "thanks for the invitation," he said aloud, as he covertly nursed his right hand. "it's mighty kind of you, but i don't want to impose longer, and, besides, i'd better start back to fayville before it gets dark altogether. if you'll just tell me the most direct way, ..." "wall, i reckon the most _dee_rect way air ter go straight through the woods thar a piece, an' then jump off'n a four hundred foot cliff," the old man chuckled titanically. "but i likewise reckon taint pra'tical; leastwise, not onless yo' happen ter be one o' them new-fangled aviationeers i've hearn tell on. however, here ye be, an' here yo're goin' ter stay twill atter supper. come, child. sot on another plate fer the doctor man." "donald macdonald's my name, sir." "peers like yo'r paw stuttered when he give yo' thet name," laughed the giant. "mine's jerry webb--'big jerry,' they mostwise calls me hyarerbouts." there was simple pride in the nickname evident in his voice. "of course, if you really want me to stay, i'd be glad enough to do it, mr. webb, although i don't like to cause any more trouble for miss ..." "'rose' air the given name of my leetle gal, but folks gener'ly calls her smiles, fer short." the old man spoke with a noticeable tenderness toning his big voice. "and there's no need of explaining the reason," answered donald in a low aside so that the child, who was busy over the stewing kettle on its primitive crane, might not hear. "i never expect to see another to equal hers." his host sent a sharp glance at him, then, softening, it travelled to the graceful form of the girl silhouetted against the ruddy glow of the open fire, whose reflection outlined her warm flesh with a tint of burnished copper. "yes," he responded simply. "seems like, when thet leetle gal's sweet face lights up with a smile, hit's like a sunbeam a-breakin' through the leaves an' playin' on a waterpool in the quiet woods." "oh," interrupted rose with a cry. "i done plumb ferget ter git the milk from uncle perly's, but 'twon't take more'n a minute. kin i take mike?" she added, pleadingly, as she buried her slim fingers in the rough hair on the dog's neck, while he stood sniffing acquaintance with the huge boots and homespun pantaloons of the giant. "sure; that is if you're not still afraid that the neighbors' dogs will make a meal of him," smiled donald, and the object of the conversation, who seemed to sense its meaning, sprang eagerly erect and placed his forepaws on the girl's breast. "no dawg haint a-goin' ter tetch him whilst he's with me," she responded with quiet assurance. "come, mickey." "which air a fact," supplemented her grandfather, as girl and dog disappeared with a rush and a bark. "dumb beasts an' children worships smiles--an' hit haint scarse to be wondered at, fer she love 'em all. an' she's more rememberful than her grandpappy. yo' see, we don't gener'ly hev milk fer our coffee, 'ceptin' when company comes." in some distress at this frank announcement, donald said, "but i don't like to have you put yourselves out for me. i wouldn't have stayed if...." "now, don't let thet idee disturb ye a mite. we're glad ter hev ye with us, an' what fer air friends ef hit haint ter be an excuse fer a leetle extry celebration? set down, set down thar." donald obeyed, and, while his host moved ponderously about, depositing the contents of a bundle which he had brought, studied his surroundings curiously. it was his first experience within a real "feud country" cabin, and he was interested to see how closely its appearance coincided with what his imagination had painted from reading fiction woven about them. to his quiet delight he found that it might almost have served as an illustration for such a book, as, one by one, he mentally checked off the salient features. there were the hand-hewn timbers of wall and unsheathed ceiling; the yawning rough stone fireplace with its wrought iron crane, and, above it, a rifle whose unusual length proclaimed its ownership; the strings of dried herbs and red pepper pods--few, to be sure, and dusty with age--suspended from the rafters; and, in one corner, a crude ladder leading into the loft. only one thing was missing, the wall-beds or bunks, for the hand of civilization had pointed to one improvement, and doors, obviously not a part of the original simple structure, opened into a small addition, roughly partitioned into two sleeping rooms. they were of equal size, but there was no need of labels to proclaim their occupants, for one was so nearly filled with a bed which would have served for golden locks' biggest bear, that the rough clothing which was suspended from wooden pegs on the opposite wall hung against it, whereas the other contained, besides a narrow bed, a small chest of drawers with a cheap mirror above it, and a chair. the one window was draped with a daintily-flowered material, which donald decided was calico, a cover of the same material lay across the chest, and on it--in the place of honor between an old comb and brush stood a small blue-and-white jar, whose cheaply glazed surface caught the flicker of the fire and winked at him as though it were aware of the absurdity of anything so trivial being held in such high esteem. more of the "calico," which really was an inexpensive but tasteful chintz, hung against the wall and served to hide from prying eyes the child's meagre wardrobe, and a bow of it was perkily tied to the back of the chair. donald smiled his amusement and caught an answering grin on big jerry's face. "she haint like we-all," he said. "wants ter hev bright an' purty things erbout, an' ..." he lowered his voice, "durned ef she didn't make me a _necktie_ of thet thar stuff--seen one on a 'furriner' once." the visitor felt a warm satisfaction over the thought that his own costume didn't include such excess adornment. "i put hit on ... once, ter please her, but i reckon hit didn't make much of a showin' under _this_." he ran his fingers reflectively through his heavy beard for a moment; then, with his voice still a forte whisper, he added, "say, stranger, i've got a leetle drap o' white liquor hid out in the woodshed whar smiles kaint find hit, an' ef yo'd delight ter wet yo'r throat afore she comes back, why ..." the door flew open with a bang, and rose and mike tore in, panting and a-glitter with diamond drops of rain. instantly the expression of simple guile on the old man's face changed so ludicrously to one of overdone innocence that it was all donald could do to keep from laughing. "storm's a-comin'," cried the girl, gayly, while the dog rushed madly around the room, with his nose to the floor and barking hilariously, until his master seized him by the back and held him, squirming. a flash of distant lightning substantiated the announcement, and a few seconds later their ears caught the crescendo reverberations of thunder as it echoed down the valley. mike growled uneasily and crouched close to his master's legs, but rose ran again to the door and stood, heedless of the rain which beat in upon her wind-whipped skirt, peering out with evident delight. a still more vivid, zigzag flash rent the serried masses of black storm-clouds which were rolling up over the mountain's top, edging the nearer one with fire, and she laughed merrily and clapped her hands like a child. "shet thet door, yo' young vixen," bellowed big jerry, plainly disturbed. the girl obeyed, and gave him a kiss, and the whining dog a reassuring pat, as she hurried back to finish setting the table--a simple matter, for there was no spotless damask, glittering silver and cut glass to deck the white-scoured top of the plain slab which formed a substantial table for many purposes. in a moment she had announced, quite informally, that supper was served; but, just as the two men arose to take their places, there came a long "hulloo-oo" above the sound of wind and rain. again rose dashed to the door, with the cry, "why, thet's judd amos; i knows his call." without reason or warning donald experienced a quick tightening about his heart, the absurdity of which caused him to smile. what on earth was it to him if this mountain child's color heightened a shade at a familiar call in a masculine voice? the next instant a tall youth, as lean and sinewy as an indian, stumbled into the room, with his rough coat about his head, and water streaming from his drenched clothing and the barrel of a gun, which was every whit as modern and efficient as donald's own. "gosh a'mighty," he said. "thought i'd be drownded, shore. hit's a-goin' ter be a rip-snorter ... worst storm er the summer, by the way hit's started." then, as he dashed the rain from his eyes, and, for the first time caught sight of the visitor, he stopped short in none too pleased surprise, if the black look which went toward donald from beneath his lowering brows meant anything. "make ye acquainted with donald macdonald, a doctor man from the city, judd," boomed the giant's hearty voice. "doc, shake hands with a neighbor uv ourn, judd amos." as donald stood up he managed to silence mike's throaty growl with a warning shove with his foot. the men formally clasped hands, their eyes looking steadily into each other's from the same level, and this time, primed by his earlier experience, the city man exerted all of his strength, and felt a glow of childish satisfaction as the other winced. "set ye down, judd. draw a cheer up by the fire, yo're soaked," said big jerry. "honey-rose," he added, addressing the girl in a wheedling tone, "judd 'pears ter be powerful soaked an' cold. kaint he ... kaint we-all hev jest a drap o' white liquor?" he stroked his beard and pushed aside his drooping mustache in anticipation, but to no avail, for her answer, uttered firmly and with no suggestion of a smile in her deep eyes this time, was, "'deed yo' kaint; nary a drap. yo' know, an' juddy, _he_ knows ..." to donald there seemed to be some special significance in her words, "thet thar haint a-goin' ter be nary a drap o' thet devil's brew in house o' mine. why, i be plumb s'prised at ye, grandpap." the tremendous old man rubbed his whiskers faster and hemmed apologetically. "in course i haint got none ... in the cabin ..." he glanced quickly at donald, "an' i didn't mean nothin', smiles. come, swing yo'r cheer erround ter the table, judd, we'll jest fergit the eeliments, an' enjoy a dry celebration in the doctor's honor ... all 'cept judd, he air plenty wet," he added, in a jocose attempt to turn his mistake into a jest. "rose hurted her foot, an' doc, he done hit up fer her real nice." more bashfully than before, the girl extended the injured member in its now mud-bedraggled bandage for the newcomer's inspection. donald had been watching the scene with quiet amusement over the child's assurance, and had noticed not only the look of sorrowful resignation on her grandfather's face, but the dull flush which mounted the swarthy cheeks of the younger man. judd's mouth retained the straight line for some time, but a quick burst of light-hearted song on smiles' lips, as she turned to dish up the savory stew, showed that the incident was forgotten by her as soon as it was ended. "better let me lift it down for you," said donald, as she swung the crane with its heavy iron kettle from the fire. "we don't want any more burns here to-night." he jumped up and acted on the words without giving the matter a thought, but it seemed to him that the girl's pleased, "thank ye, sir," was a bit embarrassed, and that the men regarded him with blank surprise. not for a minute did it dawn upon him that his act had not been according to the code of the mountains. they were all seated at last, but yet another surprise was in store for the visitor, for rose folded her hands, bent her head until the curls veiled the glowing face, and began a simple blessing. big jerry sat bolt upright with his eyes screwed up ludicrously, and, although judd bent his head the merest fraction, it was with obvious embarrassment, and his flashing optics kept sending suspicious glances at the "furriner" as though to discover if he were laughing at them all. in fact, nothing was further from donald's mind. it had been long since he had partaken of a meal at which grace was said, but the simple, homely words touched a chord of memory and made it vibrate to a note which brought both pain and pleasure. the host's stentorian "amen" was the signal for attack, and for a time the business of satisfying the demands of healthy hunger was paramount to all things else. it was no feast of wit and wisdom, but of something, for the time being, more desirable, and the application of the other three gave donald an opportunity to study covertly the unusual group of which he had so unexpectedly become a part. although he was essentially a man of action, his brusqueness of manner was, in part at least, a pose which had become unconscious, and, deep within his heart, in a chamber carefully locked from the gaze of his fellow men, dwelt romance and imagination--the spirit gifts of a mother, whose death, five years before, had brought him his first black grief. had this visioning power been lacking in him he could never have accomplished the modern miracles which he had already wrought many times in constructive and restorative surgery. now, the spirit of imagery in his soul was stirred by something in the romantic unreality of his surroundings--the rude, yet interesting room which served all family purposes save that of slumber; the mellow radiance from a crude lamp and the ever-changing light of the open fire; the long, wavering shadows within the cabin; and, without, the banshee wailing of the storm wind around the eaves, the occasional crash of thunder, the creaking of limbs and fitful dashes of rain. he found himself leaning back in his chair and mentally attempting to dissect and study not the bodies, but the personalities, of the three who were the representatives of a type, in manners and customs at least, new to him. in his boyhood, and before the pressing demands of his profession had enslaved him, donald had been an insatiate reader, and now he endeavored to recall to memory some of the stories which he had read about this strange people, whose dwelling place was within the limits of the busy, progressive east, yet who were surprisingly isolated from it by natural barriers, and still more so by traditions slow to perish. pure of stock he knew them to be, for their unmixed blood had had its fountain source in the veins of some of america's best and earliest settlers; primitive in their ideals, strong in their simple purposes and passions, the products of, and perhaps even now factors in, blood feuds whose beginnings dated back generations. and, although he laughed at himself for his imaginings as he remembered that the twentieth century was ten years old, he found himself assigning both the men places in his memory picture. big jerry, slow of speech, patriarchal in looks and bearing, powerful in body, became, to his mind's eye, the venerable chieftain of a mountain clan. judd, with his aquiline face, which was undoubtedly handsome in a dark, brooding way, beneath its uncombed shock of black hair which swept low over his forehead, sinewy with the strength, quickness and muck of the natural grace of a panther, was the typical outlaw of the hills. chapter iii an innocent serpent in eden donald turned his appraising gaze upon the child, and here the illusion yielded to another, quite different. even her primitive dress, her unbound hair, her crude forms of speech and soft, drawling intonation--such as the throaty, unvarying pronunciation of "the" as though it were "ther," and "a" like "er"--which sounded so deliciously odd to his new england ears, could not erase from his mind the impression that she did not belong in the picture. to be sure he had, during his tramps, already seen many a wild mountain flower so delicately sweet that it seemed out of place amid its stern environment. but rose affected him differently, although the difference was subtle, indefinable. in the company of the men he was conscious of the reserve which one of his type instinctively feels when first in the presence of people of another race or class. with her he was already wholly at his ease. donald finally attributed this to the fact that she was, after all, merely a child--one of a class which is akin the world over, and which he understood better than any other. as the simple meal progressed, big jerry began to ply the visitor with questions, and press him to talk on many subjects connected with the wide world of men; and, as donald's natural reticence yielded to the naïve interrogations, he answered with a readiness which somewhat surprised even himself. the child ate little; but sat with her elbows on the table, her firmly rounded chin resting on her clasped hands, and drank in his words. her luminous eyes were fixed on his face, and expressions of wonder and delight chased each other across her own countenance, like wavering light and shade on a placid pool. judd, too, remained silent, ill at ease, and his dark, morose eyes ever shifted from the face of the man to that of the girl. once, while donald and his host were engaged in an animated discussion, he awkwardly attempted to draw rose into personal conversation; but he relapsed again into moody silence when he received a frank, though smiling, rebuff. clearly the meal was not an enjoyable one for him. all things of human invention come to an end, and at last big jerry lifted his towering frame from his chair to indicate that the supper was over. with obvious relief judd crossed to the door and, opening it, announced that the storm had nearly passed. it was still raining, however. "ef yo' air goin' back ter the village, stranger, i'll be pleased ter sot ye on yo'r way," he announced as he drew on his coat, and to donald's mind the sentence carried an unmistakable _double entente_. nevertheless he answered promptly, "thanks, i'd be much obliged if you would. perhaps mr. webb can spare me a lantern, too, since these paths are unfamiliar to ..." "sho, yo haint a-goin' out er this house ter-night, friend," broke in the old man. "leastwise, ef yo'r willin' ter put up with sech accommodations as the loft room offers ye. thar haint no sense of yer takin' er five-mile walk through them drenched bushes, an' gittin' soaked yerself." "in course yer goin' ter stay," echoed the girl, with childlike delight. "besides, i wants ter hear lots more erbout the city an' city folks." "but i have already imposed enough on your hospitality," protested donald, hesitatingly, since the invitation held a strong appeal for him. "yo' haint imposed at all. set yo'rself down. i shore appreciates yo'r company." judd scowled from the doorway, then flung back over his shoulder a short, "wall, i reckon i'll be startin' home now," and, without further words, he went out, closing the door behind him with unnecessary violence. donald said nothing, but he was frankly amused; for it was very apparent that the young mountaineer felt that he had a proprietary interest in rose, and was undisguisedly jealous of the stranger who was held in such high favor. rose, however, lost no time thinking of her lover,--if lover she regarded him,--but flew about the final household duties, humming happily, and now and then breaking into unfinished snatches of song like a wild wood bird. evidently the slight burn no longer troubled her and was already forgotten. her work finished, she joined the two men, who were smoking their pipes before the blazing fire, and seated herself crosslegged at her grandfather's feet. mike got up leisurely from his post beneath his master's chair, stretched forward and back, yawned prodigiously, and then lay down with his shaggy head on the girl's bare legs. as donald talked, rose played with the dog, rolling him over and rubbing his underbody until his mouth opened in a grotesque animal imitation of her own wonderful smile, which constantly flashed to her lips like a ray of light, only to vanish as swiftly, and leave its slowly fading afterglow in her deep eyes. "dr. mac," said the child timidly, during a moment of contented silence, her natural use of his intimate nickname, both startling and pleasing donald, "yo-all allowed thet yo' doctored children mostly. i loves babies more'n anything else in the world, 'ceptin' only grandpap; they're so purty an' sweet an' helpless-like, thet i reckon the lord loves 'em powerful, an' the' haint nothin' finer then takin' keer of 'em." donald nodded with pleasure, and the girl continued, dreamily: "i allows thet, when god made people an' put the breath o' life inter them, he hadn't quite got outer his mind what he done on an earlier day, an' was jest improvin' on hit; fer hit sorter seems ter me thet big men an' women air like growin' trees, fashioned fer ter stand up agin ther eliments an' storms most times; but babies air like tiny leetle flowers--so weak an' tender thet we hev ter take mighty good keer of 'em. don't yo' never feel, somehow, like yo' was tendin' a gyarden of purty flowers, an' a-drivin' away the grubs an' bugs what would make 'em wilt an' die?" "to be sure i do, my child," he answered, wondering if she realized how apt was her simile, since most disease is, indeed, caused by "bugs an' grubs." "and many people, with imaginations like yours, have felt exactly the same. did you ever read a poem called 'the reaper'? no, i suppose not," he added, as the girl shook her curls, while a wistful look crept into her eyes. "it was written by longfellow, a very famous poet who used to live near my home city of boston, and no man ever loved little children better than he did. i had to learn the verses years ago when i was a schoolboy, and i remember the first of them still:-- "'there is a reaper, whose name is death, and, with his sickle keen, he reaps the bearded grain at a breath, and the flowers that grow between.' "for--he has the reaper say--the lord has need of the pretty flowers to make his garden in heaven more bright and fair." "i never thought er thet," said the girl seriously, "but i reckon hit's so. grandpap's bearded like the grain, but somehow he 'pears ter me more like er big pine tree, fer grain bends before ther wind, an' he haint never bent ter no storm." "and i? am i a tree, too," queried donald with amusement. she studied him judiciously and then answered with quiet assurance, "yo're the oak. hit don't bend, neither." "and yourself?" "why," she laughed, "i'm jest a rose like my name. a rose jest growrn' inter er bush." "to be sure you are. except that roses have thorns." "i hev thorns, too," she said with conviction, and donald doubted it--then. "i should plumb love ter take keer of babies an' make 'em well an' strong like yo' do," she went on pensively. "perhaps you may, someday. you'll have babies of your own." "yes," was her simple reply, "i shall have babies ter love an' keer for, but i meant thet i wanted ter help all little children." "a children's nurse, perhaps, like those who work with me," and he went on to tell her graphically of the wonderful things done at the children's hospital, upon the staff of which he was. rose listened, as enchanted as a child with a fairy story,--and indeed such it was, a modern fairy tale wherein medicine was a magic potion, and the merciful knife a magic wand. told in simple language which she could understand, his story of the work in which his very life was bound up seemed to her like an epic, and, when he paused, she drew her breath with a sigh of keen delight, and cried, "oh, granddaddy. haint thet a wonderful thing fer ter do? i shorely wants ter be a trained nurse like thet when i grows up." "perhaps you will, some day, who knows?" said donald thoughtlessly. "an' what would this hyar old pine do without the rosebush blossomin' close beside him? what would the leetle wild mountain flowers hyarabouts do without thar smiles ter take keer o' them?" asked the old man tenderly, but with a hidden undercurrent of distress. "but ef i could larn ter take _better_ keer o' them ..." began the girl. the old man moved uneasily, then said, "wall, yo're only a leetle rosebud yerself now, an' hit's more'n time yo' closed up fer the night. run erlong ter bed, hon." obedient, but a little rebellious, rose got up slowly, kissed the strong, weather-scarred cheek of the old man and turned toward the door of her room. "good night, smiles," called donald. she hesitated a moment, then ran back to him with childish impetuosity, flung her slender arms about his neck and kissed him, too, whispering, "i loves ye, dr. mac, fer thet yo' loves little children." the frank embrace embarrassed him a little, and he felt the thrill of an almost unknown glow in his heart. many a time his patients--even those as old as rose--had kissed him thus; but something in her act left a new impression. judged by the standards of the mountain folks she was almost a woman, and he knew it. mike pattered to her door as it closed, scratched upon it with a low whine, and then lay down close against it. there was a moment's silence in the room as the men, each busy with his own thoughts, puffed steadily. then big jerry carefully knocked the ashes from his pipe and remarked, "hit haint no fault er yourn, stranger; but i haint altergether pleased at ther thoughts yo'r comin' hes placed in my leetle gal's head. she won't easy ferget what yo' done told her, an' ... an' i couldn't bear fer ter lose her." "i'm sorry. i spoke without thinking that it might result in her becoming discontented," answered don. "to-morrow i'll try to make her understand--what is a fact--that although her loving heart might be ever so eager, her ways and those of the city are so utterly different that she couldn't possibly hope to go there and become a nurse such as i described. you understand what i mean." "yes, an' i'd be powerful obleeged ter ye, friend," replied the old man with evident relief. "hit's es yo' say. rose air er mountain gal by bringin' up, ef not by birth, an' 'tis hyar thet she rightfully belongs now." chapter iv "smiles" "'not by birth?'" echoed donald, in surprise. "but i thought that she was your granddaughter?" "an' so she be--or perhaps my darter," hastily answered jerry, realizing his error too late. "i reckon i shouldn't hev told ye," he added in distress. "don't let any such idea worry you, mr. webb. where she came from is nothing to me, and, indeed, after to-morrow i shall probably never see her again. i've got to admit, though, that you have aroused my curiosity, and i'd like to hear the story that's behind her presence here, if you are willing to tell it." the giant hesitated, then said slowly, "wall, i kaint think of no reason why yo' shouldn't hyar hit. hit happened this erway. "twar one mornin', thirteen summers ergone, an' i war ergunnin' down in ther woods er piece, not fur from ther swift river. i rekerlect hit war er purty mornin', with ther dew still er-clingin' ter ther grass, an' sparklin'--like jewels, an' ther wood birds war singin' like they war special happy. i clumb erround er big rock, an' all of er sudden i seen--i seen er leetle mite of er gal, standin, thar, jest es still es still. she warn't more'n three year old, i jedged, an' she suttinly come from ther city, fer her leetle dress warn't like none i'd ever seen--hit hed sorter loose panterloons ter hit, an', although her legs war bare--an' all scratched an' bleedin'--thar war tiny socks an' shoes on 'em. thar war tears in her big blue eyes an' on her purty cheeks, but she warn't cryin' none, then. no, sir; she war jest erstandin' an' erlookin' up ter whar a robin war singin' in an oak tree, an' her leetle mouth war open fer all ther world like a rosebud. wall, es i stood thar, erwatchin' like i'd seen er fairy, she smiles--yo' know thet smile of her'n, like a rainbow breakin' fer er minute through the rain, an' then fadin' erway slow? "i calls ter her sorter soft-like, an' dang me ef she didn't come walkin' right up ter me, not a mite erfeered. she made a funny leetle bow, held out her chubby hand an' says, 'how do ye do, big man. hev ye seen my pappa an' mamma?' "i tuck her on my knee, an' leetle by leetle--fer she couldn't talk much--she told me thet they come from a great, big city whar war 'lectric and steam cyars an' policemen, fer ter play in the woods, an' thet her pappa an' mamma hed gone out on the water in a boat ter ketch a fish fer baby's breakfast. thar boat hed runned erway with her pappa an' mamma, she said, an' they war settin' in hit cryin'. "i reckoned what hed happed ter them, fer tharerbouts the swift river air a most deceevin', treetcherous stream, what looks innocent, but hes a powerful swift current what don't show. city folks haint no business ter go campin' in woods thet they don't know nothin' erbout," he interpolated. "wall, i left the leetle gal ersettin' on the rock, an' runned es fast es ever i could down stream ter the rapids. her folks warn't nowhar ter be seen, but i found part of thar canoeboat, smashed ter splinters, an' i guessed the rest." he paused, and smoked steadily for some time before continuing. "in course the baby couldn't tell us much, 'ceptin' thet her name war rose. she didn't remember the name of the city whar they come from, but she said thet erfore they come inter the woods, she slept all night on a train. "we found ther campin' outfit of her paw an' maw, an' whar hit stood i built up a leetle mound with a sorter cross on hit, in thar memory. "in course, i tried ter find out arterwards whar they come from, but hit warn't no sorter use. thar war no address on anything in the tent or thar spare-close, and no one hed seen them in fayville or tharerbouts, so i reckoned thay come clar ercross the mountains from kentuck. mebbe, ef i hed hed more money, i mought hev found out erbout them; but us war powerful po'r them days. an'--mebbe, again, hit war wrong--but maw an' me couldn't holp thinkin' thet the leetle gal war sent us by the good lord, fer we didn't hev no children, hevin' lost a leetle gal jest erbout es old es smiles, ten years back." "i don't think that you have any cause for reproaching yourself, mr. webb," broke in donald, reassuringly. "it seems to me that you did all you could do, under the circumstances. certainly the child was fortunate, for you have been very kind to the little waif." "we war mostly kind ter ourselves," was big jerry's simple rejoinder. "she shorely hes been a ray of sunshine in this hyar cabin--'specially since maw died three years ergone, since when rose hes taken keer of hit, an' me. she air a leetle mite of a tyrant, et times, but i reckon i'm ther better fer hit. "wall, we brung her up like our own flesh an' blood, but altho' she called my woman 'maw', she allus called me 'grandpappy.' an' we didn't never try ter make her fergit her real paw an' maw, an' every birthday--leastwise we calls ther day she come ter us her birthday--she puts wild flowers on the mound i made. she's growed up like the other children hyar, and 'twar them what fust called her smiles; but 'twarnt long erfore maw an' me sorter got inter the habit of doin' hit too, fer hit suits her right well." the speaker became silent, his memory dwelling in scenes of the dimming past, while donald's thoughts were busy with the story which he had just heard. the inherent difference between _her_ personality and that of the average mountain girl was explained. the curtsy which she--a three-year-old baby--had made big jerry, seemed to indicate that she had been a flower of city hothouse culture before being transplanted to the wilds, and there growing up, in outward semblance at least, in conformity with her environment. but, donald felt, within the child lay an ineradicable strain of breeding, making her different from these others, an inherited fineness of soul of which her peculiar charm was evidence. a little later his host arose, and said with native courtesy, "i reckon yo're tired enough ter want ter go ter bed, stranger, an' i'll show ye ter yo'r loft room." the pair bade each other good-night, and donald climbed the homemade ladder to his resting place beneath the roof, on which the rain was still keeping up a continuous patter. he felt that he was weary enough so that no rocking was needed to induce slumber, but it was nevertheless some time before he really fell asleep. and when he did it was with the mental picture of the child's smile, like a quickly vanishing sun-rift in the mist, before his closed eyes. * * * * * donald was awakened the next morning by the sound of laughing voices, and mike's hilarious barking, outside his little window. looking through it he beheld a delightful picture. on the dew-sprinkled grass of the little clearing about the cottage were merrily romping the dog, rose and a small child. beyond, lay the mountain's wooded descent, rich in variegated greens and seemingly rising like an island shore from a sea of pearly vapor, tinted with delicate mauve, rose and amber by the sun, which had itself not yet risen above the valley mist. scrambling into his outer garments, the man ran down to join them in their game. "look out, er yo'll git yo're feet wetted, mr. doctor man," cried rose gayly, as she drew her own bare foot through the grass and held it forward shining with dew. "do you think a little thing like wet feet would stop me from getting into the game?" he answered. "and you called me a sturdy oak! who is the little buttercup?" he added, looking at the child whose shock of bright golden curls made his nickname an apt one. "she's lou, judd's leetle sister, an' her house air jest over thar beyond ourn. yo' guessed rightly, she _air_ one er my flower children, ain't ye, honey-sweet?" rose dropped to her knees in the wet grass, and gathered the bashful child against her tenderly. the baby buried her face in her friend's neck without speaking, and in a moment rose stood up, saying, "we-all thinks a heap er lou, 'specially judd." "i've got a little niece at home just about lou's age. her name is muriel. would you like to hear about her and her playthings? she's got a tiny pony and cart," he said, and soon the child was sitting in his lap, listening wide-eyed to the description of dolls who opened and shut their eyes, and wonderful mechanical toys which walked and turned somersaults, monkeys which climbed poles and other equally incredible things. "he air a funny man, an' he tells funny stories," giggled the child, when donald had exhausted his memory and imagination. "in course thar hain't no sech things." "indeed thar _air_, ef he says thar air," chided rose with implicit faith in her friend. "what, doll babies thet open an' shet thar eyes, an' say 'maw' an' 'paw' like weuns, smiles?" asked the baby, unconvinced. "wait until i go back home, and i'll send you one that can do every one of those wonderful things," laughed donald. "i mean to send rose a present, too." "oh," cried the latter, "i shall be more'n obleeged ter ye." "what would you like best," he asked. she thought seriously a moment, then said, "i reckon i should like best a white dress an' cap, like the nurses wear." donald experienced a pang of regret, but responded lightly, "very well, that shall be yours, and i'm also going to send you a little book of poems called 'the child's garden of verses', written by another man who looked on babies as flowers, too." at this moment the sound of quick footsteps caused them to look up. judd amos was coming around the side of the cottage, and the night had apparently not taken the black look from his countenance. "oh, juddy," cried the baby, wriggling free of donald's arms. "thet man thar air er goin' ter send me er doll baby thet opens an' shets hits eyes, juddy." "we're obleeged ter ye; but i reckon thet i kin buy lou all the presents she needs," said judd gruffly. "yo' maw wants ye ter come ter breakfast, sis," he added, and picked the baby up in his long arms, giving her an undoubtedly affectionate hug as he saw that the tears had sprung to her eyes. "that's nonsense," snorted donald angrily, as judd disappeared with his burden. "i'll send the doll to you--along with the dress and book--and he can't stop _you_ from giving it to her." "i reckon he _kaint_," rose responded with eyes flashing. "i kin make judd amos do jest whatsoever i tells him." and donald thought that she probably spoke the truth. "haint we a-goin' ter hev no breakfast this mornin'?" came big jerry's deep voice, toned to assumed anger, as he appeared with an armful of wood, and, laughing merrily, rose blew him a kiss and disappeared within-doors. during the morning meal, which was quickly prepared, the girl talked continually of the delights of being a children's nurse, and as he observed the look of worry on the old man's face, donald determined to put an end to the child's rosy, but impossible, dream as soon as possible. his duty was plain enough, even if he had not given his promise to rose's grandfather; yet the more he saw of her the stronger grew the unbidden thought of what a wonderful woman she would make if she could be taken to the city and given the advantages of education. his opportunity came when, breakfast over, big jerry started for the door, announcing that he would be back in a few moments. "i'll wait for you to return before i go, and talk to the child as i agreed," said donald, in an undertone. the old man nodded his understanding. hardly knowing how to commence, donald turned to the girl and said hesitatingly, "little rose, i've got to go along in a few moments, but first i must tell you something which i'm afraid will cause you disappointment." smiles stepped close to him, with her large eyes filled with a surprised question. "it is this. i wish, indeed, that you might grow up to be a nurse for little children, such as my story last night set you to dreaming of being, but, although i'm sure you would be a splendid one, it is impossible, you know, dear." "why haint hit possible?" she demanded. "well, you see, dear child, nurses of that sort have to study and know almost as much as doctors. they have to train--go to school in the hospital, that is--for three years." "but i haint erfeered ter work. i _wants_ ter study, an' larn," she cried eagerly. "yes, i know, but ... well, it costs a lot of money in the first place; nurses don't get any pay while they're learning, and they have to deposit three hundred dollars before they can take the course, one hundred each year. besides that, they have to have a good education to start with. probably you don't know what is meant by a 'high school,' but a girl must have gone through one--studied steadily for twelve or thirteen years--or at least have an equivalent amount of education, before she can hope to enter the children's hospital." "wha ... what do 'equivalent' mean?" she asked, with her lips beginning to tremble a little from disappointment. "it means that you would have to know as much as though you had gone through a high school, and be able to pass an examination proving that you do." very slowly rose turned back to recommence her work, and donald sensed, rather than saw, that the tears were very near to the surface. another roseate dream of childhood had been ruthlessly shattered, and he hated himself for having witlessly engendered it in her mind, since it could only be born to die unrealized. when she spoke again, it was to say with a telltale quaver in her subdued voice, "i reckon thet us mountain folks kaint never do worthwhile things, fer all sech take er mighty lot er larnin'." "there are two kinds of learning in this world, rose, one of the mind, and the other of the heart. and without the benefits which come from the latter, the things of the former would be of little use. you may be sure that helping one's neighbors, as you are always helping yours; being happy yourself and making others contented and happier, and bringing smiles to the lips of friends by the example of your own sweet smile; are things very much worth while," said donald, haltingly, but with sincerity. he placed his arm about her slender shoulder, with the half-hope that she would accept his comfort, and perhaps cry out the last of her disappointment with her head on his breast. instead, she turned sharply away and went on with the work she had started, and the man followed her grandfather outside, realizing that hers, like most battles within the soul, must be fought out alone. in a few moments, and while he was still talking to big jerry, rose joined them on the stoop. a quick glance at her flowerlike face told donald that her childish--but none the less real--grief was banished, for a smile of victory curved her lips. "ef ye haint a-goin' ter the city right away, doctor," said his host, "we would be downright pleased ter hev ye come up ergin. i've come ter like ye right well." "indeed i shall--come every day if i may, for you and little rose seem like old friends of mine already. and, when i do go back next week, you may be sure that i shall not forget either of you, or your hospitality." he picked up his rifle regretfully, whistled to mike, who came bounding to him, but whose tail drooped ludicrously when he understood by canine instinct that the call meant separation from his new comrade, and with a final good-bye wave, struck off into the woods. chapter v giving and receiving the call of the jungle folk, "good hunting," was not fulfilled during donald's day in the forest. game there was aplenty, but he made clumsy work of following the fresh tracks in the wet wood mould, and missed the one wild creature that he saw, for he shot at it rather by instinct than design, and was not sorry that his bullet went wide. indeed, love of the out-of-doors and the thrill of the chase, rather than the wish to slay, drew him into the woods for his brief respites from work and for recreation each summer. he seldom killed except for food; the convulsive pain-drawn death struggle, the cry of mortal agony, and the despairing look in the glazed eyes of dumb, stricken animals held no fascination for him. he saw too much of such things among human beings. the day, truly, was a glory. the storm of the previous night had cleared and revivified the air, which, for many days, had been oppressively sultry; the irregular patches of sky, glimpsed through the branches, were a transparent blue; the springy ground was bright with wild blossoms and colorful berries,--dogwood and service berry,--adder's tongue, bleeding heart and ferns in rich profusion. his subconscious senses drank in the manifold beauties, but his active mind was otherwise engaged. to-day the solitude, usually so appealing, so restful after fifty work-filled weeks amid the noisy turmoil of the city's life, lacked something of its customary charm and satisfaction. the man found himself with a real longing for the companionship of the simple old man and the intimate appeal of the child, whose acquaintance he had enjoyed for a few hours only. it was on them, rather than on his present occupation, that his thoughts were bent. at last approaching night found him safely back in the valley village, where the keeper of the primitive boarding house expressed her solicitation over his prolonged absence, as she handed him several letters which had arrived the day previous. one epistle, from his associate physician, dr. bentley, carried a pressing plea that he return to boston as soon as possible, and perform a difficult operation. the call was so urgent that donald regretfully concluded that duty demanded his compliance. he determined, however, not to leave without paying a final visit to his new friends, and, soon after sun-up the following morning, set forth for big jerry's cabin, carrying, as a present for rose, a woven sweetgrass basket filled with such simple confections as the general store afforded. nor had he forgotten a generous supply of pipe tobacco for her grandfather. donald plunged into the woods and headed for swift river, whose broken, winding course he followed upward until he reached the rapids of rushing molten silver and the low, but dangerous, fall which marked the spot of the early tragedy in the child's life. as he stood there, cap in hand, the sound of a low treble voice in song fell on his ears, coming from a place not far distant. some one, alone under the cathedral arches of the forest, was softly chanting the words of the simple, familiar hymn, "nearer, my god, to thee," and, impelled by the unusualness of the thing at such an hour and in such a place, donald moved quietly forward until the solitary singer was in view. it was rose. she was kneeling beside a low, rounded mound covered with fresh-gathered forest vines, and sprinkled with wild flowers. the meaning of the picture flashed at once into the man's mind. this was the "birthday" of little smiles--the anniversary of her advent to a new life--and this her yearly pilgrimage of love and filial homage to those barely remembered two who had given her being. donald waited in silence, leaning against a concealing tree trunk, until the child had ended her act of simple devotion by throwing an unaffected kiss from her finger tips, not towards the dead earth, but upwards to the spirit world above. [illustration: "she was kneeling beside a low, rounded mound"] then, as she arose and moved slowly away, her light step barely disturbing the grass, donald followed and overtook her. the girl's greeting, although more subdued than on the morning before, was none the less delighted, and, with her hand snuggled warmly in his, they made their way to the cabin. "i bids ye welcome, doctor," sang out big jerry, as he caught sight of them. "hit shor' air a fine day fer ter spend in ther woods." "and i cannot spend it there," answered donald, ruefully. "i've been called back to the city to attend a little sick patient, and leave fayville on the noon train." "wall, now, thet air too bad, an' hit's mighty kind er ye ter come way up hyar erfore yo' left," said the old man, while the girl's new disappointment, caused by the announcement, was evident enough without verbal expression. "i brought you a package of tobacco, a little token of my appreciation for your kindness to me night before last, mr. webb; and rose a 'birthday' gift, just a few sweets in a basket which i found at the store, and which struck me as pretty." jerry stumblingly expressed his gratitude for the present, and rose unconsciously curtsied, much as she must have thirteen years before. her lips and eyes smiled her shy thanks, but it appeared to donald that mischievous amusement struggled with appreciation in her look. "something seems to be amusing you, little lady. let me into the secret," said donald. her silvery laughter broke from her lips, as she answered, "i'm shor' obleeged fer the compliment yo' paid thet basket. i made hit myself." "_you_ did? why, it's wonderful, but it looks as though i'd been carrying coals to newcastle. newcastle is the name of a town in england where a great deal of coal comes from," he hastened to add, in explanation. "like kerryin' water ter the river. i makes them leetle baskets odd times, an' sells 'em ter the storekeeper in fayville, but i never hev none fer myself, somehow, an' i haint never a-goin' ter part with this hyar one, leastwise ef i kin keep hit." "of course you may. it's my present to you just the same; but don't be afraid that it is meant to take the place of the other things i have promised you." while he had been talking to the child, big jerry had picked up donald's rifle, and now stood caressingly running his hand down the blue-black barrel, and over the polished black walnut stock. its owner watched him with inward amusement, yet fully understanding the woodman's love for a perfect weapon. as an ordinary man would lift a child's airgun, the giant tossed the rifle to a firing position, snuggled the butt against his shoulder, and leaned his gray-bearded cheek on it affectionately. finally he lowered it regretfully to the ground, and remarked, with the suggestion of a sigh, "this hyar shor' air a mighty purty weepon, doctor. i reckon she'll drap a bullet purty nigh whar hit's aimed ter go." "try it," encouraged don, catching a look of almost boyish delight cross the old man's face. "air she loaded? i haint right familiar with these hyar repeatin' guns, with thar leevers an' sich." the other threw a cartridge into the breech, and handed the weapon over, with the remark, "she shoots a trifle high, compared with the average rifle, i've found--perhaps an inch at a hundred yard range." "thank ye, sir," replied jerry, and added simply, "i reckon i'll jest chip the top off'n thet big rock erfore the oak tree, yonder." with the last word came the gun's flash, and to donald's amazement he saw a tiny cloud of white dust rise from the peak of the boulder. rose was already running lightly towards the target accompanied by the excited mike, and her twinkling legs held such fleetness that the trained athlete barely caught up with her as she finished the dash, and triumphantly laid her finger on a leaden mark across the stone. "good lord," gasped donald, as big jerry approached more sedately, "i thought that i could shoot some, but that ... that beats anything i ever saw in the west, or on the stage. and with an unfamiliar gun, too." "she shoots erbout ther same ter the left, too," commented the marksman judiciously. "but et thet she air a moghty fine rifle-gun, an' i shor' would be pleased ter own her, only i reckon yo' haint anxious ter sell." "i'd as soon think of selling mike, or any other of my good friends," promptly responded donald, whereat a quick shadow of disappointment crossed the old man's countenance. "i erpreciates the feelin' thet ye hev fer hit," he said as he handed it back. "er gun air mighty nigh like blood kin ter a hunter." "but we sometimes part even with certain of our kindred when the right man comes along whom we can trust to love, honor and cherish them," laughed the younger man. "and, since i feel that i would be insulting that gun to fire it again after the way _you_ fired it, i'm going to honor it by giving it to you." "why ... why, in course i'm mightily obleeged ter ye, doctor; but i jest couldn't think of acceptin' hit from ye," stammered big jerry, struggling between the dictates of honor and insatiate desire. "don't say another word, my good friend; she's yours and i have several others at home. only please don't use it in any shooting feuds--if there are such things still in existence nowadays. since my profession is to save human lives, i mustn't have a part in the taking of them even by proxy, you know." don's eyes were laughing. "yo' hev no cause fer worriment erlong thet line," earnestly answered jerry, as he patted the rifle, cradled in the crook of his arm like a child. "my fightin' day air over, praise ter gawd. thar war a time when i war sorter proud of ther notch thet's cut in the stock er my fust gun; but now ... wall, i'd give a good deal ef 'twarn't thar. i figgers, nowerdays, thet hit haint the lord's purpose thet humans should spill each other's blood, leastwise onless thar's somethin' bigger et stake then spite er revengement." "tell him erbout the shootin' matches at the county fairs whar yo' used allus ter bear erway the prize, grandpap," interposed smiles hurriedly, with the obvious design of changing the current of the old man's thoughts. the latter seated himself on the rock, his face lighting with reminiscence, as he complied, with the words, "wall, ef i does say hit, thar warn't many in kentuck er west virginny could handle a shootin' iron with big jerry in them days, an', come county fair time, i mostwise allus kerried off the money prize an' the wreath give by ther queen. 'twarn't fancy shootin', like they hes on the stage yo' war er-speakin of, p'raps, but hit took a stiddy hand an' a clar eye ter do the trick. gener'lly the spo't ended with the pick er the rifle shooters a-trying ter cut down ten weighted strings et a hundred paces, an' more times then once i done hit in as many shots." then, as though somewhat ashamed at the boastfulness in his words, he added hastily, "but i take no credit fer thet gawd give me the skill ter do hit, an' i might hev used hit ter better purpose then ofttimes i did, fer i was overproud er my skill. "i shor' thanks ye fer this hyar rifle-gun, an', come thanksgiving time, i hopes ter send ye a wild turkey bird killed by hit." "if you do that i shall be more than repaid," responded donald. "well, good friends of mine, i must be on my way; but don't think that you have seen the last of me. i've found the ideal spot in which to spend a vacation, and next summer i'll be back here again, d. v." "what's 'd. v.'?" asked the girl, curiously. "it stands for _deo volente_--latin words which mean, 'god willing.'" "i hopes thet yo' _does_ come back, an' we-all will be here ter welcome ye, d. v." said rose; then added, shyly, "i hev a gift fer yo' ter take back home ter leetle muriel, ef yo're willin'. hit's in the cabin, an', ef yo'll wait, i'll run an' git hit fer ye." "of course i'll be glad to take it to her, my child, and i know that she'll be delighted both with it and the stories i shall tell her about smiles. but wait, i will go with you, for there is one thing more i want to do before i leave, if you can find me a piece of string." with a question in her wide-eyed glance, rose led him back to the little mountain homestead and, as soon as they were inside, hurried to produce the desired article. "now then, hold up your arms," commanded donald lightly. rose obeyed, and, slipping the string about her yielding waist, he drew it taut and tied a knot to mark the resultant measurement. following the same procedure, he took the circumference of her chest, the length of her arm, and from her neck to a few inches above her slender ankle. suddenly her puzzled expression gave place to one of understanding, and the starry smile broke over her countenance. "you've _guessed_," cried donald with feigned disappointment. "ef hit's a secret, i won't even whisper hit ter no one," the child responded gayly. "good. it _is_ a secret, but not a dark one." "i reckon thet hit's all white," she gurgled. "an' now i hev a secret fer _yo_' ter keep--leastwise till ye gits ter the city. yo' promise, too?" "i solemnly swear," said don, and, breaking away, the girl ran into her own room and bashfully brought out a paper bundle through the top folds of which protruded the twisted reed handle of a basket, somewhat similar to the one of her own manufacture which he had given her. "this hyar basket's fer the little girl; but, inside hit's something fer yo' ter remember leetle rose by. also thar's a writin', askin' ye ter do something fer me an' ef yo' kin do hit i will shor' be mightily obleeged ter ye." "i can't guess what on earth it is, but you may be sure that i will do it if it can be done," he answered earnestly. "good-by, smiles. even without your gift as a reminder i shouldn't have forgotten you, and i shall not think of the cumberlands without seeing your dear little face." donald took both her small hands in his big ones, and, yielding to a sudden impulse, bent down and drew her towards him. for just an instant she held back slightly, and the color swiftly mantled her cheeks. then, as he was on the point of releasing her, a little ashamed of his intention, she freed her hands and, flinging them about his neck, kissed him warmly again. with the fresh, childlike pressure of her young lips on his, donald went hurriedly out, and, after a last hearty handclasp from big jerry, turned towards the woods, an unaccustomed song in his heart. chapter vi an unaccepted challenge "i wants ter hev speech with ye, stranger." the words, spoken in a harsh voice, fell gratingly on donald's ears, and brought to an abrupt end the happy thoughts with which his mind was occupied. he stopped, forcing the growling mike behind him, as judd stepped out from the bushes, squarely across his path. "i would be glad to stop and talk with you, judd, but i'm due in fayville before noon, and have already stayed too long at big jerry's." "yo' hev," was the prompt and surly reply. "what the devil do you mean by that?" snapped donald, with rising ire. "what i says, goes," was the reply. "this hyar place air a powerful good one fer yo' ter keep erway from, stranger." "indeed? well, you don't own it." the younger man's color heightened, and his lean jaws clamped together. "i warns ye fair," he said, after a brief pause. "and i don't accept such a warning from any one," shot back donald, momentarily growing more angry. "it's no business of yours, whether i go or stay." "i makes hit my business," replied the other sullenly. "big jerry air growin' old an' foolish, i reckon; but i seen what i seen, an' thar haint no city man ergoin' ter come up hyar an' make trouble fer a gal uv our'n." "judd, it's you who are the fool. i don't admit your right to discuss this, or any matter, with me, but rose is nothing to me but a very good friend. besides, she's only a child." "she's nigh onter old ernough ter wed," was the uncompromising answer. "an' ef she haint nothin' ter ye, the more shame on ye fer tryin' ter make her love ye, an' mayhaps break her heart." "but i haven't tried to make her love me," broke in donald impatiently. "then fer what did yo' put yer arms erbout her an' kiss her, like i seen ye through the winder awhile back, i wants ter know?" demanded the other, as he hastily frustrated donald's attempt to step by him. the man felt his own face flush hotly, and was angry over this visible display of feeling. "i tell you she's only a child. i kissed her as i would any little girl of whom i was fond." "yo' love her, an' yo' haint the man ter say hit." "very well, then. supposing i admit that i love her, what is it to you?" replied donald, with a flash of heat. "i loves her, too. i've loved her since she come ter these hyar mountains, a leetle baby; an' i don't calkerlate ter hev yo', er any city man, make a plaything uv her. hit's man ter man, now. air yo', er haint yo', a-goin' ter leave hyar, an' keep erway?" "as i told you before, it's none of your business," replied don shortly. "an' es i told ye before, hit air. now i tells ye thet yo' haint a-comin' back." "that ... remains to be seen," donald answered wrathfully as he stepped past judd, this time unimpeded. he had not gone more than a score of swinging strides, keeping the bristling dog close beside him, when he heard the staccato crack of a rifle, and simultaneously the high-pitched whine of a bullet past his head. once before, in the maine woods, he had been an unwilling target, on that occasion for an overanxious deer hunter. then he had sprung up, waving his arms and shouting a warning, but now instinct told him that the opposite procedure was the proper one, and he threw himself precipitately into the enveloping rhododendrons. as he did so, from the path above him came a derisive laugh which set his blood boiling. it awakened in donald all the blind, fighting spirit which, in gridiron days, had driven him with clinched teeth into the thick of the battering mêlée. he sprang into a crouching posture, face turned toward the taunting sound, every muscle taut, every nerve tingling, and with but one thought surging through his brain--the desire to charge back and attack judd, barehanded. slowly the red demons of primitive passion vanished before the returning light of wisdom, born of maturity and the restraining power of civilization. he quickly realized that he had no right to make a fool of himself for the sake of such a cause, and in such a childish manner. his duty was paramount to the satisfaction of an atavistic impulse, and, placing a strong mental grasp upon his nerves, which cried for drastic action, donald turned downward into the footpath again, and broke into a run. haste was doubly essential, for little time remained before the hour for the departure of his train, and, even in virginia, it _might_ leave according to schedule. as he crashed impetuously through a bush whose branches blocked the path, he heard again the laughter from above him and caught a new note therein--that of exultation. donald stifled an oath, while an additional reason for returning to the mountain burned its way into his heart. * * * * * on the path above, judd deliberately blew the fouling smoke from his rifle barrel, turned about, and, with a satisfied smile mingling with the expression of hate on his lips, climbed back towards jerry's cabin. in its doorway stood rose. the happy flush still lingered delicately on her cheeks, and her limpid eyes were full of a soft, dreamy light. "what war yo' ershootin' at, judd?" she cried, as the man came into view, carelessly swinging his long weapon. "et a pole-cat," was his brief reply, as he removed his broad straw hat and sank with the unconscious grace of a wild animal onto the stoop at her feet. neither broke the silence for several minutes, but the man scarcely took his burning gaze from the child's lovely face. at length she sighed ever so gently, and, seating herself beside him, dropped her firm chin into her cupped hands. "smiles," began judd, with all the harshness gone from his voice, "i don't enjoy fer ter hear yo' sigh thet erway, er ter see ther fur-off look in yo'r purty eyes, 'cause i fears thet hit means thar's some one else then me in yo'r heart." instantly she sat up straight, and turned her eyes, full of surprise, upon him. "why, juddy!" she said. "ef hit's thet doctor man, i likes hit least uv all, smiles," the man continued, speaking bitterly. "he haint come fur no good, leetle gal, an' i don't want fer yo' ter think on him." "i reckon i thinks on whom i likes," she responded briefly. "don't go fer ter git angry with me, rose gal. hit aint thet i wants ter be selfish er onreasonable, but ..." judd stopped. words of passionate love trembled on his lips, but were held there by a barrier of inherited reticence in matters of the heart. iron reserve and laconic speech were essentially typical of his breed; but, at length, the eager utterances strained against the fetter of his will, and broke them. "i kaint speak as i desires to, smiles. i fears i kaint make ye understand what's in my heart; but i've keered mightily fer ye, dear, ever since yo' war a smilin' leetle baby gal, an' now ... now yo'r most a woman grown, an' i love ye, want ye more come each new day an' each new night. thar haint one ef them passes but thet i make excuse fer ter see ye, an' jest ther sight o' yo'r sweet face somehow kindles a light inside me that burns, 'thout scarcely dimmin', till i sees ye agin. thet's ther reason i said what i done, a moment back. "i jest kaint bear fer ter think uv yo' lovin' some one else then me. i ... i keers so much thet i believes i'd rather see ye dead then thet, rose gal." fairly trembling with the sweep of his unloosed emotion, the reserved, strong-willed man paused, and, as the girl stood up hastily, she was trembling, too. "why, juddy," she cried softly, distress in her voice, "i didn't rightly understand thet yo' felt thet erway. i likes ye, in course, but i'm only a leetle gal, an' i haint keerin' fer any one ... thet erway. i ... i don't enjoy fer ter hyar yo' say sech words ter me now, juddy." "i reckon yo'r right, an' i shouldn't hev told ye yet, rose," answered the man, almost humbly. "i kin bide my time, but i wants ye ter know thet i feels es i does. i'm a-goin' ter keep right on lovin' ye more an' more, and, when yo'r older, i plans ter ask ye ter marry with me." "i likes ye ... indeed i likes ye, judd, but ... oh, please don't ever go fer ter do that. i kaint never marry ye, judd." the man stiffened, and his face grew black again. "i believes thet yo' air in love with thet doctor man, atter all," he shot out. "i haint neither," cried the girl, angrily stamping her bare foot, "i does love him, but i haint _in_ love with nobody, 'ceptin' grandpap." "yo' submitted ter his takin' ye in his arms an' kissin' ye," burst out the mountaineer. "judd amos, yo'r a mean, spyin' sneak, an' i hates ye!" stormed rose, while her eyes filled with angry tears. "i didn't go fer ter spy on ye, smiles," he protested, "i seen ye by chance. but, whether yo' love him er not, yo' might jest as well fergit him. he keered fer ye jest because yo' air er purty mountain flower, an' he haint never ercomin' back hyar ergin." "he air, too," contradicted the girl rebelliously. "he air ercomin' back an' he's promised ter help me git edercation." judd laughed shortly. "i warned him fair ter keep erway, an' p'inted my warnin' with a rifle ball." rose's eyes widened in horror. "yo' ... yo' means yo' shot him, judd?" she whispered, with both hands pressed to her breast. "shot him? no. i didn't aim fer ter hurt him, an' 'twarn't in nowise necessary. i jest put a bullet past his head an' he run like a skeered rabbit." "taint so. he never run from no one," she cried staunchly. "wall, hit shor' appeared like hit ter me," was the gloating answer. feminine instinct gave rose an intuitive insight into the real reasons which underlay donald's apparent flight; but pride sealed her lips, just as she was on the point of explaining triumphantly that the doctor had been called back home that day, and that it was the following summer when he would return. "juddy," she said gently, after a moment, "yo' hed no reason fer doin' what yo' done. hit war mighty wrong, but i fergives ye. i wants ter still be friends with ye. i wants ye ter help me, juddy." the last words were breathed softly, and the naïve appeal in her voice brought the hostile man quickly back to submissive and worshipful fealty. "yo' know thet i'd do enything in the world fer ye, smiles," he answered simply. "i believes thet yo' _think_ yo' would, judd, but i wonders ef, deep in yo'r heart, yo' really keers ernough fer me ter ... i kaint scarcely explain what i means. i reckon i air powerful ignerrant in speecherfyin'." "i don't rightly know what yo' means, smiles, but i give ye my promise ter do whatsoever yo' wants, ef hit takes my life," he declared earnestly, his former selfish desire to bend her will into compliance with his own for the moment yielding to his blind eagerness to prove his love. youthful and unsophisticated in worldly wiles as she was, the eternal feminine in rose sensed her victory and power, and, still maintaining her half commanding, half tenderly appealing tone, she outlined her plan, for the accomplishment of which his aid was all essential. judd protested, pleaded and stormed--all to no avail. he felt himself like a man caught in a snare of his own weaving--a snare strengthened by fair, yet unbreakable, silken threads added by the child. finally, miserable at heart, he yielded, and departed with his hand tingling from the impulsive affectionate pressure of smiles' fingers upon it. but, as the conscious thrill which it caused in his being lessened, his thoughts became immersed in gloom, through which no encouraging light made its way. he realized that he had lost the first battle for her heart, and the loss brought closer the dark spectre of ultimate defeat. chapter vii "smiles'" gift: and the "writing" "now, my boy, let us hear an account of your trip. did you enjoy it, and find anything of especial interest in the mountains of the feud country?" the doctor's father lighted his after-dinner cigar, and leaned back with the indolent satisfaction which a man ripe in useful years may feel when surrounded by his family. since the death of his wife, he and his children had been more inseparably attached one to another than ever, and each drew a full measure of happiness from these all-too-infrequent reunions, when donald could be with them. even little muriel was not left out of the group, for she had been granted the exceptional privilege of sitting up an extra hour, and listening to the wonderful hunting tales told by her beloved uncle don, upon whose lap she was now contentedly curled. her mother and father sat near by. "yes, to both questions," responded donald. "did you shoot any bears?" queried his little niece, expectantly. "no bears this trip, although i almost scalded to death a bare-legged little girl," was the reply. and with rose thus made the central figure of his recital at the very outset, donald proceeded to tell of his experiences and new friendships; but consciously refrained from mentioning the unpleasant incident with which his trip ended, and smiles' parting embrace. his faithful reproduction of the soft mountain dialect brought frequent smiles from his listeners, and filled the child with delighted amusement. "i just love smiles," she cried, as he finished his story. "indeed, so does every one who knows her. _you_ do, don't you, mike?" added donald, and the dog beat a tattoo on the rug with his stumpy tail. "witchery," laughed his father. "even your clumsy description has strangely stirred my youthful blood, and 'i longs fer ter see this hyar wonderful child dryad of ther primeval forest.' if you ever go back there, you had better wear magic armor as protection against that illusive smile which seems to have cast a spell of enchantment over your civilized senses." "pshaw, you needn't be concerned about my feelings for her. she's no siren, but a very real little person. i'll admit that she's amazingly attractive; but she's merely a child." "children grow up," teased his sister. "i'm aware of that natural phenomenon," answered donald, somewhat curtly. "but ... great scott, can't i describe a fifteen--no, sixteen-year-old little savage, without all you people imagining that i'm going to be such a fool as to fall in love with her?" "sometimes it isn't what one says, but the way he says it, that incriminates," put in his brother-in-law, adding his voice to the general baiting which had apparently disclosed a tender spot. "hang it all, i believe that i'll go back and ask smiles to marry me, if only to put an end to your teasing," cried don with a laugh not entirely natural. "at least i might perhaps succeed in frustrating _your_ obvious designs, ethel. oh, i'm not blind!" "i've almost concluded that you _are_--or hopeless," answered his sister. "however, i'm perfectly willing to admit that i would like to see you married to marion treville--she's my closest friend, and would certainly make you a perfect wife." "too perfect, by far. can you imagine me hitched with that proud and classic beauty? i should go mad." "but i want my pretty basket that little smiles made for me," broke in muriel, to whom the present remarks held no interest, and who emphasized her demand by seizing his cheeks. "to be sure you do, and i want to see my present, too. i'll bring them right down." not at all ill pleased at this opportunity to escape from his family's jesting, which, for some indefinable reason, aroused his belligerency, donald jumped up hastily and departed for the sanctuary of his bedroom, to get the bulky bundle with its mysterious enclosure. minutes slipped by, and he failed to return to the group downstairs. at last his absorption was broken into by the arrival of muriel, whose entrance into the room, with the traces of tears on her cheeks, brought him back to the present with a remorseful start. "you didn't come down, an' you _didn't_ come down, uncle don, an' now mother says it's bedtime, an' i want smiles' basket to take with me." "why, i'm terribly sorry that i've been so long, sweetheart-mine. i stopped to read the letter she wrote to me, and, i'm ashamed to say, forgot that you were waiting for me. but see, here's your present. little rose made it all herself for you. isn't it pretty?" with a cry of delight the child gathered the simple basket into her chubby arms and bent her head over it. "oh, don't it smell sweet, uncle don. does smiles smell like that?" "perhaps not exactly," he replied, chuckling. "now please show me what she sent to you. was it a basket, too?" "no, not a basket. it's a very great secret; but, if you'll promise not to tell a soul, no matter how they tease, i'll show it to you." "cross my heart, an' hope to die," said the child earnestly, making across her pinafore the mystic sign, so potent to the childish mind. donald opened a drawer in the chiffonier and took out a small and obviously cheap glazed blue-and-white vase. the child took it wonderingly and, removing the cover, sniffed audibly and deeply. "my. _this_ smells like rose," she said with conviction. "you're right, it does, indeed, because it _is_ roses--dried wild rose petals which she gathered and preserved herself. i saw it in her little cabin, and know that it was her most precious possession, yet she gave it to 'uncle don' as a keepsake, so that he might remember her whenever he smells of it." "wasn't she just _too_ sweet to do that. my, how i would like to see her, uncle don." "well, perhaps you may, some day." the sentence echoed out of the past, carrying his recollection back to the night when he had heedlessly spoken the identical words to smiles, and there entered his mind the sudden realization of what amazing potentialities for good or evil often lie hidden in the simplest utterances. the sound of his sister's light tread in the hallway caused donald to return his homely gift to its hiding place hurriedly, and little muriel, with roguishly twinkling eyes, imitated his action as he laid his finger on his lips as a seal of secrecy. "well, you _two_ kids," laughed ethel, as she caught sight of the picture framed by the doorway. "i'm glad that i haven't wholly forgotten how to be one," answered her brother, as he kissed first his little niece, and then the basket which she held up with the demand that it be paid similar homage, and bade them good-night. rejoining the diminished group in the living-room, donald was preoccupiedly silent, until his father asked, "well, have you read your little friend's 'writing'? i confess to a mild curiosity as to what sort of a letter a girl like her would write, and what sort of a request she would be likely to make of you." don drew from his pocket the letter, painfully scrawled on cheap, and not overclean paper, and handed it over. adjusting his eye-glasses the older man read aloud:-- dear dr. mac, truly i want to be a nurse like you told me about some day. "well," commented the reader, "at least she starts right off with the business in hand, without any palavering. and i reckon that even a little mountain girl like me can be one if she wishes hard enough and works hard, too. "why," he interpolated again, "there doesn't seem to be any evidence of your weirdly wonderful spelling and grammar here." "go on," answered donald, smiling slightly. i reckon it will take me a long, long time to get education and earn all that money, but i can do it, dr. mac. i am sure i can do it. i told my grandfather all that i mean to do, and he won't try to stop me none. of course he does not want for me to go away from him, but i explained that i _had_ to, and of course that made it all right. when you was telling us what those nurses done, something seemed like it went jump inside my heart, and straightways i know that the dear lord meant for me to do it, too. i read a story once about a girl in france named jone of ark and i reckon i felt like she done when she see the angel. i know i can do it, dr. mac, if you will help me a little bit like you promised. most of all i figures i need a heap of book learning, and it is books i wants for you to get me. you know the books i need to have, dr. mac, and in this letter i am going to put $ . it is an awful lot of money; but i reckon books cost a good deal, and you can bring me the change next summer, for i have not got no use for money here. don't be afeared. it is my own money. it was in my father's pocket among the camp things granddaddy found, and there was some more. grandfather, he kept it for me until i was a big girl and now i am keeping it for a rainy day, like the copy book says, although i don't think money would be much use to keep off the rain. their is a preacher man who lives on our mountain winters, when he can not travel about none, and i know i can get him to help me learn if i help his wife with her work, and i can read pretty well now and write pretty well when i have a spelling book to study the words out of, although i have to go sorter slow, for they do not allus spell words like they sound, and sometimes i cannot find them at all. i guess my book is not a very good one. i reckon it will take me a long while to earn more than $ ; but i am going to work awful hard, making baskets and other things, and i am going to get judd amos, our naybor, to sell them for me at the village store, for he goes down their trading every week, and he will do anything i ask him, like i told you. this is a pretty long letter and it has taken me all the evening to right. i hope that you can read it. well, i guess that is all now from your loveing little friend. i most forgot to say please give my love to mike. rose webb. "well, i've got to admit that i have seen many a letter, written by a grown-up, that fell a long ways short of that one in clarity of thought and in accomplishment of a definite object," said mr. macdonald, as he handed it back. "do you suppose that her eagerness to become a nurse is just a passing childish whim, or has she really got sand enough to put her almost impossible plan through?" "clairvoyancy was not included either in the harvard or medical school curriculum," responded donald, with a shrug. "meaning that the things of the future are in the laps of the gods. of course, but i was merely asking for your personal opinion. i'm not jesting now; that letter really aroused my interest in the child." "well, then, i believe that smiles really possesses the strength of purpose to go through with even so difficult a task as she has set for herself. remember, she comes of city stock, and hasn't the blood of those unprogressive mountaineers in her veins." "and you? are you going to help her as she asks? what about your promise to big jerry?" "i lived up to both the spirit and letter of that, when i tried to explain to the child the almost unsurmountable difficulties which lay between her and the accomplishment of her dream. besides, i know that she has told the truth in her letter, and has somehow managed actually to win over the old man. i can't help feeling mighty sorry for him, if the foster birdling is really going to fly away from his nest after he has reared and loved her so tenderly, but, after all, it is only the history of the human race. still, i can't blame him if he looks on me as a serpent who stole into his simple eden, carrying the apple of discontent." "there have been, of course, plenty of cases similar to this, where the adventurer's spirit was really big enough and the vision strong enough to carry him or her through to victory," mused donald's father. "such a one was the immortal abe lincoln, who came from just such surroundings. but the task is doubly hard for a young girl, and the experiment of thus breaking away from the ties and traditions of many years, and seeking a place in a wholly new, wholly dissimilar life, cannot but be fraught with dangers. there, in that simple environment she naturally appealed to you as not only an attractive child, but as a somewhat unusual personality. tell me, lad, how will, or would, she measure up, if transplanted a few years hence into city life, where the standards of comparison are so utterly different; so much more exacting?" "frankly, i don't know," responded donald. "since i read her letter i have been asking myself that question, and the answer worries me, since i feel in a way responsible for having opened the gates before her untrained feet. somehow i cannot disassociate little rose from her present environment, and, although she certainly _has_ an unusual charm for such a child, i must admit that, in part, at least, it was the result of--no, not that, but made more obvious by--her surroundings." "well, she has apparently decided to take the moulding of her life into her own hands and, without knowing the quotation, determined to be 'the master of her fate and captain of her soul.' however, a little more education can scarcely hurt her, and, if she succeeds in saving up some money, it will come in handy enough as a 'dot,' in case she marries your friend, judd amos, and raises a family of mountain brats." donald's reply was unnecessarily positive. "i'll wager that she'll never do that." and with that the conversation, as far as it concerned smiles, ended. * * * * * during purloined hours in the next few days the eminently successful young physician might have been seen engaged in strange errands, which took him into such places as a dressmaker's establishment, and several stores which sold textbooks. it was also a noteworthy fact that the decidedly soiled and crumpled ten-dollar bill, with which he had been commissioned to purchase the means through which education might be acquired, was never taken from the special compartment in his bill folder. then the flood of fall practice engulfed him, and gradually the memory of little smiles faded from his busy mind, although it never quite vanished, and from time to time fresh breezes from the distant cumberlands fanned it to life like a glowing ember. chapter viii some of several epistles - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - i commonwealth avenue boston, massachusetts. september , . dear little smiles: if you had been able to look inside of my heart when i opened your present and read your letter, you would have beheld as many different lights and shadows there as you can see in your own eyes when you look in the glass over your bureau. the sight of that little jar, and the scent of the spiced rose-petals, brought you so near to me that i thought i could almost see you by just closing my eyes--which may seem to you a funny way of "seeing" a person. it made me very happy. the letter, too, pleased me a great deal; but i must tell you that it also troubled me. that is when the shadow fell on my thoughts of you. the reason? i will tell it to you, because i feel that i should, although please do not think that i want to croak like an old black crow in one of your pine trees. if you have really set your whole heart upon becoming a nurse when you grow up, and your granddaddy has consented, it is not for me to say that you cannot do it. but i _do_ know the path which you must travel. i know that it is much steeper, much more rocky and full of briary bushes than any one your feet have ever climbed on your mountain, and you will have to keep a very brave little heart inside you, if you hope to reach the summit. and then, if you succeed, instead of finding a fairy castle filled with all sorts of pleasant things, you will only discover another long and weary road which must be traveled until your tired little body, and heart, made heavy by the sufferings of little children, long for the quiet restfulness of your dear old mountain home. am i still trying to discourage you? i suppose that i am, for, you see, _i_ can look back along that road which lies _before_ you, and i can remember the rocks i had to climb over, and the bushes i had to struggle through, and yet i know that it was far easier for me than it will be for you. you have read parables in the bible. well, i am preaching a modern parable. "book learning" is a sword and buckler--or perhaps it would be better to say that it is a suit of strong hunting clothes and thick leather knee-boots, and i was pretty well clad like that when i started my trip, while you are dressed only in thin gingham, with your legs and feet bare--as i first saw you. please shut your eyes, dear child, and try to see the parable picture i have drawn for you. have you done it? the picture is not as pretty as the one i painted the night i told about how fine it was to be a nurse, is it? but it is more nearly true to life. now, think hard before you make up your mind as to whether or not you really mean to go ahead, for--after all, little smiles--each boy and girl has soon to decide, all alone, what he or she is going to do with that strange thing which we call life. if your courage is really as strong as that of the wonderful joan of arc, i, too, believe that you can succeed and make your dream come true, and of course i will help you, gladly--in every way that i can. now i am all through preaching. it is out of my line, and i promise not to do it again. within a few days you will, i hope, get a boxful of the books which i have sent you as you asked me. most of them are just what you wanted--school books--but on my own hook i added one or two not strictly for study--like plums in a dry bread pudding. and, of course, there is something else in the box and _i_ guess that _you_ can guess what it is. this, little smiles, is the longest letter i ever wrote to anybody, i think. don't you feel proud? it must end now, however; but not before i ask you to give my best regards to your kind granddaddy. don't let the cold winter that is coming, chill your warm affection for your sincere friend, donald macdonald. p.s. i told mike what you wrote to him, and he wigwagged a message of love back to you with his tail. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ii big jerry's cabin in webb's gap, virginia. sep't. , . dear doctor mac: oh, dear doctor, can you ever forgive me for waiting two whole days before i wrote you back to thank you with all my heart for the many wonderful things which came in that box? it was like a fairy's treasure chest. and most of all i am obliged for that letter you wrote me. it was the first letter i ever got from any one and i shall keep it as long as i live. i think, of all the things i got, i like that the best. those others you could _buy_, but you had to _make_ that yourself, and it seemed like i could almost hear you talking the words in your strong voice, like the sound of the falls in the swift river. when i looked inside that box i could not make up my mind what i liked best. the many books kind of scared me when i opened them and remembered i had got to know all that much; but the book of beautiful poetry i just love. i have read all of the poetrys and know some of them to speak already. then there is that nurse's dress. o how i love it, and how i wish for you to see me in it. i plans to put it on a little while everyday and pretend that i am a real nurse _like i am going to be_. i done it yesterday, and somehow when i shet my eyes and run my hands over its crackely stiff whiteness, it seemed to me that the room was full of sweet little babies for me to take keer of. and now, doctor, i must tell you that i done what you said for me to do. i closed my eyes up tight like granddaddy does when i say prayers, and i saw little smiles acliming that rough path, and walking along that rough road you wrote about, but by the side of that long road i kept aseeing beautiful little flowers what were fading and drooping and calling out in tiny voices like baby chickens for rose to keer for them. so doctor, the picture did not scare me none. the lord give joan of arc (i know how to spell it now) a silver armor to protect her, and i reckon the white nurse's dress that you give me is my armor. now doctor i must tell you about little lou and the wonderful doll you sent to her. she was so funny when i give it to her that i got a chreek in my side laughing. first thing, she held it up tight against her and when it went ma-a-a-like a calf, she dropped it quick and run and hide under the bed. but pretty soon she crep out again and i showed her how to make it shut its eyes. then she jumped around and cried. 'o smiles, hit _kaint_ do them things but hit _does_ do them.' well, pretty soon, judd amos, her brother, come in and, when he saw it in lou's arms, his face got as black as a storm cloud and he went for to take it away from her. i just stepped in front of him, and said, 'judd amos, if you ever go for to take that doll baby away from her, or even _touch_ it, i won't never speak to you again.' he was powerful mad with me, but he seen that i meant like i said, so lou can keep her doll. and what do you think she has named it? she has named it mike. even judd had to laugh a little when she said that was the doll baby's name. i am making baskets as fast as ever i can and judd is going to take them to the store at fayville for me. i went down with him and seen the storekeeper man myself last week, and he promised me to buy all that he can from me. granddaddy shoots with your rifle gun most every day. he can hit a string like he used to, but he would not shoot a apple off my head like a man did in the book that had about joan of arc in it, although i wanted him to. i have ritten a piece of poetry like mr. eugene fields did, and this is it the cold may make my lips turn blue, but it can't freeze my love for you. your happy and loving little friend smiles. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - iii commonwealth avenue boston, massachusetts. october , . proprietor of the general store, fayville, ---- county, west virginia. dear sir: i am informed that you are occasionally purchasing, through one judd amos, of webb's gap, sweetgrass baskets made by a little mountain girl of that settlement. i am interested in her work, and herewith enclose a money order in the sum of ten dollars ($ . ) with which i will ask you to purchase at a rate reasonably in advance of the one you are now paying, all the baskets which she sends to you. you may express them to my address each month, and i will forward further funds upon request. please do not mention my name in connection with this transaction; but, if any questions are asked, merely say that you have obtained a city market for them. very truly yours, (dr.) donald macdonald. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - iv webb's gap. vir. november , . dear dr. mcdonald: how many letters do you guess i have written to you so far this month? . yes, i have written you a long letter every day, telling you all the things i did, and thought, but of course i did not mail them, for i knew that you would get tired of reading them. but this one i am going to send, for grandfather has asked me to let you know that he has shot that wild turkey bird for your thanksgiving--which is thursday--and has sent it to you by express package from fayville. i was with him when he did it. evenings come right early now and we went into the woods just before sun down. it was right beautiful, and i wished that you could have been with us. i will try and tell you what i saw like i do in my daily letters that my teacher says are practice themes. (i could not have spelled that to save my life a month ago.) well, except for the big pine trees which never seem to change, just like granddaddy, all the tall forest people and the half grown-up children-bushes, had put on bright new dresses in honor of thanksgiving time. they were red, made of many colored patches like bible joseph's coat,--yellow green and brown, some as bright as god could paint the colors, some soft, like they had been washed and washed. granddaddy thought it was beautiful too--although he called it "purty." but he did not like the brown grass and fallen pine needles, and called the marsh near the river an ugly mudflat; but _i_ thought it was beautiful, for that oozy mud was deep purple (the reverend told me the word), and the little pools of water were all gold. those are the colors that kings dress in, yet that old mudflat wore them, too. well, finally, when it began to grow dusk, we found a wild turkey bird roosting on a tree limb and granddaddy said, 'hush, i aims ter shoot hit right thru ther head.' when you get it look where the bullet went. now perhaps you would like to hear about what i have been doing. well, i have been doing many things, but most of all i have been studying. the minister, whose name is reverend john talmadge, came back to our mountain when it began to get cold, for he is in not very good health and can't go about much, although he sits out doors most of the time. he is my very good friend, and i have found out a lot about him. one thing is that he went to college like you did, and he knows a great deal more than there is in all those books, even. so you see he can help me a good deal. he is even going to teach me some latin, _d. v._ i think that god must have sent him to our mountain. every day i study the books you sent, first with him and then at home, and i am getting along so nice that last week, when the teacher in our little school was away, they let me be the teacher. and who do you think was one of my pupils? it was judd amos. he has bought some books and is learning, too. i reckon he does not want a girl to be smarter than he is at book learning, which he says is nonsense for girls. but i know that it is not nonsense. why, i can travel in far-off lands and see things that i did not even know _were_, by just reading books, and the reverend has lent me some to read. then i am still making my baskets, and what do you think? the storeman is buying all i can send him, and paying me more than he used to for them! he says that city folks like to buy them for they smell so sweet and like the woods. i am saving all my money and, with what i had, have nearly $ already, and, by next summer, will have over $ . isn't that wonderful? granddaddy pays me cents a week for keeping house for him, too. isn't he good? don't you think i ought to be a very happy little girl? well, i am, and i guess my face is getting all out of shape, i find so many things to smile about. your affectionate friend, rose. p. s. please give my love and a turkey drumstick to mike. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - v commonwealth avenue boston, massachusetts. december , . dear little smiles: although i am very busy, for the winter has given colds to many little folks here, i can not let christmastide go by without writing a letter to you, little forest friend. it was very dear of you to send me that basket of holly, which i found waiting for me when i returned, tired out, last night. its dark green leaves and bright red berries looked up at me when i undid it, almost as though they were your personal messengers and were trying eagerly to say, "smiles wishes you a merry christmas through us." the basket was indeed a work of art, but to me it seemed even more than that--a labor of love. i could almost imagine you tramping through the snow-covered mountain woods and gathering the holiday berries, and the picture which my mind painted was so attractive that i heartily wished i might have been there, too. i am delighted with the accounts of the progress you are making in your studies, and your all-too-infrequent letters themselves tell the story. i'm afraid that i shall not know you next summer. write me just as often as you feel like doing so, dear, and if i do not always reply you may know that it is only because i am so very busy. now i have two pieces of news to tell you. i am sure that you will be very much pleased with one of them and i hope will be with both. first, muriel's mother had a wonderful present just a little ahead of christmas day--not from santa claus, but from old father stork. it is a fine baby boy, whose eyes are almost the color of yours, and his name is to be "donald macdonald thayer." i suppose i have now got to be extra good in order to set my namesake the right example. knowing how dear all little ones are to your heart, i am sure that you will be almost as pleased as we are over this happy event, and i can almost see your sweet face light up with its wonderful smile as you read this. second, i am engaged to be married some day, if i can ever find time. _her_ name is marion treville and she is very good and kind, and every one thinks she is very beautiful, too. i hope that you have by this time received the little friendship box which i sent to you and your grandfather. the dress is a present from muriel, who loves your basket more than any of her toys, and continually speaks of you as her "dear friend smiles"; the hair ribbon is from mike and the book from your sincere friend, donald macdonald. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - vi webb's gap january , . dear dr. macdonald: when i tell you that there has been a great deal of trouble here, you will understand why i have not written you long before this, to thank you for those lovely christmas presents. grandfather was delighted with his tobacco, although he has not smoked it yet, and all my gifts made me very happy. the dress dear little muriel sent me is so lovely that i don't believe i shall ever dare to wear it, especially as, when grandfather saw me in it, he looked so sorrowful as he said, 'hit's powerful purty, but hit haint my smiles no more,' that he almost made me cry. i wonder if i can really ever leave him? he needs me very much now. oh, i was so happy for all of you when i read about muriel having a dear little baby brother. i sat right down and wrote a verse. the reverend helped me with some of the words, but still i'm afraid that it is not very good and i am afraid you will laugh at it. it is the best i can do now, and i guess i will send it to you in this letter. now i must tell you that your friend, my grandfather, has been very sick since christmas. the doctor from fayville has been to see him several times and he says the trouble is--i know that you will laugh at me now, but i can only write what it sounds like to me--'aunt jina pecks her wrist.' he has pains in his heart and has to keep very still, which he does not like to do, so i am the nurse and, whenever i feed him, or give him the medicine that the doctor left, i put on my nurse's dress. of course i have not been able to go to the reverend's for my lessons, and i have not been able to study much, except when grandfather is asleep; but he--the reverend, i mean--comes to our house as often as he can, and we take turns in reading aloud to grandfather, sometimes from the book you sent me, but most times from the holy bible, which he likes best. the reverend says that it is better than medicine to sooth a troubled heart, and i reckon it must be so, for it almost always puts grandfather to sleep, and the trouble is with his heart, like i told you. then, beside that, a little wild mountain flower was born to a neighbor of ours last week. we tried--oh, so hard--to make it live, but the cold was so bitter here that god took pity on it and took it back to his garden in paradise. at first i could not help crying, and i came home and tore up the verses that i wrote, but then i remembered what you told me about the reaper, and i went back to the poor, sorrowful mother and told her. and i remembered what you said about making people smile by smiling myself, so i did that, too. this is not a very happy letter, but grandfather is getting better every day, and summer will soon be here now. the new year seems to me like the top of a snow covered mountain. when we have climbed over it, it is not long before we can hurry down into the valley where the sun is warm and the flowers bloom. your affectionate friend, rose webb. p. s. i am very glad that you are going to be married. (the enclosure) deep the world with snow was covered, cold and barren was the earth, low the christmas angels hovered as a little babe had birth. just a tender little flower, dropped upon the world below out of god's eternal bower-- pink as sunrise, white as snow. but the little blossom stranger, as its earthly life it starts, need fear neither cold nor danger, for 'tis planted _in our hearts_. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - vii "thayerhurst" manchester-by-the-sea. august , . my dear little smiles: this is going to be a very short letter, and can you guess why? early next month i am going to run away from my work and everything here, and hurry down to your mountain for two whole weeks of wonderful vacation. so the next time you hear from me the words will come from my lips instead of my pen. i have been very glad indeed to hear that big jerry has been so well this summer, and i am sure that he has many more years of virile health ahead of him. i am keenly looking forward to seeing him cut a string with the new rifle. the weather has been terribly hot in boston this month and caused much suffering, but it is quite cool and very pleasant here by the ocean. every night that it is possible, i spend here with my sister's family, partly because i love to see my little namesake, even for a moment, partly to escape the city's heat and obtain some really refreshing rest. it makes me almost ashamed sometimes, when i think how comfortable i am, and how uncomfortable are the little children in the crowded city, most of whom have no woods, fields and streams like yours to play in, and many of whom never see anything out of doors except dirty, paved streets which get so hot that they burn the feet, even though the fire engine men frequently send rushing streams of water through them. but i know that a fighter must always keep in the best possible condition, and we doctors _and nurses_ have declared war on an enemy who has killed millions and millions, and never takes a day off. i wonder how you will like the ocean when you see it. very much, i am sure, it is so immensely big--like the sky--so beautiful, and more full of ever-changing colors than even your mountains. they tell me that little muriel plays beside it all day long on the fine white sand and over the rocks, while baby brother lies near by on a blanket, kicking and gurgling, and holding long, wordless conversations with the white clouds and sea birds high overhead. this has been a much longer letter than i expected it to be, and now i must chop it off short with just five more words, your affectionate friend, donald macdonald. chapter ix the high hills, and "god's man" sun hath sunk in radiant splendor, now the colors fade away and the moon, with light more tender, sheds its silver on the bay. eventide is softly casting o'er the earth a magic spell, and a love-song, everlasting, on the night wind seems to swell. deeper grow the lengthening shadows, darkening the heaven's blue, one by one the stars are gleaming, night is nigh, would you were, too. donald hummed the words in his not unmelodious baritone, as he climbed up the forest path down which, twelve months before, he had rushed headlong, in blind anger. the spell of the high, forest-clad hills, and the new-born night was upon his spirit. pleasant anticipations filled his heart, and left no room for painful recollection as he hastened over the needle-strewn pathway on which the white radiance of the full moon, shining through the branches, made a tracery of silver and black. let men whose minds are governed wholly by cold commonsense, and whose souls hold no spark of vitalizing imagination, scoff at moon-witchery and lunar madness. let them declare that the earth's haunting satellite is merely a dead world which cannot even shine with its own light. magic it _does_ wield. and, just as it distorts and magnifies all commonplace, familiar objects, so it twists the thoughts of men; just as it steals away the natural colors from the things of earth, and substitutes for them those of its own conception, so it alters the hues of man's meditation. the usually exuberant mike trotted in silence, close to his master's heels, and now and then cast suspicious glances aloft at the tall spectre things which he knew to be trees. donald knew that it was rather absurd of him to be toiling up the five-mile mountain path that night, when the next morning would have done just as well; but he had thankfully thrown off the shackles of civilization along with its habiliments. for two free, full weeks he meant to live like a child of the out-of-doors, and to draw a brimming supply of new energy from mother nature's never-failing breasts. every moment was precious. as he neared the gap, his winging thoughts flew ahead to big jerry's cabin and to the child-woman who had so attracted him a year before. once more he told himself that she was nothing to him, and that now, especially, he had no right to allow her, child though she were, to hold so large a place in his heart. yet what chance has reason in competition with moonlight? the clearing, with the cabin beyond it, came into view. the little house was likewise a victim of the prevailing necromancy, for its rough, hand-split and weatherbeaten shingles were now a shimmering olive-silver. mike gave voice to a joyful yelp, and tried to crowd past his owner's legs, for he had seen, or sensed, rose even before the latter became aware of the presence of their little friend. she was standing, alone, on the outer edge of the tiny stoop, whose darkened doorway formed a black background, against which her figure appeared, cameo-like. the flooding brightness lifted her form and face, seen in profile, into sharp relief, and the shadow which it cast on the grass made her appear the more tall and slender. grown and subtly altered she undoubtedly was, thought donald. the girlish curves and lithesomeness had not departed; but they carried a suggestion of approaching maturity. her wavy hair no longer hung unbound about her face, but was dressed in two braids, one of which had fallen forward across her breast. shoes and stockings covered her legs; but the simple dress still left her neck and arms bare, and the flesh was robbed of its color and made alabaster, the golden threads stolen from the dark hair and replaced by a silver sheen, so that there was something ethereal, but startlingly beautiful, in the picture. holding the violently wriggling mike in check, one hand on his collar, the other grasping his jaws, donald stole silently forward until he had passed the corner of the cabin, and his own shadow had crept forward, and laid itself at the girl's feet. suddenly she perceived it, and turned with a question in her shadowy eyes. her lips parted, then curved into the familiar magic smile, as she cried, "oh, doctor macdonald. you've _come_." mike twisted free, and, with a mad bound and wiggle, threw himself on the girl, who caught him in her arms. then, holding him against her, she somehow succeeded in extending one hand, shapely and slender, to meet the man's two eager ones. "oh, grandpap," she thrilled through the doorway. "hurry out hyar. dr. mac hes come fer ter see ye." a sense of vague disappointment possessed donald as he heard her lapse into the musical, but provincial, dialect; but, seeming to read his thought that the year of study had not been able to alter it, she whispered, "i always talk like i used to, to him, for he likes it best." "i see, and you're quite right, too," was his low-voiced reply, as he heard the old man's heavy tread crossing the bare floor within. "wall, wall, stranger. we air shor'ly powerful pleased fer ter welcome ye ergin," came in big jerry's deep and hearty voice, as he emerged from the darkness, and caught donald's hand in the old, crushing vise. for a few moments they all chatted happily, and then jerry said, "erfore i fergits hit, us wants ye ter stay up hyar this trip. ther loft-room air yourn, an' leetle rose hes fixed hit up special fer ye--curtains et ther window, er rag rug on ther floor, an' ther lawd knows what else." "do you really want me to?" cried the newcomer in pleased surprise. "of course we really want you," answered the happy girl. "then, by jove, i'll be only too glad to, although i had not thought of such a thing." "i allows thet yo' kin regard this hyar cabin as yo'r home whenever yo're hyarerbouts, an' we wants fer ye ter feel thet hit _air_ home," said the giant with simple courtesy. "i can't tell you how much that means to me--real hospitality like that," began donald, hesitatingly. "you know i ... i haven't any real home and haven't had ... since mother left us, and my sister was married. of course," he added hastily, "my rooms are pleasant and comfortable, and all that; but they're only a place to work, sleep and eat in, and there isn't any of that indefinably vital something--a soul, perhaps--which makes a _real_ home a sacred spot, no matter how big or how small it may be. i get frightfully lonely there, sometimes." "i didn't allow thet a man could git lonely in the city," replied jerry. "'in the city?' my dear man, one can be _twice_ as lonely there as any place i know of. the very life makes for shut-inness, in mind as well as body, and there are thousands and thousands of men, and women, too, there, who know scarcely a soul outside of the very few with whom their daily work brings them in contact; and _they_ are mere acquaintances, not friends. they see only the four walls of the rooms in which they work and sleep, and the walled-in streets between the two. "these very streets seem to me to typify the city's life--so hard, so filled with hurrying, jostling crowds of people, all equally intent upon their own narrow, selfish affairs, people who would think a fellow crazy if he spoke to them pleasantly, as you did to me the first time i saw you. there are thousands who never even lift their eyes to the narrow strips of sky between the tall buildings. _they_--and they only--know what real loneliness is. "of course i'm not one of those unfortunates," he added quickly, "for i have many friends, and am making new ones daily; but that is the atmosphere i live in fifty weeks of the year. do you wonder that it gets on my nerves at times, and that i long to run away from it all and get into the big, open spaces in the warm heart of friendly nature? "do you think that i can ever feel lonesome in the forest and fields, with living things always about me which are ready to share themselves with me?" "i reckon i haint never thought uv thet. this hyar mountain country air's whar i hev lived in contentment all my life, an' i allows thet hit's good ernough fer me ter keep on livin' in, twill i dies." rose remained silent, although obviously disturbed by donald's words; but, before she could voice her thoughts, another figure quietly joined the group--a tall, stooping man, clean shaven, and with an æsthetic countenance seemingly out of its natural environment. "why, it's my minister man," cried rose joyfully. "wherever did you come from?" "my wanderings brought me close home, and i could not pass by without calling on my two good friends in webb's gap." "an' we air downright glad fer ter see ye, reverend," answered the host. "this hyar air the doctor man from the city, what leetle rose hes told ye so much erbout." donald already felt drawn to the strange divine, their common interest in the girl acting as a lode-stone, and he clasped his hand with friendly pressure. the other returned it less vigorously, but no less sincerely, and donald experienced a peculiar mesmeric thrill which startled him a little. "perhaps i should apologize," began mr. talmadge in a low voice, the timbre of which still retained the resonance of early culture. "i came on this happy scene--or at least to the corner of the house--while you were speaking of life in the city, and i could not very well help pausing and listening. "i know your feelings only too well, dr. macdonald. i was born, bred and worked in new york until my health became undermined by just such influences as you mentioned; and i was forced to run away, too, and seek the hills 'whence cometh my help.'" "and deep in your inner consciousness you don't regret the change, do you?" asked donald. "no. perhaps i am selfish--a shirker--and there are times when the old call to get back where i know that the need is greatest comes like a clarion. but for myself, the disaster--which once seemed like a curse--has turned out to be a blessing, as is so often the case. i have learned a great lesson, doctor." "what lesson?" queried rose. "god's," responded the minister, quietly. "it may seem strange to you, my dear, but, although i was reared in a religious family, went through a great theological school, and was the rector of a city church for ten years, i never fully knew him until i came here." "why, mr. talmadge!" gasped the girl in astonishment, while donald said bluntly, "do you really believe that you know him, now?" "i do. not, of course, in all the fullness of his mysterious majesty, but as a friend whose ways are no longer hidden from my eyes." "frankly, i wish i might say as much," said the doctor. "i, too, was brought up in a religious household, but small good it did me, for, when i became old enough to think for myself, the glaring errors and inconsistencies in my childhood belief became so apparent that i became hopeless of ever understanding the truth which might lie within that astonishing maze. i quit going to church long ago." "doctors are generally regarded as an atheistic lot," smiled the minister. "that's slander. we may--in the aggregate--be agnostic.... i suppose that i am." "i ... i don't understand," said rose in distress, "but i don't like for to hear yo' say that, dr. mac." "it may not be as bad as it sounds, my child," laughed mr. talmadge. "an atheist is indeed a terrible person, who doesn't believe in our heavenly father, but an agnostic is only one who confesses that he doesn't know ... but may be quite willing to learn." "oh, learn ... i mean teach him, then," she said earnestly. "you are god's man and know everything about him, mr. talmadge." "indeed i don't--far from it, and i imagine that your friend doesn't want to hear a sermon on the mount." "_i_ do," she cried, "there's lot of things i want to hear about, but i've always been afraid to ask you, till now." rather gruffly donald added his word, "i hope that i am broad-minded enough not only to receive, but to welcome, any light on a subject which is, i imagine, the most vitally important one in life." "well, then, suppose we hold a little spiritual clinic for our rose's benefit primarily, remembering that where two or three are gathered together in his name, god will be with them. and, after all, what time could be more fitting than this silent, holy night; what place more suitable than this great temple of the out-of-doors, for us simple children of his to seek understanding?" chapter x "smiles'" consecration if, half an hour previous, donald had been told that, during the first evening of his long anticipated visit to his forest of enchantment, he was to play the part of patient in a spiritual clinic, conducted by a wandering backwood preacher for the instruction of a seventeen-year-old mountain girl--as well as for his own enlightenment--he would have scoffed at the idea; yet, oddly enough, he felt no sense of displeasure or antagonism. in the company of this unaffected man of god, the simple old mountaineer and the equally simple girl only, vanished all the self-conscious reserve and reticence which usually attacks the modern city dweller when called upon to speak of things spiritual and eternal, and which had so often bound donald's tongue, even when his inner being cried aloud for expression. "i hardly blame you for your attitude of mind, doctor," began mr. talmadge. "although it is certain that the knowledge of god starts from himself a ray of pure white light, the dogmas, creeds and theologies--invented by many men of many minds--have raised between it and our spiritual eyes a glass clouded with earthly murkiness, through which we now see darkly. only as mankind grows in spiritual stature, and lifts his head above the clouds, can he hope to see the ray in all its purity and glory." "yes, i suppose that's so," assented donald. "but i'm afraid that my difficulties lie deeper than the unessential differences in dogma. however, since our little friend is the one who has questions to ask, let her conduct the catechism." rose was speechless with embarrassment, but finally managed to say, "i reckon i'm so ignorant, that i can't say the things that are in my heart. please, dr. mac, you ask the reverend the questions and let me just sit and listen. only don't use too big words, for i want to understand." "all right, i'll be cross-examiner, but please believe, mr. talmadge, that what i may say is not intended to be argumentative, but rather honestly inquisitive. i really would like to find out if any one can reasonably explain some of the many things in religion to the acceptance of which i have been unable to reconcile myself." "i'll do it gladly, if i can. but, before you begin, let me apologize for what i said in ill-timed jest about doctors being atheists. i suppose that, in one sense, there isn't a more truly religious class of men in the world." "i can't agree to that, either," said donald. "perhaps not, but tell me this. isn't the structure and functionings of the human body infinitely more wonderful to you, who have made an intimate study of it, than it can be to us who have not?" "undoubtedly. it's the most marvellous thing on god's earth," answered donald, unthinkingly employing an expression heard in childhood. "there!" cried mr. talmadge. "he's convicted out of his own mouth, isn't he, rose? 'god's earth', he says." "a mere figure of speech," the physician laughed. "a statement of fact, sir. there are mighty few of you doctors who will not, within your hearts of hearts, agree that a supreme being must have designed this earthly temple which we call our body, the world we dwell in, and established the laws that govern both. and, knowing, as none others can, _how_ wonderfully the former is constructed, is not a doctor's appreciation of the almighty's power bound to be sincere?" "granted. but that isn't being religious," donald protested. "it is the foundation of all true religion," was the quiet answer. the physician was still dubious. "well, perhaps. still, i doubt if many ministers would agree that merely because a man may believe in a superhuman creative power, he is religious, if, at the same time he says--as i must--that he doesn't and can't subscribe to many of the things which we were taught as children to believe as 'gospel truth.'" there was the sound of a shocked and troubled "oh," from rose, but the minister's composure was in no wise ruffled. "the trouble is, i imagine, that you have mentally outgrown the willingness to accept certain statements blindly, as children and primitive minds do, and yet have made no really earnest endeavor to lift the veil and look behind it with the intent of finding out if a simple and understandable truth may not lie hidden there." "but how is one going to get behind a plain statement of what is apparently meant to be fact, such as the description of the creation in genesis?" demanded donald, somewhat impatiently. "science is absolute, and i, for one, know that the darwinian theory of life, or one substantially like it, is true. why, a study of human anatomy proves it, even if we did not have conclusive evidence in anthropology and geology. so, in the very first words of the bible, we start off with a conflict between its tenets, and what human learning shows us to be an indisputable fact." "do we?" smiled the minister. "don't we?" answered donald. rose sat looking first at one, then at the other, with a puzzled look in her eyes, for it was all greek to her. noticing this, mr. talmadge said, "i guess that we've started a bit too strongly for our little listener, but we want her to accompany us from the start," and he briefly, in simple words, outlined the darwinian theory, which brought an outraged grunt from big jerry. then he turned back to donald, and said, "take the story of ... well, say the prodigal son, for an example. was that the account of real happenings, think you?" "of course not. merely a parable." the other's mind reverted to the one which he himself had preached by letter to little "smiles." "the bible is filled with parables," said mr. talmadge, simply. "why should we regard certain stories as allegories merely, and others as historically accurate statements of fact when they are difficult to credit as such? especially why should we do so in the face of the obvious fact that the earlier part of the old testament is simply tradition, handed down, orally at first, by an intensely patriotic and rather vain race? _sacred_ tradition it is, to be sure; but that should not deter us from endeavoring to analyze it in the light of reason. besides, hasn't it ever occurred to you that in a translation from the original hebrew, some of the finer meanings of the old words are sure to have been lost or distorted?" "yes, i suppose that is so." "as a matter of fact, the hebrew word '_yom_,' which, in the story of the creation, has been translated 'day,' also means 'period.' and it is a rather interesting thing, in this connection, that the biblical account mentions an evening to each of the first six 'days,' but not to the seventh, which shows that _it_ isn't finished yet. science tells us that this last period, since the creation of mankind, has already lasted many thousands of years--although the length of time ascribed to it varies greatly--and this gives us some idea of how long those other 'days' might have been. besides, in this case, we do not have to be 'finicky' about the meaning of the ancient word, for in the psalms there is a verse which says that a thousand years in _his_ sight are ..." "are but as yesterday," rose completed the quotation in her gentle voice. "you see, those were god's days, not ours." "well, i'll be ... blessed," said donald. "it is logical enough, isn't it? the trouble in this case, at least, was that i never consciously tried to reconcile what i regarded as the old and new beliefs." "but, mr. talmadge," smiles' perplexed voice broke in. "if human beings just developed from a kind of monkey ..." "the anthropoid ape wasn't exactly a monkey, although he may have looked and acted like one," laughed donald. "well, but how could the good book say that god created man in his own image?" "do you remember what paul said, in his wonderful epistle to the corinthians? he answered your question when he wrote, 'there is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body ... and as we have borne the image of the earthly, so shall we also bear the image of the heavenly.' what does the bible say that god is, rose?" "'god is a spirit,'" whispered smiles, reverently. "exactly. and dr. macdonald will tell you that 'spirit' comes from a latin word which means 'breath.' when god perceived that some of the earth creatures had, according to his plan, developed sufficiently in mind so that they could rule the world, he breathed into them some of his own spirit, and thus created them in his own image--for of course a spirit hasn't form and shape like beings of flesh and blood." "hasn't he?" gasped the girl. "why, there is a picture of him, like a great big man with long beard, in my bible." "merely symbolic, dear child, and i have always felt that it was a vain symbolism, in both senses of that word. you look them up in your new dictionary to-morrow. in trying hard to picture god, men have made him in the likeness of the most wonderful things their eyes had ever seen--themselves--and just increased his size. as for the beard, that is supposed to be a sign of power and strength. "of course, in fact, god isn't a man or even a super-man, but a spirit, combining the spiritual elements of both male and female." "i reckon i jest hev ter think of er somebody fer ter worship," broke in the hitherto silent jerry. "jest something like ther wind air er bit too onsartain fer me." "and for millions of others," answered the minister quickly. "of course there isn't the slightest bit of harm in people thinking of our heavenly father as a being with a form which our eyes might see if they were only given the power to behold heavenly, as well as earthly, things. the conception of the omnipotent as a physical embodiment has in the past been of incalculable advantage in making an appeal to an aboriginal type of mind, since it really requires some sort of material personification, which it can at least visualize, the conception of which serves as an incentive for well-doing, and a deterrent from evil doing. it is therefore infinitely preferable as a working basis to an unembodied force." big jerry brought a smile to the lips of the other two men by bursting out, "durned ef i understand. them words air too powerful ederkated fer me." "but," said rose, "what you say kind of frightens me, mr. talmadge. if we can't ever see god, even in heaven, how can we be sure that he _is_?" "have you ever seen ... love?" queried the minister softly. "no, sir." "yet you know that _it_ is. you've never seen, tasted, touched or smelled thought, but you know that it exists. in the same mysterious way we know, and we shall know more perfectly hereafter, that the great spirit--i've always loved that beautiful indian expression--_is_." "yes," she said, somewhat uncertainly. "i _think_ that i understand. but it's powerful hard to understand how i can be his little child if he isn't a person." "i don't wonder that it puzzles you, dear. it is hard for even the oldest of us to try to imagine something entirely different from what we have actually seen with our mortal eyes, and we can hardly conceive of a spirit, or even a ghost, as something without some sort of a form, even though it be a very misty one. but the _real_ you isn't the flesh that we can see and touch, but the spirit that dwells inside, and, just as some of your earthly father and mother is in your body, so you have something of god within you, which was given you at birth. we call it ..." "my soul." "yes. and as that was part of him you are his child ... so are we all--spiritual children." "and jesus? was he his son in the same way?" whispered the girl. "exactly, only to a far greater degree than we can hope to be, for to him the heavenly father gave his spirit in fuller measure than he ever had before to mankind, so that he might set an example to the world and teach us the way we should try to live." there was silence for a moment, and then smiles spoke the thought that had been troubling her. "but, mr. talmadge, if god hasn't any body and our spirits are like him, why heaven ..." mr. talmadge sent a glance of smiling appeal at the doctor as though to say, "now i'm in for it. how can i explain heaven as a spiritual condition?" aloud he said, "i won't pretend to know just what heaven is like, but, of course, our spirits won't need an earth like this to walk on." "but," persisted the child, "the good book says that there are many mansions there, and golden streets, and also that it is a land flowing with milk and honey." "so it does, and very likely there are, in the realms of the spirit, things which correspond to those that we have known on earth, but i am quite sure that they are not _material_ things." "ef thar haint no real heaven, thar haint no real hell," broke in big jerry, whose mind had been slowly grasping the meaning of the minister's words. "i reckon thar must be a place uv punishment fer sinners." painstakingly, as though explaining to a child, mr. talmadge answered, "mr. webb, did you ever do something wrong, because of which your conscience troubled you later?" "reckon i hev. reckon i suffered the torments uv the damned fer hit." "did you ever burn your hand?" "yes, i done thet, too; powerful bad." "which caused you the most suffering, your conscience or your hand?" "i erlows thet my conscience done hit." "that is the answer to your implied question. god doesn't need to give us new bodies, and send them into a place of fire and brimstone to punish us for our sins. if the soul suffers, it is in hell, even though it may still be in our mortal bodies. that it must suffer, when we do wrong, we know. but, mr. webb, i do not think that it is meant to be punishment in the sense of retribution--getting even--so much as it is for correction. you know that men put gold through the fire to purge it of the dross that makes it dim and lustreless. that is what the fires of the spirit are for; that is why the bible speaks of hell as a place of fire. it is another parable." "yes, i see," said rose, but the old man shook his head, unconvinced. then the girl asked suddenly, "but why was god so good as to give us part of himself and let us make it impure and suffer, mr. talmadge?" "ah, now you are getting into the depths of religion and i'd rather not discuss that until you have had a chance to think over what we have talked about already. all that i wanted to do to-night was to get both you, and the doctor, to thinking for yourselves. come and see me, doctor, if you want to continue this discussion. i've got theories on any subject that you may mention, i guess," he laughed. "but i won't count the evening wasted--even leaving out the pleasure i have had--if i have helped to open your eyes, ever so little, to the light." "oh, you have ... and mine, too," answered rose. "i mean to think _hard_, but if i get very puzzled, i'll come to see you about it. but, anyway, i mean to be god's little child all my life--as well as a trained nurse. and i mean to help dr. mac, always, to be a child of our heavenly father, too," she added, simply. as donald arose to bid the minister good-night, his eyes were a little misty, for the girl's unaffected declaration had moved him more deeply than he had ever been moved in his life. chapter xi adoption by blood for a little while donald lay awake under the eaves in his loft room, but his sleeplessness was the result neither of worry or nervous tension. his mind, indeed, was unusually contented. none of the disturbing thoughts of difficult tasks on the morrow assailed it; he felt only an unwonted peace and contentment. the impressions left by the evening's talk still swayed and uplifted his soul. yet, deep within his consciousness, there was a vague realization that it would be long, if ever, before he could hope to pattern his life by the precepts of the man of god who had so stirred him. happily, he could not foresee how soon mortal passions were to repossess him wholly, to blot out the new spiritual light which was his. in her little room below, rose, too, lay awake, her youthful mind teeming with wonderful, new ideas garnered from the seeds sown by the "reverend"; but the insistent call of slumber to her tired, healthy body in time lulled her busy thoughts to rest. * * * * * "oh, doctor mac, come _quick_! grandpappy's hurted." sound asleep, and even then visioning the girl whose terrified voice suddenly wove itself into the figment of his dream, when the first word fell upon his ears, donald was wide awake, and he was half out of bed before the last was spoken. he paused only long enough to draw on his hunting breeches and thrust his bare feet into their tramping boots--which left a hiatus of unstockinged muscular calf--hurriedly dropped down the ladder, and in two strides was out of doors. near the wood pile stood the old mountaineer, on his countenance expression of mingled pain and chagrin, the latter dominating. his right hand still grasped the keen-edged axe, while rose stood beside him, clasping his brawny left forearm with both of her small but sinewy hands. as donald approached them on the run he noticed that the girl had sacrificed her treasured hair ribbon to make a tourniquet halfway up the old man's arm, and that blood was running down his hand and falling from the finger tips with slow, rhythmical continuity. "hit haint nothin' et all, smiles," big jerry was rumbling forth. "hit air jest er scratch. i don't know how i come fer ter do hit an' i reckon i ought ter be plumb ershamed. why, smiles, i been erchoppin' wood fer nigh onter fifty year, an' i haint never chopped myself erfore. hit war thet tarnation knot. but hit haint nothin', this hyar haint." "come over to the well where we can give it a wash," was donald's curt command, and big jerry followed him obediently, while the girl hastened ahead and drew up a bucket full of pure, sparkling, ice-cold spring water. the doctor tipped it unceremoniously over the giant's arm, and, as the already coagulating blood on the surface was washed away, made a hasty examination of the slanting, ugly gash beneath. "superficial wound. no artery or major muscle severed," he announced, as though addressing a class. "still, you were right in taking the precaution of applying that tourniquet, rose. i suppose it was bleeding pretty merrily at first." "hit war spoutin' powerful," she answered, in her stress of excitement lapsing into the language of childhood. "yes, i suppose so. that is in a way a good thing in such cases, however. it automatically cleanses the wound of any infectious matter. look, rose," he added, as though explaining to a clinic, "see how the blood is thickening up into a clot? that is chiefly the work of what we call 'white corpuscles'--infinitely tiny little organisms whose sole purpose in life is to eat up disease germs which may get into the veins, and to hurry to the surface when there is a cut, cluster together and die, their bodies forming a wall against the wicked enemies who are always anxious to get inside the blood for the purpose of making trouble." "i told ye 'twarnt nothin'," said big jerry, not without a note of relief in his voice, however. "a leetle blood-lettin' won't do me no hurt. i'll jest wind a rag eround hit, an' ..." "not so fast," laughed donald. "in all probability 'a rag just wound round it' would do the business, for your blood is apparently in first-class condition, with its full share of the red corpuscles; but you might just as well have the benefit of the hospital corps since we are on the ground. the red corpuscles," he added, addressing smiles, "are the other good little chaps who continually go hurrying through the body, feeding it with oxygen and making it strong. run into the house and get my 'first aid' kit, from my knapsack, child. you'll remember it when you see it, for i had to dig it out the very first time that i saw you." the girl hurried cabinwards, fleet as the wind, and, as the two men sat down on a woodpile to wait for her, donald had an opportunity to take note of his ludicrously inadequate costume. it seemed little more than a minute before rose returned with his kit, but it was not brought by a mountain maid. in that almost incredibly short time the child had changed her gingham dress for the immaculate costume of a trained nurse, and the transformation in apparel had been accompanied by one in mien no less noticeable. dainty and fair as a white wild rose she was, yet seriously businesslike in expression. donald was startled for a moment. it came to his mind that he was looking upon a vision of the years to come, and the picture caused his heart to beat a little faster; but, although the light of appreciation shone in his eyes, his only comment was, "are your hands as clean as that dress?" "yes, doctor." "now how the deuce did she come to use that stereotyped response?" he wondered; then said, aloud, "then undo that roll of gauze bandage and tear off a piece about six feet long ... be careful! don't let it touch the ground." then he immediately gave his attention to big jerry, and smiled with professional callousness as he caught the giant's wince when the antiseptic fluid which he poured on the wound started it smarting. "now for your first lesson in the scientific application of a bandage, smiles," he said. very carefully she followed his directions, and at length the split end was tied with professional neatness. but, as his fingers tested the knot, the girl seized one of his hands and exclaimed, with solicitude, "why, you're hurt, too, doctor mac!" she indicated on one of his fingers a small jagged tear from which the blood was slowly oozing. "how the dickens did i do that?" he demanded in surprise. "sliding down the ladder from the loft-room, i reckon. see, there's a piece of splinter in it still." "right-o, miss detective." he turned to the old man and remarked, "it looks as though your blood and mine had been mixing, this morning. why not complete the ceremony and make it an adoption by blood; the way they used to do in some of the indian tribes, you know?" he added, half jestingly, and acting on a sudden impulse. "you can take me into the clan as ... well, as your foster-son." "thar haint no clan nowadays, i reckon, but ef yo' wants fer ter be my foster-son i'd shor' be pleased fer ter hev ye es such, lad." "great. i feel like 'one of the family' already, and if you _will_ adopt me as a new son--with all the privileges and obligations of one--i'll appreciate it, no joking." as a pledge of their compact the city and mountain man clasped hands solemnly, while rose stood by, delightedly smiling her benediction upon their act. "why," she cried, "that makes me your little foster sister, doctor mac. oh, i'm so glad!" "yes, so it does." donald answered with a cheery voice, but no sooner were the words spoken than a sense of rebellion took possession of him. "idiot!" he muttered, shaking off the feeling with an effort of his will. "but haint ... aren't you going to do up your hurt finger, too?" she queried anxiously. the man seized the broken sliver with his fingers and jerked it out, examined the tiny incision and then thrust the wounded member into his mouth. "don't ever tell any of my patients that you saw me do this," he laughed, with a return to good humor, "but that is my way of treating a minor injury ... then i forget it. it's a fearful secret," he added, lowering his voice, "but nature, aided by sun and air, are wonderful healers, and just ordinary saliva, if a person is healthy, is both cleansing and healing." "thet air the way anumals cures thar hurts," remarked jerry. "yes, it is nature's way, and if the blood is pure, and the cut not so deep as to make infection likely, there isn't a much better one, after all. however, miss nurse, you may practice your art on my finger, too, if you want." he held his hand out, and, flushing with childish happiness, rose bound up the little scratch painstakingly, answering donald's brief word of commendation with a flashing smile. indeed, experience with many nurses of many grades of ability made him aware that her untrained fingers held an unusual degree of natural knack which augured well for the future. during a simple breakfast, leisurely eaten, the trio talked over in detail the varied happenings of the year that had passed, and donald was as astonished as he was pleased to discover what diligent application the girl had exercised in her studying, and what results she had attained, despite the manifold handicaps under which she had labored. her ministerial friend and mentor had truly guided her feet far along the lower levels of learning. yet the old and well-remembered childish charm had been in no wise lessened, and the unaffected simplicity with which she dropped into the mountain tongue, when speaking to her grandfather, caused donald to glow with sympathetic appreciation. as they finished eating, big jerry remarked, "hit air a powerful fine mornin' fer ter spend huntin', my boy. i reckon yo'll wish ter git inter the woods right smart, an' ef yo' desires ter make a day uv hit, smiles'll fix ye up er leetle lunch ter take erlong." "oh, i'm not exactly sure what i shall do," answered donald, with slight hesitation. "perhaps what i need most, to start with, is just plain rest, and i rather guess i'll laze around this morning, and maybe go down to fayville to get my grip this afternoon." "wall, thet air a good idee. jest make yo'rself ter home. i've got a leetle bizness ter attend to up the mountain a piece, an' i allows yo' kin git erlong 'thout me fer a while." he departed, disappearing with surprising rapidity, and left the man and girl together. donald sank onto the doorstep, leaned against the side post, and sucked away at his pipe with lazy contentment, alternately watching rose as she flew busily about her simple household duties, and sending his gaze out over the broad stretch of peaceful mountainside, which lay dozing in the warm morning sun. chapter xii the three of hearts at length donald said, abruptly, "you haven't asked me anything about miss treville, smiles." there was a perceptible pause in the girl's dish-drying, and the simple mountain ballad that she was happily humming broke off in the middle of a minor cadence. the man regarded her with curiosity as she slowly approached him, saying, "i didn't mean to be so forgetful, doctor, and i'm plumb ashamed. i should be pleased to have you tell me all about her." "why, i don't know as there is much to tell," he replied, a little nonplussed by the unexpectedness of the implied question. "of course she is very nice and very lovely, as i wrote you." "what does she look like?" "i am afraid that i cannot hope to give a very accurate description of her, rose. it would perhaps be easier if you had ever visited an art museum, and seen statues of some of the greek goddesses, for people say that she looks like one of them. you see she is quite tall for a woman--almost as tall as i am myself--and ... well, her form and the way she carries herself is queenly. then she has hair darker than yours, and ... her eyes are gray, i guess, although, come to think of it, i never noticed particularly. she isn't pretty like a wild-flower, but very beautiful, more like a stately cultivated bloom. when you have seen conservatory blossoms you will know better what i mean. she is very serious, too. even when she is quite happy it is sometimes a bit hard to tell it, for she seldom really smiles.... i wish she would," he added, as though to himself, "she has wonderful teeth." "oh, she must be very lovely," mused rose, and added with slight hesitancy, "i reckon you must love her powerful." "yes, of course," donald answered, and then added, as though a logical reason for his affection was necessary, "you see, i have known marion all her life. she is my sister's closest friend, and almost grew up in our house." "i wish i had," said rose, the note of envy in her voice being outweighed by the childlike sincerity which her words carried. "what does she do?" "do? why, i don't know, exactly--what all society girls, with plenty of money at their disposal, do, i suppose. of course she has clubs which she belongs to, and she goes to dances and theatres and ... i think she is interested in some sort of charity, too." he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was failing to make out a very strong case for the woman to whom he was engaged, and at the same time wondering why any vindication of her should seem necessary, since he had always regarded her as a bit too perfect, if anything. "oh, that is lovely, for the bible says that the greatest of all is charity," cried rose, her eyes sparkling. "and does she go about helping poor, lonesome city people, and the dear little poor children? it must be wonderful to have lots of money, so that you can do all sorts of things to make them happier and better." "confound the child," thought donald, although his exasperation was directed rather at himself, than at her. "it's positively indecent the way she gets inside one. judged by the standards of her class, marion is a splendid girl--head and shoulders above the average--yet these unconsciously searching questions of smiles' are ... hang it all, i wish i had had sense enough not to open the subject." aloud he said non-committally, "yes, of course it is wonderful and i know that you would do it if you were able." "i _shall_ do it," was the confident answer. "i can't give money but i can give myself." there was a moment of silence; then rose added softly, "i guess she loves you a lot, too, you are so good to ... to people, and do such wonderful things. when do you calculate to get married to her, doctor mac?" "married?" he repeated in a startled voice, "oh, some day, of course; but you know how terribly busy i am, and ..." he stopped, visualizing himself at that moment as he lolled indolently in the doorway of that mountain cabin, and wondering if the same thought were in her mind as was in his. at the same time came a welcome interruption in the appearance of a small child, brown as the proverbial berry, and bearing in her arms a large and rather dilapidated appearing doll. for an instant donald failed to recognize her, and said, "hello, here comes one of your little friends to see you, smiles. why, i do believe ... yes, it's lou. come along. you're not afraid of the doctor man who sent you that doll." lou advanced, one finger in her mouth, the corners of which were lifting in a shy smile. sensing the approach of another old friend, mike bounded out of the doorway where he had lain panting in the shadow, and so energetic was his greeting that the child was very nearly upset by it, although as soon as she could regain her equilibrium she flung her little arms around the roughly coated neck, without a trace of fear. "mike's got er broken leg," she announced. the words gave donald a start until he saw that she was holding out to him her doll, one of whose limbs flapped about in piteous substantiation. "kin yo' make hit well ergin?" examining the injured member, whence the sawdust blood had issued through a deep incision in the cloth, donald replied seriously, "it will require a rather serious operation, but i guess that i can mend it with the assistance of nurse smiles. we will have to sew up the wound and put the leg in splints." "hit haint ergoin' ter hurt her much, air hit?" begged lou, with all the solicitude of a young mother. "no. we'll give her an anesthetic--something to put her sound asleep--and i guess that she won't know anything about it." rose joined them laughingly, bringing a threaded needle and some bits of cloth for stuffing and in a few minutes the operation was complete, even to the application of splints, roughly shaped by donald's jack-knife. throughout the process the physician explained each step to rose, who cried as they finished, "oh, i love to do it. it's lots more fun than book studying or weaving baskets." "well, we might have a real lesson in 'first aid' this morning, if lou can stay and be your little patient. bring out that roll of bandages again." what a merry hour they spent, helped by mike, who insisted in doing his share by licking the patient at every opportunity. the air was so warm that lou's little dress could be taken off, and as she giggled or screamed with merriment, donald and rose treated her for every conceivable fracture, sprain or injury, the former all the while explaining in the simplest language at his command the major facts of human anatomy. rose proved to be an astonishingly apt pupil, and after each demonstration insisted on going through both the procedure and explanation alone. finally, in the course of demonstrating an unusually intricate piece of bandaging, donald put his arms about smiles, the better to guide her hands, and impulsively drew her close against him. he could not see her face, but he perceived that a quick flush mantled her neck and delicately rounded cheek. she moved away hastily, saying in a low voice, "i reckon you oughtn't do like that, doctor mac." "why, smiles!" came his response in a hurt tone. "i don't mean for to hurt you, and of course i cares for you like i used to, but i guess it ain't ... isn't ... just right for you to put your arms around me ... that way now. i'm most grown up now, and ... and ... you're pledged to ... to some one else." during her speech the color had flamed brighter and brighter. the man was both surprised and chagrined. he realized, of course, that in many respects rose was indeed, 'most a woman now'--that she was far more mature in certain ways than city-bred girls of the same age; for, while they might be infinitely more sophisticated in worldly ways than she, they are still children, whereas she had already entered into the problems of life and for several years had not only been in full charge of a home, but in intimate touch with the issues of life and death in the little community. understanding all this, he nevertheless looked upon her as a child because of the childlike simplicity which characterized her still. "i see," he answered slowly and a little ashamed, then added lightly, "but you have apparently forgotten that you adopted me as a foster-brother this morning." for a moment she said nothing; then the old misty smile touched her lips, and she replied, "i shor' most forgot that, and it makes it all right. please, doctor mac, don't think that i didn't enjoy for you to do it." there succeeded another brief, awkward silence. then smiles slipped her arm about donald's neck with frank, childlike affection, and leaned close to him, her young, warm being thrilling his senses, as he full well realized marion's infrequent embraces never had. shocked and distressed by his own emotions, donald was the first to withdraw his encircling arm, with an intent to continue the lesson. but it was ended. during the brief interlude lou had stood regarding the man and girl uncomprehendingly. now she piped up, "smiles loves ye er heap, i reckon, doctor man, an' so does i. ef she don't marry with ye, i'll do hit when i gits bigger." "my, but i'm a fortunate man to have _three_ fair ladies love me, and i won't forget your promise," donald laughed merrily. "but my brother juddy don't love ye none," said the child, innocently bringing a cloud over the friendly sunshine in her hearers' hearts. donald looked at rose uneasily as he answered. "oh, i hope he will like me some day. we should be the best of friends, for we both care for the same two dear girls." "where _is_ juddy?" came smiles' somewhat troubled query. "oh, he air away ergin; up in ther mountain." the shadow deepened on rose's face and donald caught the sound of a distressed, "oh." "what's the matter?" he asked without special thought. "it haint ... it isn't anything ... leastwise it isn't anything that i can tell you about, doctor mac. i ... i just don't like for him to go up there." a feeling closely akin to jealousy stirred donald's heart. did that uncouth young mountaineer really mean something to her after all? chapter xiii gathering clouds despite smiles' ingenuous proffer of a sister's affection, donald was troubled with an unreasonable dissatisfaction over the course which the events of the morning had taken, and he knew that it was unreasonable, which made it worse. now he suddenly announced that he guessed he would not wait until the afternoon before going down to fayville to get his small amount of baggage. the girl was troubled, also, without knowing just why, and she watched his departure with an unhappy feeling that somehow the changes which the year had made in both their lives had raised a misty barrier between them--intangible, but not easily to be swept away. furthermore, young as she was, she intuitively sensed that hers was the necessity of reconstructing their friendship on a new foundation, because she was a woman. the man could not do it. meanwhile donald performed his downward journey with none of the lightness of heart which makes a long walk a pleasure, rather than a task. going down the wooded descent, where the dew still lay wet beneath the heaviest thickets, was not so bad; but, when he had obtained his grip and gun, and started on the back trail, his discomforts commenced. as the main street of the little village changed its character, first to a road and then a cart path through the fields, it grew deep with dust, and, although no air stirred, it seemed to rise, as water does by capillary attraction, until his clothing was saturated and his mouth and nose overlaid with a film of it. overhead the sky burned, and from the brown fields, which stretched to the wooded base of the mountain, heat waves rose as though the dry earth were panting with visible breath. an insect chirped half-heartedly in the grass, and then left off as though the effort were too great, and a small striped snake leisurely wove a sinuous path through the dust ahead of him, and vanished with a faint hiss. it was better when he struck the woods, for there was shade; but the air was more sultry and the added exertion of climbing started the perspiration and turned the coating of dust to sticky grime. still the breeze delayed, and the fragrant odors of the woods were cloying. his luggage grew heavier and yet more heavy; his arm and back began to ache painfully. when physical discomfort is accompanied by morose introspection, the result is certain to be unpleasant, and donald's thoughts were in dismal grays and browns, which ill-matched the radiant colors of external nature. certainly smiles was not to blame, he thought, as he trudged up and up. the fact still remained that they lived on utterly different planes, and that he had not the slightest idea of falling in love with her, or, even mentally, violating his pledge to marion. pshaw, she was nothing but a child! it was foolish, absurdly so, yet somehow he felt that his world was out of joint, and, since he could not, or would not, determine just what the trouble was, he could not take active measures to bring about a readjustment. with a conscious effort of his will he put the mountain child out of his thoughts, and attempted to analyze his real feelings for the city girl, to whom he was betrothed. he could assign no reason to the vague, but persistent, feeling which frequently possessed him, when he was apart from her, that she was not his natural mate. her poise and reserve, which sometimes irritated him, he knew to be really virtues, in a way as desirable as they were rare in women, even of her class; her unusual beauty fully satisfied his eye; she was a reigning queen, the desired of many men and he had won her, although he hesitated a little over the word "won." finally, he was certain that she loved him, after her fashion. why should he, a man as reserved as he was, and one who had little time to spend on the romantic embellishments of life, ask for more? yet there was mute rebellion in the depths of his heart, and even the memory of that milestone night, eight months before, when the spirit of christmastide had added its spell to the influences of life-long propinquity, and they had, almost without spoken words, crossed the border and pledged themselves to one another, brought no thrill. "i _know_ that she is a wonderful woman, and a real beauty," mused donald, half aloud. "the trouble must be ... yes, _is_, with me. she's too wonderful for my simple tastes; that's the truth, as i told ethel. oh, well, perhaps i can learn to live up to her ... but i hate this society stuff." * * * * * donald's return to the cabin, weary and uncomfortable in body and mind, found big jerry sitting heavily in a chair, with smiles hovering about, and, from the expression on the face of each, he sensed at once that something was wrong. the old man was saying, somewhat laboriously, "hit don't pain me ... much, rose, gal. hit haint nothin' ... ter mention. i'll jest set still hyar erwhile, an' ..." as the girl caught sight of donald's big form in the doorway, her face brightened momentarily; but it clouded again with swift pain when he touched his heart with a significant gesture, accompanied by a questioning look. she nodded, then said aloud, "here's our doctor mac back ergin, grandpappy. i reckon he kin do somethin' fer ter help ye." the newcomer attempted a cheery laugh, and said, "well, i'm not much good unless we can turn time's flight backward, and make him a child again temporarily. kiddies are my specialty, you know, and although i've a few grown-up patients, left over from the time when i took whatever came, and was thankful, i am killing them off as fast as i can." he spoke facetiously, with the design of instilling a lighter element in the conversation; but, although jerry smiled wryly, the girl looked so shocked that donald hastened to add, "please don't be alarmed, dear, of course i didn't mean that literally. and you know that i will do anything in my power to help. i only wish that i knew more about troubles affecting the heart," he added. "reckon the doctor down in fayville hed ought ter say the same thing," interposed the old man. "i erlows he didn't do me no good, fer i got better es soon's i quit takin' the stuff he left me." "don't be too hard on him, foster father. after all, what you probably needed most was to give that big heart of yours a rest, and that is what did the business then, and will now. well, i'll look you over anyway. i guess professional ethics won't be outraged, with the other physician five steep, uphill miles away." while he talked he had been opening his suitcase, and now took out a compact emergency bag which experience had taught him never to go away without, and at whose shining, unfamiliar contents smiles' eyes opened with fascinated amazement. taking out a stethoscope, donald bade the giant open his soft, homemade shirt, and planted the transmitting disk against the massive chest, padded with wonderful, bulging muscles. "o-ho," he said under his breath, as he finally laid the instrument aside; for his intently listening ears had caught the faint, but clearly discernible sound of a systolic murmur, deep within. "air the trouble 'aunt' ... what the other doctor said hit was?" questioned rose. "angina pectoris? he may have had a touch of that last winter of course, but my guess is that it's something a bit different now." "i haint erfeered ter hyar the truth," rumbled jerry, straightening up like a soldier before the court martial. "well," answered the doctor, "i should say that you have a touch of another jaw-breaking latin phrase, namely, an aneurism of the thoracic aorta." "hit shor' sounds powerful bad," grunted jerry. "but then i reckon thet doctors likes ter use big words." "right. for instance, we prefer to call an old-fashioned cold in the head, 'naso-pharyngitis.' the worse it sounds, the more credit we get for curing it, you see. well, 'sticks and stones may break our bones, but _words_ will never hurt us,' so don't let that latin expression worry you. just take things a bit easy, don't overdo physically or get overexcited, and you'll be good for many a moon yet," he added lightly. jerry fastened up his shirt with big, fumbling fingers and walked slowly outside, while rose, tears of pity shedding a misty luminousness over her eyes, stepped close to donald and laid her hand appealingly on his arm, "is it something pretty bad, doctor mac?" she breathed. "well, it's apparently a mild case ... so far." "but the trouble ... is it ... is it dangerous?" he hesitated an instant, then responded quietly, "nurses have to know the truth, of course, and i am sure that you have a brave little heart, so i'm not afraid to tell you that it _is_ bad. it is almost sure to be fatal, in time, but not necessarily soon. if he will take things easy, as i told him to, he'll live for a considerable time yet; but we mustn't allow him to get very greatly excited, or do any very heavy work." suddenly very white, but calm and tearless, smiles answered, "i reckon i can help him better if i know all about it, doctor. i _got_ to help him, you know. he's all i have now in the whole world." "of course you're going to help him--we both are--but ... you have me, little sister, and your life work," he answered with awkward tenderness. "now let us see if i can make you understand what i believe the trouble to be. in its incipient--that is, its early stages, it would be rather hard to tell from angina pectoris, for the symptoms would be much the same--pain about the heart and shortness of breath. but one can get over the latter, and feel perfectly well between attacks." he picked up from his open suitcase a folded newspaper which he had tossed in half read, on leaving the city, and drew for her a crude diagram of the heart and major arteries. "this biggest pipe which goes downward from the heart is called the great artery, and it and its branches--just like a tree's--carry the blood into all parts of the body, except the lungs. another name for it is the descending thoracic aorta, and that is where grandfather's trouble is. if you knew something about automobile tires i would explain it by saying that he had a blow-out, but it's something like this. the pipe has an outer surface and an inner lining. at one time or another something happened to injure and weaken the former--disease does it sometimes--perhaps it may have been a severe strain or crushing blow on his chest." "a big tree fell on him early last winter," cried rose, with sudden enlightenment. "his chest is so big and strong that he didn't think that it hurt him, 'cept to lame him considerable." "that may have caused the trouble. well, what happens is this. the blood is pumped by the heart through that weakened pipe, and, little by little, it forces the lining out through the weakened spot, making something like a bubble filled with blood. in time that might grow until you could actually see the swelling, and all the time, the containing tissue is getting thinner and thinner. now you can yourself guess the reason why he mustn't do anything to over-exert his heart. hard work, or great excitement, makes our hearts beat faster, and sends the blood through that big artery with extra force and ..." "the bubble might ... break," whispered "smiles," with a frightened look on her young face. "yes. we call it a rupture of the aneurism, and when that happens mortal life ends." "oh," she shuddered slightly. "i must keep him very quiet, doctor mac. i am strong and can do all the work. you tell him that he mustn't do anything, please, doctor." "i'm not sure that that would be the wisest plan, rose. he has been so strong and active all his life it would break his great heart to be tied down like an invalid. i'm sure that he would be happier doing things, even if as a result he didn't live quite so long. don't you think so, yourself?" she nodded, and he continued, "of course he is so big and strong he can do common, simple tasks without anything like the amount of exertion required by an ordinary man, and, so long as he doesn't strain himself, or get very much excited, we may reasonably expect him to live for a good while yet. besides, as the aneurism progresses there will come a steady, boring pain and increased shortness of breath, which will themselves help to keep him quiet." "but can't i give him some medicine?" "the best medicine that he can possibly have will be your happy, comforting smile and tender love, my child." she furtively wiped a stray tear from her cheek and smiled bravely up into his face, in a wordless pledge that to the administration of this treatment she would devote herself without stint. "may i ... may i have that paper," she answered appealingly, as he started to crumple it up, preparatory to tossing it into the fireplace. "we don't often have city papers to read, you know." "why, of course; i didn't think," he answered, smoothing it out and handing it to her. she took it eagerly, and had read barely a minute before she cried, delightedly, "why, doctor mac. _you're_ in this paper. oh, did you read what it says?" "hang it," thought donald, "i forgot all about that fool story, or i wouldn't have given it to her." but she was already reading the brief article aloud, slowly but with appreciatory expression. exceptional fee paid boston doctor dr. donald macdonald operates on multi-millionaire's child what is rumored to have been one of the biggest fees paid to a physician in recent years, was received lately by the brilliant young children's specialist of this city, dr. donald macdonald. a few weeks ago he was summoned to newport in consultation with local and new york physicians over the five-year-old daughter of j. bentley moors, the millionaire copper king, and finally saved the child's life by performing successfully one of the most difficult operations known to surgery--the removal of a brain tumor. the child had already totally lost the power of speech, and had sunk into a comatose state, the operation being performed at dr. macdonald's suggestion as a final desperate resort. his associates on the case are unstinted in their praise of his skill, and declare that few other surgeons in america could have carried it through with any hope of success. the child was completely cured, and in his gratitude her father sent the young doctor a check which--it is said--represented an amount larger than many men earn in a lifetime. "what does 'comatose' mean, doctor mac?" asked smiles. "it means a condition during which the body appears to be lifeless. a tumor is a growth--in that particular case here, inside the skull, which pressed on the child's brain, paralyzing, or shutting off, all the senses." "oh, wasn't it wonderful to do what you did ... it was almost like the miracles our dear lord performed, for you gave sight to the blind and raised up one who was _almost_ dead. i am so glad for that little child and her dear father, and i don't wonder that he gave you a lot of money. was it ... was it as much as a ... a thousand dollars?" she asked in an awed tone. "yes, indeed, much more than that, in fact." "not five thousand?" donald laughed. "the newspaper men, who had somehow or other got wind of the story--goodness knows how--tried mighty hard to get me to tell them how much, but i wouldn't. however, since i know that you can keep a secret, i will tell you. it was just ten times the amount of your last guess." "oh!" she gasped, as the result of the multiplication dawned upon her. "why, it was a fortune, and ... and _i_ know you." "of course it pleased me," was his answer, "but not half as much as the result of the operation, dear. if a doctor is really in earnest, and bound up in his work, he never thinks whether the little sufferer stretched before him in bed, or on the operating table, has a father worth a million dollars, or one in the poorhouse. that is the reason why we have to charge for our services by a different standard from men in almost any other kind of work. the rich man has to help pay for the poor man, whether he wants to or not. i meant to charge that very rich man enough so that i could give myself to a great many poor children without charging them anything, perhaps; but he had a big heart and sent me that check for several times what i should have charged without even waiting for me to make out a bill. and his letter, which came with it, said that even fifty thousand dollars was poor compensation for a life worth more to him than all the money in the whole world." "a little child's life _is_ more precious than all the gold that ever was," said smiles seriously, "for only god can give it." chapter xiv sowing the wind the noonday meal was a rather quiet, constrained affair. none of the three was in a talkative mood, donald was still distrait, big jerry obviously in physical and mental distress, and rose too full of troubled sympathy for conversation. frequently donald caught her gaze fixed on the old man's face with an expression of unutterable love; and as often, when she saw him watching her, her face lighted for a moment with a tender, compassionate smile. the eagerly anticipated vacation and reunion had truly begun badly, and it was with a sense of relief that donald finished the simple dinner, and announced that he guessed he would go for a little tramp in the woods, while rose was performing her household tasks. "hain't yo' ergoin' ter tote yo'r rifle-gun?" queried big jerry, as he noticed that the doctor was leaving the house without a weapon. "no, not this trip. i'm not in a mood for hunting. all i want is a walk,--and a stout club and mike will be protection enough against anything in these woods. good-by, smiles. i'll be back before supper-time, hungry as a bear." he left the clearing for the virgin woods at random, striding along briskly and with rising spirits, and at first unmindful of the direction that he was taking. in fact he had, subconsciously--even in his recreation--refused to follow the easiest way, and had struck out on the up-mountain trail. * * * * * for a while donald walked on, regardless of whither. then the consciousness of the fact that he was in a--to him--unknown part of the mountain, and nearing the summit, brought with it a recollection of the words spoken that morning by little lou, "judd air erway ergin ... up in the mountain." still, he kept on, for, although he told himself that he had not the slightest intention of seeking the mountaineer, or the solution of smiles' troubled look, and most certainly was not courting trouble, purposeless curiosity impelled him higher and higher into the hitherto unexplored fastnesses. now the timberlands lay beneath him, for, although the hardy laurel continued in profusion, albeit somewhat dried and withered, the trees were thinning out and becoming more scraggly, and more frequently the naked rocks, split and seamed, thrust themselves up through the baked soil, "like vertebræ in the backbone of the mountain," thought donald. now they were toned and softened by moss and lichen; now barren of vegetation, rugged and gaunt, split asunder by the ancient elements. in the distress which had come like a cloud over the sunlight of his spirits, so gayly anticipative a few hours previous, they flung a wordless challenge to the battling instinct in the man, and he accepted it with the thought that the best balm for troubled minds is strenuous bodily action. eager and joyous over the new game, mike tore about, panting, and dashing from side to side through the underbrush on real, or imaginary, scents, now stopping to dig madly for a moment, then racing on to catch up with his master, who frequently had to haul him over the precipitous crags by the shaggy hair on his muscular back. the air was cooler here, and as invigorating as wine; the sky was a transparent blue. at last, somewhat tired of pushing his way over rocks and through virgin underbrush with no objective, he was on the point of turning to retrace his footsteps, when mike stopped short with nose a-quiver and bristles lifting on his neck. "what's up?" asked the man. as usual he addressed the dog as though he were a sentient being. "trouble ahead? some wild animal there, old boy?" but, instead of retreating, he grasped his cudgel more firmly, and cautiously parted the thick bushes in front of him. to his surprise, donald found that he was almost on the edge of a sharp declivity leading down into a natural bowl-like hollow, so shut in with high rocks and underbrush that it was, in effect, a retreat almost as good as a cave for concealment. and that it was so used, or had been at some time, was made evident by the presence of a rude hut, little more than a lean-to since one end was wholly open, which snuggled against the further bank. with growing curiosity and caution, he worked his way along the edge, for now a faint odor of wood-smoke reached his nostrils, and there came to his ears the sound of some one, or something, moving within the shelter, a presence which the dog had apparently detected much sooner than had his master. at length he reached a point of vantage, partly hidden by a cleft rock, from which he could look fully into the interior of the shack. it was obviously not a habitation, although a fire was burning briskly within it. near by stood a small keg or two, what appeared to be a large tub or vat, and, over the fire, was a queer metal object, the shape of which caused donald to wonder for a brief instant if necromancy still existed, and he had stumbled upon the retreat of a mountain wizard. almost immediately, however, the true explanation flashed through his mind. it was a crude illicit distillery--the hidden "still" of a mountain moonshiner! at the same moment a tall man in typical mountain costume moved into view and bent over the fire. in his interest donald had forgotten mike; but, at the appearance of the man, his companion gave voice to a sharp and hostile challenge. the furtive toiler turned like a flash, and, seizing the rifle which leaned against the wall near at hand, sprang out and levelled it at the intruder whose head was visible above the rock, for he had been too much surprised to move. "put up yo'r hands!" he cried, and donald complied with the order without perceptible hesitation, at the same time pushing into full sight. the man below was judd! for a moment neither spoke, and the silence was pregnant with serious possibilities. then donald regained partial control of his shaken self-possession, and with his hands still held above his head, slid awkwardly down into a sitting posture on the edge of the bank. "do you know, judd," he remarked at last, with an assumption of coolness. "i thought _that_ sort of thing had ceased to exist, even in these wild mountains," and he nodded toward the distillery. "i allows thet yo' hev er habit of thinkin' wrong," was the surly response. "you haint no doctor man. thet's er blind. yo' be er revenuer, i reckon, an' es sich i've got ter put er bullet inter ye." "don't be a fool," snapped donald, even in this dangerous predicament unable to resort to conciliatory words when addressing judd. "i'm nothing of the sort, and you know it." there was another spell of nerve-racking silence. then the outlaw said slowly, "i reckon yo' speaks ther truth. yo' haint smart ernough fer er revenuer. one er them wouldn't come er still-huntin' 'thout er rifle-gun, an' _with_ er barkin' dawg." "well, i'm glad that's settled," answered donald, uttering a forced laugh. "my arms are getting tired, held up like this, and, as you have a rifle and i haven't, i suggest that i be allowed to resume a more natural position." without waiting for the permission, he dropped his hands to the bank beside him. donald's action placed judd in an obviously unpleasant dilemma. he knew it, and therein lay the intruder's best chance. "i haint never shot er man in cold blood erfore, but i reckon i've got ter do hit now," he said sullenly. "yo' know too damned much erbout sartain things what don't consarn ye." "if they don't concern me--as i am willing to admit--why waste a bullet?" answered donald, mentally sparring for time. "as a law-abiding citizen i might reasonably feel that you still ought to be put out of existence; but, it's no hunt of mine, since i'm not a federal officer. i haven't any particular desire to get a bullet through me, and i know perfectly well that you don't care for the thought of adding the crime of murder to the misdemeanor of illicit liquor making." "i haint erfeerd ter shoot ye," blustered judd, and added significantly, "yo're body wouldn't never be found, and yo' wouldn't be ther first pryin' stranger what got lost in these hyar hills, and warn't never heard of more." "admitted. but what's to be gained in taking the chance? i'm ready--yes, anxious--to give you my word of honor that i'll forget what i've stumbled on here this afternoon. come, be reasonable, judd." "wall, ef you'll swa'r thet ..." began the mountaineer dubiously. "i do," broke in donald with undisguised eagerness. "i solemnly swear never to tell a soul about the existence of this still, so help me god. there, i hope that satisfies you. you need not be afraid of my not keeping my oath, but just the same, i think you're a fool to do this. you're almost sure to be caught at it, sooner or later, and a federal prison isn't a particularly pleasant place." "i don't reckerlect hevin' asked any advice from _yo'_," was judd's surly reply. "well, i don't expect that you'll follow it," answered the other, as he scrambled to his feet. "and since we don't seem to hit it off very well together, i guess i'll be starting along." "no yo' won't ... leastwise not yet!" judd's words came with crisp finality, and were reinforced by a quick movement of his rifle to the hip. "i haint through with ye yet, stranger. last year i warned ye fair thet this hyar mountain war an on-healthy place fer ye. 'pears like yo' didn't believe hit, but i means thet ye should this time. erfore yo' goes i'll hear ernother sworn promise from ye, an' i reckon yo' kin guess what hit air." "i can. and you're not going to get it. no, by god, not if you put a coward's bullet into me for refusing," burst out donald, with his pent-up anger breaking its bounds at the other's dictatorial demands. "i agreed that what you did with your time wasn't my business, but what i do with mine, is. and i don't take orders from you in the matter, understand?" the mountaineer's lips drew back, his body quivered, and the finger on the rifle's trigger trembled. above him, donald stood equally tense and pale. he felt that he should be praying as he had never prayed before, but wrath possessed his spirit wholly, and his mind was completely concentrated on that lean forefinger, whose slightest tension meant death. moments like these come but once in the lifetime of the average man, if, indeed, they ever come at all; but, when they do, when he suddenly finds himself face to face with some cataclysmic upheaval in human or external nature that threatens to rend the thin but impenetrable curtain which separates him from eternity, the salient characteristic of his being is unmasked and stands forth, naked. if he be at heart a coward, even though he may honestly never have suspected himself of cowardice, he will try to flee, or cringe and grovel for mercy; if his soul is stayed upon the immortal and everlasting truths, he will face what fate may hold with the resigned fortitude which was the martyrs'; but, if he is merely a man, strong with the courage of the beast, refined and strengthened in the fires of intellect, he will be more likely to stand his ground unflinchingly and cast his defiance in the teeth of the danger which threatens, wrathful, but unafraid. donald was of the latter breed. he made no move; but the cords and veins in his muscular neck and hands swelled visibly, and his dark gray eyes took on a steely glint, as they bored steadily into judd's glowering black ones. suddenly, with a deep oath, the mountaineer dropped the butt of his gun to the ground. both men breathed a deep sigh, and the latter said: "no, i kaint shoot an unarmed man, even ef he _air_ a skunk. but hark ye. i warns ye now fer the last time. clar out uv this hyar mountain terday, er go armed an' ready, fer, by gawd a'mighty, i aims ter shoot ye dead the next time i meets ye. hit's yo' er me now." when the other dropped his weapon, donald had almost decided to make an attempt to clear the atmosphere by telling him again that his suspicions were utterly groundless and that, so far from having any intention of stealing the affections of the mountain child whom judd loved, he was betrothed to another. but, at the challenge to fight, something, which he could neither explain afterwards nor control then, swept away the half-formed resolve, and the heat of primal hate sent a burning flush through him and drove cool reason utterly from its throne. "if you didn't have that gun, you damned coward, i'd come down there this instant, and thrash you within an inch of your worthless life," he shouted, heedless of consequences; too angry to care what might happen. and simultaneously, spurred on by his own blind passion, he slid down the bank and, with fists clenched, advanced on judd. a yard ahead of him bristled mike, a canine fury with gleaming teeth bared and muscles tensed for a spring. his master's quarrel was his also. "call off thet damned dawg, ef yo' don't want fer him ter git shot," raged the other, white with anger. "i reckon thet the time _hes_ come fer me ter teach ye a lesson; p'raps then a rifle bullet won't be nowise necessary. yo' tie up thet devil, an' i'll hev it out with ye, now." wrath robbed him, too, of all caution and he flung his gun far to one side as donald, with hands that trembled so violently that he could barely tie the knots, slipped his handkerchief through mike's collar and fastened him securely to a stout bush. then he faced the infuriated mountaineer. "hit's yo' er me," panted the latter, assuming a pantherlike crouch. "let it go at that," answered the city man, dropping naturally into a fighting position. the veneer of our vaunted civilization is, at the best, thin, and every man, in whose veins runs red blood, has within him pent-up volcanic forces which require but little awakening to produce a soul-shattering upheaval. donald knew that his being shouted aloud for battle--why, he didn't pause to analyze. judd knew full well what _he_ was fighting for. it was the woman whom his heart had claimed as his mate, regardless of what his chances of winning her were. in college days, donald had been a trained athlete, and he was still exceptionally powerful, although city life and his confining work had robbed his muscles of some of the flexibility and strength which had once been theirs, and were now possessed by those of his opponent. in weight, and knowledge of the science of boxing, he far surpassed judd; but these odds were evened by the fact that _his_ mind--thoroughly aroused though it was--held only a desire to punish the other severely, whereas judd's passion burned deeper; blood-lust was in his heart and he saw red. nothing would satisfy him short of killing the man who seemed to be the personification of his failure to win smiles. the mountaineer opened the fight with a furious rush. donald instinctively side-stepped, and met it with a jolting short-arm blow to the other's lean jaw, which sent the aggressor to the ground. like a flash he was up again, wild to close with his rival and get his fingers about his throat. there, in the little natural amphitheatre, with only the ancient trees as silent witnesses, was staged again the oft-fought fight between the boxer and the battler, but the decision was not to rest on points. no marquis of queensberry rules governed, no watchful referee was present to disqualify one or the other for unfair tactics. chapter xv reaping the whirlwind it was not long before donald realized that, whatever had been judd's primary purpose, he was now fighting to kill, and he sought desperately to drive home a blow which would knock him out. but, with all his greater skill, it was not easily to be accomplished. the mountaineer was tough, agile and actuated by a rage which mere punishment only increased. and punishment he took aplenty; while donald remained almost unscathed, as he met rush after rush, and a storm of wildly flailing blows, with an unbroken defence. nor was it long before the other realized that absolute necessity called for him to break through that guard, and clinch with his opponent, if he were to hope to be successful in carrying out his design. gathering his physical forces for a final desperate assault--which right and left hand blows on his already battered, bleeding face could not check--he broke through donald's defence, and flung his sinewy arms about his rival. for a moment both men clung desperately to one another, their breath coming in labored gasps. then, suddenly, the mountaineer twisted his leg about one of donald's, catching him off his guard, and they went heavily to the ground together. whatever had been the city man's advantage when they were on their feet, he shortly discovered that the woodman's great agility and crude skill in wrestling gave him the upper hand in this more primitive method of combat. over and over they rolled, gasping for breath, and, although donald exerted his great, but now rapidly failing, strength, more than once he felt the clutch of the other's lean, powerful fingers gripping his throat and shutting off his breath, before he could tear them free. the end came suddenly. during a deadly grapple--with first one man, then the other, on top--donald called into play the last of his nervous reserve force, and, with a mighty effort, broke free, and flung judd face downward on the ground. the latter's right arm was extended, and, grasping the sweaty wrist, he drew it up and back, at the same instant crowding his knee into the spine of the prostrate man. judd cursed and wriggled frantically; but only succeeded in grinding his battered face into the torn turf. it was some seconds before the conqueror could gain breath enough to speak. at last he panted out, "now i've got you. if you move i'll dislocate your shoulder like _this_!" an involuntary shriek of agony was wrung from the defeated man's bleeding lips. "i'll let you up when ..." "oh, ooooh!" came a startled, terrified cry from above him. donald lifted his eyes, and saw rose standing on the bank where he had stood. for an instant he remained as though turned to stone, staring at the girl with growing dismay. finally he got slowly to his feet, instinctively gave partial aid to judd as he too struggled up, his burning eyes also fixed on smiles. it seemed as though the two dishevelled, dirt-covered and bleeding men typified the brute in nature, and stood arraigned there before the spirit of divine justice, for the slender girl's white dress, and no less white face, against the background of dark green, made her appear almost like an ethereal being. her breast was rising and falling rapidly as was indicated by the palpitating movement of her hand pressed close against it; her lips were parted and her large, shadowy eyes filled with uncomprehending fear and pain. "what ... what do hit mean?" she whispered. as judd made no answer donald finally succeeded in summoning up an unnatural laugh and lied reassuringly, "it ... it isn't anything serious, smiles. judd and i got into a dispute over ... over which was the better wrestler, and i have been showing him a few city tricks." "thet air a lie!" the mountaineer's words lashed out like a physical blow, and the crimson flamed into the other's cheeks--and those of smiles as well. "hit air er lie," he repeated with a rasping voice, as he dashed the blood and dirt from his lips. "we war fightin' ter kill, an' i reckon yo' kin guess what hit war erbout," he added, flinging the last words up at the girl. once again donald attempted to save her still greater distress by a white lie. "i chanced to stumble on his hidden still, smiles, and he thought that i would betray him." "oh, juddy," cried the girl wringing her hands, "i've been erfeerin' this. in course i knowed erbout hit, fer yo' showed me the still yerself, but i've been worryin', and hit war ter warn ye ... ter beg ye ter quit fer leetle lou's sake erfore hit war too late thet i came. yo' must quit, oh _please_, judd." in her eagerness she ran down the bank and toward him. "_i_ knows thet doctor mac wouldn't tell, but hit's a warnin'." as though hypnotized, judd gazed into her pleading face, with his passion for her overwhelming that other one, which had so short a time before swayed him. he stepped to meet her with a gesture of hopelessness, and, realizing that he was for the moment forgotten, donald moved softly to the mountaineer's rifle, ejected the cartridges from the magazine and pocketed them unobserved. "i _kaint_ quit, rose," answered judd, looking into her face with a hungry expression. "i kaint stop. hit's my work, an' hit pays better then ever hit done. i wants ter make money ... fer yo'. besides, ef hit hadn't ha' been fer the white liquor what i sell ter the storeman down in fayville, i wouldn't have been able ter sell yo'r baskets for ye. i wouldn't hev had no money ter give ..." he checked his impetuous, unconsidered words too late. the girl's quick mind delved into his unspoken thought. she started and stepped back, crying, "'to give?' judd amos, war hit yo' thet paid me ther extry price on them baskets?" confused and distressed, the other remained silent until she repeated her question insistently. then he answered pleadingly, "i loves ye, smiles. yo' know hit, an' so does _he_. i wanted ter holp ye, an' 'twar ther only way." even while donald--rejoicing in the opportunity to regain his self-possession--had stood apart from the other two, none of the conversation had escaped him. with his wrath now fanned to flame afresh by judd's apparent falsehood, he, too, burst into hot words without pausing to consider the effect of them on the girl, "what? you dare attempt to curry favor with her by lyingly claiming credit for the additional money her work brought, you cur? you didn't know that i held the cards to call that outrageous bluff, too, did you? you didn't know that i bought every one of those baskets, and told the storekeeper what price to pay for them, did you?" no sooner had the anger-impelled words left his lips than donald felt heartily ashamed of himself, and wished that he might unsay them. half afraid, he turned his eyes toward the girl to find his fears realized. her eyes were flaming from her deathly white face, and a mingled look of hurt pride and bitter scorn struggled for supremacy on her lips. "yo' ... yo' think i would accept yo'r charity?" she cried. "yo' think i would take money gifts from any man? i allows ter pay ye both every cent uv thet money; and i hates ye ... i hates ye both." for an instant she stood trembling with anger and mortification, then turned and sped up the bank and away into the woods. judd sank down with a muffled groan, but donald, shocked at the result of his ill-advised and hasty words, forgot his late adversary and sprang in pursuit, crying, "smiles. dear child, wait. i want to talk with you, to explain...." he ran over rock and crag blunderingly into the forest in the direction she had taken, and, as he disappeared, mike, who, during the combat, had continually raged at his leash in futile frenzy, made a last desperate effort, snapped the leather collar, although the effort drew a yelp of pain from him, and tore after him. he passed his master and overtook the fleeing girl, sagaciously sensing the situation; but, as she paid no heed to his appealing barks and tugs at her skirt, but merely ran the faster, he turned back to await his lord. body-weary and discomforted, donald likewise gave up the chase as the sound of smiles' flight grew more distant and died away. eventually she too dropped into a walk, and finally stopped altogether, with a deep, gasping sob. throwing herself down at the foot of an ancient tree, she pressed her flushed face hard against the rough bark, her mind in a wretched turmoil. for the first time in smiles' young life her eyes had been opened, and she had looked upon the brute passions of men, had tasted the bitter gall of trust abused, had felt an anger which brought with it the desire to hurt another as she herself had been hurt. stabbed to the quick of her soul, she lay on the moss-bedded roots of the impassive tree, her body quivering with soundless, shuddering sobs. she hated herself, the two men--and judd less than donald, for she had known and excused his shortcomings, while in her childish eyes dr. macdonald had been all that was noble, a super-man, an idol whose feet were now clay. she hated the world where such things were possible. for a long time rose lay as she had fallen, hardly moving, and when--pale and dry-eyed--she did arise to return to the cabin through the twilight shadows, something beautiful, but indefinable, which had gone to make up the fresh, childlike charm of her face, had vanished. meanwhile, donald walked heavily on with bowed head, heedless of the direction he took. the sound of rushing waters finally struck upon his ear, and his heated, dirt-covered body turned instinctively in their direction. a few minutes brought him to the river at a point where it tore through a narrow ravine of rock, in dashing cataract and noisy rapid. donald, with increasing lameness, made his way painfully along the craggy bank until it descended to the river's edge, and, kneeling beside the leaping waters, he plunged his bruised, aching hands and face into them gratefully. as he stood up again at last, his ears caught faintly above the river's tumult the distant crack of a rifle, followed immediately by another sound nearer at hand on the bank above him. it was the agonized yelp of pain from a dog. donald sprang erect, his heart seeming to lift with a convulsive action, and crowd his throat. he well knew that canine cry, now filled with mortal agony. almost blind with reborn rage and fear, donald sprang up the steep bank, scrambling, stumbling, heedless of boughs which lashed across his face, and rocks which bruised his legs. he reached the top, and, parting the bushes, found what he had sought--and feared to find. on the stubbly grass lay little mike, whining and biting at a spot on his side where the tawny hair was already matted and dark with flowing blood. made speechless by the clutching pressure in his throat, and suddenly dizzy from a mist which rose before his eyes, the man bent and lifted the panting animal--his bosom friend and faithful companion through many days and nights--in his trembling arms. mike painfully turned his head and licked his master's drawn face. the next instant came the sound of crashing underbrush, and, through vistas, donald saw a man approaching them on a lumbering run. it was big jerry. his beard and clothing were dishevelled, and, as he drew near, his deep, gasping breaths became audible. from his ghastly gray and working face his deep eyes looked forth with an expression which spelt pain of body and wrack of mind. donald stood up, with the dog clasped to his breast, and a terrible expression on his countenance. "mike ... my friend ... shot ... he is dying," came his words, in an unnatural voice. "god have mercy on the man who did it. i shall not!" the giant's frame seemed to collapse visibly; two big tears started from his eyes and ran down the furrows of his cheeks as he moved closer and laid his big, shaking hand on the dog's head. "_i_ done hit," he answered dully. mike licked the wrinkled hand which moved in slow caress over his jaws. "you?" whispered donald in amazed unbelief. "gawd help me, yes. i shot him ... i wish hit hed er been myself," returned the old man, between breaths which came in deep, body-shaking gasps. slowly the doctor bent, laid his chum back on the ground, and knelt beside him until the fast glazing eyes--which never wavered from his--closed forever, and the pain-tortured little body lay still. big jerry, too, sank down and dropped his massive head onto his hands, while his frame rose and fell with convulsive heaving. "hit war this erway," he began to speak at last, and told his story in broken, laboring sentences. "i war erhuntin' with ... with yo'r rifle-gun in the woods thar beyond ther ravine. jest es i war startin' fer the cabin, i seen ... i seen a man erstandin' hyar on the bank, er peerin' down towards the river, thar. i looked whar he war erlookin', an' seen ye down thar, bathin' yo'r face in ther water. the man war ertotin' a rifle-gun, an' uv a sudden he drapped ter his knee an' raised hit, an' i knowed he war kalkerlatin' ter shoot ye. "i tried fer ter shout, ter cry out a warnin' ter ye, but my voice hed somehow lost hits power, an' wouldn't kerry above the noise of the falls. thar war but one thing fer ter do, an' hit called fer powerful quick action. "yo' war my foster-son, an' ef 'twar yo'r life er his'n i allowed i knowed whar my duty lay. but i didn't aim fer ter kill him.... i wish ter gawd i hed. 'taint boastin' none fer me ter say ter ye thet i aimed only fer ter shoot the arm what war holdin' the gun. "in course hit takes time fer ter tell ye all this, but i acted like i thought. then ..." he paused, and went on only with a supreme effort, "then, jest as i started the trigger-pull, i seen ... i seen leetle mike spring out o' the bushes straight at ... at the man. i _seen_ him, i tells ye, erfore i fired. my mind told me not ter pull thet trigger, an' ... an' i done hit. my aim war true, but ..." he stopped altogether. "the man," asked donald at length, through clenched teeth. "what happened to him?" "he turned et the crack of my gun. he ... he seen me, and run off inter the wood thar." there ensued a long silence. then donald's hand stretched out and grasped that of the sorrowing giant. "jerry," he said steadily. "don't feel so bad, it wasn't your fault. you did all that man could do. you were trying to ... to save my life, just as ... as mike was, god bless the little dog. he must have realized that judd was following me by the exercise of a sense beyond our knowledge, and rushed back to attack him--for my sake." "yo' said ... yo' said ... 'judd.' how did yo' come ter know 'twar him?" with new and deepened remorse, donald sadly outlined the chief incidents of the quarrel, without, however, mentioning the discovery of the still, or the immediate cause of the combat. "gawd help us all ef er new feud hes broken out hyar," said jerry solemnly, as he finished. "but yo' air my friend, enjyin' ther hospitality of my roof, an' from this day judd amos air my mortal enemy, even though he be my next neighbor." donald sadly removed his coat, and, wrapping it around the body of his chum, arose, and the silent, painful journey home was begun. chapter xvi the aftermath supper was over. with kindly hands night had laid her deep purple mantle over the new-made mound back of the cabin, hiding it from the grieving gaze of the three who sat before the door in painful silence beneath the star-pierced dome of heaven. in the poignancy of her own sorrow, and her overwhelming sympathy for donald, when she had come to a realization of the meaning of the bundle which he brought out of the woods and laid so tenderly down on the grass before the cabin's stoop, every vestige of smiles' anger had instantly vanished. "oh, the pity, the uselessness of it," cried donald's heart, as his thoughts again and again turned back to the tragic series of events which had made the afternoon a thing of horror. the bitter culmination,--the death of mike, poor, courageous, self-sacrificing little mike--was the most needless of all, for, although he had not mentioned the fact to big jerry, donald knew that in all human probability judd's rifle was empty of cartridges. and, although jerry himself uttered no word of complaint, the physician knew, only too well, that the gripping excitement, against which he had warned the old man only a few hours earlier, had brought its inevitable aftermath. the giant's breath came with labored, audible gasps, and his very appearance told the story of the increased pain within his breast. for these disasters--as well as the mortal enmity of the young mountaineer and the heart-ache of the innocent girl--he, and he alone, was to blame. donald groaned under his breath. the silence was finally ended by smiles crying out bitterly, "oh, doctor mac, i can't understand why grandfather pulled that trigger, and shot dear little mike. he saw him spring at judd." "it wasn't in any wise his fault, dear heart. he could not possibly have helped it. you see our brains are telegraph stations from which the nerves run like wires, carrying messages to all the different parts of our bodies. big jerry had sent a command to his finger, ordering it to pull the trigger, and the muscles had started to obey. the second message countermanding the first--quick as it was--came too late to halt the purely muscular action; that is all." "another good evening, my friends," came a cheery voice, and the mountain minister approached out of the shadows, and joined them. "i am just back from a journey into the wilderness, like john the baptist's, and ... why, what's wrong? do i see the ghost of a sorrow sitting amid this group, which should be so happy?" "oh, mr. talmadge," cried rose, jumping up and stepping to his side as he paused. "many ghosts are here to-night. i think that you took god away with you on your journey, for his spirit has not been in webb's gap this afternoon." "tell me, what has happened, my dear?" he answered quietly, as he seated himself within the circle. then, step by step, the whole unhappy story was haltingly poured into his ears, save only that smiles consciously refrained from mentioning the cause which judd had--by implication--given for the quarrel and donald kept his promise and made no allusion to his finding of the still. since the minister asked no questions and made no comment concerning the cause, it is fair to assume that he guessed the truth and wisely held his own counsel. when he had brought the patchwork recital to an end, the doctor laughed with a bitter note. "you see how much good the brief glimpse which i had last night of the eternal light did me! before one full day has elapsed, i sound a lower depth in primitive, brutal passion then i ever had before in my life. i am sick at heart when i think how quickly and easily i could forget everything which goes to make up civilization. there was no excuse for it--that's the worst part. i was infinitely more to blame than judd, even leaving out of consideration the fact that a greater degree of self-restraint and forbearance should reasonably have been expected of me, a city-bred man, than of him, a more primitive son of the hills." donald placed his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands with a stifled sound, which might have been groan or curse, and very gently smiles' hand stole up in the darkness and stroked his tumbled hair, until the man's own fumblingly sought and held it close, to find mute comfort in her warm clasp. "perhaps i understand better than you think the reasons which underlie these most unhappy events," answered the old man slowly. there was no rebuke in his quiet voice. "although it is true, doctor, that the deeper we get into the heart of primal nature, the closer we get to the heart of nature's god, it is equally true that the nearer we also get to the primal in man. "i cannot help feeling that the city's laws and conventions trammel the spirit in its free exercise of self, which is ill; but yet the inbred realization of those very laws and conventions, and the fear of consequences if they are broken, act as a salutary check on the primitive passions inherited by every one of us from our savage ancestors. "of course, i know that, in places where men are crowded together, such man-made laws and conventions are wise and necessary; but the life which results is not--cannot be--full and natural as it may be in an isolated place like this, when honest obedience is paid to the still higher laws of god--and it is for _that_ obedience which all of us must strive constantly. "you failed in the test to-day; but, believe me, there are many in these mountains who, lacking all the advantages of training and education which are yours, meet it. their lives are lived under nature's higher laws in perfect sincerity, and, although they might not conform to the standards of so-called civilization, they are surely purer in god's sight than those of millions who pattern theirs by printed precept." "i reckon," murmured smiles, "that st. peter had to put many black marks on three books to-day ... yes, mine too, for i was wickedly angry. it was hate that made me run away from doctor mac, and if i hadn't done it, m ... m ... mike wouldn't have been shot." she leaned her head against donald's arm, and cried softly. "'the wages of sin is death,'" said the minister. "and he paid the penalty for you, dr. macdonald, sacrificing himself because of his great love. poor little mike. such faithful animals as he must have souls, and his is now in its own paradise." no one spoke for a little, and then mr. talmadge continued to muse aloud. "mere repentance, such as the doctor now feels, is not enough. you remember the parable of the woman who drove the evil spirit from her fleshly temple, and swept it clean, but failed to fill its place with another guest, and seven other devils came and repossessed it? so it is always with human life, dr. macdonald. nature abhors a vacuum, and so does the spirit. if a man does not fill his soul--swept free of past evil by repentance--with that which is actively good, the repentance is of little avail." "yes, yes, i can readily understand that, for it has a parallel in bodily illness," answered donald, somewhat impatiently. "we all know that, when the sick physical being is freed of its disease, it is left weak and an easy prey for new troubles. we can bring back to it the strength to resist by giving nerve-and tissue-building food and tonics, but how is the spirit to be ..." "how persistently the earth-man kicks against the pricks," cried mr. talmadge. "child, your friend will not lift his eyes from the maze of doubt. you pledged yourself to help him. help him now." her face suddenly glowing with light, rose turned to donald eagerly, and said without hesitation, "oh, doctor mac, don't you see? the answer is so clear, so simple that even i know it. the dear god spirit is everywhere, just waiting for you to call it to your aid. please pray to him to give you new strength so that you may not be weak again, and i will pray, too." "yes," supplemented the minister, "'whence cometh my help? my help cometh even from the lord, which hath made heaven and earth.'" donald was strongly moved at the eager interest in him which these two displayed. shifting uncomfortably he replied, "i need his help, i know; but ... but i guess i have forgotten how to pray for it." "open your heart with sincerity, and he will enter and bestow the strength you need in order to take up your task anew, and carry on until your purpose here on earth has been accomplished. that is all that prayer need be, for he is ever more ready to give than we to receive. verbal petitions are vain and empty things; honest communion with him _is_ prayer." he arose, content to say no more, and to leave the sorely troubled spirit of the stranger to smiles' tender ministrations. "i am deeply sorry for you in your distress, dr. macdonald, but although there is small comfort in the remark, i cannot help but feel that what has happened was ordained to complete your lesson, so that you may leave these hills with a new understanding and higher purpose in life. good night, and god be with you all." chapter xvii the parting pledge and passing days "doctor mac," began smiles timidly, at length. "i'm sorry for what i said to you this afternoon, and i want to take it back. i guess when you're angry you don't see things as they are, and i'm sure that you were only being very, very kind to me when you ... you bought those baskets. i love you for it, really i do, and if ... if you want me to keep the money, and it would hurt your feelings if i...." "of course i want you to keep it, dear. yesterday you took me for a foster-brother, and i hope that you will always let me do for you as i would for a real flesh-and-blood sister." "i promise, and i will always do the same for you if i can, dear don," she whispered softly, adding, "but somehow to-night--oh please don't laugh at me now--somehow to-night i feel more like ... like a mother, than a sister to you." "and i truly think you are--a spiritual mother, little woman. i need you much more than you need me, i guess." "do you know," he went on, after a moment, "i am beginning to believe that i was wrong this afternoon when i said that ... that judd lied about adding to the money he received for your baskets. of course i have no way of making sure, unless you have kept accounts, but i actually begin to think that he did." "i _know_ it," she replied promptly; but with a troubled voice. "judd has been very wicked, but he doesn't lie. i think that he meant it the way ... the way you did, too; but he's different and i mean to give it all back to him." there was another pause, and then smiles said gently, "donald, it makes my heart ache like, to tell you this, but i've got to now. i want that you should go away early to-morrow morning." "what?" he burst out angrily, springing to his feet. "and have him believe that i ran away from him again? no, how can you ask it, rose?" "it isn't that. we know, and _he_ knows now, that you're not afraid of him. but this mountain is his home, and, if you stay here, there is sure to be more trouble, and i couldn't bear that, don. even if one of you wasn't ... wasn't hurt in the body, wicked thoughts would hurt your souls. i know it is so, and you _must_ go ... but, oh, how i am going to miss you." for a moment donald stood tense; then his body relaxed weakly and he answered, "yes, you are right, smiles. it _is_ up to me to go; but i know that some day these clouds are going to be lifted somehow, and we shall see each other again and be happy together." "i know it, too," she answered, with a sob catching her breath. as she spoke, the clouds, which had been covering the moon for some time, broke, letting the cool, white light flood the mountain side like a promise, and her face lit up with the old wondrous smile. "of course we will," she cried. "why, i mean to be your own special nurse some day, and help you always. good-night, dear don." she turned and ran quickly into the cabin, so that he should not see the tears which followed the smile. "rose war right erbout yo'r goin',--i reckon she air allus right," came big jerry's voice. "yo' hev got ter go; but i'm ergoin' ter miss ye powerful, likewise, lad." "but i'll see you again, too, before long. i've got some of my sense back, and i mean to write judd that i am engaged to a girl in the city--not that i want his friendship after what has happened, however--and i will be down here again, for a few days at least, when the atmosphere has cleared--perhaps early this winter." "taint likely yo'll ever see me ergin on earth, son," jerry said heavily. "reckon i'm most done fer." "your heart? is it very bad?" queried donald. "i allows hit's nigh ter bustin'," was the steady response. "but mebbe i'll last some while yet--i hopes so, fer leetle smiles' sake. i haint blind ter what hes happened, an' i knows thet the time air comin' when she's es plumb sartain ter fly erway from this hyar mountain es a homein' dove; fer she hes heard the call uv her city blood, an' hit haint ter be denied. but i reckon she haint ready ter leave the old nest yet, so i aims ter stay on erwhile longer ... fer her, though hit haint goin' ter be in no wise easy fer ter do." the younger man knew not what answer to make to this affecting declaration; but the necessity of a reply was forestalled, for big jerry stepped closer and continued earnestly, "since yo' wished fer ter be a son ter me, i air ergoin' ter treat ye es sich, an' tell ye something thet i've done fer the leetle gal, an' thet she don't yet know erbout. "back in the spring when i seen thet her mind war made up ter be a nurse, an' i knowed thet my own time war comin', i sold the timber rights ter these hyar woods ter a city lumber company fer a thousand dollars. they haint ergoin' ter cut fer some years yet, an' by thet time i won't be hyar ter grieve, an' smiles won't neither. "thet money, an' a leetle more what i hev saved, air ter be hern ... hit's in er savin' bank down ter the city now. but thet haint all i wants ye ter know. the reverend drawed a last will an' testiment fer me, leavin' this hyar land ter her--she haint blood kin of mine, yo' know, nor adopted by law-an' i reckons hit will be val'able some day, fer a city stranger told me oncet thet thar's coal on hit. so my leetle gal haint ergoin' ter start her new life penniless, an' ... an' now i wants ter name ye ter be her guardeen till she air growed up. i hopes yo'll accept ther charge, fer i trusts ye, son." "accept? indeed i will, and it makes me mighty happy to realize that i mean something to both of you. i've been playing that she was my sister, but now she will really be as much to me as though she were." the two men clasped hands again in full understanding, and as a symbol of a trust bestowed and accepted. * * * * * at sunrise the following morning donald once more turned his face toward the valley, whence he had climbed lightheartedly less than two days previous. he had come with a beloved companion. he went alone, save for crowding memories--some bright, but far more black as storm-clouds and shot with malignant flashes of lightning. his vacation--a travesty on the name--was ended; the castle which his dreams had built on this remote mountain was a shattered ruin. yet, through the dark series of crowding events, ran a fine thread of gleaming gold, and donald felt that it had not been broken by his departure. no, it was spun by destiny to stretch on and on into the unseen future, at once for him a guide-line to a higher manhood, and a tie binding his life to that of the girl whose pathway--starting so far removed from his--had so strangely converged with it. to continue his hunting trip in another location, with mike no longer his companion in it, was unthinkable. the empty spaces made the void in his heart unbearable, and he at once returned to boston and joined his family at their summer home, to their amazement and delight. but the man now returned to them after little more than a week's absence was vastly different from the one who had left. all marked the alteration in him, and over and over in family council tried, vainly, to account for it, for donald had withheld far more than he told of his experiences, and minimized what he did tell. but he knew, as well as they, that a new chord had been struck within him, and by its vibrations his whole life was being tuned anew. something of the old boyishness and impetuosity was gone, a new purposefulness--not of the will but rather of the spirit--had supplanted it and engendered an unwonted serenity. was it born of the words of the strange mountain prophet, or the impelling appeal of the no-less-strange mountain child, whose mysterious smile, though seen less frequently than on his first visit, still cast a spell over his senses, even in memory? he could not say. whatever uncertainties had disturbed his heart before, when his thoughts had turned upon her, none now remained. the die was cast. smiles had made her place in his life, and would always occupy it, but merely as a dear charge and comrade. half-child, half-woman, she still appealed to him in both capacities as perhaps none other ever had; yet he could now admit that fact frankly, and at the same time tell himself that there was, there could be, nothing else. with the mists of uncertainty dispelled, and his mind purged of the passions which had, so unexpectedly, possessed it, donald's life returned to its old ruts. his work absorbed him as before, he accepted marion as more fully a part of his life than she had previously been, and, in so doing, found an unexpected contentment. if, at times, he still felt that she was not all that he might desire, at least she was of his class and he understood her thoroughly. "my work furnishes enough of romance for me," he sometimes thought. "and, if i want to remain a civilized human being, i had better stick to the life in which i was brought up. i never suspected how much of a 'cave man' i was until i got into the heart of the primitive. whew! supposing i had killed judd that afternoon! there were a few moments when it would have been a pleasure to have done it. or supposing he had killed me! he wanted to, right enough. puck was right." and so, while the months passed, fortune smiled on the brilliant young physician, and daily laid new tributes of wealth, honor and affection at his feet. * * * * * in the mountain cabin it was otherwise. changes, born of the travail of tragic happenings, cast their ever-lengthening shadows over smiles' life, blotting out the golden sunlight of childhood, and overlaying it with the deeper tones of womanhood. judd, her companion since baby days, she no longer called "friend," and he, for his part, steadily avoided her and the cabin which had once been a second home to him. big jerry, uncomplaining ever, day by day grew more feeble and pain-wracked, and so became more and more a dear burden to her. only mr. talmadge, of her real intimates, remained unchanged in his relations with her, unless it was that in his deep and understanding sympathy he brought her greater spiritual and mental comfort than ever. the other neighbors were kind always, in their rough, well-meaning way; but he was her chief guide and comforter, and in him, and the books which donald conscientiously sent to her every few weeks, she found the strength to carry forward. so, in the never-ending tasks which her daily life provided, and which she performed with distress in her heart, but a smile on her lips, rose saw the weeks come and go, bringing in their slow-moving, but inexorable, train, autumn, fall and another winter. chapter xviii the added burden it was mid-winter. the twilight sky--cold and pale, more green than blue--brought the thought of new-made ice. stripped long since of their verdure, the wooded cumberlands lay, like naked, shivering giants, across whose mighty recumbent torsos the biting winds swept relentlessly. in contrast with the desolation without, inside big jerry's cabin all was as bright, warm and homelike as a merry fire, the soft glow of the evening lamp and the presence of the heart of the spot--the girl herself--could make it. thankful for the blessings of the cheery home and her grandfather's presence in it still, and softly humming an old ballad which he loved, rose was busily engaged in preparing an early supper, when she was interrupted by the sound of a low, uncertain knock on the door. she opened it, wonderingly, and the firelight leaped out into the night and disclosed the unshaven face and gaunt form of judd. save on rare occasions, and then at a distance, she had not seen him since that fateful day on the mountain's summit, when his passionate love and hate, intermingled, had driven him to commit the great offence against the unwritten laws of the feudal clan, by attacking one upon whom the sacred mantle of hospitality had been placed, by which act he had incurred jerry's enmity, and made himself love's outlaw. the months had dealt harshly with him. not only was his clothing frayed and soiled; but his face was so unnaturally pale that the deep-set eyes beneath their lowering black brows seemed to burn like embers, and there were many new lines on his countenance not graven there by wind and weather. shocked at the change in him, and suddenly filled with womanly compassion which sounded the knell of anger, rose called, gently, "judd! why, judd! come in." he shook his head. "i reckon i haint welcome in this hyar cabin, smiles, an' taint on my own ercount thet i comes ter ye." "why, what is the trouble?" was her startled inquiry. "hit ... hit air leetle lou. i erlows she's sick er somethin'." "lou? tell me quick, judd. what is the matter with her?" "i don't rightly know." the answer was made with obvious distress. "she haint been her sunshiny self fer quite some time, an' ter-night ... wall, she air actin' so sorter ... queer, thet i got skeered." "i'll go over home with you at once," said rose, as she hastily caught up and drew a shawl about her head and shoulders. "grandpap," she called softly through the door to the old man's bedroom, "i'm ergoin' out fer er leetle time. one of ther neighbors air sick. don't fret, fer i'll be back right soon, dear." there was a brief, rumbled reply; and, closing the door behind her on the warm comfort within, the girl joined the mountaineer in the crispy evening, now almost dark. she shivered a little, and he marked the involuntary act, and drew back a step. in silence they walked rapidly up the narrow path, slippery from a recent fall of light snow. once rose slipped, and instantly judd's sinewy arm was about her waist, steadying her. then, as she regained her balance and started forward, it tightened and drew her suddenly to him in a passionate, crushing embrace. she made no effort to struggle free, or voice her heart's protest against this outrage, but stood with her body rigid and unyielding within the circle of his arm until he slowly released her, mumbling, "i reckon i air plumb ershamed of myself, smiles. i didn't go fer ter do hit, an' i knows thet i haint deservin' ter tetch so much es ther hem of yo'r skirt." she did not answer, and neither spoke again until his cabin was reached. when the door was opened, smiles caught sight of the child sitting motionless on a stool near the fireplace. her lips were parted and in her eyes was an odd look of semi-vacuity. "lou!" cried rose, pausing in alarmed astonishment. a light of recognition sprang into the child's eyes, she stood up a trifle unsteadily, and said, with a low throaty laugh of delight, "hit air my smiles. i awful glad ter see...." she started toward her friend; but her course suddenly veered to the left, waveringly, and her wandering gaze fell upon the now sadly battered doll lying in one corner. "to see ye, mike," was the ending of her sentence, as she trotted to donald's gift and began to cuddle it. "yo' haint erbeen ter see lou fer er long, long ..." the piping voice trailed off into silence. "why, lou, sweetheart. what is the matter? don't you know your own smiles?" pleaded the deeply distressed girl, as she gathered the child to her breast. the baby's hands dropped the doll unceremoniously and sought her friend's cheeks. looking up with big eyes into the face drawn close to her own, she replied in a strangely slow, hesitant manner. "in course i remembers ye, smiles. yo' air the nurse what lives with ... with thet thar doctor man ... in the big city, whar air monkeys thet ... clumb sticks an' ... an' doll babies what close thar eyes ... an' say ... an' say ... my head hurts me, smiles, hit do." she lay still in the loving arms for an instant, and then wriggled free and, sliding to the floor, picked up and began to rock the doll again, the while crooning a wordless lullaby. with anxiety growing akin to terror, smiles felt the irregular pulse, as donald had taught her how to do, and pressed her hand to the pale cheek and forehead. "she _is_ sick, judd, and i'm kind of frightened, too. you can't take care of her here, and i mean to take her home with me, right now. i reckon you had better go down to the village and get dr. johnston, quick." the man had started, with words of protest trembling on his lips; but, as his look turned on his little sister, as she now leaned drowsily against the girl's knees, he stifled them unspoken, while a spasm of pain crossed his worn face. with a dull nod of acquiescence he held out his arms to receive the child, whom rose had lifted and wrapped in a blanket from her little bed that had been brought in near the fire. the return journey was quickly and silently made, and, delivering the slight bundle to smiles when her cabin was reached, judd set off into the night, concern lending wings to his feet. "grandpap, hit's smiles back ergin'," called the girl softly. "an' i've brought leetle lou amos. she haint feelin' right well, an' i allows i hev got ter take keer of her here." the old man uttered a low growl of protest, which caused rose to run to him and tenderly lay her hand on his lips, with the words, "hush, grandpap. the baby haint in nowise ter blame fer ... fer what judd done. in course we hev got ter keer fer her." big jerry nodded an abashed assent, and said no more. smiles undressed her new charge, who struck uncertain terror to her heart by drowsily talking on and on, in snatches of unrelated sentences running the gamut of her limited experiences and with the childish words often failing, half formed. she put the baby in her own bed, and, after the belated supper had been eaten and cleared away, and the old man made as comfortable as possible for the night, smiles lay down beside the baby, whose silence and more regular breathing indicated that she was at last asleep. the morrow's sun was well above the valley horizon before judd returned with the country doctor, and again the former refused to enter the cabin. while the physician remained, he paced back and forth, back and forth, with weary, nervous strides; but even in his stress of mind he unconsciously kept out of view from the window in big jerry's room. at last rose and dr. johnston reappeared, and, breathing hard, judd hastened to join them. "it's brain fever, the doctor says, judd," said smiles at once. "he's left some medicine for me to give her, and you know that i'll nurse her for you like she was my own baby." "air hit ... air hit _bad_, doctor?" asked the mountaineer, with a catch in his voice. "well, of course it ain't an ... er ... exactly easy thing to cure, but i reckon she'll get well of it. by the way, amos, how long has she been a-goin' on like that?" "i kaint rightly say, doctor. she hes acted kind er strange-like fer quite er spell, now thet i comes ter think on hit; but i didn't pay no pertickler attention to hit ontil er day er two back," answered the man contritely. "hmmm," said the doctor. "oh, i guess we can pull her through all right, and i will get up here as often as i can. well, i reckon i'll be stepping along back." * * * * * but little lou did not fulfil the country practitioner's optimistic prophecy. the change in her condition, as day after day crept by, growing longer and colder, was almost imperceptible; but it was steadily for the worse. the mountain winter closed in with unusual rigors, and smiles' cabin continued to be a hospital where she passed her hours ministering equally to the keen-minded, but bodily tortured old man--whose heart pained constantly and with growing severity, and whose breathing became daily more labored--and the child whose mind steadily became more clouded and her physical functions more weak. like a gaunt, miserable dog which had been driven from his home, judd haunted the cabin. when she stole out one morning, to speak with him about lou, smiles cried, "oh, if doctor mac were only here now! _he_ would know what to do, i'm sure." judd's hands, blue with cold, clenched so violently that the knuckles grew a bloodless white, and the look of pain, lying deep down in his eyes, changed to a flash of burning hate. "don't never speak thet man's name ter me, gal." the words were spoken in a harsh voice and he strode abruptly away. at more and more infrequent intervals, the village doctor made his toilsome way up the slippery mountain side, sat regarding the little patient with a hopelessly puzzled look, and finally departed, shaking his head; but he never failed to leave behind him another bottle of obnoxious medicine on the chance that if one did not produce an improvement, another might. even to the girl it was all too apparent, however, that he was aiming blindly into the dark. there came a time when the child spoke scarcely at all, save to moan piteously something about the pain in her head; her emaciated legs barely carried her on her uncertain course; her vague, sweet eyes turned inward more and more; and it was with the greatest difficulty, and only by the exercise of infinite patience that smiles could feed her. the little mountain blossom was wilting and fading slowly away. on the afternoon of the first day of january dr. johnston spent a long time at the cabin, striving against the impossible to solve the problem which confronted him like an appalling mystery, far too deep to be pierced by the feeble ray of science at his command. at last he arose with a gesture of finality, and announced to the anxiously waiting girl, "i reckon i'm done. i won't go so fur as to say that a city specialist might not be able to help her; but hanged if _i_ can. the trouble is too much for me, and i guess lou is just a-goin' to die." sudden tears welled into smiles' luminous eyes, and ran unheeded down her cheeks, now unnaturally thin and wan. "hit haint so," she cried in a choked voice. "lou haint ergoin' ter die, dr. johnston!" suddenly she stopped, as her thoughts flew backward on the wings of memory. her eyes grew larger, a strange light came into them. then, speaking slowly, almost as though the words were impelled by a will other than her own, she added with a tone of absolute certainty: "yo' allows _yo'_ don't know what the trouble air, but _i_ does." the doctor was startled and looked as though he thought that he was about to have another patient on his hands. "hit air a brain tumor thet she hes got, i knows it, an' i knows one of the few doctor men in this hyar country what kin cure hit. he air _ergoin'_ ter cure hit fer me, an' leetle lou haint _ergoin'_ ter die." uncertain what to make of this outburst, the doctor departed rather hastily. smiles caught up her shawl and ran immediately to judd's lonely, cheerless abode, which she entered without a thought of knocking. she found the man sitting dejectedly before a feeble fire. he sprang up, voiceless terror apparent in the look which he turned upon her white face, but, without pausing for any preliminaries, rose said, "the doctor, he's been ter see our little lou again, judd. he allows thet he can't do anything more for her, and thet she has got ter die." the man--whose whole world was now centred in the child to whom he had, for a year, been father and mother as well as brother--sank down on his chair and buried his face in his hands. "i knowed hit," he muttered in a dead voice. "hit haint so," cried the girl, who had by this time wholly relapsed into the mountain speech, as she frequently did still, when laboring under the stress of emotion. "hit haint so, judd. we kin save her. we hev _got_ ter save her." "thar haint no way." the words were tuned to despair. "thar _air_ a way. thar's one man who kin save lou's life fer ye, an' we must get him ter do hit.". she had mentioned no name, but judd sprang swiftly erect, fists clenched and shaking above his head. "do yo' think thet i'd be beholden ter _thet_ man, after what i done ter him? do yo' think thet i'd accept even my sister's life et his hands? i hates him like i does the devil what, i reckon, air ergoin' ter git my soul!" "judd!" cried the girl, "yo' don't know what yo'r ersayin'. hit's blasphemy. ef doctor mac kin save lou's life--an' he _kin_--yo'd be a murderer,--yes, a murderer uv yo'r own flesh an' blood, ter forbid him." spent by the force of his previous passionate outburst, the man sank tremblingly back into the chair again. "i kaint do hit, smiles," he answered piteously. "i kaint do hit, an' hit's a foolish thought anyway. he wouldn't come hyar. hit takes money fer ter git city doctors, an' i haint got none." "he will come ef i asks him, an' i hev money, judd," she said with a pleading voice. "no, no, no. ef lou dies, i reckon i'll kill myself, too; but i forbids ye ter call the man i wronged, an' hates." slowly the girl turned away, with a compassionate glance at the bent, soul-tortured youth, went out of the cabin, and softly closed the door. chapter xix "smiles'" appeal it was snowing when she stepped outside,--a soft, white curtain of closely woven flakes rapidly dimming the early evening glow and bringing nightshades on apace. the wind, too, was rising; its first fitful gusts drove the snow sweeping in whirling flurries across the open spaces, and then whistled off through the leafless trees. rose shivered. the wind greeted her boisterously. it clutched her shawl in hoydenish jest, tore one end of it free from her grasp, and ran its invisible, icy fingers down her neck. the cabin of the nearest neighbor--pete andrews--was only a few rods distant; but, before the girl reached it in the face of the momentarily increasing storm, she was panting, and her face, hair and clothing were plastered with clinging flakes. "mis' andrews, i hates ter ask er favor of ye such er powerful mean night; but i needs help," said smiles, as soon as the door had been opened, letting her in, together with a whirl of snow which spread itself like a ghost on the rough floor. "yo' knows thet i'd do enything in ther world fer ye, rose gal. i reckon i owes ye my life since when ... when gawd almighty tuck my baby back ter thet garden er his'n in paradise," answered the frail, weary-looking woman, whose eyes quickly suffused with tears. "hit haint repayment i'm askin' of ye, but er favor, mis' andrews. i wants ye ter help me save ther life of another mountin flower, what's nigh faded plum erway." "lou amos?" asked the woman. she had already turned to get her own shawl. "yes, hit's leetle lou. she air powerful sick, an' i wants fer ye ter stay ter-night with her an' grandpap, ef yo' will. thar haint nothing ter do but stay with them." "in course i'll do hit fer ye, smiles," was the ready answer, and her lank, slouching husband nodded a silent assent, as she turned to him. "but what air yo' reckonin' ter do? yo' kaint go nowhar in this hyar storm. i don't recollect hits like on the mountain, no time." the girl did not answer; but held the door open while the other stepped out, only to catch her breath and flatten herself against the cabin's wall as a sheet of mingled sleet and snow struck her. by continually assisting one another, the two made their way slowly over to jerry's home; and, when they paused within its shelter, rose held her companion's arm a moment, and said, "thar haint no use tryin' ter prevent me, mis' andrews, cause i'm ergoin' ter do hit. i'm ergoin' down ter fayville, an' send a telegram message fer er city doctor thet i knows, ter come hyar an' make lou well. don't go fer ter tell grandpap whar i've gone er he'll worry erbout me, an' thar haint no cause ter. the storm's et my back, an' hits all down hill goin'. i hates ter tell a lie ter him, but i allows i've got ter, this one time." in sudden terror over the mad plan, the older woman began to protest; but rose shook off her detaining hand, and put an end to the sentence by leading the way hastily into the cabin. "thar's a leetle child what needs my help, an' i've got ter take keer of her fer er while, grandpap," smiles said at once. "mis' andrews hes come over fer ter stay with ye and lou, now haint thet kind uv her? i'll git back es soon es ever i kin, but don't yo' fret ef hit haint erfore yo' goes ter bed ... or even till mornin' time." she furtively obtained a few bills from her precious store, kissed the old man's haggard, wrinkled cheek, and the white forehead of the baby who lay on the bed, almost inert save for the restless moving of her head from side to side, and the low moans which came with almost every breath, and hurried out into the storm. in later years rose could be induced to speak only with the greatest reluctance of that journey down the snow-swept mountain path--for the blizzard was as fierce as it was rare--and even the recollection of it brought a look of terror into her eyes. there was flying horror abroad that night, and the demented trees quivered and tossed their great arms so wildly that they cracked and broke, to fall crashing in the path. yet, accomplish the five mile long, perilous descent, in the midst of lashing sleet and snow, over a slippery, tortuous path, she did. with her clothing torn by flaying branches and clutching wind, and drenched by icy water as the snow melted; with her hands and lips blue, and her feet numb; with her wavy hair pulled loose from its braids and plastered wetly against her colorless cheeks; she eventually stumbled into the rude building which contained the railroad and telegraph office at the terminus of the branch line at fayville. then she fell, half unconscious, into the arms of the astonished agent, who came to the door when he heard her stumble weakly against it. "good god, child, where did you come from?" he cried. smiles' lips moved faintly, and he caught an echo of the words which she had been repeating mechanically, over and over, "she haint ergoin' ter die!" "i reckon she ain't, if human will can save her ... whoever _she_ is," muttered the man, as he laid the exhausted girl on a rude waiting bench, poured between her bruised lips a few drops of smuggled whiskey from a pocket flask, and then unceremoniously cut her shoe lacings and removed her sodden, icy boots. after a moment, she sat weakly up, and--punctuated by gasps drawn by exquisite pain--managed to pant out, "i've got to send a telegram ... to-night ... now. oh, _please_, mister, don't wait for anything." "there, there. we'll take care of your message all right. don't worry, little woman," he answered, reassuringly. "but i ain't a-goin' ter send a tick till you're thawed out. my missus lives upstairs, an' she'll fix you up." he half-carried, half-helped the weary girl up the narrow stairs, and, having surrendered her into the charge of a kindly and solicitous woman, hastened to rekindle the wood fire in the stove. as its iron top began to regain the ruddy glow which had scarcely faded from it, rose crept near, holding out her bent, stiffened hands. "now, take it easy, little girl," cautioned the agent. "not too close at first." "and take off your dress and stockings, dear," said his wife. "don't give no thought to him,--we've got three daughters of our own, most growed up." the agent departed, with a heavy clamping of feet on the stairs, and gratefully--but with hands which were so numb that she had to give up in favor of the woman--rose obeyed; and soon her teeth stopped their chattering, and the red blood of youth began once more to course through her veins, while her drenched, simple undergarments sent up vaporous white flags which indicated that the watery legions of the storm king were fast surrendering to their ancient enemy--fire. the older woman wrapped a blanket about the girl, as her husband came upstairs again with a pad of telegram blanks, and said, "now, i'll write out the message you've got to send for you, if you want me to." "thank you, sir. i'm obliged to you and your missus. i reckon you can put the words better than i can, for i haint ... i have never sent one before. it's for dr. donald macdonald, who lives on commonwealth avenue, up north in boston city. and i want to tell him that little lou amos is most dying from a brain tumor. and tell him that she is nearly blind and 'comatose'...." "that word's a new one to me, how do you spell it?" interrupted the agent, with pencil plowing through his rumpled hair. "i ... i guess i've forgotten. spell it like it sounds, and he'll know. and tell him that i will pay him all the money i've got, if he'll only come quick." "how shall i sign it? it has to have your name, you know." "say it's from his foster-sister, rose." laboriously the man wrote out the message, and the floor was littered with discarded attempts before he was satisfied; but in time the distant, slow clicking of the telegraph key below was sending not only the child's eager appeal to its destination many hundred miles north, but a message of renewed hope into the heart of smiles. "it will cost you more'n a dollar," said the man, as he appeared again. "but if you haven't got that much, why ..." "i've got it right here," responded the girl, turning on him for an instant a glowing smile of gratitude for his halting offer. "i'm truly more'n obliged to you, sir ... and your wife. i reckon god meant that you should be here to-night to help save the life of a dear little child," she added simply. "now i'll just put on my things and be startin' back home." "startin' home? well, i reckon not. you're a-goin' to stay right here to-night, and let my woman put you straight to bed. that's what you're a-goin' to do." smiles' protests were all in vain, and soon the weary body and mind were relaxed in the sleep which follows hard on the heels of exhaustion. * * * * * it was close on to midnight when dr. donald macdonald reached his apartment after a rare theatre party with his fiancée. his day's work had been exacting, and he was doubly tired. the thought of bed held an almost irresistible appeal. as he inserted his latch key in the lock, he heard the telephone bell in his office ringing insistently; his heart sank, and cried a rebellious answer. combined force of habit and the call of duty caused him to hasten to the instrument, however, without stopping to remove hat or coat, and to his ear came a small, distant voice saying, "a telegram for dr. donald macdonald. is he ready to receive it?" "yes ... hold on a minute until i get a pencil.... all right, go ahead." "it is dated from fayville, virginia, january , . : p.m. are you getting it?" "yes, yes. go on," cried the man, with increasing heart pulsations. "'dr. donald macdonald, commonwealth ave., boston, mass. lou amos dying of brain tumor almost blind and 'k-o-m-o-t-o-s-e'"--she spelt it out--"'come at once if possible i will pay.' it is signed, 'your foster-sister rose.' did you get it? yes? wait a moment, please, there is another one dated and addressed the same. the message reads, 'girl came alone down mountain in howling blizzard. case urgent. signed, thomas timmins, station agent.' that is all." "thank you. good-night," said donald mechanically, as he replaced the receiver. through the partly open folding door he could dimly see that enticing bed, with his pajamas and bath robe laid across it. it seemed to him as though it were calling to his weary body with a siren's voice, or had suddenly acquired the properties of the cup of tantalus. he hesitated, and moved a step toward it. then the vision of rose as he had last seen her, with the ethereal smile trembling on lips that struggled bravely to laugh, and in deep misty eyes, came between it and him. still clad in hat and overcoat, he seated himself at the desk and called up first the information bureau of the south terminal station, then his young associate, dr. philip bentley, in whose charge he was accustomed to leave his regular patients when called away from the city for any length of time; and finally a house used as a semi-club by trained nurses. when his last call was answered he asked, "is miss merriman registered with you now? this is dr. macdonald speaking." after a wait of several minutes, during which he felt himself nod repeatedly, a sleepy voice spoke over the wire, "this is miss merriman, dr. macdonald. i'm just off a case." "good. i'm lucky ... that is if you're game to take another one immediately." "yes, doctor. do you want me to-night?" "no, to-morrow ... this morning, that is, will do. i shall want you to meet me at the south station, new york train, at seven o'clock." "yes, doctor. what sort of a case is it?" "same as the last you assisted me in--brain tumor. but we're going further this trip ... the jumping-off place in virginia. it's up in the mountains, so take plenty of warm clothes." "very well, doctor." then there came a little laugh, for these two were excellent friends now, and the query, "another record-breaking fee?" "i'll tell you to-morrow," he replied. "don't forget, seven o'clock train for new york. good-night." "good-night, doctor." donald turned away from the desk, and for a moment stood motionless. "god bless her brave, trusting, little heart," he said half aloud. and he was not thinking of miss merriman. chapter xx the answer more than once rose caught herself wondering if, after that day was done, she would ever be able to smile again. in obedience to the doctor's prescription for big jerry, which it was ever her first duty to fill, she never looked towards him--as he sat bent over before the fire, eyes heavy with pain, breath coming in deep rasps, but lips set firmly against a word of complaint--without sending him a message of love and compassion through the intangible medium of that smile. yet, as the weary hours dragged on with plodding feet, it seemed to her as though each new one was not an interest payment on a fund of happiness stored within her heart, but a heavy dipping into the principal itself. before she had taken her early morning departure back up to the mountain over the sodden, slippery path, she had received a telegram that donald had sent off as his last act before yielding to the lure of bed, and which brought her the hope-engendering word that he would be with her as soon as swift-speeding trains could bring him. but that was yesterday. by no possibility could he reach them before the coming evening, and surely never had the sun taken so long to make his wintry journey across the pale blue sky. hour after hour rose sat by the bedside of little lou, and tenderly stroked her cold small hands while she hummed unanswered lullabies, each note of which was the chant of a wordless prayer. the sufferer lay so white, so utterly still, save for the periods when her every breath was a faint moan or she suddenly shook and twisted in a convulsive spasm, that time and again the girl started up with a cry of terror frozen on her lips but echoing in her heart, and bent fearfully over to press her ear close against the baby's thin breast. as often it caught the barely discernible beat of the little heart within. the baby's eyes, now piteously crossed, had turned upward until the starlike pupils were almost out of sight. there were long periods when only the occasional twitching of the bloodless, childishly curved and parted lips, or the uneasy moving of the golden crowned head on the pillow, betrayed the fact that the spark of life still glowed faintly. could she, by the power of will and prayer, keep that spark alight until the one on whom she pinned her faith should arrive, and fan it back to a flame by his miraculous skill? that was smiles' one thought. the violet shadows of evening began at last to tinge the virgin whiteness of the out-of-doors, and rose caught herself starting eagerly, with quickened pulse, at every new forest sound. the crunching tread of judd, who paced incessantly outside the window, grew almost unbearable. she counted the steps as they died away, and listened for them to return, until her nerves shrieked in protest, and it was only by an effort that she curbed their clamoring demand that she rush to the door and scream at him; bid him stand still or begone. * * * * * through the shadows donald was once again making his way up the now familiar mountain side. to have climbed up the footpath with miss merriman and their essential baggage would have been impossible, and he had, after much persuasion, finally succeeded in hiring a man in fayville to drive them up in a springless, rickety wagon. this had necessitated their taking a much more circuitous route, and what seemed like an interminably long time. during the railway journey from the hub, he had told his companion all of the relevant facts, and much of the story of rose, and the nurse's sympathetic interest in the recital had made her almost as anxious as the man himself to arrive at their destination and answer the girl's cry for aid. once she had voiced a doubt as to the wisdom of leaving his urgent practice and taking such a trip on so slender grounds. "but how do you know that it _is_ brain tumor, doctor, or that there is either any chance of saving the child's life, or any real need of a surgeon? at the most you have only the conclusion of a country doctor who can hardly be competent to determine such a question." "i have considered all that, miss merriman," he had replied, shortly, and then added, as though he felt that an explanation were due, "frankly, when i made up my mind to go, i wasn't thinking of the patient so much as i was of my foster-sister. perhaps she won't appeal to you as she has to me; but i really feel a strong responsibility for her future, and i don't want her faith in m ... in physicians to be shattered. you see, i have held up the ideal of service, regardless of reward, as our motto." he sat silently looking out of the car window for a moment, while the nurse studied his serious, purposeful face and mentally revised her previous estimate of him. then he went on, with an apologetic laugh, "besides--oh, i know that it sounds utterly preposterous, but there are times when a man's groundless premonitions are more real to him than any logical conclusions of his own. this is one of those times." the subject dropped. donald had, in addition to a fortnight's compensation in advance, given miss merriman a return ticket and sufficient money to cover all necessary disbursements, and told her that she must, of course, look to him for any additional salary. under no circumstances, he said, was she to accept what rose was sure to try and press upon her. at length the plodding horse turned into the little clearing before jerry's cabin, and, as it appeared, the watcher outside, his face twitching, slunk silently away into the forest, where his racked soul was to endure its hours of gethsemane. rose heard them. she hastened to the door, and her white lips uttered a low cry which spoke the overwhelming measure of her relief. "i just _knew_ you'd come!" she said, as the man, numbed with cold, swung his companion to the ground. the girl gave her a quick glance of surprise; but her eyes instantly returned to the doctor's face with an expression which miss merriman decided was as nearly worship as she had ever seen. donald did not return her greeting in words at first; but, after he had paid the driver, so liberally that the latter was left speechless, and they had entered the cabin, he held out his strong arms to her. smiles swayed into them and pressed her face against the thick fur of his coat with an almost soundless sigh that told the whole story of anxious waiting and the end of the tension that had left its mark on her childlike face. "this, miss merriman, is my little foster-sister, rose. and miss merriman is a nurse who has come to help us," said he, as he released her, and passed on to greet the old giant, who had slowly pulled his shattered, towering frame from his chair, and now stood with a gaunt hand held out in welcome, while a ghost of his one-time hearty smile shadowed his lips. big jerry's flowing beard was now snow-white, and donald was shocked at the change which had taken place in him. their greeting was brief and simple, as between men whose hearts are charged, and, as soon as he had eased him back into his seat, donald spoke with a quick assumption of his professional bearing. "now, about our little patient. how is she, rose?" "close to the eternal gates, i'm afraid," whispered the girl, with a catch in her voice. "oh, donald, we cannot let her ..." she turned abruptly and led the way to the door of her tiny bedroom. the doctor stepped inside and looked briefly, but searchingly, at the child who lay there, silent, and the semblance of death itself. with her lips caught by her teeth, and her hands clasped tightly together to still her trembling, rose watched him. his next words, spoken as he stepped back into the cabin and shook himself free of his greatcoat, were brusquely non-committal. "and the doctor? where is he?" "the doctor? why, he ... he isn't here; he hasn't been here for days. he doesn't even know that you were coming ... that i had sent for you." "what? but i don't understand, child. of course he ought to be here." donald's voice was so sharp that it brought the tears, that were so near the surface, into smiles' eyes, perceiving which, he hastened to add more gently, "there, there, of course you didn't know; but i can hardly hope to diagnose ... to determine what the trouble really is, or where the growth, if there is one, is located, unless i get a full history of the case from him and his own conclusions to help me." "but ... but, donald, he didn't _have_ any conclusions. he said it was ... was brain fever, first, and then he gave up trying and told us that lou had just got to die. besides, _i_ know the ... the history...." she stopped, with a little wail of distress. "'brain _fever_!' then who ... the telegram certainly said 'tumor.'" "yes, yes. _i_ said that. oh, i can't tell you why; but i just _know_ that it is, donald, for little lou has been exactly like you told me that baby up north was--the one you saved by a ... a miracle. oh, don't you remember? it was in the paper." her sentences had become piteously incoherent; but their significance slowly dawned upon him. to miss merriman the conversation was somewhat of an enigma, and she stood aside, regarding rose with an expression half bewildered, half frightened. had this strange child summoned so famous a physician, whose moments, even, were golden, to the heart of the cumberlands on her own initiative and on the strength of her own childish guess, merely? it was incredible, a tragic farce. perhaps something of similar import passed swiftly through the man's mind, for he placed his large hands upon the girl's slender shoulders, and, for an instant, sent a searching gaze deep into her eyes, now luminous with unshed tears, as he had first seen them. they looked up at him troubled, but frankly trusting. "do you mean, rose," his words came slowly, "that you sent for me without a doctor's suggestion and advice; that you did it on your own hook?" she nodded. "i just couldn't bear to have her die. she is all that ... that judd has got in the world, now, and i knew that you could save her for him." his hands felt the controlled tension of her body, and he impulsively drew her close to him. when he answered, his voice was strangely gentle. "it's all right, little doctor. i'm glad that you did, and only hope that i can help. now, let's all sit down here before the fire--how good it feels after that bitter ride, doesn't it, miss merriman?--and you will tell me all that you can about the baby's trouble--every single thing that you have noticed from the first, no matter how little it is. you see, that only by knowing exactly how the patient has acted can the surgeon even hope to guess where the trouble has its seat. once before i told you that a nurse has got to face the truth, understandingly and bravely, and i may as well tell you about some of the difficulties which lie in the path that we must tread to-night. your faith has been almost--sublime, dear. i wonder if it would have failed if you had known how like a child in knowledge--a child searching in the dark--is a surgeon at such a time as this?" "i ... i don't believe that i understand, and you kind of frightened me, don. i thought that all you would have to do would be to ... to cut out that awful thing that is stealing away lou's precious life. wasn't that what you did for that other little child?" "yes, but ... how am i going to explain? if there is a tumor, as we think, i'll do my best to take it away; but, in order to do that, i have, of course, got to go inside of her skull right to the brain itself, and the trouble might be here, or here, or here." he touched her now profusion of curls at different cranial points. "that is the riddle which you and i must solve, and i have got to look to you for the key. the human brain is still a book of mystery to us. some day, physicians will be able to read it with full understanding; but so far, we have, after thousands of years, barely learned how to open its covers and guess at the meaning of what lies hidden within." rose had edged close to miss merriman on the rough bench before the fire, and, with the older woman's arm about her, now sat, wide-eyed and wondering, while donald talked. as he kept his gaze fixed on the glowing heart of the fire, he seemed, in time, to be musing aloud rather than consciously explaining. "this much we have learned, however; that certain parts of the brain control all the different actions or functions of the body--i've called it a telegraph station once before...." he paused, and both thought of little mike in his last home under the snow ... "with different keys, each sending its message over a separate wire. so you see that, if we can learn exactly what the message has been, i mean by that just how certain parts of the body have been affected--miss merriman would call them the 'localizing symptoms'--we can often tell almost exactly which key is being disarranged by the pressure of a foreign growth, such as a tumor. do you think that you can understand that, rose?" she nodded slowly. "that is the first, the great and most difficult thing for us to do. the rest depends, in part, upon the mechanical skill of the surgeon, but far more upon fate, for there are certain kinds of growths which may be removed with a fair chance of success--it is only that, at present--and others ... but we won't consider the others. lou is young, and in one way that is in our favor. if there _is_ a tumor, there is less likelihood of infiltration," he added, glancing at the nurse. rose opened her lips as though to ask a question, and then decided not to, but her expression caused donald to say, "come child, don't look so frightened." "but i didn't know ... it's so ... so terrible. how can any one live if his head is cut open like that?" "it sounds desperate, doesn't it," he answered, lightly, "but with our anesthetics, which put the patient quietly to sleep, and our new, specially made instruments, the trained and careful surgeon can perform the operation quite easily--as far as the mechanical part goes, i mean. but, you can see how all-important it is for you to tell me just how lou has been affected. i know what a good memory you have; make it count to-night." with her breathing quickened, and eyes shining from pent-up excitement, rose began. simply and painstakingly she recounted everything which she had observed about the baby's strange behavior from that painful night when she had brought her from judd's lonely cabin, through the long days in which she had steadily weakened and failed, to the time when the invisible hand of death seemed to have begun to pluck at the thread of life itself. donald listened intently, without a word of interruption, until she suddenly broke off her recital with the words, "oh, i can't think of anything more, truly i can't; and i'm so afraid ... afraid that it hasn't been enough to help." miss merriman's encircling arm closed comfortingly about the girl, and she patted the head which turned and burrowed into her shoulder, but she said nothing, waiting for the man to speak. he mused for a moment, and then his words came with the crisp incisiveness of a lawyer in cross-examination. "as she lost control of her legs and began to waver and stumble when she tried to walk, did she seem to turn, or fall, to one side more than to the other? think!" the anxiety deepened in smiles' eyes; but she answered without hesitation, "no, i don't think so. it was more as though her little body was plumb tuckered out." "and her hearing? did that fail?" "no, not until just toward the last, anyway. even when she couldn't seem to answer me, somehow i was quite sure that she understood, when i spoke, or sang, to her. she would kinder smile, but, oh, it was such a pitiful smile that it 'most broke my heart." "she seemed to understand, eh?" he paused, and the room was very still, except for big jerry's stentorian breathing. "can you say quite certainly--don't be afraid to answer just exactly what you think--can you say, then, that, aside from the general weakness of all the powers of her little body and mind, the headache and occasional sickness, the most noticeable thing in all her strange behavior was that she wasn't able to talk clearly, and this increased until she wholly lost the power of speech which happened before she became as ... as i see her now?" "yes, doctor." donald turned abruptly to the nurse. "barring the use of technical phraseology, and a possible expression of his own, probably valueless, conclusions, could any doctor, such as is likely to be practising in fayville, have given me any more information, or told it better?" "no, doctor." at these unexpected words of praise the girl's smile appeared mistily for a moment, and then quivered away. there was silence again in the cabin, while the man turned his thoughtful gaze back to the fire, which had now turned to glowing orange embers. a far-off look, alien to his keen, masterful face crept into it. finally he seemed to shake off his new mood, and spoke with a queer laugh. "i told you on the train that i was the victim of an uncanny premonition. i guess that horatio was right about there being many things outside the ken of our limited philosophy. what psychic whisper from a world whose existence we men of 'common sense'"--he spoke the words sarcastically--"are loath to credit; what inspiration, born of the memory of that story of the case of the bentley moors' child in new york, which i told her in words of one syllable six months ago, was it that brought the light of truth to this girl's mind, when the village doctor utterly failed to catch so much as a glimmer of it?" "then you think, doctor ...?" began miss merriman. "my diagnosis coincides with smiles',--a tumorous growth on the brain, probably upon the third left frontal convolution ... right here," he said in explanation, as he touched his forehead between the left eyebrow and the hair. "rose, you have done excellently. now we, too, will do what we can, and we shall need your help in full measure to-night. i know that it is going to be bitterly hard for you, perhaps the hardest thing that you will ever be called upon to do in all your life; you've got to be a woman, and a brave one. i'd spare you if i could, but...." "but i don't want to be spared, donald," she interrupted, eagerly. "i know, and i trust you more than i could any grown-up woman here in the mountains. it's hardly necessary to tell you again, that a nurse is a soldier, and must be not only brave, but obedient. if we decide to ... to go ahead i will be, not your friend, but your superior officer for a while, and, if my orders seem harsh and even cruel, you must not hesitate, or feel hurt. you understand that, don't you, dear?" "yes, doctor. i understand." she spoke bravely, but her voice trembled a little. "good. before i make my final examination, miss merriman and i have got to change our clothes. she will use your room and i the loft; but first let us bring lou's bed out here by the fire." it was done. "now," he continued, "while we are getting ready, there are a number of things which you have got to do, and you will have to work fast. first, make grandfather comfortable in his room, and build up this fire. then heat up as much water as the big kettle will hold, and see that a smaller one is scoured absolutely clean. start some water heating in that, too. finally, undress lou completely, and wrap her in a blanket. can you remember all that?" "yes, donald ... yes, doctor." donald smiled, and added, "one thing more. partly fill a pillow-case with sand, or dirt, if it is possible to get any. perhaps the ground in the wood-house isn't frozen so hard but that you can get it." she nodded wonderingly. in a quarter of an hour her duties were completed and miss merriman and donald had appeared, clad in their spotless white garments of service. rose, likewise, was in her play uniform, which was now considerably too small for her, and her appearance in it would have caused a smile if it had not been more provocative of tears. six months earlier the doctor and nurse, assisted by others of the most skilled and highly trained that the metropolis afforded, had prepared to perform the same desperate service in humanity's cause, within the perfectly appointed operating room of a modern city hospital. how different was the setting now! in the rude, but homey room of the mountain cabin, lighted only by old-fashioned lamps and lanterns and the pulsating blaze of the fire in the cavernous fireplace, whose colorful gleam touched with gold the scoured copper of pot and kettle, the three workers, in the immaculate garments of a city sickroom, bent intently over the naked form of the nearly insensible child, to whose alabaster body the leaping flames imparted a simulated glow of warm tones. the general examination was brief, and made in silence. then donald drew the covering over the little body as a sculptor might the cloth over his statue, and straightened up with a look in his gray eyes that was new to rose. he spoke in curt sentences. "of course the case is far more desperate than our last, miss merriman. it's the proverbial 'one chance in a thousand.' on that single thread hangs the child's life." suddenly he startled rose by giving a short, mirthless laugh, and, turning away, he began to speak in an undertone, as though unconscious of the presence of the other two, for, despite his previous calm, the thought of what was in prospect had keyed up his nerves to a pitch where they quivered like the e string of a violin. "good god, what a colossal nerve a man is sometimes called upon to have in this world. of course she'll die in twenty-four hours if i _don't_ operate; but only a fool--or a genius--would tackle _this_ operation under such impossible conditions. practically none of the things here that science says are necessary. 'a fool, or a genius.'"--he suddenly smote his hands together, and said, "i hope that i'm a fool for to-night. god takes care of them ... and drunkards. i wish i had a strong slug of judd's white whiskey, it might steady my nerves. "where _is_ judd?" he snapped out, aloud, turning to rose. chapter xxi a modern miracle "i don't know. he was here when you came, but i saw him going up the mountain into the woods. but i'll answer for him; i'll take that chance, doctor. she is nearly as dear to me as she is to him, and i know that she is going to die, unless ... unless ..." "i knew you'd say it. well, we'll operate, miss merriman." donald's voice was calm, impersonal again, and his tone had a steely quality, as though his lancet or scalpel had become endowed with a voice, and spoken. silently, and with practised hands, the nurse began to unpack his bag and lay out upon a sheet, which she obtained from rose and spread over the rough table, the many strange instruments, bottles, rolls of bandages and sponges in their sterile packages. "have you any baking soda--saleratus, rose?" she nodded. "good. put about a teaspoonful in the smaller kettle, and boil these instruments for ten minutes, while we are making the final preparations. i want some hot water, too." he turned away, and for a moment stood looking up at the calm heavens in which the stars made openings for the white eternity beyond to shine through. something in the scene bore his thoughts back to that summer evening when the mountain man of god had tried so earnestly to minister to his own disease. snatches of sentences re-echoed in his memory. then he stepped back to smiles' side and his voice was soft, as he said, "i suppose that, whenever a surgeon begins an operation like this one, he has an unformed prayer deep in his heart, though he may not realize to whom he prays. there was never more occasion for one than to-night, rose. i know that the great healer is nearer to you than to me. ask him that my hand may not falter." she nodded again, sweetly serious. once more his accustomed bluntness of manner returned, and he snapped, "oh, why in the devil didn't i have sense enough to bring another assistant?" "i am here, doctor," answered the girl. "yes, yes, i know." he regarded her with the old, searching look. then, to the nurse, "it's only one of the many chances we have got to take. when you put the patient under the anæsthetic you will show rose exactly how it is administered, for she will have to keep her unconscious without any further aid from you after i begin to operate. we have _got_ to trust her, miss merriman," he added shortly, as he caught the expression of grave doubt which the nurse could not keep from appearing on her countenance. "see that she washes and sterilizes her hands thoroughly. that hot water, rose. i want a basinful." she supplied it, then departed to do the rest of his bidding, and for some moments was kept so busy that she did not realize what the other two were doing at the bedside, other than to note that donald had raised the head of the bed by blocking up the legs with firelogs, and covered it with a rubber sheet such as she had never seen before. when she did, however, return to the side of the little sufferer, whose face was far whiter than the clean, but coarse, sheet which covered the emaciated body, a low cry of protest and grief was wrung from her lips. already most of the lovely ringlets of spun gold, which had won for the baby donald's characterization of "little buttercup," gleamed on the rough floor, and the ruthless but necessary sacrifice was being continued. there were tears on her cheeks as she aided the doctor to scrub the shorn scalp, until the child moaned and turned her head from side to side. "he is my commanding officer. he told me that i must always remember that, and obey," whispered rose to herself, as donald, in his abstraction, began to snap forth his orders in a manner and tone which, for a moment, made her shrink and quiver. his words were often unintelligible to her, until miss merriman, silent-footed and efficient, translated them into action, as, before the wide eyes of the mountain child, there began to unfold the swift drama of modern surgical science at its pinnacle, amid that fantastic setting. strange words, indeed, were those which now fell on her attentive ears, many of them far outside the bounds of her limited vocabulary; yet, stranger still, she soon began to grasp their meaning intuitively, and her quick native perception, keyed high by emergency, led her often to anticipate the physician's wish, and act upon it. more than once she won a look of surprise from the older woman. donald's directions to miss merriman were curt and incisive; but soon he did not limit his speech to them. rather he seemed to be uttering his thoughts aloud; the old habit of making a running explanation for the benefit of a clinic or the better understanding of an assistant was subconsciously asserting itself, and it was to rose as though she were listening to the outpouring of a fountain of knowledge, whose waters engulfed her mind and made it gasp, yet carried her along with them. it was all a dream, a weird, impossible nightmare to her; the familiar room began to assume a strange aspect, and the man's words came to her as do those heard in a sleeping vision--real, yet tinctured with unreality. "in this case the elastic tourniquet will stop the blood flow as effectively as the heidenhain backstitch suture method, i think, miss merriman, and it will be much simpler. i'm glad i brought it. have you the saline solution, and the gauze head-covering ready?" "yes, doctor." "then you may administer the ether--use the drop method, and don't forget to show her just how to regulate it. "no blood-pressure machine," he muttered. "oh, well, we've just got to trust to her being able to stand it, and ..." "and to god," whispered rose. he glanced quickly up, as though he had already forgotten her presence, and added, gently, "of course." the small pad of gauze, which miss merriman laid over the baby's face, grew moist; a strange, pungent odor began to fill the room. as she bent over to watch intently what the nurse was doing, rose suddenly found herself beginning to get dizzy. "stand up, smiles," came the sharp command. "here, hold this handkerchief over your mouth and nose. now, take the bottle yourself ... so ... a drop on the pad ... now. yes, that's right, just as miss merriman has been doing. little lou is wholly unconscious, we must keep her so. "remember, now your test is beginning, and i expect you not to fail me. a great deal depends on you, rose. you are a soldier on the firing-line now, and you are going to keep up, whatever happens. it may be for half an hour, but you will keep up, for me, for lou, whatever happens. remember! _whatever happens!_" he looked fixedly into the unnaturally big eyes which were turned up to his like two glorious flowers, and she nodded. with a pang of regret he noticed how thin her face was, and how white,--so pale that the color had fled even from the sweet, sensitive lips which smiled ever so faintly at him, and then at the nurse, as the latter made the quiet suggestion that she try to keep her eyes always fixed on the pad of gauze, and not let them be drawn away from it if she could possibly help it. but at first she could not, and so she saw the pitiful little head, stripped of its golden crown, first covered with a clinging veil of wet cloth, over which, from behind the ears to the top of the forehead, a circular band of rubber tubing was adjusted and drawn tight into the flesh--"to stop the blood, like i did for grandpappy when he cut his arm," she thought. then the head was gently raised and settled into position on the sand-filled pillow, which cradled it firmly. only the gurgling breath of the mercifully unconscious baby, and the crackling of the fire, broke the silence as the surgeon adjusted and posed his patient's head, as an artist would his model's. a piercing light flashed before the girl's eyes, and she saw that now miss merriman held a strange-looking black tube, which shed a circle of concentrated sunshine on the gauze-covered head. it was her first experience with a flashlight, and she marvelled at its power. now there came another dart of light, thin and fleeting, and she knew that a knife was poised in mid-air. involuntarily she closed her eyes tight; a shudder ran through her. donald's voice spoke impersonally, and steadied her. "i shall expose the third left frontal convolution of the brain through the fronto-parietal bone, and, in making the osteoplastic flap, i intend to leave a wide working margin above the size of the opening which may actually be necessary in order to reach the growth. it has got to be fully exposed at once. i can't afford to delay, under the circumstances." the gleam of the scalpel held her unwilling gaze with the fascination of horror; she drew her breath with a sound between a shudder and a sigh as it descended.... "i _must_ keep my eyes on the ether pad," came the command from her whirling brain. many nights thereafter, rose was to start up from troubled sleep with strange sounds and stranger words echoing in her brain--words like "bevelled trephines," "hudson forceps," "elevators," "horsley's wax," "rongeurs," "clips" and "sponges,"--but during the actual operation she was scarcely conscious of them, and her principal feeling was one of dumb rebellion which grew until she found herself almost hating _this_ donald, who could speak with such unconcern and apparent callousness, at such a time. as well as she could, she willed her swimming gaze to remain fixed on the pad which she must keep moist. the difficulty of the task had suddenly become increased, for the pad seemed to become an animate thing. now it appeared to retreat into the distance, and again it came floating back until it seemed about to smother her. there was a droning note in her ears; the words spoken by the other two sounded mixed and indistinct. of only one sentence, repeated monotonously in miss merriman's clear voice, was she really conscious. "rose, a drop of ether ... a drop of ether ... a drop of ether." she wanted to speak, to ask them if the room were not frightfully hot; but she could not. rose had never fainted in her life, but she had once seen a neighbor swoon, and she realized vaguely that, as the minutes passed, her consciousness was slowly slipping from her. the air was close and heavy with strange smells. she felt as though she were swaying like a pendulum. the old, familiar objects grew grotesquely large and hazy; the deep shadows in the corners multiplied, and began to dance a solemn minuet, advancing, retreating; advancing, retreating.... "another drop of ether." she took a fresh mental grasp on herself, and held duty, like a visible thing, before her eyes. again that queer, far-away voice. "look, miss merriman. can you see that neoplasm under the membrane? ah ... now the flat dissector ... no, the blunter one ..." the voice trailed away into nothing, and another recalled her failing senses, with the battle cry: "rose, another drop of ether." then it began again, "thank heaven, there is no infiltration, the growth is well localized and encapsulated. steady, steady.... ah, very pretty." the word caught her flickering thoughts, and angered her. how could any one use it about anything so awful? there was another misty moment. then, "the operation is, in itself, a success, i think.... now if the child's vitality ... i never did a better one ... another sponge ... excellent ... are the sutures ready?... quick, take the ether bottle, miss merriman!" suddenly the girl felt a painful grasp on her arm. some one was shaking her roughly. "rose," came the same strange voice, "we need some more wood for the fire. go out to the woodpile, and get some." chapter xxii vicarious atonement in happy ignorance of the fact that the order had been given merely to get her outside, smiles stumbled to the door with blind thankfulness, and, as soon as she had closed it behind her, crumpled up in an unconscious heap on the snow. within doors, the nurse was saying, "i think she's fainted, doctor. i heard her fall." "probably," was the callous response. "don't worry about her, the cold will bring her around. we've got to get these sutures in. but, say, hasn't she been a brick?" donald's prophecy was correct. rose came to her senses a moment later, and, trembling and sobbing uncontrolledly, stumbled through the darkness to the woodpile, and sat down on it. for a time she was powerless to move, but when, at length, she did re-enter the cabin, with an armful of wood, although her face was drawn and white, her self-control was fully restored. already the surgeon and nurse were bathing off the sewn wound with antiseptic fluid, and it was not long before the little injured head was wrapped in the swathing bandages which covered it completely, down to the deathlike, sunken cheeks. the period of coming out from under the merciful anæsthesia ended, the drooping flower was restored to its freshly made bed, the evidences of what had occurred removed, and then smiles turned to her beloved friend with a pleading, unspoken question in her eyes. "i can't tell you yet, dear. i have ... all of us have done our mortal best and now the issues are in higher hands than ours. i hope ... but come, tell me, rose, what made you feel so sure that the trouble _was_ a tumor on the brain. was it merely a guess, based on what i had explained to you?" "no. i ... i just _knew_ it. i reckon that god told me so," was her reply. "well, god was certainly right, then," smiled donald, glad of any chance to relieve the tension. "do you want to see the growth? see, it is as large, nearly, as a walnut. do you wonder that, with this thing pressing more and more into her brain, lou was robbed of her power to talk and act?" the girl broke down at last and wept hysterically, which caused donald to look as uneasy as any mere man is bound to in such a circumstance; but miss merriman came to his rescue with comforting arms, and the words, "there, there, dear. cry all you want to now. it's all over, and dr. macdonald will tell you that if she gets well--as we believe that she will--little lou will be as healthy and happy a baby as she ever was in her life. he's taken out that wicked growth, kernel and all, and it will never come back again. will it, doctor?" "almost certainly not. rose, we couldn't have done without you to-night. you have been the brave little soldier that i told you to be; but i'm afraid that it has been a terrible strain for you. of course, it was an exceptional operation, rare and dangerous; but it has given you a pretty vivid idea of what trained nurses have to go through frequently. has it changed your mind? do you still think that you want to go ahead and give your life to such work?" "would you ask a real soldier if he wanted to quit, or keep on fighting, after he had been in one battle, and seen men killed and wounded? it's got to be done, hasn't it, if the poor sick babies and grown-up people are to be made strong and well again? and i've just _got_ to help do it, donald." he gave miss merriman a significant look; but his only response was, "well, unless you want another job--that of bringing back to life people who have starved to death--you had better get us a bite to eat and some of your strong coffee. my internal anatomy ..." "oh, i plumb forgot. you haven't had a thing to eat--nor poor granddaddy, either. i'm so ashamed i could _die_." * * * * * two hours later, after she had finished making the old man as comfortable as possible for the night, rose rejoined the other two in the main cabin. she came just in time to catch donald in the act of half-heartedly trying to conceal a deep yawn. as he, in turn, caught sight of her sympathetic smile, he said, "we have given our patient a mild sleep inducer; and now, rose, i want you to go up into my loft room right away, and get a long night's sleep yourself. you've been under a mighty heavy strain to-day; there are many other hard days coming, and we can't have another patient on our hands." the girl nodded, sleepily; but she had not taken one weary step before a different thought struck her, and she turned back to cry, contritely, "but you ... and miss merriman. there won't be any place for you to sleep, or for her either. oh, what can we do?" "just forget about us, my child. i shan't undress to-night, anyway, and can roll myself in my big fur coat and camp out in your little room, since lou must stay out here where it is warmer. and as for miss merriman ... if i catch her so much as closing her eyes for one minute, to-night, i'll wring her neck." the nurse laughed; but smiles' lips set, purposefully. "i forgot again. of course some one has got to sit up with little lou, and i'll do it. why, donald, poor miss merriman has been traveling and working all day long, and she's just tired to death--she must be. of course she has got to get some rest. you go right up into the loft room, dear ..." and she began to push the nurse gently toward the ladder. "rose," cut in the doctor, sternly, although his eyes held a pleased twinkle, "you're apparently forgetting one thing--that i'm boss here for the present, and that my nurses must learn to do as they are told, without arguing. i'm sorry for miss merriman, too; but she knows just what to do if anything happens, and you don't--yet. besides, it won't be the first time that she has stayed up twenty-four hours at a stretch, will it?" "no, indeed--nor forty-eight," answered the nurse, as she smoothed the pillow under the little patient's head. "i shall want you fresh and strong to help me with the 'day shift,' smiles dear. and, as the doctor says, orders are orders." the girl's tired eyes suddenly filled again, this time, with hurt, rebellious tears, and a pout, almost like a child's, appeared on her lips as she turned and moved slowly toward the ladder in the far corner. donald watched her with sympathetic understanding and the thought, "she must think me a brute"; but, before he could speak the word of consolation which was on his tongue, she whirled about, just as she had when sent to bed on the first night of their acquaintance, and running back, threw herself into his arms. as she clung to him passionately, sobbing without restraint from weariness and the break in the tension which had kept her up for so long, she whispered, "oh, i love you so, dear don. you have been so good, so good to me, and i'm so very happy." "well, well," answered the man huskily, as he patted her shoulder, "you certainly have a funny way of showing it; but, after all, women are queer creatures. i'm happy, too, dear--happy to be here and to have been able to help you. and now," he concluded, lightly, "my happiness will be complete if you will just let me see that sunny smile on your face, as you obey that order which i have had to give you three times already." the tired girl, for the moment more child than woman, leaned back in his arms and looked up at him with an expression so transcendently appealing that it was only by the exercise of all his moral force that he was able to restrain the impulse to crush her to him. he saw that the nurse was regarding him with a peculiar expression, and as she, in turn, caught his eye and turned hastily away with a little added color in her cheeks, donald recovered himself, lightly kissed the forehead so close to his lips, and said, "now for the fourth, and last, time, '_go to bed_.' good-night, little sister." this time rose actually departed, and, after the physician had given miss merriman a few final directions, and bidden her call him instantly, if anything appeared to be going wrong, he said good-night to her also, and stepped toward the little room which he was to occupy. on reaching it he paused, for there had come a low, uncertain knock on the cabin door. lest it be repeated more loudly, and disturb the quiet into which the room had finally settled, donald forestalled the nurse's act, hurried softly to the door, and opened it a few inches. he started. there, leaning dejectedly against one of the pronged cedar posts on the tiny stoop, was a spectre figure, ghastly of countenance--judd's. the doctor read in it the awful anguish of uncertainty which had driven the mountaineer, against his will, back to the cabin which held for him either hope or blank despair--and the man he hated. donald slipped outside, and closed the door softly behind him. he touched the inert form on the shoulder, and said in an undertone, "come with me away from the house, judd." the other followed him, with dragging feet and sagging shoulders, his obedience being like that of a whipped dog. as he reached the rock before the gnarled oak, which, in happier days, had been the target for big jerry's first practice shot with the rifle that was later to play a part in the tragedy of mike's death, donald stopped and faced the man who had sworn himself his mortal enemy. the sight of the rock had re-awakened bitter memories; but they perished still-born as his gaze turned on the dimly seen figure beside him. "judd," he began, almost kindly, "you know why i came here this time?" the other made an indistinct sound of assent. "i ... i operated on your little sister's brain, to-night. wait. it was absolutely necessary, if she were to have even a single chance for life. she was dying, judd. the operation was a desperate one--a last resort. i can't promise you anything certainly, but she's still alive, and i honestly believe that she is going to live--and get well." for an instant the listener stood motionless. then his pent-up emotions broke their bounds in one deep, shuddering breath, and he sank down beside the boulder, flung his tensed arms across it, and buried his face on them. at last he spoke, hoarsely, and without raising his head. "i done my damnedest ter kill ye, an' now yo' ... yo' saves lou's life fer me. i reckon i don't know how ter thank ye, er repay ... but ... my life air yourn ter take hit, ef yo' likes." "nonsense," was the sharp response. "and as for thanks, why i don't want any. i did it for smiles' sake." the kneeling body quivered once; but, when the answer came, it was uttered in even tones. "yes, i reckoned so. yo' hev the right ter do things fer her, an' i ... i haint. she ... she warnt fer me ... never. i warnt never worthy uv her." "she isn't for me, either," said donald. "and besides, i'm no more worthy of her than you, judd. i should have told you long ago--i was a fool not to have done so--i'm going to marry another girl,--a girl at home whom i have known all my life." "do rose know hit?" came the mountaineer's quick, suspicious query. "of course she does; she's known it for a year. judd ..." he seated himself beside the younger man. "i want to tell you that i was altogether to blame for ... for what happened up there last summer. i should have told you then, and ... and i'm sorry." "no, hit war i who war ter blame." "well, let's both try to forget it, now. you owe me nothing for to-night; but you owe rose a debt of gratitude that you can never hope to pay in full, my boy." "i knows hit. i kaint never pay even part uv hit." "i think that you can." "how kin i?" "i don't pretend to be much of a preacher, but i can say this as a man, judd. by trying to live the kind of a life she would have you live. she wants to be your friend." "i haint fit ter be named friend uv her'n, after what i done," he replied, dully. "but _we're_ going to forget all about that, and certainly she won't hold it against you, lad. i heard your mr. talmadge talking about ... about religious things, once, and i think that, if he were here now, he would tell you that smiles and little lou, together, have made what ... what the bible calls 'atonement' for what ... for what you did. smiles' love and your baby sister's suffering have brought us together; each has had a chance to realize and confess that he was wrong and had been wicked; and now the way is clear for us to be ... friends. at least i'm willing, if you are, to shake on that." judd sprang to his feet, and his lean hand shot out to grasp the one which donald held out to him in the darkness. and their firm clasp was a seal to the bond that the quarrel between them was ended for all time. "rose will be glad, judd. i can't let you see lou to-night; but come to-morrow morning ... come early before i leave, and we'll tell them all about it, and start things all over again. good-night, my boy," said donald, heartily. and there was a new light on the face of each man, as one returned to jerry's cabin, and the other strode, with restored hope, to his own abode, which had been once so cheerless. chapter xxiii two letters - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - the first big jerry's cabin, january , . my dear dr. macdonald, although this is theoretically only my semi-weekly report, made in accordance with your instructions, i feel in the letter-writing mood, for a wonder, so i _may_ overstep professional bounds, and become loquacious--if one can do that with pen and ink. rose talks about you so continually that i am actually myself beginning to regard you as an intimate friend, instead of an austere and somewhat awe-inspiring "boss." i should probably not be brave enough to say that to your face; but i find that my courage rises in adverse ratio to my nearness to you. first, however, for my report. the little patient is still convalescing in a highly satisfactory manner, and with a rapidity which speaks volumes both for her own strong constitution and this mountain as a health resort. the wound remains perfectly healthy and is healing without suppuration or parting--which "speaks volumes" for your skill. i am quite certain that the scar will be merely a thin white line, and not in the least a disfigurement. the silk stitches are ready to be removed and the others nearly dissolved. yesterday that funny, countrified doctor, from down in the village, came up to see her--fame of your operation having spread. he "reckoned" that the child's recovery was nothing less than a miracle, and that he takes his hat off to you. i told him that most physicians did. he also "allowed" that, if i wanted him to take out the stitches, he could do it, but i "reckoned" that i could attend to that a little better than he. was that _lèse majesté_? i did my best to be very humble, and said, "yes, doctor" constantly, and he tried to appear very professional; but i think he stood a little in awe of me. you don't know how i enjoyed the feeling. but, to return to our report. lou is gaining strength rapidly; i let her get up and play about longer each day, and have reduced the bandages to the minimum. it was most affecting when they were removed from her eyes. i forgot that i was a nurse, and cried with smiles until the child cried, too, without having the slightest idea why. she is such a sweet, merry little imp that i do not wonder that you felt more than mere professional interest in her case. every one here loves her. indeed, i am enchanted with the place and people, and have made up my mind to stay on a week or ten days after i call myself off the case, and take a vacation which i really owe to myself. poor big jerry is wonderful--so pathetically patient under his suffering, which is now acute. i am afraid that he cannot last many weeks longer, and, more than once, i have had to give him a hypodermic to deaden his pain. somehow he reminds me of a huge forest tree that has been struck and shattered by a lightning bolt. then there is judd. rose says that he has been very, very wicked; but that only adds to his fascination in my eyes, and if he should decide some day to snatch me up and carry me off bodily to a cave, i don't think that i should struggle or scream _very_ hard. however, i'm afraid there is no chance of that, as he apparently doesn't know that i exist. he puts me in mind of a mountain eagle, with those overhanging brows and piercing, coal-black eyes of his; but i must admit that he is disappointingly tame when he looks at smiles--as he does most of the time, to my furious jealousy. alas, the eagle then becomes a sucking dove. _she_ is apparently oblivious to the obvious fact that he is madly in love with her. poor judd! last, but by no means least, there is smiles herself. i wish that i could adequately express my thoughts about her, but i can't. however, i no longer wonder how a mountain child like that could have captivated you so, as i did when you first described her to me. she is adorable. for the life of me i can't understand how a girl, bred in this wilderness, could have such a fine soul and personality--not to speak of her intellect, which daily startles me more. but, of course, she is of cultured stock--she _must_ be--and i have always believed that the forces of heredity are paramount to those of environment. do i sound like a school-mar'm? well, that is what i am. it may surprise you to learn, as much as it does me to realize, that i have turned back to schooldays with an enthusiasm which i never felt when i was going through them, and that i spend more time as a teacher than as a nurse. smiles simply _absorbs_ education--i never knew anything like it--and i am as confident as she that her dream of going through the "c. h." and becoming a trained nurse, will come to pass. and won't she make a wonderful one? be warned that when she _does_ go north i intend to dispute with you the right to regard her as a protégé. i couldn't love her as i do, already, if she were not so completely human, and it amuses me immensely the way she wheedles the natives and keeps them in good humor by using that comical mountain lingo--although she can speak as grammatically as any one, when she wants to. she just smiles at one of them, and says, "now haint thet jest _toe_ sweet of ye," and they fall down and worship. don't be surprised if you hear me say some day, "wall, doctor, thet air shor' er powerful preety operation, an' i air plumb obleeged ter ye fer thet yo' let me holp ye with hit." i'm catching it, too. i hope that you will forgive the liberties which i have taken in writing like this, but i had to do it. sincerely yours, gertrude merriman. p.s. you were right in your conjecture. since you would not accept the whole, or any part of smiles' precious savings--and your refusal nearly broke her heart until i made her understand that physicians never charged _members of their family_--she wanted me to take it. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - the second webb's gap, jan. , dearest doctor mac, my heart is broken. dear granddaddy died last night. of course i know that it had to be, and that he is so much happier now in the spirit body, and with ma webb (he talked about her all yesterday, and i really think that his soul was speaking with hers); but he was so dear to me that i can hardly bear to think that he has gone away. wasn't he a splendid man, don? i am sure that there could not have been any better, nobler men, even in the city, and i know that you loved him, too. before he died he told me all the wonderful things that he had done for me, although i did not deserve it--how he had left me all that money and made you my guardian. i am so glad for that. he was in terrible pain toward the end, and i don't know what i should have done without dear miss merriman who stayed on purpose to help me. i think that god sent her here special. and she has helped me in so many other ways too--especially with my studying. she is sure that i will be able to pass that awful examination, although it frightens me. oh, if i _can_, i can take that hospital training and be a nurse at last, for i am rich now. just think, dear granddaddy left me _more than a thousand dollars_--and i have my basket money, besides! and so, dear donald, the first part of my great dream is really coming true. it isn't just the way i dreamed it, for i didn't mean for granddaddy to be dead; but i guess things never happen just as we plan. when we look forward to something pleasant, which we want very much to happen, we never think that there may be unhappiness mixed with it--perhaps it is better that way, for if we did we wouldn't work so hard to make it come to pass. i am afraid that i have not said that very well; but i feel that it is so, now. i am going to boston; i will be near you, and will learn to do the work i love; but now i realize that i could never, never have done it until granddaddy went away. so that is the shadow on my golden dream. and last night there came the great sorrow that i have been dreading so many months; and yet i know that he is happier, and i have you and miss merriman, and the work i am going to do, to make me forget--not him, but my sorrow--and take the pain from my heart. little lou is almost well again, and both she and judd are going to stay with mrs. andrews the rest of the winter. and, oh, doctor mac, he has promised me never to make white liquor again. i have saved the best news for the last. _miss merriman is going to take me to boston with her._ she says that her family have taken an apartment in the city, and that i may live with them until i get into the hospital. this makes me very happy, and i hope that you will be pleased, too. i know that everything is going to be very different there in boston, and that you are so busy that i cannot see you very often, and, besides, when i do get into the hospital i must be careful to remember that you are a very great doctor and i am only one of many probationers (miss merriman told me the word). but, although we cannot be chums like we have been, you must never forget that i am always your loving foster-sister, smiles. chapter xxiv new scenes, new friends so another leaf was turned in the book of fate, and smiles' life underwent another metamorphosis as complete as the one fifteen years previous. there was a sudden severance of all old ties, save that of memory, an abrupt entrance into a new existence, so utterly different from the one that she had known that it could scarcely have seemed stranger to her if she had actually been translated into another sphere. yet that same fate, which had tried her heart in its crucible fires, and found its gold as unalloyed as her smile, now smiled, in turn, and rose was deeply appreciative of that fact. she knew that in gertrude merriman she had found a friend who was a blessed comforter for her in her days of trial; in truth, the nurse was destined to be more than that, a wise counsellor as well. herself a girl of breeding, a college graduate, and a product of the same mill through which the mountain child had set her heart and fixed her mind upon going, she would be able to smooth many a rough spot from that path which donald had pictured in his allegory, draw the thorns from many a bramble. for the first time rose parted from the friends whom she had known practically all her life, and from the rugged, picturesque mountain which had been home to her, and turned her face toward a new life. like a child venturing into the fairyland of dreams, she journeyed with her companion through the teeming cities of the east, miss merriman so arranging it that they should spend a day in each, for--with wisdom born of experience--she realized that such travel was in itself a broadening education, and that, moreover, in the new wonders and new delights which each hour held, smiles' grief would find its best assuagement. there was another reason in miss merriman's mind for making the trip a leisurely one. she knew that the girl was as far from being ready to step into the new existence, without material readjustment in her manners, as she was already mentally removed from the old. to be sure, she possessed a natural grace of manner which could not but charm any one who met her; but she was almost as free from external conventions as one of her own wild birds, except for the few which she had unconsciously acquired by her association with the older woman, and with donald; and, in her love for, and pride in, her protégé, miss merriman wanted rose to be able to fit, without embarrassment, into whatever company she might find herself. hers was a comparatively easy task, for smiles took to "manners" as readily as a chameleon adapts its exterior to suit the color of its surroundings. in the woods she had learned to mimic the note of the birds or the chattering of the squirrels; in the hotel dining-room she copied the behavior of her companion just as faithfully, and if, on occasion, she found herself perplexed as to the proper use of some strange implement of eating, she frankly, and without a thought of embarrassment, sought information on the subject. people regarded her with open amusement, sometimes; but more often their gaze spelt admiration, and rose was happily unconscious of both kinds of glances. furthermore, in obedience to instructions from donald, contained in a special delivery letter which reached her just before they started north, and in which he purported to be speaking and acting as the child's guardian _ipso facto_, miss merriman fitted her charge out with a simple, but complete, wardrobe, to smiles' never-failing surprise and delight that so many pretty things should be all her own. when the two were ready to leave the metropolis--whose size, splendor and feverish bustle left smiles mentally gasping--the nurse sent a telegram to donald, and one raw february evening found him impatiently pacing the south terminal station, awaiting the arrival of the train from new york. six months before, the prospect of some day being smiles' guardian had seemed vaguely pleasant. now it was an immediate fact, and the responsibilities engendered, the possible difficulties attendant on it, lay heavily upon his mind. he, too, thanked heaven for miss merriman. the train gates were opened at last, and donald hastened down the long platform, his eyes searching eagerly for those whom he sought. they fell first upon the nurse, just descending the steps, then turned and stayed upon the graceful, slender figure which followed her. was it really rose? could that young woman, clad in a simple black traveling dress and long coat which, even to his masculine perception, appeared modishly stylish and amazingly becoming, be the mountain child whom his memory clothed in homemade calico? her face was unwontedly pale beneath the small, close-fitting black hat, yet it was so utterly sweet that donald felt his pulses start again with the old strange thrill. if his mind harbored any idea that she might run into his embrace, it was doomed to disappointment, for, with the habiliments of city civilization, smiles had acquired its reserve. her greeting was a very demure and somewhat weary one,--it both pleased and irritated him, somehow. indeed, she spoke scarcely a word, and it was not until they had finished dinner in the quiet, homelike hotel, whither donald had taken them, that her new shyness began to yield to his presence. then the story of the marvels which her eyes had beheld came pouring forth with all the old-time childlike eagerness. when they were nearly ready to leave, miss merriman said, with a half real, half assumed show of firmness, "now, doctor macdonald, since i am off duty i can speak my mind plainly, and i mean to. i know that you are smiles' guardian; but you can't have her. she's mine, and she's going to live with my family until she enters the hospital. so there." donald breathed a mental sigh of relief, and responded, laughingly, "and i, apparently, haven't anything to say about it! oh, very well. i've lived long enough to learn that there is no use arguing with a woman, so i yield gracefully, although i'm afraid that it is establishing a bad precedent. if i begin to take orders from you like this, it is going to be hard to put you back in your place and to act the rôle of stern superior myself. i warn you, though, that i mean to get even with you on our next case, so prepare yourself to be bullied frightfully. "you see what a horrible disposition i really have, little sister," he added, smiling at rose, who informed him that she was not in the least frightened, and to prove it, slipped her hand into his for a moment with the childlike confidence that he loved. so it was arranged; a taxicab bore them to the homey little apartment in the fenway, where smiles was taken to mrs. merriman's maternal bosom, and, after humbly begging his ward from them for the next afternoon, when he meant to introduce her to his family, donald departed, whistling. tired, but strangely contented, rose was at last shown to her dainty pink and white bedroom, with its inviting brass bed, beside which she knelt for a long time in thankful prayer. nor was it strange, perhaps, that her pillow was moist with tears of gratitude and happiness before she fell asleep. smiles awoke early. the air in the room was very cold, but during her trip northward she had learned the mysteries of steam radiators, and she sprang up, closed the windows, and turned on the heat with a little silent laugh as her thoughts travelled back to the rude cabin on the mountain. in memory she saw herself crawl shiveringly from her bed, in the cold gray of a winter daybreak, clad only in a plain nightgown, to build a blaze in the big stone fireplace so that the room might be warm for big jerry when he awoke. the smile faded from her lips, and they trembled slightly as she whispered his name. poor grandpap, he had suffered sadly from the cold during those last few months when he could not keep the circulation up in his massive body by accustomed exercise. below her lay the still sleeping city. snow covered the untenanted portions of the fens, and hid its ugly nakedness with a soft mantle, which seemed to hold a silken sheen, as the first flush of morning touched it. how strange all her surroundings appeared. gone was the far sweeping expanse of forest-clad mountain side, stretching off to the sunrise; in its place lay a level space closed in by substantial buildings of marble, granite and brick--the art museum, latin school and clustered hospitals,--their walls changing from ghostly gray to growing rose and gold. she drew a comfortable dressing gown--the gift of her new friend--about her girlish form, and sat down by the window in the familiar posture with her chin on her cupped hands. by miss merriman's description of the view which the window gave upon she recognized the creamy brick building of the children's hospital, snuggled like a gentle sister by the side of the impressive marble walls of its big brother, the harvard medical school, and, as the light grew and gave definition to its outlines, she felt as though it were actually drawing nearer to her. in imagination she went to meet it; she entered its doors and took her place among those who toiled there with loving hearts and skillful hands; and thus miss merriman found her, half an hour later, when she, similarly clad, came to bid her little guest good morning. with silent understanding, which is born of true companionship, she drew the girl into her arms. "i'm not going to let you do a single thing but rest this morning," she said at length. "you look pale and tired still--like a very white rose--and i want you to appear your very sweetest when you go to meet dr. macdonald's family this afternoon, dear. come, let's decide what you shall wear. the black silk that we bought in new york?" smiles hesitated. "i think that ... would it be all right if i wore that pretty white woollen one?" "why, yes, if you like, but it is very plain and simple." "and so am i," laughed rose a bit unsteadily. "i want them to see me just as i am, and ... oh, how i hope that they will like me!" "never fear. they will," answered miss merriman, giving her a reassuring kiss. nevertheless, it was a very quiet and timid smiles who sat beside donald in his coupé at four that afternoon, as he drove to the richly sombre home on beacon street, where had dwelt many generations of thayers. he, too, although he attempted to be jovial, was strangely uneasy. "you chump!" he said to himself. "you're more disturbed about whether this child will make a good impression, than you would be over performing a major operation. supposing that ethel _doesn't_ go wild about her, what of it?" a trim maid ushered them into the drawing room, where softly shaded lights were already burning, for the afternoon was dull and gray, and they gave a mellow homelike appearance to the mahogany furniture, rich tapestries, oriental rugs and costly paintings. ethel, mr. macdonald, senior, and little muriel were in the room when donald entered with the girl's slim hand held tightly in his, for she had slipped it there impulsively, just as he stepped through the broad doorway. "this," he said simply, "is smiles." they all arose, and ethel stepped quickly forward with outstretched hands. she had told herself that she meant to be very kind to the little savage to whom her brother had taken such an astonishing fancy; but now, something in the slender form and the half-frightened expression in the pale, sweet face caused her to forget everything else except that the stranger was alone and ill at ease. both her arms went out to rose with a motherly gesture, and, as she drew her within them, she said, "why, my dear child." "yes, she _is_ a child," broke in muriel, eagerly seizing one of smiles' hands. "i thought that she was a grown-up woman; but see, she wears her hair down on her neck just like a school girl." let it be said that miss merriman had caught the note struck by rose that morning, and had arrayed her to appear as young and simple as possible. "a child? of course she is," echoed mr. macdonald in a hearty voice. "my dear, donald has told us so much about you that i feel almost as though i had known you all your life. but," he added with little wrinkles forming at the corners of his kindly gray eyes, "i would like to have seen you, as my son did first, in that one-piece calico dress. he described the picture that you made very graphically." "oh, look, mother. she's going to _smile_. remember how pretty uncle don told us she looked when ..." rose's shyly budding smile changed to silvery laughter in which all the rest joined, and with it was sealed the bond of an enduring friendship. then baby don was brought down from the nursery for inspection and, before he had been contentedly curled in the newcomer's arms many minutes, he was actually trying to lisp "mileth," which ethel proudly pronounced to be the first articulate word in his vocabulary, if those universal sounds, which doting parents have ever taken to mean mother and father, be excepted. he liked it so well that he insisted upon repeating it over and over, with eyes screwed up tight and mouth opened very wide, which gave him so comical an expression that every one laughed, including himself. manlike, donald had planned to get all the meetings over with at once, and had asked his sister to invite marion in for afternoon tea and to meet his "protégé and prodigy"--as ethel had phrased it in her invitation. he had, however, purposely refrained from mentioning the fact to rose, and when miss treville entered, stately as a goddess, very beautiful and a trifle condescending in manner, as she extended her white-gloved hand and said, "so this is little rose," the girl felt a sudden chill succeed the warmth of hospitality which had served to banish all her timid reserve, had brought a glow of happy color to her cheeks and a sparkle to her luminous eyes, and had made her as wholly natural as she would have been at home among her simple neighbors of the mountains. donald felt the psychological change, and sensed the reason for it; but although, in a clumsy manner, he did his best to restore the atmosphere of comradeship, he knew that he was failing. marion also tried, and tried sincerely, to bring rose into the conversation; but the girl had become embarrassed and silent, and to her own surprise the society woman vaguely realized that she, too, was embarrassed and not at her best. she tried to shake off the feeling with the thought that it was absurd that one who had been at ease in the presence of royalty should feel so in that of a simple mountain girl; but she could not wholly banish the feeling or the impression that the girl's deep, unusual eyes were looking down beneath the surface, which she knew was perfectly appointed--had she not, for no reason at all she told herself, taken special pains in dressing?--and that, although there was something of awed admiration in her frank gaze, it also held a suggestion of something which was not entirely approval. donald felt it, too, and it irritated him; so much so that he was frankly glad when his fiancée announced that she must depart to attend a social engagement. perhaps it was because he was ashamed of such a feeling that he kissed her with unusual warmth, as he handed her into the waiting motor car, and he found himself flushing deeply, without reason, when he returned to the drawing room and saw rose standing by one of the windows, looking out at the departing limousine with its two liveried attendants. "she is very beautiful," the girl whispered to him, as he joined her. there was another guest that afternoon, who came in, unexpectedly--a young man, in appearance donald's antithesis, for, although he was of more than medium height, he was slender and almost as graceful as a woman. wavy light hair crowned a merry, boyish face which, with its remarkably blue eyes, was almost too good looking for a man, although saved from a hint of weakness by a firm, well-rounded chin. "called at your office and learned that you were loafing on the job again, and that i might find you up here, visiting a baby--for a change," he ran on, as he entered after the manner of one who feels himself perfectly at home. then he caught sight of rose, blushed like a girl himself and stammered, "oh, i beg pardon. i didn't know that i was ..." "you're not," laughed donald, seizing the newcomer's hand with a vicelike grasp. "come in. i've told you about my little mountain rose, and now is your chance to meet her, for here she is. smiles, this is my closest friend and associate, dr. philip bentley--the man who steps into my shoes when i am summarily ordered to board the next train for the cumberland mountains, or elsewhere." "who steps into his practice, perhaps, but not into his shoes, miss rose," added the other. "i could not fill _them_, figuratively or physically." "go ahead, make all the fun of me that you like," answered donald. "i'm not ashamed of having a broad understanding." "you would not think dr. donald's boots large if you could have seen my granddaddy's," interposed smiles, pretending to think that reflection was being cast upon her idol. "i could get _both_ my feet inside one of them--really i could." "i don't wonder," answered philip with a return to seriousness. and the girl hastily tucked her diminutive shoes underneath her chair, as she saw the man's gaze fastened upon them. for nearly an hour she lived in unaccustomed delight, as she listened to the merry badinage of this group of educated city dwellers and, although it was something new to her, her quick mind soon realized that philip was a most entertaining conversationalist, with a wit like a rapier which flashed and touched, but never hurt, and that donald, in his slower way, possessed a dry humor which she had not suspected. at the end of that time a telephone call came for donald which sent him forth, pretending to grumble over the lack of consideration of modern children, who insisted upon getting sick at the most inconvenient times, and of their parents, who permitted it. "your loss, my gain," chuckled philip. "i'll be only too pleased to take miss rose home." "indeed, i'll not allow such a thing," promptly responded ethel. "rose stays here for dinner, and _you're_ not invited. this is to be strictly a family party." "'family?' is don going to be a mormon, then?" challenged philip. it was rose, who--blushing prettily--answered, "i hope not, for he is my brother, too, by blood adoption." and she told the story. "then why can't _i_ be? i'm ready, nay, anxious, to shed quarts and quarts of blood to attain a like relationship," persisted philip. and thus the conversation ran on through dinner, for ethel relented and allowed dr. bentley to remain, and, as donald was again summoned away, it was he who, after all, took rose to the merriman apartment. "oh," she cried, in telling gertrude all about it, "i think that it was the happiest evening i ever spent, or it _would_ have been if big jerry might only have been there, too." a slight suggestion of a smile passed over the face of the older woman as she pictured the mountaineer in a beacon street drawing room. rose saw, and interpreted it. "grandpap would not have been out of place there, or in a king's palace. he _was_ a king, miss merriman." "yes, dear, he truly was," the other responded seriously. there was a pause. "isn't dr. bentley nice," said smiles, softly. "he must be splendid, for dr. donald likes him a lot." "he likes _you_ a lot, too! my, aren't we vain?" smiled gertrude. "oh, i didn't think how that was going to sound!" rose's distress was real and the other hastened to say, "yes, dr. bentley is splendid. we used to call them 'david and jonathan,' for they were always together, and, before dr. mcdonald become engaged, we said that neither would ever marry, since they couldn't marry each other. now i suppose that dr. bentley will be looking around for consolation. perhaps...." "don't be silly," laughed smiles. but she became suddenly silent again. chapter xxv the first milestone three months sped by and were gone like a dream. day after day, until should come that longed-for, yet dreaded test, rose studied with a diligence that delighted the private tutor whom donald, through miss merriman, had secured for her--a young woman who found herself astonished by her pupil's avidity in seeking knowledge. the passing days were not, however, wholly dedicated to the books which held for smiles the key to the citadel she sought to possess. other doors and other hearts were open to her, and, because of her simple charm, donald's family welcomed her as a visitor whose every advent in the city home seemed to bring a fresh breath from the hills and open spaces. little muriel, who had loved her unseen, worshipped her on sight, and ethel, happy in donald's betrothal to marion treville, would have been glad to have had her with them far more often than she would consent to come. long walks she took, too, regardless of weather, swinging freely along on voyages of discovery; losing herself often in boston's impossible streets, only to find her way back home with the instinct for direction of one bred amid forests, trackless, save for infrequent blind and tortuous paths. and soon the historic, homey city cast its strange spell over her heart, and claimed her for its own. spring came at last, not the verdant, glorious, festal virgin of the southland, but the hesitant, bashfully reserved maiden so typical of new england, and miss merriman finally reported to donald that their joint protégé seemed to be fairly prepared for the test which she had come so far to take. there are no rules, born of reason, which cannot yield to reasonable exceptions, and, although the entrance requirements of the training school were as exacting as its course, and as strict as its standard, a standard which had long since made it the peer of any in all america, some of the purely technical ones were waived upon the request of the idolized chief junior surgeon on the staff, for donald went personally to the superintendent and explained the case to her, and she agreed to allow rose to take a special examination; but she shook her head when he mentioned the girl's age. "of course you know what the requirements are in that respect, doctor," she said. "we make exceptions, yes; but, if she enters now, she will be by far the youngest girl in the school. i think that, before i give you my decision, i shall have to see and talk with her." accordingly, that afternoon he took the rather frightened smiles to the superintendent of nurses, and left them closeted together. "dr. macdonald has told me about you, and your ambition, miss webb," said the superintendent kindly. "you have been very courageous; but you are very young, even younger than i thought. now i want you to tell me frankly just what your life has been, so that i may judge as to your other qualifications, before deciding whether it is wise for you to take the examinations." rose began hesitatingly; but, as the other drew her out with judicious questions, she told her story with simple directness, and, before long, the superintendent had come to a realization that the little mountain girl--whose life had, for so long, been one of unusual responsibilities--had already acquired an uncommon maturity of judgment. although she was still some eighteen months below the prescribed age for entering, she received the other's hesitating permission to make the essay. it would be difficult to decide who felt the greater nervousness during the period of smiles' written examination, and the time which had to elapse before word came as to the result--rose, miss merriman or donald. it was the last who heard first. the superintendent invited him into her office, as he was passing through the hospital corridor one day, and said, "i am sure that you will be pleased to hear that miss webb has passed her tests with flying colors, doctor." a warmth of pleasurable relief passed through donald; but he managed to reply formally, "i _am_ pleased; but i hope that you didn't ease up any because of anything ... er ... on my account." "no, we didn't," was the response. "i'll admit that both your account of what miss webb had done, and the girl herself, appealed to me so that i was prepared to mark a bit leniently, if necessary; but it wasn't. i really don't see how she managed to garner so much education in so short a time." "'where there's a will,'" quoted donald, with inward satisfaction over the fact that his ward had fulfilled his prophecy, and he stole a few minutes out of the busy morning to motor to the merrimans' apartment to bear the joy-bringing tidings personally to little rose, whose eyes shone happily and whose lips smiled their thanks, but who--perversely, it seemed to him--gave miss merriman the reward which he felt should have been his. dreams do come true sometimes, if they _are_ true, and so at last arrived a bright may morning when smiles folded away her little play uniform forever, and--by right of conquest--donned the striped pink and white gingham dress and bibless apron of a probationer, within the doors of the newly built home of that old and worthy institution which had had its inception, more than sixty years before, in the loving heart of nursing sister margaret. there rose entered into a new life, as different from that of the old physical freedom of the hills, and personal freedom from restraint, as could well be imagined, for, as donald had told her, she was now mustered, as an untrained recruit, into a great modern army; and discipline is the keynote in war, whether the battle be against evil nations or evil forces. from half after six in the morning until ten at night, when with military precision came "lights out," her life was drawn to pattern. it was not a hardship for her, as with some others, to arise at the early hour; and the brief prayer and singing of the morning hymn, in company with her fifty-odd sister-probationers and pupil nurses, impressed her strongly the first time in which she had part in it, and never failed to strengthen and uplift her for the day's toil. times were to come aplenty, to be sure, when the old call of untrammelled freedom stirred her senses to mute rebellion; but, as often, her all-absorbed interest in the work silenced it speedily. right at the outset rose experienced the same shock which hundreds of other would-be nurses have had. she, mistress of a home for years, was obliged to learn to clean, to scrub, to make a bed! for two whole months of probationary training she had to labor at the bedside or in the classroom, doing the commonplace, practical tasks which, to many, seemed merely unnecessary drudgery; but, if she occasionally felt that donald's prophecy was coming true with a vengeance, more often her level little head held a prescient understanding of how important this unlovely foundation was to the structure which should some day be built upon it. and, although the superintendent said nothing to smiles, she noted with secret appreciation that her new pupil possessed, in addition to her sustaining enthusiasm, a no less valuable thing--the innate ability to use her hands by instinct and without clumsy conscious effort. had not this girl, who was scarcely more than a child in years, for a long time been both a homemaker and an ever-ready nurse to all those who became ill within the confines of the scattered mountain settlement? the second milestone was reached at last. rose was one day summoned alone into the superintendent's sanctum, and the door was closed to all others. a little later she came out with tears adding new lustre to her shining eyes, for the talk had been very earnest and heart-searching; but they were tears of happiness, for upon her gleaming curls now sat the square piqué cap which was the visible sign that she had safely traversed the first stretch of the long, hard road. to be sure, she knew well that even this, the so dearly desired cap and pale blue dress which went with it, did not make her fully a pupil nurse, yet that afternoon it seemed that life could never hold for her an honor more precious. the afternoon on which this momentous event occurred was one of liberty for rose, and she hastened with the news to her dear miss merriman, the precious cap smuggled out under her coat; but, after they had rejoiced together, and she had admired its reflection in the glass, she suddenly became doleful, and wailed in mock despair, "oh, doesn't it seem as though i'd never, _never_ be a real nurse. why, now i've got to _leave the hospital_"--the tragedy in her tone almost caused her friend to break into laughter--"and study all sorts of awful latin things. she opened a catalogue and read aloud, 'physiology, bacteriology, chemistry, dietetics,' and goodness knows what else over at simmons college, for _four whole months_. i shall simply die, i just know that i shall!" miss merriman gently explained the necessity for each of them; but wisely refrained from further frightening her by adding that a full year's course was to be crowded into those sixteen weeks. in due time these, too, were over, the awe-inspiring examination passed, and smiles was accepted as worthy of a place among the pupil nurses. like an athlete she had finished her preliminary training, and was ready for the long, gruelling race toward the goal, two and a half years distant. hard work though it was, rose found all her days sunny ones, and only one cloud partly obscured their brightness. donald she saw on rare occasions only, as the demands upon his time doubled and redoubled, and of course their brief meetings at the hospital demanded strict formality of intercourse. deeply as he felt for her, he was a physician first, last and all the time, and as uncompromising in his own ethics as he was in his requirements of the nurses. yet, if she saw him seldom, there was another whom she saw increasingly often. dr. bentley's attitude towards rose was also strictly professional; but he never failed to bow and speak pleasantly when he met her in the corridors or wards, and she instinctively felt that in him she had found another real friend. rose was too much a child of nature to be given to thinking much about men; but there were minutes, just before sleep came at night, when her mind would visualize donald's strong, kindly face, which seemed to look down at her with an expression almost fatherly, and she would whisper a little prayer that she might help him as she had resolved to, that night on the mountain top. and at such times another face, light, where his was dark, came, not to supplant, but to supplement it. chapter xxvi the call of the red cross despite the enthralling interest of her new work and surroundings, it seemed to rose, during the year after she gained entrance to the temple of her desire, that her life was standing still, while all things else were speeding by her at a breakneck pace. it had never been so before. even in the isolation and simplicity of her former home she had felt that she was a part of it all. it had seemed to her, somehow, as though her existence had been patterned after her own turbulent mountain stream, which danced along through sunshine and shade, with here and there a ravine and cataract, here and there a rapid or impeding boulder in its course; but always moving, moving. then, suddenly, it was as though that swift little river had fallen into a broad, quiet basin, walled in, where it moved forward almost imperceptibly. true, it was daily gaining greater depth and fulness as it gathered to itself the tributary waters of knowledge and experience, and smiles was not insensible to this fact. but it was difficult to remember it always, for the outer world of events was moving forward so fast. the very day upon which her probationary period came to an end and, with a smile on her lips, a song in her heart, she placed the cherished cap upon her gold-brown curls, there came, from the heart of the swiftly piled up, lowering clouds, the blinding flash which shattered the peace of the world and started the overwhelming conflagration into the seething, bloody-tongued vortex into which nation after nation was sucked irresistibly. the world had become the plaything of the gods of wrath. black days passed, shuddering things of horror to rose, when she had time to allow her mind to dwell upon them, and her keen imagination to picture the atrocities which the fiend was committing upon the helpless babies of belgium and france. then, in answer to the cries and lamentations from overseas, the banner of the red cross was shaken forth anew, like a holy standard, and, like crusaders of old, doctors and nurses flocked beneath it for the battle. from her own hospital home went physicians and graduate nurses to dedicate themselves afresh to service. the call reached and wrung the heart of rose. she could not go as a nurse, she knew; yet the need was so great that it seemed to her that somehow she must answer; but she resolutely closed her ears to it and fixed her eyes the more steadfastly upon the rocky, shut-in path which she had set forth to climb. it was a raw, bleak evening in late november when she made her final resolve. at noon donald had met her in one of the corridors and stopped to speak with her. his face, she thought afterwards, had appeared unusually serious and determined, even for him, as he said, "this is your afternoon and evening off duty, isn't it, rose? i want to talk with you, if you haven't made any other plans." as it chanced, she had been eagerly anticipating a visit to the theatre with miss merriman, who was home for a few days between cases; but something about his manner caused her to tell a white lie without hesitation. "good," he said. "i'll call for you in my car and take you to ethel's for dinner. be ready at six o'clock." all the rest of the day donald's presence had been strangely close to her, and she found herself wondering what it portended; but not until the pleasant family meal was over, and he was taking her home, did she learn. when they came out of the house they found a baby blizzard sending the first snow of the season, as light and dry as tiny particles of down, whirling and eddying through the broad street. as rose stood in surprise at the top of the brownstone steps, a dry vagrant, left from one of the trees which was tossing its gaunt arms protestingly, came tumbling down to become stem-entangled in her hair. with a laugh, she dashed for the motor car and, when she had sprung inside it, she was panting a little, for the thieving wind had taken advantage of her lips being open in laughter to steal away her breath, so that donald was sensible of her quickened heart beats as she leaned against him while his big but deft fingers removed the leaf almost tenderly from its imprisoning mesh. "doctor bentley would make a pretty speech about getting caught in my hair," challenged rose with a teasing pout. the next instant she drew quickly back, for donald's arms were almost about her. he as quickly recovered himself, with the words, "but you can't expect pretty speeches from a brother." "you have been a dear big brother; i don't know why you have been so good to me, donald. do you know what this snow reminds me of? that awful night on the mountain when i went down to fayville to telegraph for you--and you came." for a moment they both sat in silent memories, then rose added, "dear little lou, i wonder how she is getting along now ... and juddy, too. isn't it a strange thing, donald, that one can forget the old things so quickly--no, not forget, either; but have them forced into the background of the mind by new surroundings and new friends. sometimes, all those years on the mountain seem to me like a dream. i used to see the people there, grandpap, mr. talmadge, judd and all the rest, every day, they were a part of my life, and now they have been completely withdrawn and who knows if i shall ever see any of them again? they hardly seem real to me." "yes, strange, perhaps, but it happens many times in the course of a life." he paused, then added hurriedly, "i suppose that in a few months you will be saying the same thing about me--'i used to see him every day, he was a part of my life, but now he is only in the background of my memory, and doesn't seem real.'" there was a note almost of bitterness in donald's voice; but rose was too stunned by his words to notice or attempt to analyze the manner of their utterance. "donald, what ... what do you mean? you're not ..." she gasped, and laid her hand with an impulsive clutch on his arm. "look out! don't interfere with the motorman," he laughed more naturally, as the car swerved almost into the curbing. "yes, i am. i'm going away ... almost immediately." "away? where?" "to france." "oh, don, you mustn't; you can't. you're needed here so much." "they need me over there more, little smiles. i've realized it, and felt the pull, for days; but it didn't become insistent until yesterday, when i received a letter from a chap whom i have known for years. he's always had a good deal more money than was good for him, and been a sort of social butterfly. i liked him, although i didn't believe that he had a serious thought in his head, didn't think that he was capable of one, but ... here, read what he has written me," he concluded abruptly, as a temporary block forced their car to a stop beneath an electric light on massachusetts avenue. "the first page doesn't matter; it merely contains a description of how he happened to be caught in paris by the outbreak of the war, and got mixed up in volunteer rescue work through a spirit of adventure." rose turned to the second sheet and, holding the pages close to the glass in the door, through which came enough snow-filtered light to illumine them, read. "i am beginning to understand, now, something of what you meant when you used to talk so enthusiastically about your confining, and, as it seemed to me, often thankless work. i never knew what real satisfaction was until i began to get mixed up with this volunteer red cross work. coming from the source that it does, you will probably be surprised and amused at the statement that, when i look back on the old, superficial, utterly useless life that i formerly led, i actually thank god for the foolish whim that brought me to paris in the fall, and the equally whimsical decision that led me to volunteer my services as an auto driver. the work has stirred something inside of me that i didn't know existed, and, if i come through this scrape (we're working in villages pretty close to the front a good deal of the time), i'll come home 'poorer, but wiser.' yes, they've touched my pocketbook as well as my heart. i suppose the papers give you some idea of conditions here; but no verbal description can begin to do it justice; the need is simply overwhelming and hourly growing greater. think of it, old man, there are thousands upon thousands of babies and little kiddies of belgium and northern france homeless, many of them orphaned, most of them sick and all helpless and with their lives--which have every right to be carefree and happy--filled with sorrow and suffering. france has been glorious in the way she has met the staggering, almost insuperable difficulties which everywhere confront her, but how could she be expected to meet this incidental problem when she was so overburdened with the crushing pressure of the battle for her very existence. it has been a mighty lucky thing for her that the red cross was ready to take it off her shoulders, and she has turned to _us_ (how does that sound? can you imagine me doing anything useful?) with tears of appeal and gratitude. that isn't a figure of speech. i have actually seen the prefect of this province, who would rank with the governor of one of our states, and who is a brave, capable man, cry like a woman over the seeming hopelessness of the ghastly problem. i have heard him say that he--that france--was helpless, and beg us in the name of common humanity to do what we could. believe me, we're doing it, and i'm proud of my countrymen and women who have gone into this thing with the typical yankee pep; proud of the american red cross and just a bit proud of myself. you used to make fun of my vaunted ability to stay up half the night, and be fresh as a daisy the next morning. it's serving me in good stead now. i can't begin to tell you about the work we have done already and are doing; it is a task to overwhelm the courage, but we are 'carrying on,' as the tommies say. new children, by the scores and hundreds, are brought into the hospital bases daily, and many of them have been living for weeks, and even months, filthy in cellars of hun-shattered villages which are almost continually under fire. they are generally sick, naturally, indescribably dirty and, in fact, mere wraiths of childhood. god, don, it gets me when i imagine my own nephews and nieces in their places! we clean 'em up, give them help and something to live for. we have already established hospitals, schools and nurseries in ---- and ---- and our ambulances and 'traveling baths' go out daily to give aid to the less needy in the neighborhood. can you picture _me_ acting as chauffeur for a magnified bath tub for belgian babies? that's what i'm doing, now! get into the game, old man. we need you over here, and the kids of the disgustingly rich at home will be the better for not having a doctor to give them a pill every time their little noses run a bit. pack up your saws, axes and other trouble-makers in your old kit bag and climb aboard a ship bound for france." donald saw that there were tears in smiles' deep eyes as she silently folded the pages, and replaced them in their envelope. "of course you ought to go," she said simply. "i spoke selfishly. but oh, don, i don't know what i shall do without you; you're the only 'family' i've got. i don't see you very often; but i know that you are here in boston, and i guess that i have got the habit of leaning on you in my thoughts. you know i called you a tree, years and years ago." "yes, i remember, an 'oak,' wasn't it? i thought that you meant that i was tough," he laughed. "the idea of _you_ leaning on any one is funny, rose." then he added, with some hesitancy, "i've been thinking ... would you like to go over there, too, rose? i could take you ... that is, i am quite sure that i could arrange for you to do so, not as a red cross nurse, of course, for they have to be graduates; but as a volunteer helper in one of those base hospitals. it would be a wonderful experience, and you would be performing the kind of service that you like best. it would not be time wasted, by any means." she started, and her lips parted eagerly; then the light slowly faded from her eyes and she shook her head slowly. "i would love it. it would be glorious, don, and i should be working with you, perhaps, but ... no, i must keep on doing as i have planned. i can't falter or fail now, don. there is going to be greater need every day, not for helpers, but for trained workers. when this awful war is ended and the weary, weary world turns back to peaceful pursuits, its hope and salvation will lie in its babies. won't it, don? i would like to help those babies over in france; sometimes i dream of being a red cross nurse and helping the poor, wounded soldiers; but i am sure that it is better for me to keep on making myself ready to serve the coming generations to the best of my fully trained ability. don't you think so, too, don?" her words had rung firm and true until the last question, when there crept in a note which seemed to his ears to carry an appeal for him to disagree, and argue with her; but the man answered, "yes, dear. you are dead right, and i felt certain that you would say what you have said. you have got to stay until you are trained; i have got to go, because i am. you see that, don't you?" "yes. oh, i shall miss you awfully, don; i can't tell you how much. but i want you to go. and i mean to pray for you, and the poor little babies over there, too. i'll write you as often as i can; as often as you want me to." "that's fine," he answered heartily. "but, as i told you once before, don't feel hurt if i answer only occasionally. i have a suspicion that there will be plenty of work for me to do over there." "yes, i'll understand. besides, you will have to write to ... to miss treville more than to me. are you ... are you going to get married before you go?" "married? good lord, no ... that is, i hadn't even thought of it," he said with a forced laugh. "why, i haven't even told her yet that i am going." "you haven't? you told me, first?" "well ... er ... you see i had to tell you, because ... because i ... i hold a position of trust in respect to you, and have got to make arrangements for your future. big jerry told me to use my own judgment about your money, and i believe that you are fully competent to take care both of yourself and of it. "here," he drew a small package from his side pocket, "is a bank deposit and check book, for i have already had the account transferred from my name, as trustee, to you individually. now it is up to you to prove that you are a careful little business woman. with more than a thousand dollars in the bank you may feel quite like an heiress, but i warn you that a big city is a glutton and its avaricious maw is always open for money. be warned by one who knows. if you need any advice of any nature that a man can give better than miss merriman, i want you to promise to call on phil ... dr. bentley, that is, for i mean to put you in his charge. you can trust him just as you do me." "i know that," answered rose frankly. "well, here we are, little sister. don't tell any one what i have just told you, for i want to make all my preliminary arrangements before i astound the world with the announcement of what i am going to do." "you needn't laugh," answered rose. "i guess that it will dismay plenty of back bay families who have babies." there was a catch in her voice as she bade him good-night, and she was not sorry for an excuse for running into the hospital, offered by the mellow notes of a distant church clock tolling the hour of ten. it was the signal for "lights out" in the bedrooms, and this was appreciated, too, for it made it possible for her to undress in the dark, and the pale moonlight which came in through the window, as the moon played hide and seek behind the broken masses of storm clouds--for the blizzard had ended as quickly as it had come on--was reflected on two glistening tear drops on her flushed cheeks. in the darkness her roommate could not see them and be led to ask questions. the two girls, one the self-educated, unknown child of the southern mountain side, the other the college-bred daughter of one of new england's oldest families, had become fast friends and generally exchanged whispered confidences until the sleep which comes of physical exhaustion speedily claimed them; but to-night rose was in no mood for conversation. the last thread which bound the old life to the new was soon to be broken, and she felt lonelier, more nearly homesick, than she had since leaving webb's gap. "perhaps i shall never see him again," she half whispered. "but i shall never, _never_ forget him, he has been so good and meant so much to me. and i shall always love him." she saw that her roommate was asleep, softly raised the window-shade to let in the moonlight that she loved, and, clad in her simple nightdress, short sleeved and cut low at the neck, seated herself before the mirror to brush her wavy mass of hair, and, as she leaned forward, and it fell about her face, tear bedewed and made almost childlike again by its frame of tumbling curls, she smiled faintly in recollection. "i look the way i used to in my homemade, one-piece dresses," she breathed. "just as i did that afternoon when he first saw me. 'yo' looked so funny a-fallin' over thet thar dawg, an' a-rollin' on the floor.' what a way to greet a famous physician--only i didn't know it then." for a moment she sat like this, her thoughts far away from the northern city; then a faint blush mantled her face, and she hastily jumped up and shut out the soft light by pulling down the shade. chapter xxvii the goal you cannot, by a bridge of sighs, attain the future's golden years, but try a bridge of rainbow hopes erected on substantial piers of honest work, and you will find it leads you surely to the goal. 'tis god that gives the dreamer's dreams, as radiant as the morning, but, if the will to work is weak, they often die a-borning. if this were a romance, instead of the simple account of the pilgrimage and development of a girl from childhood to womanhood, it would be permissible to say, "three years pass by in swift flight," or "drag by on weary feet," as the case may have been, and then resume the action. but in everyday life, character is built out of everyday incidents, big and little, all of which have place in the moulding of it, and, since the years of smiles' training within the children's hospital were vital ones for her, it is essential to touch briefly upon some of the occurrences which filled them. on the other hand, it is by no means necessary to describe that period at length. it is doubtful if, in later life, she will herself look back upon the many days so filled to repletion with exacting, though interesting, tasks, as other than a dead level, for constant repetition of a thing, no matter how gripping it may be, produces a monotony. but there were special incidents--sometimes trivial in comparison with the importance of her sustained labor--which formed the high lights in the picture, and the memory of which will endure through all the after years. by recounting a few of these, and letting our imaginations fill in the interims, we can accompany rose on her journey to the goal of her desires. * * * * * the day after donald had taken her into his confidence regarding his plans, rose made up her mind to keep a diary. "even though he may be thousands of miles away, i mean to keep myself as close to him as possible by writing him as i would talk to him, about _all_ the things which happen in my life, and, unless i set them down as they happen, i shall forget," she told miss merriman, after the seal of secrecy had been removed from her lips. "perhaps _you_ can succeed in keeping one. _i_ never could," laughed her friend. "each january first i start a new one, and register a solemn vow to keep it up longer, at least, than i did the one the previous year. if i follow that system until i am three hundred and fifty years old, i will complete just one before i die." smiles accepted the implied challenge, and, day by day, with few omissions, the dated pages bore new testimony to her application in performing a self-appointed task. the plan bore fruit, too, for donald, in his rare replies to her confidential letters, which went to him each fortnight, was able to praise her as the best of correspondents, writing once, "you have an exceptional gift for making incidents seem real and people alive, in your letters, and of realizing that, with us who are so far away from home, it _is_ the little things which count. ethel, alas, is hopeless in this respect. she writes me faithfully; but invariably says that nothing has happened except the usual occurrences of everyday life, and thereby utterly misses the great fact that it is just those very things that the lonely exile most longs to hear about. i would actually rather have her write that they had baked beans on saturday night than that so-and-so had given a charity whist at the vendome." yet many a sentence went into the diary that was never copied or embellished for donald's eyes. some of them had to do with him, or her thoughts of him; some were too intimate for another to see. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - december th, . "my dear donald has gone. i think that i have not felt so utterly lonesome since granddaddy died. and i could not get away to say good-by to him--i could have cried, only i didn't have time even to do _that_. it doesn't seem right, when he has been so dear to me, that i should have had to part from him in the hospital corridor with others around, so that all i could do was press his hand an instant and wish him a commonplace, 'good luck and god-speed.' still, it probably wouldn't have been any different if we had been alone. i couldn't have done what my heart was longing to do, everything is different now. i don't believe that i enjoy being 'grown-up.' what an unpleasant thing 'convention' is. why, i wonder, must we always hide our true feelings under a mask? i suppose it is lest the world give a wrong meaning to them; but if i _had_ kissed him, the way i used to, i'm sure that donald would have understood. he knows that i love him as dearly as though i were truly his sister, instead of a make-believe one." here the page bears a number of meaningless hieroglyphics, and then the words, stricken out, "i wonder." "he looked so manly in his uniform, and so distinguished, although i suppose that he isn't really _handsome_--at least, not like dr. bentley. _he_ isn't so wonderful as don; but i think that he is more understanding. he seemed to realize just how i felt this morning, and he was as sweet and considerate as a woman when i bungled things awfully in the operating room. the head nurse gave me a deserved call down, however, and it was perhaps just as well that she did, for my mind needed to be 'brought back.' only my body was in the hospital, and the _real me_, as mr. talmadge said, was back in the cabin, helping donald operate on lou, all over again. i cried like a little fool--the first time i have done it here--but my tears weren't for the poor baby on the operating table. they were memory tears.... "poor little thing, he had to die, and he was the first one whom i have seen pass on to the eternal garden of god's flowers since i have been in the hospital. oh, it hasn't been a happy day at all.... "i wonder if donald could have saved him? my brain answers, 'no.' dr. bentley did all that lies within the power of science, i am sure. but somehow ..." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - christmas night. "if donald might only have been here in person to-day, it would have been perfect. i think that he must have been, in spirit, for i 'felt' his presence quite near me several times; i confided as much to dr. bentley and he made an atrocious pun on the word 'presents.' i wish he wouldn't; it is the only thing about him that i don't like, but he will make them. wasn't donald thoughtful and dear to have bought a christmas gift for me during those overcrowded days before he went away?--a whole set of books, beautifully bound, but better still, beautiful within. books are the same as people, i think. we like to see both attractively clothed, but in each it is the soul that counts.... "what a lot of presents i received--from miss merriman and her mother, mrs. thayer and little muriel, and, oh, so many of the girls here. i don't know why they are all so good to me--because i am looked upon as a lonely little savage, i suppose. and then there was that one from dr. bentley. the idea of a simple mountain girl from webb's gap having five whole pounds of candy at once! - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "the funniest thing happened to-day, and i must not forget to write donald all about it. he is sure to remember little red-headed jimmy, who has to spend so much of his time in the hospital. has he imagination enough, i wonder, to picture him sitting up in bed in the snow-white ward, with his flaming auburn hair and bright red jacket calling names at each other? i love the old custom to which the hospital still clings of putting all the little patients into those red flannel jackets on cold days, for it makes the wards look so cheerful--like christmas fields dotted with bright berries. jimmy is a dear, and so imaginative that i believe he _lives_ every story that i tell him of the cumberlands--certainly he likes them better than fairy stories. this afternoon, i had finished telling him about how grandpappy shot the turkey for dr. macdonald, and i found him looking up at me with his big blue eyes, which can be as serious as a saint's or as mischievous as an imp's. 'your face is most always laughing, miss webb,' said he. 'i think i shall have to call you nurse smiles.' my roommate, miss roberts, happened to be in the room and heard him, and now it's all over the hospital. everybody is calling me it, unless the superintendent or some of the older doctors are around. how odd it is that he should have struck on it, and given me my old nickname again.... "dr. bentley called me smiles when he left after his evening visit." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - may th, . "this has been a day of days for me. first i received a long and wonderful letter from donald. it seemed like old times, for it was as kindly and simple, too, as those which he used to write to me at webb's gap. i wonder if he regards me as still a child? i suppose that i really am one, but somehow i feel very grown up, and much older than many of the girls who are years older than i. they constantly surprise me by acting so young when they are off duty ... but i love it in them. "to-day i entered into the second year of my training. i wish that i had the power to set down on paper my feelings when i received that first narrow black band for my cap. i suppose that i had some of the same 'prideful' sensations that dear granddaddy did when he was very young, and cut the first notch in the stock of his rifle-gun. but how much better _my_ notch is! it means that i am fast getting able to save lives, not to take them. i must always remember that--it will give a deeper meaning to the symbol. and now my room is going to be moved down a story--i'm so glad that dorothy roberts is to be with me still--and i can move in one table nearer the front wall in the dining room. that wall sometimes seems to me like a goal that i have got to reach before i will be safe, just as in a children's game of tag, and, when i get tired and discouraged--for i do, at times, little diary--it seems as though there were many, many things stretching out invisible hands to catch me before i get to it. donald was right about the path being no road of roses.... come, this will never do; i'm supposed to be happy to-night, and besides, now i've got to live up to my nickname again. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - i wonder how much i really have changed in the year? a good deal, i'm sure. i remember that at first i used to laugh to myself over the 'class distinctions,' such as i have just been writing about; that was when i was fresh from the mountain, where every one called every one else by his or her first name--and also when i was in the lowest class myself. once i was even bold enough to tell dr. bentley that i thought they were foolish, but he reminded me--as donald had--that we are an army here, and that in an army a private can't eat and sleep with a captain, or a captain with a general. now i don't mind the rules and regulations at all, for i have learned the lesson of discipline, and i know that, even if we do have to be strict in our conduct toward the older nurses and the doctors, we are all--from the senior surgeon down to the lowliest probationer--really one in a great spiritual fellowship, as the prayerbook says, and all working together in the same great cause." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - august th, . "little diary, i have been neglecting you lately, but now you and i must collect our thoughts, for we have got to write a long, long letter to donald and tell him all about the vacation--the first that i ever had. it was the first time that i was ever really at the seashore, too, except that one afternoon in june when dr. bentley took me down to nahant in his car. weren't the thayers dear to have me as their guest at beautiful manchester-by-the-sea? ethel (i wonder if donald will be pleased to know that his _real_ sister has asked me to call her by her first name?) insisted that they did it for my own sake, but i know that it was really on his account. they were two weeks of wonder for me; but i wish that he might have been there. how they all miss him--even dr. bentley. i think that there is nothing finer than such a friendship between two men. why, he even calls on donald's family still. he came to manchester twice in the fortnight that i was there. dr. bentley wants me to call him 'philip,' when we are not in the hospital, and i do ... sometimes. it seems perfectly natural, even though he is much older than i--he is over thirty; but i suppose that is because at home we called almost every one by his first name. (we are rambling, little diary. i don't believe that donald would be particularly interested in the fact that i call dr. bentley, 'philip.') he _will_ be interested to know how the sea impressed me, though, and again i find myself wholly at a loss for words to express my feelings. it was so overwhelming in its grandeur and far-stretching expanse; so beautiful in its never-ending procession of colors; so terrible in its might, when aroused. i have seen it asleep as peacefully as one of my babies (all the hospital babies are children of my heart), and i have seen it in anger, like a brutal giant. i wish that i had not seen its latter mood, for, when it caught up the little boat that had been torn from the moorings, and hurled her again and again against the rocks until there was not a plank of her left unbroken--while the wind shrieked its horrid glee--my growing love for it was turned to fear. no, i can never care for the ocean as i do for my mountains. i cannot forget that it was the waters which stole my dearest treasures from me. still, the memory of that storm is nearly lost in the abounding happiness of those two weeks, and the third one which i spent with my gertrude merriman, who stole it from her many cases to be with me. when i set down each little incident of them in black and white, as i mean to in my letter to don, they will appear commonplace enough, i'm afraid; but i shall tell him that their story is written on my heart in letters of gold and many colors. he pretends to be interested in every foolish little thing that i have done, but i don't suppose that he would care to read about all the new dresses i have bought. i never realized before that a girl could get so much pleasure out of buying pretty things, and i am afraid that he would scold me if he knew how many leaves i have used out of my checkbook. not that they have been all for clothes, little diary. i did not realize how much i had given to war charities, and i was a little frightened this morning when i made up my balance. but i cannot help giving for the poor french and belgian babies. it somehow seems as though i were giving the money to don to spend for me." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - there follow many entries, in the course of which the name of donald appears, and many more in which that of philip, from which one might reasonably draw the conclusion that the latter was conscientiously performing his part as _ad interim_ guardian for rose. there are also several mentions of impish, lovable jimmy--he of the red hair, presumably--and of visits, on her afternoons off, to the cheap and somewhat squalid apartment where he lived with his thin, tired, but pitifully optimistic mother, and a stout, florid-faced father, who wore shabby, but very loud-checked, suits and was apparently a highly successful business man of big affairs, but frequently "temporarily out of funds." indeed, it would seem as though there were times when the family--which included six other children from one to ten years old--would actually not have had enough to eat if rose had not "loaned" the wherewithal to purchase it to the father of the household. under date of may th, , appears the following. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "_two_ black bands on the little white cap! one round table nearer the wall! materia medica, orthopedia, medical analysis, general surgery, bacteriology, therapeutics and anæsthesia no longer mere words, whose very sound made me weak with dismay; but terms descriptive of new ways in which i can help weak and suffering babyhood. it has been hard, but soul-satisfying, work. i love it all, and have never regretted the decision made, centuries ago it seems, on the mountain. i have just been re-reading donald's first letter to me--the one in which he frankly warned me of the hardships which would be mine to face, if i should attempt to carry out my plan. it was, i think, the only time that he was ever wrong ... no, i had forgotten that afternoon at judd's still. work may be hard, and yet entail no hardship, especially when it brings the satisfaction of winning against odds. i know that he did not really mean what he said in that letter. it was written merely as a test of my resolve; to deter me, if it wasn't strong enough to carry me through. there have been times when i have myself wondered if it would, but, thanks to dear old mr. talmadge, and his 'sermon on the mount' i have always been able to find the help that he told us about. i wonder if donald has, too? surely he must have, he has been doing such wonderful work 'over there.' it is like him to say so little about it in his letters, but dr. roland gave us a talk about what they have been doing in toul and leslie, when he returned from france, and he sang donald's praises _fortissimo_. i was so happy, and so proud. "they all tell me that the coming year is the hardest of all with its practical training at the massachusetts general hospital, and in the manhattan maternity in new york. i have a feeling that i am not going to enjoy the former. nursing 'grown-ups' does not appeal to me as the caring for the little flowers does. but i shall love the other. motherhood is sacred and beautiful.... "i shall have to be very economical this year, little diary, and especially careful when i get to new york. when i paid the final installment on my tuition fee, i was frightened to find how little remained of what granddaddy left me, and what i had saved, myself. nearly thirteen hundred dollars looked like a huge fortune to me in those days, but it is nothing at all in a city, where there is so much poverty, and there are so many appeals to one's heart. i know that donald--or philip--would lend me a little money until the time when i get to earning it for myself, if i should ask them. but of course i cannot do that. perhaps i can earn a little during my afternoons and evenings off duty. the girls say that i can shampoo and manicure as well as a professional. yes, i will try to do that this year." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - january th, . "thank goodness my worries about finances are almost over! "the last few months have been simply terrible, and the hardest part of all, i think, has been my not being able to give anything to the number of splendid causes which so touch the sympathies these dark days. perhaps i gave too much before; but i am not a bit sorry, especially now that some of the seed which i cast upon the waters is soon to bear golden fruit for me. i never believe the pessimistic people who say that those who receive charity are never really grateful, and now i _know_ that they are wrong. jimmy's father has been so appreciative of my pitifully small presents to them, that sometimes he has cried over them, and i knew that he was in earnest when he promised to repay me as soon as he possibly could. now the chance has come. i was there yesterday and he said that he had been thinking about me just before i appeared. "it seems that he sells stock, and has just obtained a wonderful position as agent, or whatever they call it, for a new copper mine which he says is better than the 'calumet and hecla.' "he explained to me all about that one and showed me in the paper how high it was selling now--for $ a share. he is the sole representative for all of new england, and he says that the company is at present selling its stock only to special friends in order to 'let them in on the ground floor.' the shares are only ten dollars apiece and are sure to be worth a hundred, or more, very soon, because of the war. it seems almost impossible! i told him that i had only about a hundred dollars in the world, but that, if he really felt that he wanted to do me a favor, i _might_ 'invest' it (that word sounds quite impressive, doesn't it?) but that i should have to think it over, first. i remembered what donald had told me about asking a man's advice--especially philip's--in money matters. perhaps it would have been wiser if i had done so before. "i asked him this afternoon if he knew anything about the king kopper kompany, and he said that it was a 'get rich proposition' and that he had sunk a good deal of his own money into some just like it. i wanted to ask him more, but we were interrupted. however, i know that he is very well-to-do, so he must have made money in them and certainly i need to get rich quick. i'm going to make the investment to-morrow." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - march th. "stung! i hate slang, but sometimes nothing else is quite so expressive. i thought that i was getting to be very wise, but, oh, what a little ignoramus i have been. and to think that i thought i was following philip's advice, and did not realize what he really meant until i read a story about a man who was called 'get-rich-quick wallingford.' now i'd rather die than tell him that i have lost practically all of my worldly goods!" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - finally, late in may, is an entry, longer than any of its predecessors, and the last for many a day. rose made it seated in the soft moonlight which came through the window of her hospital room, after her roommate had fallen asleep. "i am in a strange mood to-night, little diary, and not quite sure whether i want to laugh or cry--indeed, i think that my heart has done both to-day. i don't feel like going to sleep, but perhaps i will be able to if i get the many thoughts out of my mind and down on paper--now they are like so many little imps beating against my brain with hammers. "surely i _should_ be happy at the thought that to-morrow is to carry me to my goal at the top of the mountain path which donald described. in twelve hours i shall (d. v.) be a graduate nurse; but, now that the journey is almost an accomplished fact, i positively shiver when i think of the nerve of that child who was i five years ago and who, blessed with ignorance, made up her mind to become one, or 'bust'--that is the way i put it, then. friends have sometimes told me that they didn't see how i had the courage to attempt it; but i tell them, truthfully, that it isn't courage when one tackles a thing which she--or he--doesn't know is difficult to do, and that few things are insurmountably difficult which she tackles with confidence (which is as often the result of ignorance as of faith in one's own power). so how can i take any credit for succeeding? "it _has_ been hard work, of course, and i know that i must have failed if every one had not been so good to me, and, above all, if god had not meant me to succeed. i have never forgotten that night when the 'reverend' opened my eyes to the knowledge that i am his partner in working out my life. dear mr. talmadge! i am ashamed that i stopped writing to him, so long ago, yet i know that he is still my friend, although we do not see each other. that is the beauty of true friendship--it is a calm and constant star, always in its place against the time when we want to lift our eyes to seek its light. i know that it is the same with donald. "when i think of him to-night, and realize that he cannot be near me in my little hour of triumph to-morrow, it is hard for me to keep back the tears. dear god, bless him and bring him happiness--with miss treville. "i cannot help feeling worried about donald, for, although his letter makes light of his illness, i have a troublesome presentiment that he is worse than he will acknowledge. he is the kind to spend every ounce of his wonderful vitality without thought of self, and the two and a half years during which he has been laboring so hard, and so effectively, must have drained even his great strength. slight, wiry people are like the willows that bend easily, but return to normal quickly, after the stress of storm has ended; but, when big ones--like donald--break, it is like the fall of a mighty oak. "still, this cloud, like all clouds, has its bright lining. _he is coming home_, just as soon as he is able to make the trip, so, although i shall miss him dreadfully to-morrow, it will not be many weeks before i shall see him again. "but this is not all that is troubling me, diary, and if i were not quite sure that no one but i would ever look inside your covers, i would not confide it even to you. "i have a present, a wonderful present,--and i do not think that i ought to keep it. help me make up my mind. when p. gave it to me this afternoon, he said that it was just a little remembrance for my graduation and that he hoped i would accept it as the gift of a semiofficial guardian, just as i would if donald himself were giving it to me. i did take it in that spirit; but, when i found a moment to steal away and open the wrapper, and beheld a beautiful morocco case containing a _gold watch_ with my initials engraved on the case, my heart almost stopped beating. this was his 'little remembrance.' of course it is something that i shall need in my work, for it has a second hand, but he must have guessed that i would be troubled by such an expensive gift, for he tried to make light of it by enclosing a foolish little rhyme, which i must copy so that i shall not forget it. 'when it is _time_ to take _hour_ pulse you'll find a use for what is in it,[a] (on _second_ thoughts, i'd like to add i wish you'd take mine every _minute_.)' "conventions are _so_ puzzling, little diary, that i don't know what i ought to do. somehow, i feel quite sure that the superintendent wouldn't approve, for a doctor should not be making presents to a pupil nurse; yet p. has been so kind that i hate to think of hurting his feelings by giving it back. besides, i love it ... and it is engraved r. w. then, too, if i should return it, he might think that i didn't credit him with having done it while acting in donald's place as my guardian, and if it was not that thought which prompted him, why ... oh, i don't know what to do! "worse still, dorothy roberts came up unexpectedly and saw the watch. of course she wanted to know from whom it came and i answered, on the impulse, 'from my guardian.' i'm sure that she believes that it was a present from donald and therefore perfectly proper, for i have told her all about his relationship to me, and it hurts me to think that i have been guilty of a lie. of course it wasn't one in actual words, perhaps; but i had the spirit to deceive, and now i can't confess without involving p. and she might think that he is in ... oh, i can't write it, for of course he isn't. how could he be? no, it was just a natural act of his generous heart, because he knew that i was without relatives to give me a graduation gift. "i hope that i sleep my uncertainties away, for to-morrow must hold nothing but sunshine and smiles." [footnote a: poetical license--meaning 'what is in the box.'] chapter xxviii "but a rose has thorns" the may day, the day of fulfilment for smiles' dreams and the fruition of her work, had come. her healthy, mountain-bred body had enabled her to keep well and strong; she had gone through the full three years with scarcely a day's illness, and she was ready to graduate with the class, some of whom would have to stay longer to make up time lost by illness. rose awoke early to a sense of something unusual in prospect. on the window of her room the rain was pattering merrily. all nature was one to her, and she loved the showers as much as the sunshine, but, when she began to realize what day it was, they brought a feeling of vague disappointment. surely _this_ day, which meant so much in her life, might have dawned fair! the glimpse of a leaden sky colored her thoughts for a moment, as she lay still in the drowsy relaxation of half-awakening, when dreams beckon from _dolce far niente_ land, and the whispering voice of slumber mingles with the more stirring call of the brain to be up and doing. the recollection that donald was far away, and could not be with her to witness her triumph, brought a sense of bitter disappointment to her over again. "i must write him everything that happens to-day. he will be happy in my happiness, i know," she murmured, half aloud, and her roommate awoke and answered with a sleepy, "what, dear?" "nothing. i guess that i must have been talking in my sleep," laughed rose, as she now sat up energetically, fully awake. by their own request dorothy roberts and she still occupied one of the few double rooms reserved for third-year student nurses, who preferred to share their quarters. the other followed, more drowsily. "look," called rose, from the window. "it's going to clear. oh, see that wonderful rainbow. i don't believe i ever saw one in the morning before." "'rainbow at morning, sailors take warning,'" quoted dorothy. "i don't believe in that, or any other _unpleasant_ 'stupidstition'--as my reverend used to call them," rose retorted, as she hastily began to dress, for the last time, in the blue striped costume which had been hers for nearly three years, but was, in a few hours, to change to one pure white, like a sombre chrysalis to a radiant butterfly. "no matter when a rainbow appears it is always an omen of fair promise. it's mother nature smiling through her tears." she caught, in the mirror, a reflection of her friend's affectionate glance; her own cheek began to dimple and her lips to curve as she said, "i can tell by your expression just what you're going to say, and...." "egoist," mocked the other. "i hadn't the slightest idea of comparing your own smile to a rainbow, so now." "i can't help it, really." rose spoke with unfeigned distress in her voice, and began angrily to massage the corners of her mouth downward. "there's something wrong with the muscles of my face, i think, and sometimes i get worried for fear people will think that it's affectation. i get frightfully tired of seeing a perpetually forced grin on other faces--it reminds me of mr. william shakespeare's remark that 'a man may smile and be a villain still.'" "not with your kind, dear. 'there's a painted smile on the lip that lies, when the villain plays his part; and the smile in the depths of the honest eyes--and this is the smile of the heart.'" "or of the cheerful idiot," supplemented rose. "do you really think that i'm ... shallow? sometimes it seems to me that the truly wise, thoughtful people, who search the deeps of life and are themselves strongly stirred, are always serious looking." "pooh. it's generally pose, and a much easier one to get away with. i always discount it about ninety-nine per cent." "but, at least, others must think that i am always happy, and i'm not--sometimes i wish that i might be; but not often, for one would have to be utterly selfish and unsympathetic in order to be so, when there is so much suffering everywhere." "i know, and feel the same way, rose. but it seems to me that a smile--at least one like yours--isn't so much the visible expression of joy, as it is a symbol of cheer for others ... like a rainbow. there, i vowed that i wouldn't, and now i've 'gone and went and done it.'" miss roberts spoke lightly, to cover a suspicious huskiness in her voice, for she worshipped the girl who had been so close to her for three years, and whose way and hers would necessarily diverge after that morning. "don't you _dare_ to forget how to smile. we all love it," she added, with an assumption of a bullying tone; and then the two held each other very close and laughed and cried, both together, for a moment. they finished dressing in unusual silence, for the thoughts of each were busy with the things which the day and the future might bring forth for them. contrary to custom, dorothy finished first, and preceded rose downstairs. when the latter reached the little assembly room, she found a small group of pupil nurses standing in the doorway. one was reading something from a page of a sensational afternoon newspaper, dated the day previous, and, as smiles joined them, she hastily slipped it out of sight behind her. all of them appeared so self-conscious, that the new arrival stopped with a queer tightening about her heart. "show it to her," said dorothy, quietly. "she's bound to hear of it sooner or later." the sinking sensation within rose's breast increased, and she stepped forward, saying faintly, "what is it, dolly? not ... not dr. macdonald? nothing has happened ...?" "no, dear. that is ... well, it concerns him; but i think that, if anything, he is to be congratulated. it is something to find out.... here, read it yourself." she took the paper from the owner, and handed it to rose. it was the page devoted to happenings in society, and from the top centre looked forth a two-column cut of marion treville's strikingly beautiful face. beneath was a stick of text, which read: "back bay society is buzzing with the rumor, which comes from an apparently unimpeachable source, that the beautiful miss treville of beacon street, who, since her début seven years ago, has been one of the leaders of boston's smartest set, is about to announce her engagement to stanley everts vandermeer, the well-known new york millionaire sportsman. miss treville was formerly betrothed to dr. donald macdonald, the famous children's specialist of this city, who has been in france for more than two years. no previous intimation had been given that this engagement had been broken." rose read the brief article twice, mechanically, and almost without understanding. then a wave of hot anger, akin to that which had possessed her on the mountain on the afternoon when her eyes had first been opened to the duplicity of human nature, swept over her. it was only by a strong effort that she refrained from crushing the sheet, and speaking aloud her denunciation of the woman whose behavior so outraged her sense of justice. [illustration: "read the brief article twice, mechanically, and almost without understanding"] the call came for the morning prayer, and she handed the paper back without a word; but for once the simple exercises, which, on this morning, should have meant so much more than usual, wholly failed to bring their customary peace. her lips formed the words of the prayer, and joined in the singing of the hymn, but her mind was far away in france, and her heart rebellious within her. her thoughts did not harbor a doubt of donald's love for the woman, who, it was said on "apparently unimpeachable" authority, had now discarded him for another and wealthier suitor. to be sure, he had not married her, as he might have, before he went away; but this was not strange, under the conditions; indeed, she thought it to his credit, since he had left to be away so long in the performance of a hard and hazardous duty. and surely donald had remained true! anything else was unthinkable, and, besides, ethel often spoke of her sister-in-law-to-be, and of the marriage which would quickly follow her brother's return. that miss treville had apparently remained so faithful, also, had helped to banish some of smiles' uncertain feelings concerning her, and she had begun to hope that some day she might succeed in finding the key to the city woman's heart and enter the fold of her friendship, for she could not bear the idea that donald's marriage might result in donald's being estranged from her, or cause a break in their wonderful friendship. now her thoughts railed against the woman who had been so unstable, at a time when keeping faith with those who went, perhaps to die, had become a nation's watchword. this thought completely superseded the one that had sometimes been hers--that the woman was not worthy the love of the man whom she, herself, worshipped. it was like a mother, suffering for her hurt child, and her lips quivered with suppressed hate. it passed, and left her almost frightened. "i guess that i'm still a mountaineer at heart," she whispered, as she mechanically bowed her head with the others. "i almost feel as though i could kill her. poor donald! he has always been so blindly trusting where his heart was concerned.... perhaps dorothy is right, perhaps he is better off, if it is true; but if this embitters him, if it spoils his faith in womankind, i shall hate her as long as i live." then came the reflection that the report might not be true. "i shall go and ask her, myself, this afternoon!" smiles arose from her knees, aged in soul. she had looked forward to this morning with all the eager anticipation of a child; but now, as she donned the white uniform of a graduate nurse--the costume which represented the full attainment of the hard-won goal,--no smile greeted her as she looked at her own reflection in the glass. "donald was right," she murmured. "i am just beginning to realize that even this fulfilment of my dream is not going to bring me happiness. it is born of the heart, or not at all." and her mind travelled back to the letter which she had tearfully penned him after big jerry's death. "things never happen just as we plan. when we look forward to something pleasant which we want very much to happen, we never stop to think that there may be unhappiness mixed with it." a solitary tear ran down her cheek, and made a moist spot on the front of her new uniform. the smile, usually spontaneous, had to be forced to her lips when she went to take her place, with the score of other happy graduating nurses, in the amphitheatre of the harvard medical school, next door, where the exercises were to be held. "what is the matter with my rose?" wondered miss merriman, who had managed to be present. and, "what is the matter with _my_ rose?" thought dr. bentley. he had seen her for just a moment that morning, and, through the warm, lingering pressure of her hand, received the thanks which she could not speak. it was, in truth, a very sober smiles who only half-heard the words of the impressively simple exercises, during which the newly made laborers in the lord's vineyard received the diplomas which bore the seal of the hospital--a madonna-like nurse, holding a child. its original, cast in bronze--the work of a famous modern sculptor--hung in the administration building of the hospital, and she had often stood before it with tender dreams. and it was a very sober smiles upon whose dress was pinned the blue and gold cross, the emblem alike of achievement and service. miss merriman spoke her thought aloud, as she took the girl into her arms, afterwards. "you looked too sweet for words, dear. but, tell me, why that woe-begone expression on this, of all days? one would think that all the worries of the world lay on your young heart." "perhaps they do," was the non-committal answer. and rose pleaded a previous engagement when the older nurse begged her company for the afternoon, and dr. bentley for the evening. the happy laughter, the parting words, both grave and gay, which were spoken by those who had been her companions during the long journey, fell on ears which heard, but transmitted them to her mind vaguely, and her answers were inconsequential, so much so, that more than one friend regarded her with troubled surprise and whispered to another that rose was either not well, or was dazed with happiness. and when dorothy ventured to hint at the latter alternative, the girl acknowledged it with a strained imitation of her usual smile, and straightway found her thoughts scourging her because of this new deception. it seemed to her that the day, for which she had builded so long, was tumbling about its foundations, and yet, when she now and again brought her runaway thoughts up with a round turn, she could not assign any logical reason for her feeling as she did. "after all, what is it to me?" she would ask herself, logically, one moment. and at the next her heart would reply, "everything. he is all that you have in the world in the way of 'family,' for he _is_ more than friend to you." "yes," rose would admit, "i am afraid for him, i could not be more so if he were really my brother. she isn't worthy of him--i've known that, somehow, since the first day that he tried to tell me about her. but that isn't the point. love is blind, and, if her faithlessness hurts him, i will hate her always. i hate her _now_. she has spoiled my day, and i know that i have hurt gertrude and philip, for they can't understand what the trouble is." the idea passed over and over through the endless labyrinth of her brain and found no escape, while she ate the noonday meal, and later changed from her white uniform to a plain blue serge walking dress, and black sailor hat. ever with it went the accompanying thought, "i _must_ see her." to what end she did not know or seriously attempt to analyze. rose was not the first to take up cudgels in a lost cause, spurred thereto by a purpose which was incapable of receiving any logical explanation. it was the "mother spirit," fighting for its own. * * * * * a maid opened the door on beacon street in response to her ring, and, on entering the hall, rose found herself face to face with marion treville. she was clad for the street and was at that moment in the act of buttoning a long white glove. as she recognized the visitor, a deep flush mounted quickly on the patrician face of the older woman and, for an instant, her teeth caught her lower lip. smiles' face was very pale, so pale that her large eyes by contrast appeared almost startling in their depth and color. there was a gossamer film of dust on her shoes and the bottom of her skirt, for she had walked all the way from the hospital, and she realized this fact with a sense of chagrin, when she saw miss treville's eyes travel to her feet, and mentally contrasted her own appearance with that of the perfectly appointed daughter of wealth before her. neither spoke for an instant. it was as though each were trying to read the thoughts of the other. then miss treville said in a cool, even tone, "you may go, louise." the maid vanished silently, with one curious backward glance as she passed through the door at the end of the hallway. "miss ... webb, isn't it? you wished to see ...?" "tell me that it isn't true," broke in rose, her voice trembling a little in spite of her effort at self-control. "tell you it isn't ... true?" echoed the other, with lifted eyebrows. "i'm afraid that i don't quite underst ..." "but you _do_ understand, miss treville, why do you say that you don't? it is in the paper." "perhaps i meant to say that i do not understand why you should come here to ask such a question, miss webb," was the icy response. rose was silent. what answer could she make to this pertinent question? she felt the hot tears starting to her eyes; but, even as she was on the point of turning toward the door, with a little choked sob of bitter chagrin, the other continued. curiosity had unloosed her tongue. "well? may i be so bold as to inquire what interest you may have in my personal affairs, miss webb? frankly, i am at a loss to understand the meaning of this unexpected, and--i might say--somewhat unusual visit." "i ... i don't know as i _can_ explain," began rose, hesitantly. "i ... i felt that i had to see you, because ... i had a letter yesterday from ... from dr. macdonald...." "ah." "of course he writes to me, you _know_ that he is my guardian," she answered the interruption with a flash of spirit. "he said in it that he was coming home just as soon as he was able to ... to get well and ... be married, and then that paper.... oh, miss treville, surely it isn't so. you wouldn't throw him over, when he is so far away, and ... and sick?" the other's voice was not quite as steady as before, when she answered, "i don't see why i am called upon to explain my ... to explain anything to you, miss webb." "then it _is_ true." the sentence rang out sharply. "and he doesn't know. he thinks that you are waiting, and ..." "we need not discuss the matter, in fact i doubt if the doctor would appreciate your ... shall we say 'championage'? the matter is between him and me, wholly." "no, it is not, miss treville," flared rose, with the angry color at last flooding her cheeks. "i have heard people say that, if that story is true, he is lucky to have escaped marrying you; but, just the same, those of us who _really_ love him--you needn't look like that, of course i love him--don't want to have him hurt, as any man would be who was cast off like an old glove while he was far away and had no chance to speak for himself. that is why i hoped it wasn't true, and that you hadn't, perhaps, killed his faith in my kind. and that is the only reason." once started, her words had poured out as hot as lava which had broken from a pent-up volcano. "so, that is the reason, the only reason, for your coming to me with your impertinent question?" miss treville laughed oddly. "really! do you know, i have always suspected that the little savage whom he brought from somewhere in the backwoods regarded him as rather more than a guardian, or a brother ... that _was_ the pretty fiction, wasn't it?" she added, with honey coating the vinegar in her speech. under the lash of the words rose grew white again. her hands clenched; but, before she could answer, miss treville continued: "it really seems to me that you ought to thank me for stepping aside so obligingly." the occupation of a high level in the civilized world, or in society, is no proof of the christian virtue of self-control,--that has been demonstrated, in the case of a nation, all too clearly these last years; and individuals are like nations, or vice versa. the feline that lies dormant, as often in the finished product of city convention as in the breast of the primeval woman, was now thrusting out its claws from the soft paws of breeding. and miss marion treville, leader of back bay society, was rather enjoying the sensation. she had passed not a few uncomfortable hours in company with her conscience, even while she was yielding to the glamorous flame which surrounded her new suitor. it was a real relief for her to be able to "take it out" on some one else, and a victim had offered herself for the sacrifice, most opportunely. rose shrank back as though she had been struck; then steadied herself and said with an effort--for her throat and lips were dry, "i think that perhaps you were right when you called me a 'little savage.' i know that i feel like one in my heart now, and i think, too, that it would be a real pleasure for me to ... to ..." the other stepped hastily back, and rose laughed, bitterly. "oh, please don't be frightened, i'm not going to scratch you. we wood people don't fight with your kind of animal, they're too unpleasant at close range." she paused, and then went on more steadily. "i came here ... i didn't know just why i was coming,--perhaps to plead with you for donald's sake. that doesn't look much as though i loved him ... in the way you insinuate, does it? no, if i had, i should have won him away from you, long ago. it would not have been difficult, i think." she spoke so coolly, and with such perfect confidence, that the other winced. "there isn't anything more to be said, is there?" was this the simple mountain girl, whose voice was now so suave and who was smiling so icily? there was a pause, during which miss treville's trembling hand sought behind her and found the servants' bell cord. "i am really glad that i called, miss treville, for you have succeeded in convincing me that i have no occasion to be disturbed--on donald's account." "miss webb is going," said miss treville, formally, as the maid appeared. chapter xxix an interlude all things by immortal power, near or far, hiddenly. to each other linked are that thou canst not stir a flower without troubling a star. a. quiller-couch. life is so largely a thing of intermingling currents, of interwoven threads, of reacting forces, that it is well-nigh impossible understandingly to portray the life story of one person without occasionally pausing to review, at least briefly, incidents in the lives of others with which it is closely bound up. so it is with the story of the pilgrimage of smiles. while, following her graduation, she was taking a course in district nursing, giving freely of her new powers to the poor and suffering of a great city, and taking, and passing, the state examination which gave her the right to place the epigrammatic letters "r.n." after her name, something was happening more than three thousand miles away, of which she had no inkling, and yet which was closely linked with her existence. donald had, indeed, written in a manner to minimize his illness, which had been a prolonged and serious one; so much so that he had, greatly against his will, finally come to realize the necessity of his taking a rest from his unremitting toil, and he had agreed to return home for a vacation as soon as he should be well enough to make the long trip. depressed by his wholly unaccustomed weakness the doctor sat, a convalescent in his own hospital in toul, one stifling july day. to his physical debility was added the dragging distress of mind which comes at times to those who are far away and receive no word from home. no letters had reached him for weeks. removed from the sphere of the abnormal activity which had been his, and with nothing to do but sit and think, donald had, for some time, been examining his own heart with an introspective gaze more searching than ever before. he felt that he had been, above the average, blessed with happy relationships, deep friendships and a highly trained ability to serve others--and he knew that he could honestly say that he had turned this to full account. besides, he was betrothed to a beautiful woman whom many coveted. when his mind reached marion treville in its consideration, it stopped to build a dream castle around her, a castle not in spain, but in america. he had earned the right to rest beside the road awhile, and enjoy the good things of life. marion was waiting for him at home, and whatever doubts had, at one or another time, entered his mind as to their perfect suitability, one for the other, they had long since been banished. distance had lent its enchantment, and he had supplied her with the special virtues that he desired. his was a type of mind which held to one thought at a time, and he had always possessed a fixedness of purpose of a kind well calculated to carry through any plan which that mind conceived. combined, these characteristics made a form of egotism, not one which caused him to overrate himself, but to plough ahead regardless of the strength of the possible opposition. when he returned to america he would marry marion treville immediately. no other idea had seriously entered his mind since they had plighted their troth; they had not been quite ready before, that was all, he told himself. it was in such a frame of mind, and with a growing eagerness for the day when he might start for home to claim his reward, that he received her long-delayed letter. what it said does not matter; but one paragraph summed up her whole confession. "you cannot but agree with me that ours was never the love of a man and woman whose hearts were attuned to one another, and sang in perfect unison. we really drifted into an engagement more because of propinquity than anything else. i am a drone--the product of society at its worst--and you are one of the workers, donald. i feel quite sure that you will always gain your truest happiness in your work. although i know how you love children (and i don't), i cannot think of you in the rôle of a married man, so i do not, deep in my heart, believe that this is going to hurt you very much--certainly i hope not. indeed, i have a somewhat unpleasant suspicion that some day you are going to bless me for having given you back your freedom." donald read the letter through, without allowing his expression to change. then he started to reread it, stopped, and suddenly crumpled it up in his big fist. a low curse escaped his lips. it was heard by a passing nurse, who hurried to him with the question, "did you call, doctor? are you in pain?" "no. let me alone," was his harsh answer, and the patient girl moved away, with a little shake of her head. the great physician had not been his cheerful, kindly self for some time. perhaps she surmised, too, that the mail which she had laid in his lap had not been all that he had anticipated. with scarcely a move, he sat, staring in front of him, until the evening shadows had turned the landscape to a dull monotone. then he slowly arose, and, with his mind so completely bent upon one subject that his body was a thing apart and its weakness forgotten, stepped out into the darkening city. time had ceased to exist for him, as he walked the almost deserted streets of toul like a flesh-and-blood automaton. but the physical exercise brought a quota of mental relief at last, and the cool night air soothed his first burning pain and anger with its unconscious balm. at length he was able to face the truth frankly, and then he suddenly knew that all the time it was not his heart, so much as his pride, which had been hurt. an hour earlier he would not have admitted a single doubt of his real love for marion treville. now he could not but admit that the initial stab of bitterness was being healed by a real, though inexplicable, sense of relief. he could even say that she had been right. his affection for her had, indeed, been merely the outgrowth of life-long intimacy. it was never the mating call of heart to heart; he had never felt for her the overwhelming passion of a lover for the woman in whom, for him, all earthly things are bound up. his walk became slower; he stopped. the deep blue-black sky had, of a sudden, become the background for a softly glowing mind picture, and there seemed to appear before him the glorious misty eyes, and bewitchingly curved lips of ... smiles. her memory swept over him like a vision, and, even while he felt like a traitor to self, came the wonderful realization that in his home city, toward which his thoughts had so lately been bent, still lived the girl whom he had loved--and had held apart within a locked and closely guarded chamber of his heart--for years. it was as though scales, placed before them by his own will, had dropped from his eyes. he almost cried aloud his self-admission that he had loved her all the years from the first moment when he saw her, a barefoot mountain girl, in big jerry's rude cabin. and he was _free_! free to be honest with his own soul, free to tell his rose of his love, and throw aside the masquerading cloak of adopted brotherhood. how strange it was! the woman whom he had thought to marry was gone from his life like a leaf torn from the binding, and the one whom he had pretended to regard as a sister would become his mate. that such would be the case he did not doubt now, even for an instant. that she had always loved him, he was certain, and, with the warmth of his wooing, he would fan that steady glow of childish affection into the flame of womanly love which should weld their hearts together forever. * * * * * the days which followed before he was strong enough to journey to bordeaux, there to embark for america, seemed to drag by like eternity; but donald was westbound at last. he was going home, home to a new life, made perfect by a great love. the deadly submarines of the world's outlaw, lurking under the sea like loathsome phantasies of an evil mind, held no terrors for him, nor could the discomforts caused by the tightly closed hatches and enshrouding burlap, which made the ship a pent-up steambox, until the danger zone was passed, depress his spirits. the steamer crept as had the days on shore; but there came an afternoon when she made port at last, and, spurred by a consuming eagerness, he hastened to his apartment. he had cabled the news of his departure, and in the mail box were many letters awaiting him. feverishly, he looked them over for one in _her_ dear handwriting. to his unreasonable disappointment there was none, but there were several which required immediate reading--among them one from his sister ethel, and one from his old friend, philip bentley. the first contained disquieting news. his little niece, muriel, had been very ill with typhoid fever and, although dr. bentley had pulled her through the sickness successfully, she was still far from well, and apparently not gaining at all. he opened the other, expecting it to concern the case. but the note did not mention it. it was only a few lines and read: "dear old don: i hear that you are 'homeward bound.' bully! as soon as you reach boston, and can spare me a moment, i want to talk to you about an important matter. call me by telephone, like a good fellow, and i'll run over to your apartment at once and tell you what is on my mind. yours, p. b." chapter xxx donald's homecoming "by the lord harry, but i'm glad to see you back again, safe and sound, you good-for-nothing old reprobate." true to his written statement, philip had come to donald's apartment as fast as a taxicab could bring him, after he had heard his old friend's voice over the wire. now the two men gripped hands, hard, and then--for just a moment--flung their arms around each other's shoulders in a rare outward display of their deep mutual affection. then philip held his senior away at arms' length and said, with masculine candor but with a look of sympathy in his eyes, "don, you poor devil, you've been killing yourself over there. don't tell _me_. i've a mind to appoint myself your physician and order you to bed for a month." "good lord, do i look as bad as that?" laughed the other. "if i do, looks are deceitful, for i feel fit as a fiddle. i need only one thing to make a complete new man of me." "and that is ...?" "a secret, at present." the two seated themselves opposite each other, and philip continued, "i've managed to keep myself pretty well posted on the work that you've been doing, without knowing any of the details of your life--you're a rotten correspondent. come, did you have any 'hairbreadth' 'scapes or moving accidents by field and flood?" "nary one. my life has been one dead, monotonous waste." "like ... the deuce it has. come, i've got just ten minutes to stay; tell me the whole detailed history of your two years and a half. knowing your natural verbosity, i should say that it would take you just about half that time, which will leave me the balance for my own few remarks." "five minutes? i could tell you the whole history of my life in that time. but, before i start, i want to ask you about my little niece, muriel? i've just been reading a letter from ethel, which seems to indicate that they are rather worried about her; but, when i called her by long distance, she either couldn't, or wouldn't tell me anything definite." "i don't think that there is any real occasion for being disturbed," answered philip, quietly. "although i'll confess frankly that things haven't been going just right, and i'm not sorry to have you back and in charge of the case. muriel made the acquaintance of a typhus bug--the lord knows how--and, although i succeeded in getting the best of the fever fairly quickly, thanks to the able assistance of that nurse whom you swear by ..." "miss merriman?" "yes, she's a wonder, isn't she? well, as i said, we took care of the fever, all right; but the cerebral affection has been more persistent, and she hasn't convalesced as you would expect in a twelve-year-old child. she seems to be laboring under a sort of nervous depression, not so much physical as mental ... in fact, a psychos. it's common enough in older people, of course; but hanged if i ever saw anything just like it in a perfectly normal, and naturally happy child." "h-m-m-m. what are the symptoms?" "psychological, all of them. she mopes; seems to take no healthy interest in anything, and, as a result, has no appetite; bursts out crying over the most trivial things--such as the chance of you're being blown up by a submarine on the way home--and frequently for no cause at all. of course i packed the family off to the shore, as soon as she was able to be moved, in the belief that the change of scene and the sea air would effect a cure, but it hasn't. i can't find a thing wrong with her, physically, nor could morse. i took him down on my own hook, in consultation, one day. it's a rather unusual case of purely psychological depression, and in my opinion all she needs is ..." "a generous dose of smiles," interrupted donald. "by thunder, you've struck it," cried philip, as he gave the arm of his chair a resounding thump. "what an ass i've been not to have thought of that before, particularly as she has been so constantly in my thoughts. it's another case of a thing being too close to one for him to see it." donald stiffened suddenly. he held the match, with which he was about to light a cigar, poised in mid-air until the flame reached his fingers, and then blew it out, unused. "in fact, it was about her, don, that i was so anxious to see you," the other went on. his own nervousness made him unconscious of the effect which his words had produced on donald. "of course, she's practically of legal age now; but i know that she still regards you as her guardian and that in a sense you stand _in loco parentis_ toward her. certainly she regards your word as law. so i thought that, as she is practically alone in the world, it would be the only right and honorable thing to ... to speak to you, first." "to speak to me ... _first_?" echoed donald, a trifle unsteadily, as he struck another match and watched its flame, with unseeing eyes, until it, too, burned his fingers. "yes. great scott, can't you guess what i'm driving at? the plain fact is ... is that i love her, don. i ... i want to marry her." the words smote the older man's senses like a bolt from a clear sky, and they reeled, although he managed, somehow, to keep outwardly calm. "you ... you haven't told her ... yet ... that you love her?" he managed to say, after a moment. "no. at least, not directly; but i guess that she knows it. i wanted, first, to be sure that you would approve ... perhaps even sponsor my suit, for, although i mean, of course, to stand or fall on the strength of my own case, i know that she worships you, as a brother, and might be influenced by your attitude. you understand, don't you, old man?" donald nodded, then asked slowly, "does ... does smiles love you, phil?" "yes, i think that i can honestly say that i believe she does. of course no word of love has ever passed between us, but ... well, you know how it is." with a mighty effort of his will, donald conquered the trembling that had seized upon his body, and--on his third attempt--calmly lit the cigar. but his thoughts were running like a tumultuous millrace. "blind, egotistical, self-confident fool," they shouted. "that something like this should have happened is the most natural thing in the world, and it has been farthest from your mind." he remained silent so long that philip was forced to laugh, a bit uneasily. "i know well enough that i'm not half worthy of her--no man could be--but i hope that i'm not altogether ineligible, and i'm sure that i love her more than any one else could." at his words donald winced. "i'll do my best to make her life a happy one, if she'll have me--you know that, old fellow. well," he laughed again, "say something, can't you? i should almost get the idea that you were jealous, if i didn't also know that that is absurd. your engagement to marion treville ... i suppose that you don't want to talk about that, but you know how deeply i feel for you." donald shook himself together, mentally, and made an effort to respond with convincing heartiness, although he found that his words sounded unnaturally, even to his own ears. "of course, you have my consent, if it's worth anything. if our little rose does love you, i am sure that you can make her happy--you're a splendid chap, phil, and i--and i appreciate what you have done for her while i was away. she wrote me all about it." he stretched out his hand, and the other started from his chair, and wrung it heartily. "thanks, old man. you give me an added quota of courage, and i wish that i might go to her this minute; but i've been called out of town on an important case. i really shouldn't have taken the time even to stop here, but i simply had to see you to-night. love is an awful thing, isn't it?" "yes," he answered, dully. "love is always impatient ... i know that myself. perhaps i ... that is, if i can get her ... rose, i think that i will take her down to ethel's with me, to-night, and you can ... can see her there. where is she staying now?" "with miss merriman's family, if she hasn't been called out on a case since morning. she's been doing district nursing, principally; but she's already had two private cases, you know." donald did not, and the realization of how far he had drifted away from his old, intimate association with smiles' affairs, brought his heart an added stab of pain. "the number is back bay, ." he glanced at his watch and then exclaimed, "heavens, i've got to catch a train at the trinity place station in five minutes. be ready to furnish bail for my chauffeur as soon as he is arrested for over-speeding. 'night. i'll see you at manchester in a few days ... that is if ..." his words trailed off down the corridor, the front door closed and donald was alone. no, not alone. philip had gone, but the room was peopled with a multitude of ghosts and haunting spectres which he had left behind. the doctor had only to close his eyes in order to see them, gibbering and dancing on his hopes, which had been laid low by his friend's eager disclosure. another loved her, another wanted to marry her, and that other could truthfully say that he believed she cared for him. no spoken words of love may have passed between them, but donald knew well how unessential these were when heart called to heart. this was his homecoming! it were as though the eyes of his soul had been permitted, for a brief time, to behold a dazzling celestial light, which had suddenly failed, leaving the darkness blacker than before. the words which he had planned to utter had turned to bitter ashes in his mouth. he had to face the truth squarely. rose was not, had never been, for him. it had been mere madness for him even to dream of such a thing. had she not accepted him as a brother, and given him the frank affection of such relationship, which precludes love of the other sort? his heart hurt and he felt old and weary again. somewhere, hidden in a cabinet, was a bottle of whiskey, he remembered, and he sought it out and poured himself a generous glassful. but, when he raised it to his lips, the vision face of smiles, as she had looked that first night on the mountain, when she told big jerry and judd that "nary a drap o' thet devil's brew would ever be in house of hers," appeared before him, and, with a groan, he set it down, untasted. returning to his living-room, he sat a long time in mental readjustment, which was brought about with many a wrench at his heart; and when, at last, his old iron will--which had been weakened a little by illness and further softened by love--had once again been tempered in the crucible of anguish, the lines on his prematurely seamed face were deeper, and in his dark gray eyes was a new expression of pain. * * * * * in compliance with his telephoned request, rose had packed her suit case, and was all ready to accompany him when he arrived at the merrimans' apartment in a taxicab, to take her with him to the north station to catch the nine o'clock train. she was irrepressibly the child, for the time being, and in her cheeks bloomed roses so colorful that gertrude merriman accused her of painting, while knowing well enough that joy needs no artistry. "i'm almost _too_ happy," she cried after hearing his voice over the wire, and proceeded to dance around the room, to the impromptu chant, "donald, dear, is here, is here. donald, dear, is here." "are you going to kiss him?" laughed her friend. but rose was not to be teased, and answered, "kiss him? i'll smother him with kisses. isn't he my brother, and isn't he home again after being away two and a half years?" when the apartment bell rang, it was rose who ran to answer it, and whose sweet young voice, saying, "oh, come up _quick_," donald heard thrilling over the wire. his heart leaped, but his will steadied its increased pulsations. it leaped again when he reached the third floor, and the girl of his dreams threw herself upon him with laughter which was suspiciously like weeping, and with the smother of kisses, which she could not restrain nor he prevent, although each burned and seared his very soul. she backed into the room and pulled him after her by the lapels of his coat; but, as the brighter light struck upon his face, she stopped with widening eyes, through which he could read the troubled question in her mind. "oh, my poor big brother. i didn't realize ... i mean, how you must have suffered. poor dear, you don't have to tell me how ill you have been, so far away from all of us who love you." her pitying words drove the last nail in his crucified hopes. not only were they, all too obviously, merely those of a child who loved him with a sister's love, but they told him how changed, wan and aged he was; one who was, in fact, no longer fitted to mate with radiant youth. "'old, ain't i, and ugly?'" he imitated dick deadeye with a laughing voice, but the laugh was not true. "old and ugly?" she repeated, in horror. "donald, how _can_ you? you're tired out, that is all; and as for this--" she lightly touched the sheen of silvery gray at his temples, where the alchemy of time and stress had made its mark--"it makes you look so ... so distinguished that i am ashamed of my frivolously familiar manner of greeting you. but i just couldn't help it, and i promise not to embarrass you again. yes, you _were_ embarrassed. i could read it in your face." there was but a moment for conversation with the others, and they were whirled off to catch the train for the north shore resort. when they were seated, face to face, in the pullman chair car, there came a moment of silence, during which each studied the other covertly. donald decided that, physically, the girl had not greatly changed from the picture of her which he had borne away in his heart. the passing years had merely deepened the charm of the soft, waving hair, whose rich and glinting chestnut strands swept low on her broad forehead and nestled against the nape of her neck; the slender patrician nose and wonderfully shadowed eyes; the smooth contour of cheek and rounded chin; and the tender glory which still trembled, as in the old days, on her sensitive lips. but, in her poise and speech, after the first rush of impetuous childlike eagerness had spent itself, he discovered a new maturity, and he realized that, where he had left a child, he found a woman, whose heart was no longer worn upon her sleeve. true, her gratitude and affection for him were unaltered. they showed in every word and look, and once the thought came to him that he might yet win the castle of desire, if he should only determine to enter the lists against philip. the primal man in him cried out against, and might have overcome, his better nature, which whispered that this would be treachery to a friend who had played fair, and was worthy, if there had not always been before his mind the consideration that the fight would be hopeless. rose was not for him; she loved another. and the girl? she cheered him with her smile, and loved him for the dangers he had passed as he, in the hope of in that subject finding a vent for his emotions, told her of the work he had been doing. but in her heart she was deeply disturbed. the tired, drawn look on his strong face would pass away, she felt; but the sight of the expression of pain in his eyes gave her thoughts pause. had marion treville's faithlessness struck so deep? at the memory of her interview with the woman, smiles' own eyes changed, and lost their quiet tenderness. * * * * * morning had come, and the sunlight danced like a myriad host of tiny sprites, clad in cloth of gold over the broad blue bosom of the atlantic and into the windows of little muriel's cheerful bedroom. the door opened softly, and rose, in trim uniform and cap, with its three black bands, slipped into the room, silently motioning the man in the hall outside to keep back out of sight. the child, thin and pale on her snowy bed, turned her head listlessly and looked at the intruder. suddenly the suggestion of a smile touched her colorless lips, and lighted her unnaturally heavy eyes. she sat up with a glad cry of surprise and welcome, "why, it's my own smiles! wherever did you come from; are you going to make us a visit? oh, i'm so glad." "yes, darling. i got so tired and grumpy up in the hot city that i just had to come down here to be cheered up. will you help do it?" "'course i will. why, just _seeing_ you makes me want to cheer." she quickly swung her slender legs over the bedside. "oh, now if dear uncle don were only safe home again it would be perfect. i've worried and worried about his getting hit by a bomb or being blown up by a submarine. i wish ..." "and, presto! your wish is granted," laughed donald, as he ran into the room and caught his small niece up in an old-time bear hug. "oh, oh, oh. it's better than a fairy tale. i'm so happy i could die, but instead i'm going to get well right off. i'm well _now_; where are my clothes?" the little bare feet sought for bedroom slippers, and the light curls bobbed energetically as she enunciated, "now that i've got you two i mean to keep you forever and ever. if you, uncle don, would only mar ..." the man made haste to clap his hand over the offending mouth; but he was too late. rose had heard, and, with glowing cheeks, replied quickly, "but you forget that uncle don adopted me as a little sister, long ago." she slipped her hand through his arm and pressed it close to her for a moment, before laughing gayly, "run along, man. milady is about to dress and this is no place for you." chapter xxxi the valley of indecision early evening it was, several days later, evening of a sultry, stifling day, which had escaped the bounds of longitude and invaded even the north shore. the open ocean, itself, seemed to have forgotten its habitual unrest and yielded to the general languor. from the thayers' summer home--a glorified bungalow, broad of veranda and shingled silvery-olive, atop a long, terraced bank--it had the appearance of a limitless mirror, reflecting the unblemished blue infinity of the sky. only the never-ceasing series of vague white lines which ever crept up the shelving beach, to vanish like half-formed dreams, showed that, although the mighty deep slept, its bosom rose and fell as it breathed. the sky was a hazy horizon blue, unblemished save for a few vaporous clouds far in the west; the sun, well toward the end of its journey, was hazy, too, a thing of mystery; in the far eastern distance the broad atlantic softened to a hazy violet-gray which, in turn, blended, almost without a line of demarcation, into the still more distant heavens. far out, above the waters, a solitary gull circled with slow, sweeping curves, and now and again planed to the surface of the sea and struck from it a faint white spark. on the screened-in veranda, the members of the family, which now included rose, sat or reclined, in attitudes of indolence, the men in negligee shirts and white flannels, the women in light dresses. rose--who had, the day before, officially declared herself "off" the case; but had stayed on, a guest, at the general solicitation--wore a white dimity faintly sprinkled with her favorite rosebuds. her ex-patient sat on a little stool close by her side, a book of fairy stories resting on her elevated bare knees. the companionship of her beloved smiles had already brought the warm color of health back to her cheeks and banished the listless look from her eyes. her mother and mr. macdonald, senior, were reading. rose, chin resting on her cupped palm, was gazing seaward with a dreamy, far-away expression in her eyes, as blue as the sea itself. donald sat back of her, and scarcely turned his gaze from the even contour of her cheek and neck and the shimmering glory of her hair, as he pulled leisurely at his cigar. only little don showed signs of activity; for, with the boundless energy of four-and-a-half years, he was skidding and rolling industriously from one end of the porch to the other on a kiddie-car--a relic of the year before, and now much too small for him. with more or less dexterity he was weaving his way in and out among the various obstacles, animate and otherwise. after looking for many silent minutes at the girl he loved, donald said, tritely, "a penny for your thoughts, smiles." "sir, you value them too high. i was thinking about you," she laughed. "a likely story! i know well enough that your mind was far away from the present spot--the far-off expression on your face is indication enough of that. furthermore, i'll wager that i can guess pretty nearly where they were." it was a random shot, but he was disquieted to observe that it brought a faint blush in her cheeks. the added color, soft and lovely in itself, was darkly reflected on his heart. jumping up, smiles cried, with a mock pout, "i shan't stay here to be made the subject of a demonstration of clairvoyancy. my thoughts are my own, and i mean to keep them so, sir." as she ran into the house donald's eyes followed her, moodily. and if he had, indeed, possessed the power of divination which he had laid pretence to, the expression in them, and the shadow on his spirit, would have been justified. rose ran lightly upstairs, and, as she approached her room, drew from within her waist a letter. there was something both mysterious and childlike in the manner that she next opened one of the drawers of her dressing table and, taking out a box which held almost all of her modest treasures, started to place the letter with them. instead, however, she paused to lift out a neat little package containing a score or more of other epistles, tied together with a white ribbon. for a moment she hesitated, as though she were both mentally and physically weighing the objects held in either hand. a shadow of strange uncertainty came into her eyes, the outward expression of an inward uncertainty foreign to her nature. slowly, she turned from her reflection in the mirror and dropped down on the edge of the daintily counterpaned bed. with hesitating fingers she untied the ribbon from the package and began to glance through the unbound letters, pausing at intervals to read stray paragraphs from them. each one began and ended almost the same--"dear little smiles" and "affectionately your friend, donald." there was the one which contained the allegory of the steep path--which now lay behind her; the one in which he told her of little donald's advent into the world and of his own betrothal to marion treville, and as she read that sentence which held so much of import in the lives of both of them, she sighed, "poor don. he hasn't mentioned her; but her faithlessness must have struck deep, for he is, oh, so changed and more reserved." there were other letters filled with the spirit of _camaraderie_, and then the later ones, strong, simple, with their stories of others' sacrifice in the great cause of humanity. when the last one was read and laid upon the others, she sat with them in her lap for a moment, musing. the suspicion of tears shone in her eyes as she finally shook her head, and, evening them carefully, retied them. "no," she whispered, half aloud, "i mustn't be foolish. he's just my brother, that is the way he cares for me. it has always been like that. and i ... i mustn't be foolish." almost angrily she brushed away the single tear which had started its uncertain course down her cheek. with a gesture of resolution, she stood up and placed the package in its box. the other letter was about to follow; but, as she started to lay it down, she changed her mind, and, with the flush again mounting her cheeks, took it from the envelope, which bore a special delivery stamp, postmarked in boston that very morning. opening it, she read: "my dearest smiles: will you be the bearer of a message from me to your kind hostess? as you know, she has invited me down to manchester-by-the-sea for the week-end, as a surprise for donald, and i have heretofore been unable to give a definite answer. now i have banished everything else from my mind and shall arrive about seven-thirty. you wonder, perhaps, why i haven't written this direct to her? in answering my own question i have a confession--yes, _two_ confessions to make. a poor excuse is better than none, and i have sent the message to ethel, through you, merely as an excuse for writing you. to my own surprise i have discovered that i have suddenly become a moral coward, and am obliged to descend to subterfuges in order to bolster up my courage. this isn't a usual thing with me, i think, but neither is the occasion. i've been wanting and planning to tell you something, face to face, for a long time; but at the crucial moment my courage has failed each time. i could not nerve myself to bear the possibility of the wrong answer. now i cannot put it off any longer and i am forced to tell you that 'something' in this manner. it is a simple message, dear, but it has meant more than any other to the world through all ages, and it means more to me than all the world, now. i love you, rose,--i want to marry you. there is not anything more that need be said; you can imagine all the rest that i would say if i were with you in person, as i shall be with you in spirit as you read those words. i suspect that even they were not necessary. you must have guessed my love, which has grown steadily during these past three years, and have understood why i could not speak it before. it was not merely that the ethics of our relation forced me to keep silent; but i have felt, since you are situated as you are, and donald is still morally, if not legally, your guardian and protector, i should speak to him first. i have done so. my love for you was almost the first thing that he heard about, on reaching home. and smiles, dearest, he has gladly given his consent to my suit and wished me luck. now that i have written the fateful message, my courage is restored, in part at least, and i want to hear the answer from your own sweet lips. i can scarcely wait to hear it, for presumptuous as it is--i cannot help hoping that it will be the one i so desire. i cannot help believing that you do care for me. please don't run away, dear. i want to see you, alone, as soon as i reach manchester. with all my heart and soul i am your lover, philip." smiles slowly replaced the note, her first love letter, in its envelope, laid it in the box and locked this in the drawer. with her hands resting on the dresser she leaned forward and looked searchingly into her own eyes, as though trying to read her very heart. her lips moved and formed the words, "he cannot help hoping that the answer will be the one he desires. he knows that i _do_ care for him. yes, he cannot help knowing it; i am too simple to hide my feelings, and he has been so sweet that i could not help ... but ... oh, i wish that i hadn't got to tell him ... to-night." meanwhile donald had been sitting for many minutes in the silence born of laboring thoughts. he had guessed smiles' secret in part, but not in its entirety, and the bitter unhappiness, which had had its inception in philip's disclosure, lay over his soul like a pall. his father was the first to speak, and his words caused donald to start, for they seemed to be the result of telepathic communication. "you told us, once, that she wasn't a witch, but, by jove, there's both witchery and healing in that smile of hers, don. look at muriel now. it's nothing less than a miracle what the very presence of rose has done for her." "i was wrong," answered donald, shortly, whereupon ethel laid aside her book and joined in the conversation in a low voice, so that the absorbed muriel might not hear. "you love her, don, it's perfectly obvious. what are you waiting for? now that marion has behaved so shamefully, it is my dearest hope that you will marry rose. i didn't mean to speak of it; but, really, you are changing, donald, and i don't want to think of your becoming a self-centred old bachelor." "ethel's right," supplemented his father. "i'm only surprised that you haven't asked her before. you've been in the same house with her for a whole week. don't let one ... er ... unfortunate experience discourage you." donald carefully knocked the ashes from his pipe, got up, walked to the railing, and stood with his back toward them. then he laughed, a trifle bitterly. "thanks for the advice. i won't pretend that i don't ... care for her; but i can't ask her to marry me, as you suggest--that is, not now." "why not, i should like to know?" demanded his sister, impatiently. "i can't explain, either; but there is a reason. i am bound in honor. please don't say anything more about it." but ethel was not to be silenced so easily. "i don't know what you are talking about; but it's nonsense, anyway," she answered. "why, she worships you. any one can see that." "worships me!" echoed donald, with sarcastic inflection. "what's the sense in exaggerating like that, ethel? i suppose that she is fond of me in a way; the way you are, but ..." "i never suspected you of lacking courage before," interrupted the other. "if you haven't the nerve to ask that child yourself, _i_ will. i guess that i'm a better judge of feminine nature than you, donald." "you failed to prove it once before," he retorted, and instantly added, with a tone of unusual contrition, "i am sorry i said that. it was unnecessary and unworthy. but, really, i can't allow you to play mrs. john alden to my miles standish. there is a reason ..." "oh, you men. you're all alike, when you climb on some sort of a high horse and become mysterious. i don't know what you are talking about--perhaps you are deluding yourself with an absurdly chivalrous notion about being her guardian--but i tell you this. a normal girl, who is as full of life as rose, can't be expected to be like the wishy-washy heroines of some murky novel, remain faithful unto death to her first unrequited love, and turn into a sweetly spiritual old maid, waiting for the hero to come and claim her. ''tain't accordin' ter huming nater,' as captain jim says. the mating call is too strong, and she is sure to respond to the love note of another sooner or later;--don't flatter yourself that you are the only man in smiles' creation. she's as sweet and pure as any girl could be, but she's human, like the rest of us ... that's what makes me love her so, and, unless 'you speak for yourself, john' ..." "i can't, ethel, i ... s-s-sh." the girl's light footsteps on the descending stairs caused him to break off with a low note of warning, and hardly had he resumed his seat before she was sitting on the arm of the chair and rumpling his wavy hair, as naturally as a child, or a sister. watching him closely, ethel saw the veins begin to swell on the back of his muscular hand, as his fingers gripped the other arm of the chair. she sighed, and then a look of wondering distress came into her face as the thought flashed unbidden through her mind, "i wonder if it is possible that he made some unfortunate, entangling alliance in france, after he heard from marion? it isn't impossible. men are often caught on the rebound like that." donald was the first to make an effort to introduce a new subject into the thoughts of all, by saying, "doesn't the _water witch_ look pretty in this light?" as he pointed to a trim little eighteen-foot race-about, whose highly polished mahogany sides, free from paint, reflected the water which reflected them. "i don't know as i have properly thanked you for having her put in commission for me, ethel." "i thought that it would please you, and i had them overhaul and rig her as soon as i learned that you were coming home." "please me! well, i should say 'vraiment.' come, smiles, let's run away from all the world beside, and i'll show you my skill as a skipper." ethel sent a meaning glance in the direction of her father, but he was laughing; "'skill as a skipper,' indeed, on such an evening as this! he would be an amateur, for certain, who couldn't steer with one arm free. whew, there isn't a breath." "there is going to be, and not many minutes from now. unless i miss my guess we'll have a thunderstorm, and a west wind which will make short work of this humidity. there, feel that breeze? ouch, you little devil, get off my foot. it may be large but it wasn't built for a kiddie-car racetrack." the obstacle had caused an upset, and baby don, more angry than hurt, to be sure, set up a howl and ran to smiles' arms for comfort. "you'll spoil that baby," growled his uncle. "well, what do you say, are you coming?" he stood up, and stretched his powerful frame in anticipation of the exercise that he loved. "if you don't mind, donald, i'd ... i'd rather not ... to-night," answered rose. "i'm afraid that you don't like the ocean; i rather thought that you wouldn't," he responded gently, for he had in mind the fact that both of her parents had met their death by drowning. the girl sat silently for a little while, with her eyes fixed upon the waters, here and there upon the surface of which had begun to appear shadowy streaks of varying tones, as though the master painter were deftly sweeping a mighty, invisible brush across the pictured surface. interblending shades of soft green, gray and violet came and disappeared. without turning her head, she answered, pensively, "it is very, very beautiful and i love it--in a way. but i am afraid of it, too. yes, i like the lordly mountains better, don. to me there is always something sinister about the sea, even when it is in as peaceful a mood as this; storms come upon it so swiftly, and it has taken so many precious lives." donald laid an understanding hand upon her shoulder for a brief moment. "i won't urge you," he said. "let's go for a little walk, then." "i ... i can't do that, either, donald. it was meant to be a surprise, but ... dr. bentley is coming down from boston to-night, and i promised ... that is, he has asked me to ... to go somewhere with him." rose was blushing again. "oh, i see. i didn't know that phil was coming, although, of course, he has a standing invitation, and knows that i'm always delighted to see him," answered donald, in a tone which he made natural with an effort. "i invited him especially," broke in ethel. "and he accepted in a letter to rose." chapter xxxii the storm and the sacrifice baby don put an end to the moment of strained silence which succeeded. he laid hold of two of smiles' fingers and began to pull at her, while saying insistently, "come down to the beach with me, aunty smiles, and hear the waves ro-er." this was a favorite pastime with him. his grandfather smiled. "the waves are 'ro-ering' as gently as any sucking dove, to-night." but the baby was not to be turned from his design, and tugged persistently until rose was obliged to rise, laughing. muriel also started up. "i'll go down with you and try out the _water witch_ alone--unless, that is, either of you want to come along," said donald. his father and ethel refused, with a show of indignation over the begrudging form which the invitation had taken, and he was not sorry. neither man nor girl could find anything to say as they walked side by side to the beach, and the former launched the dory tender. as he put off she waved him a cheery good-by, and sent her low voice across the broadening water: "come back to us soon. and be careful. it is beginning to get rough already." with a note in his voice which she did not understand, he called back, "perhaps i'll sail straight over to france. you wouldn't care." "foolish man. you know that i would," she cried, and then turned to join the children in their game of skipping pebbles. donald sent the skiff through the choppy waves with vigorous strokes and shot her around at the last moment for a perfect landing. the mainsail and jib went up with rapid jerks while the rings rattled their protest. the strenuous physical exercise brought him temporary relief; but, when he had cast off, taken the tiller and after a few moments of idle jockeying back and forth in the light puffs, squared away for the run seaward before the rising wind, his gloomy thoughts returned, to settle like a flock of phantom harpies and feast on his brain. out of nothing grew a vision of judd's chalky, troubled face, and he felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the crude mountaineer, who had likewise loved and lost. "smiles wasn't to blame then. she isn't to blame _now_. she never led either of us on," he said aloud; but his clenched teeth cut through the end of his cigar, nevertheless. with only his moody thought to bear him company, donald steered seaward. starting slowly, the racing craft was momentarily given new impetus by swelling wind and following wave; but the man paid no heed to the things which should have served him as a warning--the higher heaving of the waters, now as gray and as cloudy green as a dripping cliff, and touched with flecks of milky spume; and the uneven tugging of the sail. when he did become aware of the swift change which had taken place, hardly five minutes had passed from the time he had started out, yet a quick glance behind him disclosed a new heaven and a new earth and sea; the old had passed away. where else is nature's stupendous power so evident as in the sinister speed with which the armies of the tempest make their swift advance, company on company, regiment on regiment, division on division? in the moments which had passed unmarked by him in his absorption, the whole western sky had become overcast and blackened by the vaporous army of invasion, whose forecoursing streams of cavalry skirmishers were already high over his head. the earth had lost its laughing colors, and seemed to lie cowering, with its head covered with a dull mantle, and the sea had accepted the challenge of the storm clouds and was beginning to leap forward in swirling, gloomy waves. with a strong steady pull on the tiller, donald brought the little craft around in a sweeping curve and headed into the wind, which had suddenly become chill and moist. the boat tilted sharply, and a dash of spray leaped the bow and, changing back to water, ran down the leeward side of the cockpit. a drop of rain splashed on his bared forearm, and then another and another. through the dark, serried clouds came a dagger thrust of fire, to be followed by a distant detonation which bore his heart back to the shuddering fields of france. the new picture was impressed on his mind as on the sensitized film of a camera, and simultaneously the action of distant figures were registered upon it. toiling up the steep bank to the cottage was a marionette made recognizable as muriel by a tiny dash of red at the waist and on the head. for an instant he wondered if smiles and his little namesake had already reached the house. then he caught sight of them, still on the beach. there was fully a quarter of a mile of water between him and the shore, but the distance was being cut down bravely by the race-about, whose specialty was going to windward in a blow. steadied by her racing keel, she cut through the waves like a knife. the child, a mere gray dot, was apparently fleeing as fast as his sturdy little legs could carry him from the pursuing girl. in spite of his bitterness of soul, donald's lips curved into a smile as they formed the words, "ah, the battle is on, once more. rose has insisted that they hurry up to the house and don has said, 'i won't.' jerusalem, look at him kite it!" at that instant a tremulous curtain of light was let down from heaven, momentarily, and the two tiny figures were disclosed as clear as by day. he saw the baby dodging adroitly under smiles' outstretched arms, and heading out onto the narrow pier, to which was attached a float for rowboats. "he's got his 'mad' up," thought the man, as he veered off a point so as to get a better view. "he isn't afraid of thunder, lightning or of rain--or anything else, and it would be just like him to run right off the ... great god in heaven, he's done it!" he shouted aloud and sprang to his feet, and almost lost his grip on the straining tiller. even as he had been thinking, the light had grown again, and he saw the child, halfway down the pier, with a rebellious jerk tear himself loose from the clutching grasp on his blouse, lose his balance, stumble and roll from the incline into the now surging water. the _water witch_ luffed sharply, and her sail snapped with a report like a pistol shot. without taking his horrified gaze from the unreal picture which the ghastly lightning illumined, donald instinctively steadied the boat, and, with his powerful body strained forward as though he were urging the craft to greater effort. "god, god, god." the words came through his clenched teeth, half prayer, half curse at the fate which held him helpless to act--and the wind snatched them from his lips and bore them away, shrieking in malicious madness. the darkness fell, blotting out the scene. then the lightning flared again, and, in the brief white second that it lasted, he saw rose climb onto a bench against the railing of the pier, and leap into the water. "god, she can't swim a stroke," groaned the man, as he pounded his left hand against the gunwale until the blood came through the abraded skin. plunged in darkness again, the man, whom rose had called unimaginative, suffered all the untold agony of soul which had been hers during the moment in which she had been forced to make up her mind and carry out the act, only his anguish was the more intense, for hers was the quick action and his the forced inaction of a man bound to a stake, within full sight of a tragedy being enacted upon a loved one. the distance between the boat and shore was not so great but that he could see everything that was occurring; but, with the wind dead ahead and blowing viciously, he might as well have been in another world for aught that he could do. the spell of darkness, doubly black after the flash, seemed like an eternity to donald. in reality it was as brief as the others, yet, when the light came, it disclosed other forms in action. a youth, whom he had vaguely noticed working around a rowboat on the beach as he put out, was plunging into the water, and down the steeply terraced bank, with leaping strides, was running a tall, slender figure clad in light gray. minute as it was, seen from that distance, donald recognized it. it was philip, and his bursting heart gave voice to a cry of welcome and hope. philip would save smiles! [illustration: "holding the girl in clinging white close to him"] true, he would save her for himself. he could not keep the thought out of his surge of hope; but the erstwhile bitterness was swept away. nothing else mattered, if rose could be saved. measured by the ticking of a clock, the action was taking place with dramatic speed; but, to his quivering mind, it dragged woefully, and the periods when the light failed caused him to cry aloud. suddenly the searchlight of the sky was turned on, dazzlingly, and he saw the unknown youth wading ashore, bearing in his arms a tiny form whose animated arms and legs told the story of baby don's timely rescue; he saw ethel running wildly toward them, to gather her offspring into her outstretched arms; he saw philip on the float, in the act of casting himself prone. then the picture faded once more and he railed at the ensuing blackness as though it had been a wilful, animate thing. this time it lasted longer, and the man's deep breath came in rasping sobs before the scene was again revealed. now there were two forms standing unsteadily on the float; two forms that were almost one, for the man in gray was holding the girl in clinging white close to him. still, she could stand; smiles was alive, she was saved! and the watcher's lips gave vent to a shout of relief and joy, a shout which ended in a groan. all the power of his masterful will was not enough to make him do that which he longed to--turn his tortured eyes from the picture which spelt life to rose, and death to all his golden dreams. now he saw them moving slowly up the pier, the girl still leaning heavily against the man, and supported by his encircling arm. they paused, and rose half turned, and slowly waved her hand toward the sea in a reassuring gesture, and donald whispered, "god bless her. she knows that i have been a witness to the whole thing, and she remembers, thinks of me, even at ... at this time. i cannot see her face, but i know that she is smiling." the lingering effulgence from a final wave of light vanished; the two forms toiling up the shore blended into the returning shadows; the curtain of darkness fell, and the drama was ended. "why could it not have been i?" groaned donald. the wind, already spent from its brief fury, chortled softly among the shrouds as though it was laughing at him, another mortal made the victim of capricious fate. surely it knew that he would have served as well as its agent and would only too gladly have given his very life for smiles, but it had wilfully sent him away and sent opportunity to philip. heroes and martyrs; what are they, after all, but the creatures of that whimsical goddess? most men and most women have within them the courage to dare all things if the occasion comes, but to a few only, chosen, it often seems, by chance, is that occasion granted. yet, how often has the history of life, both racial and individual, been changed by such an event! donald knew his star had sunk below the far horizon and that philip's had been carried to its zenith. the lover was likewise the rescuer. it were as though the play had been written and the stage set for no other purpose than to bring the romance to its culmination, and, now that this had been accomplished, the useless properties were being removed. the storm was over, ending as quickly as it had begun; the cloud-legions were hurrying eastward overhead to form the setting of another tragedy or farce somewhere else, or to return to the nothing which had given them birth. a few faint flashes and a distant rumble or two marked their passing. along the western edge of the world appeared a narrow streak of ruddy light, like burnished copper beneath the blackness above. blazing forth with the glory of a conqueror, the sun appeared within it, and seemed to poise immovable for an instant 'twixt heaven and earth, while its dazzling rays turned the living waters to molten gold. then it slowly sank from sight, and, like wraiths of the dying day, the night-shadows began to creep out from the shore, deeper and deeper, nearer and nearer, until they engulfed the little craft and its owner. with a sudden decision, donald played out the sheet and put the tiller over. the boat swung around into the path of the wind and fled seaward again. he could not go home, now. he must fight out the battle with self, as it is always fought, alone, and what place could be more fitting than out there in the darkness, on the face of the troubled waters? chapter xxxiii what the cricket heard two hours later donald stumbled, like a strong man physically played out, up the path to the cottage. ethel saw him coming, and ran part way down the steps to meet him. with her arms around his neck, she half-sobbed out the words in a choked voice, "oh, don. do you know what has happened? could you see from your boat? little donny? smiles? could you see, don?" he nodded, dumbly; but his sister kept on, "she couldn't swim, but yet she jumped, instantly, to save him. you see, she thought that she was alone, she didn't know about that boy. oh, donald, we must do something for him, something splendid. he saved my baby's life." ethel was crying now, and the man forgot his own misery in comforting her. "but why didn't you come, donald? you didn't know...." "yes, i knew that everything ... was all right. rose waved to me and called. i ... i _couldn't_ come, ethel. i can't make you understand." with the light of understanding breaking in upon her mind, and bringing a flood of sympathy with it, his sister once more drew close and encircled his neck with her arms. "where ... where is she?" he asked, as though the words were wrung from him against his will. "smiles has gone for a little walk with ... dr. bentley, dear," answered ethel in a manner which she strove to make commonplace. she felt his frame quiver, and, with a motion that was almost rough, he shook off her comforting arms, and mounted the steps, holding to the rail as he did so. he went directly indoors, and to his room, with the instinct of a wounded creature to seek its cave or burrow. save for a cold, cheerless patch of moonlight on the floor it was dark, and he felt no desire to turn on the lights. for a while he sat, silent and motionless, on the edge of the bed. but he could not stand the closed-in solitude. the place seemed filled with the fragrant presence of the girl who was not there; would never be there. he wanted to smoke, and went to the bureau to fumble blindly for a pipe which he remembered he had left on it. his hand touched something small and glazed, and he drew it sharply away. the something was the little rose jar. smiles' first gift to him, which had travelled far since that morning on the mountain side, five years before. the thoughts which would not be stilled repossessed his mind, and drove him out-of-doors again,--through a side door, so that he would not have to speak to his father and ethel, whose voices he heard in low conversation on the front porch. they ceased for a moment, as though the speakers had heard the sound of his footsteps, and paused to listen. the night was still, so still that the chirp of a cricket under the piazza sounded loudly. it was a cheerful little note, and donald hated it for its cheer, and started hastily away toward the beach. high above, to the south, the moon was sailing through a sea of clouds, in silent majesty. moonlit nights he had seen aplenty since that one in the cumberlands, four summers previous, when he had climbed the mountain, impatient to see once more the strange, smiling child who had so stirred his imagination. in the old days he had loved the soft and majestic radiance. now he hated it. had he not lived long in war-ridden france, where every clear night illumined by that orb, which once had been the glory of those who loved, had meant merely the advent of the hunnish fiends, whose winging visits brought death and devastation to the sleeping towns below? he had fled from the darkness of his room, but now he craved the darkness again, for, perchance, it might blot out the memory of other nights, beautiful as golden dreams, or hideous as nightmares, when the moon had shone as it did now. as he made a quick turn about a rocky obstruction in his rapid path, he came almost full upon two others, a man and a woman. on the yielding sand his footfalls had made no sound, and they were unaware of his sudden approach. donald stopped, and stepped hastily back out of sight; but not before he had seen the man's arms gather the slender form of the girl in close embrace, and seen her lift her sweet young face--tear-bejeweled, but smiling with the tenderness of love--for his kiss. with the rocks put between him and the two, donald stood for a moment with clenched fists pressed brutally against his eyes as though to grind out the picture recorded there. then, with blind but nervous strides, he fled from the spot which, at the one time, held such happiness and such despair. it was close to midnight when his steps bore him instinctively back to the unlighted house; but this time the exercise and the cool night air had failed to bring relief to his heart. he could not face the idea of tossing for hours on a sleepless bed, and so passed the front door and seated himself within the dark shadows of a corner of the piazza. "chirr-r-p, chirr-r-p, chirr-r-p," began a pleasantly shrill little voice beneath him. over and over it repeated the sound, until the man's feverish imagination had made it into "cheer-up," and he cursed the cricket for its silly advice. so busy was his mind with introspection that he did not hear the door open gently, and the first intimation that he was not alone was brought to him by the sound of a light footstep directly behind him. he turned his head, and saw a dim, ethereally white figure,--rose. "i thought that you would never come, donald," she whispered, as she sank down close by his side on muriel's little stool, and laid her cool hand on his fevered one. "i have been watching from my window for an hour. i couldn't go to sleep until i had told you something." with an effort he answered evenly, "i ... i think that i know what it is, rose." "you know? but how ...?" "i saw you ... and philip, on the beach," he replied, dully. "you saw ... oh! and you heard what ...?" "no. i went away at once, of course. but i did not need to hear. i ... i am glad if you are happy, smiles." she was silent for a long moment; then whispered with a note of joy in her low voice that wrung his heart, "yes, i am very happy, donald." "philip is a splendid fellow." "you wanted me to ... to marry him, don?" "i _wanted_ you to?" he barely succeeded in checking, unspoken, the burning words on his tongue; but this time his voice betrayed him, and, if he had not been resolutely keeping his face turned away from her, he might have seen, even in that dim light, an odd change come into the expression of her lovely face, and seen a wonderfully tender and somewhat mischievous smile touch her lips. all that he did know, however, was that she gave a low, happy laugh, which was like a knife-thrust to his soul. "don," she said at length, "i have told no one else of my great secret yet, for i wanted to tell you, first of all. i couldn't go to sleep without telling you, for you have been such a dear confidant and father confessor to me that it seems as though i must tell you everything. i ... i've just got to tell you what has happened. may i?" the man barely smothered a groan. must he hear this girl, in her simplicity, talk on and on about the man she loved, and had promised to marry? it struck him, too, as strange that she should be willing to lay bare anything so sacred in a woman's life, but then she was her natural self, and quite different from most girls, in her attitude toward him. but rose was speaking quietly, and as though to herself, "philip has been so sweet and good to me while you were away. you remember that you, yourself, told me that you meant him to take your place as my unofficial protector, and that i should go to him with my perplexities. it would have been better for me if i had followed your advice closer, but now i can laugh at spilt milk." rose had already confessed to donald about her "investment" and been by him cross-examined into an admission of her little charities, which, in their aggregate, had so nearly wiped out her bank account. she could laugh about them now, for she had won to her goal, and already begun to earn a livelihood, but she had carefully hidden in her heart the story of the bitter struggle in which she had engaged to make both ends meet during the last few months of her course, when her mysterious refusals to accept any invitations from ethel, miss merriman or philip for her free afternoons and evenings, had left them wondering what on earth she was doing. no one guessed that they were spent in earning the few sadly needed dollars which her pride forbade her to borrow from any of them. "now i can laugh at spilt milk," smiles' words echoed in donald's brain, and hurt. he knew that philip was fairly well-to-do, and, of course, rose would want for nothing when she married him. this was the thought which brought the poignant stab. "it was not strange that i began ... that he became very dear to me, was it, donald?" the man shook his head dumbly. he could not answer her in words. "perhaps i should not say it; but some time ago i began to guess that ... that he loved me. not that he said a word, donald, that is, not until to-day,--and then he didn't say it," she laughed a little. "he _wrote_ it and he ... he asked me to marry him. he said, besides, that he had spoken to you, first, and that you had given your brotherly consent. it was a very sweet letter, don; the first real love letter that i ever received, think of that!" only by clinching his teeth and gripping the arms of the chair could the man repress a groan. "it was after he had ... had saved my life that ..." she stopped, and broke into her thought with the words, "oh, donald, i can never, never forget to-night, and the awful feeling that i had when little don went into the water. you see, you were far away, and i didn't know about that brave boy on the beach, so i thought that i had got to save him if i could, and i didn't know _how_ i could. and then those black, cold waves going over my head! i was quite sure that i was going to die, and i almost hoped so for ... for i couldn't find donny." she leaned her head against his knee and cried a little; but, when he tried to speak, and tell her what had been in his heart, she interrupted hastily with, "oh, please, let's not speak of it, ever again. i know how you felt, too. "it was after that that philip asked me for my answer. i knew what it was going to be, but ..." donald could not stand it any longer. "i know. you love him, you are going to marry him, smiles. it's all right, he is a splendid fellow, dear," he repeated mechanically. "yes, he is, and i do love him," she replied quietly; but she could not contain her secret any longer and added, "but a girl can't marry her _brother_, donald." "her brother? please, rose, don't joke." "it's true!" "you! philip's sister? it's impossible, unbelievable!" yet a surge of mad, uncontrollable joy swept over him, and his heart burst into song. "unbelievable, yes. but it's _so_, donald, although i can hardly credit it yet, myself." "but how? tell me how you found out. what happened?" "don't, you're hurting my hand, donald. i'll tell you all about it as soon as i can, but please don't ask so many questions all at once, and please tell me first that you are glad, that my great secret makes you happy, as it does me." "happy? oh, great heavens! but you? are you really pleased? you said that you loved him!" "and so i did, and do ... dearly. but, you see, donald, although i have cared for him for a long, long while, there was something about my affection that i could not explain, even to myself. it was ... was different, somehow, from what ... from what i felt it must be for the man whom i might marry. now i know that it was the subconscious call of the blood, the love of a sister for a brother, and never anything else." lifted and swayed by a great happiness and reborn hope, donald laughed aloud. "oh, you're a strange little girl, smiles. i had not realized that you were fully grown up until to-night; but now i know that you are a woman,--a child no longer. my little rose would never have tried to be so dramatic, nor would she have tried to analyze her love, and label it the call of kin, rather than that of a mate. i used to think that you were a clear crystal in which i might see reflected your very heart and soul, but now you have become a woman and therefore a mystery. oh, woman, what do you know about love? not the kind that philip inspired in you; but the name which burns unquenchable--which purifies and strengthens, or consumes the one who ..." he stopped, surprised at his own rush of words,--and abashed. the hand, which she had slipped unconsciously into his, trembled and thrilled him. "perhaps ... i do ... know it, donald," came the words, barely audible. "smiles! it isn't possible that you ... that i ... oh, my dear one, don't say anything to make me hope anew, after what i have endured to-night unless ..." "do you really care, don? in that _other_ way, i mean." he stood unsteadily up; things had become unreal and he could not speak. smiles, still holding his hand, rose also. the top of her head came just below the level of his eyes; the moonlight across it set her wavy hair to shimmering. she could not lift her eyes to his, but with a brave, low voice, she went on, when she saw that he would not answer. "all this past week i have been the most brazen of girls, and deliberately given you a hundred chances to tell me, if it were so. i was quite sure that it couldn't be, and besides, you told philip...." "i know; but i thought ... you see he told me that he loved you, and that he was sure that you cared for him." "i did, just as i do now. oh, man, you have been so blind, or so noble. have i got to _ask_ you to marry me?" for the barest instant she looked up at him, and he saw that the smile he loved was whimsical as well as madly appealing. "no," almost shouted donald. "i won't hear of such a thing as your being one of these 'new women.' you're a siren out of the olden days of mystic legend, and i have kept my ears stopped up against your witching song, which i was afraid to hear. but now i want to hear it, day and night, through eternity. wait, not yet. first ... smiles, will you marry me?" "oh, what an anticlimax! why did you have to become so practical and unromantic, after such a splendid start," she laughed happily. "no lover is supposed to ask that question with such brutal bluntness. come, i will teach you the romance of love." it was dark on the veranda. the moon had suddenly slipped out of sight behind one of the laggards in the retreating cloud army; but donald needed no earthly light in order to realize that rose was holding out her arms to him, as simply and frankly as she had five years before. "chir-r-r-p, chir-r-r-p, chir-r-r-p," thrilled the cricket underneath the porch. chapter xxxiv a lost brother how long it may have been before the man, eager as he was to hear the full explanation of the seeming miracle through which his happiness had been made possible, was ready to urge rose to tell the story which she had promised, and what whispered words the cricket heard in the interim, concern only the three of them. when, at last, he was able to bring his winging thoughts down from the clouds to earth, it was to discover still another unsuspected trait in the woman who had become his all; for smiles, eager and excited, was still dwelling in a world of romance, and she insisted upon recounting what had happened, almost verbatim, and in a dramatic manner quite unlike the simplicity which naturally characterized her speech. nor could donald's commonplace interruptions, during the course of which he affirmed that fact _was_ stranger than fiction and that the world _was_ a small place after all, check her narrative. "i don't know whether i can make you understand why i acted as i did, when philip asked me for my answer, dear. indeed, i hardly know, myself," she began. "it wasn't that i didn't know what i had got to tell him, for i had made up my mind long ago--at least, it seems long ago, although it was only this morning, when i got his letter. much as i cared for him, my heart knew that there was only one man in the world for me--even though he appeared not to want me!" the digression caused a further and wholly natural delay. "perhaps it was because i hated to hurt him, and wanted desperately to postpone the evil moment; but, at any rate, i begged him to wait, and said that he didn't know all the facts about me. i told him that i wasn't sure that i ought to marry any one. and that was true, donald. i've often worried about it, for i didn't know anything about my parents, and heredity counts for so much, doesn't it? "of course he replied, just as i might have expected, that he didn't know what i meant, but that nothing else could possibly matter to him, if only i ... i cared. "but i said that i had to explain,--i guess that i was a little panic-stricken, he seemed so deadly in earnest,--and then i told him that i wasn't big jerry's grandchild really, but only a little waif whom he had taken in. 'so, you see, i am a nameless girl, philip,' i said. 'i don't mean it in a bad sense, for i know that i had a dear father and mother, whom i just barely remember, but....' "i don't know exactly what i was going to add, but he broke in with, 'what earthly difference do you think that could make to me, dear?' and then he told me that he _knew_ i was ... was good and pure, that _any one_ who was acquainted with me could see that i must have come from sterling stock, even if my parents were simple mountaineers. "'but they weren't, phil,' i answered. 'i was a poor little city waif, who had lost her parents and didn't know where she came from, or even her name.' and then i told him the story which big jerry told you that first night on the mountain. "and then, donald, then it was my turn to be surprised, for philip grasped my arm until he hurt me, and cried, 'i can't believe it, rose. i _won't_ believe it!' "i didn't know what to say, and somehow i felt both hurt and a little angry that it should make any difference in his love--yes, i did, in spite of the fact that i couldn't marry him anyway. yet, at the same time, i had an impression that it wasn't that, but something quite different, which was troubling his heart. so i said, 'what is it, philip? i do not understand why you are acting so strangely.' "his only reply was to ask me, in an odd voice, when it happened; how long ago. "i told him 'eighteen years, when i was a baby about three years old.' don, i can't tell you how i felt then, for he looked so peculiar--almost as though he were stunned. and he could not seem to say anything. i was frightened. i begged him to speak to me, and told him that he looked as though he had seen a ghost. 'i have ... at least i have if my suspicion is true. but it can't be; oh, it is unbelievable, impossible,' he broke out. "i didn't know what to say or do, he looked almost as though he were ... were not in his right mind; and, when i put my hand on his arm and begged him to tell me what the trouble was, he shook it off, and began to speak ... oh, i cannot tell you how. it sounded as though some one else were speaking, and uttering the words hesitatingly. "'try and remember, smiles. call on your memory of the long ago, if there is a single spark of it still lingering in your mind. oh, it means so much, dear, so much that i am almost afraid to ask the question, but i have got to, i have got to!' "he waited until i thought i should go mad, don, and then said, in little more than a whisper, 'did you ever, back in your babyhood, hear the name, anna rose young? think, smiles, think hard.' "perhaps you will not believe it; but it seemed as though something long forgotten were actually stirring in my heart, and as though it were groping blindly in the mists of memory. i could not be sure, yet something forced me to answer, uncertainly, 'yes, i think, i believe that i do remember that name; but i don't know where i could have heard it. what do you mean, philip?' "his answer surprised me as much as the first question, for he said, 'was it in ... louisville?' "'louisville? i have never been there, philip. and yet....' there was the strange stir in my memory again. oh, it was all so puzzling. "'anna rose young,' he repeated insistently. 'they called her rose, because ... because her mother's name was the same.' "'they called _her_ ... philip, i do remember, now. it's my own name! oh, philip, you know who i am! but how, phil?' i was clinging to him as though i must draw the truth from him physically; but he went on, almost mechanically, and his breath came hard, i could feel him tremble, don." now her own low voice was trembling excitedly. "'a tall, slender man, who stooped a little, smiles,' he said. 'his face was thoughtful and kindly. he had a close-clipped, pointed beard, and wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and his eyes were very blue, as blue as your own, rose. tell me, does the picture mean anything to you?' "i tried to visualize it, don, and i could, as though it were some one far, far off whom i could see through the mist. "'my daddy, philip,' i whispered; i could hardly speak at all, for my throat was aching and i was crying." she was crying, now, but did not realize it. "'a sweet-faced woman, with wavy brown hair in which were golden glints like yours,' he went on, monotonously; but this time i could not answer at all." smiles stopped, and, for an instant, sobbed without restraint, with her head against donald's arm, and he ran his hand tenderly and unsteadily over her hair. then she lifted her face, bathed in tears, and whispered, "you understand, don't you, don? after all the years, to remember, ever so vaguely; but, still, to remember my former life, and to know my own name! oh, i can't help it ... i couldn't when he told me." "yes, yes. i understand, dearest." "philip went on, desperately, it seemed to me. 'another picture, smiles. can you see a spindle-legged, mischievous boy of ten, who loved his little sister dearly; but teased her from morning until night. his name was ...' "'tilly! oh, i remember. at least, that was what baby rose called him.' "'yes, she called him tilly. she called him that because ... because she couldn't say ... "philip." oh, little rose, don't you understand? i came to find a wife, and i have found ... a sister!'" "but, his name ..." interrupted donald. "i know. i will tell you. but first, donald, my poor father and mother. i thought that perhaps i was to find them, too; but god willed otherwise. big jerry was right. they ... they were both drowned." eager as he was to hear the rest of the story, the man could not but keep silent, in understanding sympathy, until she was ready to proceed of her own accord. it was once more as smiles herself had written in her letter to him, after big jerry's death. happiness was tinged with grief, for the night's strange disclosures had re-opened an old wound, long since closed. finally she went on. "i won't try to tell you the explanation in philip's words; but it seems that we used to live in louisville. philip's own father was a well-to-do physician, named, of course, dr. bentley. he died when phil was a baby, and, when he was seven years old, mother married mr. robert young, a mining engineer. i was born a year later--i am really his half-sister, you see." "but," interrupted donald, "i should think that the name philip bentley might have stirred a responsive chord in your memory before this--no, i don't suppose that it would have, after all, for you were so small that you didn't remember your own last name." "yes, and not only that, but philip was always called 'young'--when he was a boy, anyway. well, it seems that, when he was ten, and i was three, he was sent all alone to visit an uncle, a brother of his own father, who lived in richmond. it was while he was away for the summer that my dear father was sent into the cumberland mountains between kentucky and virginia, prospecting for coal on behalf of the company in the employ of which he was. he took mother and me with him for a camping vacation, and ... and you know as much as i about the tragedy which separated us, and made such changes in our lives." rose paused again, a prey to memory. "and then?" prompted donald, gently. "then, philip said, when no word came from his parents for several weeks, his uncle left no stone unturned to find them, and at length the federal revenue authorities located the bodies of my dear mother and father, and part of their wrecked canoe, in the swift river, almost at the foot of the mountains. of course every one assumed that i had ... had been drowned, too." "oh, thank god that you were not, my dear," breathed donald, so softly that she could not hear him. "then philip went to live permanently with his uncle, who raised and educated him as one of his own sons. of course he took his real name again. oh, donald, isn't it too wonderful?" "yes, dear heart, wonderful, indeed." there was a long silence. then donald asked, softly, "and philip? how does he feel?" "he ... he is happy, too," came her reply, somewhat haltingly. "of course, just at first ... oh, please don't ask me, don. but now he is content, for he knows that i ... i couldn't ever have been anything else to him, because i loved ano.... i loved _you_." "he knows that? rose, you didn't tell him?" "yes, i did," she answered, bravely. "and let me tell _you_, sir, that it is lucky for you that ... that you asked me; for, if you hadn't, you would have had my big brother to deal with!" and what the cricket heard _then_, has nothing to do with this story. chapter xxxv the hallowed moon they were to be married early in september--just a month from the day when smiles so nearly gave her life to save another's. during the days which must pass before she became donald's in the full trinity of body, mind and soul, his family kept her at manchester-by-the-sea and each hour bound her more closely to the heart of each. for her, ethel planned and purchased, sewed and supervised, putting as much loving thought into the making of her simple outfit as though it was she herself who was to be wedded. the days were busy ones, the evening hours rich in love and contentment, for donald came down from the city each night, and the two learned the way to many a secret chamber in each other's heart. early in the week which was to bring to a close the separate stories of the man and maid, and write the first chapter in the single history of man and wife, donald left them to make a brief, but important, trip which, he said, could not be postponed; and oh, how empty life seemed to smiles during those few days. but they were ended at last, and the marriage evening came,--still and mellow, with the voices of both shore and sea tuned to soft night melodies. below in the hall, hidden within a bower of palms, an orchestra of boston symphony players drew whispering harmonies from the strings of violins, harp and cello, and, at the signal, swept into the dreamy, enchanted notes of mendelssohn's marriage song. little don, very proud and important--and somewhat frightened--picked up the train which he was to bear as page, and down the winding stairway, by the side of her new-found brother, moved rose, gowned in traditional white, made with befitting simplicity, her shimmering hair no longer crowned with the square of a nurse cap, but by a floating, misty veil and the orange-blossom wreath of a bride. never had her warm coloring been so delicate and changeful, her expressive eyes so deep, or the fleeting sweetness of her translucent smile so wonderful. at the foot of the stairs stood muriel, and three other girl companions, each with a woven sweetgrass basket--made years ago by little smiles herself--filled with rose petals to be strewn in her path, and the bride's lowered eyes rested tenderly for a moment upon the child that she so loved. then she started, and paused. one of them, as tall as muriel and more slender, had hair of spun gold, and she was looking up with an eagerness which she could hardly restrain. with a low, surprised cry, smiles hurried downward, drawing her hand from philip's arm and extending both her own. "little lou. can it really be you? oh, my dear." and, heedless of the cluster of waiting friends beyond, she caught the flushing, bashful, happy child into her arms. "oh, smiles, haint hit all too wonderful. hit's like dreamy-land, an' i'm plumb erfeered thet i'll wake up an' find hit haint real. but _yo're_ real, my smiles, an' oh, how i loves ye." there was a suspicious moisture in more eyes than those of rose, as she released the child and moved forward again, following the flower girls into the room where waited the man who was all in all to her. donald stood just to one side of a canopied altar made of white roses and interwoven ferns, and before it was a tall, slender man in the vestments of the episcopal church, whose thin, saintlike face was topped by hair of the purest silver-white. smiles felt her heart swelling almost painfully with a great new happiness; her lips parted, and she wanted to draw her hand across her eyes and brush away the sudden tears which she knew were there. for the rector was her own dear mr. talmadge. now donald was at her side, and his strong fingers were returning the grateful, loving pressure of her own. _he_ understood how full of gratitude was her heart, and was repaid. the low, clear voice, tuned to the winds of the forest, began the words of the beautiful service. it was, indeed, all a dream, and she felt the unreality of it until the benediction had been spoken, and the hidden orchestra struck the first joyous chords of the triumphant march from lohengrin. then, from her husband's arms she turned to the embrace of the mountain minister, and of philip, and little lou, and gertrude merriman, and dorothy roberts, and of all those other friends, old and new, who were so dear to her. no explanations were possible for many minutes to come; but at length she heard the story of the secret trip "which could not be postponed," of how "the reverend"--now well and strong at last--had gladly consented to leave his beloved mountain home, for the first time in many, many years, and come north on this sacredest of missions; of how judd had yielded to the request that lou accompany them, too; and finally of how her mountain lover of the old days was now himself married--to none other than the youngest daughter of the kindly agent at fayville. and when this news was told, donald cried, "why, smiles, for shame! i actually believe that you are jealous," and she replied, "of course i am ... horribly." whereupon every one laughed at her, and her husband punished her with a kiss. it was ended at last, the lights, merry voices and laughter; and, as the two ran the ancient gantlet, the orchestra, prompted thereto by mr. macdonald, struck up a lively popular air, and the guests caught up the words. they paused a moment on the path below the veranda, to quiet their hurried breathing, and look into each other's happy eyes. "where do we go from here?" _they_ knew. there had been but one spot in all the world whose name both their hearts had spoken, when donald first mentioned the honeymoon to be. * * * * * evening again--twilight on the cumberland mountains. the moon had not yet risen; but, through the black lacework of the forest trees which stretched above big jerry's cabin to the mountain's summit, shone the beaming radiance of the evening star. within the soft shadow of the doorway stood two figures, close together--one tall, broad of shoulder and heavily built, the other of medium height, slender and very graceful--and their arms were about each other's waists. a man and a woman,--as it was in the beginning. for a long time they stood thus, without speaking,--there was no need of speech, for their thoughts were one. "so old and well remembered; yet so new and strangely beautiful," whispered the woman, as she let her gaze travel over the broken, far-stretching skyline of the forest-clad mountain side, now fading into the sky, where a memory of the sunset's afterglow still lingered, as though loath to depart and leave the world to darkness. "like love: as old as the hills, yet ever new," answered the other. "yes. i cannot yet understand, don, how this new life can be so strangely natural to me. we have been married only three all-too-short days, yet i can scarcely think of the other life as real. some people speak of their honeymoon as a golden dream. to me it is the sweet reality, and all that went before the dream. isn't it odd?" "all of nature's laws are inexplicable, dear heart. but we should not forget that the almighty's plan for the world did not deal with man and woman as separate entities, but man and woman as counterparts of a single unit, in which his laws should find full expression, if the two were truly mated--not merely married. you remember what mr. talmadge said that night." "i know. we have found, not each other, but the other part of ourselves--ourself. dear, when did you first realize that it was so?" "my mind, not until it was free to face the truth; my subconscious soul the first moment that i saw you, i think." "i know i loved you from that moment too," she answered simply, lifting her lips for his kiss. there followed another spell of enchanted silence, broken only by the low lullaby of the night wind in the trees, and then the man spoke again. "smiles, are you still greatly afraid of the sea?" "no, dear, i should not be, if you were with me. it is strange; but i lost most of the old, unreasoning fear the moment that i made up my mind to jump into it that afternoon. but, why do you ask that now, donald?" he did not reply at once, and she continued, "i think that i know, and the same thought was in my own mind. is it that you want to go to france again, to renew the saving work there,--and want me with you?" he nodded slowly. "if you hadn't suggested it, i should have, don; for now i am doubly prepared for the work i began to long to do, so many years ago. i am not only trained for it, but i have you beside me, to comfort and strengthen me, always. "yes, dear," she went on softly. "some day, god grant, we shall have little ones of our own to care for; but, until that beautiful time comes, there are no less precious babies throughout all the world--and there, especially--crying for us to help them. we must give of our best to them, for, weak, tender and helpless as they are, the hope of the world is in its babies." through the dark tree-tops the new-born moon appeared on the breast of night, around it a misty halo like that about the head of the infant who came nineteen centuries ago, typifying the hope of all mankind. "look," said donald. "our honeymoon wears a halo." "because it is a hallowed moon," answered rose. the soft white radiance floated in, flooding the little porch and illuminating the wife's sweet face as she lifted it again, now touched with a smile, more meaningful and more ethereal than ever before. for, to the smile of courage, hope and love, had been added the quality of rich, deep contentment. the end ------------------------------------------------------------------------ mark gray's heritage a romance by eliot harlow robinson author of "smiles: a rose of the cumberlands," "smiling pass," "the maid of mirabelle," etc. cloth, mo, illustrated, $ . "what is bred in the bone will never come out of the flesh." mr. robinson's distinguished success came with the acclaim accredited to his novel, smiles, "the best-loved book of the year," and its sequel, smiling pass. with delicate humor and a sincere faith in the beautiful side of human nature, mr. robinson has created for himself a host of enthusiastic admirers. in his new book he chooses a theme, suggested perhaps by the old proverb quoted above ("pilpay's fables"). his setting is a quaker village, his theme the conflict between grave quaker ideals and the strength and hot blood of impulsive mark gray. here is a book that is worthy of the reception accorded smiles by all readers who appreciate a story of deep significance, simply yet powerfully built upon fundamental passions, wrought with a philosophy that always sees the best in troubled times. the enthusiastic editor who passed on mark gray's heritage calls it--hardly too emphatically--"a mighty good story with plenty of entertainment for those who like action (there is more of that in it than in any other of mr. robinson's novels). the reading public will unquestionably call it another courage book'--which they called the smiles books, you know. the language is both strong and smooth. the story has a punch!" ----------------------------------------------------------------------- polly the pagan her lost love letters by isabel anderson with an appreciative foreword by basil king cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . isabel anderson, who heretofore has confined her literary talents to writing of presidents and diplomats and fascinating foreign lands, contributes to our list her first novel, polly the pagan, a story of european life and "high society." the story is unfolded in the lively letters of a gay and vivacious american girl traveling in europe, and tells of the men whom she meets in paris, in london or rome, her flirtations (and they are many and varied!) and exciting experiences. among the letters written to her are slangy ones from an american college boy and some in broken english from a fascinated russian prince (or was he disillusioned, when after dining at a smart parisian café with the adorable polly he was trapped by secret police?); but the chief interest, so far as polly's _affaires d'amour_ are concerned, centers around the letters from a young american, in the diplomatic service in rome, who is in a position to give intimate descriptions of smart life and italian society. the character drawing is clever, and the suspense as to whom the fascinating polly will marry, if indeed the mysterious young lady will marry anybody, is admirably sustained. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- uncle mary a novel for young or old by isla may mullins author of "the blossom shop" books, "tweedie," etc. cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . since the great success of pollyanna there have been many efforts to achieve the "glad book" style [trade mark] of fiction, but none so successful as mrs. mullins' uncle mary. here is a story, charming in its new england village setting, endearing in its characters, engrossing in its plot, and diverting in its style. the page imprint has been given to many books about beautiful characters in fiction,--pollyanna, anne shirley, rose webb of "smiles," and lloyd sherman of the "little colonel" books. to this galaxy we now add "uncle" mary's protégé, libbie lee. mrs. mullins is an author gifted with the ability to appeal to the young in heart of whatever age. her characters are visually portrayed. her situations have the interest of naturalness and suspense. the reader of uncle mary will become in spirit an inhabitant of sunfield; will understand the enjoyment of the sudden acquisition of wealth, a limousine, and--an adopted child (!), by the sisters, "uncle" mary and "aunt" alice; will watch with interest the thawing and rejuvenation of "uncle" mary, the cure of alice, and the solving of the mystery of the wealth of sweet little libbie lee. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the red cavalier or, the twin turrets mystery by gladys edson locke cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . here is a mystery story that is different! the subtlety and strangeness of india--poison and daggers, the impassive faces and fierce hearts of prince bardai and his priestly adviser; a typical english week-end house party in the mystery-haunted castle, twin turrets, in yorkshire; a vivid and contrasting background. and the plot! who is the mysterious red cavalier? is he the ghost of the ancestral portrait, that hangs in sir robert grainger's strange library? is he flesh and blood, and responsible for the marauding thefts in the neighborhood? is he responsible for prince kassim's murder? or is it only coincidence that one of the guests at the masked ball happened to wear the costume of the red cavalier? miss locke has been able to weave a weird and absorbing tale of modern detective romance, the strangeness of india in modern england. there is lady berenice coningsby, a bit _déclassé_; ethelyn roydon, more so; princess lona bardai, "little lotus-blossom," sweet and pathetic; mrs. dalrymple, the woman of mystery; miss vandelia egerton, the spinster owner of twin turrets. there is dashing max egerton and the impeccable lord borrowdean; captain grenville coningsby; prince kassim bardai, with the impenetrable eyes, and chand talsdad, his venerable adviser. which of them is the red cavalier? ----------------------------------------------------------------------- selections from the page company's list of fiction works of eleanor h. porter pollyanna: the glad book ( , ) trade mark trade mark cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . mr. leigh mitchell hodges, the optimist, in an editorial for the _philadelphia north american_, says: "and when, after pollyanna has gone away, you get her letter saying she is going to take 'eight steps' to-morrow--well, i don't know just what you may do, but i know of one person who buried his face in his hands and shook with the gladdest sort of sadness and got down on his knees and thanked the giver of all gladness for pollyanna." pollyanna: the glad book. mary pickford edition trade mark trade mark illustrated with thirty-two half-tone reproductions of scenes from the motion picture production, and a jacket with a portrait of mary pickford in color. cloth decorative, mo, $ . while preparing "pollyanna" for the screen, miss pickford said enthusiastically that it was the best picture she had ever made in her life, and the success of the picture on the screen has amply justified her statement. mary pickford's interpretation of the beloved little heroine as shown in the illustrations, adds immeasurably to the intrinsic charm of this popular story. pollyanna grows up: the second glad book trade mark ( , ) trade mark cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . when the story of pollyanna told in the _glad_ book was ended, a great cry of regret for the vanishing "glad girl" went up all over the country--and other countries, too. now pollyanna appears again, just as sweet and joyous-hearted, more grown up and more lovable. "take away frowns! put down the worries! stop fidgeting and disagreeing and grumbling! cheer up, everybody! pollyanna has come back!"--_christian herald_. miss billy ( rd thousand) cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by g. tyng, $ . "there is something altogether fascinating about 'miss billy,' some inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to demand the individual attention of the reader from the moment we open the book until we reluctantly turn the last page."--_boston transcript_. miss billy's decision ( th thousand) cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by henry w. moore, $ . "the story is written in bright, clever style and has plenty of action and humor. miss billy is nice to know and so are her friends."--_new haven leader_. miss billy--married ( th thousand) cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by w. haskell coffin, $ . "although pollyanna is the only copyrighted glad girl, miss billy is just as glad as the younger figure and radiates just as much gladness. she disseminates joy so naturally that we wonder why all girls are not like her."--_boston transcript_. six star ranch ( th thousand) cloth decorative, mo, illustrated by r. farrington elwell, $ . "'six star ranch' bears all the charm of the author's genius and is about a little girl down in texas who practices the 'pollyanna philosophy' with irresistible success. the book is one of the kindliest things, if not the best, that the author of the pollyanna books has done. it is a welcome addition to the fast-growing family of _glad_ books."--_howard russell bangs in the boston post_. cross currents cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . "to one who enjoys a story of life as it is to-day, with its sorrows as well as its triumphs, this volume is sure to appeal."--_book news monthly_. the turn of the tide cloth decorative, illustrated, $ . "a very beautiful book showing the influence that went to the development of the life of a dear little girl into a true and good woman."--_herald and presbyter, cincinnati, ohio._ ----------------------------------------------------------------------- novels by eliot harlow robinson each one volume, cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . a book which has established its author in the front rank of american novelists. smiles, a rose of the cumberlands ( th thousand) e. j. anderson, former managing editor of the boston _advertiser_ and _record_, is enthusiastic over the story and says: "i have read 'smiles' in one reading. after starting it i could not put it down. never in my life have i read a book like this that thrilled me half as much, and never have i seen a more masterful piece of writing." smiling pass: a sequel to "smiles," a rose of the cumberlands the thousands who have read and loved mr. robinson's earlier story of the little cumberland mountain girl, whose bright courage won for her the affectionate appellation of "smiles," will eagerly welcome her return. "applied sociology, mixed with romance and adventure that rise to real dramatic intensity. but the mixture is surprisingly successful. the picture impresses one as being faithfully drawn from the living models with sympathetic understanding. the book is effective."--_new york evening post_. the maid of mirabelle: a romance of lorraine illustrated with reproductions of sketches made by the author, and with a portrait of "the maid of mirabelle," from a painting by neale ordayne, on the cover. "the spirit of all the book is the bubbling, the irrepressibly indomitable, cheerful faith of the people, at their very best, against the grave quakerism from the united states standing out grimly but faithfully. the tale is simply, but strongly told."--_montreal family herald and weekly star_. man proposes; or, the romance of john alden shaw "this is first of all a charming romance, distinguished by a fine sentiment of loyalty to an ideal, by physical courage, indomitable resolution to carry to success an altruistic undertaking, a splendid woman's devotion, and by a vein of spontaneous, sparkling humor that offsets its more serious phases."--_springfield republican_. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the romances of l. m. montgomery each one volume, cloth decorative, mo, $ . anne of green gables ( th thousand) illustrated by m. a. and w. a. j. claus. "in 'anne of green gables' you will find the dearest and most moving and delightful child since the immortal alice."--_mark twain in a letter to francis wilson_. "i take it as a great test of the worth of the book that while the young people are rummaging all over the house looking for anne, the head of the family has carried her off to read on his way to town."--_bliss carman_. anne of avonlea ( th thousand) illustrated by george gibbs. "here we have a book as human as 'david harum,' a heroine who outcharms a dozen princesses of fiction, and reminds you of some sweet girl you know, or knew back in the days when the world was young."--_san francisco bulletin_. chronicles of avonlea ( th thousand) illustrated by george gibbs. "the author shows a wonderful knowledge of humanity, great insight and warmheartedness in the manner in which some of the scenes are treated, and the sympathetic way the gentle peculiarities of the characters are brought out."--_baltimore sun_. anne of the island ( th thousand) illustrated by h. weston taylor. "it has been well worth while to watch the growing up of anne, and the privilege of being on intimate terms with her throughout the process has been properly valued. the once little girl of green gables should have a permanent fictional place of high yet tender esteem."--_new york herald_. further chronicles of avonlea ( th thousand) illustrated by john goss. nathan haskell dole compares avonlea to longfellow's grand pre--and says, "there is something in these continued chronicles of avonlea like the delicate art which has made cranford a classic." "the reader has dipped into but one or two stories when he realizes that the author is the most natural story teller of the day."--_salt lake city citizen_. anne of green gables: the mary miles minter edition illustrated with twenty-four half-tone reproductions of scenes from the motion picture production, and a jacket in colors with miss minter's portrait. cloth decorative, mo, $ . "you pass from tears to laughter as the story unfolds, and there is never a moment's hesitation in admitting that anne has completely won your heart."--joe mitchell chapple, editor, _the national magazine_. "mary miles minter's 'anne' on the screen is worthy of mark twain's definition of her as the 'dearest and most moving and delightful child since the immortal "alice."'"--_cambridge tribune_. kilmeny of the orchard ( d thousand) illustrated by george gibbs. cloth decorative, mo, $ . "a purely idyllic love story full of tender sentiment, redolent with the perfume of rose leaves and breathing of apple blossoms and the sweet clover of twilight meadow-lands."--_san francisco bulletin_. "a story born in the heart of arcadia and brimful of the sweet and simple life of the primitive environment."--_boston herald_. the story girl ( th thousand) illustrated by george gibbs. cloth decorative, mo, $ . "it will be read and, we venture to predict, reread many times, for there is a freshness and sweetness about it which will help to lift the load of care, to cheer the weary and to make brighter still the life of the carefree and the happy."--_toronto, can., globe_. "'the story girl' is of decidedly unusual conception and interest, and will rival the author's earlier books in popularity."--_chicago western trade journal_. the golden road ( th thousand) illustrated by george gibbs. cloth decorative, mo, $ . in which it is proven that "life was a rose-lipped comrade with purple flowers dripping from her fingers." "it is a simple, tender tale, touched to higher notes, now and then, by delicate hints of romance, tragedy and pathos. any true-hearted human being might read this book with enjoyment, no matter what his or her age, social status, or economic place."--_chicago record-herald_. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- novels by isla may mullins each, one volume, cloth decorative, mo, illustrated, $ . the blossom shop: a story of the south "frankly and wholly romance is this book, and lovable--as is a fairy tale properly told."--_chicago inter-ocean_. anne of the blossom shop: or, the growing up of anne carter "a charming portrayal of the attractive life of the south, refreshing as a breeze that blows through a pine forest."--_albany times-union_. anne's wedding "presents a picture of home life that is most appealing in love and affection."--_every evening, wilmington, del_. the mt. blossom girls "in the writing of the book the author is at her best as a story teller. it is a fitting climax to the series."--_reader_. tweedie: the story of a true heart "the story itself is full of charm and one enters right into the very life of tweedie and feels as if he had indeed been lifted into an atmosphere of unselfishness, enthusiasm and buoyant optimism."--_boston ideas_. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- novels by daisy rhodes campbell the fiddling girl cloth decorative, illustrated $ . "a thoroughly enjoyable tale, written in a delightful vein of sympathetic comprehension."--_boston herald_. the proving of virginia cloth decorative, illustrated $ . "a book which contributes so much of freshness, enthusiasm, and healthy life to offset the usual offerings of modern fiction, deserves all the praise which can be showered upon it."--_kindergarten review_. the violin lady cloth decorative, illustrated $ . "the author's style remains simple and direct, as in her preceding books."--_boston transcript_. a chilhowee lily by charles egbert craddock tall, delicate, and stately, with all the finished symmetry and distinction that might appertain to a cultivated plant, yet sharing that fragility of texture and peculiar suggestion of evanescence characteristic of the unheeded weed as it flowers, the chilhowee lily caught his eye. albeit long familiar, the bloom was now invested with a special significance and the sight of it brought him to a sudden pause. the cluster grew in a niche on the rocky verge of a precipice beetling over the windings of the rugged primitive road on the slope of the ridge. the great pure white bloom, trumpet-shaped and crowned with its flaring and many-cleft paracorolla, distinct against the densely blue sky, seemed the more ethereal because of the delicacy of its stalk, so erect, so inflexibly upright. about it the rocks were at intervals green with moss, and showed here and there heavy ocherous water stain. the luxuriant ferns and pendant vines in the densely umbrageous tangle of verdure served to heighten by contrast the keen whiteness of the flower and the isolation of its situation. ozias crann sighed with perplexity as he looked, and then his eye wandered down the great hosky slope of the wooded mountain where in marshy spots, here and there, a sudden white flare in the shadows betokened the chilhowee lily, flowering in myraids, holding out lures bewildering in their multitude. "they air bloomin' bodaciously all over the mounting," he remarked rancorously, as he leaned heavily on a pickaxe; "but we uns hed better try it ter-night ennyhows." it was late in august; a moon of exceeding lustre was in the sky, while still the sun was going down. all the western clouds were aflare with gorgeous reflections; the long reaches of the great smoky range had grown densely purple; and those dim cumberland heights that, viewed from this precipice of chilhowee, were wont to show so softly blue in the distance, had now a variant amethystine hue, hard and translucent of effect as the jewel itself. the face of one of his companions expressed an adverse doubt, as he, too, gazed at the illuminated wilderness, all solitary, silent, remote. "'pears like ter me it mought be powerful public," pete swolford objected. he had a tall, heavy, lumpish, frame, a lackluster eye, a broad, dimpled, babyish face incongruously decorated with a tuft of dark beard at the chin. the suit of brown jeans which he wore bore token variously of the storms it had weathered, and his coarse cowhide boots were drawn over the trousers to the knee. his attention was now and again diverted from the conversation by the necessity of aiding a young bear, which he led by a chain, to repel the unwelcome demonstrations of two hounds belonging to one of his interlocutors. snuffling and nosing about in an affectation of curiosity the dogs could not forbear growling outright, as their muzzles approached their shrinking hereditary enemy, while the cub nestled close to his master and whimpered like a child. "jes' so, jes' so, honey. i'll make 'em cl'ar out!" swofford replied to the animal's appeal with ready sympathy. then, "i wish ter gawd, eufe, ye'd call yer dogs off," he added in a sort of aside to the youngest of the three mountaineers, who stood among the already reddening sumac fringing the road, beside his horse, athwart which lay a buck all gray and antlered, his recently cut throat still dripping blood. the party had been here long enough for it to collect in a tiny pool in a crevice in the rocky road, and the hounds constrained to cease their harassments of the bear now began to eagerly lap it up. the rifle with which eufe kinnicutt had killed the deer was still in his hands and he leaned upon it; he was a tall, finely formed, athletic young fellow with dark hair, keen, darkly greenish eyes, full of quickly glancing lights, and as he, too, scanned the sky, his attitude of mind also seemed dissuasive. "'pears like thar won't be no night, ez ye mought call night, till this moon goes down," he suggested. "'pears nigh ez bright ez day!" ozias crann's lank, angular frame; his narrow, bony face; his nose, long yet not large, sharp, pinched; his light grey eyes, set very closely together; his straggling reddish beard, all were fitting concomitants to accent the degree of caustic contempt he expressed. "oh, to be sure!" he drawled. "it'll be powerful public up hyar in the mounting in the midnight,--that's a fac'!--an' moonlight is mighty inconvenient to them ez wants ter git spied on through totin' a lantern in cur'ous places." this sarcasm left the two remonstrants out of countenance. pete swofford found a certain resource in the agitations of his bear, once more shrinking and protesting because of the dogs. "call off yer hound-dogs, rufe," he cried irritably, "or i'll gin 'em a bullet ter swallow." "ye air a plumb fool about that thar bar, pete," kinnicutt said sourly, calling off the hounds nevertheless. "that thar bar?" exclaimed swofford. "why, thar never war sech a bar! that thar bar goes ter mill, an' kin fetch home grist,--ef i starts him out in the woods whar he won't meet no dogs nor contrairy cattle o' men he kin go ter mill all by his lone!--same ez folks an' the bes' kind o' folks, too!" in fact the bear was even now begirt with a meal-bag, well filled, which although adding to his uncouth appearance and perhaps unduly afflicting the sensibilities of the horse, who snorted and reared at the sight of him, saved his master the labor of "packing" the heavy weight. swofford had his genial instincts and in return was willing to put up with the cubbishness of the transport,--would wait in the illimitable patience of the utterly idle for the bear to climb a tree if he liked and pleasantly share with him the persimmons of his quest;--would never interfere when the bear flung himself down and wallowed with the bag on his back, and would reply to the censorious at home, objecting to the dust and sand thus sifting in with the meal, with the time honored reminder that we are all destined "to eat a peck of dirt" in this world. "whenst ye fust spoke o' digging" said kinnicutt, interrupting a lengthening account of the bear's mental and moral graces, "i 'lowed ez ye mought be sayin' ez they air layin' off ter work agin in the tanglefoot mine." ozias crann lifted a scornful chin. "i reckon the last disasters thar hev interrupted the company so ez they hain't got much heart todes diggin' fur silver agin over in tanglefoot cove. fust," he checked off these misfortunes, by laying the fingers of one hand successively in the palm of the other, "the timbers o' one o' the cross cuts fell an' the roof caved in an' them two men war kilt, an' thar famblies sued the company an' got mo' damages 'n the men war bodaciously wuth. then the nex' thing the pay agent, ez war sent from glaston, war held up in tanglefoot an' robbed--some say by the miners. he got hyar whenst they war out on a strike, an' they robbed him 'cause they warn't paid cordin' ter thar lights, an' they _did_ shoot him up cornsider'ble. that happened jes' about a year ago. then sence, thar hev been a awful cavin' in that deep shaft they hed sunk in the tunnel, an' the mine war flooded an' the machinery ruint--i reckon the company in glaston ain 't a-layin' off ter fly in the face o' providence and begin agin, arter all them leadin's ter quit." "some believe he warh't robbed at all," kinnicutt said slowly. he had turned listlessly away, evidently meditating departure, his hand on his horse's mane, one foot in the stirrup. "ye know that gal named loralindy byars?" crann said craftily. kinnicutt paused abruptly. then as the schemer remained silent he demanded, frowning darkly, "what's loralindy byars got ter do with it?" "mighty nigh all!" crann exclaimed, triumphantly. it was a moment of tense suspense. but it was not crann's policy to tantalize him further, however much the process might address itself to his peculiar interpretation of pleasure. "that thar pay agent o' the mining company," he explained, "he hed some sort'n comical name--oh, i remember now, renfrow--paul renfrow--waal--ye know he war shot in the knee when the miners way-laid him." "i disremember now ef it war in the knee or the thigh," swofford interposed, heavily pondering. kinnicutt's brow contracted angrily, and crann broke into open wrath: "an' i ain't carin', ye fool--what d' ye interrupt fur like that?" "wall," protested swofford, indignantly, "ye said 'ye know' an' i didn't _know_." "an' i ain't carin'--the main p'int war that he could neither ride nor walk. so the critter crawled! nobody knows how he gin the strikers the slip, but he got through ter old man byars's house. an' thar he staid till loralindy an' the old 'oman byars nussed him up so ez he could bear the pain o' bein' moved. an' he got old man byars ter wagin him down ter colb'ry, a-layin' on two feather beds 'count o' the rocky roads, an' thar he got on the steam kyars an' he rid on them back ter whar he kem from." kinnicutt seemed unable to longer restrain his impatience. he advanced a pace. "ye appear ter 'low ez ye air tellin' news--i knowed all that whenst it happened a full year ago!" "i reckon ye know, too, ez loralindy hed no eyes nor ears fur ennybody else whilst he war hyar--but then _he war_ good-lookin' an' saaft-spoken fur true! an' now he hev writ a letter ter her!" crann grinned as kinnicutt inadvertently gasped. "how do you uns know that!" the young man hoarsely demanded, with a challenging accent of doubt, yet prescient despair. "'kase, bubby, that's the way the story 'bout the lily got out. i was at the mill this actial day. the miller hed got the letter--hevin' been ter the post-office at the crossroads--an' he read it ter her, bein' ez loralindy can't read writin'. she warn't expectin' it. he writ of his own accord." a sense of shadows impended vaguely over all the illuminated world, and now and again a flicker of wings through the upper atmosphere betokened the flight of homing birds. crann gazed about him absently while he permitted the statement he had made to sink deep into the jealous, shrinking heart of the young mountaineer, and he repeated it as he resumed. "she warn't expectin' of the letter. she jes' stood thar by the mill-door straight an' slim an' white an' still, like she always be--ter my mind like she war some sort'n sperit, stiddier a sure enough gal--with her yaller hair slick an' plain, an' that old, faded, green cotton dress she mos' always wears, an' lookin' quiet out at the water o' the mill-dam ter one side, with the trees a-wavin' behind her at the open door--jes' like she always be! an' arter awhile she speaks slow an' saaft an axes the miller ter read it aloud ter her. an' lo! old man bates war rej'iced an' glorified ter the bone ter be able ter git a peek inter that letter! he jes' shet down the gates and stopped the mill from runnin' in a jiffy, an' tole all them loafers, ez hangs round thar mosly, ter quit thar noise. an' then he propped hisself up on a pile o' grist, an' thar he read all the sayin's ez war writ in that letter. an' a power o' time it tuk, an' a power o' spellin' an' bodaciously wrastlin' with the alphabit." he laughed lazily, as he turned his quid of tobacco in his mouth, recollecting the turbulence of these linguistic turmoils. "this hyar feller--this renfrow--he called her in the letter 'my dear friend'--he did--an' lowed he hed a right ter the word, fur ef ever a man war befriended he hed been. he lowed ez he could never fur-get her. an' lord! how it tickled old man bates ter read them sentiments--the pride-ful old peacock! he would jes' stop an' push his spectacles back on his slick bald head an' say, 'ye hear me, loralindy! he 'lows he'll never furget the keer ye tuk o' him whenst he war shot an' ailin' an' nigh ter death. an' no mo' he ought, nuther. but some do furget sech ez that, loralindy--some do!'" an' them fellers at the mill, listenin' ter the letter, could sca'cely git thar consent ter wait fur old man bates ter git through his talk ter loralindy, that he kin talk ter every day in the year! but arter awhile he settled his spectacles agin, an' tuk another tussle with the spellin,' an' then he rips out the main p'int o' the letter. "this stranger-man he 'lowed he war bold enough ter ax another favior. the cuss tried ter be funny. 'one good turn desarves another,' he said. 'an' ez ye hev done me one good turn, i want ye ter do me another.' an' old man bates hed the insurance ter waste the time a-laffin' an' a-laffin' at sech a good joke. them fellers at the mill could hev fund it in thar hearts ter grind him up in his own hopper, ef it wouldn't hev ground up with him thar chance o' ever hearin' the end o' that thar interestin' letter. so thar comes the favior. would she dig up that box he treasured from whar he told her he hed buried it, arter he escaped from the attack o' the miners? an' would she take the box ter colb'ry in her grandad's wagin, an' send it ter him by express. he hed tole her once whar he hed placed it--an' ter mark the spot mo' percisely he hed noticed one chilhowee lily bulb right beside it. an' then says the letter, 'good bye, chilhowee lily!' an' all them fellers stood staring." a light wind was under way from the west delicate flakes of red and glistening white were detached from the clouds. sails--sails were unfurling in the vast floods of the skies. with flaunting banners and swelling canvas a splendid fleet reached half way to the zenith. but a more multitudinous shipping still swung at anchor low in the west, though the promise of a fair night as yet held fast. "an' now," said ozias crann in conclusion, "all them fellers is a-diggin'." "whut's in the box!" demanded swof-ford, his big baby-face all in a pucker of doubt. "the gold an' silver he ought ter hev paid the miners, of course. they always 'lowed they never tuk a dollar off him; they jes' got a long range shot at him! how i wish," ozias crann broke off fervently, "how i wish i could jes' git my hands on that money once!" he held out his hands, long and sinewy, and opened and shut them very fast. "why, that would be stealin'!" exclaimed kinnicutt with repulsion. "how so? 't ain't his'n now, sure--he war jes' the agent ter pay it out," argued crann, volubly. "it belongs ter the mine owners, then--the company." there was a suggestion of inquiry in the younger man's tone. "'pears not--they sent it hyar fur the percise purpose ter be paid out!" the specious crann replied. "then it belongs ter the miners." "they hedn't yearned it--an' ef some o' them hed they warn't thar ter receive it, bein' out on a strike. they hed burnt down the company's office over yander at the mine in tanglefoot cove, with all the books an' accounts, an' now nobody knows what's owin' ter who." kinnicutt's moral protests were silenced, not satisfied. he looked up moodily at the moon now alone in the sky, for only a vanishing segment of the great vermilion sphere of the sun was visible above the western mountains, when suddenly he felt one of those long grasping claws on his arm. "now, rufe, bubby," a most insinuating tone, crann had summoned, "all them fool fellers air diggin' up the face of the yearth, wharever they kin find a chilhowee lily--like sarchin' fur a needle in a haystack. but we uns will do a better thing than that. i drawed the idee ez soon ez i seen you an' pete hyar this evenin' so onexpected. 'them's my pardners,' i sez ter myself. 'pete ter holp dig an' tote ef the box be heavy. an' you ter find out edzac'ly whar it be hid.' you uns an' loralindy hev been keepin' company right smart, an' ye kin toll loralindy along till she lets slip jes' whar that lily air growin'. i'll be bound ez she likes ye a sight better 'n that renfrow--leastwise ef 't warn't fur his letter, honeyin' her up with complimints, an' she hevin' the chance o' tollin' him on through doin' him sech faviors, savin' his life, an' now his money--shucks it's mo' _our_ money 'n his'n; 't ain 't his 'n! gol-darn the insurance o' this renfrow! his idee is ter keep the money his own self, an' make her sen' it ter him. then 'good-bye, chilhowee lily!'" the night had come at last, albeit almost as bright as day, but with so ethereal, so chastened a splendor that naught of day seemed real. a world of dreams it was, of gracious illusions, of far vague distances that lured with fair promises that the eye might not seek to measure. the gorgeous tints were gone, and in their stead were soft grays and indefinite blurring browns, and every suggestion of silver that metal can show flashed in variant glitter in the moon. the mountains were majestically sombre, with a mysterious sense of awe in their great height there were few stars; only here and there the intense lustre of a still planet might withstand the annihilating magnificence of the moon. its glamour did not disdain the embellishment of humbler objects. as rufe kinnicutt approached a little log cabin nestling in a sheltered cove he realized that a year had gone by since renfrow had seen it first, and that thus it must have appeared when he beheld it. the dew was bright on the slanting roof, and the shadow of oak trees wavered over it. the mountain loomed above. the zigzag lines of the rail fence, the bee-gums all awry ranged against it, the rickety barn and fowl-house, the gourd vines draping the porch of the dwelling, all had a glimmer of dew and a picturesque symmetry, while the spinning wheel as loralinda sat in the white effulgent glow seemed to revolve with flashes of light in lieu of spokes, and the thread she drew forth was as silver. its murmuring rune was hardly distinguishable from the chant of the cicada or the long droning in strophe and antistrophe of the waterside frogs far away, but such was the whir or her absorption that she did not perceive his approach till his shadow fell athwart the threshold, and she looked up with a start. "ye 'pear powerful busy a-workin' hyar so late in the night," he exclaimed with a jocose intonation. she smiled, a trifle abashed; then evidently conscious of the bizarre suggestions of so much ill-timed industry, she explained, softly drawling: "waal, ye know, granny, she be so harried with her rheumatics ez she gits along powerful poor with her wheel, an' by night she be plumb out'n heart an' mad fur true. so arter she goes ter bed i jes' spins a passel fur her, an' nex' mornin' she 'lows she done a toler'ble stint o' work an' air consider'ble s'prised ez she war so easy put out." she laughed a little, but he did not respond. with his sensibilities all jarred by the perfidious insinuation of ozias crann, and his jealousy all on the alert, he noted and resented the fact that at first her attention had come back reluctantly to him, and that he, standing before her, had been for a moment a less definitely realized presence than the thought in her mind--this thought had naught to do with him, and of that he was sure. "loralindy," he said with a turbulent impulse of rage and grief; "whenst ye promised to marry me ye an' me war agreed that we would never hev one thought hid from one another--ain't that a true word!" the wheel had stopped suddenly--the silver thread was broken; she was looking up at him, the moonlight full on the straight delicate lineaments of her pale face, and the smooth glister of her golden hair. "not o' my own," she stipulated. and he remembered, and wondered that it should come to him so late, that she had stood upon this reservation and that he--poor fool--had conceded it, thinking it concerned the distilling of whisky in defiance of the revenue law, in which some of her relatives were suspected to be engaged, and of which he wished to know as little as possible. the discovery of his fatuity was not of soothing effect. "'t war that man renfrew's secret--i hearn about his letter what war read down ter the mill." she nodded acquiescently, her expression once more abstracted, her thoughts far afield. he had one moment of triumph as he brought himself tensely erect, shouldering his gun--his shadow behind him in the moonlight duplicated the gesture with a sharp promptness as at a word of command. "all the mounting's a-diggin' by this time!" he laughed with ready scorn, then experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling. her face had changed. her expression was unfamiliar. she had caught together the two ends of the broken thread, and was knotting them with a steady hand, and a look of composed security on her face, that was itself a flout to the inopportune search of the mountaineers and boded ill to his hope to discover from her the secret of the _cache_. he recovered himself suddenly. "ye 'lowed ter me ez ye never keered nuthin' fur that man, renfrow," he said with a plaintive appeal, far more powerful with her than scorn. she looked up at him with candid reassuring eyes. "i never keered none fur him," she protested. "he kem hyar all shot up, with the miners an' mounting boys hot foot arter him--an' we done what we could fur him. gran'daddy 'lowed ez _he_ warn't 'spon-sible fur whut the owners done, or hedn't done at the mine, an' he seen no sense in shootin' one man ter git even with another." "but ye kep' his secret!" kinnicutt persisted. "what fur should i tell it--'t ain't mine?" "that thar money in that box he buried ain't _his'n_, nuther!" he argued. there was an inscrutable look in her clear eyes. she had risen, and was standing in the moonlight opposite him. the shadows of the vines falling over her straight skirt left her face and hair the fairer in the silver glister. "'pears like ter me," he broke the silence with his plaintive cadence, "ez ye ought ter hev tole me. i ain't keerin' ter know 'ceptin' ye hev shet me out. it hev hurt my feelin's powerful ter be treated that-a-way. tell me now--or lemme go forever!" she was suddenly trembling from head to foot. pale she was always. now she was ghastly. "rufe kinnicutt," she said with the solemnity of an adjuration, "ye don't keer fur sech ez this, fur _nuthin_'. an' i promised!" he noted her agitation. he felt the clue in his grasp. he sought to wield his power, "choose a-twixt us! choose a-twixt the promise ye made ter that man--or the word ye deny ter me! an' when i'm gone--i'm gone!" she stood seemingly irresolute. "it's nuthin' ter me," he protested once more. "i kin keep it an' gyard it ez well ez you uns. but i won't be shet out, an' doubted, an' denied, like ez ef _i_ wan't fitten ter be trested with nuthin'!" he stood a moment longer, watching her trembling agitation, and feeling that tingling exasperation that might have preceded a blow. "i'm goin'," he threatened. as she still stood motionless he turned away as if to make good his threat. he heard a vague stir among the leaves, and turning back he saw that the porch was vacant. he had overshot the mark. in swift repentance he retraced his steps. he called her name. no response save the echoes. the house dogs, roused to a fresh excitement, were gathering about the door, barking in affected alarm, save one, to whom kinnicutt was a stranger, that came, silent and ominous, dragging a block and chain from under the house. kinnicutt heard the sudden drowsy plaints of the old rheumatic grandmother, as she was rudely awakened by the clamors, and presently a heavy footfall smote upon the puncheons that floored the porch. old byars himself, with his cracked voice and long gray hair, had left his pipe on the mantel-piece to investigate the disorder without. "hy're rufe!" he swung uneasily posed on his crutch stick in the doorway, and mechanically shaded his eyes with one hand, as from the sun, as he gazed dubiously at the young man, "hain't ye in an' about finished yer visit t--or yer visitation, ez the pa'son calls it he, he, he! wall, loralindy hev gone up steers ter the roof-room, an' it's about time ter bar up the doors. waal, joy go with ye, he, he, he! come off, tige, _ye_ bose, hyar! cur'ous i can't 'larn them dogs no manners." a dreary morrow ensued on the splendid night. the world was ful of mists; the clouds were resolved into drizzling rain; every perspective of expectation was restricted by the limited purlieus of the present. the treasure-seekers digging here and there throughout the forest in every nook in low ground, wherever a drift of the snowy blossoms might glimmer, began to lose hope and faith. now and again some iconoclastic soul sought to stigmatize the whole rumor as a fable. more than one visited the byars cabin in the desperate hope that some chance word might fall from the girl, giving a clue to the mystery. by daylight the dreary little hut had no longer poetic or picturesque suggestion. bereft of the sheen and shimmer of the moonlight its aspect had collapsed like a dream into the dullest realities. the door-yard was muddy and littered; here the razor-back hogs rooted unrebuked; the rail fence had fallen on one side, and it would seem that only their attachment to home prevented them from wandering forth to be lost in the wilderness; the clap-boards of the shiny roof were oozing and steaming with dampness, and showed all awry and uneven; the clay and stick chimney, hopelessly ont of plumb, leaned far from the wall. within it was not more cheerful; the fire smoked gustily into the dim little room, illumined only by the flicker of the blaze and the discouraged daylight from the open door, for the batten shutters of the unglazed window were closed. the puncheon floor was grimy--the feet that curiosity had led hither brought much red clay mire upon them. the poultry, all wet and dispirited, ventured within and stood about the door, now scuttling in sudden panic and with peevish squawks upon the unexpected approach of a heavy foot. loralinda, sitting at her spinning wheel, was paler than ever, all her dearest illusions dashed into hopeless fragments, and a promise which she did not value to one whom she did not love quite perfect and intact. the venerable grandmother sat propped with pillows in her arm-chair, and now and again adjured the girl to "show some manners an' tell the neighbors what they so honed to know." with the vehemence of her insistence her small wizened face would suddenly contract; the tortures of the rheumatism, particularly rife in such weather, would seize upon her, and she would cry aloud with anguish, and clutch her stick and smite her granddaughter to expedite the search for the primitive remedies of dried "yarbs" on which her comfort depended. "oh, lord!" she would wail as she fell back among the pillows. "i'm a-losin' all my religion amongst these hyar rheumatics. i wish i war a man jes' ter say 'damn 'em' once! an' come good weather i'll sca'cely be able ter look loralindy in the face, considering how i hector her whilst i be in the grip o' this misery." "jes' pound away, granny, ef it makes ye feel ennywise better," cried loralinda, furtively rubbing the weales on her arm. "it don't hurt me wuth talkin' 'bout. ye jes' pound away, an' welcome!" perhaps it was her slender, elastic strength and erect grace, with her shining hair and ethereal calm pallor in the midst of the storm that evoked the comparison, for ozias crann was suddenly reminded of the happy similitude suggested by the letter that he had heard read and had repeated yesterday to his cronies as he stood in the road. the place was before him for one illumined moment--the niche in the cliff, with its ferns and vines, the delicate stately dignity of the lilies outlined against the intense blue of the sky. the reminiscence struck him like a discovery. where else could the flower have been so naturally noticed by this man, a stranger, and remembered as a mark in the expectation of finding it once more when the bulb should flower again--as beside the county road? he would have been hopelessly lost a furlong from the path. crann stood for a moment irresolute, then silently grasped his pickaxe and slunk out among the mists on the porch. he berated his slow mind as he hurried invisible through the vast clouds in which the world seemed lost. why should the laggard inspiration come so late if it had come at all? why should he, with the clue lying half developed in his own mental impressions, have lost all the vacant hours of the long, bright night, have given the rumor time to pervade the mountains, and set all the idlers astir before he should strike the decisive blow! there, at last, was the cliff, beetling far over the mist-filled valley below. a slant of sunshine fell on the surging vapor, and it gleamed opalescent. there was the niche, with the lilies all a-bloom. he came panting up the slope under the dripping trees, with a dash of wind in his face and the odor of damp leafage and mold on the freshening air. he struck the decisive blow with a will. the lilies shivered and fell apart the echoes multiplied the stroke with a ringing metallic iteration. the loiterers were indeed abroad. the sound lured them from their own devious points of search, and a half dozen of the treasure-seekers burst from the invisibilities of the mists as ozias crann's pickaxe cleaving the mold struck upon the edge of a small japanned box hidden securely between the rocks, a scant foot below the surface. a dangerous spot for a struggle, the verge of a precipice, but the greed for gain is a passion that blunts the sense of peril. the wrestling figures, heedless of the abyss, swayed hither and thither, the precious box among them; now it was captured by a stronger grasp, now secured anew by sheer sleight-of-hand. more than once it dropped to the ground, and at last in falling the lock gave way, and scattered to the wind were numberless orderly vouchers for money already paid, inventories of fixtures, bills for repairs, reports of departments--various details of value in settling the accounts of the mine, and therefore to be transmitted to the main office of the mining company at glaston. "ef i hed tole ye ez the money warn't thar, ye wouldn't hev believed me," lora-linda byars said drearily, when certain disappointed wights, who had sought elsewhere and far a-field, repaired to the cabin laughing at their own plight and upbraiding her with the paucity of the _cache_. "i knowed all the time what war in that box. the man lef' it thar in the niche arter he war shot, it bem' heavy ter tote an' not wuth much. but he brung the money with him, an' tuk it off, bein', he said, without orders from the owners, the miners hevin' burnt down the offices, an' bruk open the safe an' destroyed all the papers, ceptin' that leetle box. i sewed up the man's money myself in them feather beds what he lay on whenst he war wagined down 'ter colb'ry ter take the kyars. he 'lowed the compn'y mought want them papers whenst they went into liquidation, ez he called it, an' tole me how he hed hid 'em." rufe kinnicutt wondered that she should have been so unyielding. she did not speculate on the significance of her promise. she did not appraise its relative value with other interests, and seek to qualify it. once given she simply kept it. she held herself no free agent. it was not hers. the discovery that the lure was gold revealed the incentive of her lover's jealous demand to share the custody of the secret. his intention was substituted for the deed in her rigid interpretation of integrity. it cost her many tears. but she seemed thereafter to him still more unyielding, as erect, fragile, ethereally pure and pale she noted his passing no more than the lily might. he often thought of the cheap lure of the sophisms that had so deluded him, the simple obvious significance of the letter, and the phrase, "goodbye, chilhowee lily," had also an echo of finality for him. [illustration: he was pallid and panting] the young mountaineers _short stories_ by charles egbert craddock with illustrations by malcolm fraser [illustration] boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, , by mary n. murfree. _all rights reserved_. _the riverside press, cambridge, mass., u. s. a._ electrotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. contents page the mystery of old daddy's window 'way down in poor valley a mountain storm borrowing a hammer the conscripts' hollow a warning among the cliffs in the "chinking" on a higher level christmas day on old windy mountain list of illustrations page he was pallid and panting (see page ) _frontispiece._ together they went over the cliff how long was it to last in the midst of the torrent the mystery of old daddy's window picture to yourself a wild ravine, gashing a mountain spur, and with here and there in its course abrupt descents. one of these is so deep and sheer that it might be called a precipice. high above it, from the steep slope on either hand, beetling crags jut out. their summits almost meet at one point, and thus the space below bears a rude resemblance to a huge window. through it you might see the blue heights in the distance; or watch the clouds and sunshine shift over the sombre mountain across the narrow valley; or mark, after the day has faded, how the great scorpio draws its shining curves along the dark sky. one night jonas creyshaw sat alone in the porch of his log cabin, hard by on the slope of the ravine, smoking his pipe and gazing meditatively at "old daddy's window." the moon was full, and its rays fell aslant on one of the cliffs, while the rugged face of the opposite crag was in the shadow. suddenly he became aware that something was moving about the precipice, the brink of which seems the sill of the window. although this precipice is sheer and insurmountable, a dark figure had risen from it, and stood plainly defined against the cliff, which presented a comparatively smooth surface to the brilliant moonlight. was it a shadow? he asked himself hastily. his eyes swept the ravine, only thirty feet wide at that point, which lies between the two crags whose jutting summits almost meet above it to form old daddy's window. there was no one visible to cast a shadow. it seemed as if the figure had unaccountably emerged from the sheer depths below. only for a moment it stood motionless against the cliff. then it flung its arms wildly above its head, and with a nimble spring disappeared--upward. jonas creyshaw watched it, his eyes distended, his face pallid, his pipe trembling in his shaking hand. "mirandy!" he quavered faintly. his wife, a thin, ailing woman with pinched features and an uncertain eye, came to the door. "thar," he faltered, pointing with his pipe-stem--"jes' a minit ago--i seen it!--a ghost riz up over the bluff inter old daddy's window!" the woman fell instantly into a panic. "'twarn't a-beckonin', war it? 'twarn't a-beckonin'? 'kase ef it war, ye'll hev ter die right straight! that air a sure sign." a little of jonas creyshaw's pluck and common sense came back to him at this unpleasant announcement. "not on _his_ say-so," he stoutly averred. "i ain't a-goin' ter do the beck nor the bid of enny onmannerly harnt ez hev tuk up the notion ter riz up over the bluff inter old daddy's window, an' sot hisself ter motionin' ter me." he rose hastily, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and followed his wife into the house. there he paused abruptly. the room was lighted by the fitful flicker of the fire, for the nights were still chilly, and an old man, almost decrepit, sat dozing in his chair by the hearth. "mirandy," said jonas creyshaw in a whisper, "'pears like ter me ez father hed better not be let ter know 'bout'n that thar harnt. it mought skeer him so ez he couldn't live another minit. he hev aged some lately--an' he air weakly." this was "old daddy." before he had reached his thirtieth year, he was thus known, far and wide. "he air the man ez hev got a son," the mountaineers used to say in grinning explanation. "ter hear him brag 'bout'n that thar boy o' his'n, ye'd think he war the only man in tennessee ez ever hed a son." throughout all these years the name given in jocose banter had clung to him, and now, hallowed by ancient usage, it was accorded to him seriously, and had all the sonorous effect of a title. so they said nothing to old daddy, but presently, when he had hobbled off to bed in the adjoining shed-room, they fell to discussing their terror of the apparition, and thus it chanced that the two boys, tad and si, first made, as it were, the ghost's acquaintance. tad, a stalwart fellow of seventeen, sat listening spellbound before the glowing embers. si, a wiry, active, tow-headed boy of twelve, perched with dangling legs on a chest, and looked now at the group by the fire, and now through the open door at the brilliant moonlight. "waal, sir," he muttered, "i'll hev ter gin up the notion o' gittin' that comical young ow_el_, what i hev done set my heart onto. 'kase ef i war ter fool round old daddy's window, _now_, whilst i war a-cotchin' o' the ow_el_, the ghost mought--cotch--_me!_" a sorry ghost, to be sure, that has nothing better to do than to "cotch" _him!_ but perhaps si creyshaw is not the only one of us who has an inflated idea of his own importance. he was greatly awed, and he found many suggestions of supernatural presence about the familiar room. as the fire alternately flared and faded, the warping-bars looked as if they were dancing a clumsy measure. the handle of a portly jug resembled an arm stuck akimbo, and its cork, tilted askew, was like a hat set on one side; si fancied there was a most unpleasant grimace below that hat. the churn-dasher, left upon a shelf to dry, was sardonically staring him out of countenance with its half-dozen eyes. the strings of red pepper-pods and gourds and herbs, swinging from the rafters, rustled faintly; it sounded to si like a moan. he wished his father and mother would talk about some wholesome subject, like spot's new calf, for instance, instead of whispering about the mystery of old daddy's window. he wished tad would not look, as he listened, so much like a ghost himself, with his starting eyes and pale, intent face. he even wished that the baby would wake up, and put some life into things with a good healthy, rousing bawl. but the baby slept peacefully on, and after so long a time si creyshaw slept too. with broad daylight his courage revived. he was no longer afraid to think of the ghost. in fact, he experienced a pleased importance in giving old daddy a minute account of the wonderful apparition, for he _felt_ as if he had seen it. "'pears ter me toler'ble comical, gran'dad, ez they never tole ye a word 'bout'n it all," he said in conclusion. "ye mought hev liked ter seen the harnt. ef he war 'quainted with ye when he lived in this life, he mought hev stopped an' jowed sociable fur a spell!" how brave this small boy was in the cheerful sunshine! old daddy hardly seemed impressed with the pleasure he had missed in losing a sociable "jow" with a ghostly crony. he sat silent, blinking in the sunshine that fell through the gourd-vines which clambered about the porch where si had placed his chair. "'twarn't much of a sizable sperit," si declared; he seemed courageous enough now to measure the ghost like a tailor. "it warn't more'n four feet high, ez nigh ez dad could jedge. toler'ble small fur a harnt!" still the old man made no reply. his wrinkled hands were clasped on his stick. his white head, shaded by his limp black hat, was bent down close to them. there was a slow, pondering expression on his face, but an excited gleam in his eye. presently, he pointed backward toward a little unhewn log shanty that served as a barn, and rising with unwonted alacrity, he said to the boy,-- "fotch me the old beastis!" silas creyshaw stood amazed, for old daddy had not mounted a horse for twenty years. "studyin' 'bout'n the harnt so much hev teched him in the head," the small boy concluded. then he made an excuse, for he knew his grandfather was too old and feeble to safely undertake a solitary jaunt on horse-back. "i war tole not ter leave ye fur a minit, gran'dad. i war ter stay nigh ye an' mind yer bid." "that's my bid!" said the old man sternly. "fotch the beastis." there was no one else about the place. jonas creyshaw had gone fishing shortly after daybreak. his wife had trudged off to her sister's house down in the cove, and had taken the baby with her. tad was ploughing in the cornfield on the other side of the ravine. si had no advice, and he had been brought up to think that old daddy's word was law. when the old man, mounted at last, was jogging up the road, tad chanced to come to the house for a bit of rope to mend the plough-gear. he saw, far up the leafy vista, the departing cavalier. he cast a look of amazed reproach upon si. then, speechless with astonishment, he silently pointed at the distant figure. si was a logician. "i never lef' _him_," he said. "he lef' _me_." "ye oughter rej'ice in yer whole bones while ye hev got 'em," tad returned, with withering sarcasm. "when dad kems home, some of 'em 'll git bruk, sure. warn't ye tole not ter leave him fur _nuthin'_, ye triflin' shoat!" "he lef' _me_!" si stoutly maintained. meantime, old daddy journeyed on. except for the wonderful mountain air, the settlement, three miles distant, had nothing about it to indicate its elevation. it was far from the cliffs, and there was no view. it was simply a little hollow of a clearing scooped out among the immense forests. when the mountaineers clear land, they do it effectually. not a tree was left to embellish the yards of any of the four or five little log huts that constituted the hamlet, and the glare was intense. as six or eight loungers sat smoking about the door of the store, there was nothing to intercept their astonished view of old daddy when he suddenly appeared out of the gloomy forest, blinking in the sun and bent half double with fatigue. even the rudest and coarsest of these mountaineers accord a praiseworthy deference to the aged among them. old daddy was held in reverential estimation at home, and was well accustomed to the respect shown him now, when, for the first time in many years, he had chosen to jog abroad. they helped him to dismount, and carried him bodily into the store. after he had tilted his chair back against the rude counter, he looked around with an important face upon the attentive group. "my son," shrilly piped out old daddy,--"my son air the strongest man ever seen, sence samson!" "i hev always hearn that sayin', old daddy," acquiesced an elderly codger, who, by reason of "rheumatics," made no pretension to muscle. a gigantic young blacksmith looked down at his corded hammer-arm, but said nothing. a fly--several flies--buzzed about the sorghum barrel. "my son," shrilly piped out old daddy,--"my son air the bes' shot on this hyar mounting." "that's a true word, old daddy," assented the schoolmaster, who had ceased to be a nimrod since devoting himself to teaching the young idea how to shoot. the hunters smoked in solemn silence. the shadow of a cloud drifted along the bare sandy stretch of the clearing. "my son," shrilly piped out old daddy,--"my son hev got the peartest boys in tennessee." "i'll gin ye that up, old daddy," cheerfully agreed the miller, whose family consisted of two small "daughters." the fathers of other "peart boys" cleared their throats uneasily, but finally subsided without offering contradiction. a jay-bird alighted on a blackberry bush outside, fluttered all his blue and white feathers, screamed harshly, bobbed his crested head, and was off on his gay wings. "my son," shrilly piped out old daddy,--"my son hev been gifted with the sight o' what no other man on this mounting hev ever viewed." the group sat amazed, expectant. but the old man preserved a stately silence. only when the storekeeper eagerly insisted, "what hev jonas seen? what war he gin ter view?" did old daddy bring the fore legs of the chair down with a thump, lean forward, and mysteriously pipe out like a superannuated cricket,-- "my son,--my son hev seen a harnt, what riz up over the bluff a-purpose!" "whar 'bouts?" "when?" "waal, sir!" arose in varied clamors. so the proud old man told the story he had journeyed three laborious miles to spread. it had no terrors for him, so completely was fear swallowed up in admiration of his wonderful son, who had added to his other perfections the gift of seeing ghosts. the men discussed it eagerly. there were some jokes cracked--as it was still broad noonday--and at one of these old daddy took great offense, more perhaps because the disrespect was offered to his son rather than to himself. "jes' gin jonas the word from me," said the young blacksmith, meaning no harm and laughing good-naturedly, "ez i kin tell him percisely what makes him see harnts; it air drinkin' so much o' this onhealthy whiskey, what hain't got no tax paid onto it. i looks ter see him jes' a-staggerin' the nex' time i comes up with him." old daddy rose with affronted dignity. "my son," he declared vehemently,--"my son ain't gin over ter drinkin' whiskey, tax or no tax. an' he ain't got no call ter stagger--_like some folks!_" and despite all apology and protest, he left the house in a huff. his old bones ached with the unwonted exercise, and were rudely enough jarred by the rough roads and the awful gaits of his ancient steed. the sun was hot, and so was his heart, and when he reached home, infinitely fatigued and querulous, he gave his son a sorry account of his reception at the store. as he concluded, saying that five of the men had sent word that they would be at jonas creyshaw's house at moon-rise "ter holp him see the harnt," his son's brow darkened, and he strode heavily out of the room. he usually exhibited in a high degree the hospitality characteristic of these mountaineers, but now it had given way to a still stronger instinct. "si," he said, coming suddenly upon the boy, "put out right now fur bently's store at the settle_mint_, an' tell them sneaks ez hang round thar ter sarch round thar own houses fur harnts, ef they hanker ter see enny harnts. ef they hev got the insurance ter kem hyar, they'll see wusser sights 'n enny harnts. tell 'em i ain't a-goin' ter 'low no man ter cross my doorstep ez don't show old daddy the right medjure o' respec'. they'd better keep out'n my way ginerally." so with this bellicose message si set out. but an unlucky idea occurred to him as he went plodding along the sandy road. "whilst i'm a-goin' on this hyar harnt's yerrand"----the logical si brought up with a shiver. "i went ter say--whilst i'm a-goin' on this hyar yerrand fur the harnt"----this was as bad. "whilst," he qualified once more, "i'm a-goin' on this hyar yerrand _'bout'n_ the harnt, i mought ez well skeet off in them deep woods a piece ter see ef enny wild cherries air ripe on that tree by the spring. i'll hev plenty o' time." but even si could not persuade himself that the cherries were ripe, and he stood for a moment under the tree, staring disconsolately at the distant blue ridges shimmering through the heated air. the sunlight was motionless, languid; it seemed asleep. the drowsy drone of insects filled the forest. as si threw himself down to rest on the rocky brink of the mountain, a grasshopper sprang away suddenly, high into the air, with an agility that suggested to him the chorus of a song, which he began to sing in a loud and self-sufficient voice:-- "the grasshopper said--'now, don't ye see thar's mighty few dancers sech ez me-- sech ez _me_!--sech ez me!'" this reminded si of his own capabilities as a dancer. he rose and began to caper nimbly, executing a series of steps that were singularly swift, spry, and unexpected,--a good deal on the grasshopper's method. his tattered black hat bobbed up and down on his tow head; his brown jeans trousers, so loose on his lean legs, flapped about hilariously; his bare heels flew out right and left; he snapped his fingers to mark the time; now and then he stuck his arms akimbo, and cut what he called the "widgeon-ping." but his freckled face was as grave as ever, and all the time that he danced he sang:-- "in the middle o' the night the rain kem down, an' gin the corn a fraish start out'n the ground, an' i thought nex' day ez i stood in the door, that sassy bug mus' be drownded sure! but thar war goggle-eyes, peart an' gay, twangin' an' a-tunin' up--'now, dance away! ye may sarch night an' day ez a constancy an' ye won't find a fiddler sech ez me! sech ez _me_!--sech ez me!'" as he sank back exhausted upon the ground, a new aspect of the scene caught his attention. those blue mountains were purpling--there was an ever-deepening flush in the west. it was close upon sunset, and while he had wasted the time, the five men to whom his father had sent that stern message forbidding them to come to his house were perhaps on their way thither, with every expectation of a cordial welcome. there might be a row--even a fight--and all because he had loitered. how he tore out of the brambly woods! how he pounded along the sandy road! but when he reached the settlement close upon nightfall, the storekeeper's wife told him that the men had gone long ago. "they war powerful special ter git off early," she added, "'kase they wanted ter be thar 'fore old daddy drapped off ter sleep. some o' them foolish, slack-jawed boys ter the store ter-day riled the old man's feelin's, an' they 'lowed ter patch up the peace with him, an' let him an' jonas know ez they never meant no harm." this suggestion buoyed up the boy's heart to some degree as he toiled along the "short cut" homeward through the heavy shades of the gloomy woods and the mystic effects of the red rising moon. but he was not altogether without anxiety until, as he drew within sight of the log cabin on the slope of the ravine, he heard old daddy piping pacifically to the guests about "my son," and jonas creyshaw's jolly laughter. the moon was golden now; si could see its brilliant shafts of light strike aslant upon the smooth surface of the cliff that formed the opposite side of old daddy's window. he stopped short in the deep shadow of the more rugged crag. the vines and bushes that draped its many jagged ledges dripped with dew. the boughs of an old oak, which grew close by, swayed gently in the breeze. hidden by its huge hole, si cast an apprehensive glance toward the house where his elders sat. certainly no one was thinking of him now. "this air my chance fur that young ow_el_--ef ever," he said to himself. the owl's nest was in the hollow of the tree. the trunk was far too bulky to admit of climbing, and the lowest branches were well out of the boy's reach. some thirty feet from the ground, however, one of the boughs touched the crag. by clambering up its rugged, irregular ledges, making a zigzag across its whole breadth to the right and then a similar zigzag to the left, si might gain a position which would enable him to clutch this bough of the tree. thence he could scramble along to the owl's stronghold. he hesitated. he knew his elders would disapprove of so reckless an undertaking as climbing about old daddy's window, for in venturing toward its outer verge, a false step, a crumbling ledge, the snapping of a vine, would fling him down the sheer precipice into the depths below. his hankering for a pet owl had nevertheless brought him here more than once. it was only yesterday evening--before he had heard of the ghost's appearance, however--that he had made his last futile attempt. he looked up doubtfully. "i ain't ez strong ez--ez some folks," he admitted. "but then, come ter think of it," he argued astutely, "i don't weigh nuthin' sca'cely, an' thar ain't much of me ter hev ter haul up thar." he flung off his hat, he laid his wiry hands upon the wild grape-vines, he felt with his bare feet for the familiar niches and jagged edges, and up he went, working steadily to the right, across the broad face of the cliff. its heavy shadow concealed him from view. only one ledge, at the extreme verge of the crag, jutted out into the full moonbeams. but this, by reason of the intervening bushes and vines, could not be seen by those who sat in the cabin porch on the slope of the ravine, and he was glad to have light just here, for it was the most perilous point of his enterprise. by deft scrambling, however, he succeeded in getting on the moonlit ledge. "i clumb like a painter!" he declared triumphantly. he rested there for a moment before attempting to reach the vines high up on the left hand, which he must grasp in order to draw himself up into the shadowy niche in the rock, and begin his zigzag course back again across the face of the cliff to the projecting bough of the tree. but suddenly, as he still stood motionless on the ledge in the full radiance of the moon, the clamor of frightened voices sounded at the house. until now he had forgotten all about the ghost. he turned, horror-stricken. there was the frightful thing, plainly defined against the smooth surface of the opposite cliff--some thirty feet distant--that formed the other side of old daddy's window. and certainly there are mighty few dancers such as that ghost! it lunged actively toward the precipice. it suddenly dashed wildly back--gyrating continually with singularly nimble feet, flinging wiry arms aloft and maintaining a sinister silence, while the frightened clamor at the house grew ever louder and more shrill. several minutes elapsed before si recognized something peculiarly familiar in the ghost's wiry nimbleness--before he realized that the shadow of the cliff on which he stood reached across the ravine to the base of the opposite cliff, and that the figure which had caused so much alarm was only his own shadow cast upon its perpendicular surface. he stopped short in those antics which had been induced by mortal terror; of course, his shadow, too, was still instantly. it stood upon the brink of the precipice which seems the sill of old daddy's window, and showed distinctly on the smooth face of the cliff opposite to him. he understood, after a moment's reflection, how it was that as he had climbed up on the ledge in the full moonlight his shadow had seemed to rise gradually from the vague depths below the insurmountable precipice. he sprang nimbly upward to seize the vines that shielded him from the observation of the ghost-seers on the cabin porch, and as he caught them and swung himself suddenly from the moonlit ledge into the gloomy shade, he noticed that his shadow seemed to fling its arms wildly above its head, and disappeared upward. "that air jes' what dad seen las' night when i war down hyar afore, a-figurin' ter ketch that thar leetle ow_el_," he said to himself when he had reached the tree and sat in a crotch, panting and excited. after a moment, regardless of the coveted owl, he swung down from branch to branch, dropped easily from the lowest upon the ground, picked up his hat, and prepared to skulk along the "short cut," strike the road, and come home by that route as if he had just returned from the settlement. "'kase," he argued sagely, "ef them skeered-ter-death grown folks war ter find out ez _i_ war the _harnt_--i mean ez the _harnt_ war _me_--ennyhow," he concluded desperately, "i'd ketch it--sure!" so impressed was he with this idea that he discreetly held his tongue. and from that day to this, jonas creyshaw and his friends have been unable to solve the mystery of old daddy's window. 'way down in poor valley chapter i there was the grim big injun mountain to the right, with its bare, beetling sandstone crags. there was the long line of cherty hills to the left, covered by a dark growth of stunted pines. between lay that melancholy stretch of sterility known as poor valley,--the poorest of the several valleys in tennessee thus piteously denominated, because of the sorry contrast which they present to the rich coves and fertile vales so usual among the mountains of the state. how poor the soil was, ike hooden might bitterly testify; for ever since he could hold a plough he had, year after year, followed the old "bull-tongue" through the furrows of the sandy fields which lay around the log cabin at the base of the mountain. in the intervals of "crappin'" he worked at the forge with his stepfather, for close at hand, in the shadow of a great jutting cliff, lurked a dark little shanty of unhewn logs that was a blacksmith's shop. when he first began this labor, he was, perhaps, the youngest striker that ever wielded a sledge. now, at eighteen, he had become expert at the trade, and his muscles were admirably developed. he was tall and robust, and he had never an ache nor an ill, except in his aching heart. but his heart was sore, for in the shop he found oaths and harsh treatment, and even at home these pursued him; while outside, desolation was set like a seal on poor valley. one drear autumnal afternoon, when the sky was dull, a dense white mist overspread the valley. as ike plodded up the steep mountain side, the vapor followed him, creeping silently along the deep ravines and chasms, till at length it overtook and enveloped him. then only a few feet of the familiar path remained visible. suddenly he stopped short and stared. a dim, distorted something was peering at him from over the top of a big boulder. it was moving--it nodded at him. then he indistinctly recognized it as a tall, conical hat. there seemed a sort of featureless face below it. a thrill of fear crept through him. his hands grew cold and shook in his pockets. he leaned forward, gazing intently into the thick fog. an odd distortion crossed the vague, featureless face--like a leer, perhaps. once more the tall, conical hat nodded fantastically. "ef ye do that agin," cried ike, in sudden anger, all his pluck coming back with a rush, "i'll gin ye a lick ez will weld yer head an' the boulder together!" he lifted his clenched fist and shook it. "haw! haw! haw!" laughed the man in the mist. ike cooled off abruptly. he had been kicked and cuffed half his life, but he had never been laughed at. ridicule tamed him. he was ashamed, and he remembered that he had been afraid, for he had thought the man was some "roamin' harnt." "i dunno," said ike sulkily, "ez ye hev got enny call ter pounce so suddint out'n the fog, an' go ter noddin' that cur'ous way ter folks ez can't half see ye." "i never knowed afore," said the man in the mist, with mock apology in his tone and in the fantastic gyrations of his nodding hat, "ez it air you-uns ez owns this mounting." he looked derisively at ike from head to foot. "ye air the biggest man in tennessee, ain't ye?" "naw!" said ike shortly, feeling painfully awkward, as an overgrown boy is apt to do. "waal, from yer height, i mought hev thunk ye war that big injun that the old folks tells about," and the stranger broke suddenly into a hoarse, quavering chant:-- "'a red man lived in tennessee, mighty big injun, sure! he growed ez high ez the tallest tree, an' he sez, sez he, "big injun, me!" mighty big injun, sure!'" "waal, waal," in a pensive voice, "so ye ain't him? i'm powerful glad ye tole me that, sonny, 'kase i mought hev got skeered hyar in the woods by myself with that big injun." he laughed boisterously, and began to sing again:-- "'settlers blazed out a road, ye see, mighty big injun, sure! he combed thar hair with a knife. sez he, "it's combed fur good! big injun, me!" mighty big injun, sure!'" he broke out laughing afresh, and ike, abashed and indignant, was about to pass on, when the man gayly balanced himself on one foot, as if he were about to dance a grotesque jig, and held out at arm's length a big silver coin. it was a dollar. that meant a great deal to ike, for he earned no money he could call his own. "free an' enlightened citizen o' these nunited states," the man addressed him with mock solemnity, "i brung this dollar hyar fur you-uns." "what air ye layin' off fur me ter do?" asked ike. the man grew abruptly grave. "jes' stable this hyar critter fur a night an' day." for the first time ike became aware of a horse's flank, dimly seen on the other side of the boulder. "ter-morrer night ride him up ter my house on the mounting. ye hev hearn tell o' me, hain't ye, jedge? my name's grig beemy. don't kem till night, 'kase i won't be thar till then. i hev got ter stop yander--yander"--he looked about uncertainly, "yander ter the sawmill till then, 'kase i promised ter holp work thar some. i'll gin ye the dollar now," he added liberally, as an extra inducement. "i'll be powerful glad ter do that thar job fur a dollar," said ike, thinking, with a glow of self-gratulation, of the corn which he had raised in his scanty leisure on his own little patch of ground, and which he might use to feed the animal. "but hold yer jaw 'bout'n it, boy. yer stepdad wouldn't let the beastis stay thar a minute ef he knowed it, 'kase--waal--'kase me an' him hev hed words. slip the beastis in on the sly. pearce tallam don't feed an' tend ter his critters nohow. i hev hearn ez his boys do that job, so he ain't like ter find it out. on the sly--that's the trade." ike hesitated. once more the man teetered on one foot, and held out the coin temptingly. but ike's better instincts came to his aid. "that barn b'longs ter pearce tallam. i puts nuthin' thar 'thout his knowin' it. i ain't a fox, nur a mink, nur su'thin wild, ter go skulkin' 'bout on the sly." then he pressed hastily on out of temptation's way. "haw! haw! haw!" laughed the man in the mist. there was no mirth in the tones now; his laugh was a bitter gibe. as it followed ike, it reminded him that the man had not yet moved from beside the boulder, or he would have heard the thud of the horse's hoofs. he turned and glanced back. the opaque white mist was dense about him, and he could see nothing. as he stood still, he heard a muttered oath, and after a time the man cleared his throat in a rasping fashion, as if the oath had stuck in it. ike understood at last. the man was waiting for somebody. and this was strange, here in the thick fog on the bleak mountainside. but ike said to himself that it was no concern of his, and plodded steadily on, till he reached a dark little log house, above which towered a flaring yellow hickory tree. within, ranged on benches, were homespun-clad mountain children. a high-shouldered, elderly man sat at a table near the deep fireplace, where a huge backlog was smouldering. through the cobwebbed window-panes the mists looked in. ike did not speak as he stood on the threshold, but his greedy glance at the scholars' books enlightened the pedagogue. "do you want to come to school?" he asked. then the boy's long-cherished grievance burst forth. "they hev tole me ez how it air agin the law, bein' ez i lives out'n the _dee_stric'." the teacher elevated his grizzled eyebrows, and ike said, "i kem hyar ter ax ye ef that be a true word. i 'lowed ez mebbe my dad tole me that word jes' ter hender me, an' keep me at the forge. it riles me powerful ter hev ter be an ignorunt all my days." to a stranger, this reflection on his "dad" seemed unbecoming. the teacher's sympathy ebbed. he looked severely at the boy's pale, anxious face, as he coldly said that he could teach no pupils who resided outside his school district, except out of regular school hours, and with a charge for tuition. ike hooden had no money. he nodded suddenly in farewell, the door closed, and when the schoolmaster, in returning compassion, opened it after him, and peered out into the impenetrable mist, the boy was nowhere to be seen. he had taken his despair by the hand, and together they went down, down into the depths of poor valley. he stood so sorely in need of a little kindness that he felt grateful for the friendly aspect of his stepbrother, whom he met just before he reached the shop. "'pears like ye air toler'ble late a-gittin' home, ike," said jube. "i done ye the favior ter feed the critters. i 'lowed ez ye would do ez much fur me some day. i'll feed 'em agin in the mornin', ef ye'll forge me three lenks ter my trace-chain ter-night, arter dad hev gone home." now this broad-faced, sandy-haired, undersized boy, who was two or three years younger than ike, and not strong enough for work at the anvil, was a great tactician. it was his habit, in doing a favor, rigorously to exact a set-off, and that night when the blacksmith had left the shop, jube slouched in. the flare of the forge-fire illumined with a fitful flicker the dark interior, showing the rod across the corner with its jingling weight of horseshoes, a ploughshare on the ground, the barrel of water, the low window, and casting upon the wall a grotesque shadow of jube's dodging figure as he began to ply the bellows. presently he left off, the panting roar ceased, the hot iron was laid on the anvil, and his dodging image on the wall was replaced by an immense shadow of ike's big right arm as he raised it. the blows fell fast; the sparks showered about. all the air was ajar with the resonant clamor of the hammer, and the anvil sang and sang, shrill and clear. when the iron was hammered cold, jube broke the momentary silence. "i hev got," he droned, as if he were reciting something made familiar by repetition, "two roosters, 'leven hens, an' three pullets." there was a long pause, and then he chanted, "one o' the roosters air a dominicky." he walked over to the anvil and struck it with a small bit of metal which he held concealed in his hand. "i hev got two shoats, a bag o' dried peaches, two geese, an' i'm tradin' with mam fur a gayn-der." he quietly slipped the small bit of shining metal in his pocket. "i hev got," he droned, waxing very impressive, "a red heifer." ike paused meditatively, his hammer in his hand. a new hope was dawning within him. he knew what was meant by jube, who often recited the list of his possessions, seeking to rouse enough envy to induce ike to exchange for the "lay out" his interest in a certain gray mare. now the mare really belonged to ike, having come to him from his paternal grandfather. this was all of value that the old man had left; for the deserted log hut, rotting on another bleak waste farther down in poor valley, was worth only a sigh for the home that it once was,--worth, too, perhaps, the thanks of those it sheltered now, the rat and the owl. the mare had worked for pearce tallam in the plough, under the saddle, and in the wagon all the years since. but one day, when the boy fell into a rage,--for he, too, had a difficult temper,--and declared that he would sell her and go forth from poor valley never to return, he was met by the question, "hain't the mare lived off'n my fields, an' hain't i gin ye yer grub, an' clothes, an' the roof that kivers ye?" thus pearce tallam had disputed his right to sell the mare. but it had more than once occurred to him that the blacksmith would not object to jube's buying her. hitherto ike had not coveted jube's variegated possessions. but now he wanted money for schooling. it was true he could hardly turn these into cash, for in this region farm produce of every description is received at the country stores in exchange for powder, salt, and similar necessities, and thus there is little need for money, and very little is in circulation. still, ike reflected that he might now and then get a small sum at the store, or perhaps the schoolmaster might barter "l'arnin'" for the heifer or the shoats. his hesitation was not lost upon jube, who offered a culminating inducement to clinch the trade. he suddenly stood erect, teetered fantastically on one foot, as if about to begin to dance, and held out a glittering silver dollar. the hammer fell from ike's hands upon the anvil. "'twar ye ez grig beemy war a-waitin' fur thar on the mounting in the mist!" he cried out, recognizing the man's odd gesture, which jube had unconsciously imitated. doubtless the dollar was offered to jube afterward, exactly as it had been offered to him. and jube had taken it. the imitative monkey thrust it hastily into his pocket, and came down from his fantastic toe, and stood soberly enough on his two feet. "grig beemy gin ye that thar dollar," said ike. jube sullenly denied it. "he never, now!" "his critter hev got no call ter be in dad's barn." "his critter ain't hyar," protested jube. "this dollar war gin me in trade ter the settle_mint_." ike remembered the queer gesture. how could jube have repeated it if he had not seen it? he broke into a sarcastic laugh. "that's how kem ye war so powerful 'commodatin' ez ter feed the critters. ye 'lowed ez i wouldn't see the strange beastis, an' then tell dad. foolin' me war a part o' yer trade, i reckon." jube made no reply. "ef ye war ez big ez me, or bigger, i'd thrash ye out'n yer boots fur this trick. ye don't want no lenks ter yer chain. ye jes' want ter be sure o' keepin' me out'n the barn. waal--thar air yer lenks." he caught up the tongs and held the links in the fire with one hand while he worked the bellows with the other. then he laid them red-hot upon the anvil. his rapid blows crushed them to a shapeless mass. "and now--thar they ain't." jube did not linger long. he was in terror lest ike should tell his father. but ike did not think this was his duty. in fact, neither boy imagined that the affair involved anything more serious than stabling a horse without the knowledge of the owner of the shelter. when ike was alone a little later, an unaccustomed sound caused him to glance toward the window. something outside was passing it. his position was such that he could not see the object itself, but upon the perpendicular gray wall of the crag close at hand, and distinctly defined in the yellow flare that flickered out through the window from the fire of the forge, the gigantic shadow of a horse's head glided by. he understood in an instant that jube had slipped the animal out of the barn, and was hiding him in the misty woods, expecting that ike would acquaint his father with the facts. he had so managed that these facts would seem lies, if pearce tallam should examine the premises and find no horse there. all the next day the white mist clung shroud-like to poor valley. the shadows of evening were sifting through it, when ike's mother went to the shop, much perturbed because the cow had not come, and she could not find jube to send after her. "ike kin go, i reckon," said the blacksmith. so ike mounted his mare and set out through the thick white vapor. he had divined the cause of jube's absence, and experienced no surprise when on the summit of the mountain he overtook him, riding the strange horse, on his way to beemy's house. "i s'pose that critter air yourn, an' ye mus' hev bought him fur a pound o' dried peaches, or sech, up thar ter the settle_mint_," sneered ike. jube was about to reply, but he glanced back into the dense mist with a changing expression. "hesh up!" he said softly. "what's that?" it was the regular beat of horses' hoofs, coming at a fair pace along the road on the summit of the mountain. the riders were talking excitedly. "i tell ye, ef i could git a glimpse o' the man ez stole that thar horse, it would go powerful hard with me not to let daylight through him. i brung this hyar shootin'-iron along o' purpose. waal, waal, though, seein' ez ye air the sheriff, i'll hev ter leave it be ez you-uns say. i wouldn't know the man from adam; but ye can't miss the critter,--big chestnut, with a star in his forehead, an'"-- something strange had happened. at the sound of the voice the horse pricked up his ears, turned short round in the road, and neighed joyfully. the boys looked at each other with white faces. they understood at last. jube was mounted on a stolen horse within a hundred yards of the pursuing owner and the officers of the law. could explanations--words, mere words--clear him in the teeth of this fact? "drap out'n the saddle, turn the critter loose in the road, an' take ter the woods," urged ike. "they'll sarch an' ketch me," quavered jube. he was frantic at the idea of being captured on the horse's back, but if it should come to a race, he preferred trusting to the chestnut's four legs rather than to his own two. ike hesitated. jube had brought the difficulty all on himself, and surely it was not incumbent on ike to share the danger. but he was swayed by a sudden uncontrollable impulse. "drap off'n the critter, turn him loose, an' i'll lope down the road a piece, an' they'll foller me, in the mist." he might have done a wiser thing. but it was a tough problem at best, and he had only a moment in which to decide. in that swift, confused second he saw jube slide from the saddle and disappear in the mist as if he had been caught up in the clouds. he heard the horse's hoofs striking against the stones as he trotted off, whinnying, to meet his master. there was a momentary clamor among the men, and then with whip and spur they pressed on to capture the supposed malefactor. chapter ii all at once it occurred to ike, as he galloped down the road, that when they overtook him, they would think that he was the thief, and that he had been leading the horse. he had been so strong in his own innocence that the possibility that they might suspect him had not before entered his mind. he had intended only to divert the pursuit from jube, who, although free from any great wrong-doing, was exposed to the most serious misconstruction. the knowledge of the pursuers' revolvers had made this a hard thing to do, but otherwise he had not thought of himself, nor of what he should say when overtaken. they would question him; he must answer. would they believe his story? could he support it? grig beemy of course would deny it. and jube--had he not known how jube could lie? would he not fear that the truth might somehow involve him with the horse-thief? ike, with despair in his heart, urged his mare to her utmost speed, knowing now the danger he was in as a suspected horse-thief. suddenly, from among his pursuers, a tiny jet of flame flared out into the dense gray atmosphere, something whizzed through the branches of the trees above his head, and a sharp report jarred the mists. perhaps the officer fired into the air, merely to intimidate the supposed criminal and induce him to surrender. but now the boy could not stop. he had lost control of the mare. frightened beyond measure by the report of the pistol, she was in full run. on she dashed, down sharp declivities, up steep ascents, and then away and away, with a great burst of speed, along a level sandy stretch. the black night was falling like a pall upon the white, shrouded day. ike knew less where he was than the mare did; he was trusting to her instinct to carry him to her stable. more than once the low branches of a tree struck him, almost tearing him from the saddle, but he clung frantically to the mane of the frightened animal, and on and on she swept, with the horsemen thundering behind. he could hear nothing but their heavy, continuous tramp. he could see nothing, until suddenly a dim, pure light was shining in front of him, on his own level, it seemed. he stared at it with starting eyeballs. it cleft the vapors,--they were falling away on either side,--and they reflected it with an illusive, pearly shimmer. in another moment he knew that he was nearing the abrupt precipice, for that was the moon, riding like a silver boat upon a sea of mist, with a glittering wake behind it, beyond the sharply serrated summit line of the eastern hills. he could no longer trust to the mare's instinct. he trusted to appearances instead. he sawed away with all his might on the bit, striving to wheel her around in the road. she resisted, stumbled, then fell upon her knees among a wild confusion of rotting logs and stones that rolled beneath her, as, snorting and angry, she struggled again to her feet. once more ike pulled her to the left. there was a great displacement of earth, a frantic scramble, and together they went over the cliff. the descent was not absolutely sheer. at the distance of twelve or fourteen feet below, a great bulging shelf of rock projected. they fell upon this. the boy had instantly loosed his hold of the reins, and slipped away from the prostrate animal. the mare, quieted only for a moment by the shock, sprang to her feet, the stones slipped beneath her, and she went headlong over the precipice into the dreary depths of poor valley. the pursuers heard the heavy thud when she struck the ground far below. they paused at the verge of the crag, and talked in eager, excited tones. they did not see the boy, as he sat cowering close to the cliff on the ledge below. ike listened in great trepidation to what they were saying; he experienced infinite surprise when presently one of them mentioned grig beemy's name. [illustration: together they went over the cliff] so they knew who had stolen the horse! it was little consolation to ike, with his mare lying dead at the foot of the cliff, to reflect that if he had had the courage to face the emergency, and rely upon his innocence, his story would only have confirmed their knowledge of the facts. although the master of the horse did not know the thief "from adam," beemy had been seen with the animal and recognized by others, who, accompanying the sheriff and the owner, had traced him for two days through many wily doublings in the mountain fastnesses. they now concluded to press on to beemy's house. ike knew they would find him there waiting for jube and the horse. beemy had feared that he would be followed, and this was the reason that he had desired to rid himself of the animal for a day and night, until he could make sure and feel more secure. as the horsemen swept round the curve, ike remembered how close was the road to the cliff. if he had only given the mare her head, she would have carried him safely around it. but there she lay dead, way down in poor valley, and he had lost all he owned in the world. night had come, and in the dense darkness he did not dare to move. only a step away was the edge of the precipice, over which the mare had slipped, and he could not tell how dangerous was the bluff he must climb to regain the summit. he felt he must lie here till dawn. he was badly jarred by his fall. time dragged by wearily, and his bruises pained him. he knew at length that all the world slept,--all but himself and some distant ravening wolf, whose fierce howl ever and anon set the mists to shivering in poor valley where he prowled. this blood-curdling sound and his bitter thoughts were but sorry company. after a long time he fell asleep. fortunately, he did not stir. when he regained consciousness and a sense of danger, he found still around him that dense white vapor, through which the pale, drear day was slowly dawning. above his head was swinging in the mist a cluster of fox-grapes, with the rime upon them, and higher still he saw a quivering red leaf. it was the leaf of a starveling tree, growing out of a cleft where there was so little earth that it seemed to draw its sustenance from the rock. it was a scraggy, stunted thing, but it was well for him that it had struck root there, for its branches brushed the solid, smooth face of the cliff, which he could not have surmounted but for them and the grape-vine that had fallen over from the summit and entangled itself among them. as he climbed the tree, he felt it quake over the abysses, which the mists still veiled. he had a sense of elation and achievement when he gained the top, and it followed him home. there it suddenly deserted him. he found pearce tallam in a frenzy of rage at the discovery, which he had made through jube's confession, that a stolen horse had been stabled on his premises. despite his tyranny and his fierce, rude temper, he was an honest man and of fair repute. although he realized that neither boy knew that the animal had been stolen, he gave jube a lesson which he remembered for many a long day, and ike also came in for his share of this muscular tuition. for in the midst of the criminations and recriminations, the violent blacksmith caught up a horseshoe and flung it across the shop, striking ike with a force that almost stunned him. he was a man in strength, and it was hard for him not to return the blow; but he only walked out of the shop, declaring that he would stay for no more blows. "cl'ar out, then!" called out pearce tallam after him. "i don't keer ef ye goes fur good." he met, at the door of the dwelling, a plaintive reproach from his mother. "'count o' ye not tellin' on jube, he mought hev been tuk up fur a horse-thief. i dunno what i'd hev done 'thout him," she added, "'long o' raisin' the young tur-r-keys, an' goslin's, an' deedies, an' sech; he hev been a mighty holp ter me. he air more of a son ter me than my own boy." she did not mean this, but she had said it once half in jest, half in reproach, and then it became a formula of complaint whenever ike displeased her. now he was sore and sensitive. "take him fur yer son, then!" he cried. "i'm a-goin' out'n pore valley, ef i starves fur it. i shows my face hyar no more." as he shouldered his gun and strode out, he noted the light of the forge-fire quivering on the mist, but he little thought it was the last fire that pearce tallam would ever kindle there. he glanced back again before the dense vapor shut the house from view. his mother was standing in the door, with her baby in her arms, looking after him with a frightened, beseeching face. but his heart was hardened and he kept on,--kept on, with that deft, even tread of the mountaineer, who seems never to hurry, almost to loiter, but gets over the ground with surprising rapidity. he left the mists and desolation of poor valley far behind, but not that frightened, beseeching face. he thought of it more often when he lay down under the shelter of a great rock to sleep than he did of the howl of the wolf which he had heard the night before, not far from here. late the next afternoon he came upon the outskirts of a village. he entered it doubtfully, for it seemed metropolitan to him, unaccustomed as he was to anything more imposing than the cross-roads store. but the first sound he heard reassured him. it was the clear, metallic resonance of an anvil, the clanking of a sledge, and the clinking of a hand-hammer. here, at the forge, he found work. it had been said in poor valley that he was already as good a blacksmith even as pearce tallam. he had great natural aptitude for the work, and considerable experience. but his wages only sufficed to pay for his food and lodging. still, there was a prospect for more, and he was content. in his leisure he made friends among those of his own age, who took him about the town and enjoyed his amazement. he examined everything wrought in metal with such eager interest, and was so outspoken about his ambition, that they dubbed him tubal-cain. he was struck dumb with amazement when, for the first time in his life, he saw a locomotive gliding along the rails, with a glaring headlight and a cloud of flying sparks. once, when it was motionless on the track, they talked to the engineer, who explained "the workings of the critter," as ike called it. the boy understood so readily that the engineer said, after a time, "you're a likely feller, for such a derned ignoramus! where have you been hid out, all this time?" "way down in pore valley," said ike very humbly. "he's concluded to be a great inventor," said one of his young friends, with a merry wink. "he's a mighty artificer in iron," said the wit who had named him tubal-cain. the engineer looked gravely at ike. "why, boy," he admonished him, "the world has got a hundred years the start of you!" "i kin ketch up," ike declared sturdily. "there's something in grit, i reckon," said the engineer. then his wonderful locomotive glided away, leaving ike staring after it in silent ecstasy, and his companions dying with laughter. he started out to overtake the world at a night-school, where his mental quickness contrasted oddly with his slow, stolid demeanor. he worked hard at the forge all day; but everybody was kind. outside of poor valley life seemed joyous and hopeful; progress and activity were on every hand; and the time he spent here was the happiest he had ever known,--except for the recollection of that frightened, beseeching face which had looked out after him through the closing mists. he wished he had turned back for a word. he wished his mother might know he was well and happy. he began to feel that he could go no further without making his peace with her. so one day he left his employer with the promise to return the following week, "ef the lord spares me an' nuthin' happens," as the cautious rural formula has it, and set out for his home. the mists had lifted from it, but the snow had fallen deep. poor valley lay white and drear--it seemed to him that he had never before known how drear--between the grim mountain with its great black crags, its chasms, its gaunt, naked trees, and the long line of flinty hills, whose stunted pines bent with the weight of the snow. there was no smoke from the chimney of the blacksmith's shop. there were no footprints about the door. an atmosphere charged with calamity seemed to hang over the dwelling. somehow he knew that a dreadful thing had happened even before he opened the door and saw his mother's mournful white face. she sprang up at the sight of him with a wild, sobbing cry that was half grief, half joy. he had only a glimpse of the interior,--of jube, looking anxious and unnaturally grave; of the listless children, grouped about the fire; of the big, burly blacksmith, with a strange, deep pallor upon his face, and as he shifted his position--why, how was that? the boy's mother had thrust him out of the door, and closed it behind her. the jar brought down from the low eaves a few feathery flakes of snow, which fell upon her hair as she stood there with him. "don't say nuthin' 'bout'n it," she implored. "he can't abide ter hear it spoke of." "what ails dad's hand?" he asked, bewildered. "it's gone!" she sobbed. "he war over ter the sawmill the day ye lef'--somehow 'nuther the saw cotched it--the doctor tuk it off." "his right hand!" cried ike, appalled. the blacksmith would never lift a hammer again. and there the forge stood, silent and smokeless. what this portended, ike realized as he sat with them around the fire. their sterile fields in poor valley had only served to eke out their subsistence. this year the corn-crop had failed, and the wheat was hardly better. the winter had found them without special provision, but without special anxiety, for the anvil had always amply supplied their simple needs. now that this misfortune had befallen them, who could say what was before them unless ike would remain and take his stepfather's place at the forge? ike knew that this contingency must have occurred to them as well as to him. he divined it from the anxious, furtive glances which they one and all cast upon him from time to time,--even pearce tallam, whose turn it was now to feel that greatest anguish of calamity, helplessness. but must he relinquish his hopes, his chance of an education, that plucky race for which he was entered to overtake the world that had a hundred years the start of him, and be forever a nameless, futureless clod in poor valley? his mother had the son she had chosen. and surely he owed no duty to pearce tallam. the hand that was gone had been a hard hand to him. he rose at length. he put on his leather apron. "waal--i mought ez well g' long ter the shop, i reckon," he remarked calmly. "'pears like thar's time yit fur a toler'ble spot o' work afore dark." it was a hard-won victory. even then he experienced a sort of satisfaction in knowing that pearce tallam must feel humiliated and of small account to be thus utterly dependent for his bread upon the boy whom he had so persistently maltreated. in his pale face ike saw something of the bitterness he had endured, of his broken spirit, of his humbled pride. the look smote upon the boy's heart. there was another inward struggle. then he said, as if it were a result of deep cogitation,-- "ye'll hev ter kem over ter the shop, dad, wunst in a while, ter advise 'bout what's doin'. 'pears ter me like mos' folks would 'low ez a boy no older 'n me couldn't do reg'lar blacksmithin' 'thout some sperienced body along fur sense an' showin'." the man visibly plucked up a little. was he, indeed, so useless? "that's a fac', ike," he said gently. "i reckon ye kin make out toler'ble--cornsiderin'. but i'll be along ter holp." after this ike realized that he had been working with something tougher than iron, harder than steel,--his own unsubdued nature. he traced an analogy from the forge; and he saw that those strong forces, the fires of conscience and the coercion of duty, had wrought the stubborn metal of his character to a kindly use. gradually the relinquishment of his wild, vague ambition began to seem less bitter to him; for it might be that these were the few things over which he should be faithful,--his own forge-fire and his own fiery heart. and so he labors to fulfill his trust. the spring never comes to poor valley. the summer is a cloud of dust. the autumn shrouds itself in mist. and the winter is snow. but poverty of soil need not imply poverty of soul. and a noble manhood may nobly exist "'way down in poor valley." a mountain storm "ef the filly war bridle-wise"-- "the filly _air_ bridle-wise." a sullen pause ensued, and the two brothers looked angrily at each other. the woods were still; the sunshine was faint and flickering; the low, guttural notes of a rain-crow broke suddenly on the silence. presently thad, mechanically examining a bridle which he held in his hand, began again in an appealing tone: "'pears like ter me ez the filly air toler'ble well bruk ter the saddle, an' she would holp me powerful ter git thar quicker ter tell dad 'bout'n that thar word ez war fotched up the mounting. they 'lowed ez 'twar jes' las' night ez them revenue men raided a still-house, somewhar down thar in the valley, an' busted the tubs, an' sp'iled the coppers, an' arrested all the moonshiners ez war thar. an' ef they war ter find out 'bout'n this hyar still-house over yander in the gorge, they'd raid it, too. an' thar be dad," he continued despairingly, "jes' sodden with whiskey an' ez drunk ez a fraish b'iled ow_el_, an' he wouldn't hev the sense nor the showin' ter make them off'cers onderstand ez he never hed nothin' ter do with the moonshiners--'ceptin' ter go ter thar still-house, an' git drunk along o' them. an' i dunno whether the off'cers would set much store by that sayin' ennyhow, an' i want ter git dad away from thar afore they kem." "i don't believe that thar word ez them men air a-raidin' round the mountings no more 'n _that_!" and ben kicked away a pebble contemptuously. thad was in a quiver of anxiety. while ben indulged his doubts, the paternal "b'iled ow_el_" might at any moment be arrested on a charge of aiding and abetting in illicit distilling. "ye never b'lieve nothin' till ye see it--ye sateful dunce!" he exclaimed excitedly. thus began a fraternal quarrel which neither forgot for years. ben turned scarlet. "waal, then, jes' leave my filly in the barn whar she be now; ye kin travel on shank's mare!" thad started off up the steep slope. "ef ye ain't a-hankerin' fur me ter ride that thar filly, ez air ez bridle-wise ez ye be, jes' let's see ye kem on, an'--hender!" "i hopes she'll fling ye, an' ye'll git yer neck bruk," ben called out after him. "i wish ennything 'ud happen, jes' so be i mought never lay eyes on ye agin," thad declared. as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that his brother was not following, and when he reached the flimsy little barn, there was nothing to prevent him from carrying out his resolution. nevertheless, he hesitated as he stood with the door in his hand. a clay-bank filly came instantly to it, but with a sudden impulse he closed it abruptly, and set out on foot along a narrow, brambly path that wound down the mountain side. he had descended almost to its base before the threatening appearance of the sky caught his attention. a dense black cloud had climbed up from over the opposite hills, and stretched from their jagged summits to the zenith. there it hung in mid-air, its sombre shadow falling across the valley, and reaching high up the craggy slope, where the boy's home was perched. the whole landscape wore that strange, still, expectant aspect which precedes the bursting of a storm. suddenly a vivid white flash quivered through the sky. the hills, suffused with its ghastly light, started up in bold relief against the black clouds; even the faint outlines of distant ranges that had disappeared with the strong sunlight reasserted themselves in a pale, illusive fashion, flickering like the unreal mountains of a dream about the vague horizon. a ball of fire had coursed through the air, striking with dazzling coruscations the top of a towering oak, and he heard, amidst the thunder and its clamorous echo, the sharp crash of riving timber. all at once he had a sense of falling, a sudden pain shot through him, darkness descended, and he knew no more. when he gradually regained consciousness, it seemed that a long time had elapsed since he was trudging down the mountain side. he could not imagine where he was now. he put out his hand in the intense darkness that enveloped him, and felt the damp mould beside him,--above--below. for one horrible instant he recalled a sickening story of a man who was negligently buried alive. he had always believed that this was only a fireside fiction invented in the security of the chimney corner; but was it to have a strange confirmation in his own fate? he was pierced with pity for himself, as he heard the despair in his voice when he sent forth a wild, hoarse cry. what a cavernous echo it had! again and again, after his lips were closed, that voice of anguish rang out, and then was silent, then fitfully sounded once more on another key. he strove to rise, but the earth on his breast resisted. with a great effort he finally burst through it; he felt the clods tumbling about him; he sat upright; he rose to his full height; and still all was merged in the densest darkness, and, when he stretched up his arms as high as he could reach, he again felt the damp mould. the truth had begun vaguely to enter his mind even before, in shifting his position, he caught sight of a rift in the deep gloom, some fifteen feet above his head. then he realized that at the moment of the flash of lightning, unmindful of his footing, he had strayed aside from the path, stumbled, fallen, and, as it chanced, was received into one of those unsuspected apertures in the ground which are common in all cavernous countries, being sometimes the entrance to extensive caves, and which are here denominated "sink-holes." these cavities were exceedingly frequent in the valley, on the boundary of which thad lived, and his familiarity with them did away for the moment with all appreciation of the perplexity and difficulty of the situation. he laughed aloud triumphantly. instantly these underground chambers broke forth with wild, elfish voices that mimicked his merriment till it died on his lips. he preferred utter loneliness to the vague sense of companionship given by these weird echoes. somehow the strangeness of all that had happened to him had stirred his imagination, and he could not rid himself of the idea that there were grimacing creatures here with him, whom he could not see, who would only speak when he spoke, and scoffingly iterate his tones. he was faint, bruised, and exhausted. he had been badly stunned by his fall; but for the soft, shelving earth through which he had crashed, it might have been still worse. he could scarcely move as he began to investigate his precarious plight. even if he could climb the perpendicular wall above his head, he could not thence gain the aperture, for, as his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, he discovered that the shape of the roof was like the interior of a roughly defined dome, about the centre of which was this small opening. "an' a human can't walk on a ceilin' like a fly," he said discontentedly. "can't!" cried an echo close at hand. "fly!" suggested a distant mocker. thad closed his mouth and sat down. he had moved very cautiously, for he knew that these sink-holes are often the entrance of extensive caverns, and that there might be a deep abyss on any side. he could do nothing but wait and call out now and then, and hope that somebody might soon take the short cut through the woods, and, hearing his voice, come to his relief. his courage gave way when he reflected that the river would rise with the heavy rain which he could hear steadily splashing through the sink-hole, and for a time all prudent men would go by the beaten road and the ford. no one would care to take the short cut and save three miles' travel at the risk of swimming his horse, for the river was particularly deep just here and spanned only by a footbridge, except, perhaps, some fugitive from justice, or the revenue officers on their hurried, reckless raids. this reminded him of the still-house and of "dad" there yet, imbibing whiskey, and sharing the danger of his chosen cronies, the moonshiners. ben, at home, would not have his anxiety roused till midnight, at least, by his brother's failure to return from the complicated feat of decoying the drunkard from the distillery. thad trembled to think what might happen to himself in the interval. if the volume of water pouring down through the sink-hole should increase to any considerable extent, he would be drowned here like a rat. was he to have his wish, and see his brother never again? and poor ben! how his own cruel, wicked parting words would scourge him throughout his life,--even when he should grow old! thad's eyes filled with tears of prescient pity for his brother's remorse. "ef ennything war ter happen hyar, sure enough, i wish he mought always know ez i don't keer nothin' now 'bout'n that thar sayin' o' his'n," he thought wistfully. he still heard the persistent rain splashing outside. the hollow, unnatural murmur of a subterranean stream rose drearily. once he sighed heavily, and all the cavernous voices echoed his grief. when that terrible flash of lightning came, ben was still on the slope of the mountain where his brother had left him. the next moment he heard the wild whirl of the gusts as they came surging up the valley. he saw the frantic commotion of the woods on distant spurs as the wind advanced, preceded by swirling columns of dust which carried myriads of leaves, twigs, and even great branches rent from the trees, as evidence of its force. ben turned, and ran like a deer up the steep ascent. "it'll blow that thar barn spang off'n the bluff, i'm thinkin'--an' the filly--cobe--cobe!" he cried out to her as he neared the shanty. he stopped short, his eyes distended. the door was open. there was no hair nor hoof of the filly within. he could have no doubt that his brother had actually taken his property for this errand against his will. "that thar boy air no better 'n a low-down horse-thief!" he declared bitterly. the gusts struck the little barn. it careened this way and that, and finally the flimsy structure came down with a crash, one of the boards narrowly missing ben's head as it fell. he had a hard time getting to the house in the teeth of the wind, but its violence only continued a few minutes, and when he was safe within doors he looked out of the window at the silent mists, beginning to steal about the coves and ravines, and at the rain as it fell in serried columns. long after dark it still beat with unabated persistence on the roof of the log cabin, and splashed and dripped with a chilly, cheerless sound from the low eaves. sometimes a drop fell down the wide chimney, and hissed upon the red-hot coals, for ben had piled on the logs and made a famous fire. he could see that his mother now and then paused to listen in the midst of her preparations for supper. once as she knelt on the hearth, and deftly inserted a knife between the edges of a baking corn-cake and the hoe, she looked up suddenly at ben without turning the cake. "i hearn the beastis's huff!" she said. ben listened. the fire roared. the rain went moaning down the valley. "ye never hearn nothin'," he rejoined. nevertheless, she rose and opened the door. the cold air streamed in. the firelight showed the mists, pressing close in the porch, shivering, and seeming to jostle and nudge each other as they peered in, curiously, upon the warm home-scene, and the smoking supper, and the hilarious children, as if asking of one another how they would like to be human creatures, instead of a part of inanimate nature, or at best the elusive spirits of the mountains. there was nothing to be seen without but the mists. "thad tuk the filly, ye say fur true?" she asked, recurring to the subject when supper was over. ben nodded. "i hopes ter conscience she'll break his neck," he declared cruelly. his mother took instant alarm. she turned and looked at him with a face expressive of the keenest anxiety. "'pears like to me ez the only reason thad kin be so late a-gittin' back air jes' 'kase it air a toler'ble aggervatin' job a-fotchin' of dad home," she said, striving to reassure herself. "that air a true word 'bout'n dad, ennyhow," ben assented bitterly. his old grandfather suddenly lifted up his voice. "this night," said the graybeard from out the chimney corner,--"this night, forty years ago, my brother, ephraim grimes, fell dead on this cabin floor, an' no man sence kin mark the cause." a pause ensued. the rain fell. the pallid, shuddering mists looked in at the window. "ye ain't a-thinkin'," cried the woman tremulously, "ez the night air one app'inted fur evil?" the old man did not answer. "this night," he croaked, leaning over the glowing fire, and kindling his long-stemmed cob-pipe by dexterously scooping up with its bowl a live coal,--"this night, twenty-six years ago, thar war eleven sheep o' mine--ez war teched in the head, or somehows disabled from good sense--an' they jumped off'n the bluff, one arter the other, an' fell haffen way down the mounting, an' bruk thar fool necks 'mongst the boulders. they war dead. thar shearin's never kem ter much account nuther. 'twar powerful cur'ous, fust an' last." the woman made a gesture of indifference. "i ain't a-settin' of store by critters when humans is--is--whar they ain't hearn from." but ben was susceptible of a "critter" scare. "i hope, now," he exclaimed, alarmed, "ez that thar triflin' no-'count thad grimes ain't a-goin' ter let my filly lame herself, nor nothin', a-travelin' with her this dark night, ez seems ter be a night fur things ter happen on ennyhow. oh, shucks! shucks!" he continued impatiently, "i jes' feels like thar ain't no use o' my tryin' ter live along." three of the children who habitually slept in the shed-room had started off to go to bed. as they opened the connecting door, there suddenly resounded a wild commotion within. they shrieked with fright, and banged the door against a strong force which was beginning to push from the other side. the old grandfather rose, pale and agitated, his pipe falling from his nerveless clasp. "this night," he said, with white lips and mechanical utterance,--"this night"-- "satan is in the shed-room!" shouted the three small boys, as they held fast to the door with a strength far beyond their age and weight. nevertheless, they were hardly able to cope with the strength on the other side of the door, and it was alternately forced slightly ajar, and then closed with a resounding slam. once, as the firelight flickered into the dark shed-room, the ignorant, superstitious mountaineers had a fleeting glimpse of an object there which convinced them: they beheld great gleaming, blazing eyes, a burnished hoof, and--yes--a flirting tail. "i believe it is satan himself!" cried ben, with awe in his voice. in the wild confusion and bewilderment, ben was somehow vaguely aware that satan had often been in the shed-room before,--in the antechamber of his own heart. whenever this heart of his was full of unkindness, and hardened against his brother, although those better fraternal instincts which he kept repressed and dwarfed might repudiate this cruelty under the pretext that he did not really mean it, still the great principle of evil was there in the moral shed-room, clamoring for entrance at the inner doors. and this, we may safely say, may apply to wiser people than poor ben. in the midst of the general despair and fright, something suddenly whinnied. at the sound the three small boys fell in a limp, exhausted heap on the floor, and, as the door no longer offered resistance, the unknown visitor pranced in: it was the filly, snorting and tossing her mane, and once more whinnying shrilly for her supper. in a moment ben understood the whole phenomenon. thad had left the barn door unfastened, and, when that terrible flash of lightning came and the wind arose, the frightened animal had instantly fled to the house for safety. she had doubtless pushed open the back door of the shed-room easily enough, but it had closed behind her, and she had remained there a supperless prisoner. the small boys picked themselves up from among the filly's hoofs, with disconnected exclamations of "wa-a-a-l, sir!" while ben led the animal out, with a growing impression that he would try to "live along" for a while, at all events. he had led satan out of the moral shed-room, as well. the reappearance of the filly without thad had raised a great anxiety about his brother's continued absence. all at once he began to feel as if those brutal wishes of his were prophetic,--as if they were endowed with a malignant power, and could actually pursue poor thad to some violent end. he did not understand now how he could have framed the words. when a fellow really likes his brother,--and most fellows do,--there is scant use or grace or common-sense in keeping up, from mere carelessness, or through an irritable habit, a continual bickering, for these germs of evil are possessed of a marvelous faculty for growth, and some day their gigantic deformities will confront you in deeds of which you once believed yourself incapable. ben's hands were trembling as he folded a blanket, and laid it on the animal's back to serve instead of a saddle. "i'm a-goin' ter the still-house ter see ef thad ever got thar," he said, when his mother appeared at the door. he added, "i'm a-gittin' sorter skeered ez su'thin' mought hev happened ter him." his grandfather hobbled out into the little porch. "them roads air turrible rough fur that thar filly, ez ain't fairly broke good yit, nor used ter travel," he suggested. "i'd gin four hunderd fillies, ef i hed 'em, jes' ter know that thar boy air safe an' sound," ben declared, as he mounted. he took the short cut, judging that, at the point where it crossed the river, the stream was still fordable. when he heard his brother's piteous cries for help, he quaked to think what might have happened to thad if he had not recognized the presence of satan in the moral shed-room, and summarily ejected him. the rainfall had been sufficient to aggregate considerable water in the gullies about the sink-hole, and these, emptying into the cavity and sending a continuous stream over the boy, had served to chill him through and through, and he had a pretty fair chance of being drowned, or dying from cold and exhaustion. ben pressed on to the still-house at the best speed he could make, and such of the moonshiners as were half sober came out with ropes and a barrel, which they lowered into the cavity. thad managed to crawl into the barrel, and, after several ineffectual attempts, he was drawn up through the sink-hole. there was no formal reconciliation between the two boys. it was enough for ben to feel thad's reluctance to unloose his eager clutch upon his brother's arms, even after he had been lifted out upon the firm ground. and thad knew that that complicated sound in ben's throat was a sob, although, for the sake of the men who stood by, he strove to seem to be coughing. "right smart of an idjit, now, ain't ye?" demanded ben, hustling back, so to speak, the tears that sought to rise in his eyes. "waal, stranger, how's yer filly?" retorted thad, laughing in a gaspy fashion. there was a tone of forgiveness in the inquiry. the answer caught the same spirit. "middlin',--thanky,--jes' middlin'," said ben. and then they and "dad" fared home together by the light of the moonshiners' lantern. borrowing a hammer on a certain bold crag that juts far over a steep wooded mountain slope a red light was seen one moonless night in june. sometimes it glowed intensely among the gray mists which hovered above the deep and sombre valley; sometimes it faded. its life was the breath of the bellows, for a blacksmith's shop stands close beside the road that rambles along the brink of the mountain. generally after sunset the forge is dark and silent. so when three small boys, approaching the log hut through the gloomy woods, heard the clink! clank! clink! clank! of the hammers, and the metallic echo among the cliffs, they stopped short in astonishment. "thar now!" exclaimed abner ryder desperately; "dad's at it fur true!" "mebbe he'll go away arter a while, ab," suggested jim gryce, another of the small boys. "then that'll gin us our chance." "waal, i reckon we kin stiffen up our hearts ter wait," said ab resignedly. all three sat down on a log a short distance from the shop, and presently they became so engrossed in their talk that they did not notice when the blacksmith, in the pauses of his work, came to the door for a breath of air. they failed to discreetly lower their voices, and thus they had a listener on whose attention they had not counted. "ye see," observed ab in a high, shrill pipe, "dad sets a heap o' store by his tools. but dad, ye know, air a mighty slack-twisted man. he gits his tools lost" (reprehensively), "he wastes his nails, an' then he 'lows ez how it war _me_ ez done it." he paused impressively in virtuous indignation. a murmur of surprise and sympathy rose from his companions. then he recommenced. "dad air the crankiest man on this hyar mounting! he won't lend me none o' his tools nowadays,--not even that thar leetle hammer o' his'n. an' i'm obleeged ter hev that thar leetle hammer an' some nails ter fix a box fur them young squir'ls what we cotched. so we'll jes' hev ter go ter his shop of a night when he is away, an'--an'--an' borry it!" the blacksmith, a tall, powerfully built man, of an aspect far from jocular, leaned slightly out of the door, peering in the direction where the three tow-headed urchins waited. then he glanced within at a leather strap, as if he appreciated the appropriateness of an intimate relation between these objects. but there was no time for pleasure now. he was back in his shop in a moment. his next respite was thus entertained:-- "what makes him work so of a night?" asked jim gryce. "waal," explained ab in his usual high key, "he rid ter the settle_mint_ this mornin'; he hev been a-foolin' round thar all day, an' the crap air jes' a-sufferin' fur work! so him an' uncle tobe air layin' thar ploughs in the shop now, kase they air goin' ter run around the corn ter-morrer. workin', though, goes powerful hard with dad enny time. i tole old bob peachin that, when i war ter the mill this evenin'. him an' the t'other men thar laffed mightily at dad. an' i laffed too!" there was an angry gleam in stephen ryder's stern black eyes as he turned within, seized the tongs, and thrust a piece of iron among the coals, while tobe, who had been asleep in the window at the back of the shop, rose reluctantly and plied the bellows. the heavy panting broke forth simultaneously with the red flare that quivered out into the dark night. presently it faded; the hot iron was whisked upon the anvil, fiery sparks showered about as the rapid blows fell, and the echoing crags kept time with rhythmic beats to the clanking of the sledge and the clinking of the hand-hammer. the stars, high above the far-stretching mountains, seemed to throb in unison, until suddenly the blacksmith dealt a sharp blow on the face of the anvil as a signal to his striker to cease, and the forge was silent. as he leaned against the jamb of the door, mechanically adjusting his leather apron, he heard ab's voice again. "old bob say he ain't no 'count sca'cely. he 'lowed ez he had knowed him many a year, an' fund him a sneakin', deceivin' critter." the blacksmith was erect in a moment, every fibre tense. "that ain't the wust," ab gabbled on. "old bob say, though't ain't known ginerally, ez he air gin ter thievin'. old bob 'lowed ter them men, hangin' round the mill, ez he air the biggest thief on the mounting!" the strong man trembled. his blood rushed tumultuously to his head, then seemed to ebb swiftly away. that this should be said of him to the loafers at the mill! these constituted his little world. and he valued his character as only an honest man can. he was amazed at the boldness of the lie. it had been openly spoken in the presence of his son. one might have thought the boy would come directly to him. but there he sat, glibly retailing it to his small comrades! it seemed all so strange that stephen ryder fancied there was surely some mistake. in the next moment, however, he was convinced that they had been talking of him, and of no one else. "i tole old bob ez how i thought they oughtn't ter be so hard on him, ez he warn't thar to speak for hisself." all three boys giggled weakly, as if this were witty. "but old bob 'lowed ez ennybody mought know him by his name. an' then he told me that old sayin':-- 'stephen, stephen, so deceivin', that old satan can't believe him!'" here ben gryce broke in, begging the others to go home, and come to "borry" the hammer next night. ab agreed to the latter proposition, but still sat on the log and talked. "old bob say," he remarked cheerfully, "that when he do git 'em, he shakes 'em--shakes the life out'n 'em!" this was inexplicable. stephen ryder pondered vainly on it for an instant. but the oft-reiterated formula, "old bob say," caught his ears, and he was absorbed anew in ab's discourse. "old bob say ez my mother air one of the best women in this world. but she air so gin ter humoring every critter a-nigh her, an' tends ter 'em so much, an' feeds 'em so high an' hearty, ez they jes' gits good fur nothin' in this world. that's how kem she air eat out'n house an' home now. old bob say ez how he air the hongriest critter! say he jes' despise ter see him comin' round of meal times. old bob say ef he hev got enny good lef' in him, my mother will kill it out yit with kindness." the blacksmith felt, as he turned back into the shop and roused the sleepy-headed striker, that within the hour all the world had changed for him. these coarse taunts were enough to show in what estimation he was held. and he had fancied himself, in countrified phrase, "respected by all," and had been proud of his standing. so the bellows began to sigh and pant once more, and kept the red light flaring athwart the darkness. the people down in the valley looked up at it, glowing like a star that had slipped out of the sky and lodged somehow on the mountain, and wondered what stephen ryder could be about so late at night. when he left the shop there was no sign of the boys who had ornamented the log earlier in the evening. he walked up the road to his house, and found his wife sitting alone in the rickety little porch. "hev that thar boy gone ter bed?" he asked. "waal," she slowly drawled, in a soft, placid voice, "he kem hyar 'bout'n haffen hour ago so nigh crazed ter go ter stay all night with jim an' benny gryce ez i hed ter let him. old man gryce rid by hyar in his wagon on his way home from the settle_mint_. so ab went off with the gryce boys an' thar gran'dad." thus the blacksmith concluded his tools were not liable to be "borrowed" that night. he had a scheme to insure their safety for the future, but in order to avoid his wife's remonstrances on ab's behalf, he told her nothing of it, nor of what he had overheard. early the next morning he set out for the mill, intending to confront "old bob" and demand retraction. the road down the deep, wild ravine was rugged, and he jogged along slowly until at last he came within sight of the crazy, weather-beaten old building tottering precariously on the brink of the impetuous torrent which gashed the mountain side. crags towered above it; vines and mosses clung to its walls; it was a dank, cool, shady place, but noisy enough with the turmoil of its primitive machinery and the loud, hoarse voices of the loungers striving to make themselves heard above the uproar. there were several of these idle mountaineers aimlessly strolling among the bags of corn and wheat that were piled about. long, dusty cobwebs hung from the rafters. sometimes a rat, powdered white with flour and rendered reckless by high living, raced boldly across the floor. the golden grain poured ceaselessly through the hopper, and leaning against it was the miller, a tall, stoop-shouldered man about forty years of age, with a floury smile lurking in his beard and a twinkle in his good-humored eyes overhung by heavy, mealy eyebrows. "waal, steve," yelled the miller, shambling forward as the blacksmith appeared in the doorway. "come 'long in. whar's yer grist?" "i hev got no grist!" thundered steve, sternly. "waal--ye're jes' ez welcome," said the miller, not noticing the rigid lines of the blacksmith's face, accented here and there by cinders, nor the fierceness of the intent dark eyes. "i reckon i'm powerful welcome!" sneered stephen ryder. the tone attracted "old bob's" attention. "what ails ye, steve?" he asked, surprised. "i'm a deceivin', sneakin' critter--hey," shouted the visitor, shaking his big fist; he had intended to be calm, but his long-repressed fury had found vent at last. the miller drew back hastily, astonishment and fear mingled in a pallid paste, as it were, with the flour on his face. the six startled on-lookers stood as if petrified. "ye say i'm a thief!--a thief!--a thief!" with the odious word ryder made a frantic lunge at the miller, who dodged his strong right arm at the moment when his foot struck against a bag of corn lying on the floor and he stumbled. he recovered his equilibrium instantly. but the six bystanders had seized him. "hold him hard, folkses!" cried honest bob peachin. "hold hard! i'll tell ye what ails him--though ye mustn't let on ter him--he air teched in the head!" he winked at them with a confidential intention as he roared this out, forgetting in his excitement that mental infirmity does not impair the sense of hearing. this folly on his part was a salutary thing for stephen ryder. it calmed him instantly. he felt that he had need for caution. a fearful vista of possibilities opened before him. he remembered having seen in his childhood a man reputed to be suddenly bereft of reason, but who he believed was entirely sane, bound hand and foot, and every word, every groan, every effort to free himself, accounted the demonstration of a maniac. this fate was imminent for him. they were seven to one. he trembled as he felt their hands pressing upon the swelling muscles of his arms. with an abrupt realization of his great strength, he waited for a momentary relaxation of their clutch, then with a mighty wrench he burst loose from them, flung himself upon his mare, and dashed off at full speed. he did no work that afternoon, although the corn was "suffering." he sat after dinner smoking his pipe on the porch of his log cabin, while he moodily watched the big shadow of the mountain creeping silently over the wooded valley as the sun got on the down grade. deep glooms began to lurk among the ravines of the great ridge opposite. the shimmering blue summits in the distance were purpling. a redbird, alert, crested, and with a brilliant eye, perched idly on the vines about the porch, having relinquished for the day the job of teaching a small, stubby imitation of himself to fly. the shocks of wheat in the bare field close by had turned a rich red gold in the lengthening rays before stephen ryder realized that night was close at hand. all at once he heard a discordant noise which he knew that ab ryder called "singing," and presently the boy appeared in the distance, his mouth stretched, his tattered hat stuck on the back of his tow-head, his bare feet dusty, his homespun cotton trousers rolled up airily about his knees, his single suspender supporting the structure. his father laughed a little at sight of him, rather sardonically it must be confessed, and saying to his wife that he intended to go to the shop for a while, he rose and strolled off down the road. when supper was over, however, ab was immensely relieved to see that his father had no idea of continuing his work. consequently the usual routine was to be expected. generally, when summoned to the evening meal, the blacksmith hastily plunged his head in the barrel of water used to temper steel, thrust off his leather apron, and went up to the house without more ado. he smoked afterward, and lounged about, enjoying the relaxation after his heavy work. he did not go down to lock the shop until bed-time, when he was shutting up the house, the barn, and the corn-crib for the night. in the interval the shop stood deserted and open, and this fact was the basis of ab's opportunity. to-night there seemed to be no deviation from this custom. he ascertained that his father was smoking his pipe on the porch. then he went down the road and sat on the log near the shop to wait for the other boys who were to share the risks and profits of borrowing the hammer. all was still--so still! he fancied that he could hear the tumult of the torrent far away as it dashed over the rocks. a dog suddenly began to bark in the black, black valley--then ceased. he was vaguely over-awed with the "big mountings" for company and the distant stars. he listened eagerly for the first cracking of brush which told him that the other boys were near at hand. then all three crept along cautiously among the huge boles of the trees, feeling very mysterious and important. when they reached the rude window, ab sat for a moment on the sill, peering into the intense blackness within. "it air dark thar, fur true, ab," said jim gryce, growing faint-hearted. "let's go back." "naw, sir! naw, sir!" protested ab resolutely. "i'm on the borry!" "how kin we find that thar leetle hammer in sech a dark place?" urged jim. "waal," explained ab, in his high key, "dad air mightily welded ter his cranky notions. an' he always leaves every tool in the same place edzactly every night. bound fur me!" he continued in shrill exultation as he slapped his lean leg, "i know whar that thar leetle hammer air sot ter roost!" he jumped down from the window inside the shop, and cut a wiry caper. "i'm a man o' bone and muscle!" he bragged. "kin do ennything." the other boys followed more quietly. but they had only groped a little distance when jim gryce set up a sharp yelp of pain. "shet yer mouth--ye pop-eyed catamount!" ab admonished him. "dad will hear an'--ah-h-h!" his own words ended in a shriek. "oh, my!" vociferated the "man of bone and muscle," who was certainly, too, a man of extraordinary lung-power. "oh, my! the ground is hot--hot ez iron! they always tole me that satan would ketch me--an' oh, my! now he hev done it!" he joined the "pop-eyed catamount" in a lively dance with their bare feet on the hot iron bars which were scattered about the ground in every direction. these were heated artistically, so that they might not really scorch the flesh, but would touch the feelings, and perhaps the conscience. as the third boy's scream rent the air, and told that he, too, had encountered a torrid experience, ab ryder became suddenly aware that there was some one besides themselves in the shop. he could see nothing; he was only vaguely conscious of an unexpected presence, and he fancied that it was in the corner by the barrel of water. all at once a gruff voice broke forth. "i'm on the borry!" it remarked with fierce facetiousness. "i want ter borry a boy--no! a man o' bone an' muscle--fur 'bout a minit and a quarter!" a strong arm seized ab by his collar. he felt himself swept through the air, soused head foremost into the barrel of water, then thrust into a corner, where he was thankful to find there was no more hot iron. "i want to borry another boy!" said the gruff voice. and the "pop-eyed catamount" was duly ducked. "'twould pleasure me some ter borry another!" the voice declared with grim humor. but ben was the youngest and smallest, and only led into mischief by the others. they never knew that the blacksmith relented when his turn came, and that he got a mere sprinkle in comparison with their total immersion. then stephen ryder set out for home, followed by a dripping procession. "i'll l'arn ye ter 'borry' my tools 'thout leave!" he vociferated as he went along. when they had reached the house, he faced round sternly on ab. "whyn't ye kem an' tell me ez how the miller say i war a sneakin', deceivin' critter, an'--an'--an' a thief!" his wife dropped the dish she was washing, and it broke unheeded upon the hearth. ab stretched his eyes and mouth in amazement. "old bob peachin never tole me no sech word sence i been born!" he declared flatly. "then what ailed ye ter go an' tell sech a lie ter gryce's boys las' night jes' down thar outside o' the shop?" stephen ryder demanded. ab stared at him, evidently bewildered. "ye tole 'em," continued the blacksmith, striving to refresh his memory, "ez bob peachin say ez how ye mought know i war deceivin' by my bein' named stephen--an' that i war the hongriest critter--an'"-- "'twar the t-a-a-a-rrier!" shouted ab, "the little rat tarrier ez we war a-talkin' 'bout. he hev been named steve these six year, old bob say. he gimme the dog yestiddy, 'kase i 'lowed ez the rats war eatin' us out'n house an' home, an' my mother hed fed up that old cat o' our'n till he won't look at a mice. old bob warned me, though, ez steve, _the tarrier_, air a mighty thief an' deceivin' ginerally. old bob say he reckons my mother will spile the dog with feedin' him, an' kill out what little good he hev got lef' in him with kindness. but i tuk him, an' brung him home ennyhow. an' las' night arter we hed got through talkin' 'bout borryin' (he looked embarrassed) the leetle hammer, we tuk to talkin' 'bout the tarrier. an' yander he is now, asleep on the chil'ren's bed!" a long pause ensued. "m'ria," said the blacksmith meekly to his wife, "hev ye tuk notice how the gyarden truck air a-thrivin'? 'pears like ter me ez the peas air a-fullin' up consider'ble." and so the subject changed. he had it on his conscience, however, to explain the matter to the miller. for the second time old bob peachin, and the men at the mill, "laffed mightily at dad." and when ab had recovered sufficiently from the exhaustion attendant upon borrowing a hammer, he "laffed too." the conscripts' hollow chapter i "i'm a-goin' ter climb down ter that thar ledge, an' slip round ter the hollow whar them conscripts built thar fire in the old war times." nicholas gregory paused on the verge of the great cliff and cast a sidelong glance at barney pratt, who was beating about among the red sumach bushes in the woods close at hand, and now and then stooping to search the heaps of pine needles and dead leaves where they had been blown together on the ground. "conscripts!" barney ejaculated, with a chuckle. "that's precisely what them men war determinated _not_ ter be! they war a-hidin' in the mountings ter git shet o' the conscription." "waal, i don't keer ef _ye_ names 'em 'conscripts' or no," nicholas retorted loftily. "that's what other folks calls 'em. i'm goin' down ter the hollow, whar they built thar fire, ter see ef that old missin' tur-r-key-hen o' our'n hain't hid her nest off 'mongst them dead chunks, an' sech." "a tur-r-key ain't sech a powerful fool ez that," said barney, coming to the edge of the precipice and looking over at the ledge, which ran along the face of the cliff twenty feet below. "how'd she make out ter fotch the little tur-r-keys up hyar, when they war hatched? they'd fall off'n the bluff." "a tur-r-key what hev stole her nest away from the folks air fool enough fur ennything," nicholas declared. perhaps he did not really expect to find the missing fowl in such an out-of-the-way place as this, but being an adventurous fellow, the sight of the crag was a temptation. he had often before clambered down to the ledge, which led to a great niche in the solid rock, where one night during the war some men who were hiding from the conscription had kindled their fire and cooked their scanty food. the charred remnants of logs were still here, but no one ever thought about them now, except the two boys, who regarded them as a sort of curiosity. sometimes they came and stared at them, and speculated about them, and declared to each other that _they_ would not consider it a hardship to go a-soldiering. then nick would tell barney of a wonderful day when he had driven to the county town in his uncle's wagon. there was a parade of militia there, and how grand the drum had sounded! and as he told it he would shoulder a smoke-blackened stick, and stride about in the conscripts' hollow, and feel very brave. he had no idea in those days how close at hand was the time when his own courage should be tried. "kem on, barney!" he urged. "let's go down an' sarch fur the tur-r-key." but barney had thrown himself down upon the crag with a long-drawn sigh of fatigue. "waal," he replied, in a drowsy tone, "i dunno 'bout'n that. i'm sorter banged out, 'kase i hev had a powerful hard day's work a-bilin' sorghum at our house. i b'lieves i'll rest my bones hyar, an' wait fur ye." as he spoke, he rolled up one of the coats which they had both thrown off, during their search for the nest on the summit of the cliff, and slipped it under his head. he was far the brighter boy of the two, but his sharp wits seemed to thrive at the expense of his body. he was small and puny, and he was easily fatigued in comparison with big burly nick, who rarely knew such a sensation, and prided himself upon his toughness. "waal, barney, surely ye air the porest little shoat on g'liath mounting!" he exclaimed scornfully, as he had often done before. but he made no further attempt to persuade barney, and began the descent alone. it was not so difficult a matter for a sure-footed mountaineer like nick to make his way down to the ledge as one might imagine, for in a certain place the face of the cliff presented a series of jagged edges and projections which afforded him foothold. as he went along, too, he kept a strong grasp upon overhanging vines and bushes that grew out from earth-filled crevices. he had gone down only a short distance when he paused thoughtfully. "this hyar wind air blowin' powerful brief," he said. "i mought get chilled an' lose my footin'." he hardly liked to give up the expedition, but he was afraid to continue on his way in the teeth of the mountain wind, cold and strong in the october afternoon. if only he had his heavy jeans coat with him! "barney!" he called out, intending to ask his friend to throw it over to him. there was no answer. "that thar barney hev drapped off ter sleep a'ready!" he exclaimed indignantly. he chanced to glance upward as he was about to call again. there he saw a coat lying on the edge of the cliff, the dangling sleeve fluttering just within his reach. when he dragged it down and discovered that it was barney's instead of his own, he was slightly vexed, but it certainly did not seem a matter of great importance. "that boy hev got _my_ coat, an' this is his'n. but law! i'd ruther squeeze myself small enough ter git inter his'n, than ter hev ter yell like a catamount fur an hour an' better ter wake him up, an' make him gimme mine." he seated himself on a narrow projection of the crag, and began to cautiously put on his friend's coat. he had need to be careful, for a precarious perch like this, with an unmeasured abyss beneath, the far blue sky above, the almost inaccessible face of a cliff on one side, and on the other a distant stretch of mountains, is not exactly the kind of place in which one would prefer to make a toilet. besides the dangers of his position, he was anxious to do no damage to the coat, which although loose and baggy on barney, was rather a close fit for nick. "i ain't used ter climbin' with a coat on, nohow, an' i mus' be mighty keerful not ter bust barney's, 'kase it air all the one he hev got," he said to himself as he clambered nimbly down to the ledge. then he walked deftly along the narrow shelf, and as he turned abruptly into the immense niche in the cliff called the conscripts' hollow, he started back in sudden bewilderment. his heart gave a bound, and then it seemed to stand still. he hardly recognized the familiar place. there, to be sure, were the walls and the dome-like roof, but upon the dusty sandstone floor were scattered quantities of household articles, such as pots and pails and pans and kettles. there was a great array of brogans, too, and piles of blankets, and bolts of coarse unbleached cotton and jeans cloth. "waal, sir!" he exclaimed, as he gazed at them with wild, uncomprehending eyes. then the truth flashed upon him. a story had reached goliath mountain some weeks before, to the effect that a cross-roads store, some miles down the valley, had been robbed. the thieves had escaped with the stolen goods, leaving no clue by which they might be identified and brought to justice. nick saw that he had made a discovery. here it was that the robbers had contrived to conceal their plunder, doubtless intending to wait until suspicion lulled, when they could carry it to some distant place, where it could safely be sold. suddenly a thought struck him that sent a shiver through every fibre of his body. this store was robbed in a singular manner. no bolt was broken,--no door burst open. there was a window, however, that lacked one pane of glass. the aperture would not admit a man's body. it was believed that the burglars had passed a boy through it, who had handed out the stolen goods. and now, nick foolishly argued, if any one should discover that _he_ knew where the plunder was hidden, they would believe that _he_ was that boy who had robbed the store! he began to resolve that he would say nothing about what he had seen,--not even to barney. he thought his safety lay in his silence. still, he did not want his silence to be to the advantage of wicked men, so he tried to persuade himself that the burglars would soon be traced and captured without the information which he knew it was his duty to give. "ter be sartain, the officers will kem on this place arter a while," he said meditatively. then he shook his head doubtfully. the crag was far from any house, and except the dwellers on goliath mountain, few people knew of this great niche in it. "they war sly foxes what stowed away thar plunder hyar!" he exclaimed in despair. often, when nick had before stood in the conscripts' hollow, he had imagined that he would make a good soldier. but his idea of a soldier was a fine uniform, and the ra-ta-ta of martial music. he had no conception of that high sense of duty which nerves a man to face danger; even now he did not know that he was a coward as he faltered and feared in the cause of right to encounter suspicion. courage!--nick thought that meant to crack away at a bear, if you were lucky enough to have the chance; or to kill a rattlesnake, if you had a big heavy stone close at hand; or to scramble about among crags and precipices, if you felt certain of the steadiness of your head and the strength of your muscles. but he did not realize that "courage" could mean the nerve to speak one little word for duty's sake. he would not speak the word,--he had determined on that,--for might they not think that _he_ was the boy who had robbed the store? he was quivering with excitement when he turned and began to walk along the ledge toward those roughly hewn natural steps by which he had descended. he knew that his agitation rendered his footing insecure. he was afraid of falling into the depths beneath, and he pressed close against the cliff. on the narrow ledge, hardly two yards distant from the conscripts' hollow, a clump of blackberry bushes was growing from a crevice in the rock. they had never before given him trouble; but now, as he brushed hastily past, they seemed to clutch at him with their thorny branches. as he tore away from them roughly, he did not observe that he had left a fragment of his brown jeans clothing hanging upon the thorns, as a witness to his presence here close to the conscripts' hollow, where the stolen goods lay hidden. there was a coarse, dark-colored horn button attached to the bit of brown jeans, which was a three-cornered scrap of his coat. no! of _barney's_ coat. and was it to be a witness against poor barney, who had not gone near the conscripts' hollow, but was lying asleep on the summit of the crag, supposing he had his own coat under his own head? he did not discover his mistake until some time afterward, for when nick had slowly and laboriously climbed up the steep face of the cliff, he stripped off his friend's torn coat before he roused him. barney was awakened by having his pillow dragged rudely from under his head, and when at last he reluctantly opened his eyes on the hazy yellow sunlight, and saw nick standing near on the great gray crag, he had no idea that this moment was an important crisis in his life. the wind was coming up the gorge fresh and free; the autumnal foliage, swaying in it, was like the flaunting splendors of red and gold banners; the western ranges had changed from blue to purple, for the sun was sinking. "it's gittin' toler'ble late, barney," said nick. "let's go." he had on his own coat now, and he was impatient to be off. "did ye find the tur-r-key's nest in the conscripts' hollow?" asked barney, with a lazy yawn, and still flat on his back. "no," said nick curtly. then it occurred to him that it would be safer if his friend should think he had not been in the hollow. "no," he reiterated, after a pause, "i didn't go down ter the ledge arter all." he had begun to lie,--where would it end? "whyn't you-uns go?" demanded barney, surprised. "the wind war blowin' so powerful brief," nick replied without a qualm. "so i jes' s'arched fur a while in the woods back thar a piece." in a moment more, barney rose to his feet, picked up his coat, and put it on. he did not notice the torn place, for the garment was old and worn, and had many ragged edges. it lacked, however, but one button, and that missing button was attached to the triangular bit of brown jeans that fluttered on the thorny bush close to the conscripts' hollow. all unconscious of his loss, he went away in the rich autumnal sunset, leaving it there as a witness against him. chapter ii after this, nicholas gregory was very steady at his work for a while. he kept out of the woods as much as possible, and felt that he knew more already than was good for him. above all, he avoided that big sandstone cliff and the conscripts' hollow, where the goods lay hidden. he heard no more of the search that had been made for the burglars and their booty, and he congratulated himself on his caution in keeping silent about what he had found. "now, ef it hed been that thar wide-mouthed barney, stid o' me, he'd hev blabbed fust thing, an' they'd all hev thunk ez he war the boy what them scoundrels put through the winder ter steal the folkses' truck. they'd hev jailed him, i reckon." he had begun to forget his own part in the wrong-doing,--that his silence was helping to screen "them scoundrels" from the law. this state of mind continued for a week, perhaps. then he fell to speculating about the stolen goods. he wondered whether they were all there yet, or whether the burglars had managed to carry them away. his curiosity grew so great that several times he was almost at the point of going to see for himself; but one morning, early, when an opportunity to do so was suddenly presented, his courage failed him. his mother had just come into the log cabin from the hen-house with a woe-begone face. "i do declar'!" she exclaimed solemnly, "that i'm surely the afflictedest 'oman on g'liath mounting! an' them young fall tur-r-keys air so spindlin' an' delikit they'll be the death o' me yit!" they were so spindling and delicate that they were the death of themselves. she had just buried three, and her heart and her larder were alike an aching void. "three died ter-day, an' two las' wednesday!" as she counted them on her fingers she honored each with a shake of the head, so mournful that it might be accounted an obituary in dumb show. "i hev had no sort'n luck with this tur-r-key's brood, an' the t'other hev stole her nest away, an' i hev got sech a mean no-'count set o' chillen they can't find her. waal! waal! waal! this comin' winter the lord'll be _obleeged_ ter pervide." this was washing-day, and as she began to scrub away on the noisy washboard, a sudden thought struck her. "ye told me two weeks ago an' better, nick, that ye hed laid off ter sarch the conscripts' hollow; ye 'lowed ye hed been everywhar else. did ye go thar fur the tur-r-key?" she faced him with her dripping arms akimbo. nick's face turned red as he answered, "that thar tur-r-key ain't a-nigh thar." "what ails ye, nick? thar's su'thin' wrong. i kin tell it by yer looks. ye never hed the grit ter sarch thar, i'll be bound; did ye, now?" nick could not bring himself to admit having been near the place. "no," he faltered, "i never sarched thar." "ye'll do it now, though!" his mother declared triumphantly. "i'm afeard ter send jacob on sech a yerrand down the bluffs, kase he air so little he mought fall; but he air big enough ter go 'long an' watch ye go down ter the hollow--else ye'll kem back an' say ye hev sarched thar, when ye ain't been a-nigh the bluff." there seemed for a moment no escape for nick. his mother was looking resolutely at him, and jacob had gotten up briskly from his seat in the chimney-corner. he was a small tow-headed boy with big owlish eyes, and nick knew from experience that they were very likely to see anything he did _not_ do. he must go; and then if at any time the stolen goods should be discovered, jacob and his mother, and who could say how many besides, would know that he had been to the conscripts' hollow, and must have seen what was hidden there. in that case his silence on the subject would be very suspicious. it would seem as if he had some connection with the burglars, and for that reason tried to conceal the plunder. he was saying to himself that he would not go--and he must! how could he avoid it? as he glanced uneasily around the room, his eyes chanced to fall on a little object lying on the edge of the shelf just above the washtub. he made the most of the opportunity. as he slung his hat upon his head with an impatient gesture, he managed to brush the shelf with it and knock the small object into the foaming suds below. his mother sank into a chair with uplifted hands and eyes. "the las' cake o' hop yeast!" she cried. "an' how air the bread ter be raised?" to witness her despair, one would think only jack-screws could do it. "surely i _am_ the afflictedest 'oman on g'liath mounting! an' ter-morrer brother pete's wife an' his gals air a-comin', and i hed laid off ter hev raised bread." for "raised bread" is a great rarity and luxury in these parts, the nimble "dodgers" being the staff of life. "i never went ter do it," muttered nick. "waal, ye kin jes' kerry yer bones down the mounting ter sister mirandy's house, an' ax her ter fotch me a cake o' her yeast when she kems up hyar ter-day ter holp me sizin' yarn. arter that i don't keer what ye does with yerself. ef ye stays hyar along o' we-uns, ye'll haul the roof down nex', i reckon. 'pears like ter me ez boys an' men-folks air powerful awk'ard, useless critters ter keep in a house; they oughter hev pens outside, i'm a-thinkin'." she had forgotten about the turkey, and nick was glad enough to escape on these terms. it was not until after he had finished his errand at aunt mirandy's house that he chanced to think again of the conscripts' hollow. as he was slowly lounging back up the mountain, he paused occasionally on the steep slope and looked up at the crags high on the summit, which he could see, now and then, diagonally across a deep cove. when he came in sight of the one which he had such good reason to remember, he stopped and stood gazing fixedly at it for a long time, wondering again whether the robbers had yet carried off their plunder from its hiding-place. he was not too distant to distinguish the conscripts' hollow, but from his standpoint, he could not at first determine where was the ledge. he thought he recognized it presently in a black line that seemed drawn across the massive cliff. but what was that upon it? a moving figure! he gazed at it spell-bound for a moment, as it slowly made its way along toward the hollow. then he wanted to see no more; he wanted to know no more. he turned and fled at full speed along the narrow cow-path among the bushes. suddenly there was a rustle among them. something had sprung out into the path with a light bound, and as he ran, he heard a swift step behind him. it seemed a pursuing step, for, as he quickened his pace, it came faster too. it was a longer stride than his; it was gaining upon him. a hand with a grip like a vise fell upon his shoulder, and as he was whirled around and brought face to face with his pursuer, he glanced up and recognized the constable of the district. this was a tall, muscular man, dressed in brown jeans, and with a bushy red beard. he knew nick well, for he, too, was a mountaineer. "ye war a-dustin' along toler'ble fast, nicholas gregory," he exclaimed; "but nothin' on g'liath mounting kin beat me a-runnin' 'thout it air a deer. ye'll kem along with me now, and stir yer stumps powerful lively, too, kase i hain't got no time ter lose." "what am i tuk up fur?" gasped nick. "s'picious conduc'," replied the man curtly. nick knew no more now than he did before. the officer's next words made matters plainer. "things look mightily like ye war set hyar ter watch that thar ledge. ez soon ez ye seen our men a-goin' ter the conscripts' hollow ter sarch fur that thar stole truck, ye war a-goin' ter scuttle off an' gin the alarm ter them rascally no-'count burglars. i saw ye and yer looks, and i suspicioned some sech game. ye don't cheat the law in _this_ deestrick--not often! ye air the very boy, i reckon, what holped ter rob blenkins's store. whar's the other burglars? ye'd better tell!" "i dunno!" cried nick tremulously. "i never had nothin' ter do with 'em." "ye hev told on yerself," the man retorted. "why did ye stand a-gapin' at the conscripts' hollow, ef ye didn't know thar was suthin special thar?" nick, in his confusion, could invent no reply, and he was afraid to tell the truth. he looked mutely at the officer, who held his arm and looked down sternly at him. "ye air a bad egg,--that's plain. i'll take ye along whether i ketches the other burglars or no." they toiled up the steep ascent in silence, and before very long were on the summit of the mountain, and within view of the crag. there on the great gray cliff, in the midst of the lonely woods, were several men whom nick had never before seen. their busy figures were darkly defined against the hazy azure of the distant ranges, and as they moved about, their shadows on the ground seemed very busy too, and blotted continually the golden sunshine that everywhere penetrated the thinning masses of red and bronze autumn foliage. a wagon, close at hand, was already half full of the stolen goods, and a number of men were going cautiously up and down the face of the cliff, bringing articles, or passing them from one to another. "well, this _is_ a tedious job!" exclaimed the sheriff, john stebbins by name. he was a quick-witted, good-natured man, but being active in temperament, he was exceedingly impatient of delay. "how long did it take 'em to get all those heavy things down into the conscripts' hollow,--hey, bub?" he added, appealing to nick, who had been brought to his notice by the constable. it was terrible to nick that they should all speak to him as if he were one of the criminals. he broke out with wild protestations of his innocence, denying, too, that he had had any knowledge of what was hidden in the conscripts' hollow. "then what made ye run, yander on the slope, when ye seen thar war somebody on the ledge?" demanded the constable. nick had a sudden inspiration. "waal," he faltered, with an explanatory sob, which was at once ludicrous and pathetic, "i war too fur off ter make out fur sure what 'twar on the ledge. 'twar black-lookin', an' i 'lowed 'twar a b'ar." all the men laughed at this. "i sot out ter run ter aunt mirandy's house ter borry job's gun ter kem up hyar, an' mebbe git a crack at him," continued nick. "that doesn't seem unnatural," said the sheriff. then he turned to the constable. "this ain't enough to justify us in holding on to the boy, jim, unless we can fix that scrap with the button on him. where is it?" "d'ye know whose coat this kem off'n?" asked the constable, producing a bit of brown jeans, with a dark-colored horn button attached to it. "how'd it happen ter be stickin' ter them blackberry-bushes on the ledge?" nick recognized it in an instant. it was barney pratt's button, and a bit of barney pratt's coat. but he knew well enough that he himself must have torn it when he wore it down to the conscripts' hollow. he realized that he should have at once told the whole truth of what he knew about the stolen goods. he was well aware that he ought not to suffer the suspicion which had unjustly fallen upon him to be unjustly transferred to barney, who he knew was innocent. but he was terribly frightened, and foolishly cautious, and he did not care for justice, nor truth, nor friendship, now. his only anxiety was to save himself. "that thar piece o' brown jeans an' that button kem off'n barney pratt's coat. i'd know 'em anywhar," he answered, more firmly than before. he noted the fact that the searching eyes of both officers were fixed upon his own coat, which was good and whole, and lacked no buttons. he had not even a twinge of conscience just now. in his meanness and cowardice his heart exulted, as he saw that suspicion was gradually lifting its dark shadow from him. he cared not where it might fall next. "we'll have to let you slide, i reckon," said the sheriff. "but what size is this barney pratt?" "he air a lean, stringy little chap," said nick. "is that so?" said the sheriff. "well, this is a bit of his coat and his button; and they were found on the ledge, close to the conscripts' hollow where the plunder was hid; and he's a small fellow, that maybe could slip through a window-pane. that makes a pretty strong showing against him. we'll go for barney pratt!" chapter iii barney pratt expected this day to be a holiday. very early in the morning his father and mother had jolted off in the wagon to attend the wedding of a cousin, who lived ten miles distant on a neighboring mountain, and they had left him no harder task than to keep the children far enough from the fire, and his paralytic grandmother close enough to it. this old woman was of benevolent intentions, although she had a stick with which she usually made her wants known by pointing, and in her convulsive clutch the stick often whirled around and around like the sails of a windmill, so that if barney chanced to come within the circle it described, he got as hard knocks from her feeble arm as he could have had in a tussle with big nick gregory. he was used to dodging it, and so were the smaller children. without any fear of it they were all sitting on the hearth at the old woman's feet,--ben and melissa popping corn in the ashes, and tom and andy watching barney's deft fingers as he made a cornstalk fiddle for them. suddenly barney glanced up and saw his grandmother's stick whirling over his head. her eyes were fastened eagerly upon the window, and her lips trembled as she strove to speak. "what d'ye want, granny?" he asked. then at last it came out, quick and sharp, and in a convulsive gasp,--"who air all that gang o'folks a-comin' yander down the road?" barney jumped up, threw down the fiddle, and ran to the door with the children at his heels. there was a quiver of curiosity among them, for it was a strange thing that a "gang o'folks" should be coming down this lonely mountain road. they went outside of the log cabin and stood among the red sumach bushes that clustered about the door, while the old woman tottered after them to the threshold, and peered at the crowd from under her shaking hand as she shaded her eyes from the sunlight. presently a wagon came up with eight or ten men walking behind it, or riding in it in the midst of a quantity of miscellaneous articles of which barney took no particular notice. as he went forward, smiling in a frank, fearless way, he recognized a familiar face among the crowd. it was nick gregory's, and barney's smile broadened into a grin of pleasure and welcome. then it was that nick's conscience began to wake up, and to lay hold upon him. as the sheriff looked at barney he hesitated. he balanced himself heavily on the wheel, instead of leaping quickly down as he might have done easily enough, for he was a spare man and light on his feet. nick overheard him speak in a low voice to the constable, who stood just below. "_that_ ain't the fellow, is it, jim?" "that's him, percisely," responded jim dow. "he don't _look_ like it," said stebbins, jumping down at last, but still speaking under his breath. "waal, thar ain't no countin' on boys by the _outside_ on 'em," returned the constable emphatically; he had an unruly son of his own. the sheriff walked up to barney. "you're barney pratt, are you? well, youngster, you'll come along with us." there was silence for a moment. barney stared at him in amaze. not until he had caught sight of the constable, whom he knew in his official character, did he understand the full meaning of what had been said. he was under arrest! as he realized it, everything began to whirl before him. the yellow sunshine, the gorgeously tinted woods, the blue sky, and the silvery mists hovering about the distant mountains, were all confusedly mingled in his failing vision. he looked as if he were about to faint. but in a few minutes he had partially recovered himself. "i dunno what this air done ter me fur," he said tremulously, glancing up at the officer whose hand was on his shoulder. "hain't ye been doin' nothin' mean lately?" demanded jim dow sternly. barney shook his head. "let's see ef this won't remind ye," said the constable, producing the bit of jeans and the button. as nick watched barney turning the piece of cloth in his hand and examining the button, he felt a terrible pang of remorse. but he was none the less resolved to keep the freedom from danger which he had secured at the expense of his friend. to explain would be merely to exchange places with barney, and he was silent. "this hyar looks like a scrap o' my coat," said barney, utterly unaware of the significance of his words. as he fitted it into the jagged edges of the garment, the officers watched the proceeding closely. "'pears like ter me ez it war jerked right out thar--yes--kase hyar air the missin' button, too." his air of unconsciousness puzzled the sheriff. "do you know where you lost this scrap?" he asked. "somewhars 'mongst the briers in the woods, i reckon," replied barney. "no; you tore it on a blackberry bush on the ledge of a bluff; it was close to the conscripts' hollow, where some burglars have hidden stolen plunder. i found the scrap and the button there myself." barney felt as if he were dreaming. how should his coat be torn on that ledge, where he had not been since the cloth was woven! the next words almost stunned him. "ye see, sonny," said the constable, "we believes ye're the boy what holped to rob blenkins's store by gittin' through a winder-pane an' handin' out the stole truck ter the t'other burglars. ye hev holped about that thar plunder somehows,--else this hyar thing air a liar!" and he shook the bit of cloth significantly. "we'd better set out, jim," said stebbins, turning toward the wagon. "we'll pass blenkins's on the way, and we'll stop and see if this chap can slip through the window-pane. if he can't, it's a point in his favor, and if he can, it's a point against him. as we go, we can try to get him to tell who the other burglars are." "kem on, bubby; we can't stand hyar no longer, a-wastin' the time an' a-burnin' of daylight," said the constable. barney seemed to have lost control of his rigid limbs, and he was half-dragged, half-lifted into the wagon by the two officers. the crowd began to fall back and disperse, and he could see the group of "home-folks" at the door. but he gave only one glance at the little log cabin, and then turned his head away. it was a poor home, but if it had been a palace, the pang he felt as he was torn from it could not have been sharper. in that instant he saw granny as she stood in the doorway, her head shaking nervously and her stick whirling in her uncertain grasp. he knew that she was struggling to say something for his comfort, and he had a terrible moment of fear lest the wagon should begin to move and her feeble voice be lost in the clatter of the wheels. but presently her shrill tones rang out, "no harm kin kem, sonny, ter them ez hev done no harm. all that happens works tergether fur good, an' the will o' god." little breath as she had left, it had done good service to-day,--it had brought a drop of balm to the poor boy's heart. he did not look at her again, but he knew that she was still standing in the doorway among the clustering red leaves, whirling her stick, and shaking with the palsy, but determined to see the last of him. and now the wagon was rolling off, and a piteous wail went up from the children, who understood nothing except that barney was being carried away against his will. little four-year-old melissa--she always seemed a beauty to barney, with her yellow hair, and her blue-checked cotton dress, and her dimpled white bare feet--ran after the wagon until the tears blinded her, and she fell in the road, and lay there in the dust, sobbing. then barney found his voice. his father and mother would not return until to-morrow, and the thought of what might happen at home, with nobody there but the helpless old grandmother and the little children, made him forget his own troubles for the time. "take good keer o' the t'other chillen, andy!" he shouted out to the next oldest boy, thus making him a deputy-guardian of the family, "an' pick melissy up out'n the dust, an' be sure ye keeps granny's cheer close enough ter the fire!" then he turned back again. he could still hear melissa sobbing. he wondered why the two men in the wagon looked persistently in the opposite direction, and why they were both so silent. the children stood in the road, watching the wagon as long as they could see it, but nick had slunk away into the woods. he could not bear the sight of their grief. he walked on, hardly knowing where he went. he felt as if he were trying to get rid of himself. he appreciated fully now the consequences of what he had done. barney, innocent barney, would be thrust into jail. he began to see that the most terrible phase of moral cowardice is its capacity to injure others, and he could not endure the thought of what he had brought upon his friend. soon he was saying to himself that something was sure to happen to prevent them from putting barney in prison,--he shouldn't be surprised if it were to happen before the wagon could reach the foot of the mountain. in his despair, he had flung himself at length upon the rugged, stony ground at the base of a great crag. when this comforting thought of barney's release came upon him, he took his hands from his face, and looked about him. from certain ledges of the cliff above, the road which led down the valley was visible at intervals for some distance. there he could watch the progress of the wagon, and see for a time longer what was happening to barney. there was a broad gulf between the wall of the mountain and the crag, which, from its detached position and its shape, was known far and wide as the "old man's chimney." it loomed up like a great stone column, a hundred feet above the wooded slope where nick stood, and its height could only be ascended by dexterous climbing. he went at it like a cat. sometimes he helped himself up by sharp projections of the rock, sometimes by slipping his feet and hands into crevices, and sometimes he caught hold of a strong bush here and there, and gave himself a lift. when he was about forty feet from the base, he sat down on one of the ledges, and turning, looked anxiously along the red clay road which he could see winding among the trees down the mountain's side. no wagon was there. his eyes followed the road further and further toward the foot of the range, and then along the valley beyond. there, at least two miles distant, was a small moving black object, plainly defined upon the red clay of the road. barney was gone! there was no mistake about it. they had taken him away from goliath mountain! he was innocent, and nick knew it, and nick had made him seem guilty. there was no one near him now to speak a good word for him, not even his palsied old grandmother. it all came back upon nick with a rush. his eyes were blurred with rising tears. unconsciously, in his grief, he made a movement forward, and suddenly clutched convulsively at the ledge. he had lost his balance. there was a swift, fantastic whirl of vague objects before him, then a great light seemed flashing through his very brain, and he knew that he was falling. he knew nothing else for some time. he wondered where he was when he first opened his eyes and saw the great stone shaft towering high above, and the tops of the sun-gilded maples waving about him. then he remembered and understood. he had fallen from that narrow ledge, hardly ten feet above his head, and had been caught in his descent by the far broader one upon which he lay. "it knocked the senses out'n me fur a while, i reckon," he said to himself. "but i hev toler'ble luck now, sure ez shootin', kase i mought hev drapped over this ledge, an' then i'd hev been gone fur sartain sure!" his exultation was short-lived. what was this limp thing hanging to his shoulder? and what was this thrill of pain darting through it? he looked at it in amazement. it was his strong right arm--broken--helpless. and here he was, perched thirty feet above the earth, weakened by his long faint, sore and bruised and unnerved by his fall, and with only his left arm to aid him in making that perilous descent. it was impossible. he glanced down at the sheer walls of the column below, shook his head, and lay back on the ledge. reckless as he was, he realized that the attempt would be fatal. then came a thought that filled him with dismay,--how long was this to last?--who would rescue him? he knew that a prolonged absence from home would create no surprise. his mother would only fancy that he had slipped off, as he had often done, to go on a camp-hunt with some other boys. she would not grow uneasy for a week, at least. he was deep in the heart of the forest, distant from any dwelling. no one, as far as he knew, came to this spot, except himself and barney, and their errand here was for the sake of the exhilaration and the hazard of climbing the crag. it was so lonely that on the old man's chimney the eagles built instead of the swallows. his hope--his only hope--was that some hunter might chance to pass before he should die of hunger. the shadow of the great obelisk shifted as the day wore on, and left him in the broad, hot glare of the sun. his broken arm was fevered and gave him great pain. now and then he raised himself on the other, and looked down wistfully at the cool, dusky depths of the woods. he heard continually the impetuous rushing of a mountain torrent near at hand; sometimes, when the wind stirred the foliage, he caught a glimpse of the water, rioting from rock to rock, and he was oppressed by an intolerable thirst. thus the hours lagged wearily on. chapter iv when the wagon was rolling along the road in the valley, barney at first kept his eyes persistently fastened upon the craggy heights and the red and gold autumnal woods of goliath mountain, as the mighty range stretched across the plain. but presently the two men began to talk to him, and he turned around in order to face them. they were urging him to confess his own guilt and tell who were the other burglars, and where they were. but barney had nothing to tell. he could only protest again and again his innocence. the men, however, shook their heads incredulously, and after a while they left him to himself and smoked their pipes in silence. when barney looked back at the mountains once more, a startling change seemed to have been wrought in the landscape. instead of the frowning sandstone cliffs he loved so well, and the gloomy recesses of the woods, there was only a succession of lines of a delicate blue color drawn along the horizon. this was the way the distant ranges looked from the crags of his own home; he knew that they were the mountains, but which was goliath? suddenly he struck his hands together, and broke out with a bitter cry. "i hev los' g'liath!" he exclaimed. "i dunno whar i live! an' whar _is_ melissy?" a difficult undertaking, certainly, to determine where among all those great spurs and outliers, stretching so far on either hand, was that little atom of dimpled pink-and-white humanity known as "melissy." the constable, being a native of these hills himself, knew something by experience of the homesickness of an exiled mountaineer,--far more terrible than the homesickness of low-landers; he took his pipe promptly from between his lips, and told the boy that the second blue ridge, counting down from the sky, was "g'liath mounting," and that "melissy war right thar somewhar." barney looked back at it with unrecognizing eyes,--this gentle, misty, blue vagueness was not the solemn, sombre mountain that he knew. he gazed at it only for a moment longer; then his heart swelled and he burst into tears. on and on they went through the flat country. the boy felt that he could scarcely breathe. even tourists, coming down from these mountains to the valley below, struggle with a sense of suffocation and oppression; how must it have been then with this half-wild creature, born and bred on those breezy heights! the stout mules did their duty well, and it was not long before they were in sight of the cross-roads store that had been robbed. it was a part of a small frame dwelling-house, set in the midst of the yellow sunlight that brooded over the plain. all the world around it seemed to the young backwoodsman to be a big cornfield; but there was a garden close at hand, and tall sunflowers looked over the fence and seemed to nod knowingly at barney, as much as to say they had always suspected him of being one of the burglars, and were gratified that he had been caught at last. poor fellow! he saw so much suspicion expressed in the faces of a crowd of men congregating about the store, that it was no wonder he fancied he detected it too in inanimate objects. of all the group only one seemed to doubt his guilt. he overheard blenkins, the merchant, say to jim dow,-- "it's mighty hard to b'lieve this story on this 'ere boy; he's a manly looking, straight-for'ard little chap, an' he's got honest eyes in his head, too." "he'd a deal better hev an honest heart in his body," drawled jim dow, who was convinced that barney had aided in the burglary. when they had gone around to the window with the broken pane, barney looked up at it in great anxiety. if only it should prove too small for him to slip through! certainly it seemed very small. he had pulled off his coat and stood ready to jump. "up with you!" said stebbins. the boy laid both hands on the sill, gave a light spring, and went through the pane like an eel. "that settles it!" he heard stebbins saying outside. and all the idlers were laughing because it was done so nimbly. "that boy's right smart of a fool," said one of the lookers-on. "now, if that had been me, i'd hev made out to git stuck somehows in that winder; i'd have scotched my wheel somewhere." "ef ye hed, i'd have dragged ye through ennyhow," declared jim dow, who had no toleration of a joke on a serious subject. "this hyar boy air a deal too peart ter try enny sech fool tricks on _me_!" barney hardly knew how he got back into the wagon; he only knew that they were presently jolting along once more in the midst of the yellow glare of sunlight. it had begun to seem that there was no chance for him. like nick, he too had madly believed, in spite of everything, that something would happen to help him. he could not think that, innocent as he was, he would be imprisoned. now, however, this fate evidently was very close upon him. suddenly jim dow spoke. "i s'pose ye war powerful disapp'inted kase ye couldn't git yerself hitched in that thar winder; ye air too well used to it,--ye hev been through it afore." "i hev never been through it afore!" cried barney indignantly. "well, well," said stebbins pacifically, "it wouldn't have done you any good if you hadn't gone through the pane just now. i'd have only thought you were one of those who stood on the outside. you see, the _main_ point against you is that scrap of your coat and your button found right there by the conscripts' hollow,--though, of course, your going through the window-pane so easy makes it more complete." barney's tired brain began to fumble at this problem,--how did it happen? he had not been on the ledge nor at the conscripts' hollow for six months at least. yet there was that bit of his coat and his button found on the bush close at hand only to-day. was it possible that he could have exchanged coats by mistake with nick the last afternoon that they were on the crag together? "did nick wear _my_ coat down on the ledge, i wonder, an' git it tored? did nick see the plunder in the conscripts' hollow, an' git skeered, an' then sot out ter lyin' ter git shet o' the blame?" as he asked himself these questions, he began to remember, vaguely, having seen, just as he was falling asleep, his friend's head slowly disappearing beneath the verge of the crag. "nick started down ter the ledge, anyhow," he argued. did he dream it, or was it true, that when nick came back he seemed at first strangely agitated? all at once barney exclaimed aloud,-- "this hyar air a powerful cur'ous thing 'bout'n that thar piece what war tored out'n my coat!" "what's curious about it?" asked stebbins quickly. jim dow took his pipe from his mouth, and looked sharply at the boy. barney struggled for a moment with a strong temptation. then a nobler impulse asserted itself. he would not even attempt to shield himself behind the friend who had done him so grievous an injury. he _knew_ nothing positively; he must not put his suspicions and his vague, half-sleeping impressions into words, and thus possibly criminate nick. he himself felt certain now how the matter really stood,--that nick had no connection whatever with the robbery, but having accidentally stumbled upon the stolen goods, he had become panic-stricken, had lied about it, and finally had saved himself at the expense of an innocent friend. still, barney had no _proof_ of this, and he felt he would rather suffer unjustly himself than unjustly throw blame on another. "nothin', nothin'," he said absently. "i war jes' a-studyin' 'bout'n it all." "well, i wouldn't think about it any more just now," said good-natured stebbins. "you look like you had been dragged through a keyhole instead of a window-pane. this town we're coming to is the biggest town you ever saw." barney could not respond to this attempt to divert his attention. he could only brood upon the fact that he was innocent, and would be punished as if he were guilty, and that it was nick gregory, his chosen friend, who had brought him to this pass. he would not be unmanly, and injure nick with a possibly unfounded suspicion, but his heart burned with indignation and contempt when he thought of him. he felt that he would go through fire and water to be justly revenged upon him. he determined that, if ever he should see nick again, even though years might intervene, he would tax him with the injury he had wrought, and make him answer for it. barney clenched his fists as he looked back at the ethereal blue shadows that they said were the solid old hills. perhaps, however, if he had known where, in the misty uncertainty that enveloped goliath mountain, nick gregory was at this moment,--far away in the lonely woods, helpless with his broken arm, perched high up on the "old man's chimney,"--barney might have thought himself the more fortunately placed of the two. before he was well aware of it, the wagon was jolting into the town. he took no notice of how much larger the little village was than any he had ever seen before. his attention was riveted by the faces of the people who ran to the doors and windows, upon recognizing the officers, to stare at him as one of the burglars. when the wagon reached the public square, a number of men came up and stopped it. barney was surprised that they took so little notice of him. they were talking loudly and excitedly to the officers, who grew at once loud and excited, too. the boy roused himself, and began to listen to the conversation. the burglars had been captured!--yes, that was what they were saying. the deputy-sheriff had nabbed the whole gang in a western district of the county this morning early, and they were lodged at this moment in jail. barney's heart sank. would he be put among the guilty creatures? he flinched from the very idea. suddenly, here was the deputy-sheriff himself, a young man, dusty and tired with his long, hard ride, but with an air of great satisfaction in his success. he talked with many quick gestures that were very expressive. sometimes he would leave a sentence unfinished except by a brisk nod, but all the crowd caught its meaning instantly. this peculiarity gave him a very animated manner, and he seemed to barney to enjoy being in a position of authority. he pressed his foaming horse close to the wagon, and leaning over, looked searchingly into barney's face. the poor boy looked up deprecatingly from under his limp and drooping hat-brim. all the crowd stood in silence, watching them. after a moment of this keen scrutiny, the deputy turned to the constable with an interrogative wave of the hand. "this hyar's the boy what war put through the winder-pane ter thieve from blenkins," said jim dow. "thar's consider'ble fac's agin him." "you mean well, jim," said the deputy, with a short, scornful laugh. "but your performance ain't always equal to your intentions." he lifted his eyebrows and nodded in a significant way that the crowd understood, for there was a stir of excitement in its midst; but poor barney failed to catch his meaning. he hung upon every tone and gesture with the intensest interest. all the talk was about him, and he could comprehend no more than if the man spoke in a foreign language. still, he gathered something of the drift of the speech from the constable's reply. "that thar boy's looks hev bamboozled more'n one man ter-day, jes' at fust," jim dow drawled. "_looks_ ain't nothin'." "i'd believe 'most anything a boy with a face on him like that would tell me," said the deputy. "and besides, you see, one of those scamps," with a quick nod toward the jail, "has turned state's evidence." barney's heart was in a great tumult. it seemed bursting. there was a hot rush of blood to his head. he was dizzy--and he could not understand! state's evidence,--what was that? and what would that do to him? chapter v barney observed that these words produced a marked sensation. the crowd began to press more closely around the deputy-sheriff's foaming horse. "who hev done turned state's evidence?" asked jim dow. "little jeff carew,--you've seen that puny little man a-many a time--haven't you, jim? he'd go into your pocket." "he would, i know, powerful quick, ef he thunk i hed ennything in it," said jim, with a gruff laugh. "i didn't mean that, though it's true enough. i only went ter say that he's small enough to go into any ordinary-sized fellow's pocket. some of the rest of them wanted to turn state's evidence, but they weren't allowed. they were harder customers even than jeff carew,--regular old jail-birds." barney began to vaguely understand that when a prisoner confesses the crime he has committed, and gives testimony which will convict his partners in it, this is called turning "state's evidence." but how was it to concern barney? an old white-haired man had pushed up to the wagon; he polished his spectacles on his coat-tail, then put them on his nose, and focused them on barney. those green spectacles seemed to the boy to have a solemnly accusing expression on their broad and sombre lenses. he shrank as the old man spoke,-- "and is this the boy who was slipped through the window to steal from blenkins?" "no," said the deputy, "this ain't the boy." barney could hardly believe his senses. "fact is," continued the deputy, with a brisk wave of his hand, "there wasn't any boy with 'em,--so little jeff carew says. _he_ jumped through the window-pane _himself_. we wouldn't believe that until we measured one there at the jail of the same size as blenkins's window-glass, and he went through it without a wriggle." barney sprang to his feet. "oh, tell it ter me, folkses!" he cried wildly; "tell it ter me, somebody! will they keep me hyar all the same? an' when will i see g'liath mounting agin, an' be whar melissy air?" he had burst into tears, and there was a murmur of sympathy in the crowd. "oh, that lets you out, i reckon, youngster," said stebbins. "i'm glad enough of it for one." the old man turned his solemnly accusing green spectacles on stebbins, and it seemed to barney that he spoke with no less solemnly accusing a voice. "he ought never to have been let in." stebbins replied, rather eagerly, barney thought, "why, there was enough against that boy to have clapped him in jail, and maybe convicted him, if this man hadn't turned state's evidence." "we hed the fac's agin him,--dead agin him," chimed in jim dow. "that just shows how much danger an innocent boy was in; it seems to me that somebody ought to have been more careful," the old man protested. "that's so!" came in half a dozen voices from the crowd. barney was surprised to see how many friends he had now, when a moment before he had had none. but he ought to have realized that there is a great difference between _being_ a young martyr, and _seeming_ a young thief. "i want to see the little fellow out of this," said the old man with the terrible spectacles. he saw him out of it in a short while. there was an examination before a magistrate, in which barney was discharged on the testimony of jeff carew, who was produced and swore that he had never before seen the boy, that he was not among the gang of burglars who had robbed blenkins's store and dwelling-house, and that he had had no part in helping to conceal the plunder. in opposition to this, the mere finding of a scrap of barney's coat close to the conscripts' hollow seemed now of slight consequence, although it could not be accounted for. when the trial was over, the old man with the green spectacles took barney to his house, gave him something to eat, and saw him start out homeward. as barney plodded along toward the blue mountains his heart was very bitter against nick gregory, who had lied and thrown suspicion upon him and brought him into danger. whenever he thought of it he raised his clenched fist and shook it. he was a little fellow, but he felt that with the strength of this grievance he was more than a match for big nick gregory. he would force him to confess the lies that he had told and his cowardice, and all goliath mountain should know it and despise him for it. "i'll fetch an' kerry that word to an' fro fur a thousand mile!" barney declared between his set teeth. now and then a wagoner overtook him and gave him a ride, thus greatly helping him on his way. as he went, there was a gradual change in the blue and misty range that seemed to encircle the west, and which he knew, by one deep indentation in the horizontal line of its summit, was goliath mountain. it became first an intenser blue. as he drew nearer still, it turned a bronzed green. it had purpled with the sunset before he could distinguish the crimson and gold of its foliage and its beetling crags. night had fallen when he reached the base of the mountain. there was no moon; heavy clouds were rolling up from the horizon, and they hid the stars. nick gregory, lying on the ledge of the "old man's chimney," thirty feet above the black earth, could not see his hand before his face. the darkness was dreadful to him. it had closed upon a dreadful day. the seconds were measured by the throbs and dartings of pain in his arm. he was almost exhausted by hunger and thirst. he thought, however, that he could have borne it all cheerfully, but for the sharp remorse that tortured him for the wrong he had done to his friend, and his wild anxiety about barney's fate. nick felt that he, himself, was on trial here, imprisoned on this tower of stone, cut off from the world, from everything but his sternly accusing conscience and his guilty heart. for hours he had heard nothing but the monotonous rushing of the water close at hand, or now and then the shrill, quavering cry of a distant screech-owl, or the almost noiseless flapping of a bat's wings as they swept by him. he had hardly a hope of deliverance, when suddenly there came a new sound, vague and indistinguishable. he lifted himself upon his left elbow and listened again. he could hear nothing for a moment except his own panting breath and the loud beating of his heart. but there--the sound came once more. what was it? a dropping leaf? the falling of a fragment of stone from the "chimney"? a distant step? it grew more distinct as it drew nearer; presently he recognized it,--the regular footfall of some man or boy plodding along the path. that path!--a recollection flashed through his mind. no one knew that short cut up the mountain but him and barney; they had worn the path with their trampings back and forth from the "old man's chimney." he thought he must be dreaming, or that he had lost his reason; still he shouted out, "hold on, thar! air it ye, barney?" the step paused. then a reply came in a voice that he hardly recognized as barney's; it was so fierce, and so full of half-repressed anger. "yes, it air barney,--ef _ye_ hev any call ter know." "how did ye git away, barney?--how did ye git away?" exclaimed nick, with a joyous sense of relief. "a _thief's_ word cl'ared me!" this bitter cry came up to nick, sharp and distinct, through the dark stillness. he said nothing at the moment, and presently he heard barney speak again, as he stood invisible, and enveloped in the gloom of the night, at the foot of the mighty column. "'twar my bes' frien' ez sunk me deep in trouble. but the _thief_, he fished me up. he 'lowed ter the jestice ez i never holped him ter steal nothin' nor ter hide it arterward, nuther." nick said not a word. the hot tears came into his eyes. barney, he thought, could feel no more bitterly toward him than he felt toward himself. "how kem my coat ter be tored down thar on the ledge, close ter the conscripts' hollow, whar i hain't been sence the cloth war wove?" there was a long pause. "i wore it thar, barney, 'stid o' mine," nick replied at last. "i never knowed, at fust, ez i hed tored it. i was so skeered when i seen the stole truck, i never knowed nothin'." "an' then ye spoke a lie! an' arterward, ye let the folks think ez 'twar me ez hed tored that coat close by the conscripts' hollow!" "i was skeered haffen ter death, barney!" nick was very contemptible in his falsehood and cowardice,--even in his repentance and shame and sorrow. at least, so the boy thought who stood in the darkness at the foot of the great column. suddenly it occurred to barney that this was a strange place for nick to be at this hour of the night. his indignation gave way for a moment to some natural curiosity. "what air ye a-doin' of up thar on the old man's chimney?" he asked. "i kem up hyar this mornin' early, ter watch the wagon a-takin' ye off. then i fell and bruk my arm, an' i can't git down 'thout bein' holped a little." there was another silence, so intense that it seemed to nick as if he were all alone again in the immensity of the mountains, and the black night, and the endless forests. he had expected an immediate proffer of assistance from barney. he had thought that his injured friend would relent in his severity when he knew that he had suffered too; that he was in great pain even at this moment. but not a word came from barney. "i hed laid off ter ax ye ter holp me a little," nick faltered meekly, making his appeal direct. there was no answer. it was so still that the boy, high up on the sandstone pillar, could hear the wind rising among the far spurs west of goliath. the foliage near at hand was ominously quiet in the sultry air. once there was a flash of lightning from the black clouds, followed by a low muttering of thunder. then all was still again,--so still! nick raised himself upon his left arm, and leaned cautiously over the verge of the ledge, peering, with starting eyes, into the darkness, and hoping for another flash of lightning that he might see below for an instant. a terrible suspicion had come to him. could barney have slipped quietly away, leaving him to his fate? he could see nothing in the impenetrable gloom; he could hear nothing in the dark stillness. barney had not yet gone, but he was saying to himself, as he stood at the foot of the great obelisk, that here was his revenge, far more complete than he had dared even to hope. he could measure out his false friend's punishment in any degree he thought fit. he could leave him there with his broken arm and his pangs of hunger for another day. he deserved it,--he deserved it richly. the recollection was still very bitter to barney of the hardships he had endured at the hands of this boy, who asked him now for help. why did he not refuse it? why should he not take the revenge he had promised himself? and then he knew there was danger in now trying to climb the jagged edges of the old man's chimney. his nerves were shaken by the excitements of the day; he was fagged out by his long tramp; the wind was beginning to surge among the trees; it might blow him from his uncertain foothold. but when it gained more strength, might it not drive nick, helpless with his broken arm, from that high ledge? as this thought crossed his mind, he tore off his hat, coat, and shoes, and desperately began the ascent. he thought he knew every projection and crevice and bush so well that he might have found his way blindfolded, and guided by the sense of touch alone. but he did not lack for light. before he was six feet up from the ground, the clouds were rent by a vivid flash, and an instantaneous peal of thunder woke all the echoes. this was the breaking of the storm; afterward, there was a continuous pale flickering over all the sky, and at close intervals, dazzling gleams of lightning darted through the rain, which was now falling heavily. "i'm a-comin', nick!" shouted barney, through the din of the elements. somehow, as he climbed, he felt light-hearted again. it seemed to him that he had left a great weight at the foot of the gigantic sandstone column. could it be that bitter revenge he had promised himself? he had thought only of nick's safety, but he seemed to have done himself a kindness in forgiving his friend,--the burden of revenge is so heavy! his troubles were already growing faint in his memory,--it was so good to feel the rain splashing in his face, and his rude playfellow, the mountain wind, rioting around him once more. he was laughing when at last he pulled himself up, wet through and through, on the ledge beside nick. "it's airish up hyar, ain't it?" he cried. "barney," said nick miserably, "i dunno how i kin ever look at ye agin, squar' in the face, while i lives." "shet that up!" barney returned good-humoredly. "i don't want ter ever hear 'bout'n it no more. i'll always know, arter this, that i can't place no dependence in ye; but, law, ye air jes' like that old gun o' mine; sometimes it'll hang fire, an' sometimes it'll go off at half-cock, an' ginerally it disapp'ints me mightily. but, somehows, i can't determinate to shoot with no other one. i'll hev ter feel by ye jes' like i does by that thar old gun." the descent was slow and difficult, and very painful to nick, and fraught with considerable danger to both boys. they accomplished it in safety, however, and then, with barney's aid, nick managed to drag himself through the woods to the nearest log cabin, where his arm was set by zealous and sympathetic amateurs in a rude fashion that probably would have shocked the faculty. they had some supper here, and an invitation to remain all night; but barney was wild to be at home, and nick, in his adversity, clung to his friend. the rain had ceased, and they had only half a mile further to go. barney's heart was exultant when he saw the light in the window of his home, and the sparks flying up from the chimney. he had some curiosity to know how the family circle looked without him. "ye wait hyar, nick, a minute, an' i'll take a peek at 'em afore i bounce in 'mongst 'em," he said. "i'm all eat up ter know what melissy air a-doin' 'thout me." but the sight smote the tears from his eyes when he stole around to the window and glanced in at the little group, plainly shown in the flare from the open fire. granny looked ten years older since morning. the three small boys, instead of popping corn or roasting apples and sweet potatoes, as was their habit in the evenings, sat in a dismal row, their chins on their freckled, sunburned hands, and their elbows on their knees, and gazed ruefully at the fire. and melissy,--why, there was melissy, a little blue-and-white ball curled up on the floor. asleep? no. barney caught the gleam of her wide-open blue eyes; but he missed something from them,--the happy expression that used to dwell there. he went at the door with a rush. and what an uproar there was when he suddenly sprang in among them! melissy laughed until she cried. granny whirled and whirled her stick, and nodded convulsively, and gasped out eager questions about the trial and the "jedge." the little boys jumped for joy until they seemed strung on wire. soon they were popping corn and roasting apples once more. the flames roared up the chimney, and the shadows danced on the wall, and as the hours wore on, they were all so happy that when midnight came, it caught them still grouped around the fire. a warning it was night on elm ridge. so black, so black that the great crags and chasms were hidden, the forest was lost in the encompassing gloom, the valley and the distant ranges were gone,--all the world had disappeared. there was no wind, and the dark clouds above the dark earth hung low and motionless. solomon grow found it something of an undertaking to grope his way back from the little hut of unhewn logs, where he had stabled his father's horse, to the door of the cabin and the home-circle within. he fumbled for the latchstring, and pulling it carelessly, the door flew open suddenly, and he almost fell into the room. "why d' ye come a-bustin' in hyar that thar way, sol?" his mother demanded rather tartly. "ef ye hed been raised 'mongst the foxes, ye couldn't show less manners." "door slipped out'n my hand," said sol, a trifle sullenly. "waal--air ye disabled anywhar so ez ye can't shet it, eh?" asked his father, with a touch of sarcasm. sol shut the door, drew up an inverted tub, seated himself upon it, and looked about, loweringly. he thought he had been needlessly affronted. still, he held his peace. within, there was a great contrast to the black night outside. the ash and hickory logs in the deep fireplace threw blue and yellow flames high up the wide stone chimney. the flickering light was like some genial, cheery smile forever coming and going. it illumined the circle about the hearth. there sat sol's mother, idle to-night, for it was sunday. his grandmother, too, was there, so old that she seemed to confirm the story told of these healthy mountains, to the effect that people are obliged to go down in the valley to die, else they would live forever. there was sol's father, a great burly fellow, six feet three inches in height, still holding out his hands to the blaze, chilled through and through by his long ride from the church where he had been to hear the circuit-rider preach on "forgiveness of injuries." he was beginning now to quarrel vehemently with his brother-in-law, jacob smith, about the shabby treatment he had recently experienced in the non-payment of work,--for work in this country is a sort of circulating medium; a man will plough a day for another man, on condition that the favor is rigorously reciprocated. jacob smith had been to the still, and apparently had imbibed the spirit there prevailing, to more effect than sol's father had absorbed the spirit that had been taught in church. in plain words, jacob smith was very drunk, and very quarrelsome, and very unreasonable. the genial firelight that played upon his bloated face played also over objects much pleasanter to look upon,--over the strings of red pepper-pods hanging from the rafters; over the bright variegations of color in the clean patchwork quilt on the bed; over the shining pans and pails set aside on the shelf; over the great, curious frame of the warping-bars, rising up among the shadows on the other side of the room, the equidistant pegs still holding the sized yarn that solomon's mother had been warping, preparatory to weaving. on the other side of the room, too, was a little tow-headed child sitting in a cradle, which, small as he was, he had long ago outgrown as a bed. it was only a pine box placed upon rude rockers, and he used it for a rocking-chair. his bare, fat legs hung out on one side of the box, and as he delightedly rocked back and forth, his grotesque little shadow waved to and fro on the wall, and mocked and flouted him. what he thought of it, nobody can ever know; his grave eyes were fixed upon it, but he said nothing, and the silent shadow and substance swayed joyously hither and thither together. the quarrel between the two men was becoming hot and bitter. one might have expected nothing better from jacob smith, for when a man is drunk, the human element drops like a husk, and only the unreasoning brute is left. but had john grow forgotten all the good words he had heard to-day from the circuit-rider? had they melted into thin air during his long ride from the church? were the houseless good words wandering with the rising wind through the unpeopled forest, seeking vainly a human heart where they might find a lodgment? the men had risen from their chairs; the drunkard, tremulous with anger, had drawn a sharp knife. john grow was not so patient as he might have been, considering the great advantage he had in being sober, and the good words with which he had started out from the "meet'n'-house." he laid his heavy hand angrily upon the drunken man's shoulder. in another moment there would have been bloodshed. but suddenly the dark shadows at the other end of the room swayed with a strange motion; a great creaking sound arose, and the warping-bars tottered forward and fell upon the floor with a crash. the wranglers turned with anxious faces. no one was near the bars, it seemed that naught could have jarred them; but there lay the heavy frame upon the floor, the pegs broken, and the yarn twisted. "a warning!" cried sol's mother. "a warning how you-uns spen' the evenin' o' the lord's day in yer quar'lin', an' fightin', an' sech. an' ye, john grow, jes' from the meet'n'-house!" she did not reproach her brother,--nobody hopes anything from a drunkard. "a sign o' bad luck," said the grandmother. "it 'minds me o' the time las' winter that the wind blowed the door in, an' straight arter that the cow died." "them signs air ez likely ter take hold on folks ez on cattle," said jacob smith, half-sobered by the shock. there was a look of sudden anxiety on the face of solomon's mother. she crossed the room to the youngster rocking in the cradle. "come, benny," she said, "ye oughter go ter bed. ye air wastin' yer strength sittin' up this late in the night. an' ye war a-coughin' las' week. ye must go ter bed." benny clung to his unique rocking-chair with a sturdy strength which promised well for his muscle when he should be as old as his great, strong brother solomon. he had been as quiet, hitherto, as if he were dumb, but now he lifted up his voice in a loud and poignant wail, and after he was put to bed, he resurrected himself from among the bedclothes, ever and anon, with a bitter, though infantile, jargon of protest. "i'm fairly afeard o' them bars," said mrs. grow, looking down upon the prostrate timbers. "it's comical that they fell down that-a-way. i hopes 'tain't no sign o' bad luck. i wouldn't hev nothin' ter happen fur nothin'. an' benny war a-coughin' las' week." she had not even the courage to put her fear into words. and she tenderly admonished tow-headed benny, who was once more getting out of bed, to go to sleep and save his strength, and remember how he was coughing last week. "he hed a chicken-bone acrost his throat," said his father. "no wonder he coughed." solomon rose and went out into the black night,--so black that he could not distinguish the sky from the earth, or the unobstructed air from the dense forest around. he walked about blindly, dragging something heavily after him. the weight of concealment it was. he knew something that nobody knew besides. at the critical moment of the altercation, he had stepped softly among the shadows to the warping-bars,--a strong push had sent the great frame crashing down. he was back in an instant among the others, and by reason of the excitement his agency in the sensation was not detected. like his biblical namesake, solomon was no fool. had he been reared in a cultivated community, with the advantages of education, he might have been one of the bright young fellows who manage other young fellows, who control debating societies, who are prominent in mysterious associations, the secret of which is at once guarded and represented by a cerberus of three greek letters. but, wise as he was, solomon was not a prophet. he had intended only to effect a diversion, and stop the quarrel. he had had no prevision of the panic of superstition that he had raised in the minds of these simple people; for the ignorant mountaineer is a devout believer in signs and warnings. as solomon wandered about outside, he heard his father stumbling from the door of the house to the barn to see if aught of evil had come to the cow or the horse. he knew how his grandmother's heart was wrung with fear for her heifer, and he could hardly endure to think of his mother's anxieties about benny. no prophetic eye was needed to foresee the terrors that would beset her in the days to come, when she would walk back and forth before the bars, warping the yarn to be woven into cloth for his and benny's clothes; how she would regard the harmless frame as an uncanny thing, endowed with supernatural powers, and look askance at it, and shrink from touching it; how she would watch for the sign to come true, and tremble lest it come. he turned about, dragging and tugging this weight of concealment after him, reëntered the house, and sat down beside the fire. his uncle jacob smith had gone to his own home. the others were telling stories, calculated to make one's hair stand on end, about signs and warnings, and their horrible fulfillment. "granny," said solomon suddenly. "waal, sonny?" said his grandmother. when the eyes of the family group were fixed upon him, solomon's courage failed. "nothin'," he said hastily. "nothin' at all." "why, what ails the boy?" exclaimed his mother. "i tell ye now, solomon," said his grandmother, with an emphatic nod, "ye hed better respec' yer elders,--an' a sign in the house!" solomon slept little that night. toward day he began to dream of the warping-bars. they seemed to develop suddenly into an immense animated monster, from which he only escaped by waking with a sudden start. then he found that a great white morning, full of snow, was breaking upon the black night. and what a world it was now! the mountain was graced with a soft white drapery; on every open space there were vague suggestions of delicate colors: in this hollow lay a tender purple shadow; on that steep slope was an elusive roseate flush, and when you looked again, it was gone, and the glare was blinding. the bare black branches of the trees formed strangely interlaced hieroglyphics upon the turquoise sky. the crags were dark and grim, despite their snowy crests and the gigantic glittering icicles that here and there depended from them. a cascade, close by in the gorge, had been stricken motionless and dumb, as if by a sudden spell; and still and silent, it sparkled in the sun. the snow lay deep on the roof of the log cabin, and the eaves were decorated with shining icicles. the enchantment had followed the zigzag lines of the fence, and on every rail was its embellishing touch. all the homely surroundings were transfigured. the potato-house was a vast white billow, the ash-hopper was a marble vase, and the fodder-stack was a great conical ermine cap, belonging to some mountain giant who had lost it in the wind last night. "i mought hev knowed that we-uns war a-goin' ter hev this spell o' weather by the sign o' the warpin'-bars fallin' las' night," said john grow, stamping off the snow as he came in from feeding his horse. "i hope 'tain't no worse sign," said his wife. "but i misdoubts." and she sighed heavily. "'tain't no sign at all," said solomon suddenly. he could keep his secret no longer. "'twar me ez flung down them warpin'-bars." for a moment they all stared at him in silent amazement. "what fur?" demanded his father at last. "just ter enjye sottin' 'em up agin? i'll teach ye ter fling down warpin'-bars!" "waal," said the peacemaker, hesitating, "it 'peared ter me ez uncle jacob smith war toler'ble drunk,--take him all tergether,--an' ez he hed drawed a knife, i thought that ye an' him hed 'bout quar'led enough. an' so i flung down the warpin'-bars ter git the fuss shet up." "waal, sir!" exclaimed his grandmother, red with wrath. "ez ef _my_ son couldn't stand up agin all the smiths that ever stepped! ye must fling down the warpin'-bars an' twist the spun-truck--fur jacob smith!" "look-a-hyar, sol," said his father gruffly, "'tend ter yerself, an' yer own quar'ls, arter this, will ye!" then, with a sudden humorous interpretation of the incident, he broke into a guffaw. "i hev lived a consider'ble time in this tantalizin' world, an' ez yit i dunno ez i hev hed any need o' sol ter pertect _me_." but sol had unburdened his mind, and felt at ease again; not the less because he knew that but for his novel method of making peace, there might have been something worse than a sign in the house. among the cliffs it was a critical moment. there was a stir other than that of the wind among the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground. the wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of half-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still for an instant. the world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the mountain air tasted of the fresh sylvan fragrance that pervaded the forest, the foliage blazed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant chilhowee heights were delicately blue. that instant's doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. as the turkeys stood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers to a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. the flock took suddenly to wing,--a flash from among the leaves, the sharp crack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and down toward the valley. the young mountaineer's exclamation of triumph died in his throat. he came running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the depths where his game had disappeared. "waal, sir," he broke forth pathetically, "this beats my time! if my luck ain't enough ter make a horse laugh!" he did not laugh, however. perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only equine risibility. the cliff was almost perpendicular; at the depth of twenty feet a narrow ledge projected, but thence there was a sheer descent, down, down, down, to the tops of the tall trees in the valley far below. as ethan tynes looked wistfully over the precipice, he started with a sudden surprise. there on the narrow ledge lay the dead turkey. the sight sharpened ethan's regrets. he had made a good shot, and he hated to relinquish his game. while he gazed in dismayed meditation, an idea began to kindle in his brain. why could he not let himself down to the ledge by those long, strong vines that hung over the edge of the cliff? it was risky, ethan knew,--terribly risky. but then,--if only the vines were strong! he tried them again and again with all his might, selected several of the largest, grasped them hard and fast, and then slipped lightly off the crag. he waited motionless for a moment. his movements had dislodged clods of earth and fragments of rock from the verge of the cliff, and until these had ceased to rattle about his head and shoulders he did not begin his downward journey. now and then as he went he heard the snapping of twigs, and again a branch would break, but the vines which supported him were tough and strong to the last. almost before he knew it he stood upon the ledge, and with a great sigh of relief he let the vines swing loose. "waal, that warn't sech a mighty job at last. but law, ef it hed been peter birt stid of me, that thar wild tur-r-key would hev laid on this hyar ledge plumb till the jedgmint day!" he walked deftly along the ledge, picked up the bird, and tied it to one of the vines with a string which he took from his pocket, intending to draw it up when he should be once more on the top of the crag. these preparations complete, he began to think of going back. he caught the vines on which he had made the descent, but before he had fairly left the ledge, he felt that they were giving way. he paused, let himself slip back to a secure foothold, and tried their strength by pulling with all his force. presently down came the whole mass in his hands. the friction against the sharp edges of the rock over which they had been stretched with a strong tension had worn them through. his first emotion was one of intense thankfulness that they had fallen while he was on the ledge instead of midway in his precarious ascent. "ef they hed kem down whilst i war a-goin' up, i'd hev been flung plumb down ter the bottom o' the valley, 'kase this ledge air too narrer ter hev cotched me." he glanced down at the sombre depths beneath. "thar wouldn't hev been enough left of me ter pick up on a shovel!" he exclaimed, with a tardy realization of his foolish recklessness. the next moment a mortal terror seized him. what was to be his fate? to regain the top of the cliff by his own exertions was an impossibility. he cast his despairing eyes up the ascent, as sheer and as smooth as a wall, without a crevice which might afford a foothold, or a shrub to which he might cling. his strong head was whirling as he again glanced downward to the unmeasured abyss beneath. he softly let himself sink into a sitting posture, his heels dangling over the frightful depths, and addressed himself resolutely to the consideration of the terrible danger in which he was placed. [illustration: how long was it to last] taken at its best, how long was it to last? could he look to any human being for deliverance? he reflected with growing dismay that the place was far from any dwelling, and from the road that wound along the ridge. there was no errand that could bring a man to this most unfrequented portion of the deep woods, unless an accident should hither direct some hunter's step. it was quite possible, nay, probable, that years might elapse before the forest solitude would again be broken by human presence. his brothers would search for him when he should be missed from home,--but such boundless stretches of forest! they might search for weeks and never come near this spot. he would die here, he would starve,--no, he would grow drowsy when exhausted and fall--fall--fall! he was beginning to feel that morbid fascination that sometimes seizes upon those who stand on great heights,--an overwhelming impulse to plunge downward. his only salvation was to look up. he would look up to the sky. and what were these words he was beginning to faintly remember? had not the circuit-rider said in his last sermon that not even a sparrow falls to the ground unmarked of god? there was a definite strength in this suggestion. he felt less lonely as he stared resolutely at the big blue sky. there came into his heart a sense of encouragement, of hope. he would keep up as long and as bravely as he could, and if the worst should come,--was he indeed so solitary? he would hold in remembrance the sparrow's fall. he had so nerved himself to meet his fate that he thought it was a fancy when he heard a distant step. but it did not die away, it grew more and more distinct,--a shambling step, that curiously stopped at intervals and kicked the fallen leaves. he sought to call out, but he seemed to have lost his voice. not a sound issued from his thickened tongue and his dry throat. the step came nearer. it would presently pass. with a mighty effort ethan sent forth a wild, hoarse cry. the rocks reverberated it, the wind carried it far, and certainly there was an echo of its despair and terror in a shrill scream set up on the verge of the crag. then ethan heard the shambling step scampering off very fast indeed. the truth flashed upon him. it was some child, passing on an unimaginable errand through the deep woods, frightened by his sudden cry. "stop, bubby!" he shouted; "stop a minute! it's ethan tynes that's callin' of ye. stop a minute, bubby!" the step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy demanded, "whar is ye, ethan tynes?" "i'm down hyar on the ledge o' the bluff. who air ye ennyhow?" "george birt," promptly replied the little boy. "what air ye doin' down thar? i thought it war satan a-callin' of me. i never seen nobody." "i kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key i shot. the vines bruk, an' i hev got no way ter git up agin. i want ye ter go ter yer mother's house, an' tell yer brother pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb up by." ethan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a celerity proportionate to the importance of the errand. on the contrary, the step was approaching the crag. a moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the broken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of sharp, eager blue eyes. george birt had carefully laid himself down on his stomach, only protruding his head beyond the verge of the crag, that he might not fling away his life in his curiosity. "did ye git it?" he asked, with bated breath. "git what?" demanded poor ethan, surprised and impatient. "the tur-r-key--what ye hev done been talkin' 'bout," said george birt. ethan had lost all interest in the turkey. "yes, yes; but run along, bub. i mought fall off'n this hyar place,--i'm gittin' stiff sittin' still so long,--or the wind mought blow me off. the wind is blowin' toler'ble brief." "gobbler or hen?" asked george birt eagerly. "it air a hen," said ethan. "but look-a-hyar, george, i'm a-waitin' on ye, an' ef i'd fall off'n this hyar place, i'd be ez dead ez a door-nail in a minute." "waal, i'm goin' now," said george birt, with gratifying alacrity. he raised himself from his recumbent position, and ethan heard him shambling off, kicking every now and then at the fallen leaves as he went. presently, however, he turned and walked back nearly to the brink of the cliff. then he prostrated himself once more at full length,--for the mountain children are very careful of the precipices,--snaked along dexterously to the verge of the crag, and protruding his red head cautiously, began to parley once more, trading on ethan's necessities. "ef i go on this yerrand fur ye," he said, looking very sharp indeed, "will ye gimme one o' the whings of that thar wild tur-r-key?" he coveted the wing-feathers, not the joint of the fowl. the "whing" of the domestic turkey is used by the mountain women as a fan, and is considered an elegance as well as a comfort. george birt aped the customs of his elders, regardless of sex,--a characteristic of very small boys. "oh, go 'long, bubby!" exclaimed poor ethan, in dismay at the dilatoriness and indifference of his unique deliverer. "i'll give ye both o' the whings." he would have offered the turkey willingly, if "bubby" had seemed to crave it. "waal, i'm goin' now." george birt rose from the ground and started off briskly, exhilarated by the promise of both the "whings." ethan was angry indeed when he heard the boy once more shambling back. of course one should regard a deliverer with gratitude, especially a deliverer from mortal peril; but it may be doubted if ethan's gratitude would have been great enough to insure that small red head against a vigorous rap, if it had been within rapping distance, when it was once more cautiously protruded over the verge of the cliff. "i kem back hyar ter tell ye," the doughty deliverer began, with an air of great importance, and magnifying his office with an extreme relish, "that i can't go an' tell pete 'bout'n the rope till i hev done kem back from the mill. i hev got old sorrel hitched out hyar a piece, with a bag o' corn on his back, what i hev ter git ground at the mill. my mother air a-settin' at home now a-waitin' fur that thar corn-meal ter bake dodgers with. an' i hev got a dime ter pay at the mill; it war lent ter my dad las' week. an' i'm afeard ter walk about much with this hyar dime; i mought lose it, ye know. an' i can't go home 'thout the meal; i'll ketch it ef i do. but i'll tell pete arter i git back from the mill." "the mill!" echoed ethan, aghast. "what air ye doin' on this side o' the mounting, ef ye air a-goin' ter the mill? this ain't the way ter the mill." "i kem over hyar," said the little boy, still with much importance of manner, notwithstanding a slight suggestion of embarrassment on his freckled face, "ter see 'bout'n a trap that i hev sot fur squir'ls. i'll see 'bout my trap, an' then i hev ter go ter the mill, 'kase my mother air a-settin' in our house now a-waitin' fur meal ter bake corn-dodgers. then i'll tell pete whar ye air, an' what ye said 'bout'n the rope. ye must jes' wait fur me hyar." poor ethan could do nothing else. as the echo of the boy's shambling step died in the distance, a redoubled sense of loneliness fell upon ethan tynes. but he endeavored to solace himself with the reflection that the important mission to the squirrel-trap and the errand to the mill could not last forever, and before a great while peter birt and his rope would be upon the crag. this idea buoyed him up as the hours crept slowly by. now and then he lifted his head and listened with painful intentness. he felt stiff in every muscle, and yet he had a dread of making an effort to change his constrained position. he might lose control of his rigid limbs, and fall into those dread depths beneath. his patience at last began to give way. his heart was sinking. his messenger had been even more dilatory than he was prepared to expect. why did not pete come? was it possible that george had forgotten to tell of his danger? the sun was going down, leaving a great glory of gold and crimson clouds and an opaline haze upon the purple mountains. the last rays fell on the bronze feathers of the turkey still lying tied to the broken vines on the ledge. and now there were only frowning masses of dark clouds in the west; and there were frowning masses of clouds overhead. the shadow of the coming night had fallen on the autumnal foliage in the deep valley; in the place of the opaline haze was only a gray mist. and now came, sweeping along between the parallel mountain ranges, a sombre rain-cloud. the lad could hear the heavy drops splashing on the treetops in the valley, long, long before he felt them on his head. the roll of thunder sounded among the crags. then the rain came down tumultuously, not in columns, but in livid sheets. the lightnings rent the sky, showing, as it seemed to him, glimpses of the glorious brightness within,--too bright for human eyes. he clung desperately to his precarious perch. now and then a fierce rush of wind almost tore him from it. strange fancies beset him. the air was full of that wild symphony of nature, the wind and the rain, the pealing thunder, and the thunderous echo among the cliffs, and yet he thought he could hear his own name ringing again and again through all the tumult, sometimes in pete's voice, sometimes in george's shrill tones. he became vaguely aware, after a time, that the rain had ceased, and the moon was beginning to shine through rifts in the clouds. the wind continued unabated, but, curiously enough, he could not hear it now. he could hear nothing; he could think of nothing. his consciousness was beginning to fail. george birt had indeed forgotten him,--forgotten even the promised "whings." not that he had discovered anything so extraordinary in his trap, for his trap was empty, but when he reached the mill, he found that the miller had killed a bear and captured a cub, and the orphan, chained to a post, had deeply absorbed george birt's attention. to sophisticated people, the boy might have seemed as grotesque as the cub. george wore an unbleached cotton shirt. the waistband of his baggy jeans trousers encircled his body just beneath his armpits, reaching to his shoulder-blades behind, and nearly to his collar-bone in front. his red head was only partly covered by a fragment of an old white wool hat; and he looked at the cub with a curiosity as intense as that with which the cub looked at him. each was taking first lessons in natural history. as long as there was daylight enough left to see that cub, did george birt stand and stare at the little beast. then he clattered home on old sorrel in the closing darkness, looking like a very small pin on the top of a large pincushion. at home, he found the elders unreasonable,--as elders usually are considered. supper had been waiting an hour or so for the lack of meal for dodgers. he "caught it" considerably, but not sufficiently to impair his appetite for the dodgers. after all this, he was ready enough for bed when small boy's bedtime came. but as he was nodding before the fire, he heard a word that roused him to a new excitement. "these hyar chips air so wet they won't burn," said his mother. "i'll take my tur-r-key whing an' fan the fire." "law!" he exclaimed. "thar, now! ethan tynes never gimme that thar wild tur-r-key's whings like he promised." "whar did ye happen ter see ethan?" asked pete, interested in his friend. "seen him in the woods, an' he promised me the tur-r-key whings." "what fur?" inquired pete, a little surprised by this uncalled-for generosity. "waal,"--there was an expression of embarrassment on the important freckled face, and the small red head nodded forward in an explanatory manner,--"he fell off'n the bluffs arter the tur-r-key whings--i mean, he went down to the ledge arter the tur-r-key, and the vines bruk an' he couldn't git up no more. an' he tole me that ef i'd tell ye ter fotch him a rope ter pull up by, he would gimme the whings. that happened a--leetle--while--arter dinner-time." "who got him a rope ter pull up by?" demanded pete. there was again on the important face that indescribable shade of embarrassment. "waal,"--the youngster balanced this word judicially,--"i forgot 'bout'n the tur-r-key whings till this minute. i reckon he's thar yit." "mebbe this hyar wind an' rain hev beat him off'n the ledge!" exclaimed pete, appalled, and rising hastily. "i tell ye now," he added, turning to his mother, "the best use ye kin make o' that thar boy is ter put him on the fire fur a back-log." pete made his preparations in great haste. he took the rope from the well, asked the crestfallen and browbeaten junior a question or two relative to locality, mounted old sorrel without a saddle, and in a few minutes was galloping at headlong speed through the night. the rain was over by the time he had reached the sulphur spring to which george had directed him, but the wind was still high, and the broken clouds were driving fast across the face of the moon. when he had hitched his horse to a tree, and set out on foot to find the cliff, the moonbeams, though brilliant, were so intermittent that his progress was fitful and necessarily cautious. when the disk shone out full and clear, he made his way rapidly enough, but when the clouds intervened, he stood still and waited. "i ain't goin' ter fall off'n the bluff 'thout knowin' it," he said to himself, in one of these eclipses, "ef i hev ter stand hyar all night." the moonlight was brilliant and steady when he reached the verge of the crag. he identified the spot by the mass of broken vines, and more indubitably by ethan's rifle lying upon the ground just at his feet. he called, but received no response. "hev ethan fell off, sure enough?" he asked himself, in great dismay and alarm. then he shouted again and again. at last there came an answer, as though the speaker had just awaked. "pretty nigh beat out, i'm a-thinkin'!" commented pete. he tied one end of the cord around the trunk of a tree, knotted it at intervals, and flung it over the bluff. at first ethan was almost afraid to stir. he slowly put forth his hand and grasped the rope. then, his heart beating tumultuously, he rose to his feet. he stood still for an instant to steady himself and get his breath. nerving himself for a strong effort, he began the ascent, hand over hand, up, and up, and up, till once more he stood upon the crest of the crag. and, now that all danger was over, pete was disposed to scold. "i'm a-thinkin'," said pete severely, "ez thar ain't a critter on this hyar mounting, from a b'ar ter a copper-head, that could hev got in sech a fix, 'ceptin' ye, ethan tynes." and ethan was silent. "what's this hyar thing at the e-end o' the rope?" asked pete, as he began to draw the cord up, and felt a weight still suspended. "it air the tur-r-key," said ethan meekly. "i tied her ter the e-end o' the rope afore i kem up." "waal, sir!" exclaimed pete, in indignant surprise. and george, for duty performed, was remunerated with the two "whings," although it still remains a question in the mind of ethan whether or not he deserved them. in the "chinking" not far from an abrupt precipice on a certain great mountain spur there stands in the midst of the red and yellow autumn woods a little log "church-house." the nuts rattle noisily down on its roof; sometimes during "evenin' preachin'"--which takes place in the afternoon--a flying-squirrel frisks near the window; the hymns echo softly, softly, from the hazy sunlit heights across the valley. "that air the doxol'gy," said tom brent, one day, pausing to listen among the wagons and horses hitched outside. he was about to follow home his father's mare, that had broken loose and galloped off through the woods, but as he glanced back at the church, a sudden thought struck him. he caught sight of the end of little jim coggin's comforter flaunting out through the "chinking,"--as the mountaineers call the series of short slats which are set diagonally in the spaces between the logs of the walls, and on which the clay is thickly daubed. this work had been badly done, and in many places the daubing had fallen away. thus it was that as jim coggin sat within the church, the end of his plaid comforter had slipped through the chinking and was waving in the wind outside. now jim had found the weather still too warm for his heavy jeans jacket, but he was too cool without it, and he had ingeniously compromised the difficulty by wearing his comforter in this unique manner,--laying it on his shoulders, crossing it over the chest, passing it under the arms, and tying it in a knot between the shoulder-blades. tom remembered this with a grin as he slyly crept up to the house, and it was only the work of a moment to draw that knot through the chinking and secure it firmly to a sumach bush that grew near at hand. it never occurred to him that the resounding doxology could fail to rouse that small, tow-headed, freckle-faced boy, or that the congregation might slowly disperse without noticing him as he sat motionless and asleep in the dark shadow. the sun slipped down into the red west; the blue mountains turned purple; heavy clouds gathered, and within three miles there was no other human creature when jim suddenly woke to the darkness and the storm and the terrible loneliness. where was he? he tried to rise: he could not move. bewildered, he struggled and tugged at his harness,--all in vain. as he realized the situation, he burst into tears. "them home-folks o' mine won't kem hyar ter s'arch fur me," he cried desperately, "kase i tole my mother ez how i war a-goin' ter dust down the mounting ter aunt jerushy's house ez soon ez meet'n' war out an' stay all night along o' her boys." still he tried to comfort himself by reflecting that it was not so bad as it might have been. there was no danger that he would have to starve and pine here till next sunday, for a "protracted meeting" was in progress, service was held every day, and the congregation would return to-morrow, which was thursday. his philosophy, however, was short-lived, for the sudden lightning rent the clouds, and a terrific peal of thunder echoed among the cliffs. "the storm air a-comin' up the mounting!" he exclaimed, in vivacious protest. "an' ef this brief wind war ter whurl the old church-house off'n the bluff an' down inter the valley whar-r--would--i--be?" all at once the porch creaked beneath a heavy tread. a clumsy hand was fumbling at the door. "strike a light," said a gruff voice without. as a lantern was thrust in, jim was about to speak, but the words froze upon his lips for fear when a man strode heavily over the threshold and he caught the expression of his face. it was an evil face, red and bloated and brutish. he had small, malicious, twinkling eyes, and a shock of sandy hair. a suit of copper-colored jeans hung loosely on his tall, lank frame, and when he placed the lantern on a bench and stretched out both arms as if he were tired, he showed that his left hand was maimed,--the thumb had been cut off at the first joint. a thickset, short, swaggering man tramped in after him. "waal, amos brierwood," he said, "it's safes' fur us ter part. we oughter be fur enough from hyar by daybreak. divide that thar traveler's money--hey?" they carefully closed the rude shutters, barred the door, and sat down on the "mourners' bench," neither having noticed the small boy at the other end of the room. poor jim, his arms akimbo and half-covered by his comforter, stuck to the wall like a plaid bat,--if such a natural curiosity is imaginable,--feverishly hoping that the men might go without seeing him at all. for surely no human creature could be more abhorrent, more incredibly odious of aspect, than amos brierwood as he sat there, his red, brutish face redder still with a malign pleasure, his malicious eyes gloating over the rolls of money which he drew from a pocket-book stolen from some waylaid traveler, snapping his fingers in exultation when the amount of the bills exceeded his expectation. the leaves without were fitfully astir, and once the porch creaked suddenly. brierwood glanced at the door sharply,--even fearfully,--his hand motionless on the rolls of money. "only the wind, amos, only the wind!" said the short, stout man impatiently. but he, himself, was disquieted the next moment when a horse neighed shrilly. "that ain't my beastis, amos, nor yit your'n!" he cried, starting up. "it air the traveler's, ye sodden idjit!" said brierwood, lifting his uncouth foot and giving him a jocose kick. but the short man was not satisfied. he rose, went outside, and jim could hear him beating about among the bushes. presently he came in again. "'twar the traveler's critter, i reckon; an' that critter an' saddle oughter be counted in my sheer." then they fell to disputing and quarreling,--once they almost fought,--but at length the division was made and they rose to go. as brierwood swung his lantern round, his malicious eyes fell upon the poor little plaid bat sticking against the wall. he stood in the door staring, dumfounded for a moment. then he clenched his fist, and shook it fiercely. "how did ye happen ter be hyar this time o' the night, ye limb o' satan?" he cried. "dunno," faltered poor jim. the other man had returned too. "waal, sir, ef that thar boy hed been a copper-head now, he'd hev bit us, sure!" "_he mought do that yit_," said amos brierwood, with grim significance. "he hev been thar all this time,--'kase he air tied thar, don't ye see? an' he hev _eyes_, an' he hev _ears_. what air ter hender?" the other man's face turned pale, and jim thought that they were afraid he would tell all he had seen and heard. the manner of both had changed, too. they had a skulking, nervous way with them now in place of the coarse bravado that had characterized them hitherto. amos brierwood pondered for a few minutes. then he sullenly demanded,-- "what's yer name?" "it air jeemes coggin," quavered the little boy. "coggin, hey?" exclaimed brierwood, with a new idea bringing back the malicious twinkle to his eyes. he laughed as though mightily relieved, and threw up his left hand and shook it exultingly. the shadow on the dark wall of that maimed hand with only the stump of a thumb was a weird, a horrible thing to the child. he had no idea that his constant notice of it would stamp it in his memory, and that something would come of this fact. he was glad when the shadow ceased to writhe and twist upon the wall, and the man dropped his arm to his side again. "what's a-brewin', amos?" asked the other, who had been watching brierwood curiously. they whispered aside for a few moments, at first anxiously and then with wild guffaws of satisfaction. when they approached the boy, their manner had changed once more. "waal, i declar, bubby," said brierwood agreeably, "this hyar fix ez ye hev got inter air sateful fur true! it air enough ter sot enny boy on the mounting cat-a-wampus. 'twar a good thing ez we-uns happened ter kem by hyar on our way from the tan-yard way down yander in the valley whar we-uns hev been ter git paid up fur workin' thar some. we'll let ye out. who done yer this hyar trick?" "dunno--witches, i reckon!" cried poor jim, bursting into tears. "witches!" the man exclaimed, "the woods air a-roamin' with 'em this time o' the year; bein', ye see, ez they kem ter feed on the mast." he chuckled as he said this, perhaps at the boy's evident terror,--for jim was sorrowfully superstitious,--perhaps because he had managed to cut unnoticed a large fragment from the end of the comforter. this he stuffed into his own pocket as he talked on about two witches, whom he said he had met that afternoon under an oak-tree feeding on acorns. "an' now, i kem ter remind myself that them witches war inquirin' round 'bout'n a boy--war his name jeemes coggin? le''s see! that boy's name _war_ jeemes coggin!" while jim stood breathlessly, intently listening, brierwood had twisted something into the folds of his comforter so dexterously that unless this were untied it would not fall; it was a silk handkerchief of a style never before seen in the mountains, and he had made a knot hard and fast in one corner. "thar, now!" he exclaimed, holding up the fragment of knitted yarn, "i hev tore yer comforter. never mind, bubby, 'twar tore afore. but it'll do ter wrop up this money-purse what b'longs ter yer dad. he lef' it hid in the chinking o' the wall over yander close ter whar i war sittin' when i fust kem in. i'll put it back thar, 'kase yer dad don't want nobody ter know whar it air hid." he strode across the room and concealed the empty pocket-book in the chinking. "ef ye won't tell who teched it, i'll gin a good word fur ye ter them witches what war inquirin' round fur ye ter-day." jim promised in hot haste, and then, the rain having ceased, he started for home, but brierwood stopped him at the door. "hold on thar, bub. i kem mighty nigh furgittin' ter let ye know ez i seen yer brother alf awhile back, an' he axed me ter git ye ter go by tom brent's house, an' tell tom ter meet him up the road a piece by that thar big sulphur spring. will ye gin tom that message? tell him alf said ter come quick." once more jim promised. the two men holding the lantern out in the porch watched him as he pounded down the dark road, his tow hair sticking out of his tattered black hat, the ends of his comforter flaunting in the breeze, and every gesture showing the agitated haste of a witch-scared boy. then they looked at each other significantly, and laughed loud and long. "he'll tell sech a crooked tale ter-morrer that alf coggin an' his dad will see sights along o' that traveler's money!" said brierwood, gloating over his sharp management as he and his accomplice mounted their horses and rode off in opposite directions. when jim reached tom brent's house, and knocked at the door, he was so absorbed in his terrors that, as it opened, he said nothing for a moment. he could see the family group within. tom's father was placidly smoking. his palsied "gran'dad" shook in his chair in the chimney-corner as he told the wide-eyed boys big tales about the "injuns" that harried the early settlers in tennessee. "tom," jim said, glancing up at the big boy,--"tom, thar's a witch waitin' fur ye at the sulphur spring! go thar, quick!" "not ef i knows what's good fur me!" protested tom, with a great horse-laugh. "what ails ye, boy? ye talk like ye war teched in the head!" "i went ter say ez alf coggin air thar waitin' fur ye," jim began again, nodding his slandered head with great solemnity, "an' tole me ter tell ye ter kem thar quick." he took no heed of the inaccuracy of the message; he was glancing fearfully over his shoulder, and the next minute scuttled down the road in a bee-line for home. tom hurried off briskly through the woods. "waal, sir! i'm mighty nigh crazed ter know what alf coggin kin want o' me; goin' coon-huntin', mebbe," he speculated, as he drew within sight of an old lightning-scathed tree which stood beside the sulphur spring and stretched up, stark and white, in the dim light. the clouds were blowing away from a densely instarred sky; the moon was hardly more than a crescent and dipping low in the west, but he could see the sombre outline of the opposite mountain, and the white mists that shifted in a ghostly and elusive fashion along the summit. the night was still, save for a late katydid, spared by the frost, and piping shrilly. he experienced a terrible shock of surprise when a sudden voice--a voice he had never heard before--cried out sharply, "hello there! help! help!" as he pressed tremulously forward, he beheld a sight which made him ask himself if it were possible that alf coggin had sent for him to join in some nefarious work which had ended in leaving a man--a stranger--bound to the old lightning-scathed tree. even in the uncertain light tom could see that he was pallid and panting, evidently exhausted in some desperate struggle: there was blood on his face, his clothes were torn, and by all odds he was the angriest man that was ever waylaid and robbed. "ter-morrer he'll be jes' a-swoopin'!" thought tom, tremulously untying the complicated knots, and listening to his threats of vengeance on the unknown robbers, "an' every critter on the mounting will git a clutch from his claws." and in fact, it was hardly daybreak before the constable of the district, who lived hard by in the valley, was informed of all the details of the affair, so far as known to tom or the "traveler,"--for thus the mountaineers designated him, as if he were the only one in the world. by reason of the message which jim had delivered, and its strange result, they suspected the coggins, and as they rode together to the justice's house for a warrant, this suspicion received unexpected confirmation in a rumor that they found afloat. every man they met stopped them to repeat the story that coggin's boy had told somebody that it was his father who had robbed the traveler, and hid the empty pocket-book in the chinking of the church wall. no one knew who had set this report in circulation, but a blacksmith said he heard it first from a man named brierwood, who had stopped at his shop to have his horse shod. it was still early when they reached jim coggin's home; the windows and doors were open to let out the dust, for his mother was just beginning to sweep. she had pushed aside the table, when her eyes suddenly distended with surprise as they fell upon a silk handkerchief lying on the floor beside it. the moment that she stooped and picked it up, the strange gentleman stepped upon the porch, and through the open door he saw it dangling from her hands. he tapped the constable on the shoulder. "that's my property!" he said tersely. the officer stepped in instantly. "good-mornin', mrs. coggin," he said politely. "'t would pleasure me some ter git a glimpse o' that handkercher." "air it your'n?" asked the woman wonderingly. "i jes' now fund it, an' i war tried ter know who had drapped it hyar." the officer, without a word, untied the knot which amos brierwood had made in one corner, while the coggins looked on in open-mouthed amazement. it contained a five-dollar bill, and a bit of paper on which some careless memoranda had been jotted down in handwriting which the traveler claimed as his own. it seemed a very plain case. still, he got out of the sound of the woman's sobs and cries as soon as he conveniently could, and sauntered down the road, where the officer presently overtook him with alf and his father in custody. "whar be ye a-takin' of us now?" cried the elder, gaunt and haggard, and with his long hair blowing in the breeze. "ter the church-house, whar yer boy says ye hev hid the traveler's money-purse," said the officer. "_my boy_!" exclaimed john coggin, casting an astounded glance upon his son. poor alf was almost stunned. when they reached the church, and the men, after searching for a time without result, appealed to him to save trouble by pointing out the spot where the pocket-book was concealed, he could only stammer and falter unintelligibly, and finally he burst into tears. "ax the t'other one--the leetle boy," suggested an old man in the crowd. alf's heart sank--sank like lead--when jim, suddenly remembering the promised "good word" to the witches, piped out, "i war tole not ter tell who teched it,--'kase my dad didn't want nobody ter know 'twar hid thar." john coggin's face was rigid and gray. "the lord hev forsook me!" he cried. "an' all my chillen hev turned liars tergether." then he made a great effort to control himself. "look-a-hyar, jim, ef ye hev got the truth in ye,--speak it! ef ye know whar i hev hid anything,--find it!" jim, infinitely important, and really understanding little of what was going on, except that all these big men were looking at him, crossed the room with as much stateliness as is compatible with a pair of baggy brown jeans trousers, a plaid comforter tied between the shoulder-blades in a big knot, a tow-head, and a tattered black hat; he slipped his grimy paw in the chinking where amos brierwood had hid the pocket-book, and drew it thence, with the prideful exclamation,-- "b'longs ter my dad!" the officer held it up empty before the traveler,--he held up, too, the bit of comforter in which it was folded, and pointed to the small boy's shoulders. the gentleman turned away, thoroughly convinced. alf and his father looked from one to the other, in mute despair. they foresaw many years of imprisonment for a crime which they had not committed. the constable was hurrying his prisoners toward the door, when there was a sudden stir on the outskirts of the crowd. old parson payne was pushing his way in, followed by a tall young man, who, in comparison with the mountaineers, seemed wonderfully prosperous and well-clad, and very fresh and breezy. "you're all on the wrong track!" he cried. and his story proved this, though it was simple enough. he was sojourning in the mountains with some friends on a "camp-hunt," and the previous evening he had chanced to lose his way in the woods. when night and the storm came on, he was perhaps five miles from camp. he mistook the little "church-house" for a dwelling, and dismounting, he hitched his horse in the laurel, intending to ask for shelter for the night. as he stepped upon the porch, however, he caught a glimpse, through the chinking, of the interior, and he perceived that the building was a church. there were benches and a rude pulpit. the next instant, his attention was riveted by the sight of two men, one of whom had drawn a knife upon the other, quarreling over a roll of money. he stood rooted to the spot in surprise. gradually, he began to understand the villainy afoot, for he overheard all that they said to each other, and afterward to jim. he saw one of the men cut the bit from the comforter, wrap the pocket-book in it, and hide it away, and he witnessed a dispute between them, which went on in dumb show behind the boy's back, as to which of two bills should be knotted in the handkerchief which they twisted into the comforter. the constable was pressing him to describe the appearance of the ruffians. "why," said the stranger, "one of them was long, and lank, and loose-jointed, and had sandy hair, and"--he paused abruptly, cudgeling his memory for something more distinctive, for this description would apply to half the men in the room, and thus it would be impossible to identify and capture the robbers. "he hedn't no thumb sca'cely on his lef' hand," piped out jim, holding up his own grimy paw, and looking at it with squinting intensity as he crooked it at the first joint, to imitate the maimed hand. "no thumb!" exclaimed the constable excitedly. "amos brierwood fur a thousand!" jim nodded his head intelligently, with sudden recollection. "that air the name ez the chunky man gin him when they fust kem in." and thus it was that when the coggins were presently brought before the justice, they were exonerated of all complicity in the crime for which brierwood and his accomplice were afterward arrested, tried, and sentenced to the state prison. jim doubts whether the promised "good word" was ever spoken on his behalf to the witches, who were represented as making personal inquiries about him, because he suspects that the two robbers were themselves the only evil spirits roaming the woods that night. on a higher level as jack dunn stood in the door of his home on a great crag of persimmon ridge and loaded his old rifle, his eyes rested upon a vast and imposing array of mountains filling the landscape. all are heavily wooded, all are alike, save that in one the long horizontal line of the summit is broken by a sudden vertical ascent, and thence the mountain seems to take up life on a higher level, for it sinks no more and passes out of sight. this abrupt rise is called "elijah's step,"--named, perhaps, in honor of some neighboring farmer who first explored it; but the ignorant boy believed that here the prophet had stepped into his waiting fiery chariot. he knew of no foreign lands,--no syria, no palestine. he had no dream of the world that lay beyond those misty, azure hills. indistinctly he had caught the old story from the nasal drawl of the circuit-rider, and he thought that here, among these wild tennessee mountains, elijah had lived and had not died. there came suddenly from the valley the baying of a pack of hounds in full cry, and when the crags caught the sound and tossed it from mountain to mountain, when more delicate echoes on a higher key rang out from the deep ravines, there was a wonderful exhilaration in this sylvan minstrelsy. the young fellow looked wistful as he heard it, then he frowned heavily. "them thar saunders men hev gone off an' left me," he said reproachfully to some one within the log cabin. "hyar i be kept a-choppin' wood an' a pullin' fodder till they hev hed time ter git up a deer. it 'pears ter me ez i mought hev been let ter put off that thar work till i war through huntin'." he was a tall young fellow, with a frank, freckled face and auburn hair; stalwart, too. judging from his appearance, he could chop wood and pull fodder to some purpose. a heavy, middle-aged man emerged from the house, and stood regarding his son with grim disfavor. "an' who oughter chop wood an' pull fodder but ye, while my hand air sprained this way?" he demanded. that hand had been sprained for many a long day, but the boy made no reply; perhaps he knew its weight. he walked to the verge of the cliff, and gazed down at the tops of the trees in the valley far, far below. the expanse of foliage was surging in the wind like the waves of the sea. from the unseen depths beneath there rose again the cry of the pack, inexpressibly stirring, and replete with woodland suggestions. all the echoes came out to meet it. "i war promised ter go!" cried jack bitterly. "waal," said his mother, from within the house, "'tain't no good nohow." her voice was calculated to throw oil upon the troubled waters,--low, languid, and full of pacifying intonations. she was a tall, thin woman, clad in a blue-checked homespun dress, and seated before a great hand-loom, as a lady sits before a piano or an organ. the creak of the treadle, and the thump, thump of the batten, punctuated, as it were, her consolatory disquisition. her son looked at her in great depression of spirit as she threw the shuttle back and forth with deft, practiced hands. "wild meat air a mighty savin'," she continued, with a housewifely afterthought. "i ain't denyin' that." thump, thump, went the batten. "but ye needn't pester the life out'n yerself 'kase ye ain't a-runnin' the deer along o' them saunders men. it 'pears like a powerful waste o' time, when ye kin take yer gun down ter the river enny evenin' late, jes' ez the deer air goin' ter drink, an' shoot ez big a buck ez ye hev got the grit ter git enny other way. ye can't do nothin' with a buck but eat him, an' a-runnin' him all around the mounting don't make him no tenderer, ter my mind. i don't see no sense in huntin' 'cept ter git somethin' fitten ter eat." this logic, enough to break a sportsman's heart, was not a panacea for the tedium of the day, spent in the tame occupation of pulling fodder, as the process of stripping the blades from the standing cornstalks is called. but when the shadows were growing long, jack took his rifle and set out for the profit and the pleasure of still-hunting. as he made his way through the dense woods, the metallic tones of a cow-bell jangled on the air,--melodious sound in the forest quiet, but it conjured up a scowl on the face of the young mountaineer. "everything on this hyar mounting hev got the twistin's ter-day!" he exclaimed wrath-fully. "hyar is our old red cow a-traipsing off ter andy bailey's house, an' thar won't be a drap of milk for supper." this was a serious matter, for in a region where coffee and tea are almost unknown luxuries, and the evening meal consists of such thirst-provoking articles as broiled venison, corn-dodgers, and sorghum, one is apt to feel the need of some liquid milder than "apple-jack," and more toothsome than water, wherewith to wet one's whistle. in common with everything else on the mountain, jack, too, had the "twistin's," and it was with a sour face that he began to drive the cow homeward. after going some distance, however, he persuaded himself that she would leave the beaten track no more until she reached the cabin. he turned about, therefore, and retraced his way to the stream. there had been heavy rains in the mountains, and it was far out of its banks, rushing and foaming over great rocks, circling in swift whirlpools, plunging in smooth, glassy sheets down sudden descents, and maddening thence in tumultuous, yeasty billows. an old mill, long disused and fallen into decay, stood upon the brink. it was a painful suggestion of collapsed energies, despite its picturesque drapery of vines. no human being could live there, but in the doorway abruptly appeared a boy of seventeen, dressed, like jack, in an old brown jeans suit and a shapeless white hat. jack paused at a little distance up on the hill, and parleyed in a stentorian voice with the boy in the mill. "what's the reason ye air always tryin' ter toll off our old red muley from our house?" he demanded angrily. "i ain't never tried ter toll her off," said andy bailey. "she jes' kem ter our house herself. i dunno ez i hev got enny call ter look arter other folkses' stray cattle. mind yer own cow." "i hev got a mighty notion ter cut down that thar sapling,"--and jack pointed to a good-sized hickory-tree,--"an' wear it out on ye." "i ain't afeard. come on!" said andy impudently, protected by his innocence, and the fact of being the smaller of the two. there was a pause. "hev ye been a-huntin'?" asked jack, beginning to be mollified by the rare luxury of youthful and congenial companionship; for this was a scantily settled region, and boys were few. andy nodded assent. jack walked down into the rickety mill, and stood leaning against the rotten old hopper. "what did ye git?" he said, looking about for the game. "waal," drawled andy, with much hesitation, "i hain't been started out long." he turned from the door and faced his companion rather sheepishly. "i hopes ye ain't been poppin' off that rifle o' your'n along that deer-path down in the hollow, an' a-skeerin' off all the wild critters," said jack dunn, with sudden apprehension. "ef i war ez pore a shot ez ye air, i'd go a-huntin' with a bean-pole instead of a gun, an' leave the game ter them that kin shoot it." andy was of a mercurial and nervous temperament, and this fact perhaps may account for the anomaly of a mountain-boy who was a poor shot. andy was the scoff of persimmon ridge. "i hev seen many a gal who could shoot ez well ez ye kin,--better," continued jack jeeringly. "but law! i needn't kerry my heavy bones down thar in the hollow expectin' ter git a deer ter-day. they air all off in the woods a-smellin' the powder ye hev been wastin'." andy was pleased to change the subject. "it 'pears ter me that that thar water air a-scuttlin' along toler'ble fast," he said, turning his eyes to the little window through which the stream could be seen. it _was_ running fast, and with a tremendous force. one could obtain some idea of the speed and impetus of the current from the swift vehemence with which logs and branches shot past, half hidden in foam. the water looked black with this white contrast. here and there a great, grim rock projected sharply above the surface. in the normal condition of the stream, these were its overhanging banks, but now, submerged, they gave to its flow the character of rapids. the old mill, its wooden supports submerged too, trembled and throbbed with the throbbing water. as jack looked toward the window, his eyes were suddenly distended, his cheek paled, and he sprang to the door with a frightened exclamation. too late! the immense hole of a fallen tree, shooting down the channel with the force and velocity of a great projectile, struck the tottering supports of the crazy, rotting building. it careened, and quivered in every fibre; there was a crash of falling timbers, then a mighty wrench, and the two boys, clinging to the window-frame, were driving with the wreck down the river. the old mill thundered against the submerged rocks, and at every concussion the timbers fell. it whirled around and around in eddying pools. where the water was clear, and smooth, and deep, it shot along with great rapidity. the convulsively clinging boys looked down upon the black current, with its sharp, treacherous, half-seen rocks and ponderous driftwood. the wild idea of plunging into the tumult and trying to swim to the bank faded as they looked. here in the crazy building there might be a chance. in that frightful swirl there lurked only a grim certainty. the house had swung along in the middle of the stream; now its course was veering slightly to the left. this could be seen through the window and the interstices of the half-fallen timbers. the boys were caged, as it were; the doorway was filled with the heavy debris, and the only possibility of escape was through that little window. it was so small that only one could pass through at a time,--only one could be saved. jack had seen the chance from far up the stream. there was a stretch of smooth water close in to the bank, on which was a low-hanging beech-tree,--he might catch the branches. they were approaching the spot with great rapidity. only one could go. he himself had discovered the opportunity,--it was his own. life was sweet,--so sweet! he could not give it up; he could not now take thought for his friend. he could only hope with a frenzied eagerness that andy had not seen the possibility of deliverance. in another moment andy lifted himself into the window. a whirlpool caught the wreck, and there it eddied in dizzying circles. it was not yet too late. jack could tear the smaller, weaker fellow away with one strong hand, and take the only chance for escape. the shattered mill was dashing through the smoother waters now; the great beech-tree was hanging over their heads; an inexplicable, overpowering impulse mastered in an instant jack's temptation. "ketch the branches, andy!" he cried wildly. his friend was gone, and he was whirling off alone on those cruel, frantic waters. in the midst of the torrent he was going down, and down, and down the mountain. now and then he had a fleeting glimpse of the distant ranges. there was "elijah's step," glorified in the sunset, purple and splendid, with red and gold clouds flaming above it. to his untutored imagination they looked like the fiery chariot again awaiting the prophet. the familiar sight, the familiar, oft-repeated fancy, the recollection of his home, brought sudden tears to his eyes. he gazed wistfully at the spot whence he believed the man had ascended who left death untasted, and then he went on in this mad rush down to the bitterness of death. even with this terrible fact before him, he did not reproach himself with his costly generosity. it was strange to him that he did not regret it; perhaps, like that mountain, he had suddenly taken up life on a higher level. the sunset splendor was fading. the fiery chariot was gone, and in its place were floating gray clouds,--the dust of its wheels, they seemed. the outlines of "elijah's step" were dark. it looked sad, bereaved. its glory had departed. suddenly the whole landscape seemed full of reeling black shadows,--and yet it was not night. the roar of the torrent was growing faint upon his ear, and yet its momentum was unchecked. soon all was dark and all was still, and the world slipped from his grasp. [illustration: in the midst of the torrent] "they tell me that thar jack dunn war mighty nigh drownded when them men fished him out'n the pond at skeggs's sawmill down thar in the valley," said andy bailey, recounting the incident to the fireside circle at his own home. "they seen them rotten old timbers come a-floatin' ez peaceable on to the pond, an' then they seen somethin' like a human a-hangin' ter 'em. the water air ez still ez a floor thar, an' deep an' smooth, an' they didn't hev no trouble in swimmin' out to him. they couldn't bring him to, though, at fust. they said in a little more he would hev been gone sure! now"--pridefully--"ef he hed hed the grit ter ketch a tree an' pull out, like i done, he wouldn't hev been in sech a danger." andy never knew the sacrifice his friend had made. jack never told him. applause is at best a slight thing. a great action is nobler than the monument that commemorates it; and when a man gives himself into the control of a generous impulse, thenceforward he takes up life on a higher level. christmas day on old windy mountain the sun had barely shown the rim of his great red disk above the sombre woods and snow-crowned crags of the opposite ridge, when rick herne, his rifle in his hand, stepped out of his father's log cabin, perched high among the precipices of old windy mountain. he waited motionless for a moment, and all the family trooped to the door to assist at the time-honored ceremony of firing a salute to the day. suddenly the whole landscape catches a rosy glow, rick whips up his rifle, a jet of flame darts swiftly out, a sharp report rings all around the world, and the sun goes grandly up--while the little tow-headed mountaineers hurrah shrilly for "chris'mus!" as he began to re-load his gun, the small boys clustered around him, their hands in the pockets of their baggy jeans trousers, their heads inquiringly askew. "they air a-goin' ter hev a pea-fow_el_ fur dinner down yander ter birk's mill," rick remarked. the smallest boy smacked his lips,--not that he knew how pea-fowl tastes, but he imagined unutterable things. "somehows i hates fur ye ter go ter eat at birk's mill, they air sech a set o' drinkin' men down thar ter malviny's house," said rick's mother, as she stood in the doorway, and looked anxiously at him. for his elder sister was birk's wife, and to this great feast he was invited as a representative of the family, his father being disabled by "rheumatics," and his mother kept at home by the necessity of providing dinner for those four small boys. "hain't i done promised ye not ter tech a drap o' liquor this chris'mus day?" asked rick. "that's a fac'," his mother admitted. "but boys, an' men-folks ginerally, air scandalous easy ter break a promise whar whiskey is in it." "i'll hev ye ter know that when i gin my word, i keeps it!" cried rick pridefully. he little dreamed how that promise was to be assailed before the sun should go down. he was a tall, sinewy boy, deft of foot as all these mountaineers are, and a seven-mile walk in the snow to birk's mill he considered a mere trifle. he tramped along cheerily enough through the silent solitudes of the dense forest. only at long intervals the stillness was broken by the cracking of a bough under the weight of snow, or the whistling of a gust of wind through the narrow valley far below. all at once--it was a terrible shock of surprise--he was sinking! was there nothing beneath his feet but the vague depths of air to the base of the mountain? he realized with a quiver of dismay that he had mistaken a huge drift-filled fissure, between a jutting crag and the wall of the ridge, for the solid, snow-covered ground. he tossed his arms about wildly in his effort to grasp something firm. the motion only dislodged the drift. he felt that it was falling, and he was going down--down--down with it. he saw the trees on the summit of old windy disappear. he caught one glimpse of the neighboring ridges. then he was blinded and enveloped in this cruel whiteness. he had a wild idea that he had been delivered to it forever; even in the first thaw it would curl up into a wreath of vapor, and rise from the mountain's side, and take him soaring with it--whither? how they would search these bleak wintry fastnesses for him,--while he was gone sailing with the mist! what would they say at home and at birk's mill? one last thought of the "pea-fow_el_," and he seemed to slide swiftly away from the world with the snow. he was unconscious probably only for a few minutes. when he came to himself, he found that he was lying, half-submerged in the great drift, on the slope of the mountain, and the dark, icicle-begirt cliff towered high above. he stretched his limbs--no bones broken! he could hardly believe that he had fallen unhurt from those heights. he did not appreciate how gradually the snow had slidden down. being so densely packed, too, it had buoyed him up, and kept him from dashing against the sharp, jagged edges of the rock. he had lost consciousness in the jar when the moving mass was abruptly arrested by a transverse elevation of the ground. he was still a little dizzy and faint, but otherwise uninjured. now a great perplexity took hold on him. how was he to make his way back up the mountain, he asked himself, as he looked at the inaccessible cliffs looming high into the air. all the world around him was unfamiliar. even his wide wanderings had never brought him into this vast, snowy, trackless wilderness, that stretched out on every side. he would be half the day in finding the valley road that led to birk's mill. he rose to his feet, and gazed about him in painful indecision. the next moment a thrill shot through him, to which he was unaccustomed. he had never before shaken except with the cold,--but this was fear. for he heard voices! not from the cliffs above,--but from below! not from the dense growth of young pines on the slope of the mountain,--but from the depths of the earth beneath! he stood motionless, listening intently, his eyes distended, and his heart beating fast. all silence! not even the wind stirred in the pine thicket. the snow lay heavy among the dark green branches, and every slender needle was encased in ice. rick rubbed his eyes. it was no dream. there was the thicket; but whose were the voices that had rung out faintly from beneath it? a crowd of superstitions surged upon him. he cast an affrighted glance at the ghastly snow-covered woods and sheeted earth. he was remembering fireside legends, horrible enough to raise the hair on a sophisticated, educated boy's head; much more horrible, then, to a young backwoodsman like rick. on this, the most benign day that ever dawns upon the world, was he led into these endless wastes of forest to be terrified by the "harnts"? suddenly those voices from the earth again! one was singing a drunken catch,--it broke into falsetto, and ended with an unmistakable hiccup. rick's blood came back with a rush. "i hev never hearn tell o' the hoobies gittin' boozy!" he said with a laugh. "that's whar they hev got the upper-hand o' humans." as he gazed again at the thicket, he saw now something that he had been too much agitated to observe before,--a column of dense smoke that rose from far down the declivity, and seemed to make haste to hide itself among the low-hanging boughs of a clump of fir-trees. "it's somebody's house down thar," was rick's conclusion. "i kin find out the way to birk's mill from the folkses." when he neared the smoke, he paused abruptly, staring once more. there was no house! the smoke rose from among low pine bushes. above were the snow-laden branches of the fir. "ef thar war a house hyar, i reckon i could see it!" said rick doubtfully, infinitely mystified. there was a continual drip, drip of moisture all around. yet a thaw had not set in. rick looked up at the gigantic icicles that hung to the crags and glittered in the sun,--not a drop trickled from them. but this fir-tree was dripping, dripping, and the snow had melted away from the nearest pine bushes that clustered about the smoke. there was heat below certainly, a strong heat, and somebody was keeping the fire up steadily. "an' air it folkses ez live underground like foxes an' sech!" rick exclaimed, astonished, as he came upon a large, irregularly shaped rift in the rocks, and heard the same reeling voice from within, beginning to sing once more. but for this bacchanalian melody, the noise of rick's entrance might have given notice of his approach. as it was, the inhabitants of this strange place were even more surprised than he, when, after groping through a dark, low passage, an abrupt turn brought him into a lofty, vaulted subterranean apartment. there was a great flare of light, which revealed six or seven muscular men grouped about a large copper vessel built into a rude stone furnace, and all the air was pervaded by an incomparably strong alcoholic odor. the boy started back with a look of terror. that pale terror was reflected on each man's face, as on a mirror. at the sight of the young stranger they all sprang up with the same gesture,--each instinctively laid his hand upon the pistol that he wore. poor rick understood it all at last. he had stumbled upon a nest of distillers, only too common among these mountains, who were hiding from the officers of the government, running their still in defiance of the law and eluding the whiskey-tax. he realized that in discovering their stronghold he had learned a secret that was by no means a safe one for him to know. and he was in their power; at their mercy! "don't shoot!" he faltered. "i jes' want ter ax the folkses ter tell me the way ter birk's mill." what would he have given to be on the bleak mountain outside! one of the men caught him as if anticipating an attempt to run. two or three, after a low-toned colloquy, took their rifles, and crept cautiously outside to reconnoitre the situation. rick comprehended their suspicion with new quakings. they imagined that he was a spy, and had been sent among them to discover them plying their forbidden vocation. this threatened a long imprisonment for them. his heart sank as he thought of it; they would never let him go. after a time the reconnoitring party came back. "nothin' stirrin'," said the leader tersely. "i misdoubts," muttered another, casting a look of deep suspicion on rick. "thar air men out thar, i'm a-thinkin', hid somewhar." "they air furder 'n a mile off, ennyhow," returned the first speaker. "we never lef' so much ez a bush 'thout sarchin' of it." "the off'cers can't find this place no-ways 'thout that thar chap fur a guide," said a third, with a surly nod of his head at rick. "we're safe enough, boys, safe enough!" cried a stout-built, red-faced, red-bearded man, evidently very drunk, and with a voice that rose into quavering falsetto as he spoke. "this chap can't do nothin'. we hev got him bound hand an' foot. hyar air the captive of our bow an' spear, boys! mighty little captive, though! hi!" he tried to point jeeringly at rick, and forgot what he had intended to do before he could fairly extend his hand. then his rollicking head sank on his breast, and he began to sing sleepily again. one of the more sober of the men had extinguished the fire in order that they should not be betrayed by the smoke outside to the revenue officers who might be seeking them. the place, chilly enough at best, was growing bitter cold. the strange subterranean beauty of the surroundings, the limestone wall and arches, scintillating wherever they caught the light; the shadowy, mysterious vaulted roof; the white stalactites that hung down thence to touch the stalagmites as they rose up from the floor, and formed with them endless vistas of stately colonnades, all were oddly incongruous with the drunken, bloated faces of the distillers. rick could not have put his thought into words, but it seemed to him that when men had degraded themselves like this, even inanimate nature is something higher and nobler. "sermons in stones" were not far to seek. he observed that they were making preparations for flight, and once more the fear of what they would do with him clutched at his heart. he was something of a problem to them. "this hyar cub will go blab," was the first suggestion. "he will keep mum," said the vocalist, glancing at the boy with a jovially tipsy combination of leer and wink. "hyar is the persuader!" he rapped sharply on the muzzle of his pistol. "this'll scotch his wheel." "hold yer own jaw, ye drunken 'possum!" retorted another of the group. "ef ye fire off that pistol in hyar, we'll hev all these hyar rocks"--he pointed at the walls and the long colonnades--"answerin' back an' yelpin' like a pack o' hounds on a hot scent. ef thar air folks outside, the noise would fotch 'em down on us fur true!" rick breathed more freely. the rocks would speak up for him! he could not be harmed with all these tell-tale witnesses at hand. so silent now, but with a latent voice strong enough for the dread of it to save his life! the man who had put out the fire, who had led the reconnoitring party, who had made all the active preparations for departure, who seemed, in short, to be an executive committee of one,--a long, lazy-looking mountaineer, with a decision of action in startling contrast to his whole aspect,--now took this matter in hand. "nothin' easier," he said tersely. "fill him up. make him ez drunk ez a fraish b'iled ow_el_. then lead him to the t'other eend o' the cave, an' blindfold him, an' lug him off five mile in the woods, an' leave him thar. he'll never know what he hev seen nor done." "that's the dinctum!" cried the red-bearded man, in delighted approval, breaking into a wild, hiccupping laugh, inexpressibly odious to the boy. rick had an extreme loathing for them all that showed itself with impolitic frankness upon his face. he realized as he had never done before the depths to which strong drink will reduce men. but that the very rocks would cry out upon them, they would have murdered him. in the preparations for departure all the lights had been extinguished, except a single lantern, and a multitude of shadows had come thronging from the deeper recesses of the cave. in the faint glimmer the figures of the men loomed up, indistinct, gigantic, distorted. they hardly seemed men at all to rick; rather some evil underground creatures, neither beast nor human. and he was to be made equally besotted, and even more helpless than they, in order that his senses might be sapped away, and he should remember no story to tell. perhaps if he had not had before him so vivid an illustration of the malign power that swayed them, he might not have experienced so strong an aversion to it. now, to be made like them seemed a high price to pay for his life. and there was his promise to his mother! as the long, lank, lazy-looking mountaineer pressed the whiskey upon him, rick dashed it aside with a gesture so unexpected and vehement that the cracked jug fell to the floor, and was shivered to fragments. rick lifted an appealing face to the man, who seized him with a strong grip. "i can't--i won't," the boy cried wildly. "i--i--promised my mother!" he looked around the circle deprecatingly. he expected first a guffaw and then a blow, and he dreaded the ridicule more than the pain. but there were neither blows nor ridicule. they all gazed at him, astounded. then a change, which rick hardly comprehended, flitted across the face of the man who had grasped him. the moonshiner turned away abruptly, with a bitter laugh that startled all the echoes. "_i--i_ promised _my_ mother, too!" he cried. "it air good that in her grave whar she is she can't know how i hev kep' my word." and then there was a sudden silence. it seemed to rick, strangely enough, like the sudden silence that comes after prayer. he was reminded, as one of the men rose at length and the keg on which he had been sitting creaked with the motion, of the creaking benches in the little mountain church when the congregation started from their knees. and had some feeble, groping sinner's prayer filled the silence and the moral darkness! the "executive committee" promptly recovered himself. but he made no further attempt to force the whiskey upon the boy. under some whispered instructions which he gave the others, rick was half-led, half-dragged through immensely long black halls of the cave, while one of the men went before, carrying the feeble lantern. when the first glimmer of daylight appeared in the distance, rick understood that the cave had an outlet other than the one by which he had entered, and evidently miles distant from it. thus it was that the distillers were well enabled to baffle the law that sought them. they stopped here and blindfolded the boy. how far and where they dragged him through the snowy mountain wilderness outside, rick never knew. he was exhausted when at length they allowed him to pause. as he heard their steps dying away in the distance, he tore the bandage from his eyes, and found that they had left him in the midst of the wagon road to make his way to birk's mill as best he might. when he reached it, the wintry sun was low in the western sky, and the very bones of the "pea-fow_el_" were picked. on the whole, it seemed a sorry christmas day, as rick could not know then--indeed, he never knew--what good results it brought forth. for among those who took the benefit of the "amnesty" extended by the government to the moonshiners of this region, on condition that they discontinue illicit distilling for the future, was a certain long, lank, lazy-looking mountaineer, who suddenly became sober and steady and a law-abiding citizen. he had been reminded, this christmas day, of a broken promise to a dead mother, and this by the unflinching moral courage of a mere boy in a moment of mortal peril. such wise, sweet, uncovenanted uses has duty, blessing alike the unconscious exemplar and him who profits by the example. the riverside press cambridge, massachusetts, u. s. a. electrotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and co. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) judith of the cumberlands by alice macgowan author of "the wiving of lance cleaverage," "the last word," "huldah," "return," etc. with illustrations in colour by george wright [illustration: "the moonlight flickered on the blade in his hand as he reeled backward over the bluff" (page ).] grosset & dunlap publishers, new york copyright, by alice macgowan this edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers, g. p. putnam's sons, new york and london dedication to my mountain friends, dwellers in lonely cabins, on winding horseback trails and steep, precarious roads; or in the tiny settlements that nestle in the high-hung inner valleys; lean brown hunters on remote paths in the green shadowed depths of the free forest, light-stepping, keen-eyed, humorous-lipped, hitting the point as aptly with an instance as with the old squirrel gun they carry; wielders of the axe by many a chip pile, where the swinging blade rests readily to answer query or offer advice; tanned, lithely moving lads following the plough, turning over the shoulder a countenance of dark beauty; grave, shy girls, pail in hand, at the milking-bars in dawn or dusk; young mothers in the doorway, looking out, babe on hip; big-eyed, bare-footed mountain children clinging hand in hand by the roadside, or clustered like startled little partridges in the shelter of the dooryard; knitters in the sun and grandams by the hearth; tellers and treasurers all of tales and legends couched in racy old elizabethan english; i dedicate this--their book and mine. foreword i have been so frequently asked how i, a woman, came by my intimate acquaintance with life in the more remote districts of the southern appalachians, particularly in the matter of illicit distilling, that i think it not amiss to here set down a few words as to my sources of knowledge. i have always lived in a small city in the heart of the cumberlands, and a portion of each year was spent in the mountains themselves. the speech of judith and her friends and kin has been familiar to me from childhood; their point of view, their customs and possessions as well known to me as my own. then when i began to write, i was one summer at roan mountain, on the north carolina-tennessee line, probably less than two hundred miles from chattanooga by the railway, and gen. john t. wilder, who had campaigned all through the fastnesses of that inaccessible region, suggested to me that i buy a mountain-bred saddle horse, and ride such a route as he would give me, bringing up, after about a thousand miles of it, at my home. to follow the itinerary that the old soldier marked out on the map for me was to leave railroads and modern civilisation as we know it, penetrate the wild heart of the region, and, depending on the wayside dwellers for hospitality and lodging from night to night, be forcibly thrust into an intimate comprehension of a phase of american life which is perhaps the most primitive our country affords. i was more than eight weeks making this trip, carrying with me all necessary baggage on my capacious, cowgirl saddle with its long and numerous buckskin tie-strings. at first i shrank very much from riding up to a cabin--a young woman, alone, with garments and outfit that must challenge the attention and curiosity of these people--in the dusk of evening or in a heavy rain-storm, and asking in set terms for lodging. but it took only a few days for me to find that here i was never to be stared at, wondered at, nor questioned; and that, proffering my request under such conditions, i was met by instant hospitality, and a grave, uninquiring courtesy unsurpassed and not always equalled in the best society, and i seemed to evoke a swift tenderness that was almost compassion. during this journey i became acquainted with some features of mountain life which i might never have known otherwise. my best friends in the mountains in the neighbourhood of my own home had always been a little shy of discussing moonshine whiskey and moonshiners; but here i earned a dividend upon my misfortunes, being more than once taken for a revenue spy; and in the apologetic amenities of those who had misjudged me, which followed my explanations and proofs of innocence, i have been shown in a spirit of atonement, illicit still and "hideout." i have heard old jephthah turrentine make his protest against the government's attitude toward the mountain man and his "blockaded still." i have foregathered with the revenuers in the settlements at the foot of the circling purple ranges, and been shown the specially made axes and hooks they carry with them for breaking up and destroying the simple appurtenances of the illicit manufacture. knowing that blatch turrentine's still must have cost him three hundred dollars, i cannot wonder that a mountain man, a thrifty fellow like blatch, should have lingered, even in great danger, over the project of carrying it with him. these dwellers in the southern mountain region, the purest american strain left to us, hold the interest and appeal of a changing, vanishing type. the tide of enlightenment and commercial prosperity must presently sweep in and absorb them. and so i might hope that a faithful picture of the life and manners i have sought to represent in _judith of the cumberlands_ would be the better worth while. a. mac g. contents chapter page i. spring ii. at "the edge" iii. suitors iv. building v. the red rose and the briar vi. the play-party vii. kisses viii. on the doorstone ix. foeman's bluff x. a spy xi. the warning xii. in the lion's den xiii. in the night xiv. the raid xv. council of war xvi. a message xvii. the old cherokee trail xviii. bitter parting xix. cast out xx. a conversion xxi. the baptising xxii. ebb-tide xxiii. the dumb supper xxiv. a case of walking typhoid xxv. a perilous passage xxvi. his own trap xxvii. love's guerdon xxviii. a prophecy judith of the cumberlands chapter i spring "won't you be jest dressed to kill an' cripple when you get that on! don't it set her off, jeffy ann?" the village milliner fell back, hands on hips, thin lips screwed up, and regarded the possible purchaser through narrowed eyes of simulated ecstasy. "i don't know," debated the brown beauty, surveying herself in a looking-glass by means of an awkwardly held hand-mirror. "'pears to me this one's too little. hit makes me look like i was sent for and couldn't come. but i do love red. i think the red on here is mightly sightly." instantly the woman of the shop had the hat off the dark young head and in her own hands. "this is a powerful pretty red bow," she assented promptly. "i can take it out just as easy as not, and tack it onto that big hat you like. i believe you're right; and red certainly does go with yo' hair and eyes." again she gazed with languishing admiration at her customer. and judith barrier was well worth it, tall, justly proportioned, deep-bosomed, long-limbed, with the fine hands and feet of the true mountaineer. the thick dusk hair rose up around her brow in a massive, sculptural line; her dark eyes--the large, heavily fringed eyes of a dryad--glowed with the fires of youth, and with a certain lambent shining which was all their own; the stain on her cheeks was deep, answering to the ripe red of the full lips. in point of fact mrs. rhody staggart the milliner considered her a big, coarse country girl, and thought that a pair of stout corsets well pulled in would improve her crude figure; but she dealt out compliments without ceasing as she exchanged the red bow for the blue, and laboriously pinned the headgear upon the bronze-brown coils, admonishing gravely, "far over to one side, honey--jest the way they're a-wearin' them in new york this minute." the buyer once more studied her mirror, and its dumb honesty told her that she was beautiful. then she looked about for some human eyes to make the same communication. "what's a-goin' on over yon at the co't house?" she inquired with languid interest, looking across the open square. "they's a political speakin'," explained the other. "creed bonbright he wants to be elected jestice of the peace and go back to the turkey tracks and set up a office. fool boy! you know mighty well an' good they'll run him out o' thar--or kill him, one." although the girl had herself ridden down from turkey track mountain that morning, and the old bonbright farm adjoined her own, the news held no interest for her. she wished the gathering might have been something more to her purpose; but she solemnly paid for the hat, and with the cheap finery on her stately young head, which had been more appropriately crowned with a chaplet of vine leaves, moved to the door. she hoped that standing there, waiting for the boys to bring her horse, she might attract some attention by her recently acquired splendour. she looked up at the court house steps. the building was humbly in the greek manner, as are so many of the public structures in the south. between its great white pillars, flaking paint and half-heartedly confessing their woodland genesis, stood a tall young man, bareheaded. the doubtful sunlight of a march day glinted on his uncovered yellow hair. he was speaking rapidly in a fervid fashion that seemed beyond the occasion; in his blue eyes shone something of the fanatic's passion; his bearing was that of a man who conceives himself to have a mission and a message. judith looked at him. she heard no word of what he was saying--but him she heard. she heard the high, vibrant voice, saw the fair hair on the upflung head, the rapt look in the blue eyes with their quick-expanding pupils. suddenly her world turned over. in a smother of strange, uncomprehended emotions, she was gropingly glad she had the new hat--glad she had it on now, and that mrs. staggart herself had adjusted it. on blind impulse she edged around into plainer view, pushing freely in amongst the fringe of men and boys, an unheard-of thing for a well taught mountain girl to do, but judith was for the moment absolutely unconscious of their humanity. "you never go a-nigh my people," cried bonbright in that clear thrilling tenor that is like a trumpet call, "you never go a-nigh them with the statute--with government--except when the united states marshal takes a posse up and raids the stills and brings down his prisoners. that's all the valley knows of the mountain folks. the law's never carried to anybody up there except the offenders and criminals. the turkey track neighbourhoods, big and little, have got a mighty bad name with you-all. but you ought to understand that violence must come when every man is obliged to take the law into his own hands. i admit that it's an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth with us now--what else could it be? and yet we are as faithful to each other, as virtuous, and as god-fearing a race as those in the valley. i am a mountain man, born and bred in the turkey tracks; and i ask you to send me back to my neighbours with the law, that they may learn to be good citizens, as they are already good men and women." upon the word, there broke out at the farthest corner of the square an abrupt splatter of sound, oaths, cries, punctuated by the swift staccato of running feet. the ringing voice came to a sudden halt. out of a little side street which descended from the mountain, a young fellow burst into view, running in long leaping bounds, his hands up. behind him lumbered dan haley the united states marshal, a somewhat heavy-set man, puffing and panting, yelling, "halt! halt! halt!" and finally turning loose a fusillade of shots aimed high over the fleeing lad's head. there was a drawing back and a scattering in every direction. "hey, bonbright!" vociferated a man leaping up from the last step where he had been sitting, pointing to where the marshal's deputy followed behind herding five or six prisoners from the mountains, "hey, bonbright! there's some of your constituency--some god-fearing turkey-trackers--now, but i reckon you won't own 'em." "i will!" shouted bonbright, whirling upon him, and one got suddenly the blue fire of his hawk-like eye with the slant brow above. "they _are_ my people, and the way they're treated is what i've been trying to talk to you-all about." "well, you better go and take them fellers some law right now," jeered his interlocutor. "looks like to me they need it mighty bad." "that's just what i'm about," answered bonbright. "god knows they'll get no justice unless i do. that's my job," and without another word or a look behind him he made his way bareheaded through the group on the steps and down the street. meantime the pursued had turned desperately and dodged into the millinery store whence judith barrier had emerged a little earlier. instantly there came out to the listeners the noise of falling articles and breaking glass, and the squeals and scufflings of the women. the red-faced marshal dived in after his quarry, and emerged a moment later holding him by one elbow, swearing angrily. creed bonbright came up at the instant, and haley, needing some one to whom he could express himself, explained in voluble anger: "the damned little shoat! said if i'd let him walk a-loose he'd give me information. you can't trust none of them." bonbright laid a reassuring touch on the fugitive's shoulder as haley fumbled after the handcuffs. "i ain't been into no stillin', creed!" panted the squirming boy. "well, don't run then," admonished bonbright. "you've got no call to. i'll see that you get justice." while he spoke there wheeled into the square, from a nearby waggon-yard, two young mountaineers on mules, one leading by the bridle-rein a sorrel horse with a side-saddle on it. at sight of the marshal and those with him, an almost imperceptible tremor went through the pair. there was a flicker of nostril, a rounding of eye, as their glance ran swiftly from one to another of haley's prisoners. they were like wild game that winds the hunter. "st! you pony card, is that them?" whispered haley, sharply nudging the prisoner he held. "turn him a-loose, bonbright; i've got him handcuffed now." the boy--he was not more than sixteen--choked, reddened, held down his head, studying the marshal's face anxiously from beneath lowered flax-coloured brows. "yes, them's andy and jeff turrentine," bonbright heard the husky, reluctant whisper. "now cain't i go?" the newcomers were beyond earshot, but the by-play was ominous to them. the lean young bodies stiffened in their saddles, the reins came up in their hands. for a moment it seemed as if they would turn and run for it. but it was too late. without making any reply haley shoved his prisoner into the hands of the deputy and with prompt action intercepted the two and placed them under arrest. bonbright observed one of the boys beckon across the heads of the gathering crowd before he dismounted, and noted that some one approached from the direction of the court house steps and received the three riding animals. in the confusion he did not see who this was. haley spoke to his deputy, and then drew their party sharply off toward the jail, which could be used temporarily for the detention of united states prisoners. to the last the young turrentines muttered together and sent baleful glances toward bonbright, whom they plainly conceived to be the author of their troubles. poor pony card plodded with bent head mutely behind them, a furtive hand travelling now and again to his eyes. such crowd as the little village had collected was following, bonbright with the rest, when he encountered the girl who had come from the milliner's shop. she stood now alone by the sorrel horse with the side-saddle on it, holding the bridle-reins of the two mules, and there was a bewildered look in her dark eyes as the noisy throng swept past her which brought him--led in the hand of destiny--instantly to her side. "what's the matter?" he asked her. "can i help you?" and judith who, in her perturbation, had not seen him before, started violently at the words and tone. "they've tuck the boys," she hesitated, in a rich, broken contralto, that voice which beyond all others moves the hearts of hearers, "i--i don't know how i'm a-goin' to get these here mules home. pete he won't lead so very well." "oh, were you with the men haley arrested?" ejaculated bonbright. "yes, they're my cousins. i don't know what he tuck 'em for," the young, high-couraged head turned jailward; the dark eyes flashed a resentful look after the retiring posse. "it looks like to me, from what haley said, that there's nothing against them," bonbright reassured her. "but they're likely to be held as witnesses--that's the worst about this business. "i was going over there right now to see what can be done about it--being a sort of lawyer. but let me help you first. i'm creed bonbright--reckon you know the name--born and raised on big turkey track." judith's heart beat to suffocation, the while she answered in commonplace phrase, "i shorely do. my name is judith barrier; i live with uncle jephthah turrentine, on my farm. hit's right next to the old bonbright place. we've been livin' thar more'n four years. i hate to go back and tell uncle jep of the boys bein' tuck; and that big mule, pete, i don't know how i'm a-goin' to git him out o' the settlement, he's that mean and feisty about town streets." "i reckon i can manage him," bonbright suggested, looking about. "oh, givens!" he called to a man hurrying past. "when you get over there ask haley not to take any definite action--i reckon he wouldn't anyhow. i'm going to represent the prisoners, and i'll be there inside of half an hour. now let me put you on your horse, miss judith, and i'll lead the mules up the road a piece for you." and so it came about that judith sprang to the back of the sorrel nag from creed bonbright's hand. creed, still bareheaded, and wholly unconscious of the fact, walked beside her leading the mules. they passed slowly up the street towards the mountainward edge of hepzibah, talking as they went in the soft, low, desultory fashion of their people. the noises of the village, aroused from its usual dozing calm, died away behind them. beyond the last cabin they entered a sylvan world all their own. while he talked, questioning and replying gravely and at leisure, the man was revolving in his mind just what action would be best for the prisoners whose cause he had espoused. as for judith, she had forgotten that such persons existed, that such trivial mischance as their arrest had just been; she was concerned wholly with the immediate necessity to charm, to subjugate the man. [illustration: "creed walked beside her leading the mules."] a rustic belle and beauty, used to success in such enterprises, in the limited time at her command she brought out for creed's subduing her little store of primitive arts. she would know, pete suggesting the topic, if he didn't despise a mule, adding encouragingly that she did. the ash, it seemed, was the tree of her preference; didn't he think it mighty sightly now when it was just coming into bloom? his favourite season of the year, his favoured colour, of such points she made inquiry, giving him, in an elusive feminine fashion, ample opportunity to relate himself to her. and always he answered. when all was spoken, and at the first sharp rise she drew rein for the inevitable separation, she could not have said that she had failed; but she knew that she had not succeeded. "ye can jest turn pete a-loose now," she told him gently. "he'll foller from here on." bonbright, on his part, was not quite aware why he paused here, yet it seemed cold and unfriendly to say good-bye at once, again he assured her that he would go immediately to the jail and find what could be done for her cousins. there was no more to be said now--yet they lingered. it was a blowy, showery march day, its lips puckered for weeping or laughter at any moment, the air full of the dainty pungencies of new life. winged ants, enjoying their little hour of glory, swarmed from their holes and turned stone or stump to a flickering, moving grey. about them where they stood was the awakening world of nature. great, pale blue bird-foot violets were blooming on favoured slopes, and in protected hollows patches of eyebright made fairy forests on the moss, while under tatters of dead leaves by the brookside arbutus blushed. above their heads the tracery of branches was a lace-work overlaid with fanlike budding green leaves, except where the maples showed scarlet tassels, or the judas tree flaunted its bold, lying, purple-pink promise of fruitage never to be fulfilled. could two young creatures be wiser than nature's self? it was the new time; all the gauzy-winged ephemeræ in the moist march woods were throbbing with it, buzzing or flashing about seeking mates and nectar. the earth had wakened from her winter sleep and set her face toward her ancient, ardent lover, the sun. in the soul of judith barrier--judith the nature woman--all this surged strongly. as for the man, he had sent forth his spirit in so general a fashion, he conceived himself to have a mission so impersonal, that he scarce remembered what should or should not please or attract creed bonbright. judith dreaded lest he make his farewells before she had from him some earnest of a future meeting. he could not say good-bye and let her leave him so! it seemed to her that if he did she should die before she reached the mountain-top. dark, rich, earth-born, earth-fast, material, she looked down at creed where he stood beside her, his hand on the sorrel's neck, his calm blue eyes raised to hers. her gaze lingered on the fair hair flying in the march breeze, above a face selfless as that of some young prophet. her eager, undisciplined nature found here what it craved. coquetry had not availed her; it had fallen off him unrecognised--this man who answered it absently, and thought his own thoughts. and with the divine pertinacity of life itself she delved in the ancient wisdom of her sex for a lure to make him rise and follow her. it was not bright eyes nor red lips that could move or please him? but she had seen him moved, aroused. the hint was plain. instantly abandoning her personal siege, she espoused the cause of her bodiless rival. "i--i heard you a-speakin' back there," she said with a little catch in her breath. bonbright's eyes returned from the far distances to which they had travelled after giving her--judith barrier, so worthy of a blue-eyed youth's respectful attention--a passing glance. she replied to his gaze with one full of a meaning to him at that time indecipherable; nevertheless it was an ardent, compelling look which he must needs answer with some confession of himself. "you wouldn't understand what i was trying to tell about," he began gently. "since i've been living in the valley, where folks get rich and see a heap of what they call pleasure, i've had many a hard thought about the lives of our people up yonder in the mountains. i want to go back to my people with--i want to tell them--" the girl leaned forward in her saddle, burning eyes fixed on his intent face, red lips apart. "yes--what?" she breathed. "what is it you want to say to the folks back home? you ort to come and say it. we need it bad." "do you think so?" asked bonbright doubtfully. "do you reckon they would listen to me? i don't know. sometimes i allow maybe i'd better stay here where the judge wants me to till i'm an older man and more experienced." he studied the beautiful, down-bent face greedily now, but it was not the eye of a man looking at a maid. his thoughts were with the work he hoped to do. judith's heart contracted with fear, and then set off beating heavily. wait till he was an old man? would love wait? somebody else would claim him--some town girl would find the way to charm him. in sheer terror she put down her hand and laid it upon his. "don't you never think it," she protested. "you're needed right now. after a while will be too late. why, i come a-past your old home in the rain last wednesday, and i could 'a' cried to see the winders dark, and the grass all grown up to the front door. you come back whar you belong--" she had almost said "honey"--"and you'll find there is need a-plenty for folks like you." "well, they all allow that i'll be elected next thursday," creed assented, busying himself over the lengthening of beck's bridle, that she might lead the mule the more handily. "and if i am i'll be in the turkey tracks along in april and find me a place to set up an office. if i'm elected----" "elected! an' ef yo'r not?" she cried, filled with scorn of such a paltry condition. what difference could it make whether or not he were elected? wouldn't his hair be just as yellow, his eyes as blue? would his voice be any less the call to love? he smiled at her tolerantly, handing up the lengthened strap. "well, i don't just rightly know what i will do, then," he debated. "but you're a-comin' up to the turkey tracks anyhow, to--to see yo' folks," persisted judith with a rising triumph in her tone. "yes," acquiesced bonbright, "i'll come up in april anyhow." and with this assurance the girl rode slowly away, leading beck, the now resigned pete following behind. all the sounds from the valley were gathered as in a vast bowl and flung upward, refined by distance. a moment she halted listening, then breasted the first rise and entered that deep silence which waits the mountain dweller. the great forest closed about her. creed bonbright stood for a moment in the open road looking after her. something she had conveyed to him, some call sent forth, which had not quite reached the ear of his spirit, and yet which troubled his calm. he lifted his gaze toward the bulk of the big mountain looming above him. he passed his hand absently through his fair hair, then tossed his head back with a characteristic motion. it was good to know he was needed up there. it was good to know he would be welcomed. so far the girl had made her point. after this the mountains and judith barrier would mean one thing in the young man's mind. as the shortest way to them both, he turned and walked swiftly down toward the settlement and to the undertaking which there awaited him. chapter ii at "the edge" the girl on the sorrel nag and the two riderless animals toiled patiently up the broad, timbered flank of big turkey track, following the raw red gash in the greenery that was the road. she gazed with wondering eyes at the familiar landmarks of the trail. all was just as it had been when she rode down it at dawn that morning, andy and jeff ahead on their mules whistling, singing, skylarking like two playful bear cubs. it was herself that was changed. she pushed the cheap hat off her hot forehead and tried to win to some coherence of thought and--so far had she already come on a new, strange path--looked back with wondering uncomprehension, as upon the beliefs and preferences of a crude primitive ancestress, to the girl who had cared that this hat cost a dollar and a half instead of a dollar and a quarter--only a few hours since when she bought it at the store. she went over the bits of talk that had been between her and creed bonbright. what had he said his favourite colour was? memory brought back his rapt young face when she put the question to him. she trembled with delight at the recollection. his eyes were fixed upon the sky, and he had answered her absently, "blue." blue! what a fool--what a common thickheaded fool she had been all her days! she let the sorrel take his own gait, hooked his bridle-rein and beck's upon the saddle-horn, and lifting her arms withdrew the hatpins and took off the unworthy headgear. for a moment she regarded savagely the cheap red ribbon which had appeared so beautiful to her; then with strong brown fingers tore it loose and flung it in the dust of the road, where pete shied at it, and the stolid beck coming on with flapping ears set hoof upon it. what vast world forces move with our movements, pluck us uncomprehending from the station we had struggled for, and make our sorrowful meat of our attained desires! the stars in their courses pivot and swing on these subtle attractions, ancient as themselves. judith barrier, tearing the gaudy ribbon from her hat and casting it upon the road under her horse's feet, stood to learn what the priests of isis knew thousands of years ago, that red is the symbol of pleasure and of mere animal comfort, while blue is the colour of pure reason. halfway up the trail they rode into a cloud that rested trembling on the mountain-side, passed through it and emerged upon fitful sunlight. near the top there came a sudden shower which descended with the souse of an overturned bucket. it won small attention from judith, but pete and beck resented it in mule fashion, with a laying back of ears and lashing out of heels. these amenities were exchanged for the most part across the intervening sorrel nag and his rider, and selim replied promptly and in kind, almost unseating judith. "you selim!" she cried jerking the rein. "you feisty pete! you no-account beck! what ails you-all? cain't you behave?" and once more she lapsed into dreaming. it was selim who, wise and old, stopped at aunt nancy card's gate and gave judith an opportunity to descend if such were her preference. on the porch of the cabin sat a tall, lean, black-eyed old man smoking his pipe, jephthah turrentine himself. nancy card, a dry, brown little sparrow of a woman, occupied a chair opposite him, and negotiated a pipe quite as elderly and evil-smelling as his own. the kerchief folded about her neck was notably white; her clean check-apron rustled with starch; but the half-grey hair crinkling rebelliously from its loose coil was never confined by anything more rigorous than a tucking comb. in moments of stress this always slipped down, and had to be vigorously replaced, so that stray strands were apt to be tossing about her eyes--fearless, direct blue eyes, that looked out of her square, wrinkled, weather-beaten little face with the sincere gaze of an urchin. back of her chair lay a bundle of white-oak splits for use in her by-trade of basket-weaver; above them hung bundles of drying herbs, for nancy was a sick-nurse and a bit of an herb-doctor. she had made a hard and a more or less losing fight against poverty--the men folk of these hardy, valiant little women seem predestined to be shiftless. it came back to judith dimly as she looked at them--she was in a mood to remember such things--that her uncle had courted nancy card when these two were young people, that they had quarrelled, both had married, reared families, and been widowed; and they were quarrelling still! acrimonious debate with nancy was evidently such sweet pain that old jephthah sought every opportunity for it, and the sudden shower in the vicinity of her cabin had offered him an excuse to-day. nancy did not confine her practice to what she would have called humans, but doctored a horse or a cow with equal success. one cold spring a little chicken had its feet frozen in the wet barnyard so badly that it lost one of them, and nancy, who had taken the poor mite into the house and nursed it till she loved it, constructed for it a wooden leg consisting of a small, light peg strapped to the stump. and thereafter nicodemus, a rooster who must now belie the name since he could not cling to a perch with his single foot, became an institution in the card household. jephthah turrentine was a natural bone-setter, and was sent for far and near to reduce a dislocation or bandage a broken limb. in the pursuit of this which came to be almost a profession, he acquired a good knowledge of tending upon the sick, and the bitterness of rival practitioners was added to the score between him and nancy. the case of nicodemus furnished the man with a chance to call the woman a chicken doctor, and the name appealing to the humorous side of mountain character stuck to her, greatly to her disgust. aunt nancy's dooryard was famous for its flowers, being a riot of pied bloom from march till december. even now fire-in-the-bush and bridal wreath made gay the borders. "good land, jude barrier!" called nancy herself. "you're as wet as a drownded rat. 'light and come in." old turrentine permitted his niece to clamber from selim, and secure him and both mules. "whar's the boys?" he inquired in a great, sonorous bass, the deep, true-pitched voice promised by the contours of strong bony arches under heavy brows and the strong nose-bridge. "in jail," responded judith laconically, turning to enter the gate. then, as she walked up the hard-trodden clay path between the tossing, dripping heads of daffodils, "uncle jep, did you know creed bonbright's daddy?" "in jail!" echoed nancy card, making a pretence of trying to suppress a titter, and thereby rendering it more offensive. "ain't they beginnin' ruther young?" tall old jephthah got to his feet, knocked the ashes from his pipe and put it in his pocket. "who tuck 'em?" he inquired briefly, but with a fierce undernote in his tones. "what was they tuck fer?" "i never noticed," said judith, standing on the step before them, wringing the wet from her black calico riding skirt. "nobody named it to me what they was tuck fer. i was talkin' to creed bonbright, and he 'lowed to find out. he said that was his business." "creed bonbright," echoed her uncle; "what's he got to do with it? he's been livin' down in hepzibah studyin' to be a lawyer--did he have jeff and andy jailed?" judith shook her head. "he didn't have nothing to do with it," she answered. "he 'lowed they would be held for witnesses against some men haley had arrested. but he's goin' to come back and live on turkey track," she added, as though that were the only thing of importance in the world. "he says we-all need law in the mountings, and he's a-goin' to bring it to us." "well, he'd better let my boys alone if he don't want trouble," growled old jephthah but half appeased. "i reckon a little touch of law now an' agin won't hurt yo' boys," put in nancy card smoothly. "my chaps always tuck to law like a duck to water. i reckon i ain't got the right sympathy fer them that has lawless young 'uns." "yo' pony was arrested afore andy and jeff," judith remarked suddenly, without any apparent malice. "he was the first one i seen comin' down the road, and dan haley behind him a-shootin' at him." jephthah turrentine forebore to laugh. but he deliberately drew out his old pipe again, filled it and stepped inside for a coal with which to light it. "mebbe yo' sympathies will be more tenderer for me in my afflictions of lawless sons after this, nancy," he called derisively over his shoulder. "hit's bound to be a mistake 'bout pony," declared the little old woman in a bewildered tone. "pone ain't but risin' sixteen, and he's the peacefullest child----" "jest what i would have said about my twin lambs," interrupted old jephthah with twinkling eye, as he appeared in the doorway drawing mightily upon the newly lighted pipe, tossing his great beard from side to side of his mighty chest. "my chaps is all as peaceful as kittens; but some old woman gits to talkin' and gives 'em a bad name, and it goes from lip to lip that the turrentine boys is lawless. hit's a sad thing when a woman's tongue is too long and limber, and hung in the middle so it works at both ends; the reppytations hit can destroy is a sight." "but a body's own child--they' son! they' bound to stan' up for him, whether he's in the right or the wrong," maintained nancy stoutly. "huh," grunted jephthah, "offspring is cur'ous. sometimes hit 'pears like you air kin to them, and they ain't kin to you. that pony boy of your'n is son to a full mealsack; he's plumb filial and devoted thataway to a dollar, if so be he thinks you've got one in yo' pocket. the facts in the business air, nancy, that you've done sp'iled him tell he's plumb rotten, and a few of the jailings that you so kindly ricommend for my pair won't do him no harm." nancy tossed up her head to reply; but at the moment a small boy, followed by a smaller girl, coming around the corner of the house, created a diversion. the girl, a little dancing imp with a frazzle of flying red hair and red-brown eyes, catching sight of judith ran to her and flung herself head foremost in the visitor's lap, where judith cooed over her and cuddled her, rumpling the bright hair, rubbing her crimson cheek against the child's peachy bloom. "little buck and beezy," said nancy card, addressing them both, "yo' unc' pony's in jail. what you-all goin' to do about it?" the small brown man of six stopped, his feet planted wide on the sward, his freckled face grave and stern as became his sex. "ef the boys goes down for to git him out, i'm goin' along," little buck announced seriously. "is they goin', granny?" "i'll set my old rooster on the jail man, an' hit'll claw 'im," announced beezy, reckless of distance and likelihood. "my old rooster can claw dest awful, ef he ain't got but one leg." nancy chuckled. these grandchildren were the delight of her heart. the rain had ceased for the moment; the old man moved to the porch edge, sighting at the sky. "i don't know whar blatch is a-keepin' hisself," he observed. "mebbe i better be a-steppin'." but even as he spoke a tall young mountaineer swung into view down the road, dripping from the recent rain, and with that resentful air the best of us get from aggressions of the weather. blatchley turrentine, old jephthah's nephew, was as brown as an indian, and his narrow, glinting, steel-grey eyes looked out oddly cold and alien from under level black brows, and a fell of stiff black hair. when the orphaned judith, living in her uncle jephthah's family, was fourteen, the household had removed from the old turrentine place--which was rented to blatchley turrentine--to her better farm, whose tenant had proved unsatisfactory. well hidden in a gulch on the turrentine acres there was an illicit still, what the mountain people call a blockade still; and it had been in pretty constant operation in earlier years. when jephthah abandoned those stony fields for judith's more productive acres, he definitely turned his own back upon this feature, but blatch turrentine revived the illegal activities and enlisted the old man's boys in them. jeff and andy had a tobacco patch in one corner where the ground suited, and in another field jim cal raised a little corn. aside from these small ventures, the place was given over entirely to the secret still. the father held scornfully aloof; his attitude was characteristic. "ef i pay no tax i'll make no whiskey," he declared. "you-all boys will find yourselves behind bars many a time when you'd ruther be out squirrel-huntin'. ef you make blockade whiskey every fool that gits mad at you has got a stick to hold over you. you are good-lord-good-devil to everybody, for fear they'll lead to yo' still; or else you mix up with folks about the business and kill somebody an' git a bad name. these here blockaded stills calls every worthless feller in the district; most o' the foolishness in this country goes on around 'em when the boys gits filled up. i let every man choose his callin', but i don't choose to be no moonshiner, and ef you boys is wise you'll say the same." as blatchley came up now and caught sight of the animals tethered at the fence he began irritably: "what in the name of common sense did andy and jeff leave they' mules here for? i can't haul any corn till i get the team and the waggon together." "looks like you've hauled too many loads of corn that nobody knows the use of," broke out the irrepressible nancy. "andy and jeff's in jail, and some fool has tuck my little pone along with the others." blatch flung a swift look at his uncle; but whatever his private conviction, to dishonour a member of his tribe in the face of the enemy, on the heels of defeat, was not what jephthah turrentine would do. "the boys is likely held for witnesses, jude allows," the elder explained briefly. "you take one mule and i'll ride 'tother," he added. "i'll he'p ye with the corn." this was a great concession, and as such blatchley accepted it. "all right," he returned. "much obliged." then he glanced unconcernedly at judith, and, instead of making that haste toward the corn-hauling activities which his manner had suggested, moved loungingly up the steps. beezy, from her sanctuary in judith's lap, viewed him with contemptuous disfavour. her brother, not so safely situated, made to pass the intruder, going wide like a shying colt. with a sudden movement blatchley caught the child by the shoulders. there was a pantherlike quickness in the pounce that was somehow daunting from an individual of this man's size and impassivity. "hold on thar, young feller," the newcomer remarked. "whar you a-goin' to, all in sech haste?" "you turn me a-loose," panted the child. "i'm a-goin' over to my jude." "oh, she's yo' jude, is she? well they's some other folks around here thinks she's their jude--what you goin' to do about it?" all this time he held the small, dignified atom of humanity in a merciless grip that made little buck ridiculous before his beloved, and fired his childish soul to a very ecstasy of helpless rage. "i'll--kill--you when i git to be a man!" the child gasped, between tears and terror. "i'll thest kill you--and i'll wed jude. you turn me a-loose--that's what you do." blatch laughed tauntingly and raised the little fellow high in air. "ef i was to turn you a-loose now hit'd bust ye," he drawled. "i don't keer. i----" around the corner of the cabin drifted nicodemus, the wooden-legged rooster, stumping gravely with his dot-and-carry-one gait. "lord, nancy, thar comes the one patient ye ever cured!" chuckled old jephthah. "i don't wonder yo're proud enough of him to roof him and affectionate him for the balance of his life." "i reckon you'd do the same, ef so be ye should ever cure one," snapped nancy, rising instantly to the bait, and turning her back on the others. "as 't is, ef they hilt the buryin' from the house of the feller that killed the patient i reckon jude wouldn't have nothin' to do but git up funeral dinners." little buck, despairing of granny's interference, began to cry. at the sound judith came suddenly out of a revery to spring up and catch him away from the hateful restraining hands. "i don't know what the lord's a-thinkin' about to let sech men as you live, blatch turrentine!" she said almost mechanically. "ef i was a-tendin' to matters i'd 'a' had you dead long ago. ef you're good for anything on this earth i don't know what it is." "oh, yes you do," blatchley returned as the old man started down the steps. "i'd make the best husband for you of any feller in the two turkey tracks--and you'll find it out one of these days." the girl answered only with a contemptuous glance. "come again--when you ain't got so long to stay," nancy sped them sourly. "jude, you'd better set awhile and get your skirts dry." she looked after blatch as he moved up the road, then at little buck, so ashamed of his trembling lip. her face darkened angrily. she turned slowly to judith. "what you gwine to do with that feller, jude?" she queried significantly. "do? why, nothin'. he ain't nothin' to me," responded the girl indifferently. "he ain't, hey? well, he's bound to marry ye, honey," said the older woman. "huh, he ain't the first--and won't be the last, i reckon," assented judith easily. "ye'd better watch out fer that man, jude," persisted nancy, after a moment's silence. "he'll git ye, yet. i know his kind. he ain't a-keerin' fer yo' ruthers--whether you want him or no. he jest aims to have _you_." "well, i reckon he'll about have to aim over agin," observed the unmoved judith. "an' elder drane? air ye gwine to take him?--i know he's done axed ye," pursued nancy hesitantly. "'bout 'leven times," agreed judith with perfect seriousness. "no--i wouldn't have the man, not ef he's made of pure gold." she added with a sudden little smile and a catch of the breath: "them's awful nice chaps o' his; i'd most take him to git them. the baby now--hit's the sweetest thing!" and she tumbled beezy tumultuously in her lap, then suddenly inquired, apparently without any volition of her own, "aunt nancy, did you know creed bonbright's folks?" "good lord, yes!" returned old nancy. "but come on inside and set, jude. this sun ain't a-goin' to dry yo' skirt. come in to the fire. don't take that thar cheer, the behime legs is broke, an' it's apt to lay you sprawling. i've knowed creed bonbright sence he wasn't knee-high to a turkey, and i knowed his daddy afore him, and his grand-daddy, for the matter of that." avoiding the treacherous piece of furniture against which she had been warned, judith slipped out of her wet riding-skirt and arranged it in front of the fire to dry, turning then and seating herself on the broad hearth at nancy's knee, where she prompted feverishly, "and is all the bonbrights moved out of the neighbourhood?" the old woman drew a few meditative whiffs on her pipe. "all gone," she nodded; "some of 'em killed up in the big feud, and some moved away--mostly to texas." presently she added: "that there bonbright tribe is a curious nation of folks. they're always after great things, and barkin' their shins against rocks in the way. creed's mammy--she was judge gillenwaters's sister, down in hepzibah--died when he was no bigger'n little buck, and his pappy never wedded again. we used to name him and creed big 'fraid and little 'fraid; they was always round together, like a man and his shadder. then the feuds broke out mighty bad, and the blackshearses got esher bonbright one night in a mistake for some of my kin--or so it was thort. anyhow, the man was dead, and creed lived with me fer a spell till his uncle down in hepzibah wanted him to come and learn to be a lawyer." "lived right here--in this house?" inquired judith, looking around her, as she rose and turned the riding-skirt. "lord, yes--why not? you would a-knowed all about it, only your folks never moved in from the fur cove neighbourhood till the year creed went down to the settlement." the girl sank back on the hearth, but continued to gaze about her, and the tell-tale expression in her eyes seemed to afford nancy card much quiet amusement. "do you reckon he'll live with you again when he comes back into the mountains?" she inquired finally. "i reckon he'll be weddin' one of them thar town gals and fetchin' a wife home to his own farm over by yo' house," suggested the inveterate tease. judith went suddenly white, and then red. "you don't know of anybody--you hain't heard he was promised, have you?" she hesitated. "i ain't hearn that he was, and i ain't hearn that he wasn't," returned nancy serenely. "the gal that gits creed bonbright'll be doin' mighty well; but also she may not find hit right easy for to trap him. i'll promise ef he does come up hyer again i'll speak a good word for you, jude. the lord knows i don't see how you make out to live with that thar old man. you'll deserve a crown and a harp o' gold sot with diamonds ef you stan' it much longer." judith put on the now thoroughly dried riding-skirt, and the two women went outside together. "well, good-bye, aunt nancy," she said, as she led the sorrel nag to the edge of the porch and made ready to mount. "i'll be over and bring the pieces for you to start me out on that risin' sun quilt a-wednesday." it was late afternoon as she took her homeward way across the level of the broad mountain-top to the turrentine place. she left the main-travelled road and struck directly into a forest short-cut. after the rain earth and sky were newly washed; the clear, sweetened air was full of the scent of damp loam and new-ploughed fields; the colours about her were freshened and glad, and each distant bird-note rang clear and vivid. to mrs. rhody staggart and her likes at hepzibah she might be a crude, awkward country girl; here she was a princess in her own domain; and it was a noble realm through which she moved as she went forward under the great trees that rose straight and tall from a black soil, making pillared aisles away from her on every side. the fern was thick under foot--it would brush her saddle-girth, come midsummer. down the long vistas under the greening trees, where the moist air hung thick, her bemused eyes caught the occasional roseflash of azalea through the pearly mist, her nostril was greeted by their wandering, intensely sweet perfume, with its curious undernote of earth smell. she smiled vaguely at the first butterfly she had seen, and again as she noted the earliest lizard basking in the sun-warmed hollow of a big rock. absently her gaze sought for cinnamon fern in low woods, sweet fern in the thickets, and exquisite maidenhair just beginning to uncurl from the black leaf mould of dripping brakes. like a woman in a dream she made her progress, riding through the wonderful stillness of the vast wild land, an ocean on which each littlest sound was afloat, so that each was given its true value almost like a musical tone. an awful, beautiful silence this, brooding back of every sound; nothing in such a place gives forth mere senseless noise; the ripple of frogs in marsh and spring branch fall upon the sense as sweet as bird-songs. the clamour of little falls, the solemn suggestion of wind in the pines, the sweet broken jangle of cow-bells, a catbird in a tree--a continuous yet zigzag sort of warble, silver and sibilant notes alternating,--the rare wild turkey's call along a deeply embowered creek--one by one all these came to judith's dreaming ears, clear, perfect, individual, on the majestic sea of silence about her. she turned selim's head at a little intersecting trail, and rode considerably out of her way to pass the old bonbright place and brood upon its darkened windows and grass-besieged doorstone. some day all that would be changed. still in her waking dream she unsaddled selim at the log barn, and turned him loose in his open pasture. she laid off her town attire, put on her cotton working-dress, kindled afresh the fire on the broad hearthstone and got supper. her uncle jephthah and blatch turrentine came in late, weary from their work of hauling corn to that destination which old nancy had announced as disreputably indefinite. the second son of the family, wade, a man of perhaps twenty-four, was with them, and had already been told of the mishap to andy and jeff. old jephthah sat at the head of the board, his black beard falling to his lap, his finely domed brow relieved against a background of shadows. judith needed the small brass lamp at the hearthstone, and a tallow candle rather inadequately lit the supper-table. the corners of the room were in darkness; only the cloth and dishes, the faces and hands of those about the table showed forth in sudden light or motion. hung on the rough walls, and glimpsed in occasional flickers only, were judith's big maple bread-bowl, the churn-dash, spurtle, sedge-broom, and a round glass bottle for rolling piecrust; cheek by jowl with old jephthah's bullet moulds and the pot-hooks he had forged for judith. there were strings of dried pumpkin, too, and of shining red peppers. on a low shelf, scarce visible at all in the dense shadow, stood a keg of sorghum, and one beside it of vinegar, flanked by the butter-keeler and the salt piggin with its cedar staves and hickory hoops. and there, too, was the broken coffee-pot in which garden seeds were hoarded. "what's all this i hear about andy and jeff bein' took?" inquired a plaintive voice from the darkened doorway whose door, with its heavy, home-made latch, swung back against the wall on its great, rude, wooden hinges, as abruptly out of the shadow appeared a man who set a plump hand on either jamb and stared into the room with a round, white, anxiously inquiring face. it was jim cal, eldest of the sons of jephthah turrentine, married, and living in a cabin a short distance up the slope. "who give the information?" he asked as soon as he had peered all about the room and found no outsider present. "well, we hearn that _you_ did, podner," jeered blatch. "come in and set," invited the head of the household, with the mountaineer's unforgetting hospitality. "draw up--draw up. reach and take off." "well--i--i might," faltered the fleshy one, sidling toward the table and getting himself into a seat. without further word his father passed the great dish of fried potatoes, then the platter of bacon. judith brought hot coffee and corn pone for him. she did not sit down with the men, having quite enough to do to get the meal served. unheedingly she heard the matter discussed at the table; only when creed bonbright's name came up was she moved to listen and put in her word. something in her manner of describing the assistance bonbright offered seemed to go against blatch's grain. "got to look out for these here folks that's so free with their offers o' he'p," he grunted. "man'll slap ye on the back and tell ye what a fine feller ye air whilst he's feelin' for your pocket-book--that's town ways." the girl was like one hearkening for a finer voice amid all this distracting noise; she could hear neither. she made feverish haste to clear away and wash her dishes, that she might creep to her own room under the eaves. through her open casement came up to her the sounds of the april night: a heightened chorus of little frogs in a rain-fed branch; nearer in the dooryard a half-dozen tree-toads trilling plaintively as many different minors; with these, scents of growing, sharpened and sweetened by the dark. and all night the cedar tree which stood close to the porch edge below moved in the wind of spring, and, chafing against the shingles, spoke through the miniature music in its deep, muffled legato, a soft baritone note like a man's voice--a lover's voice--calling to her beneath her window. it roused her from fitful slumbers to happy waking, when she lay and stared into the dark, and painted for herself on its sombre background creed bonbright's figure, the yellow uncovered head close to her knee as he stood and talked at the foot of the mountain trail. and the voice of the tree in the eager spring airs said to her waiting heart--whispered it softly, shouted and tossed it abroad so that all might have heard it had they been awake and known the shibboleth, murmured it in tones of tenderness that penetrated her with bliss--that creed was coming--coming--coming to her, through the april woods. chapter iii suitors april was in the mountains. all the vast timbered slopes and tablelands of the cumberlands were one golden dapple, as yet differentiated by darker greens and heavier shadows only where some group of pine or cedar stood. april in the cumberlands is the may or early june of new england. here march has the days of shine and shower; while to february belongs the gusty turbulence usually attributed to march. now sounded the calls of the first whippoorwills in the dusk of evening; now the first mocking-bird sang long before day, very sweetly and softly, and again before moonrise; hours of sun he filled with bolder rejoicings, condescending in his more antic humour to mimic the hens that began to cackle around the barn. every thicket by the water-courses blushed with azaleas; all the banks were gay with wild violets. throughout march's changeful emotional season, night after night in those restless vehement impassioned airs, the cedar tree talked ardently to judith. through april's softer nights she wakened often to listen to it. it went fondly over its first assurances. and the time of creed bonbright's advent was near at hand now. thought of it made light her step as she went about her work. "don't you never marry a lazy man, jude." the wife of jim cal turrentine halted on the doorstep, a coarse white cup containing the coffee she had come to borrow poised in her hand as she turned to harangue the girl in the kitchen. "i ain't aimin' to wed no man. huh, i say marry! i'm not studyin' about marryin'," promptly responded judith in the mountain girl's unfailing formula; but she coloured high, and bent, pot-hooks in hand, to the great hearth to shift the clumsy dutch oven that contained her bread. "that's what gals allers says," commented iley turrentine discontentedly. "huldy's forever singin' that tune. but let a good-lookin' feller come in reach and i 'low any of you will change the note. huldy's took her foot in her hand and put out--left me with the whole wash to do, and jim cal in the bed declarin' he's got a misery in his back. don't you never wed a lazy man." "whar's huldy gone?" inquired judith, sauntering to the door and looking out on the glad beauty of the april morning with fond brooding eyes. the grotesque bow-legged pot-hooks dangled idly in her fingers. "over to nancy cyard's to git her littlest spinnin' wheel--so she _said_. i took notice that she had a need for that wheel as soon as ever she hearn tell that creed bonbright was up from hepzibah stayin' at the cyards's." had not iley been so engrossed with her own grievances, the sudden heat of the look judith turned upon her must have enlightened her. "huldy knowed him right well when she was waitin' on table at miz. huffaker's boarding-house down at hepzibah," the woman went on. "i ain't got no use for these here fellers that's around tendin' to the whole world's business--they' own chil'en is mighty apt to go hongry. but thar, what does a gal think of that by the side o' curly hair and soft-spoken ways?" for judith barrier at once all the light was gone out of the spring morning. the bird in the rose of sharon bush that she had taken for a thrush--why, the thing cawed like a crow. she could have struck her visitor. and then, with an uncertain impulse of gratitude, she was glad to be told anything about creed, to be informed that others knew his hair was yellow and curly. "gone?" sounded old jephthah's deep tones from within, as mrs. jim cal made her reluctant way back to a sick husband and a house full of work and babies. "lord, to think of a woman havin' the keen tongue that iley's got, and her husband keepin' fat on it!" "uncle jep," inquired judith abruptly, "did you know creed bonbright was at nancy card's--stayin' there, i mean?" "no," returned the old man, seeing in this a chance to call at the cabin, where, beneath the reception that might have been offered an interloper, even a duller wit than his might have divined a secret cordial welcome. "i reckon i better find time to step over that way an' ax is there anything i can do to he'p 'em out." "i wish 't you would," assented judith so heartily that he turned and regarded her with surprise. "an' ef you see huldy over yon tell her she's needed at home. jim cal's sick, and iley can't no-way git along without her." "i reckon james calhoun turrentine ain't got nothin' worse 'n the old complaint that sends a feller fishin' when the days gits warm," opined jim cal's father. "i named that boy after the finest man that ever walked god's green earth--an' then the fool had to go and git fat on me! to think of me with a _fat_ son! i allers did hold that a fat woman was bad enough, but a fat man ort p'intedly to be led out an' killed." "jude, whar's my knife," came the call from the window in a masculine voice. "pitch it out here, can't you?" judith took the pocket-knife from the mantel, and going to the window tossed it to her cousin wade turrentine, who was shaping an axe helve at the chip pile. "do you know whar huldy's gone?" she inquired, setting her elbows on the sill and staring down at the young fellow accusingly. "nope--an' don't care neither," said wade, contentedly returning to his whittling. he was expecting to marry huldah spiller, iley's younger sister, within a few months, and the reply was thus conventional. "well, you'd better care," urged judith. "you better make her stay home and behave herself. she's gone over to nancy card's taggin' after creed bonbright. i wouldn't stand it ef i was you." "i ain't standin'--i'm settin'," retorted wade with rather feeble wit; but the girl noted with satisfaction the quick, fierce spark of anger that leaped to life in his clear hazel eyes, the instant stiffening of his relaxed figure. like a child playing with fire, she was ready to set alight any materials that came within reach of her reckless fingers, so only that she fancied her own ends might be served. now she went uneasily back to the hearthstone. her uncle, noting that she appeared engrossed in her baking, gave a surreptitious glance into the small ancient mirror standing on the high mantel, made a half-furtive exchange of coats, and prepared to depart. up at the crib blatch turrentine was loading corn, and jim cal came creeping across from his own cabin whence iley had ejected him. he stood for a while, humped, hands in pockets, watching the other's strong body spring lithely to its task. finally he began in his plaintive, ineffectual voice. "blatch, i take notice that you seem to be settin' up to jude. do ye think hit's wise?" the other grunted over a particularly heavy sack, swung it to the waggon bed, straightened himself suddenly, and faced his questioner with a look of dark anger. "i'd like to see the feller that can git her away from me!" he growled. "i wasn't a-meanin' that," said jim cal, patiently but uneasily shifting from the right foot to the left. "i'll admit--an' i reckon everybody on the place will say the same--that she's always give you mo' reason than another to believe she'd have ye. not but what that's jude's way, an' she's hilt out sech hopes to a-many. what pesters me is how you two would make out, once you was wed. jude's mighty pretty, but then again she's got a tongue." "her farm hain't," chuckled blatch, pulling a sack into place; "and i 'low jude wouldn't have after her and me had been wed a short while." "i don't know, blatch," maintained the fleshy one, timid yet persisting. "you're a great somebody for havin' yo' own way, an' jude's mighty high sperrity--why, you two would shorely fuss." "not more than once, we wouldn't," returned blatch with a meaning laugh. "the way to do with a woman like jude is to give her a civil beatin' to start out with and show her who's boss--wouldn't be no trouble after that. jude barrier has got a good farm. she's the best worker of any gal that i know, and i aim for to have her--an' this farm." within the house now judith, her cheeks glowing crimson as she bent above the heaped coals, was going with waxing resentment over the catalogue of huldah spiller's personal characteristics. her hair, huh! she was mighty particular to call it "aurbu'n," but a body might as well say red when they were namin' it, because red was what it was. if a man admired a turkey egg he would be likely to see beauty in huldah's complexion--some folks might wear a sunbonnet to bed, and freckle they would! a vision of the laughing black eyes and white flashing teeth that went with huldah spiller's red ringlets and freckles, and made her little hatchet face brilliant when she smiled or laughed, suddenly put judith on foot and running to the door. "uncle jep," she called after the tall receding form, "_oh_, uncle jep!" he turned muttering, "i hope to goodness jude ain't goin' to git the hollerin' habit. there's iley never lets jim cal git away from the house without hollerin' after him as much as three times, and the thing he'd like least to have knowed abroad is the thing she takes up with for the last holler." "uncle jep," came the clear hail from the doorway, "don't you fail to find huldy and send her straight home. tell her iley's nigh about give out, and jim cal's down sick in the bed--hear me?" he nodded and turned disgustedly. what earthly difference did it make about jim cal and huldah and iley? why should judith suddenly care? and then, being a philosopher and in his own manner an amateur of life, he set to work to analyze her motives, and guessed obliquely at them. the sight of his broad, retreating back evidently spurred judith to fresh effort. "uncle jep!" she screamed, cupping her hands about her red lips to make the sound carry. "ef you see creed bonbright tell him--howdy--for me!" the sound may not have carried to the old man's ears, but it reached a younger pair. blatch turrentine was just crossing through the grassy yard toward the "big road," and broyles's mill over on clear fork, where his load of corn would be ground to meal with which to feed that blockaded still on the old turrentine place which sometimes flung a delicate trail of smoke out over the flank of the slope across the gulch. as he heard judith's bantering cry, blatch pulled up his team with a muttered curse. he looked down at her through narrowed eyes, jerking his mules savagely and swearing at them in an undertone. he was a well-made fellow with a certain slouching grace about him as he sat on his load of corn; but there were evil promising bumps on either side of his jaws that spoke of obstinacy, even of ferocity; and there was something menacing in his surly passivity of attitude. he looked at the girl and his lip lifted with a peculiar sidelong sneer. "holler a little louder an' bonbright hisself'll hear ye," he commented as he started up his team and rattled away down the steep, stony road. sunday brought its usual train of visitors. the turrentine place was within long walking distance of brush arbor church, and whenever there was preaching they could count on a considerable overflow from that direction. the sunday after creed bonbright put in an appearance at nancy card's, there was preaching at brush arbor, but judith, nourishing what secret hopes may be conjectured, refused to make any preparation for attending service. "an' ye think ye won't go to meeting this fine sunshiny sabbath mornin', sister barrier?" elder drane put the query, standing anxious and carefully attired in his best before judith on the doorstep of her home. she shook her dark head, and looked past the elder toward the distant ranges. "i jest p'intedly cain't git away this morning," she said carelessly. the elder combed his sandy whiskers with a thoughtful forefinger. not thus had judith been wont to reply to him. always before, if there had been denial, there were too, reasons adduced, shy looks from the corners of those dark eyes and tender inquiries as to the health of his children. "is they--is they some particular reason that you cain't go this morning?" the widower inquired cautiously. there was, and that particular reason lay as far afield as the edge and nancy card's place, but judith barrier did not see fit to name it to this one of her suitors, who had brought her perhaps more glory than any other. she was impatient to be rid of him. like her mother earth, having occupied her time for lo! these several years in the building of an ideal from such unpromising materials as were then at hand, she was ready to sweep those tentative makings--confessed failures now that she found the type she really wanted--swiftly, ruthlessly to the limbo of oblivion. elihu drane stood high among his neighbours; he was a man of some education as well as comfortable means. his attention had been worth retaining once; now she smiled at him with a vague, impersonal sweetness, and repeated her statement that she couldn't go to church. "i've got too much to do," she qualified finally. "looks like the work in this house never is finished. and there's chicken and dumplin's to cook for dinner." the elder's pale blue eyes brightened. "walk down to the gate with me, won't you?" he said hopefully, "i've got somethin' to talk to you about." when they were out of earshot of the house, he began eagerly, "sister barrier you're workin' yourse'f to death here, in the sweet days of your youth. i did promise the last time that i never would beg you again to wed me, but looks like i can't stand by and hold my peace. if you was to trust yourse'f to me things would be different. i never did hold with a woman killin' herse'f with hard work. my first and second had everything that they could wish for, and i was good and ready to do more any time they named what it was. i've got a crank churn. none of these old back-breaking, up-and-down dashers for me. i hired a woman whenever my wife said the word. i don't think either of mine ever killed a chicken or cut a stick of firewood from the time they walked in the front door as a bride till they was carried out of it in their coffins." he stared eagerly into the downcast face beside him, but somewhere judith found strength to resist even these dazzling propositions. "i ain't studyin' about gittin' wedded," she told him most untruthfully. "looks like i'm a mighty cold-hearted somebody, elder drane. i jest can't fix it no way but to live here with my uncle jep and take care of him in his old days. oh, would you wait a minute?" as they reached the horse-block and the elder began to untie his mount with a discouraged countenance. "jest let me run back to the house--i won't keep you a second. i got some little sugar cookies for mart and lucy." mart and lucy were the elder's children. he stood looking after her as she ran lithely up the path, and wondered why she could love them so much and him so little. she came back laughing and a bit out of breath. "i expect we'll have company to-day," she told him comfortably. "we always do when there's preaching at the church, and i 'low i'd better stay home and see to the dinner." the elder had scarcely made his chastened adieux when the lusk girls came through the grove walking on either side of a young man. the lusk girls were judith's nearest neighbours--if you excepted huldah spiller at jim cal's cabin, and at the present judith certainly was in the mind to make an exception of her. the sisters were seldom seen apart; narrow shouldered, short waisted, thin limbed young creatures, they were even at seventeen bowing to a deprecating stoop. their little faces were alike, short-chinned with pink mouths inclined to be tremulous, the eyes big, blue, and half-frightened in expression, and the drab hair drawn away from the small foreheads so tightly that it looked almost grey. they inevitably reminded one of a pair of blue and white night-moths, scarcely fitted for a daylight world, and continually afraid of it. "cousin lacey's over from the far cove," called pendrilla before they reached judith. "ain't it fine? ef we-all can git up a play-party he says he'll shore come ef we let him know in time." the young fellow with them, their cousin lacey rountree, showed sufficient resemblance to mark the family type, but his light eyes were lit with reckless fires, and his short chin was carried with a defiant tilt. "what you foolin' along o' that old feller for, judith?" he asked jerking an irreverent thumb after the departing elder. "i wasn't fooling with him," returned judith, her red lips demure, her brown eyes laughing above them through their thick fringe of lashes. "elder drane was consulting me about church matters--sech as children like you have no call to meddle with." young rountree smiled, "i'll bet he was!" picking up a stone and firing it far into the blue in sheer exuberance of youthful joy. "did he name anything about a weddin' in church?" "elder drane is a mighty fine man," asserted judith, suddenly sober. "any gal might be glad to git him. but its my belief and opinion that his heart is buried with his first--or his second," and she laughed out suddenly at the unintentional humorous conclusion she had made. "see here, jude," the boy put it boldly as the four young people strolled toward the house, "you're too pretty and sweet to be anybody's thirdly. next time old man drane comes pesterin' round you, you tell him that you're promised to me--hear?" again judith laughed. it is impossible to talk seriously to a boy with whom one has played hat-ball and prisoner's base, whose hair one has pulled, and who has, in retort courteous, rolled one in the dust. "i'm in earnest if i ever was in my life," asserted lacey, taking it quite as a matter of course that cliantha and pendrilla should be made party to his courting. and the two little old maids of seventeen looked with wondering admiration at judith's management of all this masculine attention--her careless, discounting smile for their swaggering young cousin, her calm acceptance of imposing elder drane's humble and persistent wooing. chapter iv building judith awakened that morning with the song of the first thrush sounding in her ears. day was not yet come, but she knew instantly it was near dawn, so soon as she heard the keen, cool, unmatched thrush voice. not elaborate the song like the bobolink, nor passionate like the nightingale, nor with the bravura of the oriole; but low or loud, its pure tones are always penetrating, piercing the heart of their hearer with exquisite sweetness. the girl lay long in the dark listening, and it seemed to her half awakened consciousness that this voice in the april dawn was like creed bonbright. these notes, lucid, passionless, that yet always stirred her heart strangely, and the selfless personality, the high-purposed soul that spoke in him, they were akin. the crystal tones flowed on; judith harkened, the ear of her spirit alert for a message. yes, creed was like that. and her feeling for him too, it partook of the same quality, a thing to climb toward rather than concede. and then after all her tremulous hopes, her plannings, the dozen times she had taken a certain frock from its peg minutely inspecting and repairing it, that it might be ready for wear on the great occasion, the first meeting with creed found judith unprepared, happening in no wise as she would have chosen. she was at the milking lot, clad in the usual dull blue cotton gown in which the mountain woman works. she had filled her two pails and set them on the high bench by the fence while she turned the calves into the small pasture reserved for them and let old red and piedy out. he approached across the fields from the direction of his own house, and naturally saw her before she observed him. it was early morning. the sky was blue and wide and high, with great shining piles of white cloud swimming lazily at the horizon, cutting sharply against its colour. around the edges of the cow-lot peach trees were all in blossom and humming with bees, their rich, amethystine rose flung up against the gay april sky in a challenge of beauty and joy. the air was full of the promises of spring, keen, bracing, yet with an undercurrent of languorous warmth. there was a ragged fleece of bloom, sweet and alive with droning insects, over a plum thicket near the woods,--half-wild, brambly things, cousin on the one hand to the cultivated farm, and on the other to the free forest,--while beyond, through the openings of the timber, dogwood flamed white in the sun. judith came forward and greeted the newcomer, all unaware of the picture she made, tall and straight and pliant in her simple blue cotton, under the wonderful blue-and-white sky and the passionate purple pink of the blossoms, with the scant folds of her frock outlining the rounded young body, its sleeves rolled up on her fine arms, its neck folded away from the firm column of her throat, the frolic wind ruffling the dark locks above her shadowy eyes. there were strange gleams in those dark eyes; her red lips were tremulous whether she spoke or not. it was as though she had some urgent message for him which waited always behind her silence or her speech. "i thought i'd come over and get acquainted with my neighbours," bonbright began in his impersonal fashion. "uncle jep and the boys has gone across to the far place ploughing to-day," said judith. "they's nobody at home but jim cal and his wife--and me." she forebore to add the name of huldah spiller, though her angry eye descried that young woman ostentatiously hanging wash on a line back of the jim cal cabin. "i won't stop then this morning," said bonbright. "i'll get along over to the far place. i wanted to have speech with your uncle. he was at aunt nancy's the other day and we had some talk; he knows more about what i'm aiming at up here then i do. a man of his age and good sense can be a sight of help to me." "uncle jep will be proud to do anything he can," said judith softly. "won't you come in and set awhile?" she dreaded that the invitation might hurry him away, and now made hasty use of the first diversion that offered. he had broken a blooming switch from the peach-tree beneath which he stood, and she reproached him fondly. "look at you. now there won't never be no peaches where them blossoms was." he twisted the twig in his fingers and smiled down at her, conscious of a singular and personal kindness between them, aware too, for the first time, that she was young, beautiful, and a woman; before, she had been merely an individual to him. "my mother used to say that to me when i would break fruit blows," he said meditatively. "but father always pruned his trees when they were in blossom--they can't any of them bear a peach for every bloom." she shook her head as though giving up the argument, since it was after all a matter of sentiment. her dark, rich-coloured beauty glowed its contrast to his cool, northern type. at present neither spoke more than a few syllables of the spiritual language of the other, yet so powerful was the attraction between them that even creed began to feel it, while judith, the primitive woman, all given over to instinct, promptly laid about her for something to hold and interest him. "the young folks is a-goin' to get up a play-party at our house sometime soon," she hazarded. "i reckon you wouldn't come to any such as that, would you?" "i'd be proud to come," returned creed at once. but he spoiled it by adding, "i've got to get acquainted with people all over again, it's so long since i lived here; and looks like i'm not a very good mixer." "will you sure come?" inquired judith insistently, as she saw him preparing to depart. "i sure will." "you could stay over night in your own house then--ain't you comin' back, ever, to live there?" "why, yes, i reckon i might stay there over night, but it's too far from the main road for a justice's office." "well, if you're going to try to sleep in the house, it ort to be opened up and sunned a little; you better let me have the key now," observed judith, assuming airs of proprietorship over his inept masculinity. smiling, he got the key from his pocket and handed it to her. "help yourself to anything you want for the party, or any other time," he said in mountain fashion. she looked down at that key with the pride of one to whom had been given the freedom of a city. its possession enabled her to bear it with a fair degree of equanimity when huldah spiller, having "jest slung her clothes anyway onto that line," as judith phrased it to herself, came panting and laughing across the slope between the two houses and called a gay "howdy!" to the visitor. the lively little red haired flirt professed greatly to desire news of certain persons in hepzibah, and as creed was departing sauntered unconcernedly beside him as far as the draw-bars, detaining him in conversation there as long as possible. she had an instinctive knowledge that judith, looking on, was deeply disturbed. creed set his justice's office about a hundred yards from nancy card's cabin, on the main road that led through the two turkey track neighbourhoods out to rainy gap and the far cove settlement. the little shack was built of the raw yellow boards which the new saw-mill was ripping out of pine trees over on the shoulder of big turkey track above garyville. most of the mountain dwellers still preferred log houses, and the lumber was sent down the mountain by means of a little gravity railway, whose car was warped up after each trip by a patient old mule working in a circular treadmill. god knows with what high hopes the planks of that humble shanty were put in place, with what visions sill and window-frame were shaped and joined, aunt nancy going out and in at her household tasks calling good counsel over to him; beezy, the irrepressible, adding shaving curls to her red frazzle; little buck, furnished with hammer and tacks, gravely assisting, pounding his fingers only part of the time. hens were coming off. old nancy had a great time with notionate mothers hatching out broods under the floor or in the stable loft, and the plaintive cheep-cheep! of the "weedies" added its note to the chorus of sounds as the children followed them about, now and then catching up a ball of fluff to pet it, undeterred by indignant clucks from the parent. as creed whistled over his work, he saw a shadowy train coming down the road, the people whom he should help, his people, to whose darkness he should bring light and counsel. they knew so little, and needed so much. true, his own knowledge was not great; but it was all freely at their service. his heart swelled with good-will as he prepared to open his modest campaign of usefulness. to come into leadership naturally a man should be the logical outgrowth of his class and time, and this creed knew he was not. yet he had pondered the matter deeply, and put it thus to himself: the peasant of europe can only rise through stages of material prosperity to a point of development at which he craves intellectual attainment, or spiritual growth. but the mountaineer is always a thinker; he has even in his poverty a hearty contempt for luxury, for material gain at the expense of personality. with his disposition to philosophy, fostered by solitude and isolation, he readily overleaps those gradations, and would step at once from obscurity to the position of a man of culture were the means at hand. "bonbright," remonstrated jephthah turrentine, in the first conversation the two held upon the subject, "ye cain't give people what they ain't ready to take. ef our folks wanted law and order, don't you reckon they'd make the move to get it?" "that's it exactly, mr. turrentine," responded creed quickly. "they need to be taught what to want." "oh, they do, do they?" inquired jephthah with a humorous twitch of the lips. "well, ef you're a-goin' to set up to teach, hadn't you better have a school-house, place of a jestice's office?" "maybe you're right. i reckon you are--exactly right," creed assented thoughtfully. "i'd studied about that considerable. i reckon i'm a more suitable age for a schoolmaster than for a justice; and the children--but that would take a long time; and i wanted to give the help where it was worst needed." "oh, well, 'tain't a hangin' matter," old jephthah smiled at the younger man's solemn earnestness. "ef this new fangled buildin' o' yours don't get used for a jestice's office we can turn it into a school-house; we need one powerful bad." the desultory, sardonic, deep-voiced, soft-footed, mountain carpenters who worked leisurely and fitfully with creed were always mightily amused by the exactness of the "town feller's" ideas. "why lordy! lookee hyer creed," remonstrated doss provine, over a question of matching boards and battening joints, "ef you git yo' pen so almighty tight as that you won't git no fresh air. man's bound to have ventilation. course you can leave the do' open all the time like we-all do; but when yo're a-holdin' co't and sech-like maybe you'll want to shet the do' sometimes--and then whar'll ye git breath to breathe?" "i reckon creed knows his business," put in the old man who was helping doss, "but all these here glass winders is blame foolishness to _me_. ef ye need light, open the do'. ef somebody comes that you don't want in, you can shet it and put up a bar. but saw the walls full o' holes an' set in glass winders, an' any feller that's got a mind to can pick ye off with a rifle ball as easy as not whilst ye set by the fire of a evenin'." he shook a reprehending head, hoary with the snows of years, and containing therefore, presumably, wisdom. he had learned the necessary points of life in his environment, and as always occurs, the younger generation seemed to him lavishly reckless. it was only old jephthah's criticisms that creed really minded. "uh-huh," allowed jephthah, settling his hands on his hips and surveying the yellow pine structure tolerantly; "mighty sightly for them that likes that kind o' thing. but i hold with a good log house, becaze it's apt to be square. these here town doin's that looks like a man with a bile on his ear never did ketch me. ef ye hew out good oak or pine timber ye won't be willin' to cut short lengths for to make such foolishness." creed would often have explained to his critics that he did not expect to get into feuds and have neighbours pot-hunting him through his glass windows, that he needed the light from them to study or read, and that his little house was as square as any log hut ever constructed; but they lumped it all together and made an outsider of him--which hurt. word went abroad to the farthest confines of the turkey track neighbourhoods, carried by herders who took sheep, hogs, or cows up into the high-hung inner valleys of yellow old bald, or the natural meadows of big turkey track to turn them loose for the season, recited where one or two met out salting cattle, discussed by many a chip pile, where the willing axe rested on the unsplit block while the wielder heard how creed bonbright had done sot up a jestice's office and made peace between the shallidays and the bushareses. "but you know in reason hit ain't a-goin' to hold," the old women at the hearthside would say, withdrawing their cob pipes to shake deprecating heads. "the bushareses and shallidays has been killin' each other up sence my gran'pap was a little boy. they tell me the injuns mixed into that there feud. i say creed bonbright! nothin' but a fool boy. he better l'arn something before he sets up to teach. he don't know what he's meddlin' with." all this with a pride in the vendetta as an ancient neighbourhood institution and monument. the office of the new justice never became, as he had hoped it would, a lounging place for his passing neighbours. he had expected them to drop in to visit with him, when he might sow the good seed in season without appearing to seek an occasion for so doing. but they were shy of him--he saw that. they went on past the little yellow pine office, on their mules, or their sorry nags, or in shackling waggons behind oxen, to lounge at nancy card's gate as of old, or sit upon her porch to swap news and listen to her caustic comments on neighbourhood happenings. and only an occasional glance over the shoulder, a backward nod of the head, or jerk of the thumb, told the young justice that he was present in their recollection. but there was one element of the community which showed no disposition to hold aloof from the newcomer. about this time, by twos and threes--never one alone--the virgins of the mountain-top sought nancy card for flower seed, soft soap recipes, a charm to take off warts, or to learn exactly from her at what season a body had better divide the roots of day lilies. old-fashioned roses begin blooming in the cumberlands about the first of may, and when this time came round nancy's garden was a thing to marvel at. the spring flowers were past or nearly so, and the advent of the roses marked the floral beginning of summer. in the forest the dogwood petals now let go and fell silently one by one through the shadowed green. but over nancy's fence of weather-beaten, hand-rived palings tossed a snow of bloom so like that here they were not missed at all; and the mock orange adds to the dogwood's simple beauty the soul of an exquisite odour. small, heavily thorned roses, yellow as the daffodils they had succeeded, blushing baltimore belles, seven sisters all over the ricketty porch--one who loved such things might well have taken a day's journey for sight of that dooryard in may. "well, i vow!" said the old woman one day peering through her window that gave on the road, "ef here don't come huldy spiller and the two lusks. look like to me i have a heap of gal company of late. creed, you're a mighty learned somebody, cain't you tell me the whys of it?" creed, sitting at a little table deep in some books and papers before him, heard no word of his friend's teasing speech. it was doss provine, at the big fireplace heating a poker to burn a hole through his pulley-wheel, who turned toward his mother-in-law and grinned foolishly. "i reckon i know the answer to that," he observed. "the boys is all a warnin' me that a widower is mo' run after than a young feller. they tell me i'll have to watch out." "i say watch out--_you_!" cried nancy, wheeling upon him with a comically disproportionate fury. "jest you let me ketch you settin' up to any of the gals--you, a father with two he'pless chaps to look after, and nobody but an old woman like me, with one foot in the grave, to depend on!" there was one girl however who, instead of multiplying her visits to the card cabin with creed's advent, abruptly ceased them. judith barrier was an uncertain quantity to her masculine household; unreasonably elated or depressed, she led them the round of her moods, and they paid for the fact that creed bonbright did not come across the mountain top visiting, without being at all aware of where their guilt lay. after that interview at the milking lot one thought, one emotion was with her always. always she was waiting for the next meeting with creed. through the day she heard his voice or his footstep in all the little sounds of the woods, the humble noises of the farm life; and at night there was the cedar tree. now the cedar tree had affairs of its own. when, with the egotism of her keen, passionate, desirous youth, the girl in the little chamber under the eves listened to its voice in april, it was talking in the soft air of the vernal night about the sap which rose in its veins, spicy, resinous, odoured with spring, carrying its wine of life into the farthest green tips, till all the little twigs were intoxicated with it, and beat and flung themselves in joy. and the tree's deep note was a song of abiding trust. there was a nest building within its heart--so well hidden in that dense thicket that it was safe from the eye of any prowler. hope and faith and a great devotion went to the building. and the tree, rich and happy in its own life, cherished generously that other life within its protecting arms. its song was of the mating birds, the building birds, the mother joy and father joy that made the nest ready for the speckled eggs and the birdlings that should follow. but to the listening girl the cedar tree was a harp that the winds struck--a voice that spoke in the night of love and creed. finally one morning she saddled selim and, with something in her pocket for little buck and beezy, set out for hepzibah--reckon they's nothin' so turrible strange in a body goin' to the settlement when they' out o' both needles _an_' bakin' soda! as she rode up nancy herself called to her to 'light and come in, and finally went out to stand a moment and chat; but the girl smilingly shook her head. "i got to be getting along, thank ye," she said. "i can't stop this mornin'. you-all must come and see us, aunt nancy." "why, what's little buck a-goin' to do, with his own true love a-tearin' past the house like this and refusin' to stop and visit?" complained nancy, secretly applauding the girl's good sense and dignity. "where _is_ my beau?" asked judith. "i fetched him the first june apples off the tree." "judy's brought apples to her beau, and now he's went off fishin' with doss and she's got nobody to give 'em to," old nancy called as creed stepped from the door of his office and started across to the cabin. "don't you want 'em, creed?" the tall, fair young fellow came up laughing. "aunt nancy knows i love apples," he said. "if you give me little buck's share i'm afraid he'll never see 'em." judith reached in her pocket and brought out the shiny, small red globes and put them in his outstretched hand. "i'll bring little buck a play-pretty from the settlement," she said softly. "he'll keer a sight more for hit than for the apples. i wish i'd knowed you liked 'em--i'd brought you more. why don't you come over and see us and git all you want? we've got two trees of 'em." chapter v the red rose and the briar all through april judith's project of a play-party languished. she had to pull steadily against the elders, for not only were the men hard at it making ready for the putting in of the year's crops, but it was gardening time as well, when even the women and children are pressed in to help at the raking up and brush piling. wood smoke from the clearing fires haunted all the hollows. everybody was preparing for the making of the truck patch. down on the little groups would drop a cloud and blot out the bonfire till it became the mere glowing point at the heart of a shaken opal--for if you are wise you burn brush on a rainy day. old jephthah opposed the plan for the girl's festivity on another ground. "i've got no objection to a frolic, jude," he observed quietly, on hearing the first mention of the matter, "but i wouldn't have no play-party at this house. hit's too handy to that cussed still of blatch's. a passel of fool boys is mighty apt to go over thar an' fill theirselves up with corn whiskey, an' the party will just about end up in a interruption." he said no more, and judith made no reply. though ordinarily she would have hesitated to go against her uncle's expressed wishes, her heart was too much set on this enterprise to allow of easy checking. she made no reply, but her campaign on behalf of the merrymaking went steadily on. "i wonder you can have the heart to git up play-parties and the like when andy and jeff's a-sufferin' in the jail," pendrilla lusk plucked up spirit to say when the plan was first mooted to her. andy and jeff, the wild young hawks, with the glamour upon them of lawless, adventurous spirits, and bold, proper lovers, equally fascinated and terrified the lusk girls--timid, fluttering pair--and were in their turn attracted to them by an inevitable law of nature. "i don't see how it hurts the boys for us to have a dance," rejoined judith with asperity. "if we was all to set and cry our eyes out, it wouldn't fetch 'em back on the mountain any quicker." then with a teasing flash, "i'll tell 'em when they git home what you said, though." "now, jude, you're real mean," pleaded cliantha lusk sinking to her knees beside judith and raising thin little arms to clasp that young woman around the waist. "you ain't a-goin' to tell them fool boys any sech truck as that, air ye? pendrilly jest said it for a sayin'. we'd love to come to yo' play-party, whenever it is. i _say_ andy and jeff! let 'em git out of the jail the way they got in." this is the approved attitude of the mountain virgin; yet cliantha's voice shook sadly as she uttered the independent sentiments, and pendrilla furtively wiped her eyes in promising to attend the play-party. all this was in april. by the time may came in, that dread of a belated frost which amounts almost to terror in the farmer of the cumberlands was ended; the easter cold and blackberry winter were over, and all the garden truck was planted. everybody began whole-heartedly to enjoy the time of year. the leaves were full size, but still soft; the wind made hardly any noise among them. in the pasture lot and fence corners near the house, meadow flowers began to star the green. the frog chorus, so loud and jubilant in early spring, had subsided now except at night, when their treble was accompanied by the bass "chug-chug" of the bull-frogs. the mornings were vocal with the notes of yellow hammer, cuckoos; the cooing of doves, the squawk of the jay, and the drum of the big red-headed woodpecker sounded through the summer woods; while always in the cool of the day came the thrush's song. the early corn was in by mid april. about the first full moon of may the main crop was planted. early in june judith, walking in the wood, brought home the splendid red wood lily, and a cluster too of "ratsbane," with its flowers like a little crown of white wax. the spring restlessness was over throughout all the wild country; life no longer stirred and rustled; the leaves hung still in the long sunny noons. the air was clear, rinsed with frequent showers; the woods were silent except for birds and cow bells. the crops were laid by. the huckleberries ripened; the "sarvices" hung thick in the forest. even the blackberries were beginning to turn and andy and jeff had been back at home more than a week, when judith finally succeeded in getting her forces together and her guests promised. many of them would have to walk four or five miles to sing and play for a few hours, tramping back at midnight to lie down and catch what sleep they could before dawn waked them to another day of toil. thursday evening was set for the event. on wednesday the lusk girls coming in to discuss, found judith with shining eyes and crimson cheeks, attacking the simple housework of the cabin. "i wish't you'd sing while i finish my churnin'," the girl said, "i'm so flustered looks like i can't sca'cely do anything right." the sisters clasped hands and raised their childish faces. cliantha had a thin, high piping soprano like a small flute, and pendrilla sang "counter" to it. they were repositories of all the old ballads of the mountains--ballads from scotland, from ireland, from england, and from wales, that set the ferocities and the love-making of elizabeth's time or earlier most quaintly amidst the localities and nomenclature of the cumberlands. "sing 'barb'ry allen,'" commanded judith as she swung the dasher with nervous energy. the july sunshine filtered through the leaves of the big muscadine vine that covered and sheltered the tiny side porch. bees boomed about the ragged tufts of clover and bouncing bet that fringed the side yard. the old hound at the chip pile blinked lazily and raised his head, then dropped it and slumbered again. within, the big room was dim and cool. the high, thin, quavering voices celebrated the love and woe of cruel barbara allen. judith's dark eyes grew soft and brooding; the nervous strokes of her dasher measured themselves more and more to the swing of the old tune. "i don't see how anybody can be hardhearted thataway with a person they love," she said softly as the song descended to its doleful end. the next morning judith hurried her work that she might get through and go over to the bonbright house, there to put in execution her long-cherished plan of cleaning it and making it fit for creed's occupancy that night. old dilsey rust, their tenant, came in to help at the turrentine cabin always on occasions like this, or with the churning or washing; and penetrated with impatience the girl finally left her assistant in charge of matters and set forth through the woods and across the fields, the little key which she had carried ever since that morning in early april in her pocket like a talisman. at last it was to open her kingdom to her. behind the bolt that it controlled lay not only the home of creed's childhood, but supposably the home of his children. judith's heart beat suffocatingly at the thought. halfway across she met huldah spiller coming up from the far spring with a bucket of sulphur water which was held to be good for jim cal's rheumatism. "whar ye goin'?" asked huldah, looking curiously at the broom over judith's shoulder, the roll of cloths and the small gourd of soft soap she carried. "i'm a-goin' whar i'm a-goin'," returned judith aggressively. but the other only smiled. it did not suit her to be offended at that moment. instead, "what are you goin' to wear to-night, judy?" she inquired vivaciously. it was one of the advantages of waiting on table at a boarding house in the settlement--pieced out perhaps by the possession of red hair--that huldah had the courage to address judith barrier as "judy." the hostess of the evening's festivities was half in the mind to pass on without reply; then her curiosity as to huldah's costume got the better of her, and she compromised, with a laconic, "my white frock--what are you?" "don't you know i went down to hepzibah after you said you was goin' to have a play-party?" asked huldah, tossing her head to get the red curls out of her eyes. "well, iley had give me fifty cents on my wages--" huldah worked as a servant in her sister's family, which is not uncommon in the mountains--"an' i tuck it and bought me ten yard of five-cent lawn, the prettiest blue you ever put yo' eyes on." "blue!" a sudden shock went over judith. she had forgotten; and here huldah spiller would wear a blue dress, and she--oh, the stupidity, the bat-like, doltish, blindness of it!--would be in white, because it was now too late to make a change. out of the very tragedy of the situation she managed to pluck forth a smile. "i was aimin' to wear blue ribbons," she said finally. it had just come into her head that she could pull the blue bow from her hat--that blue bow with which she had zealously replaced the despised and outcast red--and so make shift. "blue's my best feller's favourite colour," contributed huldah, picking up the bucket which she had set down, and starting on. "he 'lows it goes fine with aurbu'n hair." "wade never said that," muttered judith to herself as she took her way to the bonbright place. but after all one could not be long out of tune with such a summer day. the spicy odour of pennyroyal bruised underfoot, came to her nostrils like incense. even the sickly sweet of jimson blossoms by the draw-bars of the milking lot was dear and familiar, while their white trumpets whispered of childish play-days and flower-ladies she had set walking in procession under the shadow of some big green leaf. blue--the soft stars of spider-wort opening among the rocks reminded her of the hue; blue curls and dittany tangled at the path edge; but the very air itself was beginning to wear creed's colour and put on that wonderful, luminous blue in which the cumberlands of midsummer melt cerulean into a sky of lapis lazuli. creed's colour--creed's colour--her dark eyes misted as they searched the far reaches of the hills and found it everywhere. jephthah turrentine used to say that if a man owned enough mountain land to set his foot on, he owned the whole of the sky above him; it was a truer word than this old mountain dweller could have known, since the mere possessor of a city lot, where other tall roofs cut the horizon high, must content himself with less of the welkin. judith opened the door, went in, closed it behind her, and gazed about. there lay over everything a fine dust; there was the look of decay which comes with disuse; and the air bore the musty odour of a shut and long uninhabited house. the bonbright home had been a good one for the mountains, of hewn logs, and with four rooms, and two great stone chimneys. inside was the furniture which mary gillenwaters brought to it as a bride when her mountain lover came down to hepzibah and with the swift ardour of his tribe--this bonbright's fires of eloquence were all kindled upon the altar of his mating romance--charmed the daughter of its one merchant. these added to the already fairly complete plenishings, many of which had come over the mountains from virginia when sevier opened up the new state, gave an air of abundance, even of sober elegance to the room. reverently judith moved among the dumb witnesses and servitors of bonbright generations. here was the spinning-wheel, here the cards, and out in the little room off the porch stood the loom. she had dreams of replacing these with a sewing machine. nobody wove jeans any more--but a good carpet-loom now, _that_ might be made useful. unwilling to hang the bedding on bushes for fear of a chance tear from twig or thorn, she rigged a line in the back yard, and spread quilt and homespun blanket, coarse white sheets and pillowcases that were yellowing with age, out for the glad gay wind to play with, for the sunshine to sweeten. "what a lot of feather beds!" she murmured as she tallied them over. "that there ticking is better than you can buy in the stores. my, ain't these light and nice!" all the warm, sunny afternoon she toiled at her self-appointed labour of love. she swept and dusted, she scrubbed and cleaned, with capable fingers, proud of the strength and skill that made her a good housewife; then bringing in the fragrant, homely fabrics, made up the beds and placed all back in due order. "he's boun' to notice somebody's been here and put things to rights," she said over and over to herself. "if it looks sightly, and seems like home, mebbe he'll give out the notion of stayin' at nancy card's, and come and live here." she brooded on the bliss of the idea as she worked. under the great mahogany four-poster in the front room was slipped a trundle-bed that she drew out and looked at with fond eyes. no doubt creed's boyish head had lain there once. she wished passionately that she had known him then, all unaware that we never do know our lovers when they and we are children. even those playfellows who are destined to be mates find, all on a day, that the familiar companion who has grown up beside each has changed into quite a different person. she rolled the trundle-bed back into place and turned to lift a pile of bedding that lay apparently on a chest. when it was raised it revealed the clumsy old cradle that had rocked three generations of bonbrights. she stood looking down at it with quickening pulse, then reached a fluttering hand and touched its small pillow tenderly. here had rested that golden head, so many years ago; beside it his mother had sat and rocked. at the thought judith was on her knees, her hands falling naturally upon the side and rocking the small bed. in a strange conflict of dreamy emotion, she swayed it back and forth a moment, and then--what woman could resist it?--began to croon an old mountain cradle song. suddenly the westering sun got to the level of a half shrouded window and sent a beam in across judith's bent head. "my land!" she whispered, getting to her feet. "i ain't got no call to stay foolin' here all day. dilsey'll jest about burn them cakes i told her to bake, and i ain't fixed my blue bow for my hair yet." she swept a glance around the speckless room, gathered up her paraphernalia of cleaning, passed out, locked the door, and set her face toward home. in mary bonbright's garden, now given over to weeds as the gardens of dead women are so apt to be, there had grown a singular, half wild rose. this flower was of a clear blood red, with a yellow heart which its five broad petals, flinging wide open, disclosed to view, unlike the crimped and guarded loveliness of the more evolved sisters of the green-house. mowed down spring after spring by the scythe of strubley, the renter, the vigorous thing had spread abroad, and as judith stepped from the door its exultant beauty caught her eye. flaming shields of crimson, bearing each its boss of filagree gold, the hosts of the red rose stood up bravely in the choking grass to which the insensate scythe blade had so often levelled them, and shouted to the girl of love and joy, and of youth which was the time for both. wide petalled, burning red, their golden hearts open to sun and bee, they were the blossoms for the earth-woman. she ran and knelt down beside them. he had said that his favourite colour was blue--but there are no blue roses. she did not follow it far enough to guess that the man who was content with the colour of the sky might not get his gaze down close enough to earth to care for roses. she bent above them gloating on their fierce, triumphant splendour. was there ever such a colour? but the stems were dreadfully short. a sudden purpose grew in her mind. with hasty, tremulous fingers she gathered an apronful of the blossoms. once more she unlocked the front door, hurried back to that bed which she had so lovingly spread, and on its white coverlet began arranging a great, glowing wreath, fashioned by setting a circle of red roses petal to petal. as she worked cliantha lusk's ballad came into her head, and she sang it under her breath. "'and they grew and they grew to the old church top till they couldn't grow any higher, and there they twined in a true lover's knot, the red rose and the briar.' "no--that ain't it-- "'and there they twined in a true lover's knot, for all true lovers to admire.'" true lovers--she crooned the word over and over. it was sweet to say it. she thrilled through all her strong young body with the delight of what she was doing. "he'll wonder who put 'em there," she whispered to herself. "ef nothin' else don't take his eye, these here is shore to." chapter vi the play-party long lanes of light crossed the grass from window and door of the turrentine house; judith's play-party was in full swing. they were dancing or playing in the big front room which was lit only by the rich broken shimmer and shine from a fire of pine sticks in the cavernous black chimney. though it was early july the evening, in those altitudes, had its own chill, and the heat from this was not unpleasant, while its illumination became necessary, for all the lamps and candles available were in use out where the tables were spread. old jephthah held state in his own quarters, a detached log cabin standing about thirty feet from the main structure, and once used probably to house the loom or for some such extra domestic purpose. here too a fire smoldered on the hearthstone, for the head of the turrentine clan was tormented by rheumatism, that plague of otherwise healthy primitive man. he lounged now on the doorstep, smoking, ready to intercept and entertain any of the older men who might come with their women folk. occasionally somebody rode up, or came tramping down the trail or through the woods--a belated merrymaker hurrying in to ask who had arrived and who was expected. to the father's intense disgust jim cal had elected to sit with the elders that night, and obstinately held his place before the hearthstone in the cabin room. jephthah turrentine's sons were none of them particularly satisfactory to their progenitor. a man of brains, a creature to whom an argument was ever more than the mere material thing argued about, these male offspring, who took their traits naturally after the spindle side, vexed him with resemblance to their handsome, high-tempered, brainless mother. but jim cal was worse than a bore to his father; the old fellow regarded a son who weighed above two hundred pounds as a disgrace. and to-night the fact that the door of his room commanded a sidelong view of the tables which were being spread, and about which iley circled and scolded, furnished so fair a reason for james calhoun's selection of it as an anchorage that his father was the more offended. "you thar, unc' jep?" sounded blatchley turrentine's careless voice from the dark. "i make out to be," returned his uncle lazily. blatchley came into the circle of dim light about the door, andy and jeff at his shoulder. wade followed a moment later. "why ain't you-all boys down thar whar the gals is at, playin'?" inquired jim cal fretfully. "looks like to me ef i was a young feller an' not wedded i wouldn't hang around whar the old men was." "is creed bonbright comin' over here to-night?" inquired andy abruptly, in obedience apparently to a nudge from blatch. "i reckon he is," observed the old man dispassionately. "jude has purty well bidden the whole top of the mountain." "is pone cyard comin'?" put in jeff. the twins usually spoke alternately, the sum of their conversation counting thus for one. "that i can't say," returned the old man with mildly ironic emphasis. "mebbe him and the chaps and the lame rooster--_and_ nancy--will come along at the tail of the procession." "well," persisted andy, breaking a somewhat lengthened silence in which all the newcomers stood, and through which their breathing could be distinctly heard, "well i think creed bonbright has got the impudence! he come to the jail, whar me and jeff was at, an' he had some talk with us, an' i let him know my mind. he stood in with that marshal--i know it--and so does jeff. pone cyard got out quicker becaze bonbright tipped the marshal the wink; but i don't hold with him nor his doin's." the parent of the twins regarded them both with sardonic black eyes half shut. "_you_ don't? and who-all might you be, young fellers?" he asked. "this here bonbright man has come up on turkey track to give us a show at law. if they's persons engaged in unlawful practices on this here mountain top, mebbe he'll knock up against 'em. them that keeps the law and lives decent has no reason to fear the law. ain't that what you say, blatch?" turning suddenly to his nephew. the big swart mountaineer drew up his shoulders with a sort of shrug. "ef you stand in with bonbright, unc' jep," he said, bluntly, "we might as well all go down to hepzibah and give ourselves up. you've done rented me the land, and yo' boys is in the still with me--air ye a-goin' to stand from under, and have the marshal forever keepin' us on the jump?" old jephthah looked wordless contempt at the nephew who knew little enough to impute such a course to him. "that's what i say," put in jim cal's thin, querulous tones from the back of the room--the voice of a fat man in trouble; can anyone say why the sorrows of the obese are always comic to the rest of the world? "a body cain't sleep nights for thinkin' what may chance." "oh,--air you thar, podner?" inquired blatch, with a sort of ferocious banter in his tone which he frequently used toward his fleshy associate. "i thort ye was down in the bed sick." "i was," said jim cal sulkily; "but iley she said--iley 'lowed----" blatch burst into a great horse laugh, which the others joined. "i know'd in reason ye'd be down when they came any trouble at the still," he commented. "hit always affects yo' health thataway; but i didn't know iley had seed reason to dig ye out. what you goin' to do about bonbright, unc' jep--stand in with him?" "well--you _air_ a fool," observed the old man meditatively. "who named standin' in with bonbright, or standin' out agin' him? when i rented you my farm for five year i had no thought of yo' starting up that pesky ol' still on it. but i never was knowed to rue a trade. my daddy taught me when i made a bad bargain to freeze the tighter to it, and i've no mind to do other." "they'd been a still thar," said blatch defensively. the old man nodded. "oh, yes," he agreed. "hit had been,--i put it thar. i've made many a run of whiskey in my young days--and i've seed the folly of it. i reckon you fool boys'll have to see the folly of it too befo' yo've got yo' satisfy. as for creed bonbright, he 'pears to think that if we have plenty of law in the turkey tracks we'll all go to heaven in a hand-basket. mebbe he's right, and then agin mebbe he's wrong; but this i know, ain't anybody goin' to jump on him in my house, and he gets a fair show when fightin' time comes." "well, if he ain't standin' in with the marshal, what does he--" began andy's high-pitched boyish voice, when somebody called, "good evening," in pleasant tones, and bonbright himself got off a light-stepping mule, tethered him to the fence, and came toward the cabin. he had just returned from a meeting of the county court at hepzibah, where he did good service in representing the needs of his district, fighting hard for more money for schools--the plan heretofore had been to let them have only their own pro rata of the school tax. "it'll pay you a heap better to educate the mountain people than to hire their keep in jail," he said to his fellow justices of the valley. "the blue-backed speller is the best cure for crime in the mountains that i know of." he failed to get this; but he succeeded in another matter, one less near his heart, but calculated to appeal perhaps more strongly to his constituents; he secured the opening of a highway for which the people in the two turkey tracks had struggled and prayed more than twenty years. it was with the pride of this victory strong in him that he had set out for judith's play-party. the young fellow might have been pardoned a half wistful belief that this first success was the entering wedge and would lead swiftly to that standing with his neighbours lacking which he was helpless. yet the sons of the house replied but gruffly to his greeting, and, as though his coming had been a signal, the younger group promptly disappeared in the direction of the main cabin. at the old man's hearty invitation, creed seated himself on the doorstep, while his host went in for a coal from the smouldering hearth to light his pipe, and joined the guest a moment later. "well sir, and how's the law coming on these days?" inquired old jephthah somewhat humorously. "i reckon it's doing pretty well," allowed creed. "the law's all right, mr. turrentine; it's what our people need; and if there comes any failure it's bound to be in me, not in the law." "that's right," old jephthah commended him. "stand up for yo' principles. ef you go into a thing, back it. i never could get on with these here good-lord-good-devil folks. i like to know whar a man's at--cain't hit him unless 'n you do." "that's what i say," piped jim cal's reedy voice from the interior. "is it true that you've done made up the shalliday fuss over that thar cow, creed? i thort a jestice of the peace was to he'p folks have fusses, place o' settlin' 'em up." "that's what everybody seems to think," replied creed rather dolefully. "i can't say i'm very proud of my part in the shalliday matter. it seemed to be mighty hard on the widow; but the law was on her brother-in-law's side; so i gave my decision in favour of bill shalliday, and paid the woman for the cow. and now they're both mad at me." old jephthah narrowed his eyes and chuckled in luxurious enjoyment of the situation. "to be shore they air. to be shore they air," he repeated with unction. "ain't you done a favour to the both of 'em? is they anything a man will hate you worse for than a favour? if they is i ain't met up with it yet." "that's what i say," iterated jim cal. "what's the use o' tryin' to he'p folks to law and order when they don't want it, and you've got to buy 'em to behave? when you git to be a married man with chaps, like me, you'll keep yo' money in yo' breeches pocket and let other folks fix it up amongst themselves about their cows an' sech." "i had hoped to get a chance to do something that amounted to more than settling small family fusses," creed said in a discouraged tone. "i hoped to have the opportunity to talk to many a gathering of our folks about the desirability of good citizenship in a general way. this thing of blockaded stills keeps us forever torn up with a bad name in the valley and the settlement." old jephthah stirred not a hair; jim cal sat just as he had; yet the two were indefinably changed the moment the words "blockaded still" were uttered. "do you know of any sech? air ye aimin' to find out about em?" quavered the fat man finally, and his father looked scornfully at him, and the revelation of his terror. "no. i don't mean it in that personal way," creed answered impatiently. "mr. turrentine, i wish you'd tell me what you think about it. you've lived all your life in the mountains; you're a man of judgment--is there any way to show our people the folly as well as the crime of illicit distilling?" jephthah surveyed with amusement the youth who came to an old moonshiner for an opinion as to the advisability of the traffic. he liked the audacity of it. it tickled his fancy. "well sir," he said finally, "the guv'ment sets off thar in washington and names a-many a thing that i shall do and that i shan't do. howsomever, they is but one thing hit will come here and watch out to see ef i keep rules on--and that's the matter o' moonshine whiskey. guv'ment," he repeated meditatively but with rising rancour, "what has the guv'ment ever done fer me, that i should be asked to do so much for hit? i put the case thisaway. that man raises corn and grinds it to meal and makes it into bread. i raise corn and grind hit to meal and make clean, honest whiskey. the man that makes the bread pays no tax; guv'ment says i shall pay a tax--an' i say i will not, by god!" the big voice had risen to a good deal of feeling before old jephthah made an end. "nor i wouldn't neither," bleated jim cal in comical antiphon. in the light from the open doorway creed's face looked uneasy. "but you don't think--you wouldn't--" he began and then broke off. old jephthah shook his head. "i ain't got no blockade still," he asserted sweepingly. "i made my last run of moonshine whiskey many a year ago. i reckon two wrongs don't make a right." creed's dismay increased. inexperienced boy, he had not expected to encounter such feeling in the discussion of this the one topic upon which your true mountaineer of the remote districts can never be anything but passionate, embittered, at bay. "you name the crime of makin' wildcat whiskey," the old man's deep, accusing voice went on, after a little silence. "it ain't no crime--an' you know it--an' no guv'ment o' mortal men can make a crime out'n it. as for the foolishness of it," he dropped his chin on his breast, his black eyes looked out broodingly, his great beard rose against his lips and muffled his tones, "i reckon the foolishness of a thing is what each feller has to find out for hisself," he said. "daddies has been tryin' since the time of adam to let their knowin' it sarve for their sons; but ef one of 'em has made the plan work yit, i ain't heard on it. nor the guv'ment can't neither. a man'll take his punishment for a meanness an' l'arn by it; but to be jailed for what's his right makes an outlaw of him, an' always will. good lord, creed! what set you an' me off on this tune? young feller, you ort to be down yon dancin' with the gals, instead of here talking foolishness to a old man like me." creed arose to his tall young height and glanced uncertainly from his host to the lighted room from which came the sounds of fiddle and stamping feet. it was a little hard for a prophet on his own mountain-top to be sent to play with the children; yet he went. chapter vii kisses with the advent of the four turrentine boys festivities had taken on a brighter air, the game became better worth while. "wade, you've got to fiddle," cried judith peremptorily. a chair was set upon a table in the corner, the rather reluctant wade hoisted to it, and soon "weevily wheat," as the twitting tune comes from the country fiddler's jigging bow, was filling the room. "i reckon i ought to have asked your ruthers before i took wade out of the game," judith said to huldah spiller as they joined hands to begin. "like i cared!" retorted huldah, tossing her red head till the curls bobbed. she was wearing the new blue lawn dress, made by a real store pattern cut out of tissue paper, and was supremely conscious of looking her best. the lusk girls in spotted calico frocks, the dots whereof were pink on cliantha's dress, and blue on pendrilla's, had bridled and glanced about shamefaced when andy and jeff came in; they now "balanced" demurely with down dropped eyes as the game moved to the music. judith had left the supper preparations with the elder women, pieced out by the assistance of old dilsey rust, and was most active in the games. in the white muslin, washed and ironed by her own skilful, capable fingers, with the blue bow confining the heavy chestnut braids at the nape of her neck, her dark beauty glowed richly. now the players shifted to "drop the handkerchief." judith delighted in this game because, fleeter of foot, quicker of hand and eye than the others, she continually disappointed any daring swain who thought to have a kiss from her. her shining eyes were ever on the doorway, till blatch turrentine left his seat at the back of the room and elected to lounge there watching the play with the tolerant air of a man contemplating the sports of children. it apparently gave him satisfaction that judith time after time eluded a pursuer, broke into the ring and left him to wander in search of a less alert and resolute fair. "cain't none of the boys kiss yo' gal," panted huldah spiller, pausing beside him. "i doubt mightily ef ye could do it yo'self 'less'n she had a mind to let ye'." judith heard, and the carmine on her cheek deepened and spread, while the dark eyes above gleamed angrily. "come on and play, blatch," called wade, jigging away valiantly at his fiddle. "we all know who it is you want to kiss--most of us is bettin' that you're scared to try." "play!" echoed blatchley in a contemptuous tone. "i say play! when i want to buss a gal, i walk up and take my ruthers--like this." again that daunting panther quickness of movement from the big slouching figure; the powerful lines seemed to melt and flow as he flung himself in judith's direction, and cast one arm firmly about her in such a way that it pinioned both her elbows to her side. "you turn me a-loose!" she cried, even as little buck had cried. "that ain't fair. i wasn't ready for ye, 'caze ye said ye wouldn't play. you turn me a-loose or ye'll wish ye had." "no fair--no fair!" came the cries from the boys in the ring. "either you stay out or come in. jude's right." "well, some of ye put me out," suggested blatchley, significantly. he had brought a jug of moonshine whiskey over from the still and it was flowing freely, though unknown to old jephthah, in the loft where most of his possessions were kept. no man moved to lay finger on him. he held judith--scarlet of face and almost in tears--by her elbows, and lowered his mocking countenance to within a few inches of her angry eyes. "now kiss me pretty, and kiss me all yo'self. i ain't got nothin' to do with this; hit's yo' play. you been wantin' to git a chance to kiss me this long while," he asserted with derisive humour. "don't you hold off becaze the others is here; that ain't the way you do when we're--" "wade--jim cal! won't some o' you boys pull this fool man away," appealed judith. "i wish somebody'd call uncle jep. you can hold yo' ugly old face there till yo' hair turns grey," she suddenly and furiously addressed her admirer. "i'll never kiss ye." "oh, yes you will--you always do," blatchley maintained. "ef i was to tell the folks how blame lovin' ye are when jest you and me is alone together----" he looked over his shoulder to enjoy the triumph of the moment. blatchley turrentine's delight was to traverse the will of every other human being with his own preference. judith's gaze, tormented, tear-blurred, followed his and saw across the shoulders of the others, the shine of creed bonbright's fair hair, in the doorway. the sight brought from her an inarticulate cry. it fired blatchley to take the kiss which he had vowed should be given him. as he bent to do so, creed stepped forward and laid a hand upon his shoulder. the movement was absolutely pacific, but the fingers closed with a viselike grip, and there was so sharp a backward jerk that the proffered salute was not delivered. in the surprise of the moment judith pulled herself free and stood at bay. for an instant the two men looked into each other's eyes. creed's blue orbs were calm, impersonal, and without one hint of yielding or fear. "if you don't play fair," he said in argumentative tone, "there's no use playing at all. let's close up the ring and try it again." all eyes in the room turned to blatchley turrentine, the women in a flutter of terrified apprehension, the men with a brightening of interest; surely he would resent this interference in some notable manner. but blatch was in fact too deadly to be merely high-tempered, quick in anger. for a moment he stared at bonbright, trying to look him down; then those odd, whitey-grey eyes narrowed to mere slits. he laid the matter up in his mind; this was not the time for settling it--here before judith barrier and the women. he did not mean to content himself with mere fisticuffs, or even a chance pocket-knife which might double in his grasp and cut his own hand. to the immense surprise of everybody he stretched out his long arms, caught carelessly at the fingers of a player on either side of him, and, mending the line, began to move in rhythmic time to the fiddle. it was soon observable that creed bonbright's presence caused huldah spiller's spirits to mount several notes in the octave. whether it was that her own betrothed was looking on, and this an excellent chance to show him that even the town feller felt her charm, or merely creed's personal attractions could hardly be guessed. "come on," she cried recklessly, "let's play 'over the river to feed my sheep.' strike up the tune, wade." the game she mentioned was also a forfeit play, with the difference that the kiss was more certain, being taken of mere choice--though delivered, of course, with due maidenly reluctance and a show of resisting--whenever the girl facing one could be caught over the line. all the young people played it; all the elders deprecated it. at the bottom of judith's heart lay one reason for making a play-party and bidding creed bonbright to it; and now huldah spiller was blatantly calling out the unconfessed, the unconfessable; wade was sullenly dropping into the old scotch air; the long lines were forming, men opposite the girls--and the red-headed minx had placed herself directly across from creed! the laughing chains swayed back and forth to the measure of the music--advancing, retreating, pursuing, evading, choosing, rejecting, in a gay parody of courtship. voices were added to that of the fiddle. "hit's over the river to feed my sheep, hit's over the river to charley; hit's over the river to feed my sheep an' to kiss my lonesome darling," they sang. shadows crouched in the corners, flickering, dancing, threatening to come out and play, then shrinking back as the blaze leaped and the room widened. the rough brown walls took the shine and broidered themselves with a thread of golden tracery. in such an illumination the eyes shone with added luster, flying locks were all hyacinthine, the frocks might have been silks and satins. in the movement of the game girls and boys divided. the girls tossed beribboned heads in unwonted coquetry, yet showed always, in downcast eyes and the modest management of light draperies, the mountain ideal of maidenhood. across from them the line of youthful masculinity swayed; tall, lean, brown-faced, keen-eyed young hunters these, sinewy and light and quick of movement, with fine hands and feet, and a lazy pride of bearing. a very different type from that found in the lowlands, or in ordinary rustic communities. judith noted the other players not at all; her hot reprehending eyes were on the girl in the blue dress. she did not observe that she herself was dancing opposite andy, while pendrilla lusk dragged with drooping head in the line across from the amiably grinning doss provine. finding herself suddenly in the lead and successful, huldah began to preen her feathers a bit. she withdrew a hand from the girl on her right to arrange the small string of blue glass beads around her neck. "jest ketch to my skirt for a minute," she whispered loudly. "i reckon hit won't rip, though most of 'em is 'stitches taken for a friend'--i was that anxious to get it done for the party. oh, law!" and then--nobody knew how it happened--she was over the line, her hold on the hands of her mates broken, she had tripped and fallen in a giggling blue lawn heap fairly at bonbright's feet. he was in a position where the least gallant must offer the salute the game demanded, but to make assurance doubly sure huldah put out her hands like a three-year-old, crying, "he'p me up, creed, i b'lieve i've sprained my ankle." the young fellow from hepzibah was in a mood for play. after all he was only a big boy, and he had been long barred out from young people's frolics. here was a gay, toward little soul, who seemed to like him. he stooped and caught her by the waist, picking her up as one might a small child, and holding her a moment with her feet off the floor. something in the laughing challenge of her face as she protested and begged to be put down prompted him as to what was expected. he kissed her lightly upon the cheek before he released her. as he set her down he encountered wade turrentine's eye. a spark of tawny fire had leaped to life in its hazel depth. the fiddler still clung faithfully to his office. if he missed a note now and again, or played off key, he might be forgiven. it is to be remembered that he sawed away without a moment's pause throughout the entire episode. creed reached out to join the broken line and touched jeff's arm. the boy flung away from the contact with a muttered word. he looked helplessly at judith, but she would not glance at him; head haughtily erect, long lashes on crimson cheeks, red lip curled to an expression of offence and disdain, the young hostess mended the line by joining the hands of the two girls on each side of her. "you-all can go on playin' without me," she said in a constrained tone. "i got to see to something in the other room." "see here, mister man," remarked blatch, as judith prepared to leave. "you're mighty free and permisc'ous makin' rules for kissin' games, but i take notice you don't follow none of 'em yo'se'f." judith halted uncertainly. to stop and defend creed was out of the question. she was about to interpose with the general accusation that blatch was trying to pick a fuss and break up her play-party, when iley's voice, for once a welcome interruption, broke in from the doorway. "jude, we ain't got plates enough for everybody an' to put the biscuit on," called jim cal's wife. "ax creed bonbright could we borry a few from his house." judith closed instantly with the diversion. she moved quickly toward the door; bonbright joined her. "why yes," he said. "you know i told you to help yourself. let me go over now and get what you want. is there anything else?" "that's mighty kind of you, creed," judith thanked him. "i reckon i better go along with ye and see. i don't think of anything else just now. iley, we'll be back quick as we can with all the plates ye need." together they stepped out into the soft dusk of the summer night, followed by the narrowed gaze of blatch turrentine's grey eyes. chapter viii on the doorstone behind them the play was resumed in the lighted room; the whining of the fiddle, the thud and stamp of many feet, came to them softened and refined by a little distance. they were suddenly drawn together in that intimacy of two who leave the company and the lights on a special expedition. judith made an impatient mental effort to release the incident of huldah and the kiss, which had so unreasonably irritated her. "if we was to go acrosst fields hit would be a heap better," she advised softly, and they moved through the odorous, myriad-voiced darkness of the midsummer night, side by side, without speech, for a time. then as creed halted at a dim, straggling barrier which crossed their course and laid down a rail fence partially that she might the more easily get over in her white frock, she returned to the tormenting subject once more, opening obliquely: "you and huldy spiller is old friends i reckon. don't you think she's a powerful pretty girl?" "mighty pretty," echoed creed absently. all girls were of an even prettiness to him, and huldah spiller was a pleasant little thing. he was wondering what he had done back there in the play-room that had set them all against him. "her and wade is goin' to be wedded come september," put in judith jealously. "yo' cousin will be getting a mighty fine wife." the mountain man is apt to make his comments on the marriages of his friends with dignified formality, and creed uttered the accustomed phrase without heat or enthusiasm; but it seemed to judith that he might have said less--or more. "well, i never did like red hair," the girl managed to get out finally; "but i reckon hit's better than old black stuff like mine." "my mother's hair was sorter sandy," creed answered in his gentle, tolerant fashion. "mine favours it." and he had not the wit to add that dark hair, however, pleased him best. judith stepped beside him for some moments in mortified silence. evidently he was green wood and could by none of her old methods be kindled. then, their eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, they came out into a modified twilight in the clearing about the bonbright house. "you better unlock the door and go in first," suggested judith, in a depressed tone. "why, i ain't got the key," creed reminded her. "i left it with you--didn't you bring it?" they drew unconsciously close together in the dark with something of the guilty consternation of childish culprits. a mishap of the sort ripens an acquaintance swiftly. "what a gump i was!" judith breathed with sudden low laughter. he could see her eyes shining in the gloom, and the dim outline of her figure. "i knowed well an' good you didn't have the key--hit's in the blue bowl on the fire-board at home." "i ought to have thought of it," asserted creed shouldering the blame. "and i'm sorry; i wanted to show you my mother's picture." "an' _i'm_ sorry," echoed judith, remembering fleetingly the swept and garnished rooms, the wreath of red roses; "i had something to show you, too." nothing was said of the dishes for the merrymakers at judith's house. another interest was obtruding itself into the simple, practical expedition, crowding aside its original purpose. the girl looked around the dim, weed-grown garden, its bushes blots of deeper shadow upon the darkness, its blossoms vaguely conjectured by their odour. "there used to be a bubby bush--a sweet-scented shrub--over in that corner," creed hesitated. "i'd like to get you some of the bubbies. my mother used to pick 'em and put 'em in the bureau drawers i remember, and they made everything smell nice." he had taken her hand and led her with him, advancing uncertainly toward the flowers. he felt her shiver, and halted instantly. "yo' cold!" he said. "let me take my coat off and put it around ye--i don't need it. you got overheated playing back there, and now you'll catch a cold." "oh, no," disclaimed judith, whose little shudder had been as much from excitement as from the sharp chill of the night air after the heated play-room. "i reckon somebody jest walked over my grave--i ain't cold." but he had pulled off the coat while he spoke, and now he turned to put it about her, and drew her back to the doorstep. judith was full of a strange ecstasy as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. the lover's earliest and favourite artifice--the primitive kindness of wrapping her in his own garment! even creed, unready and unschooled as he was, felt stir within him its intimate appeal. a nebulous lightening which had been making itself felt behind the eastern line of mountains now came plainly in view, late moon, melancholy and significant, as the waning moon always is. by its dim illumination creed saw judith barrier standing at the door of his own house, smiling at him tremulously, with the immemorial challenge in her dark eyes. to that challenge the native man in him--the lover--so long usurped by the zealot, the would-be philanthropist, rose thrilling, yet still bewildered and uncertain, to respond. something heady and ancient and eternally young seemed to pass into his soul out of the night and the moonlight and the shining of her eyes. he was all alive to her nearness, her loveliness, to the sweet sense that she was a young woman, he a young man, and the loveliness and the dearness of her were his for the trying--for the winning. his breath caught in his throat. "wait a minute," he whispered hurriedly, though she had not moved. with eager hands he wrapped the coat close about her. "let's sit here on the doorstep and talk awhile. there are a heap of things i want to ask you about--that i want to tell you." young beauty and belle that she was, judith had been sought and courted, in that most primitive society, since she was fourteen. she was love's votary by birthright, and her wit and her emotions were schooled in love's game: to lure, to please, to exploit, to defend, evade, deny; in each postulant seeking, testing, trying for the right man to whom should be made love's final surrender. but creed, always absorbed in vague altruistic dreams, had no boyish sweethearting behind him to have taught him the ways of courtship. fire-flies sparkled everywhere, thickest over the marshy places. a mole cricket was chirring in the grass by the old doorstone. sharp on the soft dark air came the call of that woodland night bird which the mountain people say cries "chip-out-o'-white-oak," and which others translate "chuck-wills-widow." "i--" he began, hesitated momentarily, then daunted, grasped at the familiar things of his life--"i don't get on very well up here. i'm afraid i've made a failure of it; but"--he turned to her in a curious, groping entreaty, his hat in his hands, the dim moonlight full on his fair head and in his eager eyes--"but if you would help me--with you--i think i ought to----" "i say made a failure!" cooed judith in her rich, low tones. "you ax me whatever you want to know. you tell me what it is that you're aimin' to do--i say made a failure!" her trust was so hearty, so wholesale, she filled so instantly the position not only of sweetheart but of mother to a small boy with an unsatisfactory toy--that would always be judith barrier--that creed's heart--the man's heart--a lonely one, and beginning to feel itself misunderstood and barred out from its kind--melted in his bosom. there was silence between them, a silence vibrant with the coming utterance. but even as the dark, fond, inviting eyes and the troubled, kindling blue ones encountered, as creed lifted the girl's hand timidly, and essayed speech, the voice of that one who had stepped on her grave harshly aroused them both. "i vow--i thort it was thieves, an' i was a-goin' to see could i pick off you-all," drawled blatchley turrentine's level tones from the shadow of the garden. mutely, with a sense of chill and disappointment that was like the shock of a physical blow to each, the two young creatures got to their feet and turned to leave the place, preparing to go by the high road, without consultation. as they passed him near the gate, blatch turrentine fell in on the other side of the girl and walked with them silently for a time. "iley sont me over," he said finally. "she was skeered you-all wouldn't bring any plates." neither judith nor creed offered any explanation. instead: "well, i don't see how you're goin' to help anything," said the girl bitterly--any presence must have been hateful to her which interrupted or forestalled what creed would certainly have said, that for which her whole twenty years had waited. "oh, i've got the plates," chuckled blatch, jingling a bulky package under his arm. "why, how did you----" began judith in amazement. "uh-huh, i've got my own little trick of gittin' in whar i choose to go," declared turrentine. he leaned around and looked meaningly at the man on her other side, then questioned, "how long do you-all reckon i'd been thar?" and examined them keenly in the shadowy half light. but neither hastened to disclaim or explain, neither seemed in any degree embarrassed, though to both his bearing was plainly almost intolerable. thereafter they walked in silence which was scarcely broken till they reached the gate and iley came shrilling out to meet them demanding, "did you get them thar plates from miz. lusk's, you blatch turrentine?" judith looked at him with angry scorn. it was the old tyrannical trick which she had known from her childhood up, the attempt to maintain an ascendency over her by appearing to know everything and be everywhere--"like he was the lord-a'mighty hisself," she muttered indignantly, as creed joined a group of young men, and she passed in to her necessary activities as hostess. judith barrier's play-party won to its close with light hearts and light feet, with heavy hearts which the weary body would fain have denied, with love and laughter, with jealousy and chagrin, with the slanted look of envy, of furtive admiration, or of disparagement, from feminine eyes at the costumes of other women, just as any ball does. the two who had trembled upon the brink of some personal revelation, a closer communion, were not again alone together that evening. amid the moving figures of the others, now to his eyes as painted automatons, creed bonbright watched with strong fascination in which there was a tincture that was almost terror, the beautiful girl who had suddenly emerged from her class and become for him the one woman. so adequate, so competent, judith dominated the situation; passing among her guests, the thick dark lashes continually lowered toward her crimson cheeks. some subtle sense told her that the spell was working. smiles from this sweet inner satisfaction curved her red lips. no need to look--she knew how his eyes were following her. the exultant knowledge of it sang all through her being. gone were her perturbations, her chilling uncertainties. she was at once stimulated and quieted. their good-byes were said in the most public manner, yet one glance flashed between them which asked and promised an early meeting. chapter ix foeman's bluff it was near midnight when creed sought his patient mule at the rack, to find that doss provine had ridden the animal away. "he said you was a-goin' to stay at yo' own house to-night, an' he 'lowed ye wouldn't need the mule, an' he was mighty tired. he 'lowed hit was a mighty long ja'nt out to the edge whar he was a-goin'," contributed blev straley, who seemed to have been admitted to provine's confidence. "mighty long ja'nt--i say long ja'nt!" ejaculated old man broyles, who was engaged in saddling his ancient one-eyed mare. "ef i couldn't spit as fur as from here to the edge i'd never chaw tobacker agin! plain old fashioned laziness is what ails doss provine. i'd nacher'ly w'ar him out for this trick, bonbright, ef i was you." "well, i did aim to stay over at my house to-night," said creed, "but i can't. i've got a case to try in the morning, soon, that i've got to look up some points on yet to-night. i reckon i'll have to foot it out to aunt nancy's." as creed spoke a fellow by the name of taylor stribling, a sort of satellite of blatchley turrentine's came slouching from the shadows of the nearby smoke-house. he watched old man broyles ride away, and blev straley take a leisurely departure. "mighty bad ye got to hoof it, creed," he observed. "ef you've a mind to come with me i can show you a short cut through the woods by foeman's bluff. hit's right on the first part of my way." creed had been long out of the mountains or he would have known that a short cut which led by foeman's bluff would certainly be a strange route toward nancy card's cabin; but it was characteristic of the man that without question or demur he accepted the proffered friendly turn at its face value, and he and stribling at once took the way which led across the gulch to the still. they walked for some time, stribling leading, creed following, deep in his own thoughts. "looks like this is a queer direction to be going," he roused himself to comment wonderingly as they dipped into the sudden hollow. "the trail turns a piece up yon," explained the guide briefly. again they toiled on in silence, crossing the dry boulder-strewn bed of a stream, travelling always in the dense darkness of the tall timber, finally striking the rise, which was so abrupt and steep that they had to catch by the path-side bushes to pull themselves up. it was lighter here, as the trail mounted toward a region of rocky bluffs where there was no big timber, running obliquely across the great promontory that had got the name of foeman's bluff, from old ab foeman whose hideout, still unknown, was said to be somewhere in its front. "ain't it mighty curious to be goin' up so?" creed panted. "aunt nancy's place lies lower than the turrentines'. by the road it's down hill mighty near all the way." "thishyer's a short cut," growled the other evasively. "mind how you step. hit's a fur ways down thar ef a body was to fall." with the words they came out suddenly on the bluff itself where the trail widened into a natural terrace, and the great rock, solemn with majestic peace, faced an infinity of sky with bared brow. as they emerged into the light creed took off his hat and lifted his countenance, inhaling the beauty of the summer night. the late moon had climbed a third of the way up the heavens; now she looked down with a chastened, tarnished light, yet with a dusky, diminished beauty that held a sort of mild pathos. great timbered slopes, inky black in this illumination, fell away on every hand down to where the mists lay death-white in the valley; behind them was a low, irregular bulk of brush-grown rock; and all about the whirr of katydids, a million voices blended into one. from a nearby thicket came to them the click and liquid gurgle, "chip-out-o'-white-oak!" it sent creed's heart and fancy questing back to the past hour with the girl on the doorstone. what would he have asked, she answered, if blatch had not interrupted them? he scarcely heard the wavering cry of a screech-owl that followed hard upon the remembered notes. stribling, however, noted the latter promptly, and began edging toward the shadow as his companion spoke. "this is mighty sightly," said creed, looking about him musingly; "i do love a moonshiny night." for a moment there was only the noise of the katydids, backgrounded and enfolded by the deep silence of the great mountains. then someone broke out into what was evidently a forced laugh, a long-drawn, girding, mirthless haw-haw, the laboured insult of which stung creed into a certain resentment of demeanour. "what's the joke?" he inquired dryly, turning toward taylor stribling. but stribling had silently melted away among the shadows of distant trees along the trail. it was blatchley turrentine who stood before him thrusting forward a jeering face in the uncertain half light, while three vaguely defined forms moved and shouldered behind him. the apparition was sinister, but if blatch looked for demonstrations of fear he was disappointed. "what's the joke?" creed repeated. "i couldn't hold in when i heared your pretty talk," drawled blatch, setting his hands on his hips and barring the way. "whar might you be a-goin', mr. creed bonbright?" "home," returned creed briefly. "get out of my road, and i'll be obliged to you." "yo' road--_yo'_ road!" echoed blatch. "well, young feller, besides this here road runnin' acrosst the south eend o' the property that i've rented on a five-year lease, ef so be that yo're a-goin' to nancy cyard's house this is a mighty curious direction for you to be travellin' in." "i was told it was a short cut," said bonbright controlling his temper. a man who was justice of the peace, going home to get ready to try a case on the morrow, must not embroil himself. "good lord!" scoffed blatch. "you claim to be mountain raised, and tell me you think this is a short cut from whar you was at to nancy cyard's? i reckon you'll have to make up another tale." bonbright became suddenly aware that he was surrounded, two of the men who were with turrentine having slipped past him and appearing now as blots of blacker shadow against the trees on either side of the path by which he had come. turrentine and the remaining man barred the way ahead; on the one side was the sheer descent of the bluff; on the other the rough, broken rise. it was like a bad dream. with his usual forthright directness he spoke out. "what is it you want of me--all of you? this meeting never came about by chance." blatch shook his head. "yo' mighty right it didn't," he said. "me an' the boys has a word to speak with you, and when we ketch you walkin' on our land in the middle o' the night--with whatever intentions--we think the time has come for talkin'." "andy! jeff! is that you?" creed, the rash, called over his shoulder to the two behind him. an inarticulate growl answered, and then a boyish voice began, "yo' mighty free with folks' names, you creed bonbright. me and my brother both told you what we thought o' you when you come to the jail. i told you then you'd be run out of the turkey tracks ef you tried to come up here. we don't want no spies." "spies!" echoed creed with a rising note of anger in his voice. "who said i was a spy? what should i be spying on?" "yo' friend mr. dan haley might 'a' said you was a spy," suggested andy's higher pitched tones. "as for what you'd be a-spyin' on you know best. we're all mighty peaceable, law-abidin' folks in the turkey tracks. i don't know of nothin' that we're apt to break the law about 'less'n it would be beatin' up and runnin' out a spy that----" the childish bravado of this speech evidently displeased blatch, who wanted the thing done and over with. his heavier, grating tones broke in, "they's jest one thing to be said to you, creed bonbright. you've got to get out of the turkey tracks--and get quick. air ye goin'?" "no!" creed flung back at him. "when i take my orders from you it will be a mighty cold day. i came up here in the turkey tracks to do a good work among my own people. i'm going to stay here and do it in my own way. is that you, wade turrentine? what have you got to say to me?" the second of the men who faced him stirred uneasily at the mention of his name. it rankled in the expectant bridegroom's heart that all he could complain of concerning creed bonbright was that huldah had thrown herself in his way and forced a kiss upon him--not that bonbright had been the amatory aggressor! "i say what blatch says," growled wade as though the words stuck in his throat. more and more the whole thing was like a nightmare to creed; he felt as though with sufficient effort he might throw it off and wake. the four men hung at the path-side eyeing him, motionless if he were still, moving only if he stirred. even this scarcely gave him a complete understanding of the gravity of his situation. "well," he said finally, "i'm going on home. if any of you boys has anything to say to me, to-morrow or any day after--you know where to find me." he made as though to pass; but blatch turrentine stepped swiftly to the middle of the pathway and stood breathing a little short. "no, by god, we don't!" he panted. "ef we let you to go this night--we don't know whar we'll ever find you again. mebbe you've got yo' budget made up--on yo' way to yo' friend mr. dan haley right now. _ye don't go from here_!" instinctively creed fell back a step. it was out at last--this was neither more nor less than a waylaying. did they mean to kill him? blatch turrentine had crouched where he stood, and even as the question went through the victim's mind, he launched himself with that sudden frightful quickness bodily upon creed. it would seem that the slighter man must be borne down by the onset. but bonbright gathered himself, his arms shot out and gripped his assailant midway. struggling, panting, gasping, stamping, they wrenched and swayed, the three who watched them holding aloof. then with a sheer effort of strength creed tore the heavier man from his footing and lifted him clear of the ground. with a little sobbing oath andy ran in. bonbright could have heaved the man he held over his shoulder in that terrific fall well known to deadly wrestling. wade's stern, "sst! git back there!" stopped the boy. even as creed's muscles knotted themselves to the supreme effort came sudden memory of what he must stand for to these people. it was his right to defend his own life; he must not, in any extremity, take that of another. his grip relaxed. turrentine partially got his feet again; his arms were free; the right made a swift movement, and creed caught the gleam of a knife-blade. without volition of his own he flung all his weight and strength into one mighty movement that hurled man and weapon from him. plunging, staggering, clutching at the air, turrentine gave ground. the moonlight flickered on the blade in his upflung hand as, with a strangled hoarse cry he reeled backward over the bluff. there was a rending sound of breaking branches, a noise of rolling rocks; then deadly silence. for a long moment the men left standing on the cliff strained eyes and ears to where blatch had gone down, then, "keep off!" shouted creed as the three others began silently to close in on him. "stand back, boys. we've had enough of this. draw off and let me get down and see what's happened to him." he kept slowly backing away, striving not to be hemmed in against the rock behind him. the others warily followed. "let you down and finish him, ye mean--don't ye?" screamed andy with all a boy's senseless rage. "you're a fine one to bring law and order into the turkey tracks," wade taunted savagely. "you've brought murder--that's what you've done." "he drew a knife on me," cried bonbright. "you all saw that. i only shoved him away. i never meant to throw him over the bluff." "nobody seen no knife but you, creed bonbright," jeff doggedly asseverated. "all three of us seen you fling blatch over the bluff. you ain't in no court of law now. yo' lies won't do you no good. yo' where we kill the feller that done the killin'." "how?" said creed, still backing, feeling his way slowly, seeking for some break in the rise behind, the others coming a little closer. "by jumpin' on to him somewhere out at night, four to one--or even three to one?" "yes, by god! thataway, ef we cain't do it no better way," panted wade. years before--heaven knows how many--a little seep of water began to gather between two huge stones in the small broken bluff behind creed. winter after winter the crevice through which the trickle came enlarged, the water caught in a natural basin and froze with all its puny might to heave the stones apart. the winter before this slow process had closed leaving a wedge of rock trembling upon its base, ready to fall into a crevice. yet the opening was masked with vine leaves, and when the spring rains finally washed away the mould and the crude doorway tottered and sank, the gap thus left was unnoted, invisible to the sharpest eye. bonbright pressing close against the rock to pass, stepping warily when it was forward, but hugging his barrier as a safety, missed his footing, and slipped almost without a sound into this opening. for a moment he sustained himself holding to tree roots, hearkening to the voices of those above him. "wade--you fool! what did you let him get a-past you for?" and then wade's heavier tones, "i didn't. he run back yo' way." he could hear their footsteps pounding to and fro, their hoarse cries which finally settled down into a demand for a lantern. "we can't find blatch nor do nothing for him, nor git on the track of bonbright nor nothin' else, without a lantern. you jeff, run round to the still; me and andy'll go back and fetch pap." creed sought cautiously for footing, lost all hold, and began a headlong descent. low limbs thrashed his face and body; again and again his head was dashed against rocks or tree stems; his forehead was gashed; the blood poured into his eyes; he rolled and bounded and slid down and down and down the crevice, and into the ravine, bruised, bleeding, breathless, blinded and choked by blood and earth and gravel. he was more than half unconscious when he brought up at last with a rib-smashing thump upon a sapling, and there he clung like a dazed animal, gasping. slowly, as his breath came back to him, and he cleared the blood and dust from his eyes, creed became aware of a dim glow coming through the bushes in one direction. for some time he watched it, making ready to get away as quickly as possible, since this must be on blatch turrentine's land, and the light came probably from some of blatch's party searching for turrentine himself, or for creed. but when he noted that the illumination was steady and stationary, he began to move hesitatingly in its direction. he had gone probably two or three hundred feet when he came to a place whence he had an unobstructed view. the light shone out from the cramped opening of a cave. he went nearer in a sort of daze. there was nobody to intercept him, blatch and the boys, whom he had left on the bluff above, when he so unexpectedly descended from it, being the only sentinels out. no approach was looked for from the quarter where he now was, and he found himself, gazing directly into blatch turrentine's blockaded still. he could distinctly see jim cal and the fellow taylor stribling moving about within the cave. they were attending to a run of whiskey. while bonbright stood motionless, not yet fully comprehending the sinister colour his presence might wear, there was the thud of running footsteps, jeff turrentine rounded the boulder on the other side of the cave and called aloud to those within, "jim cal! taylor! buck! creed bonbright's killed blatch--flung him clean over the bluff--and got plumb away from us! bring a lantern you-all. we've got to hunt for blatch in under foeman's bluff--i'll show you whar." silently creed drew back into the dense undergrowth. he knew where he was, now. as he retreated swiftly in the opposite direction from that in which jeff had approached, he could vaguely hear the excited voices at the still, questioning, replying, denouncing, exclaiming. presently he came out upon the main trail, rounded the gulch, heading for the big road and nancy card's cabin, his soul sick within him at the events of the evening, bitterly regretting the explicit and unwelcome knowledge of the secret still which had been forced upon him, feeling himself now a spy indeed--a spy and a murderer. he walked with long nervous strides; beaten and bruised though he was, he was unconscious of fatigue; the grief and regret that surged within him were as an anodyne to physical pain, and it was less than half an hour later that he opened the door of nancy card's cabin, his white face scratched and bleeding, his torn hands, too, covered with blood, his clothing rent and earth-stained, his eyes wild and pain-bright. "good lord, boy! what's the matter with ye?" cried the old woman, coming toward him in terror, both hands out. "i sot up for ye, 'caze pony he jest come from hepzibah an' said that spiled-rotten andy an' that feisty jeff 'lowed ye was a spy an' they was a-goin' to run ye out of the turkey tracks." she laid hold of him and examined him with anxious eyes. "i was plumb werried about ye. i knowed in reason they was a-goin' to be trouble at that fool play-party." "no, i ain't hurt, aunt nancy," said creed desolately, and he stared past her at the wall. "but looks to me like i'm cursed. i meant so well----" he choked on the word. "i'd just had a talk with--she said--we--i thought that everything was about to come right. and now--i've killed blatch turrentine, and i've just got away from the others. they was all after me." chapter x a spy old jephthah was winding the clock when the door--which he had closed some time ago after the last retiring guests--flung violently open, andy paused, flying foot on the threshold, and gasped out hoarsely, "pap--creed bonbright's killed blatch and got away from us!" the lusk girls had staid to help judith clear up, intending to remain over night unless andy and jeff returned in time to take them home. the three young women working at the table lifted pale faces; pendrilla let fall the plate in her hand and broke it. unconscious of the fact, she stood staring with open mouth at the fragments by her feet. jephthah took one more turn mechanically, then withdrew the key and laid it down. "whar at?" he inquired briefly. "up on our place," said wade who now appeared at the boy's side. "bonbright throwed him over foeman's bluff." "how come it?" queried the head of the tribe. "they was a fussin'," began andy, but his father interrupted him in a curious tone. "foeman's bluff," he repeated. "what tuck bonbright thar at this time o' night?" "that's what i say," panted jim cal's voice in the darkness outside. he had come straight from the still instead of going with jeff and the others to search; and for all his flesh he had overtaken his brothers. but there was none now to demand sardonically why he fled the seat of war and ran to the paternal shelter for re-enforcements. "ef folks go nosin' around whar they ain't wanted, sometimes they git what they don't like," he concluded. judith, very pale, had parted her lips to utter words of indignant defence, and denial of this broad imputation, but before she could speak huldah spiller irrupted into the room, her red curls flying, her bodice clutched about her in such a fashion as to suggest she had been undressing when the news reached her. the mountain woman with temperament is reduced to the outlets of such occasions as these, or revival seasons and funerals; and huldah spiller, having abandoned the protesting iley with her babies, whom the mother could not leave alone, meant to make the most of the occasion. "you-all ain't got no right to talk the way you do about creed," the red-haired girl burst out. "him and me's been friends ever sence i went to hepzibah, and there ain't a better man walks the earth. ef he done anything to blatch hit was becaze blatch laywayed him an' jumped on him, an' he had to. oh, lord!" and she began to weep, "i wish't my daddy was here--i jest wish pap spiller was here. pore creed! ef you-all git yo' hands on him, mad thisaway, the lord knows what will be did!" jephthah regarded his postulant daughter-in-law from under lowered, bushy brows. "kin you make her hush?" he inquired of wade. "i ain't got no interest in makin' her hush nor makin' her holler," returned wade contemptuously. dishonoured before his clan, his male dignity sadly shorn, his woman shrieking out the wrongs and excellences of another man--and that man a young and well-favoured enemy--his bitterness may be forgiven. "fetch the lantern," ordered jephthah briefly. "we-all have got to git over thar and see to this business." "well, i'll hush--but i'm goin' along," volleyed huldah. "le's us go too, jude," pleaded cliantha lusk in a trembling whisper. "i'm scared to be left here in the house with the men all gone. he might take a notion to come and raid the place and kill us. they do thataway in feud times. my gran' mammy----" "do hush!" choked judith. but she hurried out in the wake of the departing men, cliantha clinging to one arm, pendrilla to the other. they left the doors open, the candles flaring, and nobody to guard but the toothless old hound who slept and snored on the chip pile. the journey to foeman's bluff, following the flicker of the lantern in wade's hand, with the voices of the men coming back to her, hoarse, fragmentary, ejaculatory, reciting creed's offences asseverating that they had expected nothing else, was like a nightmare to judith. when cliantha screamed and clung to her and said she thought she saw creed bonbright in the bushes by the path-side, judith shook her off angrily, but let the clamouring little thing creep back and make her peace. "i forgot about you and blatch--oh, po' judy!" moaned cliantha. "ef hit was me goin' to s'arch for the murdered body of my true love i don't know as i could put foot befo' foot!" "the trail's mighty narrow here--i'll go in front," said judith. she freed herself, and thereafter walked alone with bent head. as they descended into the hollow andy began to hoo-ee; and finally he was answered from the neighbourhood of the bluff. up this they climbed, since on this side they were cut off from the region below it by an impassable gulley. halting on the top and looking down, they could see a lantern moving about and catch faint sound of the men's voices. "who's down thar?" jephthah's big rolling bass sent out the call. there was an ominous hesitation before jeff's perturbed tones replied, "hit's me, pap, me an' buck shalliday an' taylor stribling." andy found a tall tree at the bluffs edge, and began to descend through its branches with the swiftness and agility of a monkey. "how is he--is he alive?" the old man put the query at the edge of the gulf, stooping, peering over. jim cal sat down suddenly and began wiping his forehead. the moonlight showed his round face very pale under its beaded sweat. "andy'll git hisself killed!" whimpered pendrilla. and huldah broke into loud hysteric weeping, on the tide of which "creed--pap spiller--blatch turrentine" were cast up now and again. "hush, cain't ye?" demanded jephthah, angrily; "i cain't hear one word they answer me down thar. hello, boys. is he livin'?" andy had evidently reached the searchers at the foot of the cliff. loud, confused voices came up to those above. finally, "w'y, pap, we ain't never found him," jeff called. "ye _what_?" demanded the father incredulously. "we ain't--never--found him," reiterated jeff doggedly. the old man drew back sharply with a look of swift anger in his face. "well, ef ye hain't found him by now ye better quit lookin', hadn't ye?" he suggested as he straightened to his full height and turned his back. "creed bonbright's jest about been here an' hid the body, that's what he's done," taylor stribling clamoured after him in futile explanation. but the old man gave no heed. lantern in hand, he was already addressing himself to a careful examination of the scene of the struggle. the torn vines where creed had fallen through the fissure instantly caught his eye. "come up here, you-all!" he turned and shouted toward the gulf. he swung his lantern far out over the crevice. "look at that," he said quietly. "thar's whar yo' man got away from ye." he handed the lantern to wade, and swung himself lightly down where creed had fallen. "better let me go, pap," said wade, and judith mutely stared after the old man as he disappeared into the dark. for fifteen minutes or more the watchers on the cliff waited and trembled, straining ears and eyes. in that time they were joined by those from the foot of the bluff, all but stribling, who, the boys said, had "gone on home." then they heard sounds of clambering in the cleft, and the old man's face appeared in the well of inky shadow, pale, the black eyes burning, the great black beard flowing backward to join the darkness behind him. wade held his lantern high. it lit a circle of faces on which terror, anger, and distress wrought. judith could scarcely look at her uncle, and a great trembling shook her limbs, so that she laid hold of a little sapling by which she stood, and closed her eyes. "well," said the old man on a falling note, and his voice sounded hollowly from the cleft, "well, i reckon this does settle it--whether blatch is hurt or no. how many of ye was a-workin' in the still to-night?" "i was," quavered jim cal; "me and taylor stribling and buck shalliday. blatch had left a run o' whiskey that had to be worked off, and when he didn't come i turned in to 'tend to it--why, pap?" "ef bonbright wanted to find out about the still he shore made it, that's all," answered jephthah. "ye can see right into it from whar he went. ef you-all boys wants to stay out o' the penitentiary i reckon creed bonbright's got to leave the turkey tracks mighty sudden," and he swung himself heavily to the level of the cliff. "that's what i say," whispered jim cal, pasty pale and quivering. "we've got it to do." old jephthah looked darkly upon his sons. "well, settle it amongst ye, how an' when. i'll neither meddle nor make in this business. i don't know how all o' this come about, nor what you-all an' blatch turrentine air up to. you've made an outsider o' me, an' an outsider i'll stay. ef ye won't tell me the truth, don't tell me no lies. come on, gals." he strode into the homeward trail, the four girls falling in behind his tall figure. judith was sick with misery and uncertainty; the lusk girls looked back timidly at andy and jeff; even huldah was mute. chapter xi the warning five o'clock friday morning found creed, pale, hollow-eyed, a strip of nancy's home-made sticking plaster over the cut on brow and cheek, but otherwise composed and as usual, at the pine table in his little shack, working over the references which applied to the case he was to try that morning. but an hour later brought old keziah provine to the door to borrow the threading of a needle with white thread. "i hearn they had an interruption," she began, pushing in past nancy and the two children, "but thar--you kin hear anything these days and times. they most gen'ally does find trouble at these here play-parties, that's why i'm sot agin 'em." poor old soul, it was not on account of her rheumatic legs, her toothless jaws, nor her half-blind eyes that she objected to play-parties, of course. "i got no use for 'em," she pursued truthfully, "specially when they're started up too close to a blockade still. they named it to me that creed had done killed one of the turrentine boys--is that so?" "no," returned nancy stoutly. "by the best of what i kin git out o' creed, him and blatch was walkin' along, an' blatch missed his footin' and fell off o' foeman's bluff. creed tried to he'p him, an' fell an' got scratched some. i reckon the turrentines'll tell it different, but that's what i make out from what creed says." "lord, how folks will lie!" admired keziah, piously. "now they tell that blatch was not only killed up, but that some one--creed, or some o' them that follers him--tuck the body away befo' they could git to it. they say they was blood all over the bushes, an' a great drug place whar blatch had been toted off. one feller named a half-dug hole sorter like a grave; but thar! i never went over to see for myse'f, an' ye cain't believe the half o' what ye hear." "well, i'd say not," snapped nancy. "not ef hit was sech a pack o' lies as that." thread in hand old keziah lingered till arley kittridge came with his mother's baking-pan and request for a little risin'. arley it seemed had been commissioned to find out what he could on behalf of the kittridge family. and so it went till breakfast-time. how these things travel in a neighbourhood where there is no telephone, postman, milkman, nor morning paper, and where the distances are considerable, is one of the mysteries of the mountains--yet travel they do, and when time came for court to open creed found that he had a crowd which would at any other juncture have been highly gratifying. every man that came in glanced first at the cut on his cheek, swiftly noted the pale face, sunken, purple-rimmed eyes, the scratched hands, then looked hastily away. several made proffers of an alliance with him, being at outs with the turrentines. all reiterated the story of the missing body. "you done exactly right," old tubal kittridge told him. "with a man like blatchley turrentine, hit's hit first or git hit. i wonder he ever let ye git as far as foeman's bluff; but if you made good use o' yo' time, i reckon you found out what you aimed to," and he winked laboriously at poor creed's crimsoning countenance. "i wasn't trying to find out anything, mr. kittridge. blatch forced the quarrel upon me. i was on my way home at the time." "well, a lee-tle out of yo' way, wasn't ye?" objected kittridge, slightly offended at not being offered bonbright's confidence. the case on the docket, one that had interested creed deeply, being the curious matter of a mountain creek which in the spring storms had changed its direction, scoured off a good field and flung it to the opposite side of the road, thus giving it to a new owner, dragged wearily. who cared about the question of a few rods of mountain land, even if it had raised good tobacco, when the slayer of one of the bullies of the neighbourhood sat before them--a man who had not only killed his victim but had, within fifteen minutes, hidden all traces of the body--and the opening of a new feud was taking place before their eyes? at noon creed, in despair, adjourned his court, setting a new date for trial, explaining that this turrentine matter ought to be looked into, and he believed it was not a proper day for him to be otherwise engaged. then he sought old tubal kittridge. "there's something i want you to do for me," he said. "shore--shore; anything in the world," kittridge agreed eagerly. "aunt nancy won't hear of my going over to the turrentines'," hesitated creed. "i looked for them to be here--some of them--long before this." "huh-uh; ah, law, no--they won't come in the daytime," smiled kittridge. creed looked annoyed. "they will be welcome, whenever they come," he asserted. "what i want you to do is to go to jephthah turrentine and say to him that i thought i ought to go over, and that i'll do so now if he wants me to--or i'll meet him here at the office, or anywhere he says." "huh-uh--uh!" old tubal shook his head, his eyes closed in quite an ecstasy of negation. "you cain't git jep turrentine in the trap as easy as all that," he said half contemptuously. "why, he'd know what you was at a leetle too quick." bonbright looked helpless indignation for a moment, then thought better of it and repeated: "i want you to go and tell him that i'm right here, ready to answer for anything i've done, and that i would like to talk to him about it. will you do it?" "oh,--all right," agreed kittridge in an offended tone. "there's plenty would stand by ye; there's plenty that would like to see the turrentines run out of the country; but if ye want to fix it some new-fangled way i reckon you'll have to." and to himself he muttered as he took the road homeward, "i say go to the turrentines with sech word at that! that boy must think i'm as big a fool as he is." * * * * * at the turrentine home life dragged on strangely. jephthah in his own cabin, busied himself overhauling some harness. the boys had been across at the old place, presumably making a thorough inspection of the scene of the trouble. judith went mechanically about her tasks, cooking and serving the meals, setting the house in order. only once did she rouse somewhat, and that was when huldah spiller flounced in and flung herself tempestuously down in a chair. "how you come on, judy?" inquired the red-haired damsel. "about as usual," returned judith coldly, and would fain have added, "none the better for seeing you." "i jest had to run over and see how you was standin' it," huldah pursued vivaciously. "i cried all night--didn't you?" "what for?" inquired judith angrily. "oh--i don't know. i'm jest thataway. git me started an' thar's no stoppin' me. but then i've knowed creed so mighty long--him an' me was powerful good friends, and my feelin's is more tenderer than some folks's anyhow." "huldy," said judith in a tone so rigidly controlled that it made the other jump, "ef you'll jest walk yo'self out of here i'll be obliged to you. i've stood all i can. i don't want to say anything plumb bad to you, but ef you set thar an' talk to me like that for another minute i will." "oh, you po' thing!" cried huldah, jumping to her feet. "i declare to goodness i forgot all about you an' blatch. here i've been carryin' on over creed bonbright--and you mighty near a widder. you po' thing!" judith faced around with such blazing eyes from the biscuits she was moulding that huldah beat a hasty retreat, dodged out of the door, and ran up the slope. at jim cal's cabin she paused and looked about her uncertainly. iley had the toothache, and for various reasons was proving a poor audience for her younger sister's conversation. the day had been a trying one to huldah's excited nerves, a sad anti-climax after the explosions of the night before. it was five o'clock. the men were all over at the old place. if she but had an excuse to follow them, now. why, the whole top of the bald above foeman's bluff, and the broad shelf below it, were covered with huckleberry bushes! she put her head in at the door. iley looked up from the hot brick which she was wrapping in a wet cloth with ten drops of turpentine on it preparatory to applying the same to her cheek above the swollen tooth. "ef you say 'creed bonbright'--or 'kill'--or 'blatch turrentine,'--to me, i vow i'll hit ye," she warned shrilly. "i ain't never raised hand on ye yet sence ye was a woman grown, but do it i will!" "i wasn't goin' to say nothin' about nothin'," asserted huldah sweepingly. "i was jest goin' to ax did ye want any huckleberries, and git a pail to pick some." she sought out a small tin lard bucket as she spoke, and iley's silence presumably assenting, within twenty minutes was picking away eagerly on the bald above the bluff. below her stretched meadows drunk with sun--breathless. a rain crow called from time to time "c-c-c-cow! cow! cow!" the air was still heavy with faint noon-day smells, the sky tarnished with heat. "i wonder where in all creation them boys has got theirselves to," she ruminated as she peered about, dragging green berries and leaves into her bucket, for which mrs. jim cal would afterward no doubt scold her soundly. "'pears to me like i hearn somebody talkin' somewhars." she pushed cautiously down to the edge of the rocks where the bushes grew scatteringly, pretending to herself that she wanted a bit of wild geranium that flourished in a crevice far below the top. setting down her pail she threw herself on her face, her arms over the edge, and reached. but the fingers hung suspended, opened in air, her mouth open too, and she listened greedily to faint sounds of men's voices. "i'll bet it's old ab foeman's hideout that nobody but him and the cherokees knowed of," she muttered to herself. "some one's found it and--lord, look at that!" from the bushes below her, coming apparently out of the living rock itself, crept andy, and then jeff turrentine. now she could see the narrow, door-like opening of the cave which had given them up, and realised how, from below, it passed for a mere depression in the rock. huldah drew back silently, inch by inch, and instinctively pulled her black calico sunbonnet over her red curls as she crouched down among the huckleberry bushes. when she looked again andy and jeff had disappeared, but she could see the head and shoulders of a man who still lay at the cave's mouth--and that man was blatch turrentine! at first she shuddered, thinking that she had come upon the dead body; then she noted a tiny trail of smoke, and, by craning a little farther around, saw that blatchley lay at ease with a pipe in his mouth, smoking. "the triflin', low-down, lyin' hound!" she muttered to herself. "i'm a-goin' this very minute and tell creed bonbright." she hesitated, glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the turrentine cabin, then bent dubiously and set up her overturned bucket. not a berry had spilled from it, yet the sight of its mishap gave her an idea. quietly slipping through the bushes till she was far enough away to dare run, she hurried home to the cabin. "iley," she gasped, as soon as she put her head in at the door, "i upsot my berry pail and lost most of the fruit. can you make out with that?" and she set the little bucket on the table. "i reckon i'll have to, ef you've got so work-brickle ye won't pick any more," returned iley. "i would--i'd git ye all ye need," protested huldah with unexpected meekness, "but i'm jest obliged to go over to--" she had all but said creed bonbright's, but she caught herself in time and concluded lamely. "i jest have obliged to run down to clianthy lusk's and see can she let me have her crochet needle for to finish up my shawl." she delayed for no criticism or demur on iley's part, but was off with the last word, and once out of sight of jim cal's cabin she took a short cut through the woods and ran; but in spite of her best efforts darkness began to gather before she won to the high road, for the evening had closed in early, thick and threatening; a mountain thunder-storm was brewing. opposite a tempestuous, magnificent sunset, there had reared in the eastern sky a tremendous thunder-head, a palace of a thousand snowy domes, turning to gold, and then flushing from base to crown like a gigantic many-petalled rose. it swept steadily up and over, hiding the sky, and leaving the earth in almost complete darkness. there were low rolls of thunder, at first mellow and almost musical, crashing always louder and stronger as they came nearer. the wind thrashed and yelled through the tossing forest; and as she approached the card cabin she heard the banging of barn shutters, the whipping of tree boughs against the windows. there were the first spears of rain flung at roof and door; and it was in the torrent itself which followed fast that huldah beat upon that closed door, giving her name and demanding entrance. within, creed bonbright sprang up from where he sat with a book in his hand, his eyes fixed on vacancy, and would have answered her, but old nancy put a hasty palm over his lips. "hush--for god's sake," she whispered. they stood in the lighted cabin, all on foot by this time, and listened intently, tall creed, the little grey-haired woman clinging to him and restraining him, doss with his light eyes goggling, and little buck and beezy hand in hand, studying their grandmother's face, not their father's. "who is it?" quavered nancy. "i'm all alone in here, and i'm scared to let wayfarers in." "it's me--huldy spiller--aunt nancy," called back the voice in the rain. "well, i vow! you know how things air, huldy--what do ye want, chile?" "i want creed bonbright. i've got something to tell him." "thar--ye see now," breathed the old woman, turning toward creed. then she raised her voice. "he ain't here, honey," she lied unhesitatingly. "why don't ye go to his office--that's whar he stays at." "oh, for the lord's sake--aunt nancy!" came back the girl's shrill, terrified tones. "i've done been to the office; i know in reason creed ain't there, or he'd a-answered me. please let me in; i'm scared some of the turrentines'll come an' ketch me." at this creed strode to the door, nancy dragging back on his arm and buck and beezy seconding her with all their small might, while provine spluttered ineffectually in the background. "hit's a lie," hissed nancy. "she's a decoy. ef you open that thar do' with the light on ye, they'll shoot ye over her shoulders. hit was did to my man thataway in feud times. don't you open the do' creed." "why, aunt nancy," remonstrated creed, almost smiling, "this isn't like you. there's nothing but a girl there in the rain. keep out of range if you're scared. i'm sure going to open that door." [illustration: "they stood in the lighted cabin and listened intently."] as he made ready to do so nancy flew back to the table and blew out the light, and the next minute huldah spiller, dripping like a mermaid, was standing in the middle of the darkened room, and doss provine, breathing short, was barring the door behind her. "who's here?" gasped the girl peering about the gloom. "what air you-all a-goin' to do to me?" nancy relighted the lamp and set it on the table, and huldah discovered with a long-drawn sobbing sigh of relief that there was no one save the immediate family present. "i came quick as i could," she began in the middle of her story, grasping creed by the arm and shaking him in the violence of her emotion and insistence. "blatch turrentine's alive. andy and jeff have got him hid out. i seed him myse'f with my own eyes, in a hideout thar below foeman's bluff, not more'n a hour ago. i'll bet he aims to layway you, ef he cain't git ye hung for murderin' of him. you got to git out o' here. it was as much as my life was worth to come over and tell ye. i'm afraid to go back. i'm goin' right on down to hepzibah and stay thar." "come up closeter to the fire," commanded nancy, who had watched the girl keenly throughout her recital. "doss, put some sticks on and git a little blaze so she can dry herself. huldy, you're a good girl to come over and warn creed--when was you aimin' to go to hepzibah?" she looked up from the hearth where she knelt with the frankest inquiring gaze. "to-night--right now," half whimpered huldah. "i'm scared to go back. i'm scared to be here on the mountain at all." "and did ye aim to have creed go along of ye?" old nancy questioned mildly. "yes--yes--he'd better," agreed huldah hysterically. "hit's the onliest way for him now." nancy caught creed's eye above the girl's drenched head, and shook her own warningly. leaving doss to look after the newcomer, she drew the young justice into the kitchen. "whatever ye do," she warned him hastily, "don't you put out with that red-headed gal in the dark. things may be adzackly as she says--looks to me like she thinks she's a-speakin' the truth; but then agin the turrentines might a' sent her for to draw you out. they wouldn't like to shoot ye in my cabin, 'caze they know me and my kinfolks would be apt to raise a fuss; but halfway down the mountain with this sweetheart of wade's--huh-uh, boy; i reckon they could tell their own tale then, of how you come by yo' death. don't you go with her." "i wasn't aiming to, aunt nancy," said creed quietly. "as soon as i heard that blatch turrentine was alive, i intended to go right over and have a talk with old jephthah. he's a fair-minded man, and if he is informed that his nephew is living i think he and i can come to terms." "fa'r-minded man!" echoed nancy contemptuously. "jephthah turrentine a fa'r-minded man! well, creed, ef i hadn't no better eye for a fat chicken than you have for a fa'r-minded man, you wouldn't enjoy yo' dinner at my table as well as you do. i say fa'r-minded! this thing has got into a feud, boy, and in a feud you cain't trust nobody--_nobody_!" creed went back into the room, and nancy reluctantly followed him. huldah was getting dry and warm, and that fluent tongue of hers was impatiently silent. as soon as she saw the returning pair she began to repeat again the details of her information--how she had glimpsed the hidden man through the bushes, how she knew in reason he could be none other than blatch. nancy exchanged a glance of intelligence with creed. "ye see!" she murmured, aside. "ef she _ain't_ a decoy they've sont, she don't know nothin' for sartin." "i'm scared of all the turrentines," huldah declared. "they're awful folks. from the old man down to jude, they scare me. i reckon jude's had a big hand in this," she went on excitedly. "her and blatch is goin' to wed shortly, and she'd be shore to know any meanness he was into. i'll be glad to git shet of sech. when you're ready to be a-steppin' creed, i am." she looked up at the young fellow with a sort of unwilling worship. "i don't aim to go with you, huldah," he said gently. "you love wade turrentine, and wade loves you; you was to be wedded this fall. i don't aim for any affairs of mine to part you two." the girl hung her head, painfully flushed, her eyes full of tears. "i don't care nothin' about wade," she choked. "him and me has----" "i reckon you've quarrelled" said creed, sympathetically. "that needn't come to anything. i'm going over and talk to jephthah turrentine to-morrow morning, and i want you to come with me!" "no," said huldah getting to her feet and looking strangely at him. "the rain's about done now; the moon'll be comin' up in half a hour--i'm a-goin' on down to hepzibah, like i said i was. ef wade turrentine wants me, he knows whar to come for me. ef he thinks of me as he said he did the last time we had speech together--w'y, i never want to put eyes on his face again. oh--creed, i wish't you'd come with me!" "but it was me you quarrelled about," remonstrated bonbright with that sudden clear vision which ultra-spiritual natures often show, and that startling forthrightness of speech which amazes and daunts the mountaineer. "i'm the last man you ought to leave the mountain with, huldah, if you want to make up with wade." "how--how did you know?" whispered the girl, staring at him. "well, anyhow, i ain't never a-goin' back thar." she could not be prevailed on to go to bed with aunt nancy, when doss provine and the children were asleep, and creed had gone to his quarters in the little office building, but sat by the fire all night staring into the embers, occasionally stirring them or putting on a stick of wood. at the earliest grey of dawn she waked nancy, bidding the elder woman fasten the door after her. declining in strangely subdued fashion her hostess's offer of hot coffee, she stepped noiselessly out and, with a swift look about, dived into the steep short-cut trail which led almost straight down the face of big turkey track, from turn to turn of the main road. a cloud clung to the side; the foliage of only the foremost trees emerged from its blur, and these were dimmed and flatted as though a soft white veil were tangled among their leaves. into this white mystery of dawn the girl had vanished. nancy looked curiously after her a moment, then glanced swiftly about as huldah had done, her eyes dwelling long on creed's little shack, standing peaceful in the morning mists. softly she turned back, and closed and barred the door. chapter xii in the lion's den at seven o'clock, despite entreaties and warnings, creed mounted his mule and set out for the turrentine place. "don't you trust nothin' nor nobody over thar," nancy followed him out to the gate to reiterate. "old jephthah turrentine's as big a rascal as they' is unhung. no--i wouldn't trust judith neither (hush now, little buck; you don't know what granny's a-talkin' about); she's apt to git some fool gal's notion o' being jealous o' huldy, or something like that, and see you killed as cheerful as i'd wring a chicken's neck. (for the lord's sake, doss, take these chil'en down to the spring branch; they mighty nigh run me crazy with they' fussin' an' cryin'!) don't you trust none on 'em, boy." "why, aunt nancy, i trust everybody on that whole place, excepting blatchley turrentine," said creed sturdily. "even andy and jeff, if i had a chance to talk to them, could be got to see reason. they're not the bloodthirsty crew you make them out. they're good folks." she looked at him in exasperation, yet with a sort of reluctant approval and admiration. "well," she sighed, as she saw him mount and start, "mebbe yo' safer goin' right smack into the lion's den, like dan'el, than you would be to sneak up." summer was at full tide, and the world had been new washed last night. scents of mint and pennyroyal rose up under his mule's slow pacing feet. the meadow that stretched beyond nancy's cabin was a green sea, with flower foam of white weed and dog-fennel; and the fence row was a long breaker with surf of elder blossom, the garden a tangle of bean-vine arbours. the corn patch rustled valiantly; the pastures were streaked with pale yellow primroses; and bob whites ran through the young crops, calling. creed rode forward. a gay wind was abroad under the blue sky. every tiniest leaf that danced and flirted on its slender stem sent back gleams of the morning sunlight from its wet, glistening surface. the woods were full of bird songs, and the myriad other lesser voices of a midsummer morning sounded clear and distinct upon the vast, enfolding silence of the mountains. it seemed beyond reason out in that gay july sunshine that anything dark or tragic could happen to one. but after all man cannot be so different from nature which produces him, and the night before had given them a passionate, brief, destructive thunder-storm. creed noted the ravages of it here and there; the broken boughs, the levelled or uprooted herbage, the washed and riven soil, as his mule moved soberly along. at the turrentine cabin all was quiet. the young men of the house had been out the entire night before guarding the trails that creed bonbright should not leave the mountains secretly. a good deal of moonshine whiskey went to this night guarding, particularly when there was the excuse of a shower to call for it, and the watchers of the trails now lay in their beds making up arrears of sleep. jephthah stood looking out of his own cabin door when, about fifteen minutes ahead of creed, taylor stribling tethered his half-broken little filly in the bushes at the edge of the clearing, and ran across the grassy side yard. "bonbright's out an' a-headin' this way!" he volleyed in a hoarse whisper as he approached the head of the clan. "who's with him?" asked jephthah, turning methodically back into the room for the squirrel gun over the door. "nobody. he ain't got no rifle. i reckon he's packin' a pistol, though, of course. nancy cyard bawled an' took on considerable when he started. shall i call the boys?" "no," returned jephthah briefly, replacing the clean brown rifle on its fir pegs. "no, i don't need nobody, and i don't need old sister. i reckon i can deal with one young feller alone." he walked unhurriedly toward the main house. stribling stood looking after him a moment, uncertainly. the spy's errand was performed. he had now his dismissal; it would not do to be seen about the place at this time. he went reluctantly back to the waiting filly, mounted and turned her head toward a high point that commanded the big road for some distance. a little later jephthah turrentine sat in the open threshing-floor porch of the main house smoking, judith within was busy looking over and washing a mess of indian lettuce and sissles in a piggin, when creed rode into the yard. the ancient hound thumped twice with a languid tail on the floor; judith, back in her kitchen, stayed her hand, and stared out at the newcomer with parted lips which the blood forsook; jephthah's inscrutable black eyes rose to creed's face and rested there; nothing but that aspect, pale, desolate, ravaged, the strip of plaster running from brow to cheek, marked the difference between this visit and any other. yet the old house seemed to crouch close, to regard him askance from under lowering eyes, as though through all its timbers ran the message that the enemy was here. "good morning," he hailed. "howdy. 'light--'light and come in," jephthah adjured him, without rising, "i'm proud to see ye." his own countenance was worn and haggard with sleeplessness and anxiety, but with the mountaineer's dignified reticence he passively ignored the fact, assuming a detached manner of mild jocularity. creed, under inspection from six pairs of eyes, though there was only one individual visible to him, got from his mule, tethered the animal, and came and seated himself on the porch edge. "aunt nancy didn't want me to come over this morning," he began with that directness which always amazed his turkey track neighbours and put them all astray as to the man, his real meaning and intentions. "well, now--didn't she?" inquired the other innocently. "hit was a fine mornin' for a ride, too, and i 'low ye' had yo' reasons for comin' in this direction--not but what we're proud to see ye on business or on pleasure." "are any of the boys about?" asked creed, suddenly looking up. "i don't know adzackly whar the boys is at," compromised jephthah, soothing his conscience with the fiction that one might be lying in one bed and another in some place to him unknown. "was there any particular one you wanted to see?" "i was looking for wade," said creed briefly, and a silent shock went through one of the men kneeling on the bed inside the log wall, peering through a chink at the visitor. judith could bear the strain no longer. torn by diverse emotions, she snatched up a bucket, ran out of the back door and down to the spring. returning with it, and her composure somewhat repaired, she dipped a cool and dripping gourdful, walked swiftly through the front room and stood abruptly before creed, presenting it with almost no word of greeting, only the customary, "would ye have a fresh drink?" "thank you," said creed taking the gourd from her hand and lifting his eyes to her face. he needed no prompting now; his own heart spoke very clearly; he knew as he looked at her that she was all the world to him--and that he was utterly lost and cut off from her. jephthah, on the porch, and those unseen eyes within, watched the two curiously, while creed drank from the gourd, emptied out what water remained, and returned it to judith, and she all the while regarded him with a burning gaze, finally bursting out: "what do you want to see wade about? is it--is it huldy?" "yes, miss judith, it's huldah," creed assented quietly. "i don't know as its worth while talkin' to wade about that thar gal," put in jephthah meditatively. "she sorter sidled off last night and left the place, and i think he feels kinder pestered and mad like. my boys is all mighty peaceful in their dispositions, but it ain't the best to talk to any man when he's had that which riles him." "whar is huldy spiller?" demanded judith standing straight and tall before the visitor, disdaining the indirection of her uncle's methods. "is she over at you-all's?" "that's what i wanted to talk to wade about," returned creed evasively. "huldah's a good girl, and i'm sorry if he thinks--i'd hate to be the one that----" for a moment judith stared at him with incredulous anger, then she wheeled sharply, went into the house and shut the door. creed turned appealingly to the older man. he had great faith in jephthah turrentine's good sense and cool judgment. but the young justice showed in many ways less comprehension of these, his own people, than an outsider born and bred. jephthah turrentine was no longer to be reckoned with as a man--he was the head of a tribe, and that tribe was at war. "i don't know as that thar gal is worth namin' at this time," he vouchsafed, almost plaintively. "ef she had taken jim cal's iley 'long with her, i could fergive the both of 'em and wish ye joy. as it is, she's neither here nor thar. ef you had nothin' better to name to my son wade, mebbe we'd as well talk of the craps, and about steve massengale settin' out to run for the legislature." creed stood up, and in so doing let the little packet of papers he held in his hand drop unnoted to the grass. he scorned to make an appeal for himself, yet it seemed worth while to let his adversaries know that he was aware what they would be at. "who found blatch turrentine's body and removed it?" he asked abruptly. blatch's body,--unknown to his uncle and judith--at that moment reposing comfortably upon a bed in the loft room adjoining the porch, heaved with noiseless chuckles. old jephthah's eyes narrowed. "we 'low that ye might answer that question for yo'self," he said coolly. "word goes that you've done hid the body, so murder couldn't be proved." the visitor sighed. he was disappointed. he had hoped the old man might have admitted--to him--that blatch had not been killed. "mr. turrentine," he began desperately, "i know what you people believe about me--but it isn't true; i'm not a spy. when i came upon that still, i was running for my life. i never wanted to know anything about blockaded stills." "ye talked sort o' like ye did, here earlier in the evenin'," said the old man, rearing himself erect in his chair, and glaring upon the fool who spoke out in broad daylight concerning such matters. "i didn't mean that personally," protested creed. "i wish to the lord i didn't know anything about it. i'm sorry it chanced that i looked in the cave there and saw your son----" "you needn't go into no particulars about whar you looked in, nor what you seed, nor call out no names of them you seed," cut in the old man's voice, low and menacing; and around the corner of the house jim cal, where he had stolen up to listen, trembled through all the soft bulk of his body like a jelly; and into his white face the angry blood rushed. "wish ye didn't know nothin? yes, and you'll wish't it wuss'n that befo' yo're done with it," he muttered under his breath. "i don't intend to use that or any other information against a neighbour and a friend," creed went on doggedly. "but they can't make me leave the turkey tracks. i'm here to stay. i came with a work to do, and i mean to do it or die trying." the old man's head was sunk a bit on his breast, so that the great black beard rose up of itself and shadowed his lower face. "mighty fine--mighty fine," he murmured in its voluminous folds. "ef they is one thing finer than doin' what you set out to do, hit's to die a-tryin'. the sort of sentiments you have on hand now is the kind i l'arned myself out of the blue-backed speller when i was a boy. i mind writin' em out big an' plain after the teacher's copy." creed looked about him for judith. he had failed with the old man, but she would understand--she would know. his hungry heart counselled him that she was his best friend, and he glanced wistfully at the door through which she had vanished; but it remained obstinately closed as he made his farewells, got dispiritedly to his mule and away. judith watched his departure from an upper window, smitten to the heart by the drooping lines of the figure, the bend of the yellow head. inexorably drawn she came down the steep stairs, checking, halting at every step, her breast heaving with the swift alternations of her mood. the door of the boys' room swung wide; her swift glance descried wade's figure just vanishing into the grove at the edge of the clearing. the tall, gaunt old man brooded in his chair, his black eyes fixed on vacancy, the pipe in his relaxed fingers dropped to his knee. up toward the jim cal cabin iley, one baby on her hip and two others clinging to her skirts, dodged behind a convenient smoke-house, and peered out anxiously. judith stepped noiselessly into the porch; the old man did not turn his head. her quick eye noted the paper creed had dropped. she stooped and picked it up unobserved, slipped into the kitchen, studying its lines of figures which meant nothing to her, caught up her sunbonnet and, glancing warily about, made an exit through the back door. she ran through a long grape-arbour where great wreathing arms of virgin's bower aided to shut the green tunnel in from sight, then took a path where tall bushes screened her, making for the short cut which she guessed creed would take. down the little dell through which she herself had ridden that first day with what wonderful thoughts of him in her heart, she got sight of him, going slowly, the lagging gait of the old mule seeming to speak his own depression. the trees were all vigorous young second growth here, and curtained the slopes with billows of green. the drying ground sent up a spicy mingling of odours--decaying pine needles, heart leaf, wintergreen berries, and the very soil itself. bumblebees shouldered each other clumsily about the heads of milk-weed blossoms. cicada droned in long, loud crescendo and diminuendo under the hot sun of mid forenoon. a sensitive plant, or as judith herself would have said, a "shame briar," caught at her skirts as she hastened. dipping deeper into the hollow, the man ahead, riding with his gaze upon the ground, became aware of the sound of running feet behind him, and then a voice which made his pulses leap called his name in suppressed, cautious tones. he looked back to see judith hurrying after him, her cheeks aflame from running, the sunbonnet carried in her hand, and her dark locks freeing themselves in little moist tendrils about her brow where the tiny beads of perspiration gathered. "you dropped this," she panted, offering the paper when she came abreast of him. for a moment she stood by the old mule's shoulder looking up into the eyes of his rider. it was the reversal of that first day when creed had stood so looking up at her. some memory of it struggled in her, and appealed for his life, anyhow, from that fierce primitive jealousy which would have sacrificed the lover of the other woman. "i--i knowed the paper wasn't likely anything you needed," she told him. "i jest had to have speech with you alone. i want to warn you. the boys is out after you. they ain't no hope, ef the turrentines gits after you. likely we're both watched right now. you'll have to leave the mountains." creed got quickly from the mule and stood facing her, a little pale and very stern. "do you hold with them?" he asked. "i had no intention of killing blatch. the quarrel was forced on me, as they would say if they told the truth." "well, they won't tell the truth," said judith impatiently. "what differ does it make how come it? they're bound to run ye out. hit's a question of yo' life ef ye don't go. i--i don't know what makes me come an' warn ye--but you and huldy had better git to the settlement as soon as ye can." creed saw absolutely nothing in her coupling of his name with huldah spiller's, but the fact that both were under the displeasure of the turrentines. she searched his face with hungry gaze for some sign of denial of that which she imputed. instead, she met a look of swift distress. "i've got to see wade about huldah," creed asserted doggedly. "i promised her--i told her----" judith drew back. "well, see wade then!" she choked. "there he is," and she pointed to the wall of greenery behind which her quicker eyes had detected a man who stole, rifle on shoulder, through the bushes toward a point by the path-side. "what do i care?" she flung at him. "what is it to me?--you and your huldy, and your grand plans, and your killin' up folks and a-gittin' run out o' the turkey tracks! settle it as best ye may--i've said my last word!" her breast heaved convulsively. bitter, corroding tears burned in her flashing eyes; rage, jealousy, thwarted passion, tenderness denied, and utter terror of the outcome--the time after--all these tore her like wild wolves, as she turned and fled swiftly up the path she had come. the pale young fellow with the marred, stricken face, standing by the mule, looked after her heavily. those flying feet were carrying away from him, out of his life, all that made that life beautiful and blest. yet creed set his jaw resolutely, and facing about once more, addressed himself to the situation as it was. "wade--wade turrentine!" he called. "come out of there. i see you. come out and talk to me." with all the composure in life wade slouched into the opening of the path. "you've got good eyes," was his sole comment. then, as the other seemed slow to begin, "what might you want speech with me about?" he inquired. "it's about huldah," creed opened the question volubly now. "you love her, and she loves you. she came over to warn me because we are old acquaintances and friends, and i guess she don't want you to get into trouble. is it true that her life is not safe if she stays here on the mountain?" wade's pleasant hazel eyes narrowed and hardened. "you're a mighty busy somebody about things that don't consarn ye," he remarked finally. "but this does concern me," creed insisted. "i can't be the cause of breaking up a match between you and huldah----" he would have gone further, but wade interrupted shaking his head. "no--i reckon you cain't. hit'd take more than you to break up any match i was suited with. mebbe i don't want no woman that's liable to hike out and give me away whenever she takes the notion." "oh, come now, wade," said bonbright, with good-natured entreaty in his voice. "you know she wouldn't give you away. she didn't mean any harm to you. i'll bet you've done plenty of things twice as bad, if huldah had the knowing of them." "mebbe i have," agreed wade, temperately, and suddenly one saw the resemblance to his father. "mebbe i have--but ye see i ain't the one that's bein' met up with right now. i ain't carin' which nor whether about huldy spiller; but _you've_ got to walk yo'self from the turkey tracks--and walk sudden and walk straight, mr. creed bonbright--or you'll come to more trouble with the turrentines. i tell ye this in pure good will." chapter xiii in the night in dark silence judith made ready a late breakfast for the boys, leaving her coffee-pot as of custom on its bed of coals in the ashes, hot bread in the dutch oven, and a platter of meat on the table. jeff and andy straggled in and ate, helping themselves mutely, with sidelong glances at her stormy face. during the entire forenoon wade was off the place, but the twins put in their time at the pasture over the breaking of a colt to harness. old jephthah was in his room with the door shut. jim cal, almost immediately on creed's departure, had retired to the shelter of his own four walls, and, sick and trembling, taken to his bed, after his usual custom when the skies of life darkened. dinner was got ready with the same fury of mechanical energy. during its preparation iley stole to the door and looked in. the only women on the place, held outside the councils of the men, she longed to make some unformulated appeal to judith, to have at least such help and comfort as might come from talking over the situation with her. but when the desolate dark eyes looked full into hers, and uttered as plainly as words the question that the sister dreaded, jim cal's wife turned and fled. "she might as well 'a' said 'huldy,'" whimpered the vixen, plucking at her lip and hurrying back, head down, to her own cabin. the day dragged its slow length. the sun in the doorway had crept to the noon-mark, and away again. flies buzzed. a cicada droned without. the old hound padded in to lie down under the bed. after dinner jephthah went away somewhere, and the boys gathered in their room, whence judith could hear the clink and snap which advised her that the guns were having a thorough overhauling, cleaning, and oiling. she looked helplessly at the door. what could she do? follow creed as huldah had done? at the thought, all her bitterness surged back upon her. what had she been able to accomplish when she stood face to face alone with him on the woods-path? nothing. she turned and addressed herself once more savagely to her tasks. that was what women were for--women and mules. men had the say-so in this world. she--she the owner of this house, its real mistress--was to cook three meals a day for the men folks, and see nothing and say nothing. supper was the only meal at which the entire family gathered that day. it was eaten in an almost unbroken silence, the younger boys plainly hesitating to speak to either judith or their father. save for elliptical requests for food, the only conversation was when wade offered the opinion that it looked like it might rain before morning, and his father replied that he did not think it would. leaving the table without further word, jephthah returned to his own quarters; the boys drifted away one by one giving no destination. the light that used to wink out in friendly fashion from the smaller cabin across the slope was darkened. jim cal had crawled out of bed after a somewhat prolonged conversation with wade. a little later he had sullenly harnessed up a mule of blatch's and, with iley and the children, started for old jesse spiller's, out at big buck gap, the sister maintaining to the last that huldah must certainly have gone out to pap's, and would be found waiting for them at the old home. there was nobody left on the place but judith and her uncle. the girl went automatically about her saturday evening duties, working doggedly, trying to tire herself out so that she might sleep when the time came that there was nothing to do but go to bed. as she passed from her storeroom, which she had got wade to build in the back end of the threshing-floor porch, to the great open fireplace where a kettle hung with white beans boiling that would be served with dumplings for the sunday dinner, as she took down and sorted over towels and cloths that were not needed, but which made a pretext for activity, her mind ground steadily upon the happenings of the past days. she could see creed's face before her as he had looked the night of the play-party. what coarse, crude animals the other men were beside him! she could hear his voice as it spoke to her in the dark yard at the bonbright place, and her breath caught in her throat. she must be up and away; she must go to him and warn him, protect him against these her fierce kindred. then suddenly came the vision of creed's laughing mouth as he bent to claim the forfeited kiss when huldah spiller had openly pushed herself across the line "and mighty nigh into his arms." huldah had run hot-foot to warn him. arley kittridge brought word of having seen her dodge into the card orchard on her way to the house on the evening before, and nobody had had sight of her since. judith's was a nature swayed by impulse, more capable than she herself was aware of noble action, but capable also of sudden, irrational cruelty. just now her soul was at war with itself, embittered by rage, by what she had done, by what she had left undone, by her helplessness, by what she desired to do. finally, despairing of any weariness bringing sleep--she had tried that the night before and failed--she put by her work and went up to her room, undressed and lay down in the dark. for a long time she interrogated the blackness about her with wide open eyes. the house was strangely still. she could hear the movement and squawk of a chicken in one of the trees in the side yard when some fellow lodger disturbed it, or a sudden breeze shook the limb upon which it roosted. she wondered if the boys had come back yet and slipped in quietly. had she slept at all? about eleven o'clock there arose an unquiet, gusty, yet persistent wind, that moved the cedar tree against the edge of the porch roof and set it complaining. for a time it moaned and protested like a man under the knife. then its deep baritone voice began to cry out as though it were calling upon her. the tree had long ceased to mean anything other than creed to judith, and now its outcry aroused her to an absolute terror. again and again as the wind the tree, so those tones shook her heart with their pain and love and anguish of entreaty. finally she arose in a kind of torture, slipped on her clothes and went through all the rooms. they were silent and empty. not a bed had been disturbed. she breathed loud and short in irrepressible excitement. "they're all over at the still," she whispered, clutching at the breast of her dress, and shivering. but the old man never went near the still, she knew that. for a while she struggled with herself, and then she said, "i'll just go and listen outside of uncle jep's door. that won't do any harm. ef so be he's thar, then the boys is shore at the still. ef he ain't----" she left her mentally formed sentence unfinished and, on feet that fear winged, stole through the side yard, across the long, lush, uncut grass to her uncle's door. the old man must have been a light sleeper, or perhaps he was awake before she approached, for he called out while she yet stood irresolute, her hand stretched toward the big wooden latch. "who's thar?" startled, abashed, she replied in a choked, hesitating tone. "it's only me--jude. i reckon i'm a fool, uncle jep. i know in reason there ain't nothin' the matter. but i jest couldn't sleep, and i got up and looked through the house, and the boys is all gone, and i got sorter scared." he was with her almost instantly. "i reckon they're all over 'crost the gulch," he said in his usual unexcited fashion, though she noted that he did not go back into his room, but joined her where she lingered in the dark outside. "of course they air," she reassured herself and him. "whar else could they be?" "now i'm up, i reckon i mought go over yon myself," the old man said finally. "my foot hurts me this evening; i believe i'll ride pete. i took notice the boys had all the critters up for an early start in the mornin'." both knew that this was a device for investigating the stables, and together they hurried to the huddle of low log buildings which served to house forage and animals on the turrentine place. not a hoof of anything to ride had been left. the boys would not have taken mules or horse to go to the still--so much was certain. in the light of the lantern which jephthah lit the two stood and looked at each other with a sort of consternation. then the old man fetched a long breath. "go back to the house, jude," he said not unkindly, putting the lantern into her hand; and without another word he set off down the road running hard. chapter xiv the raid earlier that same saturday evening, while judith barrier was fighting out her battle, and trying to tire down the restless spirit that wrung and punished her, nancy card, mindful of earlier experiences in feud times, was getting her cabin in a state of defence. "you know in reason them thar turrentines ain't a-goin' to hold off long," she told creed. "they're pizen fighters, and they allus aim to hit fust. no, you don't stay out in that thar office," as creed made this proffer, stating that it would leave her and her family safer. "i say stay in the office! why, them turrentines would ask no better than one feller for the lot of 'em to jump on--they could make their brags about it the longest day they live of how they done him up." so it came to pass that creed was sitting in the big kitchen of the nancy card cabin while judith wrought at her fruitless labours in her own home. despite the time of year, nancy insisted on shutting the doors and closing the battened shutters at the windows. "a body gets a lot of good air by the chimney drawin' up when ye have a bit of fire smokin'," she said. "i'd ruther be smothered as to be shot, anyhow." little buck and beezy, infected by the excitement of their elders, refused peremptorily to go to bed. "let me take the baby," said creed holding out his arms. "she's always good with me. she can go to sleep in my lap." "beezy won't go to sleep in _nobody's_ lap," that young lady announced with great finality. "beezy never go to sleep _no_ time--_nowhere_." "all right," agreed the young fellow easily, cutting short a futile argument upon the grandmother's part. "you needn't go to sleep if you can stay awake, honey. you sit right here in creed's lap and stay awake till morning and keep him good company, won't you?" the red head nodded till its flying frazzles quivered like tongues of flame. then it snuggled down on the broad breast, that moved rhythmically under it, and very soon the long lashes drooped to the flushed cheeks and beezy was asleep. aunt nancy had picked up little buck, but that young man had the limitations of his virtues. being silent by nature he had not so much to keep him awake as the loquacious beezy, and by the time his father on the other side of the hearth had dropped asleep and nearly fallen into the fire a couple of times, been sternly admonished by the grandmother, and gone to fling himself face down upon a bed in the corner, little buck was sounder asleep than his sister. the old woman got up and carried her grandson to the bed, laid him down upon it and, taking basin and towel, proceeded to wipe the dusty small feet before she took off his minimum of clothing and pushed him in between the sheets. "minds me of a foot-washin' at little shiloh," she ruminated. "here's me jest like the preacher and here's little buck gettin' all the sins of the day washed off at once." she completed her task, and was taking beezy from creed's arms to lay her beside her brother on the bed, when a tap--tap--tapping, apparently upon the window shutter, brought them both to their feet, staring at each other with pale faces. "what's that?" breathed nancy. "hush--hit'll come again. don't you answer for your life, creed. ef anybody speaks, let it be me." again the measured rap--rap--rap! "you let my nick in," murmured beezy sleepily, and creed laughed out in sudden relief. it was the wooden-legged rooster, coming across the little side porch and making his plea for admission as he stepped. something in the incident brought the situation of affairs home to creed bonbright as it had not been before. "aunt nancy," he said resolutely, "i'm going to leave right now and walk down to the settlement. i've got no business to be here putting you and the children in danger. it's a case of fool pride. they told me down at hepzibah that i'd be run out of the turkey tracks inside of three months if i tried to set up a justice's office here. i felt sort of ashamed to go back and face them and own up that they were right--that i had been run out. i ought to have been too much of a man to feel that way. it makes no difference what they say--the only thing that counts is that i have failed." "you let me catch you openin' that do' or steppin' yo' foot on the road to-night!" snorted nancy belligerently. "why, you fool boy, don't you know all the roads has been guarded by the turrentines ever since they fell out with ye? they 'lowed ye would run of course, and they aimed to layway ye as ye went. i could have told 'em ye wasn't the runnin' kind; but thar, what do they know about----" she broke off suddenly, her mouth open, and stood staring with fear-dilated eyes at creed. "hello!" came the hail from outside. nancy let the baby slip from her arms to the floor, and the little thing stood whimpering and rubbing her eyes, clinging to her grandmother's skirts. "hush--hush!" cautioned the old woman, barely above her breath. "hello! hello in thar! you better answer--we see yo' light. hello in thar!" "whose--voice--is that?" breathed old nancy. "it sounded like blatch turrentine's," creed whispered back as softly. "hit do," she agreed with conviction. suddenly a shot rang out, and doss provine sat up on the edge of the bed with a gurgle of terror. little buck wakened at the same instant, and ran to his grandmother. "i ain't scared, granny," he asseverated, "i kin fight fer ye." "hush--hush!" cautioned nancy, bending to gather in the sun-burned tow head at her knee. another shot followed, and after it a voice crying, "you've got creed bonbright in thar. you let him come out and talk to us, or we'll batter yo' do' in." "you andy--you jeff!" shouted the old woman in sudden rage. "ef you want creed bonbright you know whar to find him. you go away and let my do' alone." "you quit callin' out names, nancy cyard," responded the first, menacing voice out of the darkness. "we know bonbright's in thar, and we aim to have him out--or burn yo' house--accordin' to yo' ruthers." creed had parted his lips to answer them, when old nancy sprang at him and set her hand over his open mouth. "you hush--and keep hushed!" she whispered urgently. "i just wanted to call to the boys and tell them i'm here," creed whispered to her. "aunt nancy, i'm bound to go out there and talk to them fellows. i cain't stay in here and let you and the children suffer for it." "aw, big-mouthed, big-talkin' brood--what do i keer for them?" demanded nancy, tossing her head with a characteristic motion to get the grey curls away from her fearless blue eyes; whereupon the tucking comb slipped down and had to be replaced, "you ain't a-goin' out thar," she whispered vehemently from under her raised arm, as she redded back the straying locks with it. nancy had the reckless, dare-devil courage those blue eyes bespoke. presuming a bit, perhaps, on her age and sex, she yet ran risks that many men would have shunned without deeming themselves cowards. "you ain't a-goin' out thar, i tell ye," she reiterated. "i wouldn't let ye ef they burnt the house down over our heads. pony'll be along pretty shortly from hepzibah, and when he sees 'em i reckon he's got sense enough to git behind a bush and fire at 'em--that'll scatter 'em." as if inspired to destroy this one slender hope, the voice outside spoke again, tauntingly. "nancy cyard, we've got yo' son pony here--picked him up on the road--an' ef yo'r a mind to trade creed bonbright for him, we'll trade even. better dicker with us. somepin' bad might happen this young 'un." at the words, creed wheeled and made for the door, nancy gripping him frantically but mutely. "creed--boy--honey!"--she breathed at last, "they's mo' than one kind o' courage. this is jest fool courage--to go an' git yo'se'f killed up. them turrentines won't hurt pone. but you--oh, my lord!" "i reckon ye better let him go, maw," doss provine chattered from the bed's edge where he still crouched. "hit's best that it should be one, ruther than all of us." old nancy flung him a glance of wordless contempt. beezy ran and tangled herself in the tall young fellow's legs, halting him. "creed," the old woman urged, still below her breath, holding to his arm. "creed, honey, as soon as you open that do' and stand in the light, yo'r no better than a dead man. listen!" all caution had been thrown aside by the besiegers. hoarse voices questioned and answered outside, sounds of stumbling footsteps surrounded the house. "boys," called creed in that clear, ringing voice of his that held neither fear nor great excitement, "i'm coming out to talk to you. aunt nancy, take the children away. you've got it to do." "well, come on," replied the voice without. "talk--that's all we want. you'll be as safe outside as in--and a damn' sight safer." nancy gathered up her youngsters, flung them in a heap into their father's lap, and, overturning and putting out the candle as she went, sprang to the hearth to quench a small flame which had risen among the embers there. "ye might have some sense!" she panted angrily. "the idea of walkin' yo'se'f into a lighted doorway for them fellers to shoot at! for god's sake don't open that do' till i get the lights out!" but creed was not listening. he had pulled the big pine bar that held the battened door in place, and now flung it wide, stepping to the threshold and beginning again, "boys----" he uttered no further word. a rifle spoke, a bullet sang, passed through the cabin and buried itself in the old-fashioned chimneypiece. creed fell where he stood. as he went down across the threshold, nancy whirling around to the door, bent over his prostrate form. outside, the ruddy, shaken shine from a couple of lightwood torches which stood alone, where they had been thrust deep into the garden mould made strange gouts and blotches of colour on nancy's flower beds. a group of men halted, drawn together, muttering, just beyond the palings. each had a handkerchief tied across the lower part of his face, a simple but effectual disguise. her groping hand came away from the prostrate man, red with blood; she dashed it across her brow to clear her eyes of blowing hair. at the moment a figure burst through the grove of saplings by the roadside, a tall old man whose long black beard blew across his mighty chest that laboured as he ran. his hat was off in his hand, his face raised; he had no weapon. with a gasp of relief nancy recognised him, yet rage mounted in her, too. "yes--come a-runnin'," she muttered fiercely. "come look at what you and yo'rn have done!" as he leaped into the clearing the old man's great black eyes, full of sombre fire, swept the scene. they took in the prone figure across the threshold, the blood upon the doorstone, and on nancy's brow and hair. "air ye hurt? nancy, air ye hurt?" he cried, in such a tone as none there had ever heard from him. "am i hurt?--no!" choked the old woman, trying to get a hold on creed's broad shoulders and drag him back into the room. "i ain't hurt, but it's no credit to them wolves that you call sons of yo'rn. they've got pone out thar, ef they hain't shot him yit. and they've killed the best man that ever come on this here mountain. oh, creed--my pore boy! you doss provine! come here an' he'p me lift him." she reared herself on her knees and glared at the group by the gate. "he had no better sense than to take ye for men--to trust the word ye give, that he was safe when he opened the do'. don't you come a step nearer, jep turrentine," she railed out at him suddenly, as the old man drew toward the gate. "i've had a plenty o' you an' yo' sons this night. they're jest about good enough to shoot me while i'm a-tryin' to git this po' dead boy drug in the house, an' then burn the roof down over me an' my baby chil'en. you doss provine, walk yo'se'f here an' he'p me." doss, who found the presence of jephthah turrentine reassuring, whatever his mother-in-law might say, slouched forward, and between them they lifted the limp figure. "god knows i don't blame ye, nancy," muttered the old man in his beard, as the heavy door was dragged shut, and the bar dropped into place. then he advanced upon the men at the palings. at jephthah's first appearance the tallest of these had dropped swiftly back into the shadows on the other side of the road and was gone. unsupported, the four or five who were left shuffled uneasily, beneath the old man's fierce eye. "where's pone cyard?" he demanded. "we hain't tetched him, pap. we never seed him. we said that to draw 'em." "huh!" ejaculated jephthah, as though further comment were beyond him. "git yo' ridin' critters," he gave the short, sharp order. "fetch pete to me." and he whirled his back, and stalked out into the main road. a hundred yards or so up, there was a sound of hoofs and tearing bushes, as the boys came through the greenery with their mules. pete was led up and the bridle-rein presented in meek silence. by the dim, presaging light of the little waning moon, delaying somewhere down below the shoulder of big turkey track, old jephthah took it, set foot in stirrup, and made ready to swing to saddle. then he slowly withdrew the foot and turned back. "take them cussed rags off o' yo' faces!" he burst out in a fury of contempt. "now. who laid out this night's work? well, speak up--how come it?" dead silence answered. of the three who faced him not one--lacking the leader who had skulked away at jephthah's approach--could have explained just why he was there. and none of them would betray the man who had led them there and left them to answer as best they might for their actions to the head of the tribe. "uh-huh, i thort so," nodded the old man bitterly, as they yet stood mute. "ain't got a word to say for yo'selves. no, and they ain't a word to be said. yo' sons in my house. i was thar--i was standin' with ye about this business. why couldn't this be named to me? what call had ye to sneak around me--to make a fool o' me, an' shame me?" he waited. receiving no response, he concluded as he got to the mule's back, "you do me thisaway once mo'--jest once mo'--and hit will be a plenty." with that he gave pete the rein, and the mule's receding heels flung dust in the dismayed countenances he left behind him. chapter xv council of war the turrentine clan was gathering for consultation, judith knew that. it was sunday, and much of this unwonted activity passed as the ordinary sabbath day coming and going. but there was a steady tendency of tall, soft-stepping, slow-spoken, keen-eyed males toward old jephthah's quarters, and judith had got dinner for the two long-limbed, black-avised turrentine brothers, hawk and chantry, from over in rainy gap; and old turrentine broyles, a man of jephthah's age, had ridden in from broyles's mill that morning. with the natural freedom of movement that sunday offers, information from the card neighbourhood came in easily. inevitably judith learned all the details of last night's raid; and everybody on the place knew that creed bonbright was alive, and that he was not even seriously wounded. he had been observed through the open door of nancy's cabin moving about the rooms inside. arley kittridge declared that he had seen bonbright, in the grey of early morning, his head bound up and his left arm in a sling, cross from nancy's house to his office and back again, alone. sunday brought the jim cals home, too. iley, humiliated and savage, bearing in her breast galling secret recollections of pap spiller's animadversions on her management of huldah, raged all day with the toothache, and a pariah dog might have pitied the lot of the fat man. all day, as judith cooked, and washed her dishes, and entertained her visitors, the events of last night's raid were present with her. when at the table one of the boys stretched a hand to receive the food she had prepared, she looked at it with an inward shuddering, wondering, was this the hand that fired the shot? all day as she talked to her women visitors of patchwork patterns, or the making of lye soap, as she admired their babies and sympathised with their ailments, her mind was busy with the inquiry what part she should take in the final inevitable crisis. she remembered with a remorse that was almost shame how, at their last interview, she had plucked back from creed her rescuing hand in jealous anger. that big mother kindness that there was in her spoke for him, pleaded loud for his life, when her hot passionate heart would have had revenge for his slight. yes, she had to save creed bonbright if she could, and to be of any use to him she must know what was planned against him. it was dark by the time the women-folk had gone their ways and the men remaining had assembled definitely in old jephthah's separate cabin. no gleam of light shone from its one window. judith watched for some time, then taking a bucket as a pretext walked down the path to the cow-lot, which led her close in to the cabin. she could hear as she approached the murmur of masculine voices. secure from observation in the darkness, she crept to the window and listened, her head leaned against the wooden shutter. old jephthah was speaking, and she realised from his words that she had chanced upon the close of their council. the big voice came out to her in carefully lowered tones. "well, broyles, yo' the oldest, an that's yo' opinion. hawk an' chantry says the same. now as far as i'm concerned--" the commanding accents faltered a little--"i'm obliged to agree with you. the matter has got where we cain't do no other than run him out. i admit it. i'll say yes to that." judith trembled, for she knew they spoke of creed. "well, jep, you better not put too many things in the way," came accents she recognised as turrentine broyles's, "or looks like these-here boys is liable to find theirselves behind bars befo' snow flies." "huh-uh," agreed the old man's voice. "i know whar i'm at. i ain't lived this long and got through without disgrace or jailin' to take up with it at my age; but they don't raid no more cabins. i freed my mind on that last night; i made myself cl'ar; an' that's the one pledge i ax for. toll him away from the place and layway him, if you must, to run him out. but they's to be no killin', an' no mo' shootin' up houses whar they is women and chil'en. this ain't no feud." "all right--we've got yo' word for it, have we?" inquired buck shalliday eagerly. "you'll stand by us?" suddenly a brand on the hearth flamed up, and judith peering through a crack of the board shutter had sight of her uncle standing, his height exaggerated by the flickering illumination, tall and black on the hearthstone. about him the faint light fell on a circle of eager, drawn faces, all set toward him. as she looked he raised his hand above his head and shook the clenched fist. "i've got obliged to," he groaned. "god knows i had nothing against creed bonbright. and i can't say as i've got anything against him yit. but i've got a-plenty against rottin' in jail. i'd ruther die." "will ye come with us, pap?" jim cal instantly put the question, and as he spoke the light went suddenly out. "no," returned old jephthah doggedly. "i won't make nor meddle. i've give you my best advice; i sont for hawk an' chantry, here, an' for turn broyles, to do the same. we've talked it over fa'r an' squar', aimin' to have ye do this thing right--" he broke off, and then amended sombrely, "--as near right as sech a thing can be did. but you-all boys run into this here agin' my ruthers, an' you'll jest have to git out yo'selves. all i say is, no killin', and no raidin' of folks' homes." "no _mo'_ killin', ye mean,--don't ye?" asked jim cal. the fat man, goaded beyond reason, was ready to turn and fight at last. "no, i don't," answered his father. "when i mean a thing i can find the words to say it without any advice. as for blatch bein' killed--you boys think yo' mighty smart, but you'd show yo' sense to tote fair with me and tell me all that's goin' on. i wasn't born yesterday. i've seen interruptions and killin's befo' i seen any of you. an' i'll say right here in front o' yo' kinfolks that's come to he'p you out with their counsels--an' could do a sight better ef you'd tell 'em the truth--that i never did think it was likely that creed bonbright made away with a body inside of fifteen minutes. that tale's too big for me--but i'm askin' no questions. settle it your own way--but for god's sake settle it. him knowin' what he does an' havin' been did the way you boys have done him, he's got to go. run him out--an' run him out quick. don't you dare tell me how, nor when, nor what!" judith started back as the sounds within told her that the men were groping their way to the door. as she stood concealed by darkness, they issued, made their quiet adieux, and went over to the fence where she could hear the stamping of the tethered animals. cut off from the house, she retreated swiftly down the path toward the stable and would have entered, but some instinct warned her back. as she paused uncertain, hearing footsteps approaching from behind, indefinably sure that there was danger in front, there sounded a cautious low whistle. those who came from the cabin answered it. she drew back beneath one of the peach-trees by the milking-pen--the very one from which creed had broken the blossoming switch, with which she reproached him. flat against its trunk she crouched, as six men went past her in the gloom. "who's here?" demanded a voice like blatch turrentine's, and at the sound she began suddenly to shudder from head to foot. then she pulled herself together. this was no ghost talking. it was the man himself. "me," answered jim cal's unmistakable tones, "an' wade, an' jeff, an' andy. buck and taylor's both with us--and that's all." the man within opened the grain-room door, and the six newcomers entered. "whar's old man broyles, an' hawk an' chantry?" questioned blatch. "they rid off home," said shalliday. "well, what does unc' jep say?" demanded blatch, plainly not without some anxiety. before anyone could answer, "hark ye!" came jim cal's tones tremulously. "didn't i hear somebody outside? thar--what was that?" in her excitement and interest judith had moved nearer with some noise. "i vow, podner," came blatch's rich, rasping tones. "ef i didn't know it was you i'd be liable to think they was a shiverin' squinch-owl in here with us. buck, step out and scout, will ye? git back as soon as ye can, 'caze we're goin' to have a drink." she heard the rattle of a tin cup against the jug. as she moved carefully down the way toward the spring, blatch's voice followed her, saying unctuously: "had to go through hell to get this stuff--spies a-follerin' ye about, an' u.s. marshals a-threatenin' ye with jail--might as well enjoy it." she dipped her bucket in the spring branch, and bore it dripping up the path a short way. if buck shalliday met her, she had an errand and an excuse for her presence which might deceive him. when she came within sight of the stables once more she set down her bucket and stood listening long. something moved outside the logs. they had posted their sentry then. she groaned as she realised that what she had heard was inadequate and insufficient. the knowledge was there to be had for a little daring, a little cunning. just as she had become almost desperate enough to walk up to the place and make pretence of being one with them, a stamp from the figure outside the corner told her that it was a tethered mule instead of a man. emboldened she stole nearer, and found a spot where she could crouch by the wall so hidden among some disused implements that she might even have dared to let them emerge from their hiding-place and pass her. again blatch was speaking. blatchley turrentine had come to his uncle's house, a youth of seventeen--a man, as mountain society reckons things. at that time andy and jeff were seven-year-olds, wade a big boy of thirteen; and even jim cal, of the same years but less adventurous in nature, had been so thoroughly dominated by the newcomer that the leadership then established had never been relinquished. and now the artfully introduced whiskey had done its work; these boys were quite other than those who had gone in sober and grave less than half an hour before, their father's admonitions and the counsels of old man broyles and their turrentine kindred lying strongly upon them. judith heard no demur as blatch detailed their plans. "they's no use to go to unc' jep with what i've been a-tellin' ye," the voice of natural authority proclaimed. "i tell ye polk sayles says he's seen bonbright meet dan haley about half way down the side--thar whar big rock creek crosses the corner of the sayles place--mo' than once sense he's been on the mountain. now with what that man knows, and with the grudges he's got, you let him live to meet dan haley once mo' and even unc' jep is liable to the penitentiary--but tell it to unc' jep an' he won't believe ye. he's got a sort of likin' for the feller." "that's what i say," jim cal seconded in a voice which had become pot-valiant. "pap is a old man, and we-all that air younger have obliged to take care on him." at any other time these pious sentiments would have brought a volley of laughter from blatchley, but this evening judith judged from the sounds that he clapped the fat man on the shoulder as he said heartily: "mighty right you air, james calhoun. unc' jep is one of the finest men that ever ate bread, but his day is pretty well over. ef we went by him and old man broyles and hawk and chantry, we'd find ourselves in trouble mighty shortly. they's but one way to toll bonbright out to whar we want him. we've got to send word that unc' jep will meet him at moonrise and talk to him. the fool is plumb crazy about talkin' to folks, and looks like he cain't get it through his head that unc' jep ain't his best friend. it'll fetch him whar nothin' else will." "and we've got to hunt up something else for you to ride, blatch, ef jim cal an' me takes the mules," jeff remarked. "jude mighty nigh tore up the ground when she found we'd had selim last night. she give it out to each and every that nobody is to lay a hand on him day or night from this on." the girl outside heard blatch's hateful laugh, and knew with a great throb of rage who had ridden her horse the night before. there was a stir among the men seated, judith conjectured, on the grain-room floor, and a little clinking, as the jug of corn whiskey was once more brought into play by blatch. presently, "all right," said buck shalliday. "i'll bring lige's mule. and i'll have a message got to bonbright that jephthah turrentine wants to see and talk with him out at todd's corner at moonrise a-monday night. will that suit ye?" "hit'll answer," returned blatch. "let's see," he calculated; "that'll be about two o'clock. ef he comes up to the scratch we'll git mr. man as he goes by the big rock in the holler acrosst from the spring. that rock and the bushes by it gives plenty of cover. they's bound to be light enough to see him by, with the moon jest coming up, and i want to hear from every man present that he'll shoot at the word. i don't want any feller in the crowd that'll say he didn't pull trigger on bonbright. ef we all aim and shoot, nary a one of us can say who killed him--and killed he's got to be." the listening girl hoped for some demur, but blatch turrentine and his potent counsellor, the jug, dominated the assembly, and there came a striking of hands on this, a hoarse murmuring growl of agreement. she doubled low to avoid being seen against the sky and hurried back toward the cabin as she heard the men preparing to leave the grain-room. brave as any one of them there, enterprising and full of the spirit of leadership, judith addressed herself promptly to saving creed bonbright. she went straight to her uncle's cabin. no mountaineer ever raps on a door. judith shook the latch, at first gently, then, getting no response, more and more imperatively, at length opening and walking in, with a questioning, "uncle jep?" there was no answer, no sound or movement. with hasty fingers she raked together the brands of the fire; they flickered up and showed her an untenanted room. the bed was untouched, the old man's hat and coat were gone. the pegs above the door where old sister always rested were empty. instantly there flashed upon judith the intuition that her uncle, heartsick and ill-affected toward the quarrel, had silently withdrawn until it should have been settled one way or another. well, she must work alone. chapter xvi a message when judith stole noiselessly into the house and up to her room, she could hear the boys preparing for bed in their own quarters, with unwonted jesting and laughter, and even some occasional stamping about which suggested horse-play; and her lip curled angrily as she recalled blatch's jug of corn whiskey. she lay thinking, thinking; and at length there evolved itself in her mind a plan for getting creed safely out of the mountains by way of an ancient cherokee trail that ran down the gulch through a distant corner of the old turrentine place. by this route they would reach the railroad town of garyville, quite around the flank of big turkey track from hepzibah. she could do that. she knew every step of the way. the trail was a disused, forgotten route of travel, long fenced across in several places, and scoured out of existence at certain points by mountain streams; but she had known every foot of it in years past; she could travel it the darkest night; and selim was her own horse; she need ask nobody. when she got so far, came the pressing question of how to send word to creed. she must see and warn him before the men put their plan into practice. but she was well aware that she herself was under fairly close espionage, and that her first move in the direction of nancy card's cabin would bring the vague suspicions of her household to a certainty. where to find a messenger? how to so word a message that creed would answer it? these were the questions that drove sleep from her pillow till almost morning. she rose and faced the dawn with haggard eyes. unless she could do something this was the last day of creed's life. in a tremor of apprehension she got through her morning duties, cooking and serving a breakfast to the three boys, who made no comment on their father's absence, and whose curious looks she was aware of upon her averted face, her down-dropped eyelids. she felt alone indeed, with her uncle gone, and the boys who had been as brothers to her almost since babyhood suddenly become strangers, their interests and hers hostile, destructive to each other. woman will go to woman in a pinch like this, and in spite of her repugnance at the thought of huldah, judith late in the afternoon made her way over to the jim cal cabin and asked concerning its mistress' toothache. "hit's better," said iley briefly. her head was tied up in a medley of cloths and smelled loud of turpentine, camphor, and a lingering bouquet of assafoetida. she was not a hopeful individual to enlist in a chivalrous enterprise. "huldy git back yet?" judith asked finally. "no, an' she needn't never git back," snapped iley. "her and creed bonbright kin make out best they may. i don't know as i mind her bein' broke off with wade. one turrentine in the fambly's enough fer me." "air her and creed bonbright goin' to be wedded?" inquired judith scarcely above her breath. "_air_ they?" echoed xantippe, settling her hands on her hips and surveying judith with an angry stare, the dignity of which was sadly impaired by a yellow flannel cloth-end which persisted in dabbling in her eye. "well, i should hope so! i don't know what gals is comin' to in this day an' time--follerin' 'round after the young men like you do. ef i'd a' done so when i was a gal my mammy'd have took a hickory to me. that's what she would. here's jim cal be'n rarin' around here like a chicken with its head off 'caze huldy run away with creed bonbright, and here _you_ air askin' me do i think creed and huldy is apt to marry. what kind of women do ye 'low the spiller gals is, anyhow?" judith turned away from so unpromising an ally. she was accused of running after creed bonbright. when he got her message it would be with huldah spiller beside him to help him read it. the thought was bitter. it gave that passionate heart of hers a deadly qualm; but she put it down and rose above it. huldah or no huldah, she could not let him die and make no effort. leaving jim cal's cabin she walked out into the woods, and only as she turned at the edge of the clearing and looked back to find iley furtively peering after her from the corner of the house did she realise that the woman's words had been dictated because she had been taken into the confidence of the men and set to keep an eye on judith. at the conviction a feeling of terror began to gain ground. she was like a creature enmeshed in a net weak in its cordage, but many-stranded and hampering; turn whichever way she would some petty restriction met her. she moved aimlessly forward, reasonably sure that she was not followed or observed, since she was going away from rather than toward the card place. about a mile from the cabin of old hannah updegrove, a weaver of rag carpet, she suddenly came upon two little creatures sitting at a tree-foot playing about one of those druidical-looking structures that the childhood of the man and the childhood of the race alike produce. it was little buck and beezy come to spend the day with old hannah who, on their father's side, was kin of theirs, and making rock play-houses in the tree-roots to put over the time. judith ran to the children, gathered them close, and hugged them to her with whispered endearments in which some tears mingled. then for half an hour followed the schooling of little buck for the message which he was to carry, and which beezy must be so diverted that she would not even hear. judith plaited grass bracelets for the fat little wrists, fashioned bonnets of oak leaves, pinning them together with grass stems, and then sending beezy far afield to gather flowers for their trimming. on long journeys the little feet trudged, to where the beautiful, frail, white meadow lilies rose in clumps from the lush grass of the lowlands. she fetched cardinal flowers from the mud and shallow water beyond them, or brought black-eyed susans from the sun of open spaces. and during these expeditions judith's catechism of the boy went on. "how you goin' to git home, little buck?" "pappy's a-comin' by to fetch us." "when?" "a little befo' sundown?" "you goin' straight home?" "yes, jude, we' goin' straight home to granny, why?" "never mind, honey. is creed there at yo' house?" a silent nod. "is--honey, tell jude the truth--is it true that he ain't bad hurt? could he ride a nag?" little buck looked all around him, drew close to his big sweetheart, and pulled her down that he might whisper in her ear. "i know somethin' that granny and creed don't know i know, but i mus'n't tell it to anybody--only thest you. creed--no, he ain't so awful bad hurt--he walks everywheres most--he's a-goin' to take the old nag and go over to todd's corner to see yo' unc' jep, about moonrise to-night. they said that--granny an' creed. an' they fussed. granny, she don't want him to go; but creed, he thest will--he's bull-headed, creed is." judith caught her breath. they had got the message to him then, and he was going. well, her appointment with him must be first. "little buck, honey, ef you love me don't you forget one word i say to you now," she whispered chokingly, holding the child by both hands. he rounded eyes of solemn adoration and acquiescence upon her. "you say to creed bonbright that judith barrier says he must come to her at the foot of foeman's bluff--on yon side--as soon after dark as he can git there. tell him to come straight through by the short cut; hit'll be safe; nobody'll ever study about him comin' in this direction. as soon after hit's plumb dark as he can git there--will ye say that? will ye shore tell creed an' never tell nobody but creed?" "but he won't go," said little buck wisely. "granny's scared to have him go to talk to yo' unc' jep, but she'd be a heap scareder to have him come to you, 'caze you' one o' the turrentines too--ain't ye, judith?" judith's face whitened at the weakness of her position. "i would come, judith, becaze i love you an' you love me--but creed, he won't," said the boy. "you tell him little buck," she whispered huskily, terror and shame warring in her face, "tell him that i do love him. tell him i said for god's sake to come--if he loves me." the child's eyes slowly filled. he dropped them and stood staring at the ground, saying nothing because of the blur. finally: "i'll tell him that--ef you say i must," he whispered. and loving, tender judith, in her desperate preoccupation, never noted what she had done to her little sweetheart. chapter xvii the old cherokee trail "the supper's all ready for you boys," judith called in to wade whose whistle sounded from his own room. "hit's a settin', kivered, on the hearth; the coffee-pot's on the coals. would you-all mind to wait on yo'selves, an' would you put the saddle on selim for me? i'm goin' over to lusks'. i'll eat supper there; i may stay all night; but i'll be home in the mornin' soon to git you-all's breakfast." "why--why, pap 'lowed----" "well, uncle jep ain't here. ef you don't want to----" "oh, that's all right judith. of course it's all right. but you say you're goin' to ride to lusks'?--to ride?" hesitated wade uneasily. judith flung up her head and stared straight at him with angry eyes. "yes," she said finally, "when i leave this place for over night i'd ruther know whar my hoss is at. i'll take him along." "oh,--all right," her cousin hastened to agree; "i never meant to make you mad, jude. of course i'd jest as soon saddle up for you. i don't wonder you feel thataway. i never like to have anybody use my ridin' critter." judith had made her point. she let it pass, and went sombrely on with her preparation for departure. wade still hesitated uneasily. finally he said deprecatingly, "ef ye don't mind waitin' a minute i'll eat my supper, an' ride over with ye--i was a-goin' after supper anyhow; i want to see lacey rountree ef he's not gone back home yit." "i'll be glad to have ye," answered judith quietly. "i don't mind waitin'." and wade, plainly relieved, hurried out to the stables. they rode along quietly in the late summer afternoon; the taciturn habit of the mountain people made the silence between them seem nothing strange. arrived at the lusks', both girls came running out to welcome their visitor. she saw wade's sidelong glance take note of the fact that grandpap lusk led away selim to the log stable. lacey rountree was gone home to the far cove, and wade lingered in talk with grandpap lusk a while at the horse-block, then got on his mule and, with florid good-byes, rode back home, evidently at rest as to judith. the evening meal was over. judith helped cliantha and pendrilla prepare a bit of supper for herself, aided in the clearing away and dish-washing, and after they had sat for a while with granny lusk and the old man in the porch, listening to the whippoorwills calling to each other, and all the iterant insect voices of a july night, went to their own room. "girls," said judith softly, drawing the two colourless little creatures to the bed, and sitting down with one on each side of her, "girls," and her voice deepened and shook with the strain under which she laboured, "i want you to let me slip out the back door here, put my saddle on selim, and go home, quiet, without tellin' the old folks. i was goin' home by daylight in the mornin' anyhow, to get the boys' breakfast," as the girls stared at her in wordless surprise. "i've got a reason why i'd ruther go now--and i'd ruther the old folks didn't know. will ye do this for me?" the sisters looked at each other across their guest's dark eager face, and fluttered visibly. they would have been incapable of deceit to serve any purpose of their own; they were too timid to have initiated any actions not in strict accordance with household laws; but the same gentle timidity which made them subservient to the rules of their world, made them also abject worshippers at the shrine of judith's beauty and force and fire. "shore, shore," they both whispered in a breath. "i hate to have ye go jude--" began cliantha; but pendrilla interrupted her. "an' yit ef jude would ruther go--and wants to slip out unbeknownst, why we wouldn't say nothin' about it, and jest tell granny and grandpap in the mornin' that she left soon to git the boys' breakfast." they watched her pass quietly out the back door and toward the log stable, their big blue eyes wide with childish wonder and interest. judith with her many suitors, moving in an atmosphere of romance, was to them a figure like none other, and she was now in the midst of tragic doings; the glamour that had always been upon her image was heightened by the last week's occurrences. they turned back whispering and shut the door. thus it was that judith found herself on selim, moving, free from suspicion or espionage, toward the point below foeman's bluff where she had sent word to creed to meet her. the big oaks shouldered themselves in black umbels against the horizon; pointed conifers shot up inky spires between them. the sky was only greyish black, lit by many stars, and judith trembled to note that their dim illumination might almost permit one to recognise an individual at a few paces distance. without misadventure she came to the spot designated, urged selim in under the shadow of a tree, dismounted, and stood beside him waiting. would creed come? would huldah persuade him that the message was only a decoy? would he come too late? would some of the boys intercept him, so that he should never come at all? at the last thought she started and leaned out recklessly to search the dark path with desperate eyes. perhaps she had better venture forward and meet him. perhaps after all it would be possible for her to get closer to nancy card's. then in the midst of her apprehensions came the sound of shod hoofs. she had chosen this point for two reasons: first the old trail she meant to follow down the mountain passed in close to the spot; and second it was the last place they would expect bonbright to approach; his way to it would never be guarded. but of course she ran the risk of blatch himself or some of his friends and followers appearing. and now she held her breath in intense anxiety as the trampling came nearer. there appeared out of the dense shadow of the bluff a man walking and leading a mule by its bridle. she knew the mule, because she got the silhouette of it against the sky, and directly after she saw that the man who led it was tall, with a bandaged head, which he carried in a manner unmistakable, and one shoulder gleaming white--she guessed that that was because his coat was off where the bandages lay under his white shirt and over the wound in his shoulder. it was creed. with a throb of unspeakable thankfulness she realised that she had till now dreaded that if he came at all huldah would be with him. she moved out from the dense shadow. "whar--whar's huldy?" she questioned before she would trust herself to believe. but creed, full of the wonder of her message, dropped the mule's bridle and came toward her his uninjured arm outstretched. he put the inquiry by almost impatiently. "huldah? she went on down to hepzibah soon saturday morning," he said. "o judith, did you mean it--that word you sent me by little buck?" he came swiftly up to her, snatching her hand eagerly, pressing it hard against his breast, leaning close in the twilight to study her face. "you couldn't mean it," he hurried on passionately, tremulously, "not now; you just pity me. little buck cried when he told me what you said, honey. he was jealous. but he needn't have been--need he judith? you just pity me." creed's manner and his words were instant reassurance to judith's womanly pride. but immediately on the relaxation of that pain rose clamouring her anxiety for his safety--his life. "yes, yes, creed," she murmured vehemently. "i did mean it--i sure meant every word of it. but we got to get right away from here. do ye reckon ye can stand it to ride as far as the foot of the mountain? ye got to go--and i'm here to take ye." they drew out of the path and into the deep blackness beneath the trees. there was but a hundredth chance that anybody would be passing here, or watching this point, yet that hundredth chance must be guarded against. poor creed, he detained her, he clung to her hands hungrily, and invoked the sound of her voice. so much hate had daunted him, the strength and sweetness of her presence, the warm tenderness of her tones, were like balm to his lacerated spirit. "i couldn't go to-night--dear----" he faltered, abashed that the first word he uttered to her must be a denial. "you're mighty sweet and good to offer to take me--i don't know what i have ever done that you should risk this for me--but i'm to have a chance to talk to your uncle jephthah at moonrise to-night, and i can't turn my back on that. he's a fair-minded man and i'll make this thing right yet." judith shuddered. "don't you never believe it," she urged in a panting whisper. "uncle jep hadn't a thing on earth to do with that word goin' to you. he's left home. i can't find him nowhars, or i'd have went straight to him and begged him to help me out when i found what the boys was aimin' to do. hit was blatch planned it all. i tell ye creed, blatch turrentine is alive--you never killed him when you flung him over the bluff--and while he lives you can't stay here. he's bound to kill ye." "have you seen blatch, yourself, judith?" creed asked quickly. "oh, laws, no. he's a layin' out in the woods somewheres, aimin' to make uncle jep believe you killed him. but i heard him plain enough--i heard him and the boys fix it all up--hid out from uncle jep down in the grain-room. there's to be seven of 'em a-waitin' down by the big hollow, and when they git you betwixt them an' the sky at moonrise they're all promised to shoot at once, so that nary man dast to go back on the others when you're killed." wounded, appalled, the young fellow drew back from her and clung to the saddle of the old mule, with a boyish desire to hide his face against the arm which he threw over it. "how they hate me!" he breathed at last. "oh, i've failed--i've failed. i meant so well by them all--and i've got nothing but their hate. but i won't run. i never ran from anything yet. i'll stay here and take what comes." perhaps in his extremity the despair of this speech was but an unconscious reaching out for judith's expressed affection, the warmth and consolation of her love. if this were so, the movement brought him what he craved. in terror she laid hold upon him, holding to his unwounded arm, pressing her cheek upon his shoulder, making her protest in swift passionate sentences. "what good will it do for you to get yourself killed--tell me that? every one of them men will be murderers, when you've stayed and seen it through. lord, what differ is it whether sech critters as them love you or hate you? 'pears to me i would ruther have their ill-will as their good-will. don't you have no regards for them that is good friends to you? _i_ care. _i_ understand what it was you was tryin' to do. i thort it was fine. air you goin' to break my heart by stayin' here to git yourself killed? oh, don't do it, creed. you let me take you out of the mountains, or i'll never know what it is to sleep in peace." his arm slipped softly round her waist and drew her close against his side, so close that the two young creatures, standing silent in the midst of the warm summer night, could almost hear the beating of each other's heart. in spite of their desperate situation they were tremulously happy. "i thank my god for you, judith," murmured creed, bending to lay his cheek timidly against hers. "never was a man in trouble had such a sweet helper. it's mighty near worth it all to have found you. maybe you never would have cared for me at all if this hadn't come about--if i hadn't needed you so bad." judith's lavish heart would have hastened to break its alabaster jar of ointment at love's feet with the impetuous avowal that he had been dear to her since first she looked on him. but there was instant need of haste; the situation was full of danger; that confession, with all its sweetness, might well wait a more secure time and place. she got to her horse glowing with hope, feeling herself equal to the dubious enterprise before them. "whatever you say honey," creed assured her. "do with me as you will. i'm your man now." they had wheeled their mounts toward the open. "hark! what's that?" whispered judith. the quavering cry of a screech-owl came across the gulch to them. the girl crouched in her saddle, shivering slightly, and stroking selim's nose so that he might make no stir nor sound. "they use--that--for a signal," she breathed at last. "the boys is out guardin' the trails. and 'pears like they're a-movin'. we got to go quick." they set forth in silence; judith riding ahead, skirted at a considerable distance the buildings on the old turrentine place, then followed down a rocky stream-bed, dry now and leading abruptly into a ravine. here the girl took her bearings by the summits she could see black against the star-lit sky, and, avoiding the open, made for the old indian trail which would lead them directly down to garyville. they could ride abreast sometimes, and they began to talk together in these broken intervals. "and little buck cried when he told you," judith said, in that tender, brooding voice of hers. "that was my fault. i'm mighty sorry. i wouldn't 'a' hurt the child's feelings for anything; but i never thought." "i fixed it up with him some," said her lover, quickly. "i told him you only said that because i was hurt and you was sorry for me. i thought i was telling the truth." "uncle jep feels mighty bad about this business," she began another time, hastening to offer what consolation she could. "nothin' would have made him willin' to it, but the fear that when you brought the raiders up he'd get took hisself. he ain't had nothin' to do with stillin' for more'n six year, but of course hit's on his land, and the boys is his sons. he says he's too old to go to the penitentiary." creed reached out in the gloom and got the girl's hand. "oh, judith, darling!" he said eagerly. "let me tell you right now, and make you understand--i never had any more notion of bringing raiders into the mountains than you have yourself. i do know that blockaded stills and what they mean are the ruin of this country; but honey, you've got to believe me when i say i never wanted to get any information about them or break them up." the girl harkened, with close attention to the man--the lover--but with simple indifference to the gist of what he was saying. it was plain that she would have loved and followed him had he been a revenue officer himself. "i'll tell uncle jep," she said presently. "he'll be mighty proud. he does really set a heap of store by you, and they all know it. but i ain't never goin' to let you talk like that to him," she added, the note of proud possession sounding in her voice. "ef you're goin' to live in the mountains you'll have to learn not to have much to say about moonshine whiskey and blockaded stills--you never do know who you might be hittin'." "you'll take good care of me, won't you judith?" he said fondly, pressing the hand he held. "and i reckon i need it--i surely do manage to get into misunderstandings with people. but that wasn't the trouble with blatch turrentine--he never thought any such thing as that i was a spy. he was mad at me about something else--and i don't know yet what it was." judith laughed softly, low in her throat, so far had they come from the uncertainty, strain, and distress of an hour before. when next the trail narrowed and widened again, she came up on his left, the side of the injured arm, but which brought her nearer to him, leaned close and laying her hand on his shoulder, whispered, "i reckon i know. i reckon you'll have to blame me with blatch's meanness." "why, of course that was it!" exclaimed creed. he looped the bridle on his saddle horn, reached up and drew her hand across his shoulders and around his neck. "that's what comes of getting the girl that everybody else wants," he said with fond pride. "but nobody else can have her now, can they? say it judith--say it to me, dear." judith made sweet and satisfying response, and they rode in silence a moment. then she halted selim thoughtfully. "this path takes off to double springs, creed," she said, mentioning the name of a little watering place built up about some wells of chalybeate and sulphur water. "we might--do ye think mebbe we'd better go there?" creed, who felt his strength ebbing, calculated the distance. they had seen, as they made the last turn under the bluff, the lights flaring at the garyville station. double springs was more than a mile farther. "i reckon garyville will be the best, dear," he returned gently. then, "i wish i had cut a little better figure in this business--on account of you," he added wistfully. "you're everything that a man could ask. i don't want you to be ashamed of me." "ashamed of you!" judith's deep tones carried such love, such scorn of those who might not appreciate the man of her choice, that he was fain to be comforted. "if we had known each other better from the first i reckon you would have kept me out of these fool mistakes i've made," the young fellow said humbly. "you ain't made no mistakes," judith declared with reckless loyalty, "hit's the other folks--blatch turrentine and them that follers him--no good person could git along with them. are you much tired creed? does yo' shoulder pain you?" "no, dear," he said softly, laying his cheek against the hand which he had drawn around his neck. "nothing pains me any more. i'm mighty happy." and together thus they rode forward in darkness, toward garyville and safety. chapter xviii bitter parting in the sickly yellow flare of the kerosene lamps around the garyville station judith got her first sight of creed's face: sunken, the blood drained from it till it was colourless as paper, the eyes wild, purple rimmed, haggard--it frightened her. she was off of selim in a moment, begging him to get down and sit on the edge of the platform with her, here on the dark side where nobody would notice them, and they could decide what was to be done next. he dismounted slowly, stumblingly, gained the edge of the platform, and there sat with drooping head. judith tied the two animals and ran to sit beside him. "ye ain't goin' to faint air ye?" she asked anxiously. "lean on me, creed. i wish't i knew what to do for ye!" the young fellow, half unconscious indeed, put his head down upon her shoulder with a great shuddering sigh. "i'll be better in a minute, dear," he whispered. "i reckon i got a little tired--riding so far." for some time judith sat there, creed's head on her shoulder, the black night all about them, the little lighted station empty save for the clicking of the telegraph instrument, and the footsteps of the station master who had opened up for the midnight train. she was desperately anxious and at a loss which way to turn. and yet through all her being there rolled a mighty undernote of joy. as to the dweller on the coast the voice of the sea is the undertone to all the sounds of man's activities, so beneath all her virginal hesitancies, her half terror of what she had done, surged and sang the knowledge that creed was hers, her avowed lover. she, judith, had him here safe; she had brought him away out of the mountains, from those who would have harmed him--and those who would have loved him too well. in all her plannings up to this time she had never quite been able to see clearly what should come after getting creed down into the valley. over her stormily beating heart now there rose and fell a little packet of bills, savings above necessary expenditures on the farm, and her own modest expenses, savings which had been accumulating since uncle jephthah rented the place, and now amounted to some hundreds of dollars. these she had put in the bosom of her frock when she set out on this enterprise, with, as she now realised, the vaguest expectation of ever returning to her uncle's house. "creed," she whispered, "air ye better?" "yes," responded her charge, "yes--i'm better." but he made no movement to raise his head, and with eyes long accustomed to darkness she was able to see that his lids were still closed. "creed," she began again, "what shall i do for you now? must i go ask at the hotel will they give you a room? have you--have you got money with you?" bonbright roused himself. "i'm all right now," he said in a strained tone. "yes, dear, i've got some money with me, and a little more in the bank at hepzibah. i can get hold of that any time i want to. i don't know just what i'll do," he looked around him bewildered. this had not been his plan, and the long ride down the mountain, and above all the happiness of being with judith, of her avowals had made him forgetful of its exigencies. "i reckon i'll make out. you needn't worry about me any more, judith. i'm safe down here." these words sounded dreadfully like a dismissal to the girl. she locked her hands hard together in her lap and fought for composure. an older or a more worldly woman would have said to him promptly that she could not leave him in this case, and that if they were ever to be married it must be now. but all the traditions of the mountain girl's life and upbringing were against such a course. she gazed at him helplessly. "i ain't got but one friend on this earth, looks like," began creed wearily, as he got to his feet, "and now i'm obliged to send her away from me." it was more than judith could bear. she lifted her swimming eyes to him in the dusk; he was recovering self command and strength, but he was still white, shaken, the bandaged head and shoulder showing how close he had been to death. her love overbore virgin timidity and tradition. "don't send me away then," she said in the deepest tones of that rich, passionate voice of hers. "ef hit's me you're namin' when you speak of having but one friend--don't send me away, creed." he came close and caught her hand, looking into her face with wondering half comprehension of her words. that face was dyed with sudden, burning red. she hoped and expected that he would make the proffer which must come from him. when he did not, she burst out in a vehement, tense whisper, "if--if you love me like you said you did----" creed hesitated, bewildered. he was too ill to judge matters aright, but he knew one thing. "i do love you," he said with mounting firmness. "i may be a mighty poor sort of a fellow--i've begun to think so of late--but i love you." judith put out both hands blindly toward him whispering, "and i love you. i don't want nothin' but to be with you an' help you, an' take keer of you. i'll never leave you." for a moment the young fellow felt only the dizzy rapture of her frank confession. in that instant he saw himself accepting her sacrifice, taking her in his arms; in anticipation he tasted the sweetness of her lips. then pure reason, that shrew who had always ruled his days, spoke loud, as the bitterness of his situation rolled back upon him. "no--no!" he cried. "judith--honey--i can't do that. why, i'd be robbing you of everything in the world. your kin would turn against you. your farm would be lost to you, i reckon--i don't know when i'll be able to go back and claim mine." in the moment of strained silence that followed this speech, with a sense of violent painful revulsion the girl pushed him back when he would timidly have clung to her. what woman ever appreciated prudence in a lover? it is not a lover's virtue. her farm--her farm! he could listen to her confession of love for him, and speculate upon the chances of her losing her farm by it! she had one shamed, desperate instant when she would have been glad to deny the words she had spoken. then creed, reading her anger and despair by the light of his own sorrows, said brokenly: "you feel--you're offended at me now--but judith, you wouldn't love me if i had taken you at your word, and ruined all your chances in life. i--judith--dear--i'll make this thing right yet. i'll come back--and you'll forgive me then." with a sudden flaring up of strength he took quiet mastery of the situation. he kissed her tenderly, but sadly, not such a kiss as either could ever have imagined their first would be. "i love you too well to let you wed a man that's fixed like i am--a man that's made such a failure of life--a fugitive--a fellow that has nothing to offer you, and no more standing with your people than a hound dog. i love you better than i do myself or my comfort--or even my life." in anguished silence judith received the caress; dumb with misery she got to her horse. creed stood looking up at her for their last words, when, with a rattle and clang, the train from the north swept in and halted. selim jibed and fought the bit as any sensible mountain horse feels himself entitled to do under similar circumstances; but judith heeded him almost not at all. "my lord--who's that?" she cried, staring toward the lighted train where the figure of a man mounted the platform. "what is it?" queried creed. "hit looked like blatch," whispered the girl; "but i reckon it couldn't a-been." "blatch!" echoed creed, all on fire in an instant--where now was her poor invalid whose head she had pillowed, of whom she had thought to take care? "blatch turrentine!--good-bye, honey--you mustn't be seen with me. if blatch is here i've got to find and face him. you see that, don't you?--you understand." and he turned and left her so. oh, these men, with their quarrels and their nice points of honour--while a woman's heart bleeds under the scuffling feet! she watched him hurry to the train, his staggering step advertising how unfit he was for any such attempt, watched him mount the platform where she had seen the man that looked like blatch; and then the conductor swung his lantern, the wheels began to revolve, she half cried out, and selim at the end of his patience, bolted with her and never stopped running till he had topped the rise above the village. here, with some ado, she got him quieted, brought to a standstill, got off and tightened the girth, for the saddle was slipping dangerously. she climbed on once more, mounting from a fallen tree, and was moving again up the trail when, down toward garyville, someone called her name. "judith!" she did not turn her head. she knew to whom the voice belonged. as he rode up to her: "what you doin' here, blatch turrentine?" she demanded fiercely, "an' what'll the boys say to you for slippin' away from 'em to-night?" he took her inferred knowledge of all his enterprises without a word of comment. bringing his mule up closer to her where she sat on selim he answered: "the boys know whar i'm at. we got word last evenin' that the man i sell to was waitin' for me in garyville. he don't know nobody but me in the business, and nobody but me could do the arrent. i hauled a load down, an' i would have been back in plenty time, ef i hadn't met you and bonbright right thar whar that old cherokee trail comes into the garyville road." judith started, her face burned in the darkness, but she said nothing. blatch peered curiously at her as he went on: "i reckon you never took notice of the waggon that was under the bluff thar by the turn, but that was my waggon, and i was a-settin' on it. i wheeled myse'f round, when i seed 'twas bonbright, and follered you two down to garyville, and put up my mules." again he peered sharply at her. "jude," as she still sat silent, "i won't tell the boys what kept me--i won't tell them nary thing about you. i'll just let on that i happened to see bonbright at garyville." "you tell what you're a mind to," said judith bitterly. "i don't keer what you say." blatchley took the retort coolly. but his light grey eyes narrowed under the black brows. "bonbright seemed mightily upsot," he commented. "went off on the train an' left his mule a-standin'." _went off on the train!_ judith's heart leaped, then stood still. "ye needn't werry about it--i had scomp put it up, 'long o' my other 'n. he'll send 'em both up a wednesday. i reckon it ain't to be wondered at bonbright was flustered. who do you 'low he went with on the railroad train? jude, air you so easy fooled as to think it was a new notion for him to go to garyville? didn't he name it to you that it was a better place than double springs?" leaning close and watching her face, he saw in it confirmation. "shore. they was a little somebody on the railroad train waitin' to go on with him--after he'd done kissed you good-bye--and _left_ you!" judith sat, head up, staring at him. her less worthy nature was always instantly roused by this man's approach. savage resentment, jealousy, hate, stirred in her crushed spirit; they raised their heads; their movement crowded out grief and humiliation. it must be true--she had proposed double springs, and he had said garyville would be better. he had refused in so many words her offer of herself. he had kissed her---- "no!--no!--no!" she cried to the man before her, "don't you look at me--don't you speak to me." "why, judith," he protested, hanging on selim's flank and talking to her as she whirled the sorrel into the road and put him at the slope at a pace which that petted animal very much resented, "why judith, ef one feller goes back on you thataway you be mad at him--he's the one to be mad at. here's me, i stand willin' to make it up. creed bonbright has shamed you--he's left you; but you could make him look like a fool if you would only say the word--and you and me would----" "now you go back!" judith turned upon him as one speaks to a dog who is determined to follow. "i ain't nary 'nother word to say to you. leave me alone!" "but judith, hit ain't safe for you to be ridin' up here in the night time, thisaway," blatch insisted. "lemme jest go along with you----" "i'll be a mighty heap safer alone than i'd be with you," judith told him, urging selim ahead, "and anybody that knows you well will say so. you--go--back." chapter xix cast out judith reached the top in the grey, disillusioning light of early dawn. the moon, a ghastly wraith, was far down in the west, the east had not yet taken any hint of rose flush, but held that pallid line of greyish white that precedes sunrise. she clambered across the gulch, her tired horse stumbling with drooping head over the familiar stones, and rode slowly up to the home place. the huddle of buildings looked gaunt, deserted, inhospitable. there was light here enough to see the life which in daytime made all homelike, but which now, quenched and hidden, left all desolate, forbidding. as sleep takes on the semblance of death, so the sleeping house took on the semblance of desertion. the chickens were still humped on their perches in the trees, the cows had not come up to the milking-pen, their calves lay in a little bunch by the fence fast asleep. to the girl's heavy heart it seemed a spot utterly forlorn in the chill, sad, ironic half-light of the slow-coming morning. she rode directly to the barn, unsaddled, and put her horse out. as she was coming back past her uncle's cabin, she saw the old man himself sitting in the door. he was fully dressed; his hat lay on the doorstone beside him, and against the jamb leaned old sister. he looked up at her with a sort of indifferent, troubled gaze. "so you got back, jude," he said quietly. "yes, uncle jep," she returned as quietly. he made no comment on her riding skirt which she held up away from the drenching dew. he asked no questions as to where she had been, or what her errand. she noted that he looked old and worn. "i'm mighty sorry it happened," he began abruptly, quite as though he was continuing a conversation which they had intermitted but a few moments, "mighty sorry; but i don't see no other way. i've studied a heap on it. folks that stirs up trouble, gits trouble. i----" he broke off and sat brooding. "i'm glad you ain't mad at me for the part i've tuck in it," judith began finally. "don't tell me." he raised a hasty, protesting hand. "i don't want to know nothin' about it. all is, _i_ couldn't have things according to my ruthers, and they had to go as they must. hit ain't what a man means that makes the differ--hit's what he does that we count. them that stirs up trouble, finds trouble." "i reckon so, uncle jep," said the girl, drooping as she stood. "they ain't been a roof between my head and the sky sence i left this house," the old man's big voice rumbled on monotonously, hollowly. "i tromped the ridges over to'ds yeller old bald. i left mankind and their works behind me, and i have done a power of thinking; but i can't make this thing come out no other way." he ceased and sat looking down. the girl could fancy his solitary meals where he cooked what he had killed and ate it, to lie down under the sky and sleep. women are denied this fleeing to the desert to be alone with god and their sorrow. she envied him the privilege. she had no heart to repeat to him creed's statements that he was not a spy. that was all past--wiped out by the parting between her and her lover. "yes, uncle jep," she uttered low, and with bent head she moved dejectedly on toward the house. here all the boys were sleeping noisily after their vigils of the night before. about three o'clock, or a little after, they had come home to find their father turning in at the gate. with their disappointment fresh upon them they broke through his command of silence, and wade told him how they and blatch had planned the ambush, how blatch had been called away, how they had waited in the hollow for creed, who had promised to "come and talk to them," how he had never come, but how arley kittridge a few minutes ago had ridden up to notify them that bonbright was gone from nancy card's, and that the mule was gone with him. none of the watchers could say what direction he took, except to give earnest assurances that he had not left by any trail leading down the mountain. "he's bound to be over here somewhars," wade concluded, "and blatch not havin' got back from garyville, they two has met somewhars." the old man listened in silence, and when his son had made an end offered neither comment nor reply. he passed over without a word the revelation of the deceit about blatch's supposed killing. it was as though, weary and foredone, he dismissed the young fellows to the logic of events--to life itself--for response, explanation, or punishment. judith changed her dress, bathed her pale face, and set about preparing breakfast. and that was a strange meal when she had finally put it on the table and bidden them to it. the sons sat in their places like chidden schoolboys, furtively studying their father's ravaged visage, looking at each other and muttering requests or replies. they were all aware of the ugliness of their several offences. creed's strange disappearance, blatch's failure to return, the utter collapse of their errand, these had shaken them terribly. about a third of the way through the meal jim cal shuffled in. "do you mind givin' me some breakfast, jude?" he asked humbly. "iley an' the chaps is all sound asleep. i hate to wake 'em, an' i never was no hand to do for myse'f." "set and welcome," said judith, mechanically placing a chair for the one who had been most resolute of all that creed must die. so it was that they were all seated about the board when blatch turrentine, without a word, made his appearance in the door. without moving his head jephthah turned those sombre eyes of his upon his nephew, and regarded him steadily. the younger man stopped where he was on the threshold. "so ye ain't dead?" inquired his uncle finally. "i reckon that ain't news to you, is it?" asked blatch, making as though to come in and take his place at the table. for a moment the loyalty of the tribal head, the hospitality of the mountaineer, warred in old jephthah's heart with deep, strong resentment against this man. then he said without rising, "yes, hit's news. but you may take it that hit's news i ain't heard. i reckon we'll just leave it that you _air_ dead. the lease on the ground over thar runs tell next spring. i'll not rue my bargain, but no son of mine sets his foot on yo' land and stays my son, and you don't put yo' foot in this house again. you give it out that you was dead--stay dead." "oh, i see," said blatch. "yo' a-blamin' the whole business on me, air ye? well, that's handy. what about them fine fellers that's settin' at meat with ye now? i reckon the tale goes that i led 'em into all their meanness." jim cal dropped his head and stared at the bit of cornbread in his pudgy fingers; wade glanced up angrily; the twins stirred like young hounds in leash; but jephthah quieted them all with a look. "blatch," began the head of the house temperately, even sadly, "yo' my brother's son. sam and me was chaps together, and i set a heap of store by him. sam's been gone more than ten year, and in that time i've aimed to do by you as i would by a son of my own. i felt that hit was something i owed to sam. but ef i owed hit hit's been paid out. yo' sam's son, but also yo' a blatchley, and i reckon the blatchley blood had to show up in ye. my boys is neither better nor worse than others, but when i say that i don't aim to have you walk with 'em, i say what is my right. what i owed yo' daddy, and my dead brother, has been paid out--hit's been paid plumb out." now that it was made plain, blatch took the dismissal hardily. perhaps he had been more or less prepared for it, knowing as he would have phrased it that his uncle wanted but half a chance to break with him. he was aware, too, that the secret of his illicit traffic was safe in the old man's hands, and that indeed jephthah would strain a point to defend him for the name's sake if for nothing else. "all right," he said, "ef them's yo' ruthers, hit suits me. what do you-all boys say?--i reckon unc' jep'll let ye speak for yo'selves--this one time." "i say what pap says," came promptly from wade. and, "jeff an' me thinks it's about time pap's word went with his boys," put in the younger and more emotional andy. "all right, all right," agreed blatch in some haste, finding the battle to go thus sweepingly against him. "i wont expect no opinions from you, podner, tell you've had time to run home an' ax iley what air they. ye ain't named judith, unc' jep," he went on, glancing to where the girl knelt on the hearthstone dishing up corn pones from the dutch oven. "cain't she come over and visit me when she has a mind?" "judith's her own mistress. she can use her ruthers," returned jephthah briefly, "but i misdoubt that you'll be greatly troubled with her company." "help me git my things out of the cupboard thar, jude, won't ye?" asked blatch civilly enough. without reply, without glancing at him, judith preceded him into the fore-room, opened the doors and sought out his clean clothing, making it into a neat pile on the table. "you come over and see me sometimes, won't ye, judy?" whispered the tall man as he bundled these up. "i won't tell who i seen you with." judith looked at him with wordless contempt. her own pain was so great that even anger was swallowed up in it. "tell anybody you're a mind to," she said listlessly. "i ain't a-carin'." "i may git word of him, jude," persisted blatch as he was departing. "ef i do would you wish to hear it? ef you say yes, i'll send ye notice." again she glanced at him with that negligent disdain. what could he do to her now who had lost all? she was beyond the reach of his love or his malice. chapter xx a conversion and now judith's days strung themselves on the glowing thread of midsummer weather like black beads on a golden cord, a rosary of pain. she told each bead with sighs, facing the morning with a heavy heart that longed for darkness, lying down when day was over in dread of the night and a weariness that brought no sleep. and the cedar tree, swayed in the raw autumn air, talking to itself sombrely of the empty nest in its heart, sounded upon her wakeful ears a note of desolation and despair. for all the turkey tracks soon knew that blatch turrentine was sound and whole; all hepzibah knew it eventually--and creed bonbright neither returned nor made any sign. the embargo being removed, judith went straight to nancy card. in the preoccupation of her sorrow, she might have forgotten little buck's wounded heart; but when as of custom beezy came rioting out to meet her, the man child hung back with so strange a countenance that she needs must note it. "come here, honey," she urged tenderly--her own suffering made her very pitiful to the childish grief. little buck came slowly up to his idol, lifting doubtful eyes to her face. the girl's ready arm went swiftly round the small figure. "are you pestered about that word i sent creed bonbright by you?" she whispered. the little boy nodded solemnly, and you could see the choke in his throat. "well, you don't need to be," she reassured him. "i had to send jest that word, little buck--jest that very word; nothin' less would 'a' brought him." again the child nodded, twisting around to look in her face, his own countenance clearing a bit. "but it don't make any differ between you an' me, does it, honey?" she pursued. "you're jude's man, jest the same as you ever was, ain't ye? you wouldn't never need to be jealous of anybody; 'cause you know all the time that judy loves you." silently the small man put his arms round her neck and hugged her hard--an unusual demonstration for little buck. and during her entire stay he hung close about, somewhat to nancy's annoyance, seeming to find plentiful joy in the contemplation of his recovered treasure. the loss of creed had meant a good deal to nancy. more like a son than a boarder in her house, he had brought with him a sense of support and competence such as the hard-worked little woman had never known. with his going, she was back again in the old helpless, moneyless situation, with pony on her hands a growing problem and anxiety, and doss provine but a broken reed on which to lean. such inquiries after creed as they managed to set afoot fetched no return. "hit ain't like creed to be scared and keep runnin'," she would repeat pathetically. "i know in reason something awful has chanced to that boy. either that, or it's like they're all beginning to say, he's wedded and gone to texas same as his cousin cyarter done. cyarter bonbright run away with a gal on the night she was to have wedded another feller--tuck her right out of the country and went to texas. that's bonbright nature: they ain't much on sweet-heartin' an' sech, but when they git it, they git it hard." she laid a loving hand on the girl's shoulder, and leaned around to look frankly into the beautiful, melancholy, dark face with the direct, honest grey eyes that would admit no concealments between herself and those whom she really cared for. "i speak right out to you, jude," she said kindly, "'caze i see how hit's been between you an' creed, an' hit'll hurt you less if you get used to the idy of givin' him up. him treated the way he was, i don't know as i'd blame him." but judith could have blamed him. it was only when despair pressed too hard that she could say she would be glad to know he was alive even though he belonged to somebody else. yet to credit blatch's story for a moment, to think he had gone that night with huldah spiller, was to open the heart's door on such a black vista of treachery and double-dealing in creed's conduct, to so utterly discredit his caring for herself, that she had no defence but to disbelieve the whole tale, and this she was generally able to do. but as far away as hepzibah a small event was preparing that should break the monotony of judith's grievous days. venters drane, the elder's twelve-year-old boy, going to school in the village, fell ill of diphtheria. when word was brought to the father--a widower and wise--he loaded his three younger children and their small belongings into the waggon and drove over to the turrentine place. "i jest p'intedly ain't got nary another place to leave 'em, sister barrier, nor nary another soul on earth that i could trust 'em with like i could with you," he said wistfully, after he had explained the necessities of the case. "i'm on my way down now to get venters and bring him home--look at that, will ye!" as the baby made a dash for judith who stood by the wheel looking up. "they're mighty welcome, elder drane," judith declared warmly, receiving the little fellow in open arms. "i'll be glad to do for 'em." martin and lucy were old-fashioned, repressed, timid children, with the pathetic outlook of young persons brought up by a melancholy, ancient hireling. but the baby, glowing-eyed, laughing-mouthed rogue, staggering valiantly on sturdy, emulous legs, taking tribute everywhere with all babyhood's divine audacity, walked straight into her heart. he slept beside her at night, for him she darkened and quieted the house of afternoons, lying down with him to watch his slumbers, to brood with mother fondness upon the round, rosy, small face, and the even, placid breathing. drane had brought such clothing as they had, but judith found them ill-provided, and set to work for them at once. being a capable needlewoman she soon had them apparelled more to her liking, and the labour physicked pain. sitting in the porch sewing, with the baby tumbling about the floor at her feet and mart and lucy building play-houses in the yard under the trees, judith began dimly to realise that life, somewhere and at some time, might lack all she had so passionately craved, all she so piercingly regretted, and yet hold some peace, some satisfaction. true she was still desolate, robbed, despairing, yet with the children to tend there were hours when she almost lost sight of her own sorrow, in the sweet compulsion of doing for them. jim cal shook his head over these arrangements. "looks like to me ef i was a widower with chaps, trying to wed a fine lookin', upheaded gal like jude, i'd a' kep' the little 'uns out of her sight as much as i could, 'stid of fetchin' 'em right to her. hit seems now as though she muched them greatly, but she's sartin shore to find out what a sight o' trouble chaps makes, and ain't any woman wantin' more work than she's 'bleeged to have." lacking active concerns of his own, james calhoun was always greatly interested in those of the persons about him. judith's doings, on account of her reticence, beauty and high spirit, proved a theme of unending, mild interest. "jude," he opened out one day as he sat on the edge of the porch while his cousin was busy with some sewing for her little visitors, "did ye hear 'bout lace rountree?" judith never moved her eyes from her work. "i know they's sech a person," she said evenly, "if that's what you mean." "no, but have ye heared of how he's a-doin' here lately?" persisted the fat man. "i don't know as anybody has named anything special to me about lacey rountree or his doin's," judith returned with a rising irritation. "why should they?" jim cal heaved a wheezy sigh. "'caze yo' said to be the cause of it," he expounded with lugubrious enjoyment. "lace rountree is fillin' hisse'f up on corn whiskey and givin' it out to each and every that he's goin' plumb straight _di_-rect to the dav-il, an' all on yo' accounts--'caze you wouldn't have 'im. now what do you make out o' that?" "i make out that some folks are mighty big fools," retorted judith with asperity. "lace rountree is no older than jeff and andy--he's two years younger'n i am--why, he's like a child to me. i never no more thought of lace rountree than i'd think of--well, not so much as i would of little buck provine." "uh-huh," agreed jim cal shaking his head dolefully, "that's the way you talk; but you-all gals had ort to have a care how you toll fellers on. here's huldy got wade so up-tore about her that he's a-goin' to dash out and git him a place on the railroad whar he's mighty apt to be killed up; and you----" "i what?" prompted judith sharply, as he came to a wavering pause. "well--they was always one man that you give good reason to expect you'd wed him. i myse'f have heared you, more'n forty times i reckon, say to blatch turrentine--or if not say it in so many words, at least----" "cousin jim," broke in judith, carefully ignoring this last charge, "so far as that lace rountree is concerned, did you ever know of a reckless feller that come to no good but what he had some gal at whose door he could lay it all? i vow i never did. they ain't a drinkin' whiskey becaze they like it; they don't git into no interruptions becaze they're mad--it's always 'count o' some gal that has give 'em the mitten. i'll thank you not to name lace rountree to me again, nor--nor anybody else," as she saw his eyes wander to the sewing in her lap. "well, drane's old enough to look out for hisse'f," said jim cal, rising and trying his joints apparently for a movement toward home. "ef you choose to toll him on by takin' care of his chaps, that's yo' lookout, and his lookout--'taint mine; but 'ef i was givin' the man advice, i'd say to him that he might about as well take 'em home, or hunt up some other gal to leave 'em with, 'caze yo' apt to much the chil'en and then pop the do' in the daddy's face." the weeks brought piecemeal confirmation of jim cal's dismal forebodings. elihu drane took advantage of every pretext to haunt about the roof that sheltered his children. though he was not with the sick boy, he made the presence of a "ketchin' town disease" in his home, reason for not coming near the little ones, but called judith down to the draw-bars to talk to him. when he had her there at such disadvantage, he so pertinaciously urged his unwelcome suit that he made her finally glad to be rid of the children, to see him, when venters was once more well, take them away with him and give her respite from his importunities. in the case of wade, too, the fat man's pessimistic expectations were realised; the young man did, early in august, dash out and secure a place on the railroad. mountain people write few letters. they heard nothing from him after the first message which told them where he was employed and what wages he was to have. it was september when iley announced to judith that she had word from some of pap spiller's kin who were living in garyville, that acquaintances of theirs from hepzibah, coming down to the circus at the larger town, had given them roundabout and vague news of huldah. the girl had delayed in hepzibah but a few days. the story as it came up on the mountain was that she had married "some feller from big turkey track, and gone off on the railroad." "them tuels is mighty po' hands to remember names," iley said. "but all ye got to do is to look around and take notice of anybody that's gone from big turkey track here lately. ye can fix it to suit yo'se'f. but i reckon huldy has made a good match, and i'm satisfied." judith looked upon the floor in silence. in silence she left the cabin and took her way to her own home. and that night, while the cedar tree talked to her in the voice of love--creed's voice--she fought with dragons and slew them, and was slain by them. when blatchley turrentine had asserted this thing to her at garyville, she found somewhere--after her first gust of unreasoning resentment was past--strength to disbelieve it utterly. but now it came again in more plausible guise. it gained likeliness from mere repetition. and hardest of all to bear, she was totally unsupported in her trust. she knew creed, knew his love for her; yet to cling to it was to fly in the face of probabilities, and of everything and everybody about her. the lover who is silent, absent from her who loves him, at such a time, runs tremendous risks. it was the set or turn of the year's tide; sunsets were full, rich, yellow, and a great round, golden moon swung in the evening sky above the purple hills. a soft, purring monotone of little tree crickets in the night forest replaced the shriller insect chorus of midsummer. garden patches, about through their summer yield, were a tangle of bubble-tinted morning glories, the open woods misty with wild asters, bell flowers trembling from the crevices of rocks; and along fence-row and watercourse turkey-pea, brook sunflower, queen of the meadow, and joepye-weed made gay the land. such farm work as remained was only garnering--fodder-pulling, pea-hay and millet hay to gather; with a little sowing of wheat, rye, or turf oats. in late midsummer and early fall revivalists, preachers, and exhorters go through the cumberlands holding protracted meetings in the little isolated churches. at this time of year the men as well as the women are most at liberty. to a people who live scattered through a remote and inaccessible region, who have few and scanty public gatherings and diversions, this season of religious activity offers the one emotional outlet which their conception of dignity permits them, and it is proportionately precious in their eyes. in addition to the women and the girls and boys, who usually make up the rank and file of religious gatherings elsewhere, here at this favoured season old fellows, heads of families and life-long pillars of the church, give up their entire time to the meetings. the family is put into the waggon with a basket of dinner, and they make a day of it. services hold as late as twelve and one o'clock, and after them this contained, stoic folk will go home through the woods, carrying pine torches, singing, shouting, laughing, sobbing. hiram bohannon came into the two turkey tracks this year and held services at brush arbour church. he was very much in earnest, brother bohannon, a practical man with a rough native eloquence that spoke loud to his hearers. every afternoon the wild, sweet hymns rang out over the little cup-like valley in which brush arbour church stood. the month was extremely warm, and they used the outside brush arbour from which the schoolhouse-church received its name. judith went day and night in a feverish attempt to get away from herself and her sorrows. even the fact that elihu drane was very much to the fore in these gatherings could not deter her. sitting in the open there, her hands clasped upon her knee, her sombre eyes on the ground, or interrogating the distance with an unseeing stare, she would let hymn and sermon, prayer and the weeping and shouting which always close night meeting, go past her ears well-nigh unheard. before those darkened, bereaved eyes, turn where they would, love's ever-renewed idyl of rustic courtship was enacting, since big meetin' was the time and occasion of all the year for corydon to encounter phyllis, to stroll or sit beneath the trees with her, possibly to "carry her home." andy and jeff began taking the lusk girls to meeting, and within a week's time two very pale young men--the twins always acted in concert--stumbled up the earthen aisle between the puncheon seats to join the group at the mourners' bench and ask for the prayers of the congregation. brother bohannon knew what quarry he had netted, and he hurried down at once, half in doubt that this was another scheme of these young daredevils to make game of his meeting. but both boys were on their knees, and the tears with which they began confessing to him past sins, the penitence of their shaking voices, proclaimed the genuineness of their conversion. cliantha and pendrilla left behind--they had been sober church members since they were twelve years old--fluttered to judith and demanded her instant attention to the miracle. "oh, judith, ain't it jest too good to be true?" panted little cliantha. "jeff never did lack anything of bein' the best man that ever walked this earth except to jine the church--an' now look at him!" "and andy, too," put in pendrilla jealously. "i do believe andy is a prayin' the loudest--i'm shore he is." judith roused herself. "i'm mighty glad--for the both of ye," she said kindly. and then she looked at their tremulous, happy faces, at the kneeling boys up among the press of figures about the pulpit, and burst into a storm of weeping. where was her lover? where was creed? dead--or he had forgotten her. "are you under conviction of sin, sister?" inquired one of the helpers. judith let it pass at that, and flung herself on her knees beside the bench to wait until the last hymn and the dismissal. brother bohannon was an extremely practical christian; his creed applied to every day in the year and to the most commonplace acts. he adjured his converts not only to quit their meanness, but to go and acknowledge past errors, to repair such evil as they could, and if possible to seek forgiveness from man, certain that god's forgiveness would follow. such counsel as this brought the twins to their father's cabin early on the morning after their conversion at brush arbour church. "pap," began andy standing before his parent with an odd suggestion of the small boy caught in mischief, "me and jeff are aimin' to join the church." "that's right, son," said the old man rising and clapping a hearty hand on each young shoulder. "i'm mighty proud to hear it. hit's a good way for fellers like you to start out in this world." "well, befo' we do so," jeff took up the burden, "the preacher says we ort to confess our sins and git forgiveness from them we have done wrong by. creed bonbright ain't here. mebbe he's never goin' to be back any mo'. we talked it over and 'lowed we'd better come tell you, pap." at creed bonbright's name a pathetic change went over old jephthah's pleased countenance. he had received the opening words with satisfaction, not untinctured by the mild, patronising indulgence we show to children. but when bonbright was mentioned he sat back in his chair, nervously knocking the ash from his pipe, anxiously staring at the boys. "i'm mighty proud," he repeated, "to hear what you say." he spoke gravely and with dignity; but a note of uncontrollable eagerness stole into his voice, as he added in a lower tone, "what mought you-all have to tell me about creed bonbright?" "pap, we done you a meanness in that business," hastened jeff. "we had no call to lie to you like we done, and send the feller word in yo' name." "wade, he was mad about his gal," agreed andy thoughtfully, "but what possessed me and jeff i'll never tell ye. spy or no spy, we done that man wrong." jephthah looked expectantly and in silence from one young face to the other. "blatch let on to you hit was the still; but of course we knowed hit was jude that ailed him. he got taylor stribling to toll creed to foeman's bluff that night," jeff supplied. "blatch picked the quarrel, and drawed a knife when they was wrastlin', and when bonbright pushed blatch away from him, he fell over the cliff. that's god's truth about the business, pappy, ef i ever spoke it. me an' andy an' wade was all into it." the boyish countenance was pale, and jeff drew a nervous hand across his brow as he concluded. there followed a lengthened silence. old jephthah sat regarding his own brown right hand as it lay upon his knee. "ye tolled him thar," he said finally. "ye tolled him thar. then creed bonbright wasn't no spy." he lifted his head. "i never could make it figure up right for that feller to be a spy. curious he was, and he had some idees that i couldn't agree with; but a spy----" he broke off suddenly, and one saw how strong had been the bond between him and the young justice, how greatly he cared that the memory of the man even should be cleared. the boys looked at each other, and with a gulp jeff began again: "i reckon you knowed well enough we stood in with blatch when he hid out and let folks believe the killin' had been did. we knowed you seen through it all; but when ye git started in a business like that, one thing leads on to another, and befo' you're done with it, ye do a plenty that you'd ruther not." "well, hit's over and cain't be he'ped, but you've done what's right at last," jephthah assured them. "the church is a mighty good thing for young fellers like you. a good wife'll do a sight to he'p along." he looked at them kindly. he had never liked his boys half so well. "i'm mighty proud of the both of ye," he concluded heartily. "ef creed bonbright ever does come back in the mountains, we'll show him that the turrentines can be better friends than foes to a man." chapter xxi the baptising october had led forth her train across the cumberlands. one night the forest was fairly green, but early risers next morning found that in the darkness while they slept the hickories had been touched to gold, the oaks smitten with a promise of the glowing mahogany-red which was to be theirs. sourwood and sumach blazed; the woodbine flung its banner of blood, chestnuts were yellow where the nuts dropped through them from loosened burs. the varying dark greens of balsam and fir, pine and cedar, heightened by contrast the glow of colour, while the dim blue sky above set its note of tender distance and forgetfulness. on a thousand mountain peaks smoked and smouldered, flared and flamed the altar fires of autumn. after that each day saw a deepening of the glory in the hills. it was like a noble overture a multitudinous chorus made visible. the marvel of it was that one sense should be so clamorously challenged while the other was not addressed. the ear hearkened ever amid that grand symphony of colour for some mighty harmony of sound. but even the piping song-birds were gone, and the cry of a hawk wheeling high in the blue, the voice of a woman calling her cow, these sounded loud in the autumnal hush. the streams were shrunken to pools whose clear jade reaches reflected the blazing banners above them, and offered mimic seas for the sailing of painted argosies when the wind shook the leaves down. there was a fruity odour of persimmon and wild grape forever in the air. the salmon-pink globes stood defined against the blue on leafless twigs, while the frost sweetened them to sugary jelly, and the black wild grape by the water-courses yielded an odour that was only less material than the flavour of its juices. every angle of the rail fences became a parterre with golden-rod, cat-brier, and the red-and-yellow pied leaves of blackberries, while a fringe of purple and white asters thrust fragile fingers through the rails below, or the stout iron-weed pushed its purple-red blooms into view at the head of tall, lance-like stems. judith walking in the woods one day found a great nest of indian pipe. she bent listlessly to pick the waxen mystic blossoms, thinking to herself that they were like some beautiful dead thing; and then she came upon a delicate flush on the side of their clear, translucent pearl, and wondered if it were an omen. it was a gorgeous october sabbath when the boys were baptised. baptisms always took place from brush arbour in a sizable pool of lost creek which flows through one corner of the little valley that holds the church building. the sward which ran down to its clear mirror was yet green, but the maples and sourwoods above it were coloured splendidly. among their clamant red and yellow laurel and rhododendron showed glossy green, and added to the gay tapestry. the painted leaves let go their hold on twig or bough and dropped whispering into the water, like garlands flung to dress the coming rite. morning meeting was over. the women-folks who had come far spread dinner on the grass near the church, joining together occasionally, the children wandering about in solemn delight with a piece of corn pone in hand, whispering among the graves in the tiny god's acre, spelling out the words upon some wooden head-board, or the rarer stone. the big spring was the customary gathering place of the young people before church, and during intermissions, about its clear basin, on the slopes above the great rock from under which it issued, might be seen a number of couples, the boys in sunday best of jeans or store-bought clothing, the girls fluttering in cheap lawns or calicoes, and wearing generally hats instead of the more becoming sunbonnet. judith had been used to lead her following here, and the number of her swains would have been a scandal in any one else: but there was a native dignity about judith barrier that kept even rural gossip at bay. this morning, however, when elder drane gave her the customary invitation to walk down there for a drink, she refused, and all during the first service the widower had sat tall and reproachful on the men's side and reminded her of past follies. she was aware of his accusing eyes even when she did not look in his direction, and uncomfortably aware too that others saw what she saw. throughout the pleasant picnic meal, shared with its group of neighbours, the sight of andy and jeff with cliantha and pendrilla aggravated a dull pain which dragged always in her heart, and when dinner was over and they had packed the basket once more, and set it in the back of the waggon, she left them, to wander by herself on the farther side of lost creek, sitting down finally in the shade of a great sourwood, and looking moodily at the water. all afternoon she sat there wrapt in her own emotions, forgetful of time and place. the congregation straggled back into the little log church, and the second service was begun. the preacher's voice came floating out to her softened by distance, and with it the sound of singing; as the meeting drew to its close an occasional more vociferous "amen!" or "glory!" or "praise god!" made itself heard. the sun was beginning to slant well from the west when she got suddenly to her feet with the startled realisation that afternoon preaching was over, the people were pouring from the church door, streaming across the green toward the baptising pool. they were in the middle of a hymn. "oh, wanderer return--return," came their musical tones across the water. the grey-haired old preacher was in the lead, his black coat blowing about him, the congregation spreading out fan-wise as they followed after, andy and jeff arm in arm, the half-dozen others who were to be baptised walking with them. her fretted, pining spirit had no appreciation left for the appeal of the picture. she gazed, and looked away, and groaned. "oh, wanderer return," they sang--almost her heart could not bear the words. she sighed. ought she to cross the foot-log and be with them when the boys were dipped? but while she hesitated the singers struck up a different hymn, a louder, more militant strain. brother bohannon was at the water; he was wading in; he was up to his knees now--up to his waist. "send 'em in, brother drane," she heard him call. "this is about deep enough. that's right--give me the young men first. when the others see them dipped they'll have no fear." elihu drane took andy's arm, and another helper laid hold of jeff. "sing--sing brethren and sisters," admonished the preacher. "make a joyful noise unto the lord. this is the time for hallelujahs. ef ye don't sing now, when will ye ever?" andy spoke low in the elder's ear, whereupon he was released, and turned to his brother; hand-in-hand the two stepped into the water alone. judith saw the pale, boyish faces, strangely refined by the exaltation of spirit which was upon them, as the twins waded out toward the preacher. bohannon called to jeff, shook hands with him, shouted, "praise god, brother. glory! glory! now--make yo'se'f right stiff. let me have ye. don't be scared. i won't drop ye. i've baptised a many before you was born, son." his right hand was lifted dripping above the dark head. "i baptise ye, thomas jefferson turrentine, in the name of the father, and the son, and the holy ghost, amen." "amen--amen!" came the deep chorus from the bank, the high, plaintive women's voices undertoned by the masculine bass. the black coat sleeve went around the white-clad shoulders, the preacher dropped his new convert gently backward into the shining water, dipped him, and jeff who was not an excellent swimmer for nothing, came up quiet, smiling, and stood aside to wait for his brother. "sing--sing!" cried the preacher. "here goes another soul on its way to glory," and he reached forth to take andy. a moment later he sent him, drenched, but washed clean of his sins, so far as mountain belief goes, after his twin. the hallelujahs burst forth to greet the boys: joyful shouts, amens, and some sobbing when, hand-in-hand--even as they had gone in--they came up out of the water. "mighty pretty to look at, ain't it?" said a voice at judith's shoulder. she turned to find blatch turrentine standing behind her. "i reckon andy and jeff is goin' to be regular little prayin' sammies from this out," jeered the newcomer. "granny lusk has given her consent for them and the gals to be wedded," remarked judith softly. to her--and perhaps to cliantha and pendrilla also--the main importance of the twins' conversion was in this permission, which had been withheld so long as they were wild and had a bad name. "i heared of another weddin' that might interest ye," blatch insinuated. "want to come and walk a piece over by the big spring, judy?" judith turned uncertainly. the boys had passed on up to the sheds to get on dry clothing. it was nearly time for her to be going back to the waggon. bohannon was dipping doss provine's sister luna. a group of trembling, tearful candidates, mostly young girls, were being heartened and encouraged for the ordeal by the helpers on the bank. "tell me here--cain't ye?" she said listlessly. "i heared from a feller that got it from another feller," blatch began smilingly, "that huldy spiller an' creed bonbright was wedded and gone to texas. i reckon hit's true, becaze the man that told me was aimin' to buy the bonbright farm." judith did not cry out. she hoped her colour did not change very much, for blatch's eyes were on her face. after a while she managed to say in a fairly steady voice, "does wade know? have ye sent any word to him?" "no," drawled blatch. "unc' jep aimed to break off with me, and he left you the only one o' the family that dared speak with me. mebbe you would like to write an' tell wade?" "i don't know," sighed judith hopelessly. "what's the use?" "farewell," said blatch, using a common mountain form of adieu. "i reckon unc' jep won't want to see me standin' around talkin' to ye. you tell wade," significantly. "the sooner he gets huldy out of his head the better for him. no use cryin' over spilt milk. they's as good fish in the sea as ever come out of it." he looked long at her downcast face. "jude, the man that told me that about bonbright," he said, speaking apparently on sudden impulse, "'lowed that the feller had left you--give ye the mitten. you're a fool ef ye let that be said, when his betters is wantin' ye." without another word, without a glance, he turned and slouched swiftly away down the path behind the fringe of bushes by the creek side. the baptising was over. judith, crossing the stream, saw her uncle's waggon, beck and pete already hitched to it, being loaded with jim cal and his tribe. andy and jeff were horseback with the lusk girls. she hurried forward to join them and make ready for departure when, to her dismay, she encountered drane at the foot of the slope coming toward her. "wasn't that thar blatchley turrentine?" inquired the elder. the girl nodded. "i didn't see him in the church," drane pursued. "i reckon he wasn't there," assented judith lifelessly, making as though to pass on. "he jest came here to have speech with you, did he?" inquired the man, nervously, brushing his sandy whiskers with unquiet fingers. "i reckon he did," acknowledged judith without coquetry, without interest. "jude!" burst out the widower, "i promised you i never would again ax you to wed; but i'm obliged to know ef you're studyin' about takin' that feller." "no," said judith, resenting nothing, "i never did aim to wed blatch turrentine, and i never will." the elder stood directly in her path, blocking the way and staring down at her miserably for a long minute. "that's what you always used to tell me," he remarked finally with a heavy sigh. "back in them days when you let me hope that i'd see you settin' by my fireside with my children on your knees, you always talked thataway about blatch--i reckon you talked thataway of me to him." judith's pale cheek slowly crimsoned. she looked upon the ground. "i'm mighty sorry," she said slowly. elihu drane's faded eyes lighted with fresh fires. he caught the hand that hung by her side. "oh, jude--do you mean it?" he cried. "do you care? you don't know how the chaps all love ye and want ye. that old woman i've got doin' for 'em ain't fittin' to raise 'em. everybody tells me i've got to marry and give 'em a mother, but i cain't seem to find nobody but you. if you feel thataway--if you'll----" judith drew her hand away with finality, but her eyes were full of pitying kindness. she knew now what she had done to this man. by the revealing lamp of her own suffering she read his. back in the old days she had counted him only one more triumph in her maiden progress. "no," she said gravely, "i ain't studyin' about marryin' anybody. i'm mighty sorry that i done thataway. i'm sorry, and ashamed; but i have to say no again, elder drane. there ain't never goin' to be no other answer." "hit's that feller bonbright," declared the elder sternly as he stood aside to let her pass. "good lord, why ain't the man got sense enough to come back and claim his own!" chapter xxii ebb-tide life closed in on judith after that with an iron hand. she missed sorely the children's demands upon her, their play and prattle and movement about the place. huldah was gone. wade was gone. she could get no news of creed. the things to love and hate and be jealous of seemed to have dropped out of her existence, so that the heart recoiled upon itself, the spirit wrestled blindly in darkness with an angel which was but its own self in other guise. day by day she turned from side to side for an exit from the fiery path she trod, and cried out to heaven that she could not bear it--she could not stand it--there must be some way other than this! the lusk girls and the turrentine twins were to have a double wedding. the preparations for this event were torture to judith. everybody, it seemed, could be happy but her own poor self. even the fact that jeff and andy were changed, kinder to her, more considerate, better men in every way, had its own sting. if this could have been so before, the wreck of her world need not have come about. blatch kept rigorously to his own side of the gulch, yet once in a while judith met him on the highroad; and then, while he approached her with the carefullest efforts toward pleasing, he showed the effects of anxiety, the hard life, and the fact that he had begun to drink heavily--a thing he had never done before. spring would terminate his lease of the turrentine farm, and then he must seek other quarters for his illicit traffic. his situation was doubled in danger by the fact that it could not be disguised how his uncle had turned upon him. now that one did not, supposably, incur the displeasure of the turrentines by giving information concerning blatch and his still, the enterprise was a much safer one, and he trembled in hourly terror of its being undertaken by some needy soul. this terror gave a certain ferocity to his manner. also the man who had come in with him to take jim cal's place in the partnership was a more undesirable associate even than buck shalliday. judith watched all these things with an idle lack of interest that was strangely foreign to her vivid human temperament. as time passed and she could hear nothing from creed bonbright, nor of him beyond what blatch had told her, and the connection she made between it and iley's report of huldah's marriage, the inaction of her woman's lot was almost more than she could endure. of an evening after her milking was over she would stand at the draw-bars under the wide, blue, twilight sky, and stare with her great, black, passionate eyes into the autumn dusk, and her whole being went forth with such an intensity of longing that it seemed some part of it must find creed, wherever he was, and speak for her to him. after iley's announcement in september judith never approached her nor talked to her again, though the shrew was growing strangely mild and disciplined since jim cal had broken with blatch turrentine and was become a partner in his father's affairs--a husband who is out of the good books of other people is a scold-maker with the type of woman jim cal had married. to go near pendrilla and cliantha was to be overwhelmed instantly with the joyous details of their wedding preparations. judith flinched from bringing her troubles before such happy eyes. she had but aunt nancy. it was bitter hard times at the little cabin on the edge. doss provine had begun actively looking for a "second," and his courting operations sorely interfered with the making of the small crop. nancy took the field behind the plough; but her efforts came late and availed little. there was scarcely food for their mouths; she was continually harassed by anxiety concerning pony, who had got to running with a bad crowd in hepzibah. and finally the thing happened which had not been since big turkey track was a mountain and nancy card was born in that small cabin. at her wit's end, she took little buck and breezy and went away to visit a married daughter whose husband worked in a machine-shop in a valley settlement, leaving doss provine to stay with his kin for the time. there was plenty at her daughter's table, and a warm welcome awaiting her and the children; besides, the man of the house had promised to find a job for her spoiled boy, and give him the masculine oversight and discipline he needed. at hepzibah she gathered up that rather astonished young man, exerting for once the real authority that was in her, and with him set out on this formidable journey. just once old jephthah went past that closed door. just once he looked on the little front yard spilling over its rived palings with autumn blossoms. and he came home so out of joint with life, in so altogether impossible a mood, that it was fairly unsafe to mention as innocent a matter as the time of day to him. up to now perhaps he had not known what a very large place in his life those almost daily quarrels with his old sweetheart filled. now the restlessness which had come with the trouble over creed bonbright was renewed; he wandered about aimlessly, with a good word for nothing and nobody, and opined darkly that his liver was out of order. "aunt nancy told me one time that she would almost be willin' to wed you to get a chance to give you a good course of spring medicine for that thar liver," remarked judith casually. and then she looked up with a wan little smile, to find an expression in her uncle's eyes that set her wondering. oh, dear heaven--was it like that? would she grieve for creed all her life long, till she was an old, old woman? she declared it should not be so. love would never be within her reach--within the reach of her utmost efforts--and escape her, leave her an empty husk to be blown by the wind of years to the dust pile of death. one day in this mood she broke down and talked to the lusk girls. "he said he'd shore come back," she concluded hopelessly. "well, anyhow, he named things that would be done when he come back. i call that a promise. i keep thinking he'll come back." pendrilla sat, her great china-blue eyes fixed on judith's tense, pale, working face, and the big tears of pure emotional enjoyment began to slip down her pink cheeks. in the glow of judith's splendid, fiery nature, the two pale little sisters warmed themselves like timid children at a chance hearth. as the full, vibrant voice faltered into silence, cliantha went forward and took her favourite position on her knees beside judith, her arms raised and slipped around the taller girl's waist. "oh," she began, with a sort of frightened assurance. "ef my lover had gone from me thataway, and i didn't know whar he was at, an' couldn't git no news to him nor from him, i know mighty well and good what _i'd_ do." "what?" whispered judith, young lioness that she was, reduced to taking counsel from this mouse, "what would you do, clianthy?" "i'd make me a dumb supper and call him," asserted the lusk girl with tremulous resolution. "a dumb supper!" echoed judith, and then again, on a different key, "a dumb supper. i never studied about such as that." she brooded a moment on the thought, and the girls said nothing, watching her breathlessly. "do you reckon hit'd do me any good?" she questioned then, half-heartedly. "why, dumb suppers always seemed to me jest happy foolishness for light-hearted gals that had sweethearts." "oh, no!" disclaimed pendrilla, joining her sister on the floor at judith's feet. "they ain't nothin' like foolishness about a shore-enough dumb supper. why, judith, granny peavey, our maw's mother, told us oncet about a dumb supper that her and two other gals made when she was but sixteen year old, and her sweetheart away from her in virginny, and she didn't know whar he was at, an' they brought her tales agin him." "well?" prompted judith feverishly. "did it do any good? did she find out anything?" "her and two others went to a desarted house at midnight--you know that's the way, jude." judith nodded impatiently. "they tuck 'em each some bread an' salt, an' a candle to put the pins in and name. they done everything backwards--ye have to do everything backwards at a dumb supper. i don't know what happened when the candle burned down to the other girls' pins--i forget somehow--but when the pin granny had stuck in the candle an' named for her lover was melted out and fell, the do' opened and in he walked and set down beside her. they wasn't a word said betwixt 'em. he tasted her salt, an' he et her bread; and then he was gone like a flash! and at that very same identical time that thar young man was a-crossin' the mountains of virginny. it drawed him--don't you see, judith?--it drawed him to granny. he came back to her, shore enough, three months after, and they was wedded. he was our grandpap, adoniram peavey--and every word of that's true." judith sank lower in her splint-bottomed chair, looking fixedly above the flaxen heads at her knees, out through the open door, across the chip pile, and away to the bannered splendours of the autumn slopes. cliantha laid her head in judith's lap and began to whimper. "they's awful things chanced at them thar dumb suppers," she shivered. "i hearn tell of one gal that never had no true-love come, but jest a big black coffin hopped in at the do' and bumped around to her place and stopped 'side of her. my law, i believe i'd die ef sech as that should chance whar i was at!" judith's introverted gaze dropped to the girl's face. "i reckon that gal died," she suggested musingly, "i don't know as i'd care much ef the coffin come for me. unless--he--was to come, i'd ruther it would be the coffin. pendrilly," with a sudden upflash of interest, "what is it that comes? is it the man hisself--or a ghost?" "'t ain't a ghost--a shore-enough ha'nt," argued pendrilla soberly, sitting back on her heels, "not unless 'n the man's dead, hit couldn't be. hit wasn't no ha'nt of grandpap peavey--and yet hit wasn't grandpap hisself. i reckon it was a sort of seemin'--jest like a vision in the bible. don't you, jude?" "i 'low," put in cliantha doubtfully, "that if the right feller is close by when he's called by a dumb supper, he comes hisself. but ef he's away off somewhars that he cain't git to the place, then this here seemin' comes. an' ef he's dead and gone--why you'll see his ha'nt." "they's jest three of us," whispered pendrilla. "three is the right number--but i know in my soul i'd be scared till i wouldn't be no manner of use to anybody." "hit's comin' close to hollow eve," suggested cliantha. "that's the time to hold a dumb supper ef one ever should be held. hit'll work then, ef it wouldn't on no other night of the year." "it has to be held in a desarted house," pendrilla reiterated the condition. "ef you was to hold a dumb supper, jude, we could go to the old bonbright house itse'f--ef we had any way to git in." "i've got the key," said judith scarcely above her breath. "creed left it with me away last april, to get things for the--for the play-party." chapter xxiii the dumb supper it was the thirty-first of october, all souls' eve, that mystic point of contact between the worlds when quick and dead are fabled to walk the ways of earth together, to meet eye to eye, and hold converse. a web of mountain legend clings dimly about this season. the spirit of it--weird, elfin--was abroad, the air was full of it as, alone out in the gusty darkness of the autumn night, at eleven o'clock, judith walked swiftly toward the lusk place. wrapped in a little packet she carried bread and salt, and a length of candle. she went across fields, and thus cut down the distance till it was possible to walk it in fifteen minutes. as she approached the house, speaker, a barely grown hound-pup, came rollicking out to meet her, leaping about her shoulder-high, frisking back toward the porch and waiting for her, all the while barking joyously. "my lord!" said pendrilla's sleepy small voice when judith tapped on their window in the wing of the building where the girls roomed. "ef that thar fool hound-pup ain't loose! i hope he don't wake up grandpap. cain't you make him hush, judith?" judith stooped and caressed the dog for a moment, quieting him. the girls presently appeared in the doorway fully dressed and, as it seemed, with their packets made, in addition to which cliantha carried an old lantern unlighted in her hand. "i'll light it as soon as we get out in the road," she announced whisperingly. when they would have secured the dog that he might not follow them, they found that he, wise for his age, had disappeared. "i bet he's run down the road apiece; he'll be a-hidin' in the bushes waitin' for us," cliantha opined pessimistically. but there was nothing to be done about it, and they set out, to be intercepted in just such manner as she foretold. "i vow, i ain't so mighty sorry speaker's along of us," pendrilla said after they had vainly browbeaten, threatened, and stoned the hound to drive him back through the gate. "he's a mighty heap of company and protection out thisaway in the night." "girls," said judith, suddenly halting them all in the little byroad which they were travelling, "don't you think we'd better cut across here? hit'll be a lot nearer." "grandpap's jest ploughed that thar field to put in his winter wheat," objected pendrilla. "hit'll make mighty bad walkin'." "but we'll get there quicker," urged judith feverishly, and that closed the argument. between them the lusk girls had succeeded in lighting the old lantern; by its illumination the party climbed the rail fence, and struggled for some distance across the loose hillocks of ploughed ground. "hit wouldn't make such awful walkin' if it had been drug," cliantha murmured. in the mountains they hitch a horse to a log or a large piece of brush and, dragging this over the ploughed ground, make shift to smooth it without a harrow. they had hobbled about one third of the toilsome way when there came a rush of galloping hoofs, the girls had barely time to crouch and cry out, speaker barked loud, and suddenly half a dozen young calves ran almost into them. "oh landy!" cried pendrilla. "ef them thar calves ain't broke the fence again! grandpap will be so mad--and we don't darst to tell him that we know of it." "come on," urged judith. "we've got to get over there." but it was found when they would have moved forward that they could not shake off their unwelcome escort. the calves had been tended occasionally in the dusk by a man with a lantern, and they hailed this one as a beacon of hope. finally even judith, desperately impatient to be gone, agreed that they would have to turn back and put the meddlesome creatures into their pasture and lay up the fence before they could make any progress. "hit'll save time," she commented briefly, as though time were the only thing worth considering now. at last, one after the other, they climbed the fence at the side of the bonbright place. the air was soft, heavy with coming rain. up through the weed-grown yard they went, greeted and beckoned by the odours of mary bonbright's garden, thyme and southernwood, herbs by the path-side, clumps of brave chrysanthemums, a wandering spray or two of late-blooming honeysuckle. judith trembled and locked her teeth together in anguish as she remembered that other night in the odorous dusk when she and creed had stood under these trees and sought in the darkness for the bush of sweet-scented shrub. the empty house bulked big and black before them in the gloom. she took the key from her pocket and opened the front door, pendrilla and cliantha clinging to her in an ecstasy of delicious terror. she stepped into the front room, struck a match, and lighted her candle. it was half-past eleven by the small nickel alarm-clock which she carried. its busy, bustling, modern tick roused strange, incongruous echoes in the old house, and reproved their errand. speaker made himself at home, coming in promptly, seeking out the corner he preferred, and turning around dog-fashion before he lay down and composed himself to half-waking slumbers. "i reckon in here will be the best place," murmured cliantha, seeking a candlestick from the mantel for their light. "we could set around this table." "it's more better ef we-all set on the flo'," reminded pendrilla doubtfully. "don't ye ricollect? all the dumb suppers we ever hearn tell of was held thataway. set on the flo' and put yo' bread and salt on the flo' in front of you." "mebbe that's becaze they was held in desarted houses, and most generally desarted houses don't have no tables nor chairs in 'em," cliantha speculated. from the moment the lantern revealed the room to them, judith had stood drawn back against the wall curiously rigid, her hand at her lip, her over-bright eyes going swiftly from one remembered object to another. this fleeting gaze fixed itself at last on the inner door. "i'll go in the other room a minute for--for something," she whispered finally. "you gals set here. i'll be right back. i've got two candles." she lighted the second candle, left the girls arranging the dumb supper, and stole, as though some one had called her, into that room which she had made ready for creed's occupancy on the night of the play-party. it had reverted to its former estate of dust and neglect. she looked about her with blank, desolate eyes which finally found upon the bed a withered brown something that held her gaze as she crept toward it--the wreath of red roses! there it was, the pitiful little lure she had put forward to love, the garland she had set in place to show creed how fine a housewife she was, how grandly she would keep his home for him. the brave red roses, the bold laughing red roses, their crimson challenge was shrivelled to darkened shreds, each golden heart was a pinch of black dust; only the thorny stems remained to show what queen of blossoms had been there. she knelt beside the bed, and when the lusk girls, frightened at her long absence, crept timidly in to look for her, they found her strangling passionate sobs in its white covering. "it's most twelve o'clock, jude," whimpered cliantha. "hit's come on to rain," supplied pendrilla piteously, and a gusty spatter on the small-paned window confirmed her words, as the three girls went back into the room where the candle stood in the middle of the floor with the three portions of bread and salt about it. the pale little sisters glanced at each other, and then at judith, wistfully, timorously, almost more in terror of her than of their anomalous situation, this new, unknown judith who scarce answered when she was spoken to, who continually failed them, who looked so strangely about her and wept so much. "pendrilly an' me has done put our pins in close to the bottom," cliantha explained deprecatingly. "hit wouldn't do any good to have andy an' jeff come trompin' in here--though i shore would love to see either or both of 'em this minute," she concluded forlornly, as they set the door ajar and the long slanting lines of rain began to drive obliquely in at the opening. "push the candle back whar the draught won't git a fair chance at it," quavered pendrilla. "we're obliged to have the do' open, or what comes cain't git in. an' we mustn't ne'er a one of us say a word from now on, or hit'll break the charm." judith moved the candle and bent to thrust her pin in, close to the top where the melting wax might soon free it, concentrating all her soul in a passionate cry that creed should come to her or send her some sign. then she crouched on the floor next to pendrilla and nearest to the door, and the three waited with pale faces. the wavering light of the candle, shaken by gusts which brought puffs of mist in with them, projected huge, grotesque shadows of the three heads, and set them dancing upon the walls. the hound-pup raised his head, cocked his ears dubiously, and whined under his breath. "what's that?" gasped cliantha. "didn't you-all hear somethin'?" judith was staring at the candle flame and made no reply. her big dark eyes had the look of one self-hypnotised. "oh, lordy! ye ortn't to talk at a dumb supper--but i thort i hearn somebody walkin' out thar in the rain!" chattered pendrilla. the old house creaked and groaned in the rising autumn storm, as old houses do. the rain drummed on the roof like fingers tapping. the wind stripped dry leaves from the bough, or scooped them up out of the hollows where they lay, and carried them across the window, or drove them along the porch, in a gliding, whispering flight that was infinitely eerie. in their terror the girls looked to judith. they saw that she was not with them. her gaze was on the pin in the candle. back over her heart swept the sweetness of her first meeting with creed. she could see him stand talking to her, the lifted face, the blue eyes--should she ever see them again? then suddenly the flame twisted and bent, the tallow melted swiftly on one side, and judith's pin fell to the floor. "hit's a-comin'!" hissed cliantha frantically. "oh, lord! i wish 't we hadn't--" pendrilla moaned. the dog uttered a protesting sound between a growl and a yelp. he raised on his forelegs, and the hair of his head and neck bristled. outside, a heavy stumbling step came up the walk. it halted at the half-open door. that door was flung back, and in the square of dripping darkness stood creed bonbright, his face death white, his eyes wide and fixed, the rain gemming his uncovered yellow hair. a moment he stood so, and the three stared at him. then with a swish of leaves in the wind and a spatter of rain in their faces, the candle blew out. the girls screamed and sprang up. the hound backed into his corner and barked furiously. whatever it was, it had crossed the threshold and was in the room with them. "jude--jude!" shrieked cliantha. "run! come on, pendrilly!" judith felt a wavering wet hand fumbling toward her in the darkness. it clasped hers; the arm went around her; she raised her face, and the cold lips of the visitant met her warm tremulous ones. for an instant she had no thought but that creed had returned from the dead to claim her--and she was willing to go. then she was aware of a swift rush, as the fleeing girls went past them, and the patter of the hound's feet following. slowly the newcomer's weight sagged against her; he crumpled and went to the floor, dragging her down in his fall. "girls! clianthy! pendrilly!" she cried as she crouched there, clinging to the prostrate form. "don't leave me--it's creed himself. you got to he'p me!" [illustration: "the door was flung back and in the darkness stood creed bonbright."] but the girls were gone like frightened hares. as she got to her feet in the doorway she could hear the sound of their flying footsteps down the lane. all was dead still in the room behind her, yet only an ear as fine as hers could have distinguished those light, receding footfalls that finally melted into the far multitudinous whisper and rustle of the storm. she turned back in the dark and knelt down beside him, passing a light, tender hand over his face and chest. he breathed. he was a living man. "creed," she whispered loud and desperately. there was no movement or response. "creed," raising her voice. "o my god! creed, darlin' cain't you hear me? it's me. it's jude--poor jude that loves you so--cain't you answer her?" there came no reply. she lifted the cold hand, and when she let go of it, it fell. she leaped to her feet in sudden fear that he might die while she delayed here. with trembling fingers she struck a match and lit her candle. her eye fell on the two pins the girls had thrust in it and named for andy and jeff. with a swift motion she plucked them out and threw them on the floor. she looked from the prostrate figure to the bed in the corner. no--she couldn't lift him to lay him there; but she ran and brought pillows and covers, raising his head upon the one, lapping him softly in the other. when all was done that she could do, there was the instant need to hurry home for help. she hated terribly to leave him alone in the dark, yet a lighted candle with a man so ill was a risk that she dared not run--he might move about and set the house on fire. when she closed the darkened room with its stark figure lying under the white covers, her heart sank and sank. she must turn the key upon him. there was no good in hesitating. only her strong will, her high courage, sustained her as she locked the door, and turning ran, with feet that love and terror winged, toward her own home. the rain drenched her; the darkness seemed a thing palpable; she slipped and fell, got to her feet and ran on. jephthah turrentine, asleep in his own cabin, heard the sound of beating palms against his door, and a voice outside in the dark and the rain that cried upon him. "uncle jep! uncle jep! for god's sake get up quick and help me. creed bonbright's come home to his house, and i think he's dead or dyin' over there." chapter xxiv a case of walking typhoid "uh--_huh_!" said the old man as he straightened up after a long examination of creed. "i thort so. he's got a case o' walkin' typhoid, an' looks like he's been on his feet with it till hit's plumb wore him out." he stood staring down at the prostrate figure, which had neither sound nor movement, the fluttering breath of which seemed scarcely to stir the chest. "walkin' typhoid," he repeated. "i've met up with some several in my lifetime. cur'ous things. his wound looks to be healed. reckon he's been puny along ever sence he got that ball in his shoulder, and hit's ended up in this here spell of fever." "will he die, uncle jep?" whispered judith, crouching beside him, her dark eyes roving desperately from the still form to her uncle's countenance. "what must we do for him?" "n-no--i reckon he has a chance," hesitated jephthah. then, glancing at her white, miserable face, "an' ef he has, hit's to git him away from here an' into bed right. lord, i wish 't the boys had been home to he'p us out. well, we'll have to do the best we can." as he spoke he put the word into action, getting a length of home-made carpet to put in the bottom of the waggon before he should lay in the feather-bed upon which creed was to rest. as he worked, despite the look of acute anxiety, the old man's eye was brighter, his step was freer, his head was borne more erect, than judith had seen it since the trouble came. silent, efficient, careful, experienced, he managed with her help to lift the unconscious man into the waggon and place him, his head in judith's lap, for the journey home. "you mind now, judy," he admonished, almost sternly, "ef he comes to hisse'f you speak to him mighty quiet and pleasant-like. don't you set to cryin'--don't you make no fuss. 'tain't every gal i'd trust thisaway. nothin' worse for a sick man than to get him excited." he took the lines and drove with infinite care and caution, walking beside the horse. but his warning was unnecessary; creed never roused from the lethargy in which his senses were locked. they got him safely home, the old man undressed him and laid him comfortably in that big show-bed in the front room that was given to any guest of honour. morning was breaking when judith, coming into the kitchen, found andy and jeff sitting by the fire, and dilsey rust in charge. "yo' uncle sont fer me," the old woman said. "he 'lowed he needed yo' he'p takin' keer o' bonbright." judith sat with creed while the others had breakfast. when her uncle went out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving her alone with her recovered treasure, she went and knelt down by the bed, and looked at its silent occupant with a bursting heart. here was creed, creed for whom she had longed and prayed. he had come back to her. she stared at the wasted face, the transparent temples where the blue veins showed through, the black circles beneath the lashes of the closed eyes. no, no, this was not creed, this dying man who mocked her longing with a semblance of her lover's return! there was a sound at the door. andy and jeff came awkwardly in, and while they all stood looking, creed's eyes opened suddenly upon them. andy put out a hand swiftly. "i'm mighty sorry for--for all that chanced," he said huskily. "so 'm i," jeff instantly seconded him. creed looked at them both with a little puzzled drawing of the brows; then the ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, and his hand that lay on the covers moved weakly toward theirs. "it's all right," he said, scarcely above a whisper--the first words he had uttered. "i told--aunt nancy--you were good--boys--" he faltered to a hesitating close, his eyelids drooped over the tired eyes; but they flashed open once more with a smile that included judith and her uncle standing back of the two. "you're all--mighty--good--to me," said creed bonbright. and again he sank into that lethargic sleep. as the day advanced came the visitors that are the torment of a sick-room in the country. it would scarcely have been thought that a bare land like that could produce so many. finally judith went to her uncle and begged that creed be no longer made a show of, and that old dilsey set out food in the other room and entertain those who came, without promising that they should see the sick man. "uh--huh," agreed jephthah, understandingly, "i reckon yo' about right, jude. creed's obliged to lay there like a baby an' sleep ef he's to have any chance for his life. i don't want to fall out with the neighbours, but we'll see if we cain't make out with less visitin'." but this prohibition was not supposed to apply to iley turrentine, a member of the family. about eight o'clock that morning, having then for the first time heard of the arrival at the cabin, she came hurrying across the slope with the baby on her hip. long abstinence had made keen that temper of hers, and here was a situation where virtue itself cried to arms. she was eager to give creed bonbright a piece of her mind. "you cain't go in unless'n you'll promise to be plumb quiet--not to open yo' mouth," judith told her sharply. "uncle jep ain't here right now--but that's what he said." "don't bonbright know folks? cain't a body talk to him? is he plumb outen his head?" demanded iley, somewhat taken aback. "he knew some of us a while ago," admitted judith, "but mostly he doesn't notice nothing--jest stares right in front of him, and uncle jep said we mustn't let him be talked to nor werried." the big red-headed woman, considerably lowered in note, stepped inside the door of the sick-room, hushing the child in her arms. a moment she stood staring at the bed and its single occupant, at the pale face on the pillow, then she burst suddenly into tempestuous sobs and fled. judith followed her out. "what's the matter, iley? you never set much store by creed bonbright--what you cryin' about?" she asked. "hit's--huldy," choked the sister. "i reckon you thort i talked mighty big about the business the last time you an' me had speech consarnin' hit; but the facts air that i don't know a thing about whar she's at, nor how she's doin'. judy, ef yo' a-goin' to take keer o' the man, cain't ye please ax him for me when did he see huldy last, an'--an' is they wedded?" judith assented. she knew what her uncle would think of such an inquiry being put to the sick man, yet her own heart so fiercely demanded knowledge on this point that she promised iley she would ask the question as soon as she dared. the week that followed was a strange one to active judith barrier, used to out-door life under the sky for such a large part of her days. now those same days were bounded by the four walls of a sick-room, the sole matter of importance in them whether the invalid took his gruel well, whether he had seemed better, whether her uncle spoke encouragingly of the eventful outcome of this illness. old jephthah himself nursed creed, and judith was but a helper; yet, such was her torture of uncertainty, of anxiety, that she often left to go to her own room and get some sleep, only to return and beg that she might be allowed to sit outside the threshold for the rest of the night and be ready if she were needed. "ain't no use wearin' yourself out thataway," her uncle used to say kindly. "that won't do creed no good, nor you neither. i wish to the lord i had nancy here to he'p me!" for in this day of real need he dropped all banter about nancy's value in sick-room practice, and longed openly for her assistance. creed had been in the house nearly a week and was showing marked improvement, when judith got a message from blatch turrentine--would she be at the draw-bars 'long about sundown? he had something to tell her. she paid no attention to the request, but it put her in mind to do finally what she had long contemplated--write to her cousin wade. it was but a short scrawl, stating that creed bonbright was sick at their house, and not able to tell them anything concerning huldah, and that iley and the others were troubled. would wade please ask information in hepzibah, and write to his affectionate cousin. every day iley made a practice of coming up and sitting dejectedly in the kitchen till judith entered the room, when she would draw her mysteriously to one side and say: "have ye axed him yet? what did he tell ye? i'm plumb wo' out and heart-broke' about it, jude." though judith realised fully just how much of this display proceeded from a desire on iley's part for notice, yet her own passionate, rebellious heart seconded the idle woman, and allowed the continual harping on that string to finally drive her to the set determination that, as soon as creed could talk to her at all, she would ask him about huldah. had she lacked resolution, the patient himself would have supplied and hardened it. about this time he developed a singular form of low delirium in which he would lie with closed eyes, murmuring--murmuring--murmuring to himself in a hurried, excited whisper. and always the burden of his distress was: "i must get to her. where is she? it's a long ways. oh, i've got to get to her--there's nobody else." kneeling by his bed, her burning gaze upon his shut eyes and moving lips, judith racked her soul with questioning. often she heard her own name in those fevered whisperings; once he said with sudden determination, "i'm going home." but she listened in vain for mention of huldah. and what might that mean? all that she hoped? or all that she dreaded? oh, she could not bear this; she must know; she must--must--must ask him. the evil one, having provided the counsel, was not slow in following it up with the necessary opportunity. judith was sitting with creed alone, on a wednesday night--he had come to them the preceding tuesday. her uncle being worn out had planned to sleep till midnight, thus dividing the watch with her. about eleven o'clock creed opened his eyes and asked in what seemed to her a fairly natural tone for a drink. she brought it to him, and when he had drank he began speaking very softly. "i'm glad i came back to the mountains," he said in a weak, whispering voice. "i promised you i'd come, and i did come, judith." "yes," answered judith, putting down the glass and seating herself at the bedside, taking his hand and stroking it softly, studying his face with intent, questioning eyes. "you know where you are now, don't you, creed?" he smiled at her. "i'm in the front room at your house where we-all danced the night of the play-party," he said. "i loved you that night, judith--only i hadn't quite found out about it." the statement was made with the simplicity of a child--or of a sick man. it went over judith with a sudden, sweet shock. then her jealous heart must know that it was really all hers. nerve racked as only a creature of the open can be after weeks of confinement in a sick-room, torn with the possessive passion of her earth-born temperament, she stood up suddenly and asked him in a voice of pain that sounded harsh and menacing, "creed, whar's huldy?" "i don't know," returned creed tremulously. the blue eyes in their great hollows came up to her face in a frightened gaze. instantly they lost their clearness; they clouded and filmed with that look of confusion which had been in them from the first. "you're married to her--ain't you?" choked judith, horrified at what she had done, loathing herself for it, yet pushed on to do more. "yes," whispered creed miserably. "sit down by me again, judith. don't be mad. what are you mad about? i forget--there was awful trouble, and somebody was shot--oh, how they all hate me!" the fluttering moment of normal conditions was gone. the baffled, confused eyes closed; the thin hands began to fumble piteously about the covers; the pale lips resumed their rapid motion, while from between them flowed the old, swift stream of broken whispers. judith had quenched the first feeble flame of intelligence that flickered up toward her. she remained a moment staring down at her handiwork, then covered her face, and burst out crying. an ungentle grasp descended upon her shoulder. her uncle, standing tall and angry behind her, thrust her from the room. "thar now!" he said with carefully repressed violence, lest his tones should disturb the sick man. "you've raised up a pretty interruption with my patient. i 'lowed i could trust you, jude. what in the world you fussin' with creed about? for god's sake, did you see him? you've nigh-about killed him, i reckon. didn't i tell you not to name anything to him to werry him?" "he says he's married huldy," said judith in a strangled voice. "say! he'd say anything--like he is now," retorted her uncle, exasperated. "an' he'd shore say anything on earth that was put in his mouth. i don't care if he's married forty huldy's; what i want is for him to get well. lord, i do wish i had nancy here, and not one of these fool young gals with their courtin' business and their gettin' jealous and having to have a rippit with a sick man that don't know what he's talkin' about," he went on savagely. but high-spirited judith paid no attention to the cutting arraignment. "do you think that's true--oh, uncle jep, do you reckon he didn't mean it?" was all she said. "i don't see as it makes any differ," retorted her uncle, testily. "marryin' huldy spiller ain't no hangin' matter--but hit'll cost that boy his life ef you fuss with him and git him excited and all worked up." judith turned and felt her way blindly up the steep little stair to her own room. that night she prayed, not in a formulated fashion, but to some vague, over-brooding goodness that she hoped would save her from cruelty to him she loved. the next morning creed was plainly set back in his progress toward sound rationality, though there seemed little physical change. he recognised no one, and was much as he had been on those first days. while this condition of affairs held, and it lasted nearly a week, there was no need for jephthah to repeat his caution. but one morning when judith went in to relieve her uncle, creed smiled at her again with eyes that knew. as soon as they were alone together, he asked her to come and sit by him, and told her with tolerable clearness how he had followed blatch turrentine onto the train at garyville, how he had fainted there, and only recovered consciousness when they were halfway to the next station. "i was too bad off for them to leave me anywhere, and they carried me plumb to atlanta. i was in the hospital there a long while. looks like i might have written to you--but i thought the best i could do was to let you alone--i'd made you trouble enough," he ended with a wistful, half-hopeful glance at her face. judith, taught by bitter experience, tried to meet this with the gentle, reassuring cheerfulness of the nurse. it was all right. he mustn't talk too much. he was here now. they didn't need any letter. but strive as she might she could not keep out of her voice a certain alien tone; and afterward the bitter thought dogged her that he had told her nothing definite. she knew nothing, after all, about his relations with huldah; the girl might even, as blatch declared, have been on the train, and gone to atlanta with him, and he have held back this information. perhaps, considering her temperament, judith did as well as could have been expected in the three days that followed--days in which creed seemed to make fair physical gain, but to grow worse and worse mentally. never once did she put into words the query that ate into her very soul, quite innocent of the fact that it spoke in every tone of her voice, in every movement of her head or hand, and kept the ailing mind to which she ministered at tremble with the strain to answer. on the fourth day, fretted past endurance by the situation, judith permitted herself some oblique hints and suggestions, on the heels of which she left to prepare his breakfast. returning to the sick-room with the bowl of broth, she met the strange, unexpected, unsolicited reply to all these withheld demands. creed greeted her with a half-terrified smile. "did you meet her goin' out?" he asked. "did i meet who, creed?" inquired judith, setting the bowl down on a splint-bottomed chair, spreading a clean towel across the quilts, and preparing for his breakfast. "has there been somebody in here to see you a'ready?" "it was only huldah," deprecated creed. "you said--you asked--and she just slipped in a minute after you went out." judith straightened up with so sudden a movement that the chair rocked and the contents of the bowl slopped dangerously. "which way did she go?" came the sharp challenge. "out that door," indicating with an air of childlike alarm the front way which led directly into the yard. judith ran and flung it open. nobody was in sight. heedless of the sharp wintry air that blew in upon the patient, she stood searching the way over toward jim cal's cabin. "i don't see her," she called across her shoulder. "mebbe she's in the house yet." she closed the door reluctantly and came back to the bedside. "no," said creed plaintively, lifting a doubtful hand to his confused head, "she ain't here. she allowed you-all were mad at her, and i reckon she'll keep out of sight." "but she had to come to see you--her wedded husband," accused judith sternly. he nodded mutely with a motion of assent. he seemed to hope that the admission would please judith. the broth stood untouched, cooling on the chair. "is she stayin' down at jim cal's?" came judith's next question. "she never named it to me where she was stayin'," returned creed wearily. as before, judith's ill-concealed anger and hostility was as a sword of destruction to him; yet now he had more strength to endure with. "she just come--and now she's gone." he closed his eyes, and leaned his head back among his pillows. the white face looked so sunken that judith's heart misgave her. "won't you eat your breakfast now, mr. bonbright?" she said stiffly. "i don't want any breakfast, thank you. i can't eat," returned creed very low. judith pressed her lips hard together to refrain from mentioning huldah again. she knew that she had injured creed, yet for the life of her she could not get out one word of kindness. finally she took her mending and sat down within sight of the bed, deceiving herself into the belief that he slept. the next day an almost identical scene pushed judith's strained nerves to the verge of hysteria. in the afternoon when the old man came to relieve her he returned almost immediately from the sick-room, called her downstairs once more, and complained of creed's progress. "what's the matter?" he asked. "look like somethin' has went wrong here right lately. ever sence you got that fool notion in yo' head that creed and huldy was man and wife, he's been goin' down in his mind about as fast as his stren'th come up. the best thing you can do is to put it out of yo' head." "well, they _air_ wedded," returned judith passionately. "they ain't no use to fergit it, 'caze she's done been here--she's down at jim cal's right now; and when we-all are out of the room he says she slips in to visit him." the girl stood trembling; her rounded cheeks that used to blush with such glowing crimson were white; she was a figure to move any one who loved her to pity; but the old man regarded her with strong contempt. "good lord--is _that_ what's ailin' ye?" he burst out. "you might at least have had the sense you was born with, and asked somebody is huldy here. you know in reason it shows that creed's out of his head--when he tells you a tale like that. the lord knows there's no fool in the world like a jealous woman. do ye want to kill the boy?--or run him crazy?" judith struggled with her tears. "uncle jep," she finally choked out without actually sobbing. "i won't say another word--now that i know. i ain't got nothin' agin' creed bonbright, nor his wife--why should i have?" some ruth came into the scornful glance those old black eyes bent on her. "you're a good gal, jude," jephthah said softly, "ef ye air somethin' unusual of a fool in this business. but i reckon i got to take this boy out o' yo' hands someway. i'm obliged to leave creed with ye for one short while--an' agin' my grain it goes to do it--an' go fetch him a nurse that won't take these tantrums. but mind, gal, it's creed's reason i'm leavin' with you; mebbe his life--but sartain shore his reason. i won't be gone to exceed two days. ye can hold out that long, cain't ye?" "i'll do the best i can, uncle jep," said judith with unexpected mildness. "an' ef huldy 's here----" "my lord!" broke in jephthah. "why don't ye go to iley an' set yo' mind at rest about huldy?" "hit is at rest," returned judith darkly. "when creed come here, iley was at me every day to ask him whar was huldy; but i take notice that sence that day he named huldy visitin' him iley ain't been a-nigh the place." the old man heaved a heavy sigh. "well, ye say ye'll do yo' best? hit's apt to be a good best, jude. in two days, ef i live, i'll be back here, an' i'll bring he'p." chapter xxv a perilous passage it was a strange thing to judith to be left alone in the house, in charge of it and the sick man. old dilsey did the cooking and all the domestic labour. had wade been at home, and the patient any other than creed bonbright, she would have had a capable assistant at the nursing. andy and jeff tried to be as kind as they could. but they were an untamed, untrained pair, helpless and hapless at such matters, and their approaching wedding kept them often over at the lusk place. from iley judith held savagely aloof. it was on the second morning of her uncle's absence that dilsey rust brought again that message from blatch, and judith caught at it. she had done her best; she had refrained from any questions; but the night before creed told her without asking that huldah had been in to see him twice again. as her patient's physical strength notably increased, his appeal to her tender forbearance of course lessened, and the raw insult of the situation began to come home to her. she put a shawl over her head and ran swiftly down through the chill november weather to the draw-bars, where in the big road outside turrentine slouched against a post waiting for her. the man spoke over his shoulder. "howdy, jude--you did come at last." "ef yo' goin' to say anything to me, you'll have to be mighty quick, blatch," she notified him, shivering. "i got to get right back." "they's somebody new--and yet not so new--a-visitin' in the turkey tracks that you'd like to know of," he prompted coolly. "ain't that so?" "huldy," she gasped, her dark eyes fixed upon his grey ones. he nodded. "i 'lowed you'd take an intrust in that thar business, an' i thort as a friend you ort to be told of it," he added virtuously. "where's she at?" demanded judith. "over at my house," announced turrentine easily, with a backward jerk of his head. "at _yo'_ house!" echoed judith; "at _yo'_ house! why, hit ain't decent." "huh," laughed blatch. "i don't know about decent. she was out thar takin' the rain; she had nobody to roof her; an' i bid her in, 'caze i'm in somewhat the same fix myse'f." "no one to roof her," repeated judith. "what's henderin' her from comin' over this side the gulch?" "well, seein' the way she's done wade i reckon she 'lows she'd better keep away from his pap's house. she's at the outs with iley--jim cal's lady sont her word she needn't never show her face thar agin. she gives it out to everybody that'll listen at her talk that she's skeered o' you 'count o' bonbright." judith studied his face with half-incredulous eyes. "how long has she been there?" she interrogated keenly. turrentine seemed to take time for reflection. "lemme see," he ruminated, "she come a wednesday night. hit was rainin', ef you remember, an' i hearn something outside, and it scairt me up some, fer fear it was revenuers. when i found hit was huldy, i let her in, an she's been thar ever sence." wednesday night! it was thursday morning that creed had first announced the visit of his wife. oh, it must be true! judith trembled all through her vigorous young body with a fury of despair. as always, blatchley had found the few and simple words to bid her worser angel forth. she even felt a kind of hateful relish for the quarrel. they had tricked her. they had made a fool of her. she had suffered so much. she longed to be avenged. "judy," murmured blatch softly, bending toward her but not laying a hand upon her, "you white as a piece o' paper, an' shakin' from head to foot. that's from stayin' shet up in the house yonder nussin' that feller bonbright night an' day like a hirelin'. w'y, he never did care nothin' for ye only becaze ye was useful to him. ye stood betwixt him an' danger; ye he'ped him out when he needed it wust. an' he had it in mind to fool ye from the first. now him and huldy spiller has done it. don't you let 'em. you show 'em what you air. i've got a hoss out thar, and selim's down in the stable. i'll put yo' saddle on him. git yo' skirt, honey. let's you and me ride over to squire gaylord's and be wedded. then we'll have the laugh on these here smart folks that tries to fool people." he leaned toward her, all the power of the man concentrated in his gaze. perhaps he had never wanted anything in his twenty-seven years as he now wanted judith barrier and her farm and the rehabilitation that a union with her would give him. once this girl's husband, he could curtly refuse to rent to jephthah turrentine, who had, he knew, no lease. he could call into question the old man's stewardship, and even up the short, bitter score between them. he could reverse that scene when he was sent packing and told to keep his foot off the place. "judy," he breathed, deeply moved by all this, "don't ye remember when we was--befo' ever this feller come--why, in them days i used to think shore we'd be wedded." judith rested a hand on the bars and, lips apart, stared back into the eager eyes of the man who addressed her. blatchley had always had some charm for the girl. power he did not lack; and his lawlessness, his license, which might have daunted a feebler woman, liberated something correspondingly brave and audacious in her. he had been the first to pay court to her, and a girl does not easily forget that. for a moment the balance swung even. then it bore down to blatch's side. she would go. yes, she would. creed might have huldah. the girl might be his wife, or his widow. she, judith barrier, would show them--she would show them. her parted lips began to shape to a reckless yes. the word waited in her mind behind those lips all formed. her swift imagination pictured to her herself riding away beside blatch leaving the sick man who had been cause of so many humiliations to her to die or get well. blatch, watching narrowly, read the coming consent in her face. his hand stole forward toward the draw-bars. her salvation was in a very small and commonplace thing. the picture of herself riding beside blatch turrentine brought back to her, with an awakening shock, the recollection of herself and creed riding side by side, her arm across his shoulder, his drooping head against it. how purely happy she had been then--how innocent--how blest! what were these fires of torment that raged in her now? no, no! that might be lost to her; but even so, she could not decline from its dear memory to a mating like this. without a word she turned and ran back to the house, never looking over her shoulder in response to the one or two cautious calls that blatch sent after her. judith's day was mercifully full of work. when creed did not require her, dilsey demanded help and direction, and one or two errands from outside kept her mind from sinking in upon itself. it was night-fall, andy was lending her his awkward aid in the sick-room, when jeff came in and beckoned the two of them out mysteriously. "how's bonbright this evenin', jude? do you reckon i could have speech with him?" he asked in a troubled tone. judith shook her head. her own near approach to absolute failure in her charge that morning made her the more punctilious now. "no." she spoke positively. "uncle jep said he wasn't to be werried about anything." "why, he's settin' up some, ain't he?" said the boy in surprise. "i thort he looked right peart." "yes," agreed judith dejectedly, "he's gettin' his strength all right; he does look well. but you ax him questions, or name anything to him to trouble him, an' it throws him right back. uncle jep says hit's more his mind than his body now. what is it ye want from creed? cain't i tend to it?" "i don't reckon a gal like you could he'p any," jeff said doubtfully. his eye wandered toward his twin. "i reckon this is men's business. i've got word that huldy spiller--or some say huldy bonbright--is over at blatch's cabin, and he's got her shut up." judith's heart gave a great leap as of terror; the thing was out at last--people knew it. then that heavily beating heart sank sickeningly; what difference to her, though all the world knew it? yet she held to her trust. "oh, shore not, jeff. you cain't _nigh_ talk to him about nothin' like that," she maintained. "uncle jep made me promise that nothin' should be named to him to excite him." "well, then," pursued jeff, "pappy not bein' here, nor wade, and jim cal over at spiller's, an' the gal not havin' no men folks in reach, me an' andy has got to look after this thing. fact is, blatch sent word that ef we wanted her we could come over and git her." "i don't know as we do want her--i don't know as we do," put in andy. "and we both promised pappy that we wouldn't set foot on the land whilst blatch had it rented." "then ag'in," debated jeff--"oh, no, buddy, we cain't leave the gal thar. we're plumb obliged to find out if she wants to come away, anyhow." andy turned to his cousin. "what do you say, jude? ort we to go?" judith locked her hands hard together and held down her head, fighting out her battle. she longed to say no. she longed to shout out that huldah spiller might take care of herself, since she had been so unwomanly as to run after men and bring all this trouble on them. what she did say, at the end of a lengthened struggle, was: "yes, i think both of you ort to go. can it be did quiet? you got to think of her good name." jeff nodded. "well, how air we goin' to be sure that gal's over there?" inquired andy, still half reluctant. "oh, she's there," returned judith heavily; and when the boys regarded her with startled looks, "i ain't seen her, but she's been on the mountain since thursday. she's been slippin' over to visit--her--creed named it to me then." "well that does settle it," andy concluded. "reckon blatch has shut her up for pure meanness. when was we to go? was there any time sot?" "to-night," jeff informed them. "any time after ten o'clock'll do--that was the word i got." "well, that'll be all right," agreed andy; "i can fix creed up for the night, and ef we git huldy away in the dark nobody need know of the business--not even bonbright." a slow flush rose in judith's pale cheeks. but she offered no comment on this aspect of the case. she only said: "just do what you think best, and don't name it to me again, please." then, as both boys looked wonderingly at her, she added haltingly, "i've got enough to werry over--with a sick man here on my hands, an' uncle jep gone." she went to her room. when at midnight she slipped down as of custom to see how all fared in the sick-room, she found the patient sleeping quietly, and andy ready for the trip across the gulch. the boys were going unarmed; they felt no fear of treachery on blatch's part--it could profit him nothing to injure either of them in so public a way, and indeed he had never shown them any ill-will. chapter xxvi his own trap "i reckon that'll about do for you, my pretty young men," remarked blatchley turrentine as he put the last knot in the line with which he was securing andy to a splint-bottomed chair. his concluding words were the refrain of a familiar old ballad, and he continued to hum this as he straightened up and set his hands on his hips, regarding the twins through wickedly narrowed eyes. he was flushed with drink and inclined, as always at such times, to swagger with a sort of savage playfulness. "scalf, you ain't got yo' feller half tied," he broke out, jerking the cord around jeff. "why, lord a'mighty! i could pull myse'f a-loose from that mess o' rope inside o' five minutes," and he set to work to make his cousin secure. "do yo' own dirty work," growled scalf. "yo' the only one that's a-goin' to profit by it." it was after midnight. when the two boys had approached blatch's cabin as agreed, they had been set upon from behind, pinioned, and taken to the cave where the still was. here they now sat bound and helpless. "what do you aim to make out of it, blatch?" asked jeff, offering the first remark that had come from either of them since their capture. "is--uh--" andy glanced at scalf, and strove to keep huldah's name out of it--"is what we come for here yet?" blatch burst into a great horse laugh and slapped his thigh. "what you come after," he repeated enjoyingly. "lord--lord! what you come after! you was easy got. i counted on jude to set you on, and i see i never counted none too much." "what do you aim to make out of it?" persisted andy. the light from the fire built at the back of the cave, whose smoke went up a cleft and entered the chimney of the cabin far above, illuminated the dark interior flickeringly. blatch went to a jug on a shelf, noisily poured a drink into a tin cup, swallowed it, and then addressed himself to his cousins. "yo' pappy ordered me off his land. my lease is up next month. i got to git out of here anyhow, and i aimed to raise a stir befo' i went. this here town podner what i got after you-all quit me," glancing negligently at scalf, "has many a little frill to his plans, and he knows dan haley, the marshal, right well. sometimes i misdoubt that he come up on turkey track to git in with me and git the reward that i'm told haley has out for the feller that can ketch me stillin'." he wheeled and looked fully at scalf with these words, and the town man made haste to turn his back, warming his hands at the blaze. blatch laughed deep in his throat. "scalf's on the make," he asserted with grim humour. "he needed somebody to give up to dan haley, and as i hain't got no likin' for learnin' to peg shoes in the penitentiary, i 'lowed mebbe the trade would suit you-all boys, an' i sont over for ye." the twins writhed in their chairs as much as their tight bandings would permit. how simple they had been to trust the mercy of a desperate man. and they knew blatch turrentine. in days past, they had been on the inside, pupils and assistants in such work as this. they stole sheepish looks at each other. but the message he had sent them was yet to be explained. if huldah was not with him, how had he known she was on the mountain at all? "what made you send the word you did?" burst out andy wrathfully. blatch had moved over by the fire. "oh, i hearn through old dilsey rust--that i've had a-listenin' at key-holes and spyin' through chinks--about bonbright's talk concernin' huldy, and i thort----" at these words ancient gideon rust, posted as sentinel outside the cave's entrance, keeping himself warily from view of the prisoners, craned forward and stared with fallen jaw, reckless of observation. humble tenants, pensioners of judith and the turrentines, with these words blatch had wantonly stripped the poor roof from above their grey heads, and turned them out defenceless, to the anger of that strong family. come what would, he must protest. "now blatch," he whined, "you ort not to go a-namin' names like you do. you said that dilsey nor me, nary one, needn't be known in this business." in his excitement he came fully into the light. "i hope you-all boys understand that i didn't aim to do ye a meanness. yo' pap--i--i hope he won't hold this agin' us. the turrentines has been mighty good friends to dilsey--and here's blatch lettin' on to 'em like she was a spy." "well, what else is she?" asked blatch with an oath. "what else are any of ye? the last one of ye would sell yo' own fathers and mothers. don't i know ye? a man's only chance is to get ye scared of him, or give ye somebody else to tell tales on--and that's what i've done." he turned his attention once more to andy and jeff, and left the old man staring aghast, plucking at his beard. "i've bought me a good team, an' i'm goin' to move my plunder out of here," he told them. "i've done picked me a fine place over yon," jerking his head vaguely in the direction of the far cove. "every stick and ravellin' that belongs to me i'll take, exceptin' the run of whiskey that i'll leave in the still here for to make the marshal shore he's got the right thing. you might expect him any time to-morrow. old gid here will lead him in, or scalf, and the testimony they stand ready to give means penitentiary to you two." "i reckon you-all won't deny that you have made many a run of blockaded whiskey right here in this cave," put in scalf, nervously. "that's so--that's so, boys, i've seed ye many a time," whimpered gideon rust, almost beside himself with terror. "i hope ye won't hold it ag'in us that we he'ped to have ye took instead of blatch here. blatch is a hard man to deal with--he's been too much fer me--and hit wouldn't do you all no manner of good ef he was took along with ye. i don't see that yo' any worse off ef he goes free." the twins looked at each other and forebore to reply. blatch moved over to scalf, and after some muttered parley with the town partner strode away into the dark. scalf himself waited only long enough to be sure that blatch had left, then slipped away, posting the old man down the path as lookout. alone in the cave, it was long before either boy spoke. then came a rush of angry comment and bitter reflection which interrogated the situation from all sides, tending always to the conclusion that it was mighty hard, when a man had given up his evil courses, when he had just joined the church and was about to get married, to have the whole ugly score to pay. they sat cramped and miserable in their splint-bottomed chairs and the hours wore away till dawn in this dismal converse. pappy was right--he was mighty right. if they ever got out of this--but there, blatch wasn't apt to make a failure. it was broad daylight when at last blatch turrentine brought his team up and as close to the cave's mouth as he dared. it was loaded already with a considerable amount of furniture and clothing from the cabin, and he climbed down the steep approach to take from the cave the jugged whiskey, and the keg or two which was aging there. his eyes were reddened; but the dark flush which had been on his face had now given place to a curious pallor. there was a new element in his mood, a different note in his bearing, a suggestion of furtive hurry and anxiety. he was not afraid of the marshal. haley could not be on the mountain before noon. but he had left that behind in the little log stable from which his team came that cried haste to his going. gord bosang from whom he was to buy the horses was a man somewhat of blatch's own ilk. cavalierly called out of bed after midnight and offered only a partial cash payment--all that blatch had been able to raise--he had angrily refused to let the team be taken off the place. turrentine's situation was desperate. he must have the horses. in the quarrel that followed, he struck to clear this obstacle from his path; but whether he had left a dead man lying back there on the hay--whether it was a possible charge of murder he was now fleeing from--he had not stopped to find out. he had got back to his cabin with all haste, pitched his ready belongings into the wagon, and now he came down to the still to get the last, and see that all there was working out right. as his foot reached the opening he uttered a loud exclamation, then leaped into the cave. both chairs were empty, the ropes lying cut beside them. he sprang back to the rude doorway and gave the usual signal--the screech-owl's cry. it was inappropriate at this time, yet he could not risk less, and he sent it forth again and again. getting no answer he ventured cautiously to call gideon rust's name, and when this failed he looked about him and came to a decision. the boys were gone. the fat was in the fire. yet--he returned to it--the marshal could not be there before noon. he had time to remove the whiskey if he worked hard enough. he glanced at the still. the worm and appurtenances were of value. he had saved money for nearly two years to buy the new copper-work. he wondered if he might empty and take it also. for half an hour he toiled desperately, carrying filled jugs up the steep and hiding them carefully in his loaded wagon. the kegs he could not move alone, and set to work jugging the fluid from them. sweat poured down his face, to which, though he drank repeatedly from the tin cup, no flush returned. his teeth were set continually on his under lip. his breath came heavily as he lifted and stooped. in the midst of his labours a slight noise at the cave entrance brought him to his feet, staring in terror. the sight of trembling gideon rust in the opening reassured him. "come in here, you old davil, and help me jug this whiskey," he cried out. "whar's scalf? how come you an' him to let them boys git away? what do you reckon i'm a-goin' to do to you for it?" "why, is them fellers gone?" quavered the old man, craning his neck to look gingerly in. "i never seen nothin' movin' up here, but--they was a gal or so come norratin' past on the path; i 'lowed when i seed calicker that it mought be huldy, you named her so free." "well, shut yo' fool mouth and get yo'se'f to work," ordered blatch. "i've got to be out o' this." he turned his back on old gid and forgot him. "ef i thort i had time i'd take my still with me," he ruminated, going close to it and laying a fond touch upon the copper-work. "i'm a mind to try it." "hands up, turrentine!" came a short sharp order from outside. blatch whirled like a flash, and looked past gideon rust in the doorway. over the old man's shaking shoulders, he saw the levelled rifles of the marshal and his posse. "thar," whispered ancient gideon fairly weeping, as they closed in on turrentine and snapped the handcuffs on his wrists, "now mebbe ye won't name a pore old woman's name so free, ef you _have_ bought her to yo' will, and set her to spy on them that's been good friends to her." chapter xxvii love's guerdon when judith left andy in charge of her patient and mounted the ladderlike stair to her own small room under the eaves, she felt no disposition to sleep. she did not undress, but sat down by the window and stared out into the black november night. despite everything, there had come a sort of peace over her tumult, a stilling that was not mere weariness. she was like a woman who has just been saved from a shipwreck, snatched away from the imminent jaws of doom--chastened, and wondering a little. intensely thankful for what she had escaped, she sat there in the dark, cold little room, judith barrier, safe from the sin of a godless union, from the life that would have been hers as blatchley turrentine's wife. in the light of her danger, familiar things took on a new face, strange, yet dear and welcome. she turned and gazed with childish eyes up at the decent beams of her rooftree, glad that they still sheltered her a maid, glad that the arms of her home were about her. with remorseless honesty she went back over her years. always in the past months of suffering she had blamed this or that extraneous circumstance with her undoing; now she saw and recognised and acknowledged that nothing and nobody had brought disaster upon her but herself. it was not because blatchley turrentine was a bad, lawless man, not because the boys were reckless fellows, led and influenced by him, that all this trouble had come. if she, judith barrier, had dealt fairly and humbly by her world, she might have had the lover of her choice in peace as other girls had--even as cliantha and pendrilla had. but no, such enterprises as contented these, such stir as they made among their kind, would not do her. she must seek to cast her spells upon every eligible man within her reach. she must try her hand at subjugating those who were difficult, pride herself on the skill with which she retained half a dozen in anxious doubt as to her ultimate intentions concerning them. her forehead drooped to the window pane and her cheeks burned as she recollected times and seasons and scenes that belonged to the years when blatch was building up his firm belief that she loved him, and would sometime marry him. it had been a spirited, dangerous game to her then, nothing more. her passionate, possessive nature was winning to higher ground, leaving, with pain and travail of spirit, the plane on which her twenty years had been lived. the past months of thwarting, failure, and heart-hunger had prepared for this movement, to-night it was almost consciously making. she was coming to the place where, if she might not have love, she could at least be worthy of it. the little clock which had measured her vigils that night of the dumb supper slanted toward twelve. she got to her feet with a long sigh. she did not know yet what she meant to do or to forbear doing; but she was aware, with relief, of a radical change within her, a something awakened there which could consider the right of creed--even of huldah; which could submit to failure, to rejection--and be kind. slowly she gathered up her belongings and took her way downstairs. when the door of the sick-room closed behind the boys, she went and knelt down beside the bed and looked fixedly at the sleeper. with the birth of this new spiritual impulse the things blatch turrentine had said of creed and creed's intentions dropped away from her as fall the dead leaves from the bough of that most tenacious of oak trees which holds its withered foliage till the swelling buds of a new spring push it off. he was a good man. she felt that to the innnermost core of her heart. she loved him. she believed she would always love him. as for his being married to huldah, she would not inquire how that came about, how it could have happened while she felt him to be promised to herself. there was--there must be--a right way for even that to befall. she must love him and forgive him, for only so could she face her life, only so could she patch a little peace with herself and still the gnawing agony in her breast. long she knelt thus. who that knows even a little the wonders of the subjective mind, who that has tested the marvellous communication between the mood of nurse and patient, will doubt that the sick man, lying passive, receptive, got now judith's message of peace and relaxation. the girl herself, powerful, dominating young creature, had been fought to a spiritual standstill. she was at last forced to her knees, and the atmosphere which her passionate struggles had long disturbed grew serene about her. even a wavering note of something more joyous than mere peace, a courage, a strength that promised happiness must have radiated from her to him. for creed's eyes opened and looked full into hers with a wholly rational expression which had long been absent from their clear depths. "judith--honey," he whispered, and fumbled vaguely for her hand upon the coverlet. "yes, creed--what is it? what do you want?" she asked tremulously, taking the thin fingers in her warm clasp. "nothing--so long as i've got you," he returned contentedly. "can't i sit up--and won't you sit down here by me and talk awhile?" gently smiling, judith helped him to sit up, and piled the pillows back of his head and shoulders, noting almost with surprise how well he looked, how clear and direct was his gaze. "i've been sick a long time, haven't i?" he asked. "yes," the girl replied, drawing up a chair and seating herself. "hit's more'n six weeks that uncle jep an' me has been takin' care of you." he lifted her hand and stroked it softly. "a body gets mighty tired of a sick fellow," he said wistfully. judith's eyes filled at the pitiful little plea, but she could not offer endearments to huldah's husband. "i ain't tired of you," she returned in a low, choked voice. "i most wisht i was. creed----" she slipped from her chair dropping on her knees beside him. "creed, i want to tell you now while i can do it that the boys is gone to get huldy. she can take care of you after this--but i'll help. i ain't mad about it. i was aimin' to tell you that the next time she come in you should bid her stay. god knows i want ye to be happy--whether it's me or another." bewilderment grew in the blue eyes regarding her so fixedly. "huldah?" he repeated. and then again in a lower, musing tone, "huldah." "yes--yo' wife, huldy spiller," judith urged mildly. "don't you mind namin' it to me the first time she slipped in to visit you?" an abashed look succeeded the expression of bewilderment. a faint, fine flush crept on the thin, white cheek. "i--i do," creed whispered, with a foolish little smile beginning to curve his lips; "but there wasn't a word of truth in it--dear. i've never seen the girl since she left aunt nancy's that saturday morning." "what made you say it then?" breathed judith wonderingly. "i--i don't know," faltered the sick man. "it seemed like you was mad about something; and then it seemed like huldah was here; and then--i don't know judith--didn't i say a heap of other foolishness?" the simple query reproved his nurse more than a set arraignment would have done. he had indeed babbled, in his semi-delirium, plenty of "other foolishness," this was the only point upon which she had been credulous. "oh creed--honey!" she cried, burying her face in the covers of his bed, "i'm so 'shamed. i've got such a mean, bad disposition. nobody couldn't ever love me if they knew me right well." she felt a gentle, caressing touch on her bowed head. "jude, darling," creed's voice came to her, and for the first time it sounded really like his voice, "i loved you from the moment i set eyes on you. i didn't sense it for a spell, but i come to see that you were the one woman in the world for me. there never was a man done what went more against the grain than i the night i parted from you down at the railroad station and let you go back when you would have come with me--so generous--so loving--" he broke off with a choking sigh, and judith raised her head in a sort of consternation. were these the exciting topics that her uncle jep would have banished from the sick-room? she wondered. but no, creed had never looked so nearly a well man as now. he raised himself from the pillows. "don't!" she called sharply, as she sprang up and slipped a capable arm under his shoulders, laying his head on her breast. "you ort not to do thataway," she reproached him. "when you want anything i'll git it." "i don't want a thing, but this," whispered creed, looking up into her eyes. "nothing, only----" judith read the mute prayer aright, and tears of exquisite feeling blinded her. as she looked at him, there was loosed upon her soul the whole tide of passionate tenderness which had gathered there since first she saw him standing, eager, fearless, selfless, on the court house steps at hepzibah. the yellow head lay on her arm now; those blue eyes which, in many bitter hours since that time, had seemed as unattainable to her love as the sky itself, were raised to her own, they were pleading for her kiss. she bent her face; the full red lips met creed's. the weary longing was satisfied; the bitterness was washed away. they remained quietly thus, creed drinking in new life from her nearness, from her dearness. when she would have lifted her head, his thin hand went up and was laid over the rounded cheek, bringing the sweet mouth back to his own. "i'll need a heap of loving, judith," he whispered,--"a heap. i've been such a lone fellow all my days. you'll have to be everything and everybody to me." [illustration: "they had forgotten all the world save themselves and their love."] judith's lavish nature, so long choked back upon itself, trembled to its very core with rapture at the bidding. it seemed to her that all of heaven she had ever craved was to do and be everything that creed bonbright needed. she answered with an inarticulate murmur of tenderness, a sound inexpressibly wooing and moving. all that she had felt, all that she meant for the future, surged strong within her--was fain for utterance. but judith was not fluent; she must content herself with doing and being--creed could speak for her now. she cherished the fair hair with loving touch, nestling the thin cheek against her soft, warm one. the beautiful storm-rocked craft of judith's passion was safe at last in love's own harbour; the skies were fair above it, and only love's tender airs breathed about its weary sails. "we'll be wedded in the spring," creed's lips murmured against her own. "i'll carry home a bride to the old place. oh, we'll be happy, judith." all through the latter part of the night, while the two lovers were drawing out of the ways of doubt and pain and misunderstanding, into so full and sweet a communion, the november breeze had been rising; toward dawn it moved quite steadily. and with its impulse moved the cedar tree, a long, smooth swaying, that set free that tender, baritone legato to which judith's ears had harkened away last march, when she came home from hepzibah after first seeing creed bonbright. it was the voice which had talked to her throughout the spring, the early summer, through autumn's desolate days, when the waiting in ignorance of his whereabouts and of his welfare seemed almost more than she could bear; it was the voice which had called upon her so tragically, so insistently, the night of the raid on nancy card's cabin. but creed himself was here now; creed's own lips spoke close to her ear. the cedar tree had its song to itself once more; she no longer needed its music. its sound was unheard by her, as the flame of a candle is unseen in the strong light of the sun. chapter xxviii a prophecy over the shoulder of yellow old bald up came the sun, bannered and glorious; the distant ranges glowed in his splendours; the sere fields about the place were all gilded. the small-paned eastern window of the sick-room let in a flood of morning light. gone was the bird choir that used to welcome his earliest rays, swept south by the great tide of migration. those that remained, snowbird, cardinal, and downy woodpecker--the "checkerbacker" of the mountaineer,--harboured all night and much of the day in the barn loft and in judith's cedar tree. their twittering sounded cheerily about the eaves. back and forth in the puncheon-floored kitchen trudged old dilsey rust's heavy-shod foot, carrying her upon the appointed tasks of the day. in the quiet sick-room, where the low, alternating voices had subsided into an exchange of murmured words, suddenly creed dropped his head back to stare at his companion with startled eyes. "judith!" he exclaimed. "where are the boys?" he glanced at the window, then about the room. "it's broad day. that word blatch sent was a decoy; huldah spiller isn't on the mountain. somebody must go over there." judith rose swiftly to her feet. "my lord, creed! i forgot all about 'em," she said contritely. "ye don't reckon blatch would harm the boys? and yet yo' right--it does look bad. i don't know what to do, honey. they ain't a man on the place till uncle jep comes. but maybe he'll be along in about an hour." she hurried to the window and stared over toward the gulch; and at the moment a group of people topped the steep, rising into view one after the other out of the ravine, and coming on toward the house. "here they are now," she said with relief in her tones. "thar's andy--jeff, pendrilly--why, whatever--the lusk girls is with 'em! they's another--creed, they _have_ got huldy! and that last feller--no, 'tain't blatch--of all things--it's wade! they're comin' straight to this door. shall i let them in?" "yes," said creed's steady voice. "let them right in." she ran swiftly to slip an extra pillow under her patient's shoulders, straighten the covers of the bed, and put all in company trim. her eye brightened when she saw him sitting so erect and alert almost like his old self. somebody rattled the latch. "come in, folks," creed called, speaking out with a roundness and decision that it did her heart good to hear. they all pushed into the room, the men shouldering back a little, glancing anxiously at the sick man, the lusk girls timid, but huldah leading the van. "how's creed?" cried the irrepressible one, bounding into the room and looking about her. "wade got yo' letter, cousin judy, an' i says to him that right now was the time for us to make a visit home. wade's got him a good place on the railroad, and i like livin' in the settlement; but bridal towers is all the go down thar, and we 'lowed we'd take one." every inch of her raiment bespoke the bride, and it did not take creed many moments to understand the situation, put out a thin white hand and, smiling, offer his congratulations. wade received them with some low-toned, hesitating words of apology. "law, cousin creed's ready to let bygones be bygones, wade, honey!" his wife admonished him. "_cousin_ creed?" echoed the obtuse jeff. wade's wife whirled to put a ready arm around judith's waist. "why, you an' him is a-goin' to be wedded, ain't you judy? i always knowed, and i always said to everybody that i named it to, that you was cut out and made for each other. we heared tell from everybody in the turkey tracks that you an' creed was goin' to be wedded as soon as he got well--then i reckon he'll be my cousin, won't he?" creed looked past the whispering girls to where andy and jeff stood. as the boys moved toward the bed. "did you find blatch?" he asked, with a man's directness. "how did you-all make out?" andy opened his lips to answer, when there was a clatter of hoofs outside. as they all turned to the window, jephthah turrentine's big voice, with a new tone in it, called out to somebody. "hold on thar, honey--lemme lift ye down." "ain't uncle jep goin' to be proud when he sees how well you air?" judith, stooping, whispered to creed. "he went off to get somebody to he'p nurse you, because he said i done you more harm than good." "your uncle jep don't know everything," returned creed softly. no mountaineer ever knocks on a door, but jephthah turrentine made considerable racket with the latch before he entered the room. "oh--you air awake," he said cautiously, then, looking about at the others, "an' got company so airly in the mornin'." he glanced from the newcomers to his patient. "you look fine--fine!" he asserted with high satisfaction; then turning over his shoulder, "come right along in, honey--creed'll be proud to see ye." he paused on the threshold, reaching back a hand and entered, pulling after him nancy card--who was nancy card no longer. a wild-rose pink was in her withered cheeks under the frank grey eyes. she smiled as judith had never imagined she could smile. but even then the young people scarcely fathomed the situation. "creed," cried the old man, "i've brung ye the best doctor and nurse there is on the mountings. nancy she run off and left us, and i had to go after her, and i 'lowed i'd make sartain that she'd never run away from me again, so i've jest--we jest----" "ye ain't married!" cried judith, sudden light coming in on her. "we air that," announced old jephthah radiantly. "well, jude, i jest had to take him," apologised nancy. "here was him with the rheumatics every spring, an' bound and determined that he'd lay out in the bushes deer-huntin' like he done when he was twenty, and me knowin' in reason that a good course of dandelion and boneset, with my liniment well rubbed in, would fix him up--why, i jest _had_ to take him." she looked about her for support, and she got it from an unexpected quarter. "well, i think you done jest right," piped up huldah, who had been a silent spectator as long as she could endure it, "i'm mighty glad i've got a new mother-in-law, 'caze i know pap turrentine's apt to be well taken keer of in his old days." his old days! nancy looked indignantly from the red-haired girl to her bridegroom who, in her eyes, was evidently still a sprightly youth. "huh!" she remarked enigmatically. then with a sudden change; "yit whilst we are a-namin' sech, honey, won't you jest run out to my saddle and bring me the spotted caliker poke off'n hit--hit's got my bundle of yarbs in it. i'll put on a drawin' of boneset for you befo' i set down." "all right, nancy--but i reckon i'll have to clear these folks out of this sick-room fust," responded old jephthah genially. "we're apt to have too much goin' on for creed." but as they were marshalled to leave, the noise of a new arrival in the kitchen brought the curious huldah to the door and she threw it wide to admit iley, into whose arms she promptly precipitated herself with voluble explanations, which covered her career from the time she left jim cal's cabin till that moment. "you an' wade are wedded? why couldn't you let a body know?" inquired iley wrathfully, grasping her by the shoulder, holding her off for somewhat hostile inspection. "that's what i say," echoed jim cal's voice from the doorway where he harboured, a trifle out of sight. "ef you-all gals would be a little mo' open an' above-bo'd about yo' courtin' business hit would save lots of folks plenty of trouble. here's iley got some sort o' notion that huldy was over at blatch's, an' she put out an' run me home so fast that i ain't ketched my breath till yit." "over at blatch's?" old jephthah looked angrily about him, and judith made haste to explain the whole matter, detailing everything that had led up to the trouble. "we-all talked it over, uncle jep, and as you wasn't here we made out to do the best we could, and the boys went." "after me!" crowed huldah. "an' thar i was on the train 'long o' wade comin' to garyville that blessed minute." "well, blatch had us hog-tied an' waitin' for the marshal to come an' cyart us down and send us to the penitentiary," jeff set forth the case. "but you know how blatch is, always devilin' folks; he made old gid rust mad, an' when clianthy an' pendrilly met the old man out on the road soon this mornin', he told 'em to take a knife and come up to the cave an' they could keep what they found." "i never was so scairt in my life," cliantha asseverated. her china-blue eyes had not yet resumed their normal size or contour, and the assertion was easily believed. "nor me neither," agreed pendrilla. "i says to him, says i, 'now you, gid rust, do you 'low we're crazy? we're a-lookin' for old boss and spot, an' we ain't a-goin' up yon nary step.' an' he says to us, says he, 'gals, you never mind about no cows,' he says. 'hit'll shore be the worse for andy and jeff turrentine ef you don't git yo'selves up thar an' git up thar quick.' an' with that he gives us his knife out of his pocket, 'caze we didn't have none, and we run the whole blessed way, and cut the boys a-loose." "i was that mad when i seen 'em tied up thataway," chimed in cliantha, "that i wouldn't a 'cared the rappin' o' my finger ef old blatch turrentine hisself had been thar. i'd 'a' stood right up to him an' told him what i thort o' him an' his works." there are conditions, it is said, in which even the timid hare becomes militant, and doves will peck at the intruder. "well, i reckon i got to get you folks out of here now for sartain," said jephthah as she made an end. "nancy, honey, is the yarbs you wanted for creed in with them you're a-goin' to use on me?" the little old woman felt of creed's fingers, she laid a capable hand upon his brow. then she flashed one of her quick, youthful smiles at her husband. "you named it to me about jude and creed being at the outs," she said frankly; "but i see they've made up their troubles. the boy don't need no medicine." jephthah stared at his transformed patient, and admitted that it was so. "well he does need some peace and quiet," the head of the house maintained as he ushered his clan into the adjoining room. "uncle jephthah," called creed's quiet voice, with the ring of the old enthusiasm in it, as his host was leaving the room. "do you remember telling me that the trouble with my work on the mountain was, i was one man alone? do you remember saying that if i was a member of a big family--a great big tribe--that i'd get along all right and accomplish what i set out for?" "i say sech a lot of foolishness, son, i cain't ricollect it all. likely i did say that. hit mought have some truth in it." "well," said creed, carrying the hand he held to his lips, "i reckon i'll be a member of a big tribe now; maybe i can take up the work yet, and do some good." the old man looked at him. here was the son of his heart--of his mind and nature--the congenial spirit; the welcome companion, interested like himself in abstractions, willing to stake all on an idea. days of good comradeship stretched before these two. he reached down a brown right hand, and creed's thin white one went out to meet it in a quick, nervous clasp. "son," spoke out jephthah in that deep, sonorous voice of his, "creed, boy, what you set out to do was a work for a man's lifetime; but god made you for jest what you aimed then to do and be. yo' mighty young yet, but you air formed for a leader of men. to the last day of its life an oak will be an oak and a willer a willer; and yo' head won't be grey when you find yo' work and find yo'self a-doin' it right." "pap turrentine!" called huldah from the kitchen, "maw wants ye out here." the door swung wide; it showed a vision of nancy turrentine, flushed, bustling, capable, the crinkled grey hair pushed back above those bright eyes of hers with a prideful hand, entering upon the administration of her new realm. oh, it had not been easy for one of her spirit to be a poor little widow, living out on the edge, with nobody but slack doss provine to do for her, hardly dishes enough to set the table, often not much to put in them, eking out a scanty living by weaving baskets of white-oak splits. when judith rode up to the cabin on the edge that evening of late march, it was the hardest time of the year; now was the mountaineer's season of cheer and abundance--his richest month. outside, nuts were gathering, hunting was good, and she had for her provider of wild meat the mightiest hunter in the turkey tracks. jephthah turrentine's home was ample and well plenished. there was good store of root crops laid up for winter. judith had neglected such matters to tend on creed, but nancy was already putting in hand the cutting and drying of pumpkins, the threshing out of beans. here were milk vessels a-plenty to scald and sun--and filling for them afterward. oh, enough to do with!--the will to do had always been nancy's--and for yokefellow in the home, one who would carry his share and pull true--a real man--the only one there had ever been for nancy. "pap," called huldah's insistent voice again. "all right--i'm a-comin'," declared jephthah, then, with the door in his hand, turned back, meaning to finish what had been in his mind to say to creed. jephthah turrentine was himself that day a bridegroom, wedded to the one love of his life; he appreciated to the full that which had come to creed. he had thought to say to the boy that now was the opening of great things, to remind him that one must first live man's natural life, must prove himself as son, brother, husband, father, and neighbour, before he will be accepted or efficient in the larger calling. he would have said that life must teach the man before the man could teach his fellows. but the words of homely wisdom in which he would have clothed this truth remained unspoken. he glanced back and saw the dark head bent close above the yellow one, as judith performed some little service for creed. the girl's rich brown beauty glowed and bloomed before the steady, blue fire of her lover's eyes. she set down her tumbler and knelt beside him. their lips were murmuring, they had forgotten all the world save themselves and their love. jephthah looked at the rapt young faces; these two were on the mount of transfiguration; the light ineffable was all about them. "lord, what's the use of a old fool like me sayin' i, ay, yes or no to sech a pair as that?" he whispered as he went out softly and closed the door. 'hell fer sartain' and other stories by john fox, jr. to my brother james author's note contents on hell-fer-sartain creek through the gap a trick o' trade grayson's baby courtin' on cutshin the message in the sand the senator's last trade preachin' on kingdom-come the passing of abraham shivers a purple rhododendron on hell-fer-sartain creek thar was a dancin'-party christmas night on "hell fer sartain." jes tu'n up the fust crick beyond the bend thar, an' climb onto a stump, an' holler about once, an' you'll see how the name come. stranger, hit's hell fer sartain! well, rich harp was thar from the head-waters, an' harve hall toted nance osborn clean across the cumberlan'. fust one ud swing nance, an' then t'other. then they'd take a pull out'n the same bottle o' moonshine, an'--fust one an' then t'other--they'd swing her agin. an' abe shivers a-settin' thar by the fire a-bitin' his thumbs! well, things was sorter whoopin', when somebody ups an' tells harve that rich had said somep'n' agin nance an' him, an' somebody ups an' tells rich that harve had said somep'n' agin nance an' him. in a minute, stranger, hit was like two wild-cats in thar. folks got 'em parted, though, but thar was no more a-swingin' of nance that night. harve toted her back over the cumberlan', an' rich's kinsfolks tuk him up "hell fer sartain"; but rich got loose, an' lit out lickety-split fer nance osborn's. he knowed harve lived too fer over black mountain to go home that night, an' he rid right across the river an' up to nance's house, an' hollered fer harve. harve poked his head out'n the loft--he knowed whut was wanted--an' harve says, "uh, come in hyeh an' go to bed. hit's too late!" an' rich seed him a-gapin' like a chicken, an' in he walked, stumblin' might' nigh agin the bed whar nance was a-layin', listenin' an' not sayin' a word. stranger, them two fellers slept together plum frien'ly, an' they et together plum frien'ly next mornin', an' they sa'ntered down to the grocery plum frien'ly. an' rich says, "harve," says he, "let's have a drink." "all right, rich," says harve. an' rich says, "harve," says he, "you go out'n that door an' i'll go out'n this door." "all right, rich," says harve, an' out they walked, steady, an' thar was two shoots shot, an' rich an' harve both drapped, an' in ten minutes they was stretched out on nance's bed an' nance was a-lopin' away fer the yarb doctor. the gal nussed 'em both plum faithful. rich didn't hev much to say, an' harve didn't hev much to say. nance was sorter quiet, an' nance's mammy, ole nance, jes grinned. folks come in to ax atter 'em right peart. abe shivers come cl'ar 'cross the river--powerful frien'ly--an' ever' time nance ud walk out to the fence with him. one time she didn't come back, an' ole nance fotched the boys thar dinner, an' ole nance fotched thar supper, an' then rich he axed whut was the matter with young nance. an' ole nance jes snorted. atter a while rich says: "harve," says he, "who tol' you that i said that word agin you an' nance?" "abe shivers," says harve. "an' who tol' you," says harve, "that i said that word agin nance an' you?" "abe shivers," says rich. an' both says, "well, damn me!" an' rich tu'ned right over an' begun pullin' straws out'n the bed. he got two out, an' he bit one off, an' he says: "harve," says he, "i reckon we better draw fer him. the shortes' gits him." an' they drawed. well, nobody ever knowed which got the shortes' straw, stranger, but-- thar'll be a dancin'-party comin' christmas night on "hell fer sartain." rich harp 'll be thar from the head-waters. harve hall's a-goin' to tote the widder shivers clean across the cumberlan'. fust one 'll swing nance, an' then t'other. then they'll take a pull out'n the same bottle o' moonshine, an'--fust one an' then t'other--they'll swing her agin, jes the same. abe won't be thar. he's a-settin' by a bigger fire, i reckon (ef he ain't in it), a-bitin' his thumbs! through the gap when thistles go adrift, the sun sets down the valley between the hills; when snow comes, it goes down behind the cumberland and streams through a great fissure that people call the gap. then the last light drenches the parson's cottage under imboden hill, and leaves an after-glow of glory on a majestic heap that lies against the east. sometimes it spans the gap with a rainbow. strange people and strange tales come through this gap from the kentucky hills. through it came these two, late one day--a man and a woman--afoot. i met them at the foot-bridge over roaring fork. "is thar a preacher anywhar aroun' hyeh?" he asked. i pointed to the cottage under imboden hill. the girl flushed slightly and turned her head away with a rather unhappy smile. without a word, the mountaineer led the way towards town. a moment more and a half-breed malungian passed me on the bridge and followed them. at dusk the next day i saw the mountaineer chopping wood at a shanty under a clump of rhododendron on the river-bank. the girl was cooking supper inside. the day following he was at work on the railroad, and on sunday, after church, i saw the parson. the two had not been to him. only that afternoon the mountaineer was on the bridge with another woman, hideously rouged and with scarlet ribbons fluttering from her bonnet. passing on by the shanty, i saw the malungian talking to the girl. she apparently paid no heed to him until, just as he was moving away, he said something mockingly, and with a nod of his head back towards the bridge. she did not look up even then, but her face got hard and white, and, looking back from the road, i saw her slipping through the bushes into the dry bed of the creek, to make sure that what the half-breed told her was true. the two men were working side by side on the railroad when i saw them again, but on the first pay-day the doctor was called to attend the malungian, whose head was split open with a shovel. i was one of two who went out to arrest his assailant, and i had no need to ask who he was. the mountaineer was a devil, the foreman said, and i had to club him with a pistol-butt before he would give in. he said he would get even with me; but they all say that, and i paid no attention to the threat. for a week he was kept in the calaboose, and when i passed the shanty just after he was sent to the county-seat for trial, i found it empty. the malungian, too, was gone. within a fortnight the mountaineer was in the door of the shanty again. having no accuser, he had been discharged. he went back to his work, and if he opened his lips i never knew. every day i saw him at work, and he never failed to give me a surly look. every dusk i saw him in his door-way, waiting, and i could guess for what. it was easy to believe that the stern purpose in his face would make its way through space and draw her to him again. and she did come back one day. i had just limped down the mountain with a sprained ankle. a crowd of women was gathered at the edge of the woods, looking with all their eyes to the shanty on the river-bank. the girl stood in the door-way. the mountaineer was coming back from work with his face down. "he hain't seed her yit," said one. "he's goin' to kill her shore. i tol' her he would. she said she reckoned he would, but she didn't keer." for a moment i was paralyzed by the tragedy at hand. she was in the door looking at him when he raised his head. for one moment he stood still, staring, and then he started towards her with a quickened step. i started too, then, every step a torture, and as i limped ahead she made a gesture of terror and backed into the room before him. the door closed, and i listened for a pistol-shot and a scream. it must have been done with a knife, i thought, and quietly, for when i was within ten paces of the cabin he opened the door again. his face was very white; he held one hand behind him, and he was nervously fumbling at his chill with the other. as he stepped towards me i caught the handle of a pistol in my side pocket and waited. he looked at me sharply. "did you say the preacher lived up thar?" he asked. "yes," i said, breathlessly. in the door-way just then stood the girl with a bonnet in her hand, and at a nod from him they started up the hill towards the cottage. they came down again after a while, he stalking ahead, and she, after the mountain fashion, behind. and after this fashion i saw them at sunset next day pass over the bridge and into the mouth of the gap whence they came. through this gap come strange people and strange tales from the kentucky hills. over it, sometimes, is the span of a rainbow. a trick o' trade stranger, i'm a separate man, an' i don't inquizite into no man's business; but you ax me straight, an' i tell ye straight: you watch ole tom! now, i'll take ole tom perkins' word agin anybody's 'ceptin' when hit comes to a hoss trade ur a piece o' land. fer in the tricks o' sech, ole tom 'lows--well, hit's diff'ent; an' i reckon, stranger, as how hit sorter is. he was a-stayin' at tom's house, the furriner was, a-dickerin' fer a piece o' lan'--the same piece, mebbe, that you're atter now--an' tom keeps him thar fer a week to beat him out'n a dollar, an' then won't let him pay nary a cent fer his boa'd. now, stranger, that's tom. well, abe shivers was a-workin' fer tom--you've heerd tell o' abe--an' the furriner wasn't more'n half gone afore tom seed that abe was up to some of his devilmint. abe kin hatch up more devilmint in a minit than satan hisself kin in a week; so tom jes got abe out'n the stable under a hoe-handle, an' tol' him to tell the whole thing straight ur he'd have to go to glory right thar. an' abe tol'! 'pears like abe had foun' a streak o' iron ore on the lan', an' had racked his jinny right down to hazlan an' tol' the furriner, who was thar a-buyin' wild lands right an' left. co'se, abe was goin' to make the furriner whack up fer gittin' the lan' so cheap. well, brother, the furriner come up to tom's an' got tom into one o' them new-fangled trades whut the furriners calls a option--t'other feller kin git out'n hit, but you can't. the furriner 'lowed he'd send his podner up thar next day to put the thing in writin' an' close up the trade. hit looked like ole tom was ketched fer shore, an' ef tom didn't ra'r, i'd tell a man. he jes let that hoe-handle drap on abe fer 'bout haffen hour, jes to give him time to study, an' next day thar was ole tom a-settin' on his orchard fence a-lookin' mighty unknowin', when the furriner's podner come a-prancin' up an' axed ef old tom perkins lived thar. ole tom jes whispers. now, i clean fergot to tell ye, stranger, that abe shivers nuver could talk out loud. he tol' so many lies that the lawd--jes to make things even--sorter fixed abe, i reckon, so he couldn't lie on more'n one side o' the river at a time. ole tom jes knowed t'other furriner had tol' this un 'bout abe, an,' shore 'nough, the feller says, sorter soft, says he: "aw, you air the feller whut foun' the ore?" ole tom--makin' like he was abe, mind ye--jes whispers: "thar hain't none thar." stranger, the feller mos' fell off'n his hoss. "whut?" says he. ole tom kep' a-whisperin': "thar hain't no coal--no nothing; ole tom perkins made me tell t'other furriner them lies." well, sir, the feller was mad. "jes whut i tol' that fool podner of mine," he says, an' he pull out a dollar an' gives hit to tom. tom jes sticks out his han' with his thum' turned in jes so, an' the furriner says, "well, ef you can't talk, you kin make purty damn good signs"; but he forks over four mo' dollars (he 'lowed ole tom had saved him a pile o' money), an' turns his hoss an' pulls up agin. he was a-gittin' the land so durned cheap that i reckon he jes hated to let hit go, an' he says, says he: "well, hain't the groun' rich? won't hit raise no tabaccy nur corn nur nothin'?" ole tom jes whispers: "to tell you the p'int-blank truth, stranger, that land's so durned pore that i hain't nuver been able to raise my voice." now, brother, i'm a separate man, an' i don't inquizite into no man's business--but you ax me straight an' i tell ye straight. ole tom perkins kin trade with furriners, fer he have l'arned their ways. you watch ole tom! grayson's baby the first snow sifted in through the gap that night, and in a "shack" of one room and a low loft a man was dead, a woman was sick to death, and four children were barely alive; and nobody even knew. for they were hill people, who sicken, suffer, and sometimes die, like animals, and make no noise. grayson, the virginian, coming down from the woods that morning, saw the big-hearted little doctor outside the door of the shack, walking up and down, with his hands in his pockets. he was whistling softly when grayson got near, and, without stopping, pointed with his thumb within. the oldest boy sat stolidly on the one chair in the room, his little brother was on the floor hard by, and both were hugging a greasy stove. the little girl was with her mother in the bed, both almost out of sight under a heap of quilts. the baby was in a cradle, with its face uncovered, whether dead or asleep grayson could not tell. a pine coffin was behind the door. it would not have been possible to add to the disorder of the room, and the atmosphere made grayson gasp. he came out looking white. the first man to arrive thereafter took away the eldest boy, a woman picked the baby girl from the bed, and a childless young couple took up the pallid little fellow on the floor. these were step-children. the baby boy that was left was the woman's own. nobody came for that, and grayson went in again and looked at it a long while. so little, so old a human face he had never seen. the brow was wrinkled as with centuries of pain, and the little drawn mouth looked as though the spirit within had fought its inheritance without a murmur, and would fight on that way to the end. it was the pluck of the face that drew grayson. "i'll take it," he said. the doctor was not without his sense of humor even then, but he nodded. "cradle and all," he said, gravely. and grayson put both on one shoulder and walked away. he had lost the power of giving further surprise in that town, and had he met every man he knew, not one of them would have felt at liberty to ask him what he was doing. an hour later the doctor found the child in grayson's room, and grayson still looking at it. "is it going to live, doctor?" the doctor shook his head. "doubtful. look at the color. it's starved. there's nothing to do but to watch it and feed it. you can do that." so grayson watched it, with a fascination of which he was hardly conscious. never for one instant did its look change--the quiet, unyielding endurance that no faith and no philosophy could ever bring to him. it was ideal courage, that look, to accept the inevitable but to fight it just that way. half the little mountain town was talking next day--that such a tragedy was possible by the public road-side, with relief within sound of the baby's cry. the oldest boy was least starved. might made right in an extremity like his, and the boy had taken care of himself. the young couple who had the second lad in charge said they had been wakened at daylight the next morning by some noise in the room. looking up, they saw the little fellow at the fireplace breaking an egg. he had built a fire, had got eggs from the kitchen, and was cooking his breakfast. the little girl was mischievous and cheery in spite of her bad plight, and nobody knew of the baby except grayson and the doctor. grayson would let nobody else in. as soon as it was well enough to be peevish and to cry, he took it back to its mother, who was still abed. a long, dark mountaineer was there, of whom the woman seemed half afraid. he followed grayson outside. "say, podner," he said, with an unpleasant smile, "ye don't go up to cracker's neck fer nothin', do ye?" the woman had lived at cracker's neck before she appeared at the gap, and it did not come to grayson what the man meant until he was half-way to his room. then he flushed hot and wheeled back to the cabin, but the mountaineer was gone. "tell that fellow he had better keep out of my way," he said to the woman, who understood, and wanted to say something, but not knowing how, nodded simply. in a few days the other children went back to the cabin, and day and night grayson went to see the child, until it was out of danger, and afterwards. it was not long before the women in town complained that the mother was ungrateful. when they sent things to eat to her the servant brought back word that she had called out, "'set them over thar,' without so much as a thanky." one message was that "she didn' want no second-hand victuals from nobody's table." somebody suggested sending the family to the poor-house. the mother said "she'd go out on her crutches and hoe corn fust, and that the people who talked 'bout sendin' her to the po'-house had better save their breath to make prayers with." one day she was hired to do some washing. the mistress of the house happened not to rise until ten o'clock. next morning the mountain woman did not appear until that hour. "she wasn't goin' to work a lick while that woman was a-layin' in bed," she said, frankly. and when the lady went down town, she too disappeared. nor would she, she explained to grayson, "while that woman was a-struttin' the streets." after that, one by one, they let her alone, and the woman made not a word of complaint. within a week she was working in the fields, when she should have been back in bed. the result was that the child sickened again. the old look came back to its face, and grayson was there night and day. he was having trouble out in kentucky about this time, and he went to the blue grass pretty often. always, however, he left money with me to see that the child was properly buried if it should die while he was gone; and once he telegraphed to ask how it was. he said he was sometimes afraid to open my letters for fear that he should read that the baby was dead. the child knew grayson's voice, his step. it would go to him from its own mother. when it was sickest and lying torpid it would move the instant he stepped into the room, and, when he spoke, would hold out its thin arms, without opening its eyes, and for hours grayson would walk the floor with the troubled little baby over his shoulder. i thought several times it would die when, on one trip, grayson was away for two weeks. one midnight, indeed, i found the mother moaning, and three female harpies about the cradle. the baby was dying this time, and i ran back for a flask of whiskey. ten minutes late with the whiskey that night would have been too late. the baby got to know me and my voice during that fortnight, but it was still in danger when grayson got back, and we went to see it together. it was very weak, and we both leaned over the cradle, from either side, and i saw the pity and affection--yes, hungry, half-shamed affection--in grayson's face. the child opened its eyes, looked from one to the other, and held out its arms to me. grayson should have known that the child forgot--that it would forget its own mother. he turned sharply, and his face was a little pale. he gave something to the woman, and not till then did i notice that her soft black eyes never left him while he was in the cabin. the child got well; but grayson never went to the shack again, and he said nothing when i came in one night and told him that some mountaineer--a long, dark fellow-had taken the woman, the children, and the household gods of the shack back into the mountains. "they don't grieve long," i said, "these people." but long afterwards i saw the woman again along the dusty road that leads into the gap. she had heard over in the mountains that grayson was dead, and had walked for two days to learn if it was true. i pointed back towards bee rock, and told her that he had fallen from a cliff back there. she did not move, nor did her look change. moreover, she said nothing, and, being in a hurry, i had to ride on. at the foot-bridge over roaring fork i looked back. the woman was still there, under the hot mid-day sun and in the dust of the road, motionless. courtin' on cutshin hit was this way, stranger. when hit comes to handlin' a right peert gal, jeb somers air about the porest man on fryin' pan, i reckon; an' polly ann sturgill have got the vineg'rest tongue on cutshin or any other crick. so the boys over on fryin' pan made it up to git 'em together. abe shivers--you've heerd tell o' abe--tol' jeb that polly ann had seed him in hazlan (which she hadn't, of co'se), an' had said p'int-blank that he was the likeliest feller she'd seed in them mountains. an' he tol' polly ann that jeb was ravin' crazy 'bout her. the pure misery of it jes made him plumb delirious, abe said; an' 'f polly ann wanted to find her match fer languige an' talkin' out peert--well, she jes ought to strike jeb somers. fact is, stranger, jeb somers air might' nigh a idgit; but jeb 'lowed he'd rack right over on cutshin an' set up with polly ann sturgill; an' abe tells polly ann the king bee air comin'. an' polly ann's cousin, nance osborn, comes over from hell fer sartain (whut runs into kingdom-come) to stay all night an' see the fun. now, i hain't been a-raftin' logs down to the settlemints o' kaintuck fer nigh on to twenty year fer nothin', an' i know gallivantin' is diff'ent with us mountain fellers an' you furriners, in the premises, anyways, as them lawyers up to court says; though i reckon hit's purty much the same atter the premises is over. whar you says "courtin'," now, we says "talkin' to." sallie spurlock over on fryin' pan is a-talkin' to jim howard now. sallie's sister hain't nuver talked to no man. an' whar you says "makin' a call on a young lady," we says "settin' up with a gal"! an', stranger, we does it. we hain't got more'n one room hardly ever in these mountains, an' we're jes obleeged to set up to do any courtin' at all. well, you go over to sallie's to stay all night some time, an' purty soon atter supper jim howard comes in. the ole man an' the ole woman goes to bed, an' the chil'un an' you go to bed, an' ef you keeps one eye open you'll see jim's cheer an' sallie's cheer a-movin' purty soon, till they gets plumb together. then, stranger, hit begins. now i want ye to understand that settin' up means business. we don't 'low no foolishness in these mountains; an' 'f two fellers happens to meet at the same house, they jes makes the gal say which one she likes best, an' t'other one gits! well, you'll see jim put his arm 'round sallie's neck an' whisper a long while--jes so. mebbe you've noticed whut fellers us mountain folks air fer whisperin'. you've seed fellers a-whisperin' all over hazlan on court day, hain't ye? ole tom perkins 'll put his arm aroun' yo' neck an' whisper in yo' year ef he's ten mile out'n the woods. i reckon thar's jes so much devilmint a-goin' on in these mountains, folks is naturely afeerd to talk out loud. well, jim let's go an' sallie puts her arm aroun' jim's neck an' whispers a long while--jes so; an' 'f you happen to wake up anywhar to two o'clock in the mornin' you'll see jes that a-goin' on. brother, that's settin' up. well, jeb somers, as i was a-sayin' in the premises, 'lowed he'd rack right over on cutshin an' set up with polly ann comin' christmas night. an' abe tells polly ann jeb says he aims to have her fer a christmas gift afore mornin'. polly ann jes sniffed sorter, but you know women folks air always mighty ambitious jes to see a feller anyways, 'f he's a-pinin' fer 'em. so jeb come, an' jeb was fixed up now fittin' to kill. jeb had his hair oiled down nice an' slick, and his mustache was jes black as powder could make hit. naturely hit was red; but a feller can't do nothin' in these mountains with a red mustache; an' jeb had a big black ribbon tied in the butt o' the bigges' pistol abe shivers could borrer fer him--hit was a badge o' death an' deestruction to his enemies, abe said, an' i tell ye jeb did look like a man. he never opened his mouth atter he says "howdy"--jeb never does say nothin'; jeb's one o' them fellers whut hides thar lack o' brains by a-lookin' solemn an' a-keepin' still, but thar don't nobody say much tell the ole folks air gone to bed, an' polly ann jes 'lowed jeb was a-waitin'. fact is, stranger, abe shivers had got jeb a leetle disguised by liquer, an' he did look fat an' sassy, ef he couldn't talk, a-settin' over in the corner a-plunkin' the banjer an' a-knockin' off "sour-wood mountain" an' "jinny git aroun'" an' "soapsuds over the fence." "chickens a-crowin' on sour-wood mountain, heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee! git yo' dawgs an' we'll go huntin', heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee!" an' when jeb comes to "i've got a gal at the head o' the holler, heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee!" he jes turns one eye 'round on polly ann, an' then swings his chin aroun' as though he didn't give a cuss fer nothin'. "she won't come, an' i won't foller, heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee!" well, sir, nance seed that polly ann was a-eyin' jeb sort o' flustered like, an' she come might' nigh splittin' right thar an' a-sp'ilin' the fun, fer she knowed what a skeery fool jeb was. an' when the ole folks goes to bed, nance lays thar under a quilt a-watchin' an' a-listenin'. well, jeb knowed the premises, ef he couldn't talk, an' purty soon nance heerd jeb's cheer creak a leetle, an' she says, jeb's a-comin', and jeb was; an' polly ann 'lowed jeb was jes a leetle too resolute an' quick-like, an' she got her hand ready to give him one lick anyways fer bein' so brigaty. i don't know as she'd 'a' hit him more'n once. jeb had a farm, an' polly ann--well, polly ann was a-gittin' along. but polly ann sot thar jes as though she didn't know jeb was a-comin', an' jeb stopped once an' says, "you hain't got nothin' agin me, has ye?" an' polly ann says, sorter quick, "naw; ef i had, i'd push it." well, jeb mos' fell off his cheer, when, ef he hadn't been sech a skeery idgit, he'd 'a' knowed that polly ann was plain open an' shet a-biddin' fer him. but he sot thar like a knot on a log fer haffen hour, an' then he rickollected, i reckon, that abe had tol' him polly ann was peppery an' he mustn't mind, fer jeb begun a-movin' ag'in till he was slam-bang agin polly ann's cheer. an' thar he sot like a punkin, not sayin' a word nur doin' nothin'. an' while polly ann was a-wonderin' ef he was gone plumb crazy, blame me ef that durned fool didn't turn roun' to that peppery gal an' say, "booh, polly ann!" well, nance had to stuff the bedquilt in her mouth right thar to keep from hollerin' out loud, fer polly ann's hand was a-hangin' down by the cheer, jes a-waitin' fer a job, and nance seed the fingers a-twitchin'. an' jeb waits another haffen hour an' jeb says, "ortern't i be killed?" "whut fer?" says polly ann, sorter sharp. an' jeb says, "fer bein' so devilish." well, brother, nance snorted right out thar, an' polly ann sturgill's hand riz up jes once; an' i've heerd jeb somers say the next time he jumps out o' the fryin' pan he's a-goin' to take hell-fire 'stid o' cutshin fer a place to light. the message in the sand stranger, you furriners don't nuver seem to consider that a woman has always got the devil to fight in two people at once! hit's two agin one, i tell ye, an' hit hain't fa'r. that's what i said more'n two year ago, when rosie branham was a-layin' up thar at dave hall's, white an' mos' dead. an', god, boys, i says, that leetle thing in thar by her shorely can't be to blame. thar hain't been a word agin rosie sence; an', stranger, i reckon thar nuver will be. fer, while the gal hain't got hide o' kith or kin, thar air two fellers up hyeh sorter lookin' atter rosie; an' one of 'em is the shootin'es' man on this crick, i reckon, 'cept one; an', stranger, that's t'other. rosie kep' her mouth shet fer a long while; an' i reckon as how the feller 'lowed she wasn't goin' to tell. co'se the woman folks got hit out'n her--they al'ays gits whut they want, as you know--an' thar the sorry cuss was--a-livin' up thar in the bend, jes aroun' that bluff o' lorrel yander, a-lookin' pious, an' a-singin', an' a-sayin' amen louder 'n anybody when thar was meetin'. well, my boy jim an' a lot o' fellers jes went up fer him right away. i don't know as the boys would 'a' killed him exactly ef they had kotched him, though they mought; but they got abe shivers, as tol' the feller they was a-comin'--you've heard tell o' abe-an' they mos' beat abraham shivers to death. stranger, the sorry cuss was dave. rosie hadn't no daddy an' no mammy; an' she was jes a-workin' at dave's fer her victuals an' clo'es. 'pears like the pore gal was jes tricked into evil. looked like she was sorter 'witched--an' anyways, stranger, she was a fightin' satan in herself, as well as in dave. hit was two agin one, i tell ye, an' hit wasn't fa'r. co'se they turned rosie right out in the road i hain't got a word to say agin dave's wife fer that; an' atter a while the boys lets dave come back, to take keer o' his ole mammy, of co'se, but i tell ye dave's a-playin' a purty lonesome tune. he keeps purty shy yit. he don't nuver sa'nter down this way. 'pears like he don't seem to think hit's healthy fer him down hyeh, an' i reckon dave's right. rosie? oh, well, i sorter tuk rosie in myself. yes, she's been livin' thar in the shack with me an' my boy jim, an' the-- why, thar he is now, stranger. that's him a-wallerin' out thar in the road. do you reckon thar'd be a single thing agin that leetle cuss ef he had to stan' up on jedgment day jes as he is now? look hyeh, stranger, whut you reckon the lawd kep' a-writin' thar on the groun' that day when them fellers was a-pesterin' him 'bout that pore woman? don't you jes know he was a writin' 'bout sech as him--an' rosie? i tell ye, brother, he writ thar jes what i'm al'ays a-sayin'. hit hain't the woman's fault. i said it more'n two year ago, when rosie was up thar at ole dave's, an' i said it yestiddy, when my boy jim come to me an' 'lowed as how he aimed to take rosie down to town to-day an' git married. "you ricollect, dad," says jim, "her mammy?" "yes, jim," i says; "all the better reason not to be too hard on rosie." i'm a-lookin' fer 'em both back right now, stranger; an' ef you will, i'll be mighty glad to have ye stay right hyeh to the infair this very night. thar nuver was a word agin rosie afore, thar hain't been sence, an' you kin ride up an' down this river till the crack o' doom an' you'll nuver hear a word agin her ag'in. fer, as i tol' you, my boy, jim is the shootin'es' feller on this crick, i reckon, 'cept one, an', stranger, that's me! the senator's last trade a drove of lean cattle were swinging easily over black mountain, and behind them came a big man with wild black hair and a bushy beard. now and then he would gnaw at his mustache with his long, yellow teeth, or would sit down to let his lean horse rest, and would flip meaninglessly at the bushes with a switch. sometimes his bushy head would droop over on his breast, and he would snap it up sharply and start painfully on. robber, cattle-thief, outlaw he might have been in another century; for he filled the figure of any robber hero in life or romance, and yet he was only the senator from bell, as he was known in the little kentucky capital; or, as he was known in his mountain home, just the senator, who had toiled and schemed and grown rich and grown poor; who had suffered long and was kind. only that christmas he had gutted every store in town. "give me everything you have, brother," he said, across each counter; and next day every man, woman, and child in the mountain town had a present from the senator's hands. he looked like a brigand that day, as he looked now, but he called every man his brother, and his eye, while black and lustreless as night, was as brooding and just as kind. when the boom went down, with it and with everybody else went the senator. slowly he got dusty, ragged, long of hair. he looked tortured and ever-restless. you never saw him still; always he swept by you, flapping his legs on his lean horse or his arms in his rickety buggy here, there, everywhere--turning, twisting, fighting his way back to freedom--and not a murmur. still was every man his brother, and if some forgot his once open hand, he forgot it no more completely than did the senator. he went very far to pay his debts. he felt honor bound, indeed, to ask his sister to give back the farm that he had given her, which, very properly people said, she declined to do. nothing could kill hope in the senator's breast; he would hand back the farm in another year, he said; but the sister was firm, and without a word still, the senator went other ways and schemed through the nights, and worked and rode and walked and traded through the days, until now, when the light was beginning to glimmer, his end was come. this was the senator's last trade, and in sight, down in a kentucky valley, was home. strangely enough, the senator did not care at all, and he had just enough sanity left to wonder why, and to be worried. it was the "walking typhoid" that had caught up with him, and he was listless, and he made strange gestures and did foolish things as he stumbled down the mountain. he was going over a little knoll now, and he could see the creek that ran around his house, but he was not touched. he would just as soon have lain down right where he was, or have turned around and gone back, except that it was hot and he wanted to get to the water. he remembered that it was nigh christmas; he saw the snow about him and the cakes of ice in the creek. he knew that he ought not to be hot, and yet he was--so hot that he refused to reason with himself even a minute, and hurried on. it was odd that it should be so, but just about that time, over in virginia, a cattle dealer, nearing home, stopped to tell a neighbor how he had tricked some black-whiskered fool up in the mountains. it may have been just when he was laughing aloud over there, that the senator, over here, tore his woollen shirt from his great hairy chest and rushed into the icy stream, clapping his arms to his burning sides and shouting in his frenzy. "if he had lived a little longer," said a constituent, "he would have lost the next election. he hadn't the money, you know." "if he had lived a little longer," said the mountain preacher high up on yellow creek, "i'd have got that trade i had on hand with him through. not that i wanted him to die, but if he had to--why--" "if he had lived a little longer," said the senator's lawyer, "he would have cleaned off the score against him." "if he had lived a little longer," said the senator's sister, not meaning to be unkind, "he would have got all i have." that was what life held for the senator. death was more kind. preachin' on kingdom-come i've told ye, stranger, that hell fer sartain empties, as it oughter, of co'se, into kingdom-come. you can ketch the devil 'most any day in the week on hell fer sartain, an' sometimes you can git glory everlastin' on kingdom-come. hit's the only meetin'-house thar in twenty miles aroun'. well, the reg'lar rider, ole jim skaggs, was dead, an' the bretherin was a-lookin' aroun' fer somebody to step into ole jim's shoes. thar'd been one young feller up thar from the settlemints, a-cavortin' aroun', an' they was studyin' 'bout gittin' him. "bretherin' an' sisteren," i says, atter the leetle chap was gone, "he's got the fortitood to speak an' he shorely is well favored. he's got a mighty good hawk eye fer spyin' out evil--an' the gals; he can outholler ole jim; an' if," i says, "any idees ever comes to him, he'll be a hell-rouser shore--but they ain't comin'!" an', so sayin', i takes my foot in my hand an' steps fer home. stranger, them fellers over thar hain't seed much o' this world. lots of 'em nuver seed the cyars; some of 'em nuver seed a wagon. an' atter jowerin' an' noratin' fer 'bout two hours, what you reckon they said they aimed to do? they believed they'd take that ar man beecher, ef they could git him to come. they'd heerd o' henry endurin' the war, an' they knowed he was agin the rebs, an' they wanted henry if they could jes git him to come. well, i snorted, an' the feud broke out on hell fer sartain betwixt the days an' the dillons. mace day shot daws dillon's brother, as i rickollect--somep'n's al'ays a-startin' up that plaguey war an' a-makin' things frolicsome over thar--an' ef it hadn't a-been fer a tall young feller with black hair an' a scar across his forehead, who was a-goin' through the mountains a-settlin' these wars, blame me ef i believe thar ever would 'a' been any mo' preachin' on kingdom-come. this feller comes over from hazlan an' says he aims to hold a meetin' on kingdom-come. "brother," i says, "that's what no preacher have ever did whilst this war is a-goin' on." an' he says, sort o' quiet, "well, then, i reckon i'll have to do what no preacher have ever did." an' i ups an' says: "brother, an ole jedge come up here once from the settlemints to hold couht. 'jedge,' i says, 'that's what no jedge have ever did without soldiers since this war's been a-goin' on.' an', brother, the jedge's words was yours, p'int-blank. 'all right,' he says, 'then i'll have to do what no other jedge have ever did.' an', brother," says i to the preacher, "the jedge done it shore. he jes laid under the couht-house fer two days whilst the boys fit over him. an' when i sees the jedge a-makin' tracks fer the settlemints, i says, 'jedge,' i says, 'you spoke a parable shore.'" well, sir, the long preacher looked jes as though he was a-sayin' to hisself, "yes, i hear ye, but i don't heed ye," an' when he says, "jes the same, i'm a-goin' to hold a meetin' on kingdom-come," why, i jes takes my foot in my hand an' ag'in i steps fer home. that night, stranger, i seed another feller from hazlan, who was a-tellin' how this here preacher had stopped the war over thar, an' had got the marcums an' braytons to shakin' hands; an' next day ole tom perkins stops in an' says that wharas there mought 'a' been preachin' somewhar an' sometime, thar nuver had been preachin' afore on kingdom-come. so i goes over to the meetin' house, an' they was all thar--daws dillon an' mace day, the leaders in the war, an' abe shivers (you've heerd tell o' abe) who was a-carryin' tales from one side to t'other an' a-stirrin' up hell ginerally, as abe most al'ays is; an' thar was daws on one side o' the meetin'-house an' mace on t'other, an' both jes a-watchin' fer t'other to make a move, an' thar'd 'a' been billy-hell to pay right thar! stranger, that long preacher talked jes as easy as i'm a-talkin' now, an' hit was p'int-blank as the feller from hazlan said. you jes ought 'a' heerd him tellin' about the lawd a-bein' as pore as any feller thar, an' a-makin' barns an' fences an' ox-yokes an' sech like; an' not a-bein' able to write his own name--havin' to make his mark mebbe--when he started out to save the world. an' how they tuk him an' nailed him onto a cross when he'd come down fer nothin' but to save 'em; an' stuck a spear big as a corn-knife into his side, an' give him vinegar; an' his own mammy a-standin' down thar on the ground a-cryin' an' a-watchin' him an' he a-fergivin' all of 'em then an' thar! thar nuver had been nothin' like that afore on kingdom-come, an' all along i heerd fellers a-layin' thar guns down; an when the preacher called out fer sinners, blame me ef the fust feller that riz wasn't mace day. an' mace says, "stranger, 'f what you say is true, i reckon the lawd 'll fergive me too, but i don't believe daws dillon ever will," an' mace stood thar lookin' around fer daws. an' all of a sudden the preacher got up straight an' called out, "is thar a human in this house mean an' sorry enough to stand betwixt a man an' his maker"? an' right thar, stranger, daws riz. "naw, by god, thar hain' t!" daws says, an' he walks up to mace a-holdin' out his hand, an' they all busts out cryin' an' shakin' hands--days an' dillons--jes as the preacher had made 'em do over in hazlan. an' atter the thing was over, i steps up to the preacher an' i says: "brother," i says, "you spoke a parable, shore." the passing of abraham shivers "i tell ye, boys, hit hain t often a feller has the chance o' doin' so much good jes by dyin'. fer 'f abe shivers air gone, shorely gone, the rest of us--every durn one of us--air a-goin' to be saved. fer abe shivers--you hain't heerd tell o' abe? well, you must be a stranger in these mountains o' kaintuck, shore. "i don't know, stranger, as abe ever was borned; nobody in these mountains knows it 'f he was. the fust time i ever heerd tell o' abe he was a-hollerin' fer his rights one mawnin' at daylight, endurin' the war, jes outside o' ole tom perkins' door on fryin' pan. abe was left thar by some home-gyard, i reckon. well, nobody air ever turned out'n doors in these mountains, as you know, an' abe got his rights that mawin', an' he's been a-gittin' 'em ever sence. tom already had a houseful, but 'f any feller got the bigges' hunk o' corn-bread, that feller was abe; an' ef any feller got a-whalin', hit wasn't abe. "abe tuk to lyin' right naturely--looked like--afore he could talk. fact is, abe nuver could do nothin' but jes whisper. still, abe could manage to send a lie furder with that rattlin' whisper than ole tom could with that big horn o' hisn what tells the boys the revenoos air comin' up fryin' pan.' "didn't take abe long to git to braggin' an' drinkin' an' naggin' an' hectorin'--everything, 'mos', 'cept fightin'. nobody ever drawed abe shivers into a fight. i don't know as he was afeerd; looked like abe was a-havin' sech a tarnation good time with his devilmint he jes didn't want to run no risk o' havin' hit stopped. an' sech devilmint! hit ud take a coon's age, i reckon, to tell ye. "the boys was a-goin' up the river one night to git ole dave hall fer trickin' rosie branham into evil. some feller goes ahead an' tells ole dave they's a-comin.' hit was abe. some feller finds a streak o' ore on ole tom perkins' land, an' racks his jinny down to town, an' tells a furriner thar, an' tom comes might' nigh sellin' the land fer nothin'. now tom raised abe, but, jes the same, the feller was abe. "one night somebody guides the revenoos in on hell fer sartain, an' they cuts up four stills. hit was abe. the same night, mind ye, a feller slips in among the revenoos while they's asleep, and cuts off their hosses' manes an' tails--muled every durned critter uv 'em. stranger, hit was abe. an' as fer women-folks--well, abe was the ill favoredest feller i ever see, an' he couldn't talk; still, abe was sassy, an' you know how sass counts with the gals; an' abe's whisperin' come in jes as handy as any feller's settin' up; so 'f ever you seed a man with a winchester a-lookin' fer the feller who had cut him out, stranger, he was a-lookin' fer abe. "somebody tells harve hall, up thar at a dance on hell-fer-sartain one christmas night, that rich harp had said somep'n' agin him an' nance osborn. an' somebody tells rich that harve had said sompe'n' agin nance an' him. hit was one an' the same feller, stranger, an' the feller was abe. well, while rich an' harve was a-gittin' well, somebody runs off with nance. hit was abe. then rich an' harve jes draws straws fer a feller. stranger, they drawed fer abe. hit's purty hard to believe that abe air gone, 'cept that rich harp an' harve hall don't never draw no straws fer nothin'; but 'f by the grace o' goddle-mighty abe air gone, why, as i was a-sayin', the rest of us--every durned one of us air a-goin' to be saved, shore. fer abe's gone fust, an' ef thar's only one jedgment day, the lawd 'll nuver git to us." a purple rhododendron the purple rhododendron is rare. up in the gap here, bee rock, hung out over roaring rock, blossoms with it--as a gray cloud purples with the sunrise. this rock was tossed lightly on edge when the earth was young, and stands vertical. to get the flowers you climb the mountain to one side, and, balancing on the rock's thin edge, slip down by roots and past rattlesnake dens till you hang out over the water and reach for them. to avoid snakes it is best to go when it is cool, at daybreak. i know but one other place in this southwest corner of virginia where there is another bush of purple rhododendron, and one bush only is there. this hangs at the throat of a peak not far away, whose ageless gray head is bent over a ravine that sinks like a spear thrust into the side of the mountain. swept only by high wind and eagle wings as this is, i yet knew one man foolhardy enough to climb to it for a flower. he brought one blossom down: and to this day i do not know that it was not the act of a coward; yes, though grayson did it, actually smiling all the way from peak to ravine, and though he was my best friend--best loved then and since. i believe he was the strangest man i have ever known, and i say this with thought; for his eccentricities were sincere. in all he did i cannot remember having even suspected anything theatrical but once. we were all virginians or kentuckians at the gap, and grayson was a virginian. you might have guessed that he was a southerner from his voice and from the way he spoke of women--but no more. otherwise, he might have been a moor, except for his color, which was about the only racial characteristic he had. he had been educated abroad and, after the english habit, had travelled everywhere. and yet i can imagine no more lonely way between the eternities than the path grayson trod alone. he came to the gap in the early days, and just why he came i never knew. he had studied the iron question a long time, he told me, and what i thought reckless speculation was, it seems, deliberate judgment to him. his money "in the dirt," as the phrase was, grayson got him a horse and rode the hills and waited. he was intimate with nobody. occasionally he would play poker with us and sometimes he drank a good deal, but liquor never loosed his tongue. at poker his face told as little as the back of his cards, and he won more than admiration--even from the kentuckians, who are artists at the game; but the money went from a free hand, and, after a diversion like this, he was apt to be moody and to keep more to himself than ever. every fortnight or two he would disappear, always over sunday. in three or four days he would turn up again, black with brooding, and then he was the last man to leave the card-table or he kept away from it altogether. where he went nobody knew; and he was not the man anybody would question. one night two of us kentuckians were sitting in the club, and from a home paper i read aloud the rumored engagement of a girl we both knew--who was famous for beauty in the bluegrass, as was her mother before her and the mother before her--to an unnamed virginian. grayson sat near, smoking a pipe; and when i read the girl's name i saw him take the meerschaum from his lips, and i felt his eyes on me. it was a mystery how, but i knew at once that grayson was the man. he sought me out after that and seemed to want to make friends. i was willing, or, rather he made me more than willing; for he was irresistible to me, as i imagine he would have been to anybody. we got to walking together and riding together at night, and we were soon rather intimate; but for a long time he never so much as spoke the girl's name. indeed, he kept away from the bluegrass for nearly two months; but when he did go he stayed a fortnight. this time he came for me as soon as he got back to the gap. it was just before midnight, and we went as usual back of imboden hill, through moon-dappled beeches, and grayson turned off into the woods where there was no path, both of us silent. we rode through tremulous, shining leaves--grayson's horse choosing a way for himself--and, threshing through a patch of high, strong weeds, we circled past an amphitheatre of deadened trees whose crooked arms were tossed out into the moonlight, and halted on the spur. the moon was poised over morris's farm; south fork was shining under us like a loop of gold, the mountains lay about in tranquil heaps, and the moon-mist rose luminous between them. there grayson turned to me with an eager light in his eyes that i had never seen before. "this has a new beauty to-night!" he said; and then "i told her about you, and she said that she used to know you--well." i was glad my face was in shadow--i could hardly keep back a brutal laugh--and grayson, unseeing, went on to speak of her as i had never heard any man speak of any woman. in the end, he said that she had just promised to be his wife. i answered nothing. other men, i knew, had said that with the same right, perhaps, and had gone from her to go back no more. and i was one of them. grayson had met her at white sulphur five years before, and had loved her ever since. she had known it from the first, he said, and i guessed then what was going to happen to him. i marvelled, listening to the man, for it was the star of constancy in her white soul that was most lustrous to him--and while i wondered the marvel became a commonplace. did not every lover think his loved one exempt from the frailty that names other women? there is no ideal of faith or of purity that does not live in countless women to-day. i believe that; but could i not recall one friend who walked with divinity through pine woods for one immortal spring, and who, being sick to death, was quite finished--learning her at last? did i not know lovers who believed sacred to themselves, in the name of love, lips that had been given to many another without it? and now did i not know--but i knew too much, and to grayson i said nothing. that spring the "boom" came. grayson's property quadrupled in value and quadrupled again. i was his lawyer, and i plead with him to sell; but grayson laughed. he was not speculating; he had invested on judgment; he would sell only at a certain figure. the figure was actually reached, and grayson let half go. the boom fell, and grayson took the tumble with a jest. it would come again in the autumn, he said, and he went off to meet the girl at white sulphur. i worked right hard that summer, but i missed him, and i surely was glad when he came back. something was wrong; i saw it at once. he did not mention her name, and for a while he avoided even me. i sought him then, and gradually i got him into our old habit of walking up into the gap and of sitting out after supper on a big rock in the valley, listening to the run of the river and watching the afterglow over the cumberland, the moon rise over wallen's ridge and the stars come out. waiting for him to speak, i learned for the first time then another secret of his wretched melancholy. it was the hopelessness of that time, perhaps, that disclosed it. grayson had lost the faith of his childhood. most men do that at some time or other, but grayson had no business, no profession, no art in which to find relief. indeed, there was but one substitute possible, and that came like a gift straight from the god whom he denied. love came, and grayson's ideals of love, as of everything else, were morbid and quixotic. he believed that he owed it to the woman he should marry never to have loved another. he had loved but one woman, he said, and he should love but one. i believed him then literally when he said that his love for the kentucky girl was his religion now--the only anchor left him in his sea of troubles, the only star that gave him guiding light. without this love, what then? i had a strong impulse to ask him, but grayson shivered, as though he divined my thought, and, in some relentless way, our talk drifted to the question of suicide. i was not surprised that he rather defended it. neither of us said anything new, only i did not like the way he talked. he was too deliberate, too serious, as though he were really facing a possible fact. he had no religious scruples, he said, no family ties; he had nothing to do with bringing himself into life; why--if it was not worth living, not bearable--why should he not end it? he gave the usual authority, and i gave the usual answer. religion aside, if we did not know that we were here for some purpose, we did not know that we were not; and here we were anyway, and our duty was plain. desertion was the act of a coward, and that grayson could not deny. that autumn the crash of ' came across the water from england, and grayson gave up. he went to richmond, and came back with money enough to pay off his notes, and i think it took nearly all he had. still, he played poker steadily now--for poker had been resumed when it was no longer possible to gamble in lots--he drank a good deal, and he began just at this time to take a singular interest in our volunteer police guard. he had always been on hand when there was trouble, and i sha'n't soon forget him the day senator mahone spoke, when we were punching a crowd of mountaineers back with cocked winchesters. he had lost his hat in a struggle with one giant; he looked half crazy with anger, and yet he was white and perfectly cool, and i noticed that he never had to tell a man but once to stand back. now he was the first man to answer a police whistle. when we were guarding talt hall, he always volunteered when there was any unusual risk to run. when we raided the pound to capture a gang of desperadoes, he insisted on going ahead as spy; and when we got restless lying out in the woods waiting for daybreak, and the captain suggested a charge on the cabin, grayson was by his side when it was made. grayson sprang through the door first, and he was the man who thrust his reckless head up into the loft and lighted a match to see if the murderers were there. most of us did foolish things in those days under stress of excitement, but grayson, i saw, was weak enough to be reckless. his trouble with the girl, whatever it was, was serious enough to make him apparently care little whether he were alive or dead. and still i saw that not yet even had he lost hope. he was having a sore fight with his pride, and he got body-worn and heart-sick over it. of course he was worsted, and in the end, from sheer weakness, he went back to her once more. i shall never see another face like his when grayson came back that last time. i never noticed before that there were silver hairs about his temples. he stayed in his room, and had his meals sent to him. he came out only to ride, and then at night. waking the third morning at daybreak, i saw him through the window galloping past, and i knew he had spent the night on black mountain. i went to his room as soon as i got up, and grayson was lying across his bed with his face down, his clothes on, and in his right hand was a revolver. i reeled into a chair before i had strength enough to bend over him, and when i did i found him asleep. i left him as he was, and i never let him know that i had been to his room; but i got him out on the rock again that night, and i turned our talk again to suicide. i said it was small, mean, cowardly, criminal, contemptible! i was savagely in earnest, and grayson shivered and said not a word. i thought he was in better mind after that. we got to taking night rides again, and i stayed as closely to him as i could, for times got worse and trouble was upon everybody. notes fell thicker than snowflakes, and, through the foolish policy of the company, foreclosures had to be made. grayson went to the wall like the rest of us. i asked him what he had done with the money he had made. he had given away a great deal to poorer kindred; he had paid his dead father's debts; he had played away a good deal, and he had lost the rest. his faith was still imperturbable. he had a dozen rectangles of "dirt," and from these, he said, it would all come back some day. still, he felt the sudden poverty keenly, but he faced it as he did any other physical fact in life--dauntless. he used to be fond of saying that no one thing could make him miserable. but he would talk with mocking earnestness about some much-dreaded combination; and a favorite phrase of his--which got to have peculiar significance--was "the cohorts of hell," who closed in on him when he was sick and weak, and who fell back when he got well. he had one strange habit, too, from which i got comfort. he would deliberately walk into and defy any temptation that beset him. that was the way he strengthened himself, he said. i knew what his temptation was now, and i thought of this habit when i found him asleep with his revolver, and i got hope from it now, when the dreaded combination (whatever that was) seemed actually to have come. i could see now that he got worse daily. he stopped his mockeries, his occasional fits of reckless gayety. he stopped poker--resolutely--he couldn't afford to lose now; and, what puzzled me, he stopped drinking. the man simply looked tired, always hopelessly tired; and i could believe him sincere in all his foolish talk about his blessed nirvana: which was the peace he craved, which was end enough for him. winter broke. may drew near; and one afternoon, when grayson and i took our walk up through the gap, he carried along a huge spy-glass of mine, which had belonged to a famous old desperado, who watched his enemies with it from the mountain-tops. we both helped capture him, and i defended him. he was sentenced to hang--the glass was my fee. we sat down opposite bee rock, and for the first time grayson told me of that last scene with her. he spoke without bitterness, and he told me what she said, word for word, without a breath of blame for her. i do not believe that he judged her at all; she did not know--he always said; she did not know; and then, when i opened my lips, grayson reached silently for my wrist, and i can feel again the warning crush of his fingers, and i say nothing against her now. i asked grayson what his answer was. "i asked her," he said, solemnly, "if she had ever seen a purple rhododendron." i almost laughed, picturing the scene--the girl bewildered by his absurd question--grayson calm, superbly courteous. it was a mental peculiarity of his--this irrelevancy--and it was like him to end a matter of life and death in just that way. "i told her i should send her one. i am waiting for them to come out," he added; and he lay back with his head against a stone and sighted the telescope on a dizzy point, about which buzzards were circling. "there is just one bush of rhododendron up there," he went on. "i saw it looking down from the point last spring. i imagine it must blossom earlier than that across there on bee rock, being always in the sun. no, it's not budding yet," he added, with his eye to the glass. "you see that ledge just to the left? i dropped a big rock from the point square on a rattler who was sunning himself there last spring. i can see a foothold all the way up the cliff. it can be done," he concluded, in a tone that made me turn sharply upon him. "do you really mean to climb up there?" i asked, harshly. "if it blossoms first up there--i'll get it where it blooms first." in a moment i was angry and half sick with suspicion, for i knew his obstinacy; and then began what i am half ashamed to tell. every day thereafter grayson took that glass with him, and i went along to humor him. i watched bee rock, and he that one bush at the throat of the peak--neither of us talking over the matter again. it was uncanny, that rivalry--sun and wind in one spot, sun and wind in another--nature herself casting the fate of a half-crazed fool with a flower. it was utterly absurd, but i got nervous over it--apprehensive, dismal. a week later it rained for two days, and the water was high. the next day the sun shone, and that afternoon grayson smiled, looking through the glass, and handed it to me. i knew what i should see. one purple cluster, full blown, was shaking in the wind. grayson was leaning back in a dream when i let the glass down. a cool breath from the woods behind us brought the odor of roots and of black earth; up in the leaves and sunlight somewhere a wood-thrush was singing, and i saw in grayson's face what i had not seen for a long time, and that was peace--the peace of stubborn purpose. he did not come for me the next day, nor the next; but the next he did, earlier than usual. "i am going to get that rhododendron," he said. "i have been half-way up--it can be reached." so had i been half-way up. with nerve and agility the flower could be got, and both these grayson had. if he had wanted to climb up there and drop, he could have done it alone, and he would have known that i should have found him. grayson was testing himself again, and, angry with him for the absurdity of the thing and with myself for humoring it, but still not sure of him, i picked up my hat and went. i swore to myself silently that it was the last time i should pay any heed to his whims. i believed this would be the last. the affair with the girl was over. the flower sent, i knew grayson would never mention her name again. nature was radiant that afternoon. the mountains had the leafy luxuriance of june, and a rich, sunlit haze drowsed on them between the shadows starting out over the valley and the clouds so white that the blue of the sky looked dark. two eagles shot across the mouth of the gap as we neared it, and high beyond buzzards were sailing over grayson's rhododendron. i went up the ravine with him and i climbed up behind him--grayson going very deliberately and whistling softly. he called down to me when he reached the shelf that looked half-way. "you mustn't come any farther than this," he said. "get out on that rock and i'll drop them down to you." then he jumped from the ledge and caught the body of a small tree close to the roots, and my heart sank at such recklessness and all my fears rose again. i scrambled hastily to the ledge, but i could get no farther. i might possibly make the jump he had made--but how should i ever get back? how would he? i called angrily after him now, and he wouldn't answer me. i called him a fool, a coward; i stamped the ledge like a child--but grayson kept on, foot after hand, with stealthy caution, and the purple cluster nodding down at him made my head whirl. i had to lie down to keep from tumbling from the ledge; and there on my side, gripping a pine bush, i lay looking up at him. he was close to the flowers now, and just before he took the last upward step he turned and looked down that awful height with as calm a face as though he could have dropped and floated unhurt to the ravine beneath. then with his left hand he caught the ledge to the left, strained up, and, holding thus, reached out with his right. the hand closed about the cluster, and the twig was broken. grayson gave a great shout then. he turned his head as though to drop them, and, that far away, i heard the sibilant whir of rattles. i saw a snake's crest within a yard of his face, and, my god! i saw grayson loose his left hand to guard it! the snake struck at his arm, and grayson reeled and caught back once at the ledge with his left hand. he caught once, i say, to do him full justice; then, without a word, he dropped--and i swear there was a smile on his face when he shot down past me into the trees. i found him down there in the ravine with nearly every bone in his body crushed. his left arm was under him, and outstretched in his right hand was the shattered cluster, with every blossom gone but one. one white half of his face was unmarked, and on it was still the shadow of a smile. i think it meant more than that grayson believed that he was near peace at last. it meant that fate had done the deed for him and that he was glad. whether he would have done it himself, i do not know; and that is why i say that though grayson brought the flower down--smiling from peak to ravine--i do not know that he was not, after all, a coward. that night i wrote to the woman in kentucky. i told her that grayson had fallen from a cliff while climbing for flowers; and that he was dead. along with these words, i sent a purple rhododendron. the heart of the hills by john fox, jr. author of "the little shepherd of kingdom come," "the trail of the lonesome pine," etc. with four illustrations by f. c. yohn in grateful memory of my father who loved the great mother, her forms, her moods, her ways. to the end she left him the joy of youth in the coming of spring june , . the heart of the hills i twin spirals of blue smoke rose on either side of the spur, crept tendril-like up two dark ravines, and clearing the feathery green crests of the trees, drifted lazily on upward until, high above, they melted shyly together and into the haze that veiled the drowsy face of the mountain. each rose from a little log cabin clinging to the side of a little hollow at the head of a little creek. about each cabin was a rickety fence, a patch of garden, and a little cleared hill-side, rocky, full of stumps, and crazily traced with thin green spears of corn. on one hill-side a man was at work with a hoe, and on the other, over the spur, a boy--both barefooted, and both in patched jean trousers upheld by a single suspender that made a wet line over a sweaty cotton shirt: the man, tall, lean, swarthy, grim; the boy grim and dark, too, and with a face that was prematurely aged. at the man's cabin a little girl in purple homespun was hurrying in and out the back door clearing up after the noonday meal; at the boy's, a comely woman with masses of black hair sat in the porch with her hands folded, and lifting her eyes now and then to the top of the spur. of a sudden the man impatiently threw down his hoe, but through the battered straw hat that bobbed up and down on the boy's head, one lock tossed on like a jetblack plume until he reached the end of his straggling row of corn. there he straightened up and brushed his earth-stained fingers across a dullred splotch on one cheek of his sullen set face. his heavy lashes lifted and he looked long at the woman on the porch--looked without anger now and with a new decision in his steady eyes. he was getting a little too big to be struck by a woman, even if she were his own mother, and nothing like that must happen again. a woodpecker was impudently tapping the top of a dead burnt tree near by, and the boy started to reach for a stone, but turned instead and went doggedly to work on the next row, which took him to the lower corner of the garden fence, where the ground was black and rich. there, as he sank his hoe with the last stroke around the last hill of corn, a fat fishing-worm wriggled under his very eyes, and the growing man lapsed swiftly into the boy again. he gave another quick dig, the earth gave up two more squirming treasures, and with a joyful gasp he stood straight again--his eyes roving as though to search all creation for help against the temptation that now was his. his mother had her face uplifted toward the top of the spur; and following her gaze, he saw a tall mountaineer slouching down the path. quickly he crouched behind the fence, and the aged look came back into his face. he did not approve of that man coming over there so often, kinsman though he was, and through the palings he saw his mother's face drop quickly and her hands moving uneasily in her lap. and when the mountaineer sat down on the porch and took off his hat to wipe his forehead, he noticed that his mother had on a newly bought store dress, and that the man's hair was wet with something more than water. the thick locks had been combed and were glistening with oil, and the boy knew these facts for signs of courtship; and though he was contemptuous, they furnished the excuse he sought and made escape easy. noiselessly he wielded his hoe for a few moments, scooped up a handful of soft dirt, meshed the worms in it, and slipped the squirming mass into his pocket. then he crept stooping along the fence to the rear of the house, squeezed himself between two broken palings, and sneaked on tiptoe to the back porch. gingerly he detached a cane fishing-pole from a bunch that stood upright in a corner and was tiptoeing away, when with another thought he stopped, turned back, and took down from the wall a bow and arrow with a steel head around which was wound a long hempen string. cautiously then he crept back along the fence, slipped behind the barn into the undergrowth and up a dark little ravine toward the green top of the spur. up there he turned from the path through the thick bushes into an open space, walled by laurel-bushes, hooted three times surprisingly like an owl, and lay contentedly down on a bed of moss. soon his ear caught the sound of light footsteps coming up the spur on the other side, the bushes parted in a moment more, and a little figure in purple homespun slipped through them, and with a flushed, panting face and dancing eyes stood beside him. the boy nodded his head sidewise toward his own home, and the girl silently nodded hers up and down in answer. her eyes caught sight of the bow and arrow on the ground beside him and lighted eagerly, for she knew then that the fishingpole was for her. without a word they slipped through the bushes and down the steep side of the spur to a little branch which ran down into a creek that wound a tortuous way into the cumberland. ii on the other side, too, a similar branch ran down into another creek which looped around the long slanting side of the spur and emptied, too, into the cumberland. at the mouth of each creek the river made a great bend, and in the sweep of each were rich bottom lands. a century before, a hawn had settled in one bottom, the lower one, and a honeycutt in the other. as each family multiplied, more land was cleared up each creek by sons and grandsons until in each cove a clan was formed. no one knew when and for what reason an individual hawn and a honeycutt had first clashed, but the clash was of course inevitable. equally inevitable was it, too, that the two clans should take the quarrel up, and for half a century the two families had, with intermittent times of truce, been traditional enemies. the boy's father, jason hawn, had married a honeycutt in a time of peace, and, when the war opened again, was regarded as a deserter, and had been forced to move over the spur to the honeycutt side. the girl's father, steve hawn, a ne'erdo-well and the son of a ne'er-do-well, had for his inheritance wild lands, steep, supposedly worthless, and near the head of the honeycutt cove. little jason's father, when he quarrelled with his kin, could afford to buy only cheap land on the honeycutt side, and thus the homes of the two were close to the high heart of the mountain, and separated only by the bristling crest of the spur. in time the boy's father was slain from ambush, and it was a hawn, the honeycutts claimed, who had made him pay the death price of treachery to his own kin. but when peace came, this fact did not save the lad from taunt and suspicion from the children of the honeycutt tribe, and being a favorite with his grandfather hawn down on the river, and harshly treated by his honeycutt mother, his life on the other side in the other cove was a hard one; so his heart had gone back to his own people and, having no companions, he had made a playmate of his little cousin, mavis, over the spur. in time her mother had died, and in time her father, steve, had begun slouching over the spur to court the widow--his cousin's widow, martha hawn. straightway the fact had caused no little gossip up and down both creeks, good-natured gossip at first, but, now that the relations between the two clans were once more strained, there was open censure, and on that day when all the men of both factions had gone to the county-seat, the boy knew that steve hawn had stayed at home for no other reason than to make his visit that day secret; and the lad's brain, as he strode ahead of his silent little companion, was busy with the significance of what was sure to come. at the mouth of the branch, the two came upon a road that also ran down to the river, but they kept on close to the bank of the stream which widened as they travelled--the boy striding ahead without looking back, the girl following like a shadow. still again they crossed the road, where it ran over the foot of the spur and turned down into a deep bowl filled to the brim with bush and tree, and there, where a wide pool lay asleep in thick shadow, the lad pulled forth the ball of earth and worms from his pocket, dropped them with the fishing-pole to the ground, and turned ungallantly to his bow and arrow. by the time he had strung it, and had tied one end of the string to the shaft of the arrow and the other about his wrist, the girl had unwound the coarse fishing-line, had baited her own hook, and, squatted on her heels, was watching her cork with eager eyes; but when the primitive little hunter crept to the lower end of the pool, and was peering with indian caution into the depths, her eyes turned to him. "watch out thar!" he called, sharply. her cork bobbed, sank, and when, with closed eyes, she jerked with all her might, a big shining chub rose from the water and landed on the bank beside her. she gave a subdued squeal of joy, but the boy's face was calm as a star. minnows like that were all right for a girl to catch and even for him to eat, but he was after game for a man. a moment later he heard another jerk and another fish was flopping on the bank, and this time she made no sound, but only flashed her triumphant eyes upon him. at the third fish, she turned her eyes for approval--and got none; and at the fourth, she did not look up at all, for he was walking toward her. "you air skeerin' the big uns," he said shortly, and as he passed he pulled his barlow knife from his pocket and dropped it at her feet. she rose obediently, and with no sign of protest began gathering an apronful of twigs and piling them for a fire. then she began scraping one of the fish, and when it was cleaned she lighted the fire. the blaze crackled merrily, the blue smoke rose like some joyous spirit loosed for upward flight, and by the time the fourth fish was cleaned, a little bed of winking coals was ready and soon a gentle sizzling assailed the boy's ears, and a scent made his nostrils quiver and set his stomach a-hungering. but still he gave no sign of interest--even when the little girl spoke at last: "dinner's ready." he did not look around, for he had crouched, his body taut from head to foot, and he might have been turned suddenly to stone for all the sign of life he gave, and the little girl too was just as motionless. then she saw the little statue come slowly back to quivering life. she saw the bow bend, the shaft of the arrow drawing close to the boy's paling cheek, there was a rushing hiss through the air, a burning hiss in the water, a mighty bass leaped from the convulsed surface and shot to the depths again, leaving the headless arrow afloat. the boy gave one sharp cry and lapsed into his stolid calm again. the little girl said nothing, for there is no balm for the tragedy of the big fish that gets away. slowly he untied the string from his reddened wrist and pulled the arrow in. slowly he turned and gazed indifferently at the four crisp fish on four dry twigs with four pieces of corn pone lying on the grass near them, and the little girl squatting meekly and waiting, as the woman should for her working lord. with his barlow knife he slowly speared a corn pone, picking up a fish with the other hand, and still she waited until he spoke. "take out, mavie," he said with great gravity and condescension, and then his knife with a generous mouthful on its point stopped in the air, his startled eyes widened, and the little girl shrank cowering behind him. a heavy footfall had crunched on the quiet air, the bushes had parted, and a huge mountaineer towered above them with a winchester over his shoulder and a kindly smile under his heavy beard. the boy was startled--not frightened. "hello, babe!" he said coolly. "whut devilmint you up to now?" the giant smiled uneasily: "i'm keepin' out o' the sun an' a-takin' keer o' my health," he said, and his eyes dropped hungrily to the corn pone and fried fish, but the boy shook his head sturdily. "you can't git nothin' to eat from me, babe honeycutt." "now, looky hyeh, jason--" "not a durn bite," said the boy firmly, "even if you air my mammy's brother. i'm a hawn now, i want ye to know, an' i ain't goin' to have my folks say i was feedin' an' harborin' a honeycutt--'specially you." it would have been humorous to either hawn or honeycutt to hear the big man plead, but not to the girl, though he was an enemy, and had but recently wounded a cousin of hers, and was hiding from her own people, for her warm little heart was touched, and big babe saw it and left his mournful eyes on hers. "an' i'm a-goin' to tell whar i've seed ye," went on the boy savagely, but the girl grabbed up two fish and a corn pone and thrust them out to the huge hairy hand eagerly stretched out. "now, git away," she said breathlessly, "git away--quick!" "mavis!" yelled the boy. "shet up!" she cried, and the lips of the routed boy fell apart in sheer amazement, for never before had she made the slightest question of his tyrannical authority, and then her eyes blazed at the big honeycutt and she stamped her foot. "i'd give 'em to the meanest dog in these mountains." the big man turned to the boy. "is he dead yit?" "no, he ain't dead yit," said the boy roughly. "son," said the mountaineer quietly, "you tell whutever you please about me." the curiously gentle smile had never left the bearded lips, but in his voice a slight proud change was perceptible. "an' you can take back yo' corn pone, honey." then dropping the food in his hand back to the ground, he noiselessly melted into the bushes again. at once the boy went to work on his neglected corn-bread and fish, but the girl left hers untouched where they lay. he ate silently, staring at the water below him, nor did the little girl turn her eyes his way, for in the last few minutes some subtle change in their relations had taken place, and both were equally surprised and mystified. finally, the lad ventured a sidewise glance at her beneath the brim of his hat and met a shy, appealing glance once more. at once he felt aggrieved and resentful and turned sullen. "he throwed it back in yo' face," he said. "you oughtn't to 'a' done it." little mavis made no answer. "you're nothin' but a gal, an' nobody'll hold nothin' agin you, but with my mammy a honeycutt an' me a-livin' on the honeycutt side, you mought 'a' got me into trouble with my own folks." the girl knew how jason had been teased and taunted and his life made miserable up and down the honeycutt creek, and her brown face grew wistful and her chin quivered. "i jes' couldn't he'p it, jason," she said weakly, and the little man threw up his hands with a gesture that spoke his hopelessness over her sex in general, and at the same time an ungracious acceptance of the terrible calamity she had perhaps left dangling over his head. he clicked the blade of his barlow knife and rose. "we better be movin' now," he said, with a resumption of his old authority, and pulling in the line and winding it about the cane pole, he handed it to her and started back up the spur with mavis trailing after, his obedient shadow once more. on top of the spur jason halted. a warm blue haze transfused with the slanting sunlight overlay the flanks of the mountains which, fold after fold, rippled up and down the winding river and above the green crests billowed on and on into the unknown. nothing more could happen to them if they went home two hours later than would surely happen if they went home now, the boy thought, and he did not want to go home now. for a moment he stood irresolute, and then, far down the river, he saw two figures on horseback come into sight from a strip of woods, move slowly around a curve of the road, and disappear into the woods again. one rode sidewise, both looked absurdly small, and even that far away the boy knew them for strangers. he did not call mavis's attention to them--he had no need--for when he turned, her face showed that she too had seen them, and she was already moving forward to go with him down the spur. once or twice, as they went down, each glimpsed the coming "furriners" dimly through the trees; they hurried that they might not miss the passing, and on a high bank above the river road they stopped, standing side by side, the eyes of both fixed on the arched opening of the trees through which the strangers must first come into sight. a ringing laugh from the green depths heralded their coming, and then in the archway were framed a boy and a girl and two ponies--all from another world. the two watchers stared silently--the boy noting that the other boy wore a cap and long stockings, the girl that a strange hat hung down the back of the other girl's head--stared with widening eyes at a sight that was never for them before. and then the strangers saw them--the boy with his bow and arrow, the girl with a fishing-pole--and simultaneously pulled their ponies in before the halting gaze that was levelled at them from the grassy bank. then they all looked at one another until boy's eyes rested on boy's eyes for question and answer, and the stranger lad's face flashed with quick humor. "were you looking for us?" he asked, for just so it seemed to him, and the little mountaineer nodded. "yes," he said gravely. the stranger boy laughed. "what can we do for you?" now, little jason had answered honestly and literally, and he saw now that he was being trifled with. "a feller what wears gal's stockings can't do nothin' fer me," he said coolly. instantly the other lad made as though he would jump from his pony, but a cry of protest stopped him, and for a moment he glared his hot resentment of the insult; then he dug his heels into his pony's sides. "come on, marjorie," he said, and with dignity the two little "furriners" rode on, never looking back even when they passed over the hill. "he didn't mean nothin'," said mavis, "an' you oughtn't--" jason turned on her in a fury. "i seed you a-lookin' at him!" "'tain't so! i seed you a-lookin' at her!" she retorted, but her eyes fell before his accusing gaze, and she began worming a bare toe into the sand. "air ye goin' home now?" she asked, presently. "no," he said shortly, "i'm a-goin' atter him. you go on home." the boy started up the hill, and in a moment the girl was trotting after him. he turned when he heard the patter of her feet. "huh!" he grunted contemptuously, and kept on. at the top of the hill he saw several men on horseback in the bend of the road below, and he turned into the bushes. "they mought tell on us," explained jason, and hiding bow and arrow and fishing-pole, they slipped along the flank of the spur until they stood on a point that commanded the broad river-bottom at the mouth of the creek. by the roadside down there, was the ancestral home of the hawns with an orchard about it, a big garden, a stable huge for that part of the world, and a meat-house where for three-quarters of a century there had always been things "hung up." the old log house in which jason and mavis's great-great-grandfather had spent his pioneer days had been weather-boarded and was invisible somewhere in the big frame house that, trimmed with green and porticoed with startling colors, glared white in the afternoon sun. they could see the two ponies hitched at the front gate. two horsemen were hurrying along the river road beneath them, and jason recognized one as his uncle, arch hawn, who lived in the county-seat, who bought "wild" lands and was always bringing in "furriners," to whom he sold them again. the man with him was a stranger, and jason understood better now what was going on. arch hawn was responsible for the presence of the man and of the girl and that boy in the "gal's stockings," and all of them would probably spend the night at his grandfather's house. a farm-hand was leading the ponies to the barn now, and jason and mavis saw arch and the man with him throw themselves hurriedly from their horses, for the sun had disappeared in a black cloud and a mist of heavy rain was sweeping up the river. it was coming fast, and the boy sprang through the bushes and, followed by mavis, flew down the road. the storm caught them, and in a few moments the stranger boy and girl looking through the front door at the sweeping gusts, saw two drenched and bedraggled figures slip shyly through the front gate and around the corner to the back of the house. iii the two little strangers sat in cane-bottomed chairs before the open door, still looking about them with curious eyes at the strings of things hanging from the smoke-browned rafters--beans, red pepper-pods, and twists of homegrown tobacco, the girl's eyes taking in the old spinning-wheel in the corner, the piles of brilliantly figured quilts between the foot-boards of the two beds ranged along one side of the room, and the boy's, catching eagerly the butt of a big revolver projecting from the mantel-piece, a winchester standing in one corner, a long, old-fashioned squirrel rifle athwart a pair of buck antlers over the front door, and a bunch of cane fishing-poles aslant the wall of the back porch. presently a slim, drenched figure slipped quietly in, then another, and mavis stood on one side of the fire-place and little jason on the other. the two girls exchanged a swift glance and mavis's eyes fell; abashed, she knotted her hands shyly behind her and with the hollow of one bare foot rubbed the slender arch of the other. the stranger boy looked up at jason with a pleasant glance of recognition, got for his courtesy a sullen glare that travelled from his broad white collar down to his stockinged legs, and his face flushed; he would have trouble with that mountain boy. before the fire old jason hawn stood, and through a smoke cloud from his corn-cob pipe looked kindly at his two little guests. "so that's yo' boy an' gal?" "that's my son gray," said colonel pendleton. "and that's my cousin marjorie," said the lad, and mavis looked quickly to little jason for recognition of this similar relationship and got no answering glance, for little did he care at that moment of hostility how those two were akin. "she's my cousin, too," laughed the colonel, "but she always calls me uncle." old jason turned to him. "well, we're a purty rough people down here, but you're welcome to all we got." "i've found that out," laughed colonel pendleton pleasantly, "everywhere." "i wish you both could stay a long time with us," said the old man to the little strangers. "jason here would take gray fishin' an' huntin', an' mavis would git on my old mare an' you two could jus' go flyin' up an' down the road. you could have a mighty good time if hit wasn't too rough fer ye." "oh, no," said the boy politely, and the girl said: "i'd just love to." the blue-grass man's attention was caught by the names. "jason," he repeated; "why, jason was a mighty hunter, and mavis--that means 'the songthrush.' how in the world did they get those names?" "well, my granddaddy was a powerful b'arhunter in his day," said the old man, "an' i heerd as how a school-teacher nicknamed him jason, an' that name come down to me an' him. i've heerd o' mavis as long as i can rickellect. hit was my grandmammy's name." colonel pendleton looked at the sturdy mountain lad, his compact figure, square shoulders, well-set head with its shock of hair and bold, steady eyes, and at the slim, wild little creature shrinking against the mantel-piece, and then he turned to his own son gray and his little cousin marjorie. four better types of the blue-grass and of the mountains it would be hard to find. for a moment he saw them in his mind's eye transposed in dress and environment, and he was surprised at the little change that eye could see, and when he thought of the four living together in these wilds, or at home in the blue-grass, his wonder at what the result might be almost startled him. the mountain lad had shown no surprise at the talk about him and his cousin, but when the stranger man caught his eye, little jason's lips opened. "i knowed all about that," he said abruptly. "about what?" "why, that mighty hunter--and mavis." "why, who told you?" "the jologist." "the what?" old jason laughed. "he means ge-ol-o-gist," said the old man, who had no little trouble with the right word himself. "a feller come in here three year ago with a hammer an' went to peckin' aroun' in the rocks here, an' that boy was with him all the time. thar don't seem to be much the feller didn't tell jason an' nothin' that jason don't seem to remember. he's al'ays a-puzzlin' me by comin' out with somethin' or other that rock-pecker tol' him an'--" he stopped, for the boy was shaking his head from side to side. "don't you say nothin' agin him, now," he said, and old jason laughed. "he's a powerful hand to take up fer his friends, jason is." "he was a friend o' all us mountain folks," said the boy stoutly, and then he looked colonel pendleton in the face--fearlessly, but with no impertinence. "he said as how you folks from the big settlemints was a-comin' down here to buy up our wild lands fer nothin' because we all was a lot o' fools an' didn't know how much they was worth, an' that ever'body'd have to move out o' here an' you'd get rich diggin' our coal an' cuttin' our timber an' raisin' hell ginerally." he did not notice marjorie's flush, but went on fierily: "he said that our trees caught the rain an' our gullies gethered it together an' troughed it down the mountains an' made the river which would water all yo' lands. that you was a lot o' damn fools cuttin' down yo' trees an' a-plantin' terbaccer an' a-spittin' out yo' birthright in terbaccer-juice, an' that by an' by you'd come up here an' cut down our trees so that there wouldn't be nothin' left to ketch the rain when it fell, so that yo' rivers would git to be cricks an' yo' cricks branches an' yo' land would die o' thirst an' the same thing 'ud happen here. co'se we'd all be gone when all this tuk place, but he said as how i'd live to see the day when you furriners would be damaged by wash-outs down thar in the settlements an' would be a-pilin' up stacks an' stacks o' gold out o' the lands you robbed me an' my kinfolks out of." "shet up," said arch hawn sharply, and the boy wheeled on him. "yes, an' you air a-helpin' the furriners to rob yo' own kin; you air a-doin' hit yo'self." "jason!" the old man spoke sternly and the boy stopped, flushed and angry, and a moment later slipped from the room. "well!" said the colonel, and he laughed good-humoredly to relieve the strain that his host might feel on his account; but he was amazed just the same--the bud of a socialist blooming in those wilds! arch hawn's shrewd face looked a little concerned, for he saw that the old man's rebuke had been for the discourtesy to strangers, and from the sudden frown that ridged the old man's brow, that the boy's words had gone deep enough to stir distrust, and this was a poor start in the fulfilment of the purpose he had in view. he would have liked to give the boy a cuff on the ear. as for mavis, she was almost frightened by the outburst of her playmate, and marjorie was horrified by his profanity; but the dawning of something in gray's brain worried him, and presently he, too, rose and went to the back porch. the rain had stopped, the wet earth was fragrant with freshened odors, wood-thrushes were singing, and the upper air was drenched with liquid gold that was darkening fast. the boy jason was seated on the yard fence with his chin in his hands, his back to the house, and his face toward home. he heard the stranger's step, turned his head, and mistaking a puzzled sympathy for a challenge, dropped to the ground and came toward him, gathering fury as he came. like lightning the blue-grass lad's face changed, whitening a little as he sprang forward to meet him, but jason, motioning with his thumb, swerved behind the chimney, where the stranger swiftly threw off his coat, the mountain boy spat on his hands, and like two diminutive demons they went at each other fiercely and silently. a few minutes later the two little girls rounding the chimney corner saw them--gray on top and jason writhing and biting under him like a tortured snake. a moment more mavis's strong little hand had the stranger boy by his thick hair and mavis, feeling her own arm clutched by the stranger-girl, let go and turned on her like a fury. there was a piercing scream from marjorie, hurried footsteps answered on the porch, and old jason and the colonel looked with bewildered eyes on the little blue-grass girl amazed, indignant, white with horror; mavis shrinking away from her as though she were the one who had been threatened with a blow; the stranger lad with a bitten thumb clinched in the hollow of one hand, his face already reddening with contrition and shame; and savage little jason biting a bloody lip and with the lust of battle still shaking him from head to foot. "jason," said the old man sternly, "whut's the matter out hyeh?" marjorie pointed one finger at mavis, started to speak, and stopped. jason's eyes fell. "nothin'," he said sullenly, and colonel pendleton looked to his son with astonished inquiry, and the lad's fine face turned bewildered and foolish. "i don't know, sir," he said at last. "don't know?" echoed the colonel. "well--" the old man broke in: "jason, if you have lost yo' manners an' don't know how to behave when thar's strangers around, i reckon you'd better go on home." the boy did not lift his eyes. "i was a-goin' home anyhow," he said, still sullen, and he turned. "oh, no!" said the colonel quickly; "this won't do. come now--you two boys shake hands." at once the stranger lad walked forward to his enemy, and confused jason gave him a limp hand. the old man laughed. "come on in, jason--you an' mavis--an' stay to supper." the boy shook his head. "i got to be gittin' back home," he said, and without a word more he turned again. marjorie looked toward the little girl, but she, too, was starting. "i better be gittin' back too," she said shyly, and off she ran. old jason laughed again. "jes' like two young roosters out thar in my barnyard," and he turned with the colonel toward the house. but marjorie and her cousin stood in the porch and watched the two little mountaineers until, without once looking back, they passed over the sunlit hill. iv on they trudged, the boy plodding sturdily ahead, the little girl slipping mountain-fashion behind. not once did she come abreast with him, and not one word did either say, but the mind and heart of both were busy. all the way the frown over-casting the boy's face stayed like a shadow, for he had left trouble at home, he had met trouble, and to trouble he was going back. the old was definite enough and he knew how to handle it, but the new bothered him sorely. that stranger boy was a fighter, and jason's honest soul told him that if interference had not come he would have been whipped, and his pride was still smarting with every step. the new boy had not tried to bite, or gouge, or to hit him when he was on top--facts that puzzled the mountain boy; he hadn't whimpered and he hadn't blabbed--not even the insult jason had hurled with eye and tongue at his girl-clad legs. he had said that he didn't know what they were fighting about, and just why they were jason himself couldn't quite make out now; but he knew that even now, in spite of the hand-shaking truce, he would at the snap of a finger go at the stranger again. and little mavis knew now that it was not fear that made the stranger girl scream--and she, too, was puzzled. she even felt that the scorn in marjorie's face was not personal, but she had shrunk from it as from the sudden lash of a whip. the stranger girl, too, had not blabbed but had even seemed to smile her forgiveness when mavis turned, with no good-by, to follow jason. hand in hand the two little mountaineers had crossed the threshold of a new world that day. together they were going back into their own, but the clutch of the new was tight on both, and while neither could have explained, there was the same thought in each mind, the same nameless dissatisfaction in each heart, and both were in the throes of the same new birth. the sun was sinking when they started up the spur, and unconsciously jason hurried his steps and the girl followed hard. the twin spirals of smoke were visible now, and where the path forked the boy stopped and turned, jerking his thumb toward her cabin and his. "ef anything happens"--he paused, and the girl nodded her understanding--"you an' me air goin' to stay hyeh in the mountains an' git married." "yes, jasie," she said. his tone was matter-of-fact and so was hers, nor did she show any surprise at the suddenness of what he said, and jason, not looking at her, failed to see a faint flush come to her cheek. he turned to go, but she stood still, looking down into the gloomy, darkening ravine below her. a bear's tracks had been found in that ravine only the day before. "air ye afeerd?" he asked tolerantly, and she nodded mutely. "i'll take ye down," he said with sudden gentleness. the tall mountaineer was standing on the porch of the cabin, and with assurance and dignity jason strode ahead with a protecting air to the gate. "whar you two been?" he called sharply. "i went fishin'," said the boy unperturbed, "an' tuk mavis with me." "you air gittin' a leetle too peart, boy. i don't want that gal a-runnin' around in the woods all day." jason met his angry eyes with a new spirit. "i reckon you hain't been hyeh long." the shot went home and the mountaineer glared helpless for an answer. "come on in hyeh an' git supper," he called harshly to the girl, and as the boy went back up the spur, he could hear the scolding going on below, with no answer from mavis, and he made up his mind to put an end to that some day himself. he knew what was waiting for him on the other side of the spur, and when he reached the top, he sat down for a moment on a long-fallen, moss-grown log. above him beetled the top of his world. his great blue misty hills washed their turbulent waves to the yellow shore of the dropping sun. those waves of forests primeval were his, and the green spray of them was tossed into cloudland to catch the blessed rain. in every little fold of them drops were trickling down now to water the earth and give back the sea its own. the dreamy-eyed man of science had told him that. and it was unchanged, all unchanged since wild beasts were the only tenants, since wild indians slipped through the wilderness aisles, since the half-wild white man, hot on the chase, planted his feet in the footsteps of both and inexorably pushed them on. the boy's first kentucky ancestor had been one of those who had stopped in the hills. his rifle had fed him and his family; his axe had put a roof over their heads, and the loom and spinning-wheel had clothed their bodies. day by day they had fought back the wilderness, had husbanded the soil, and as far as his eagle eye could reach, that first hawn had claimed mountain, river, and tree for his own, and there was none to dispute the claim for the passing of half a century. now those who had passed on were coming back again--the first trespasser long, long ago with a yellow document that he called a "blanket-patent" and which was all but the bringer's funeral shroud, for the old hunter started at once for his gun and the stranger with his patent took to flight. years later a band of young men with chain and compass had appeared in the hills and disappeared as suddenly, and later still another band, running a line for a railroad up the river, found old jason at the foot of a certain oak with his rifle in the hollow of his arm and marking a dead-line which none dared to cross. later still, when he understood, the old man let them pass, but so far nobody had surveyed his land, and now, instead of trying to take, they were trying to purchase. from all points of the compass the "furriners" were coming now, the rock-pecker's prophecy was falling true, and at that moment the boy's hot words were having an effect on every soul who had heard them. old jason's suspicions were alive again; he was short of speech when his nephew, arch hawn, brought up the sale of his lands, and arch warned the colonel to drop the subject for the night. the colonel's mind had gone back to a beautiful woodland at home that he thought of clearing off for tobacco--he would put that desecration off a while. the stranger boy, too, was wondering vaguely at the fierce arraignment he had heard; the stranger girl was curiously haunted by memories of the queer little mountaineer, while mavis now had a new awe of her cousin that was but another rod with which he could go on ruling her. jason's mother was standing in the door when he walked through the yard gate. she went back into the cabin when she saw him coming, and met him at the door with a switch in her hand. very coolly the lad caught it from her, broke it in two, threw it away, and picking up a piggin went out without a word to milk, leaving her aghast and outdone. when he came back, he asked like a man if supper was ready, and as to a man she answered. for an hour he pottered around the barn, and for a long while he sat on the porch under the stars. and, as always at that hour, the same scene obsessed his memory, when the last glance of his father's eye and the last words of his father's tongue went not to his wife, but to the white-faced little son across the foot of the death-bed: "you'll git him fer me--some day." "i'll git him, pap." those were the words that passed, and in them was neither the asking nor the giving of a promise, but a simple statement and a simple acceptance of a simple trust, and the father passed with a grim smile of content. like every hawn the boy believed that a honeycutt was the assassin, and in the solemn little fellow one purpose hitherto had been supreme--to discover the man and avenge the deed; and though, young as he was, he was yet too cunning to let the fact be known, there was no male of the name old enough to pull the trigger, not even his mother's brother, babe, who did not fall under the ban of the boy's deathless hate and suspicion. and always his mother, though herself a honeycutt, had steadily fed his purpose, but for a long while now she had kept disloyally still, and the boy had bitterly learned the reason. it was bedtime now, and little jason rose and went within. as he climbed the steps leading to his loft, he spoke at last, nodding his head toward the cabin over the spur: "i reckon i know whut you two are up to, and, furhermore, you are aimin' to sell this land. i can't keep you from doin' it, i reckon, but i do ask you not to sell without lettin' me know. i know somet'n' 'bout it that nobody else knows. an' if you don't tell me--" he shook his head slowly, and the mother looked at her boy as though she were dazed by some spell. "i'll tell ye, jasie," she said. v down the river road loped arch hawn the next morning, his square chin low with thought, his shrewd eyes almost closed, and his straight lips closed hard on the cane stem of an unlighted pipe. of all the hawns he had been born the poorest in goods and chattels and the richest in shrewd resource, restless energy, and keen foresight. he had gone to the settlements when he was a lad, he had always been coming and going ever since, and the word was that he had been to far-away cities in the outer world that were as unfamiliar to his fellows and kindred as the holy land. he had worked as teamster and had bought and sold anything to anybody right and left. resolutely he had kept himself from all part in the feud--his kinship with the hawns protecting him on one side and the many trades with old aaron honeycutt in cattle and lands saving him from trouble on the other. he carried no tales from one faction to the other, condemned neither one nor the other, and made the same comment to both--that it was foolish to fight when there was so much else so much more profitable to do. once an armed band of mounted honeycutts had met him in the road and demanded news of a similar band of hawns up a creek. "did you ever hear o' my tellin' the hawns anything about you honeycutts?" he asked quietly, and old aaron had to shake his head. "well, if i tol' you anything about them to-day, don't you know i'd be tellin' them something about you to-morrow?" old aaron scratched his head. "by gawd, boys--that's so. let him pass!" thus it was that only arch hawn could have brought about an agreement that was the ninth wonder of the mountain world, and was no less than a temporary truce in the feud between old aaron honeycutt and old jason hawn until the land deal in which both leaders shared a heavy interest could come to a consummation. arch had interested colonel pendleton in his "wild lands" at a horse sale in the blue-grass. the mountaineer's shrewd knowledge of horses had caught the attention of the colonel, his drawling speech, odd phrasing, and quaint humor had amused the blue-grass man, and his exposition of the wealth of the hills and the vast holdings that he had in the hollow of his hand, through options far and wide, had done the rest--for the matter was timely to the colonel's needs and to his accidental hour of opportunity. only a short while before old morton sanders, an eastern capitalist of kentucky birth, had been making inquiry of him that the mountaineer's talk answered precisely, and soon the colonel found himself an intermediary between buried coal and open millions, and such a quick unlooked-for chance of exchange made arch hawn's brain reel. only a few days before the colonel started for the mountains, babe honeycutt had broken the truce by shooting shade hawn, but as shade was going to get well, arch's oily tongue had licked the wound to the pride of every honeycutt except shade, and he calculated that the latter would be so long in bed that his interference would never count. but things were going wrong. arch had had a hard time with old jason the night before. again he had to go over the same weary argument that he had so often travelled before: the mountain people could do nothing with the mineral wealth of their hills; the coal was of no value to them where it was; they could not dig it, they had no market for it; and they could never get it into the markets of the outside world. it was the boy's talk that had halted the old man, and to arch's amazement the colonel's sense of fairness seemed to have been touched and his enthusiasm seemed to have waned a little. that morning, too, arch had heard that shade hawn was getting well a little too fast, and he was on his way to see about it. shade was getting well fast, and with troubled eyes arch saw him sitting up in a chair and cleaning his winchester. "what's yo' hurry?" "i ain't never agreed to no truce," said shade truculently. "don't you think you might save a little time--waitin' fer babe to git tame? he's hidin' out. you can't find him now." "i can look fer him." "shade!"--wily arch purposely spoke loud enough for shade's wife to hear, and he saw her thin, worn, shrewish face turn eagerly--"i'll give ye just fifty dollars to stay here in the house an' git well fer two more weeks. you know why, an' you know hit's wuth it to me. what you say?" shade rubbed his stubbled chin ruminatively and his wife mandy broke in sharply: "take it, you fool!" apparently shade paid no heed to the advice nor the epithet, which was not meant to be offensive, but he knew that mandy wanted a cow of just that price and a cow she would have; while he needed cartridges and other little "fixin's," and he owed for moonshine up a certain creek, and wanted more just then and badly. but mental calculation was laborious and he made a plunge: "not a cent less'n seventy-five, an' i ain't goin' to argue with ye." arch scowled. "split the difference!" he commanded. "all right." a few minutes later arch was loping back up the river road. within an hour he had won old jason to a non-committal silence and straight-way volunteered to show the colonel the outcroppings of his coal. and old jason mounted his sorrel mare and rode with the party up the creek. it was sunday and a holiday for little jason from toil in the rocky corn-field. he was stirring busily before the break of dawn. while the light was still gray, he had milked, cut wood for his mother, and eaten his breakfast of greasy bacon and corn-bread. on that day it had been his habit for months to disappear early, come back for his dinner, slip quietly away again and return worn out and tired at milking-time. invariably for a long time his mother had asked: "whut you been a-doin', jason?" and invariably his answer was: "nothin' much." but, by and by, as the long dark mountaineer, steve hawn, got in the daily habit of swinging over the ridge, she was glad to be free from the boy's sullen watchfulness, and particularly that morning she was glad to see him start as usual up the path his own feet had worn through the steep field of corn, and disappear in the edge of the woods. she would have a long day for courtship and for talk of plans which she was keeping secret from little jason. she was a honeycutt and she had married one hawn, and there had been much trouble. now she was going to marry another of the tribe, there would be more trouble, and steve hawn over the ridge meant to evade it by straightway putting forth from those hills. hurriedly she washed the dishes, tidied up her poor shack of a home, and within an hour she was seated in the porch, in her best dress, with her knitting in her lap and, even that early, lifting expectant and shining eyes now and then to the tree-crowned crest of the ridge. up little jason went through breaking mist and flashing dew. a wood-thrush sang, and he knew the song came from the bird of which little mavis was the human counterpart. woodpeckers were hammering and, when a crested cock of the woods took billowy flight across a blue ravine, he knew him for a big cousin of the little red-heads, just as mavis was a little cousin of his. once he had known birds only by sight, but now he knew every calling, twittering, winging soul of them by name. once he used to draw bead on one and all heartlessly and indiscriminately with his old rifle, but now only the whistle of a bob-white, the darting of a hawk, or the whir of a pheasant's wings made him whirl the old weapon from his shoulder. he knew flower, plant, bush, and weed, the bark and leaf of every tree, and even in winter he could pick them out in the gray etching of a mountain-side--dog-wood, red-bud, "sarvice" berry, hickory, and walnut, the oaks--white, black, and chestnut--the majestic poplar, prized by the outer world, and the black-gum that defied the lightning. all this the dreamy stranger had taught him, and much more. and nobody, native born to those hills, except his uncle arch, knew as much about their hidden treasures as little jason. he had trailed after the man of science along the benches of the mountains where coal beds lie. with him he had sought the roots of upturned trees and the beds of little creeks and the gray faces of "rock-houses" for signs of the black diamonds. he had learned to watch the beds of little creeks for the shining tell-tale black bits, and even the tiny mouths of crawfish holes, on the lips of which they sometimes lay. and the biggest treasure in the hills little jason had found himself; for only on the last day before the rock-pecker had gone away, the two had found signs of another vein, and the geologist had given his own pick to the boy and told him to dig, while he was gone, for himself. and jason had dug. he was slipping now up the tiny branch, and where the stream trickled down the face of a water-worn perpendicular rock the boy stopped, leaned his rifle against a tree, and stepped aside into the bushes. a moment later he reappeared with a small pick in his hand, climbed up over a mound of loose rocks and loose earth, ten feet around the rock, and entered the narrow mouth of a deep, freshly dug ditch. ten feet farther on he was halted by a tall black column solidly wedged in the narrow passage, at the base of which was a bench of yellow dirt extending not more than two feet from the foot of the column and above the floor of the ditch. there had been mighty operations going on in that secret passage; the toil for one boy and one tool had been prodigious and his work was not yet quite done. lifting the pick above his head, the boy sank it into that yellow pedestal with savage energy, raking the loose earth behind him with hands and feet. the sunlight caught the top of the black column above his head and dropped shining inch by inch, but on he worked tirelessly. the yellow bench disappeared and the heap of dirt behind him was piled high as his head, but the black column bored on downward as though bound for the very bowels of the earth, and only when the bench vanished to the level of the ditch's floor did the lad send his pick deep into a new layer and lean back to rest even for a moment. a few deep breaths, the brushing of one forearm and then the other across his forehead and cheeks, and again he grasped the tool. this time it came out hard, bringing out with its point particles of grayish-black earth, and the boy gave a low, shrill yell. it was a bed of clay that he had struck--the bed on which, as the geologist had told him, the massive layers of coal had slept so long. in a few minutes he had skimmed a yellow inch or two more to the dingy floor of the clay bed, and had driven his pick under the very edge of the black bulk towering above him. his work was done, and no buccaneer ever gloated more over hidden treasure than jason over the prize discovered by him and known of nobody else in the world. he raised his head and looked up the shimmering black face of his find. he took up his pick again and notched foot-holes in each side of the yellow ditch. he marked his own height on the face of the column, and, climbing up along it, measured his full length again, and yet with outstretched arm he could barely touch the top of the vein with the tips of his fingers. no vein half that thick had the rock-pecker with all his searching found, and the lad gave a long, low whistle of happy amazement. a moment later he dropped his pick, climbed over the pile of new dirt, emerged at the mouth of the passage, and sat down as if on guard in the grateful coolness of the little ravine. drawing one long breath, he looked proudly back once more and began shaking his head wisely. they couldn't fool him. he knew what that mighty vein of coal was worth. other people--fools--might sell their land for a dollar or two an acre, even old jason, his grandfather, but not the jason hawn who had dug that black giant out of the side of the mountain. "go away, boy," the rock-pecker had said, "get an education. leave this farm alone--it won't run away. by the time you are twenty-one, an acre of it will be worth as much as all of it is now." no, they couldn't fool him. he would keep his find a secret from every soul on earth--even from his grandfather and mavis, both of whom he had already been tempted to tell. he rose to his feet with the resolution and crouched suddenly, listening hard. something was coming swiftly toward him through the undergrowth on the other side of the creek, and he reached stealthily for his rifle, sank behind the bowlder with his thumb on the hammer just as the bushes parted on the opposite cliff, and mavis stood above him, peering for him and calling his name in an excited whisper. he rose glowering and angry. "whut you doin' up here?" he asked roughly, and the girl shrank, and her message stopped at her lips. "they're comin' up here," she faltered. the boy's eyes accused her mercilessly and he seemed not to hear her. "you've been spyin'!" the dignity of his manhood was outraged, and humbly and helplessly she nodded in utter abasement, faltering again: "they're comin' up here!" "who's comin' up here?" "them strangers an' grandpap an' uncle arch--an' another rock-pecker." "did you tell'em?" the girl crossed her heart and body swiftly. "i hain't told a soul," she gasped". i come up to tell you." "when they comin'?" the sound of voices below answered for her. the boy wheeled, alert as a wild-cat, the girl slid noiselessly down the cliff and crept noiselessly after him down the bed of the creek, until they could both peer through the bushes down on the next bend of the stream below. there they were--all of them, and down there they had halted. "ain't no use goin' up any furder," said the voice of arch hawn; "i've looked all up this crick an' thar ain't nary a blessed sign o' coal." "all right," said the colonel, who was puffing with the climb. "that suits me--i've had enough." at jason's side, mavis echoed his own swift breath of relief, but as the party turned, the rock-pecker stooped and rose with a black lump in his hand. "hello!" he said, "where did this come from?" the boy's heart began to throb, for once he had started to carry that very lump to his grandfather, had changed his mind, and thoughtlessly dropped it there. the geologist was looking at it closely and then began to weigh it with his hand. "this is pretty good-looking coal," he said, and he laughed. "i guess we'd better go up a little farther--this didn't come out all by itself." the boy dug mavis sharply in the shoulder. "git back into the bushes--quick!" he whispered. the girl shrank away and the boy dropped down into the bed of the creek and slipped down to where the stream poured between two bowlders over which ascent was slippery and difficult. and when the party turned up the bend of the creek, arch hawn saw the boy, tense and erect, on the wet black summit of one bowlder, with his old rifle in the hollow of his arm. "why, hello, jason!" he cried, with a start of surprise; "found anything to shoot?" "not yit!" said jason shortly. the geologist stepped around arch and started to climb toward the foot of the bowlder. "you stop thar!" the ring of the boy's fiery command stopped the man as though a rattlesnake had given the order at his very feet, and he looked up bewildered; but the boy had not moved. "whut you mean, boy?" shouted arch. "we're lookin' for a vein o' coal." "well, you hain't a-goin' to find hit up this way." "whut you want to keep us from goin' up here fer?" asked the uncle with sarcastic suspicion. "got a still up here?" "that's my business," said little jason. "well," shouted arch angrily again, "this ain't yo' land an' i've got a option on it an' hit's my business to go up here, an' i'm goin'!" as he pushed ahead of the geologist the boy flashed his old rifle to his shoulder. "i'll let ye come just two steps more," he said quietly, and old jason hawn began to grin and stepped aside as though to get out of range. "hol' on thar, arch," he said; "he'll shoot, shore!" and arch held on, bursting with rage and glaring up at the boy. "i've a notion to git me a switch an' whoop the life out o' you." the boy laughed derisively. "my whoopin' days air over." the amazed and amused geologist put his hand on arch's shoulder. "never mind," he said, and with a significant wink he pulled a barometer out of his pocket and carefully noted the altitude. "we'll manage it later." the party turned, old jason still smiling grimly, the colonel chuckling, the geologist busy with speculation, and arch sore and angry, but wondering what on earth it was that the boy had found up that ravine. presently with the geologist he dropped behind the other two and the latter's frowning brow cleared into a smile at his lips. he stopped, looking still at the black lump and weighing it once more in his hand. "i think i know this coal," he said in a low voice, "and if i'm right you've got the best and thickest vein of coking coal in these mountains. it's the culloden seam. nobody ever has found it on this side of the mountain, and it is supposed to have petered out on the way through. that boy has found the culloden seam. the altitude is right, the coal looks and weighs like it, and we can find it somewhere else under that bench along the mountain. so you better let the boy alone." little jason stood motionless looking after them. little mavis crept from her hiding-place. her face showed no pride in jason's triumph and few traces of excitement, for she was already schooled to the quiet acquiescence of mountain women in the rough deeds of the men. she had seen jason going up that ravine, she could simply not help going herself to learn why, she was mystified by what he had done up there, but she had kept his secret faithfully. now she was beginning to understand that the matter was serious, and for that reason the boy's charge of spying lay heavier on her mind. so she came slowly and shyly and stood behind him, her eyes dark with penitence. the boy heard her, but he did not turn around. "you better go home, mavie," he said, and at his very tone her face flashed with joy. "they mought come back agin. i'm goin' to stay up here till dark. they can't see nothin' then." there was not a word of rebuke for her; it was his secret and hers now, and pride and gratitude filled her heart and her eyes. "all right, jasie," she said obediently, and down the bowlder she stepped lightly, and slipping down the bed of the creek, disappeared. and not once did she look around. the shadows lengthened, the ravines filled with misty blue, the steep westward spur threw its bulky shadow on the sunlit flank of the opposite hill, and the lonely spirit of night came with the gloom that gathered fast about him in the defile where he lay. a slow wind was blowing up from the river toward him, and on it came faintly the long mellow blast of a horn. it was no hunter's call, and he sprang to his feet. again the winding came and his tense muscles relaxed--nor was it a warning that "revenues" were coming--and he sank back to his lonely useless vigil again. the sun dipped, the sky darkened, the black wings of the night rushed upward and downward and from all around the horizon, but only when they were locked above him did he slip like a creature of the gloom down the bed of the stream. vi the cabin was unlighted when jason came in sight of it and apprehension straightway seized him; so that he broke into a run, but stopped at the gate and crept slowly to the porch and almost on tiptoe opened the door. the fire was low, but the look of things was unchanged, and on the kitchen table he saw his cold supper laid for him. his mother had maybe gone over the ridge for some reason to stay all night, so he gobbled his food hastily and, still uneasy, put forth for mavis's cabin over the hill. that cabin, too, was dark and deserted, and he knew now what had happened--that blast of the horn was a summons to a dance somewhere, and his mother and steve had answered and taken mavis with them; so the boy sat down on the porch, alone with the night and the big still dark shapes around him. it would not be very pleasant for him to follow them--people would tease him and ask him troublesome questions. but where was the dance, and had they gone to it after all? he rose and went swiftly down the creek. at the mouth of it a light shone through the darkness, and from it a quavering hymn trembled on the still air. a moment later jason stood on the threshold of an open door and an old couple at the fireplace lifted welcoming eyes. "uncle lige, do you know whar my mammy is?" the old man's eyes took on a troubled look, but the old woman answered readily: "why, i seed her an' steve hawn an' mavis a-goin' down the crick jest afore dark, an' yo' mammy said as how they was aimin' to go to yo' grandpap's." it was his grandfather's horn, then, jason had heard. the lad turned to go, and the old circuit rider rose to his full height. "come in, boy. yo' grandpap had better be a-thinkin' about spreadin' the wings of his immortal sperit, stid o' shakin' them feet o' clay o' his'n an' a-settin' a bad example to the young an' errin'!" "hush up!" said the old woman. "the bible don't say nothin' agin a boy lookin' fer his mammy, no matter whar she is." she spoke sharply, for steve hawn had called her husband out to the gate, where the two had talked in whispers, and the old man had refused flatly to tell her what the talk was about. but jason had turned without a word and was gone. out in the darkness of the road he stood for a moment undecided whether or not he should go back to his lonely home, and some vague foreboding started him swiftly on down the creek. on top of a little hill he could see the light in his grandfather's house, and that far away he could hear the rollicking tune of "sourwood mountain." the sounds of dancing feet soon came to his ears, and from those sounds he could tell the figures of the dance just as he could tell the gait of an unseen horse thumping a hard dirt road. he leaned over the yard fence--looking, listening, thinking. through the window he could see the fiddler with his fiddle pressed almost against his heart, his eyes closed, his horny fingers thumping the strings like trip-hammers, and his melancholy calls ringing high above the din of shuffling feet. his grandfather was standing before the fireplace, his grizzled hair tousled and his face red with something more than the spirits of the dance. the colonel was doing the "grand right and left," and his mother was the colonel's partner--the colonel as gallant as though he were leading mazes with a queen and his mother simpering and blushing like a girl. in one corner sat steve hawn, scowling like a storm-cloud, and on one bed sat marjorie and the boy gray watching the couple and apparently shrieking with laughter; and jason wondered what they could be laughing about. little mavis was not in sight. when the dance closed he could see the colonel go over to the little strangers and, seizing each by the hand, try to pull them from the bed into the middle of the floor. finally they came, and the boy, looking through the window, and mavis, who suddenly appeared in the door leading to the porch, saw a strange sight. gray took marjorie's right hand with his left and put his right arm around her waist and then to the stirring strains of "soapsuds over the fence" they whirled about the room as lightly as two feathers in an eddy of air. it was a two-step and the first round dance ever seen in these hills, and the mountaineers took it silently, grimly, and with little sign of favor or disapproval, except from old jason, who, looking around for mavis, caught sight of little jason's wondering face over her shoulder, for the boy had left the blurred window-pane and hurried around to the back door for a better view. with a whoop the old man reached for the little girl, and gathered in the boy with his other hand. "hyeh!" he cried, "you two just git out thar an' shake a foot!" little mavis hung back, but the boy bounded into the middle of the floor and started into a furious jig, his legs as loose from the hip as a jumping-jack and the soles and heels of his rough brogans thumping out every note of the music with astonishing precision and rapidity. he hardly noticed mavis at first, and then he began to dance toward her, his eyes flashing and fixed on hers and his black locks tumbling about his forehead as though in an electric storm. the master was calling and the maid answered--shyly at first, coquettishly by and by, and then, forgetting self and onlookers, with a fiery abandon that transformed her. alternately he advanced and she retreated, and when, with a scornful toss of that night-black head, the boy jigged away, she would relent and lure him back, only to send him on his way again. sometimes they were back to back and the colonel saw that always then the girl was first to turn, but if the lad turned first, the girl whirled as though she were answering the dominant spirit of his eyes even through the back of her head, and, looking over to the bed, he saw his own little kinswoman answering that same masterful spirit in a way that seemed hardly less hypnotic. even gray's clear eyes, fixed at first on the little mountain girl, had turned to jason, but they were undaunted and smiling, and when jason, seeing steve's face at the window and his mother edging out through the front door, seemed to hesitate in his dance, and mavis, thinking he was about to stop, turned panting away from him, gray sprang from the bed like a challenging young buck and lit facing the mountain boy and in the midst of a double-shuffle that the amazed colonel had never seen outdone by any darkey on his farm. "jenny with a ruff-duff a-kickin' up the dust," clicked his feet. "juba this and juba that! juba killed a yaller cat! juba! juba!" "whoop!" yelled old jason, bending his huge body and patting his leg and knee to the beat of one big cowhide boot and urging them on in a frenzy of delight: "come on, jason! git atter him, stranger! whoop her up thar with that fiddle--heh--ee--dum dee--eede-eedle--dedee-dee!" then there was dancing. the fiddler woke like a battery newly charged, every face lighted with freshened interest, and only the colonel and marjorie showed surprise and mystification. the double-shuffle was hardly included in the curriculum of the colonel's training school for a gentleman, and where, when, and how the boy had learned such ethiopian skill, neither he nor marjorie knew. but he had it and they enjoyed it to the full. gray's face wore a merry smile, and jason, though he was breathing hard and his black hair was plastered to his wet forehead, faced his new competitor with rallying feet but a sullen face. "the forked deer," "big sewell mountain," and "cattle licking salt" for jason, and the back-step, double-shuffle, and "jim crow" for gray; both improvising their own steps when the fiddler raised his voice in "comin' up, sandy," "chicken in the dough-tray," and "sparrows on the ash-bank"; and thus they went through all the steps known to the negro or the mountaineer, until the colonel saw that game little jason, though winded, would go on till he dropped, and gave gray a sign that the boy's generous soul caught like a flash; for, as though worn out himself, he threw up his hands with a laugh and left the floor to jason. just then there was the crack of a winchester from the darkness outside. simultaneously, as far as the ear could detect, there was a sharp rap on a window-pane, as a bullet sped cleanly through, and in front of the fire old jason's mighty head sagged suddenly and he crumbled into a heap on the floor. arch hawn had carried his business deal through. the truce was over and the feud was on again. vii knowing but little of his brother in the hills, the man from the lowland blue-grass was puzzled and amazed that all feeling he could observe was directed solely at the deed itself and not at the way it was done. no indignation was expressed at what was to him the contemptible cowardice involved--indeed little was said at all, but the colonel could feel the air tense and lowering with a silent deadly spirit of revenge, and he would have been more puzzled had he known the indifference on the part of the hawns as to whether the act of revenge should take precisely the same form of ambush. for had the mountain code of ethics been explained to him--that what was fair for one was fair for the other; that the brave man could not fight the coward who shot from the brush and must, therefore, adopt the coward's methods; that thus the method of ambush had been sanctioned by long custom--he still could never have understood how a big, burly, kind-hearted man like jason hawn could have been brought even to tolerance of ambush by environment, public sentiment, private policy, custom, or any other influence that moulds the character of men. old jason would easily get well--the colonel himself was surgeon enough to know that--and he himself dressed and bandaged the ragged wound that the big bullet had made through one of the old man's mighty shoulders. at his elbow all the time, helping, stood little jason, and not once did the boy speak, nor did the line of his clenched lips alter, nor did the deadly look in his smouldering eyes change. one by one the guests left, the colonel sent marjorie and gray to bed, grandmother hawn sent mavis, and when all was done and the old man was breathing heavily on a bed in the corner and grandmother hawn was seated by the fire with a handkerchief to her lips, the colonel heard the back door open and little jason, too, was gone--gone on business of his own. he had seen steve hawn's face at the window, his mother had slipped out on the porch while he was dancing, and neither had appeared again. so little jason went swiftly through the dark, over the ridge and up the big creek to the old circuit rider's house, where the stream forked. all the way he had seen the tracks of a horse which he knew to be steve's, for the right forefoot, he knew, had cast a shoe only the day before. at the forks the tracks turned up the branch that led to steve's cabin and not up toward his mother's house. if steve had his mother behind him, he had taken her to his own home; that, in mavis's absence, was not right, and, burning with sudden rage, the boy hurried up the branch. the cabin was dark and at the gate he gave a shrill, imperative "hello!" in a few minutes the door opened and the tousled head of his cousin was thrust forth. "is my mammy hyeh?" he called hotly. "yep," drawled steve. "well, tell her i'm hyeh to take her home!" there was no sound from within. "well, she ain't goin' home," steve drawled. the boy went sick and speechless with fury, but before he could get his breath steve drawled again: "she's goin' to live here now--we got married to-night." the boy dropped helplessly against the gate at these astounding words and his silence stirred steve to kindness. "now, don't take it so hard, jason. come on in, boy, an' stay all night." still the lad was silent and another face appeared at the door. "come on in, jasie." it was his mother's voice and the tone was pleading, but the boy, with no answer, turned, and they heard his stumbling steps as he made his way along the fence and started over the spur. behind him his mother began to sob and with rough kindness steve soothed her and closed the door. slowly little jason climbed the spur and dropped on the old log on which he had so often sat--fighting out the trouble which he had so long feared must come. the moon and the stars in her wake were sinking and the night was very still. his reason told him his mother was her own mistress, and had the right to marry when she pleased and whom she pleased, but she was a honeycutt, again she had married a hawn, and the feud was starting again. steve hawn would be under suspicion as his own father had been, steve would probably have to live on the honeycutt side of the ridge, and jason's own earlier days of shame he must go through again. that was his first thought, but his second was a quick oath to himself that he would not go through them again. he was big enough to handle a winchester now, and he would leave his mother and he would fight openly with the hawns. and then as he went slowly down the spur he began to wonder with fresh suspicion what his mother and steve might now do, what influence steve might have over her, and if he might not now encourage her to sell her land. and, if that happened, what would become of him? the old hound in the porch heard him coming and began to bay at him fiercely, but when he opened the gate the dog bounded to him whining with joy and trying to lick his hands. he dropped on the porch and the loneliness of it all clutched his heart so that he had to gulp back a sob in his throat and blink his eyes to keep back the tears. but it was not until he went inside finally and threw himself with his clothes on across his mother's empty bed that he lost all control and sobbed himself to sleep. when he awoke it was not only broad daylight, but the sun was an hour high and streaming through the mud-chinked crevices of the cabin. in his whole life he had never slept so long after daybreak and he sprang up in bed with bewildered eyes, trying to make out where he was and why he was there. the realization struck him with fresh pain, and when he slowly climbed out of the bed the old hound was whining at the door. when he opened it the fresh wind striking his warm body aroused him sharply. he wondered why his mother had not already been over for her things. the chickens were clustered expectantly at the corner of the house, the calf was bawling at the corner of the fence, and the old cow was waiting patiently at the gate. he turned quickly to the kitchen and to a breakfast on the scraps of his last night's supper. he did not know how to make coffee, and for the first time in his life he went without it. within an hour the cow was milked and fed, bread crumbs were scattered to the chickens, and alone in the lonely cabin he faced the new conditions of his life. he started toward the gate, not knowing where he should go. he drifted aimlessly down the creek and he began to wonder about mavis, whether she had got home and now knew what had happened and what she thought about it all, and about his grandfather and who it was that had shot him. there were many things that he wanted to know, and his steps quickened with a definite purpose. at the mouth of the creek he hailed the old circuit rider's house, and the old man and his wife both appeared in the doorway. "i reckon you couldn't help doin' it?" "no," said the old man. "thar wasn't no reason fer me to deny 'em." he looked confused and the old woman gulped, for both were wondering how much the lad knew. "how's grandpap?" "right porely i heerd," said the old woman. "the doctor's thar, an' he said that if the bullet had 'a' gone a leetle furder down hit would 'a' killed him." "whar's mavis?" again the two old people looked confused, for it was plain that jason did not know all that had happened. "i hain't seed her, but somebody said she went by hyeh on her way home about an hour ago. i was thinkin' about goin' up thar right now." the boy's eyes were shifting now from one to the other and he broke in abruptly: "whut's the matter?" the old man's lips tightened. "jason, she's up thar alone. yo' mammy an' steve have run away." the lad looked at the old man with unblinking eyes. "don't ye understand, boy?" repeated the old man kindly. "they've run away!" jason turned his head quickly and started for the gate. "now, don't, jason," called the old woman in a broken voice. "don't take on that way. i want ye both to come an' live with us," she pleaded. "come on back now." the little fellow neither made answer nor looked back, and the old people watched him turn up the creek, trudging toward mavis's home. the boy's tears once more started when he caught sight of steve hawn's cabin, but he forced them back. a helpless little figure was sitting in the open doorway with head buried in her arms. she did not hear him coming even when he was quite near, for the lad stepped softly and gently put one hand on her shoulder. she looked up with a frightened start, and at sight of his face she quit her sobbing and with one hand over her quivering mouth turned her head away. "come on, mavie," he said quietly. again she looked up, wonderingly this time, and seeing some steady purpose in his eyes rose without a question. with no word he turned and she followed him back down the creek. and the old couple, sitting in the porch, saw them coming, the boy striding resolutely ahead, the little girl behind, and the faces of both deadly serious--the one with purpose and the other with blind trust. they did not call to the boy, for they saw him swerve across the road toward the gate. he did not lift his head until he reached the gate, and he did not wait for mavis. he had no need, for she had hurried to his side when he halted at the steps of the porch. "uncle lige," he said, "me an' mavis hyeh want to git married." not the faintest surprise showed in mavis's face, little as she knew what his purpose was, for what the master did was right; but the old woman and the old man were stunned into silence and neither could smile. "have you got yo' license?" the old man asked gravely. "whut's a license?" "you got to git a license from the county clerk afore you can git married, an' hit costs two dollars." the boy flinched, but only for a moment. "i kin borrer the money," he said stoutly. "but you can't git a license--you ain't a man." "i ain't!" cried the boy hotly; "i got to be!" "come in hyeh, jason," said the old man, for it was time to leave off evasion, and he led the lad into the house while mavis, with the old woman's arm around her, waited in the porch. jason came out baffled and pale. "hit ain't no use, mavis," he said; "the law's agin us an' we got to wait. they've run away an' they've both sold out an' yo' daddy left word that he was goin' to send fer ye whenever he got whatever he was goin'." jason waited and he did not have to wait long. "i hain't goin' to leave ye," she flashed. viii st. hilda sat on the vine-covered porch of her little log cabin, high on the hill-side, with a look of peace in her big dreaming eyes. from the frame house a few rods below her, mountain children--boys and girls--were darting in and out, busy as bees, and, unlike the dumb, pathetic little people out in the hills, alert, keen-eyed, cheerful, and happy. under the log foot-bridge the shining creek ran down past the mountain village below, where the cupola of the court-house rose above the hot dirt streets, the ramshackle hotel, and the dingy stores and frame dwellings of the town. across the bridge her eyes rested on another neat, well-built log cabin with a grass plot around it, and, running alongside and covered with honeysuckle--a pergola! that was her hospital down there--empty, thank god. with a little turn of her strong white chin, her eyes rested on the charred foundation of her school-house, to which some mean hand had applied the torch a month ago, and were lifted up to the mountain-side, where mountain men were chopping down trees and mountain oxen yanking them down the steep slopes to the bank of the creek, and then the peace of them went deeper still, for they could look back on her work and find it good. nun-like in renunciation, she had given up her beloved blue-grass land, she had left home and kindred, and she had settled, two days' journey from a railroad, in the hills. she had gone back to the physical life of the pioneers, she had encountered the customs and sentiments of mediaeval days, and no abbess of those days, carrying light into dark places, needed more courage and devotion to meet the hardships, sacrifice, and prejudice that she had overcome. she brought in the first wagon-load of window-panes for darkened homes before she even tapped on the window of a darkened mind; but when she did, no plants ever turned more eagerly toward the light than did the youthful souls of those kentucky hills. she started with five pupils in a log cabin. she built a homely frame house with five rooms, only to find more candidates clamoring at her door. she taught the girls to cook, sew, wash and iron, clean house, and make baskets, and the boys to use tools, to farm, make garden, and take care of animals; and she taught them all to keep clean. out in the hills she found good old names, english and scotch-irish. she found men who "made their mark" boasting of grandfathers who were "scholards." in one household she came upon a time-worn set of the "british poets" up to the nineteenth century, and such was the sturdy character of the hillsmen that she tossed the theory aside that they were the descendants of the riffraff of the old world, tossed it as a miserable slander and looked upon them as the same blood as the people of the blue-grass, the valleys, and the plains beyond. on the westward march they had simply dropped behind, and their isolation had left them in a long sleep that had given them a long rest, but had done them no real harm. always in their eyes, however, she was a woman, and no woman was "fitten" to teach school. she was more--a "fotched-on" woman, a distrusted "furriner," and she was carrying on a "slavery school." sometimes she despaired of ever winning their unreserved confidence, but out of the very depth of that despair to which the firebrand of some miscreant had plunged her, rose her star of hope, for then the indian-like stoicism of her neighbors melted and she learned the place in their hearts that was really hers. other neighborhoods asked for her to come to them, but her own would not let her go. straightway there was nothing to eat, smoke, chew, nor wear that grew or was made in those hills that did not pour toward her. land was given her, even money was contributed for rebuilding, and when money was not possible, this man and that gave his axe, his horse, his wagon, and his services as a laborer for thirty and sixty days. so that those axes gleaming in the sun on the hillside, those straining muscles, and those sweating brows meant a labor of love going on for her. no wonder the peace of her eyes was deep. and yet st. hilda, as one forsaken lover in the blue-grass had christened her, opened the little roll-book in her lap and sighed deeply, for in there on her waiting-list were the names of a hundred children for whom, with all the rebuilding, she would have no place. only the day before, a mountaineer had brought in nine boys and girls, his stepdaughter's and his own, and she had sadly turned them away. still they were coming in name and in person, on horseback, in wagon and afoot, and among them was jason hawn, who was starting toward her that morning from far away over the hills. over there the twin spirals of smoke no longer rose on either side of the ridge and drifted upward, for both cabins were closed. jason's sale was just over--the sale of one cow, two pigs, a dozen chickens, one stove, and a few pots and pans--the neighbors were gone, and jason sat alone on the porch with more money in his pocket than he had ever seen at one time in his life. his bow and arrow were in one hand, his father's rifle was over his shoulder, and his old nag was hitched to the fence. the time had come. he had taken a farewell look at the black column of coal he had unearthed for others, the circuit rider would tend his little field of corn on shares, mavis would live with the circuit rider's wife, and his grandfather had sternly forbidden the boy to take any hand in the feud. the geologist had told him to go away and get an education, his uncle arch had offered to pay his way if he would go to the bluegrass to school--an offer that the boy curtly declined--and now he was starting to the settlement school of which he had heard so much, in the county-seat of an adjoining county. for, even though run by women, it must be better than nothing, better than being beholden to his uncle arch, better than a place where people and country were strange. so, jason mounted his horse, rode down to the forks of the creek and drew up at the circuit rider's house, where mavis and the old woman came out to the gate to say good-by. the boy had not thought much about the little girl and the loneliness of her life after he was gone, for he was the man, he was the one to go forth and do; and it was for mavis to wait for him to come back. but when he handed her the bow and arrow and told her they were hers, the sight of her face worried him deeply. "i'm a-goin' over thar an' if i like it an' thar's a place fer you, i'll send the nag back fer you, too." he spoke with manly condescension only to comfort her, but the eager gladness that leaped pitifully from her eyes so melted him that he added impulsively: "s'pose you git up behind me an' go with me right now." "mavis ain't goin' now," said the old woman sharply. "you go on whar you're goin' an' come back fer her." "all right," said jason, greatly relieved. "take keer o' yourselves." with a kick he started the old nag and again pulled in. "an' if you leave afore i git back, mavis, i'm a-goin' to come atter you, no matter whar you air--some day." "good-by," faltered the little girl, and she watched him ride down the creek and disappear, and her tears came only when she felt the old woman's arms around her. "don't you mind, honey." over ridge and mountain and up and down the rocky beds of streams jogged jason's old nag for two days until she carried him to the top of the wooded ridge whence he looked down on the little mountain town and the queer buildings of the settlement school. half an hour later st. hilda saw him cross the creek below the bridge, ride up to the foot-path gate, hitch his old mare, and come straight to her where she sat--in a sturdy way that fixed her interest instantly and keenly. "i've come over hyeh to stay with ye," he said simply. st. hilda hesitated and distress kept her silent. "my name's jason hawn. i come from t'other side o' the mountain an' i hain't got no home." "i'm sorry, little man," she said gently, "but we have no place for you." the boy's eyes darted to one side and the other. "shucks! i can sleep out thar in that woodshed. i hain't axin' no favors. i got a leetle money an' i can work like a man." now, while st. hilda's face was strong, her heart was divinely weak and jason saw it. unhesitatingly he climbed the steps, handed his rifle to her, sat down, and at once began taking stock of everything about him--the boy swinging an axe at the wood-pile, the boy feeding the hogs and chickens; another starting off on an old horse with a bag of corn for the mill, another ploughing the hill-side. others were digging ditches, working in a garden, mending a fence, and making cinder paths. but in all this his interest was plainly casual until his eyes caught sight of a pile of lumber at the door of the workshop below, and through the windows the occasional gleam of some shining tool. instantly one eager finger shot out. "i want to go down thar." good-humoredly st. hilda took him, and when jason looked upon boys of his own age chipping, hewing, planing lumber, and making furniture, so busy that they scarcely gave him a glance, st. hilda saw his eyes light and his fingers twitch. "gee!" he whispered with a catch of his breath, "this is the place fer me." but when they went back and jason put his head into the big house, st. hilda saw his face darken, for in there boys were washing dishes and scrubbing floors. "does all the boys have to do that?" he asked with great disgust. "oh, yes," she said. jason turned abruptly away from the door, and when he passed a window of the cottage on the way back to her cabin and saw two boys within making up beds, he gave a grunt of scorn and derision and he did not follow her up the steps. "gimme back my gun," he said. "why, what's the matter, jason?" "this is a gals' school--hit hain't no place fer me." it was no use for her to tell him that soldiers made their own beds and washed their own dishes, for his short answer was: "mebbe they had to, 'cause thar wasn't no women folks around, but he didn't," and his face was so hopelessly set and stubborn that she handed him the old gun without another word. for a moment he hesitated, lifting his solemn eyes to hers. "i want you to know i'm much obleeged," he said. then he turned away, and st. hilda saw him mount his old nag, climb the ridge opposite without looking back, and pass over the summit. old jason hawn was sitting up in a chair when two days later disgusted little jason rode up to his gate. "they wanted me to do a gal's work over thar," he explained shortly, and the old man nodded grimly with sympathy and understanding. "i was lookin' fer ye to come back." old aaron honeycutt had been winged through the shoulder while the lad was away and the feud score had been exactly evened by the ambushing of another of the tribe. on this argument arch hawn was urging a resumption of the truce, but both clans were armed and watchful and everybody was looking for a general clash on the next county-court day. the boy soon rose restlessly. "whar you goin'?" "i'm a-goin' to look atter my corn." at the forks of the creek the old circuit rider hailed jason gladly, and he, too, nodded with approval when he heard the reason the boy had come back. "i'll make ye a present o' the work i've done in yo' corn--bein' as i must 'a' worked might' nigh an hour up thar yestiddy an' got plumb tuckered out. i come might' nigh fallin' out, hit was so steep, an' if i had, i reckon i'd 'a' broke my neck." the old woman appeared on the porch and she, too, hailed the boy with a bantering tone and a quizzical smile. "one o' them fotched-on women whoop ye fer missin' yo' a-b-abs?" she asked. jason scowled. "whar's mavis?" the old woman laughed teasingly. "why, hain't ye heerd the news? how long d'ye reckon a purty gal like mavis was a-goin' to wait fer you? 'member that good-lookin' little furrin feller who was down here from the settlemints? well, he come back an' tuk her away." jason knew the old woman was teasing him, and instead of being angry, as she expected, he looked so worried and distressed that she was sorry, and her rasping old voice became gentle with affection. "mavis's gone to the settlemints, honey. her daddy sent fer her an' i made her go. she's whar she belongs--up thar with him an' yo' mammy. go put yo' hoss in the stable an' come an' live right here with us." jason shook his head and without answer turned his horse down the creek again. a little way down he saw three honeycutts coming, all armed, and he knew that to avoid passing his grandfather's house they were going to cross the ridge and strike the head of their own creek. one of them was a boy--"little aaron"--less than two years older than himself, and little aaron not only had a pistol buckled around him, but carried a winchester across his saddle-bow. the two men grinned and nodded good-naturedly to him, but the boy aaron pulled his horse across the road and stopped jason, who had stood many a taunt from him. "which side air you on now?" asked aaron contemptuously. "you git out o' my road!" "hit's my road now," said aaron, tapping his winchester, "an' i've got a great notion o' makin' you git offen that ole bag o' bones an' dance fer me." one of the honeycutts turned in his saddle. "come on," he shouted angrily, "an' let that boy alone." "all right," he shouted back, and then to his white, quivering, helpless quarry: "i'll let ye off this time, but next time--" "i'll be ready fer ye," broke in jason. the lad's mind was made up now. he put the old nag in a lope down the rocky creek. he did not even go to his grandfather's for dinner, but turned at the river in a gallop for town. the rock-pecker, and even mavis, were gone from his mind, and the money in his pocket was going, not for love or learning, but for pistol and cartridge now. ix september in the blue-grass. the earth cooling from the summer's heat, the nights vigorous and chill, the fields greening with a second spring. skies long, low, hazy, and gently arched over rolling field and meadow and woodland. the trees gray with the dust that had sifted all summer long from the limestone turnpikes. the streams shrunken to rivulets that trickled through crevices between broad flat stones and oozed through beds of water-cress and crow-foot, horse-mint and pickerel-weed, the wells low, cisterns empty, and recourse for water to barrels and the sunken ponds. the farmers cutting corn, still green, for stock, and ploughing ragweed strongholds for the sowing of wheat. the hemp an indian village of gray wigwams. and a time of weeds--indeed the heyday of weeds of every kind, and the harvest time for the king weed of them all. everywhere his yellow robes were hanging to poles and drying in the warm sun. everywhere led the conquering war trail of the unkingly usurper, everywhere in his wake was devastation. the iron-weed had given up his purple crown, and yellow wheat, silver-gray oats, and rippling barley had fled at the sight of his banner to the open sunny spaces as though to make their last stand an indignant appeal that all might see. even the proud woodlands looked ragged and drooping, for here and there the ruthless marauder had flanked one and driven a battalion into its very heart, and here and there charred stumps told plainly how he had overrun, destroyed, and ravished the virgin soil beneath. a fuzzy little parasite was throttling the life of the kentuckians' hemp. a bewhiskered moralist in a far northern state would one day try to drive the kings of his racing-stable to the plough. a meddling band of fanatical teetotalers would overthrow his merry monarch, king barleycorn, and the harassed son of the blue-grass, whether he would or not, must turn to the new pretender who was in the kentuckians' midst, uninvited and self-throned. and with king tobacco were coming his own human vassals that were to prove a new social discord in the land--up from the river-bottoms of the ohio and down from the foot-hills of the cumberland--to plant, worm, tend, and fit those yellow robes to be stuffed into the mouth of the world and spat back again into the helpless face of the earth. and these vassals were supplanting native humanity as the plant was supplanting the native products of the soil. and with them and the new king were due in time a train of evils to that native humanity, creating disaffection, dividing households against themselves, and threatening with ruin the lordly social structure itself. but, for all this, the land that early september morning was a land of peace and plenty, and in field, meadow, and woodland the most foreign note of the landscape was a spot of crimson in the crotch of a high staked and ridered fence on the summit of a little hill, and that spot was a little girl. she had on an old-fashioned poke-bonnet of deep pink, her red dress was of old-fashioned homespun, her stockings were of yarn, and her rough shoes should have been on the feet of a boy. had the vanished forests and cane-brakes of the eighteenth century covered the land, had the wild beasts and wild men come back to roam them, had the little girl's home been a stockade on the edge of the wilderness, she would have fitted perfectly to the time and the scene, as a little daughter of daniel boone. as it was, she felt no less foreign than she looked, for the strangeness of the land and of the people still possessed her so that her native shyness had sunk to depths that were painful. she had a new ordeal before her now, for in her sinewy little hands were a paper bag, a first reader, and a spelling-book, and she was on her way to school. beneath her the white turnpike wound around the hill and down into a little hollow, and on the crest of the next low hill was a little frame house with a belfry on top. even while she sat there with parted lips, her face in a tense dream and her eyes dark with dread and indecision, the bell from the little school-house clanged through the still air with a sudden, sharp summons that was so peremptory and personal that she was almost startled from her perch. not daring to loiter any longer, she leaped lightly to the ground and started in breathless haste up and over the hill. as she went down it, she could see horses hitched to the fence around the yard and school-children crowding upon the porch and filing into the door. the last one had gone in before she reached the school-house gate, and she stopped with a thumping heart that quite failed her then and there, for she retreated backward through the gate, to be sure that no one saw her, crept along the stone wall, turned into a lane, and climbed a worm fence into the woods behind the school-house. there she sat down on a log, miserably alone, and over the sunny strange slopes of this new world, on over the foothills, her mind flashed to the big far-away mountains and, dropping her face into her hands, she began to sob out her loneliness and sorrow. the cry did her good, and by and by she lifted her head, rubbed her reddened eyes with the back of one hand, half rose to go to the school-house, and sank helplessly down on the thick grass by the side of the log. the sun beat warmly and soothingly down on her. the grass and even the log against her shoulders were warm and comforting, and the hum of insects about her was so drowsy that she yawned and settled deeper into the grass, and presently she passed into sleep and dreams of jason. jason was in the feud. she could see him crouched in some bushes and peering through them on the lookout evidently for some honeycutt; and slipping up the other side of the hill was a honeycutt looking for jason. somehow she knew it was the honeycutt who had slain the boy's father, and she saw the man creep through the brush and worm his way on his belly to a stump above where jason sat. she saw him thrust his winchester through the leaves, she tried to shriek a warning to jason, and she awoke so weak with terror that she could hardly scramble to her feet. just then the air was rent with shrill cries, she saw school-boys piling over a fence and rushing toward her hiding-place, and, her wits yet ungathered, she turned and fled in terror down the hill, nor did she stop until the cries behind her grew faint; and then she was much ashamed of herself. nobody was in pursuit of her--it was the dream that had frightened her. she could almost step on the head of her own shadow now, and that fact and a pang of hunger told her it was noon. it was noon recess back at the school and those school-boys were on their way to a playground. she had left her lunch at the log where she slept, and so she made her way back to it, just in time to see two boys pounce on the little paper bag lying in the grass. there was no shyness about her then--that bag was hers--and she flashed forward. "gimme that poke!" the wrestling stopped and, startled by the cry and the apparition, the two boys fell apart. "what?" said the one with the bag in his hand, while the other stared at mavis with puzzled amazement. "gimme that poke!" blazed the girl, and the boy laughed, for the word has almost passed from the vocabulary of the blue-grass. he held it high. "jump for it!" he teased. "i hain't goin' to jump fer it--hit's mine." her hands clenched and she started slowly toward him. "give her the bag," said the other boy so imperatively that the little girl stopped with a quick and trustful shift of her own burden to him. "she's got to jump for it!" the other boy smiled, and it strangely seemed to mavis that she had seen that smile before. "oh, i reckon not," he said quietly, and in a trice the two boys in a close, fierce grapple were rocking before her and the boy with the bag went to the earth first. "gouge him!" shrieked the mountain girl, and she rushed to them while they were struggling, snatched the bag from the loosened fingers, and, seeing the other boys on a run for the scene, fled for the lane. from the other side of the fence she saw the two lads rise, one still smiling, the other crying with anger; the school-bell clanged and she was again alone. hurriedly she ate the bacon and corn-bread in the bag and then she made her way back along the lane, by the stone wall, through the school-house gate, and gathering her courage with one deep breath, she climbed the steps resolutely and stood before the open door. the teacher, a tall man in a long black frock-coat, had his back to her, the room was crowded, and she saw no vacant seat. every pair of eyes within was raised to her, and instantly she caught another surprised and puzzled stare from the boy who had taken her part a little while before. the teacher, seeing the attention of his pupils fixed somewhere behind him, turned to see the quaint figure, dismayed and helpless, in the doorway, and he went quickly toward her. "this way," he said kindly, and pointing to a seat, he turned again to his pupils. still they stared toward the new-comer, and he turned again. the little girl's flushed face was still hidden by her bonnet, but before he reached her to tell her quietly she must take it off, she had seen that all the heads about her were bare and was pulling it off herself--disclosing a riotous mass of black hair, combed straight back from her forehead and gathered into a psyche knot at the back of her head. slowly the flush passed, but not for some time did she lift the extraordinary lashes that veiled her eyes to take a furtive glance about her. but, as the pupils bent more to their books, she grew bolder and looked about oftener and keenly, and she saw with her own eyes and in every pair of eyes whose glance she met, how different she was from all the other girls. for it was a look of wonder and amusement that she encountered each time, and sometimes two girls would whisper behind their hands and laugh, or one would nudge her desk-mate to look around at the stranger, so that the flush came back to mavis's face and stayed there. the tall teacher saw, too, and understood, and, to draw no more attention to her than was necessary, he did not go near her until little recess. as he expected, she did not move from her seat when the other pupils trooped out, and when the room was empty he beckoned her to come to his desk, and in a moment, with her two books clasped in her hands, she stood shyly before him, meeting his kind gray searching eyes with unwavering directness. "you were rather late coming to school." "i was afeerd." the teacher smiled, for her eyes were fearless. "what is your name?" "mavis hawn." her voice was slow, low, and rich, and in some wonder he half unconsciously repeated the unusual name. "where do you live?" "down the road a piece--'bout a whoop an' a holler." "what? oh, i see." he smiled, for she meant to measure distance by sound, and she had used merely a variation of the "far cry" of elizabethan days. "your father works in tobacco?" she nodded. "you come from near the ohio river?" she looked puzzled. "i come from the mountains." "oh!" he understood now her dress and speech, and he was not surprised at the answer to his next question. "i hain't nuver been to school. pap couldn't spare me." "can you read and write?" "no," she said, but she flushed, and he knew straightway the sensitiveness and pride with which he would have to deal. "well," he said kindly, "we will begin now." and he took the alphabet and told her the names of several letters and had her try to make them with a lead pencil, which she did with such uncanny seriousness and quickness that the pity of it, that in his own state such intelligence should be going to such broadcast waste for the want of such elemental opportunities, struck him deeply. the general movement to save that waste was only just beginning, and in that movement he meant to play his part. he was glad now to have under his own supervision one of those mountaineers of whom, but for one summer, he had known so little and heard so much--chiefly to their discredit--and he determined then and there to do all he could for her. so he took her back to her seat with a copy-book and pencil and told her to go on with her work, and that he would go to see her father and mother as soon as possible. "i hain't got no mammy--hit's a step-mammy," she said, and she spoke of the woman as of a horse or a cow, and again he smiled. then as he turned away he repeated her name to himself and with a sudden wonder turned quickly back. "i used to know some hawns down in your mountains. a little fellow named jason hawn used to go around with me all the time." her eyes filled and then flashed happily. "why, mebbe you air the rock-pecker?" "the what?" "the jologist. jason's my cousin. i wasn't thar that summer. jason's always talkin' 'bout you." "well, well--i guess i am. that is curious." "jason's mammy was a honeycutt an' she married my daddy an' they run away," she went on eagerly, "an' i had to foller 'em." "where's jason?" again her eyes filled. "i don't know." john burnham put his hand on her head gently and turned to his desk. he rang the bell and when the pupils trooped back she was hard at work, and she felt proud when she observed several girls looking back to see what she was doing, and again she was mystified that each face showed the same expression of wonder and of something else that curiously displeased her, and she wondered afresh why it was that everything in that strange land held always something that she could never understand. but a disdainful whisper came back to her that explained it all. "why, that new girl is only learning her a-b-c's," said a girl, and her desk-mate turned to her with a quick rebuke. "don't--she'll hear you." mavis caught the latter's eyes that instant, and with a warm glow at her heart looked her gratitude, and then she almost cried her surprise aloud--it was the stranger-girl who had been in the mountains--marjorie. the girl looked back in a puzzled way, and a moment later mavis saw her turn to look again. this time the mountain girl answered with a shy smile, and marjorie knew her, nodded in a gay, friendly way, and bent her head to her book. presently she ran her eyes down the benches where the boys sat, and there was gray waiting apparently for her to look around, for he too nodded gayly to her, as though he had known her from the start. the teacher saw the exchange of little civilities and he was much puzzled, especially when, the moment school was over, he saw the lad hurry to catch marjorie, and the two then turn together toward the little stranger. both thrust out their hands, and the little mountain girl, so unaccustomed to polite formalities, was quite helpless with embarrassment, so the teacher went over to help her out and gray explained: "marjorie and i stayed with her grandfather, and didn't we have a good time, marjorie?" marjorie nodded with some hesitation, and gray went on: "how--how is he now?" "grandpap's right peart now." "and how's your cousin--jason?" the question sent such a sudden wave of homesickness through mavis that her answer was choked, and marjorie understood and put her arm around mavis's shoulder. "you must be lonely up here. where do you live?" and when she tried to explain gray broke in. "why, you must be one of our ten--you must live on our farm. isn't that funny?" "and i live further down the road across the pike," said marjorie. "in that great big house in the woods?" "yes," nodded marjorie, "and you must come to see me." mavis's eyes had the light of gladness in them now, and through them looked a grateful heart. outside, gray got marjorie's pony for her, the two mounted, rode out the gate and went down the pike at a gallop, and marjorie whirled in her saddle to wave her bonnet back at the little mountaineer. the teacher, who stood near watching them, turned to go back and close up the school-house. "i'm coming to see your father, and we'll get some books, and you are going to study so hard that you won't have time to get homesick any more," he said kindly, and mavis started down the road, climbed the staked and ridered fence, and made her way across the fields. she had been lonely, and now homesickness came back to her worse than ever. she wondered about jason--where he was and what he was doing and whether she would ever see him again. the memory of her parting with him came back to her--how he looked as she saw him for the last time sitting on his old nag, sturdy and apparently unmoved, and riding out of her sight in just that way; and she heard again his last words as though they were sounding then in her ears: "i'm a-goin' to come an' git you--some day." since that day she had heard of him but once, and that was lately, when arch hawn had come to see her father and the two had talked a long time. they were all well, arch said, down in the mountains. jason had come back from the settlement school. little aaron honeycutt had bantered him in the road and jason had gone wild. he had galloped down to town, bought a colt's forty-five and a pint of whiskey, had ridden right up to old aaron honeycutt's gate, shot off his pistol, and dared little aaron to come out and fight. little aaron wanted to go, but old aaron held him back, and jason sat on his nag at the gate and "cussed out" the whole tribe, and swore "he'd kill every dad-blasted one of 'em if only to git the feller who shot his daddy." old aaron had behaved mighty well, and he and old jason had sent each other word that they would keep both the boys out of the trouble. then arch had brought about another truce and little jason had worked his crop and was making a man of himself. it was archer hawn who had insisted that mavis herself should go to school and had agreed to pay all her expenses, but in spite of her joy at that, she was heart-broken when he was gone, and when she caught her step-mother weeping in the kitchen a vague sympathy had drawn them for the first time a little nearer together. from the top of the little hill her new home was visible across a creek and by the edge of a lane. as she crossed a foot-bridge and made her way noiselessly along the dirt road she heard voices around a curve of the lane and she came upon a group of men leaning against a fence. in the midst of them was her father, and they were arguing with him earnestly and he was shaking his head. "them toll-gates hain't a-hurtin' me none," she heard him drawl. "i don't understand this business, an' i hain't goin' to git mixed up in hit." then he saw her coming and he stopped, and the others looked at her uneasily, she thought, as if wondering what she might have heard. "go on home, mavis," he said shortly, and as she passed on no one spoke until she was out of hearing. some mischief was afoot, but she was not worried, nor was her interest aroused at all. a moment later she could see her step-mother seated on her porch and idling in the warm sun. the new home was a little frame house, neat and well built. there was a good fence around the yard and the garden, and behind the garden was an orchard of peach-trees and apple-trees. the house was guttered and behind the kitchen was a tiny grape-arbor, a hen-house, and a cistern--all strange appurtenances to mavis. the two spoke only with a meeting of the eyes, and while the woman looked her curiosity she asked no questions, and mavis volunteered no information. "did you see steve a-talkin' to some fellers down the road?" mavis nodded. "did ye hear whut they was talkin' about?" "somethin' about the toll-gates." a long silence followed. "the teacher said he was comin' over to see you and pap." "whut fer?" "i dunno." after another silence mavis went on: "the teacher is that rock-pecker jason was always a-talkin' 'bout." the woman's interest was aroused now, for she wondered if he were coming over to ask her any troublesome questions. "well, ain't that queer!" "an' that boy an' gal who was a-stayin' with grandpap was thar at school too, an' she axed me to come over an' see her." this the step-mother was not surprised to hear, for she knew on whose farm they were living and why they were there, and she had her own reasons for keeping the facts from mavis. "well, you oughter go." "i am a-goin'." mavis missed the mountains miserably when she went to bed that night--missed the gloom and lift of them through her window, and the rolling sweep of the land under the moon looked desolate and lonely and more than ever strange. a loping horse passed on the turnpike, and she could hear it coming on the hard road far away and going far away; then a buggy and then a clattering group of horsemen, and indeed everything heralded its approach at a great distance. she missed the stillness of the hills, for on the night air were the barking of dogs, whinny of horses, lowing of cattle, the song of a night-prowling negro, and now and then the screech of a peacock. she missed jason wretchedly, too, for there had been so much talk of him during the day, and she went to sleep with her lashes wet with tears. some time during the night she was awakened by pistol-shots, and her dream of jason made her think that she was at home again. but no mountains met her startled eyes through the window. instead a red glare hung above the woods, there was the clatter of hoofs on the pike, and flames shot above the tops of the trees. nor could it be a forest fire such as was common at home, for the woods were not thick enough. this land, it seemed, had troubles of its own, as did her mountains, but at least folks did not burn folks' houses in the hills. x on the top of a bushy foot-hill the old nag stopped, lifted her head, and threw her ears forward as though to gaze, like any traveller to a strange land, upon the rolling expanse beneath, and the lad on her back voiced her surprise and his own with a long, low whistle of amazement. he folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle and the two searched the plains below long and hard, for neither knew so much level land was spread out anywhere on the face of the earth. the lad had a huge pistol buckled around him; he looked half dead with sleeplessness and the old nag was weary and sore, for jason was in flight from trouble back in those hills. he had kept his promise to his grandfather that summer, as little aaron honeycutt had kept his. neither had taken part in the feud, and even after the truce came, each had kept out of the other's way. when jason's corn was gathered there was nothing for him to do and the lad had grown restless. while roaming the woods one day, a pheasant had hurtled over his head. he had followed it, sighted it, and was sinking down behind a bowlder to get a rest for his pistol when the voices of two honeycutts who had met in the road just under him stopped his finger on the trigger. "that boy's a-goin' to bust loose some day," said one voice. "i've heerd him a-shootin' at a tree every day for a month up thar above his corn-field." "oh, no, he ain't," said the other. "he's just gittin' ready fer the man who shot his daddy." "well, who the hell was the feller?" the other man laughed, lowered his voice, and the heart of the listening lad thumped painfully against the bowlder under him. "well, i hain't nuver told hit afore, but i seed with my own eyes a feller sneakin' outen the bushes ten minutes atter the shot was fired, an' hit was babe honeycutt." a low whistle followed and the two rode on. the pheasant squatted to his limb undisturbed, and the lad lay gripping the bowlder with both hands. he rose presently, his face sick but resolute, slipped down into the road, and, swaying his head with rage, started up the hill toward the honeycutt cove. on top of the hill the road made a sharp curve and around that curve, as fate would have it, slouched the giant figure of his mother's brother. babe shouted pleasantly, stopped in sheer amazement when he saw jason whip his revolver from his holster, and, with no movement to draw his own, leaped for the bushes. coolly the lad levelled, and when his pistol spoke, babe's mighty arms flew above his head and the boy heard his heavy body crash down into the undergrowth. in the terrible stillness that followed the boy stood shaking in his tracks--stood until he heard the clatter of horses' hoofs in the creek-bed far below. the two honeycutts had heard the shot, they were coming back to see what the matter was, and jason sped as if winged back down the creek. he had broken the truce, his grandfather would be in a rage, the honeycutts would be after him, and those hills were no place for him. so all that day and through all that night he fled for the big settlements of the blue-grass and but half consciously toward his mother and mavis hawn. the fact that babe was his mother's brother weighed on his mind but little, for the webs of kinship get strangely tangled in a mountain feud and his mother could not and would not blame him. nor was there remorse or even regret in his heart, but rather the peace of an oath fulfilled--a duty done. the sun was just coming up over the great black bulks which had given the boy forth that morning to a new world. back there its mighty rays were shattered against them, and routed by their shadows had fought helplessly on against the gloom of deep ravines--those fortresses of perpetual night--but, once they cleared the eminence where jason sat, the golden arrows took level flight, it seemed, for the very end of the world. this was the land of the blue-grass--the home of the rock-pecker, home of the men who had robbed him of his land, the refuge to his cousin steve, his mother, and little mavis, and now their home. he could see no end of the land, for on and on it rolled, and on and on as far as it rolled were the low woodlands, the fields of cut corn--more corn than he knew the whole world held--and pastures and sheep and cattle and horses, and houses and white fences and big white barns. little jason gazed but he could not get his fill. perhaps the old nag, too, knew those distant fields for corn, for with a whisk of her stubby tail she started of her own accord before the lad could dig his bare heels into her bony sides, and went slowly down. the log cabins had disappeared one by one, and most of the houses he now saw were framed. one, however, a relic of pioneer times, was of stone, and at that the boy looked curiously. several were of red brick and one had a massive portico with great towering columns, and at that he looked more curiously still. darkies were at work in the fields. he had seen only two or three in his life, he did not know there were so many in the world as he saw that morning, and now his skin ruffled with some antagonism ages deep. everybody he met in the road or passed working in the fields gave him a nod and looked curiously at his big pistol, but nobody asked him his name or where he was going or what his business was; at that he wondered, for everybody in the mountains asked those questions of the stranger, and he had all the lies he meant to tell, ready for any emergency to cover his tracks from any possible pursuers. by and by he came to a road that stunned him. it was level and smooth and made, as he saw, of rocks pounded fine, and the old nag lifted her feet and put them down gingerly. and this road never stopped, and there was no more dirt road at all. by and by he noticed running parallel with the turnpike two shining lines of iron, and his curiosity so got the better of him that he finally got off his old nag and climbed the fence to get a better look at them. they were about four feet apart, fastened to thick pieces of timber, and they, too, like everything else, ran on and on, and he mounted and rode along them much puzzled. presently far ahead of him there was a sudden, unearthly shriek, the rumbling sound of a coming storm, rolling black smoke beyond the crest of a little hill, and a swift huge mass swept into sight and, with another fearful blast, bore straight at him. the old nag snorted with terror, and in terror dashed up the hill, while the boy lay back and pulled helplessly on the reins. when he got her halted the thing had disappeared, and both boy and beast turned heads toward the still terrible sounds of its going. it was the first time either had ever seen a railroad train, and the lad, with a sickly smile that even he had shared the old nag's terror, got her back into the road. at the gate sat a farmer in his wagon and he was smiling. "did she come purty near throwin' you?" "huh!" grunted jason contemptuously. "whut was that?" the farmer looked incredulous, but the lad was serious. "that was a railroad train." "danged if i didn't think hit was a saw-mill comin' atter me." the farmer laughed and looked as though he were going to ask questions, but he clucked to his horses and drove on, and jason then and there swore a mighty oath to himself never again to be surprised by anything else he might see in this new land. all that day he rode slowly, giving his old nag two hours' rest at noon, and long before sundown he pulled up before a house in a cross-roads settlement, for the mountaineer does not travel much after nightfall. "i want to git to stay all night," he said. the man smiled and understood, for no mountaineer's door is ever closed to the passing stranger and he cannot understand that any door can be closed to him. jason told the truth that night, for he had to ask questions himself--he was on his way to see his mother and his step-father and his cousin, who had moved down from the mountains, and to his great satisfaction he learned that it was a ride of but three hours more to colonel pendleton's. when his host showed him to his room, the boy examined his pistol with such care while he was unbuckling it, that, looking up, he found a half-smile, half-frown, and no little suspicion, in his host's face; but he made no explanation, and he slept that night with one ear open, for he was not sure yet that no honeycutt might be following him. toward morning he sprang from bed wide-awake, alert, caught up his pistol and crept to the window. two horsemen were at the gate. the door opened below him, his host went out, and the three talked in whispers for a while. then the horsemen rode away, his host came back into the house, and all was still again. for half an hour the boy waited, his every nerve alive with suspicion. then he quietly dressed, left half a dollar on the washstand, crept stealthily down the stairs and out to the stable, and was soon pushing his old nag at a weary gallop through the dark. xi the last sunset had been clear and jack frost had got busy. all the preceding day the clouds had hung low and kept the air chill so that the night was good for that arch-imp of satan who has got himself enshrined in the hearts of little children. at dawn jason saw the robe of pure white which the little magician had spun and drawn close to the breast of the earth. the first light turned it silver and showed it decked with flowers and jewels, that the old mother might mistake it, perhaps, for a wedding-gown instead of a winding-sheet; but the sun, knowing better, lifted, let loose his tiny warriors, and from pure love of beauty smote it with one stroke gold, and the battle ended with the blades of grass and the leaves in their scarlet finery sparkling with the joy of another day's deliverance and the fields grown gray and aged in a single night. before the fight was quite over that morning, saddle-horses were stepping from big white barns in the land jason was entering, and being led to old-fashioned stiles; buggies, phaetons, and rock-aways were emerging from turnpike gates; and rabbit-hunters moved, shouting, laughing, running races, singing, past fields sober with autumn, woods dingy with oaks and streaked with the fire of sumac and maple. on each side of the road new hemp lay in shining swaths, while bales of last year's crop were on the way to market along the roads. the farmers were turning over the soil for the autumn sowing of wheat, corn-shucking was over, and ragged darkies were straggling from the fields back to town. from every point the hunters came, turning in where a big square brick house with a grecian portico stood far back in a wooded yard, with a fish-pond on one side and a great smooth lawn on the other. on the steps between the columns stood colonel pendleton and gray and marjorie welcoming the guests; the men, sturdy country youths, good types of the beef-eating young english squire--sunburnt fellows with big frames, open faces, fearless eyes, and a manner that was easy, cordial, kindly, independent; the girls midway between the types of brunette and blonde, with a leaning toward the latter type, with hair that had caught the light of the sun, radiant with freshness and good health and strength; round of figure, clear of eye and skin, spirited, soft of voice, and slow of speech. soon a cavalcade moved through a side-gate of the yard, through a blue-grass woodland, and into a sweep of stubble and ragweed; and far up the road on top of a little hill the mountain boy stopped his old mare and watched a strange sight in a strange land--a hunt without dog, stick, or gun. a high ringing voice reached his ears clearly, even that far away: "form a line!" and the wondering lad saw man and woman aligning themselves like cavalry fifteen feet apart and moving across the field--the men in leggings or high boots, riding with the heel low and the toes turned according to temperament; the girls with a cap, a derby, or a beaver with a white veil, and the lad's eye caught one of them quickly, for a red tam-o'-shanter had slipped from her shining hair and a broad white girth ran around both her saddle and her horse. there was one man on a sorrel mule and he was the host at the big house, for colonel pendleton had surrendered every horse he had to a guest. suddenly there came a yell--the rebel yell--and a horse leaped forward. other horses leaped too, everybody yelled in answer, and the cavalcade swept forward. there was a massing of horses, the white girth flashing in the midst of the melee, a great crash and much turning, twisting, and sawing of bits, and then all dashed the other way, the white girth in the lead, and the boy's lips fell apart in wonder. a black thoroughbred was making a wide sweep, an iron-gray was cutting in behind, and all were sweeping toward him. far ahead of them he saw a frightened rabbit streaking through the weeds. as it passed him the lad gave a yell, dug his heels into the old mare, and himself swept down the pike, drawing his revolver and firing as he rode. five times the pistol spoke to the wondering hunters in pursuit, at the fifth the rabbit tumbled heels over head and a little later the hunters pulled their horses in around a boy holding a rabbit high in one hand, a pistol in the other, and his eager face flushed with pride in his marksmanship and the comradeship of the hunt. but the flush died into quick paleness, so hostile were the faces, so hostile were the voices that assailed him, and he dropped the rabbit quickly and began shoving fresh cartridges into the chambers of his gun. "what do you mean, boy," shouted an angry voice, "shooting that rabbit?" the boy looked dazed. "why, wasn't you atter him?" he looked around and in a moment he knew several of them, but nobody, it was plain, remembered him. the girl with the white girth was marjorie, the boy on the black thoroughbred was gray, and coming in an awkward gallop on the sorrel mule was colonel pendleton. none of these people could mean to do him harm, so jason dropped his pistol in his holster and, with a curious dignity for so ragged an atom, turned in silence away, and only the girl with the white girth noticed the quiver of his lips and the angry starting of tears. as he started to mount the old mare, the excited yells coming from the fields were too much for him, and he climbed back on the fence to watch. the hunters had parted in twain, the black thoroughbred leading one wing, the iron-gray the other--both after a scurrying rabbit. close behind the black horse was the white girth and close behind was a pony in full run. under the brow of the hill they swept and parallel with the fence, and as they went by the boy strained eager widening eyes, for on the pony was his cousin mavis hawn, bending over her saddle and yelling like mad. this way and that poor mollie swerved, but every way her big startled eyes turned, that way she saw a huge beast and a yelling demon bearing down on her. again the horses crashed, the pony in the very midst. gray threw himself from his saddle and was after her on foot. two others swung from their saddles, mollie made several helpless hops, and the three scrambled for her. the riders in front cried for those behind to hold their horses back, but they crowded on and jason rose upright on the fence to see who should be trampled down. poor mollie was quite hemmed in now, there was no way of escape, and instinctively she shrank frightened to the earth. that was the crucial instant, and down went gray on top of her as though she were a foot-ball, and the quarry was his. jason saw him give her one blow behind her long ears and then, holding a little puff of down aloft, look about him, past marjorie to mavis. a moment later he saw that rabbit's tail pinned to mavis's cap, and a sudden rage of jealousy nearly shook him from the fence. he was too far away to see marjorie's smile, but he did see her eyes rove about the field and apparently catch sight of him, and as the rest turned to the hunt she rode straight for him, for she remembered the distress of his face and he looked lonely. "little boy," she called, and the boy stared with amazement and rage, but the joke was too much for him and he laughed scornfully. "little gal," he mimicked, "air you a-talkin' to me?" the girl gasped, reddened, lifted her chin haughtily, and raised her riding-whip to whirl away from the rude little stranger, but his steady eyes held hers until a flash of recognition came--and she smiled. "well, i never--uncle bob!" she cried excitedly and imperiously, and as the colonel lumbered toward her on his sorrel mount, she called with sparkling eyes, "don't you know him?" the puzzled face of the colonel broke into a hearty smile. "well, bless my soul, it's jason. you've come up to see your folks?" and then he explained what marjorie meant to explain. "we're not hunting with guns--we just chase 'em. hang your artillery on a fence-rail, bring your horse through that gate, and join us." he turned and marjorie, with him, called back over her shoulder: "hurry up now, jason." little jason sat still, but he saw marjorie ride straight for the pony, he heard her cry to mavis, saw her wave one hand toward him, and then mavis rode for him at a gallop, waving her whip to him as she came. the boy gave no answering signal, but sat still, hard-eyed, cool. before she was within twenty yards of him he had taken in every detail of the changes in her and the level look of his eyes stopped her happy cry, and made her grow quite pale with the old terror of giving him offence. her hair looked different, her clothes were different, she wore gloves, and she had a stick in one hand with a head like a cane and a loop of leather at the other end. for these drawbacks, the old light in her eyes and face quite failed to make up, for while jason looked, mavis was looking, too, and the boy saw her eyes travelling him down from head to foot: somehow he was reminded of the way marjorie had looked at him back in the mountains and somehow he felt that the change that he resented in mavis went deeper than her clothes. the morbidly sensitive spirit of the mountaineer in him was hurt, the chasm yawned instead of closing, and all he said shortly was: "whar'd you git them new-fangled things?" "marjorie give 'em to me. she said fer you to bring yo' hoss in--hit's more fun than i ever knowed in my life up here." "hit is?" he half-sneered. "well, you git back to yo' high-falutin' friends an' tell 'em i don't hunt nothin' that-a-way." "i'll stop right now an' go home with ye. i guess you've come to see yo' mammy." "well, i hain't ridin' aroun' just fer my health exactly." he had suddenly risen on the fence as the cries in the field swelled in a chorus. mavis saw how strong the temptation within him was, and so, when he repeated for her to "go on back," the old habit of obedience turned her, but she knew he would soon follow. the field was going mad now, horses were dashing and crashing together, the men were swinging to the ground and were pushed and trampled in a wild clutch for mollie's long ears, and jason could see that the contest between them was who should get the most game. the big mule was threshing the weeds like a tornado, and crossing the field at a heavy gallop he stopped suddenly at a ditch, the girth broke, and the colonel went over the long ears. there was a shriek of laughter, in which jason from his perch joined, as with a bray of freedom the mule made for home. apparently that field was hunted out now, and when the hunters crossed another pike and went into another field too far away for the boy to see the fun, he mounted his old mare and rode slowly after them. a little later mavis heard a familiar yell, and jason flew by her with his pistol flopping on his hip, his hat in his hand, and his face frenzied and gone wild. the thoroughbred passed him like a swallow, but the rabbit twisted back on his trail and mavis saw marjorie leap lightly from her saddle, jason flung himself from his, and then both were hidden by the crush of horses around them, while from the midst rose sharp cries of warning and fear. she saw gray's face white with terror, and then she saw marjorie picking herself up from the ground and jason swaying dizzily on his feet with a rabbit in his hand. "'tain't nothin'," he said stoutly, and he grinned his admiration openly for marjorie, who looked such anxiety for him. "you ain't afeerd o' nothin', air ye, an' i reckon this rabbit tail is a-goin' to you," and he handed it to her and turned to his horse. the boy had jerked marjorie from under the thoroughbred's hoofs and then gone on recklessly after the rabbit, getting a glancing blow from one of those hoofs himself. marjorie smiled. "thank you, little--man," and jason grinned again, but his head was dizzy and he did not ride after the crowd. "i'm afeerd fer this ole nag," he lied to colonel pendleton, for he was faint at the stomach and the world had begun to turn around. then he made one clutch for the old nag's mane, missed it, and rolled senseless to the ground. not long afterward he opened his eyes to find his head in the colonel's lap, marjorie bathing his forehead with a wet handkerchief, and gray near by, still a little pale from remorse for his carelessness and marjorie's narrow escape, and mavis the most unconcerned of all--and he was much ashamed. rudely he brushed marjorie's consoling hand away and wriggled away from the colonel to his knees. "shucks!" he said, with great disgust. the shadows were stretching fast, it was too late to try another field, so back they started through the radiant air, laughing, talking, bantering, living over the incidents of the day, the men with one leg swung for rest over the pommel of their saddles, the girls with habits disordered and torn, hair down, and all tired, but all flushed, clear-eyed, happy. the leaves--russet, gold and crimson--were dropping to the autumn-greening earth, the sunlight was as yellow as the wings of a butterfly, and on the horizon was a faint haze that shadowed the coming indian summer. but still it was warm enough for a great spread on the lawn, and what a feast for mountain eyes--chicken, turkey, cold ham, pickles, croquettes, creams, jellies, beaten biscuits. and what happy laughter and thoughtful courtesy and mellow kindness--particularly to the little mountain pair, for in the mountains they had given the pendletons the best they had and now the best was theirs. inside fires were being lighted in the big fireplaces, and quiet, solid, old-fashioned english comfort everywhere the blaze brought out. already two darky fiddlers were waiting on the back porch for a dram, and when the darkness settled the fiddles were talking old tunes and nimble feet were busy. little jason did his wonderful dancing and gray did his; and round about, the window-seats and the tall columns of the porch heard again from lovers what they had been listening to for so long. at midnight the hunters rode forth again in pairs into the crisp, brilliant air and under the kindly moon, mavis jogging along beside jason on marjorie's pony, for marjorie would not have it otherwise. no wonder that mavis loved the land. "i jerked the gal outen the way," explained jason, "'cause she was a gal an' had no business messin' with men folks." "of co'se," mavis agreed, for she was just as contemptuous as he over the fuss that had been made of the incident. "but she ain't afeerd o' nothin'." this was a little too much. "i ain't nuther." "co'se you ain't." there was no credit for mavis--her courage was a matter of course; but with the stranger-girl, a "furriner"--that was different. there was silence for a while. "wasn't it lots o' fun, jasie?" "shore!" was the absent-minded answer, for jason was looking at the strangeness of the night. it was curious not to see the big bulks of the mountains and to see so many stars. in the mountains he had to look straight up to see stars at all and now they hung almost to the level of his eyes. "how's the folks?" asked mavis. "stirrin'. air ye goin' to school up here?" "yes, an' who you reckon the school-teacher is?" jason shook his head. "the jologist." "well, by heck." "an' he's always axin' me about you an' if you air goin' to school." for a while more they rode in silence. "i went to that new furrin school down in the mountains," yawned the boy, "fer 'bout two hours. they're gittin' too high-falutin' to suit me. they tried to git me to wear gal's stockin's like they do up here an' i jes' laughed at 'em. then they tried to git me to make up beds an' i tol' 'em i wasn't goin' to wear gal's clothes ner do a gal's work, an' so i run away." he did not tell his reason for leaving the mountains altogether, for mavis, too, was a girl, and he did not confide in women--not yet. but the girl was woman enough to remember that the last time she had seen him he had said that he was going to come for her some day. there was no sign of that resolution, however, in either his manner or his words now, and for some reason she was rather glad. "every boy wears clothes like that up here. they calls 'em knickerbockers." "huh!" grunted jason. "hit sounds like 'em." "air ye still shootin' at that ole tree?" "yep, an' i kin hit the belly-band two shots out o' three." mavis raised her dark eyes with a look of apprehension, for she knew what that meant; when he could hit it three times running he was going after the man who had killed his father. but she asked no more questions, for while the boy could not forbear to boast about his marksmanship, further information was beyond her sphere and she knew it. when they came to the lane leading to her home, jason turned down it of his own accord. "how'd you know whar we live?" "i was here this mornin' an' i seed my mammy. yo' daddy wasn't thar." mavis smiled silently to herself; he had found out thus where she was and he had followed her. at the little stable jason unsaddled the horses and turned both out in the yard while mavis went within, and steve hawn appeared at the door in his underclothes when jason stepped upon the porch. "hello, jason!" "hello, steve!" answered the boy, but they did not shake hands, not because of the hard feeling between them, but because it was not mountain custom. "come on in an' lay down." mavis had gone upstairs, but she could hear the voices below her. if mavis had been hesitant about asking questions, as had been the boy's mother as well, steve was not. "whut'd you come up here fer?" "same reason as you once left the mountains--i got inter trouble." steve was startled and he frowned, but the boy gazed coolly back into his angry eyes. "whut kind o' trouble?" "same as you--i shot a feller," said the boy imperturbably. little mavis heard a groan from her step-mother, an angry oath from her father, and a curious pang of horror pierced her. silence followed below and the girl lay awake and trembling in her bed. "who was it?" steve asked at last. "that's my business," said little jason. the silence was broken no more, and mavis lay with new thoughts and feelings racking her brain and her heart. once she had driven to town with marjorie and gray, and a man had come to the carriage and cheerily shaken hands with them both. after he was gone gray looked very grave and marjorie was half unconsciously wiping her right hand with her handkerchief. "he killed a man," was marjorie's horrified whisper of explanation, and now if they should hear what she had heard they would feel the same way toward her own cousin, jason hawn. she had never had such a feeling in the mountains, but she had it now, and she wondered whether she could ever be quite the same toward jason again. xii christmas was approaching and no greater wonder had ever dawned on the lives of mavis and jason than the way these people in the settlements made ready for it. in the mountains many had never heard of christmas and few of christmas stockings, santa claus, and catching christmas gifts--not even the hawns, but mavis and jason had known of christmas, had celebrated it after the mountain way, and knew, moreover, what the blue-grass children did not know, of old christmas as well, which came just twelve days after the new. at midnight of old christmas, so the old folks in the mountains said, the elders bloomed and the beasts of the field and the cattle in the barn kneeled lowing and moaning, and once the two children had slipped out of their grandfather's house to the barn and waited to watch the cattle and to listen to them, but they suffered from the cold, and when they told what they had done next morning, their grandfather said they had not waited long enough, for it happened just at midnight; so when mavis and jason told marjorie and gray of old christmas they all agreed they would wait up this time till midnight sure. as for new christmas in the hills, the women paid little attention to it, and to the men it meant "a jug of liquor, a pistol in each hand, and a galloping nag." always, indeed, it meant drinking, and target-shooting to see "who should drink and who should smell," for the man who made a bad shot got nothing but a smell from the jug until he had redeemed himself. so, steve hawn and jason got ready in their own way and mavis and martha hawn accepted their rude preparations as a matter of course. at four o'clock in the afternoon before christmas eve darkies began springing around the corners of the twin houses, and from closets and from behind doors, upon the white folks and shouting "christmas gift," for to the one who said the greeting first the gift came, and it is safe to say that no darky in the blue-grass was caught that day. and the pendleton clan made ready to make merry. kinspeople gathered at the old general's ancient home and at the twin houses on either side of the road. stockings were hung up and eager-eyed children went to restless dreams of their holiday king. steve hawn, too, had made ready with boxes of cartridges and two jugs of red liquor, and he and jason did not wait for the morrow to make merry. and uncle arch hawn happened to come in that night, but he was chary of the cup, and he frowned with displeasure at jason, who was taking his dram with steve like a man, and he showed displeasure before he rode away that night by planting a thorn in the very heart of jason's sensitive soul. when he had climbed on his horse he turned to jason. "jason," he drawled, "you can come back home now when you git good an' ready. thar ain't no trouble down thar just now, an' babe honeycutt ain't lookin' fer you." jason gasped. he had not dared to ask a single question about the one thing that had been torturing his curiosity and his soul, and arch was bringing it out before them all as though it were the most casual and unimportant matter in the world. steve and his wife looked amazed and mavis's heart quickened. "babe ain't lookin' fer ye," arch drawled on, "he's laughin' at ye. i reckon you thought you'd killed him, but he stumbled over a root an' fell down just as you shot. he says you missed him a mile. he says you couldn't hit a barn in plain daylight." and he started away. a furious oath broke from jason's gaping mouth, steve laughed, and if the boy's pistol had been in his hand, he might in his rage have shown arch as he rode away what his marksmanship could be even in the dark, but even with his uncle's laugh, too, coming back to him he had to turn quickly into the house and let his wrath bite silently inward. but mavis's eyes were like moist stars. "oh, jasie, i'm so glad," she said, but he only stared and turned roughly on toward the jug in the corner. before day next morning the children in the big houses were making the walls ring with laughter and shouts of joy. rockets whizzed against the dawn, fire-crackers popped unceasingly, and now and then a loaded anvil boomed through the crackling air, but there was no happy awakening for little jason. all night his pride had smarted like a hornet sting, his sleep was restless and bitter with dreams of revenge, and the hot current in his veins surged back and forth in the old channel of hate for the slayer of his father. next morning his blood-shot eyes opened fierce and sullen and he started the day with a visit to the whiskey jug: then he filled his belt and pockets with cartridges. early in the afternoon marjorie and gray drove over with christmas greetings and little presents. mavis went out to meet them, and when jason half-staggered out to the gate, the visitors called to him merrily and became instantly grave and still. mavis flushed, marjorie paled with horror and disgust, gray flamed with wonder and contempt and quickly whipped up his horse--the mountain boy was drunk. jason stared after them, knowing something had suddenly gone wrong, and while he said nothing, his face got all the angrier, he rushed in for his belt and pistol, and shaking his head from side to side, swaggered out to the stable and began saddling his old mare. mavis stood in the doorway frightened and ashamed, the boy's mother pleaded with him to come into the house and lie down, but without a word to either he mounted with difficulty and rode down the road. steve hawn, who had been silently watching him, laughed. "let him alone--he ain't goin' to do nothin'." down the road the boy rode with more drunken swagger than his years in the wake of marjorie and gray--unconsciously in the wake of anything that was even critical, much less hostile, and in front of gray's house he pulled up and gazed long at the pillars and the broad open door, but not a soul was in sight and he paced slowly on. a few hundred yards down the turnpike he pulled up again and long and critically surveyed a woodland. his eye caught one lone tree in the centre of an amphitheatrical hollow just visible over the slope of a hill. the look of the tree interested him, for its growth was strange, and he opened the gate and rode across the thick turf toward it. the bark was smooth, the tree was the size of a man's body, and he dismounted, nodding his head up and down with much satisfaction. standing close to the tree, he pulled out his knife, cut out a square of the bark as high as the first button of his coat and moving around the trunk cut out several more squares at the same level. "i reckon," he muttered, "that's whar his heart is yit, if _i_ ain't growed too much." then he led the old mare to higher ground, came back, levelled his pistol, and moving in a circle around the tree, pulled the trigger opposite each square, and with every shot he grunted: "can't hit a barn, can't i, by heck!" in each square a bullet went home. then he reloaded and walked rapidly around the tree, still firing. "an' i reckon that's a-makin' some nail-holes fer his galluses!" and reloading again he ran around the tree, firing. "an' mebbe i couldn't still git him if i was hikin' fer the corner of a house an' was in a leetle grain of a hurry to git out o' his range." examining results at a close range, the boy was quite satisfied--hardly a shot had struck without a band three inches in width around the tree. there was one further test that he had not yet made; but he felt sober now and he drew a bottle from his hip-pocket and pulled at it hard and long. the old nag grazing above him had paid no more attention to the fusillade than to the buzzing of flies. he mounted her, and gray, riding at a gallop to make out what the unearthly racket going on in the hollow was, saw the boy going at full speed in a circle about the tree, firing and yelling, and as gray himself in a moment more would be in range, he shouted a warning. jason stopped and waited with belligerent eyes as gray rode toward him. "i say, jason," gray smiled, "i'm afraid my father wouldn't like that--you've pretty near killed that tree." jason stared, amazed-- "fust time i ever heerd of anybody not wantin' a feller to shoot at a tree." gray saw that he was in earnest and he kept on, smiling. "well, we haven't got as many trees here as you have down in the mountains, and up here they're more valuable." the last words were unfortunate. "looks like you keer a heep fer yo' trees," sneered the mountain boy with a wave of his pistol toward a demolished woodland; "an' if our trees air so wuthless, whut do you furriners come down thar and rob us of 'em fer?" the sneer, the tone, and the bitter emphasis on the one ugly word turned gray's face quite red. "you mustn't say anything like that to me," was his answer, and the self-control in his voice but helped make the mountain boy lose his at once and completely. he rode straight for gray and pulled in, waving his pistol crazily before the latter's face, and gray could actually hear the grinding of his teeth. "go git yo' gun! git yo' gun!" gray turned very pale, but he showed no fear. "i don't know what's the matter with you," he said steadily, "but you must be drunk." "go git yo' gun!" was the furious answer. "go git yo' gun!" "boys don't fight with guns in this country, but--" "you're a d--d coward," yelled jason. gray's fist shot through the mist of rage that suddenly blinded him, catching jason on the point of the chin, and as the mountain boy spun half around in his saddle, gray caught the pistol in both hands and in the struggle both rolled, still clutching the weapon, to the ground, gray saying with quiet fury: "drop that pistol and i'll lick hell out of you!" there was no answer but the twist of jason's wrist, and the bullet went harmlessly upward. before he could pull the trigger again, the sinewy fingers of a man's hand closed over the weapon and pushed it flat with the earth, and jason's upturned eyes looked into the grave face of the school-master. that face was stern and shamed jason instantly. the two boys rose to their feet, and the mountain boy turned away from the school-master and saw marjorie standing ten yards away white and terror-stricken, and her eyes when he met them blazed at him with a light that no human eye had ever turned on him before. the boy knew anger, rage, hate, revenge, but contempt was new to him, and his soul was filled with sudden shame that was no less strange, but the spirit in him was undaunted, and like a challenged young buck his head went up as he turned again to face his accuser. "were you going to shoot an unarmed boy?" asked john burnham gravely. "he hit me." "you called him a coward." "he hit me." "he offered to fight you fist and skull." "he had the same chance to git the gun that i had." "he wasn't trying to get it in order to shoot you." jason made no answer and the school-master repeated: "he offered to fight you fist and skull." "i was too mad--but i'll fight him now." "boys don't fight in the presence of young ladies." gray spoke up and in his tone was the contempt that was in marjorie's eyes, and it made the mountain boy writhe. "i wouldn't soil my hands on you--now." the school-master rebuked gray with a gesture, but jason was confused and sick now and he held out his hand for his pistol. "i better be goin' now--this ain't no place fer me." the school-master gravely handed the weapon to him. "i'm coming over to have a talk with you, jason," he said. the boy made no answer. he climbed on his horse slowly. his face was very pale, and once only he swept the group with eyes that were badgered but no longer angry, and as they rested on marjorie, there was a pitiful, lonely something in them that instantly melted her and almost started her tears. then he rode silently and slowly away. xiii slowly the lad rode westward, for the reason that he was not yet quite ready to pass between those two big-pillared houses again, and because just then whatever his way--no matter. his anger was all gone now and his brain was clear, but he was bewildered. throughout the day he had done nothing that he thought was wrong, and yet throughout the day he had done nothing that seemed to be right. this land was not for him--he did not understand the ways of it and the people, and they did not understand him. even the rock-pecker had gone back on him, and though that hurt him deeply, the lad loyally knew that the school-master must have his own good reasons. the memory of marjorie's look still hurt, and somehow he felt that even mavis was vaguely on their side against him, and of a sudden the pang of loneliness that marjorie saw in his eyes so pierced him that he pulled his old nag in and stood motionless in the middle of the road. the sky was overcast and the air was bitter and chill; through the gray curtain that hung to the rim of the earth, the low sun swung like a cooling ball of fire and under it the gray fields stretched with such desolation for him that he dared ride no farther into them. and then as the lad looked across the level stillness that encircled him, the mountains loomed suddenly from it--big, still, peaceful, beckoning--and made him faint with homesickness. those mountains were behind him--his mountains and his home that was his no longer--but, after all, any home back there was his, and that thought so filled his heart with a rush of gladness that with one long breath of exultation he turned in his saddle to face those distant unseen hills, and the old mare, following the movement of his body, turned too, as though she, too, suddenly wanted to go home. the chill air actually seemed to grow warmer as he trotted back, the fields looked less desolate, and then across them he saw flashing toward him the hostile fire of a scarlet tam-o'-shanter. he was nearing the yard gate of the big house on the right, and from the other big house on the left the spot of shaking crimson was galloping toward the turnpike. he could wait until marjorie crossed the road ahead of him, or he could gallop ahead and pass before she could reach the gate, but his sullen pride forbade either course, and so he rode straight on, and his dogged eyes met hers as she swung the gate to and turned her pony across the road. marjorie flushed, her lips half parted to speak, and jason sullenly drew in, but as she said nothing, he clucked and dug his heels viciously into the old mare's sides. then the little girl raised one hand to check him and spoke hurriedly: "jason, we've been talking about you, and my uncle bob says you kept me from getting killed." jason stared. "and the school-teacher says we don't understand you--you people down in the mountains--and that we mustn't blame you for--" she paused in helpless embarrassment, for still the mountain boy stared. "you know," she went on finally, "boys here don't do things that you boys do down there--" she stopped again, the tears started suddenly in her earnest eyes, and a miracle happened to little jason. something quite new surged within him, his own eyes swam suddenly, and he cleared his throat huskily. "i hain't a-goin' to bother you folks no more," he said, and he tried to be surly, but couldn't. "i'm a-goin' away." the little girl's tears ceased. "i'm sorry," she said. "i wish you'd stay here and go to school. the school-teacher said he wanted you to do that, and he says such nice things about you, and so does my uncle bob, and gray is sorry, and he says he is coming over to see you to-morrow." "i'm a-goin' home," repeated jason stubbornly. "home?" repeated the girl, and her tone did what her look had done a moment before, for she knew he had no home, and again the lad was filled with a throbbing uneasiness. her eyes dropped to her pony's mane, and in a moment more she looked up with shy earnestness. "will you do something for me?" again jason started and of its own accord his tongue spoke words that to his own ears were very strange. "thar hain't nothin' i won't do fer ye," he said, and his sturdy sincerity curiously disturbed marjorie in turn, so that her flush came back, and she went on with slow hesitation and with her eyes again fixed on her pony's neck. "i want you to promise me not--not to shoot anybody--unless you have to in self-defence--and never to take another drink until--until you see me again." she could not have bewildered the boy more had she asked him never to go barefoot again, but his eyes were solemn when she looked up and solemnly he nodded assent. "i give ye my hand." the words were not literal, but merely the way the mountaineer phrases the giving of a promise, but the little girl took them literally and she rode up to him with slim fingers outstretched and a warm friendly smile on her little red mouth. awkwardly the lad thrust out his dirty, strong little hand. "good-by, jason," she said. "good-by--" he faltered, and, still smiling, she finished the words for him. "marjorie," she said, and unsmilingly he repeated: "marjorie." while she passed through the gate he sat still and watched her, and he kept on watching her as she galloped toward home, twisting in his saddle to follow her course around the winding road. he saw a negro boy come out to the stile to take her pony, and there marjorie, dismounting, saw in turn the lad still motionless where she had left him, and looking after her. she waved her whip to him, went on toward the house, and when she reached the top of the steps, she turned and waved to him again, but he made no answering gesture, and only when the front door closed behind her, did the boy waken from his trance and jog slowly up the road. only the rim of the red fire-ball was arched over the horizon behind him now. winter dusk was engulfing the fields and through it belated crows were scurrying silently for protecting woods. for a little while jason rode with his hands folded man-wise on the pommel of his saddle and with manlike emotions in his heart, for, while the mountains still beckoned, this land had somehow grown more friendly and there was a curious something after all that he would leave behind. what it was he hardly knew; but a pair of blue eyes, misty with mysterious tears, had sown memories in his confused brain that he would not soon lose. he did not forget the contempt that had blazed from those eyes, but he wondered now at the reason for that contempt. was there something that ruled this land--something better than the code that ruled his hills? he had remembered every word the geologist had ever said, for he loved the man, but it had remained for a strange girl--a girl--to revive them, to give them actual life and plant within him a sudden resolve to learn for himself what it all meant, and to practise it, if he found it good. a cold wind sprang up now and cutting through his thin clothes drove him in a lope toward his mother's home. apparently mavis was watching for him through the window of the cottage, for she ran out on the porch to meet him, but something in the boy's manner checked her, and she neither spoke nor asked a question while the boy took off his saddle and tossed it on the steps. nor did jason give her but one glance, for the eagerness of her face and the trust and tenderness in her eyes were an unconscious reproach and made him feel guilty and faithless, so that he changed his mind about turning the old mare out in the yard and led her to the stable, merely to get away from the little girl. mavis was in the kitchen when he entered the house, and while they all were eating supper, the lad could feel his little cousin's eyes on him all the time--watching and wondering and troubled and hurt. and when the four were seated about the fire, he did not look at her when he announced that he was going back home, but he saw her body start and shrink. his step-father yawned and said nothing, and his mother looked on into the fire. "when you goin', jasie?" she asked at last. "daylight," he answered shortly. there was a long silence. "whut you goin' to do down thar?" the lad lifted his head fiercely and looked from the woman to the man and back again. "i'm a-goin' to git that land back," he snapped; and as there was no question, no comment, he settled back brooding in his chair. "hit wasn't right--hit couldn't 'a' been right," he muttered, and then as though he were answering his mother's unspoken question: "i don't know how i'm goin' to git it back, but if it wasn't right, thar must be some way, an' i'm a-goin' to find out if hit takes me all my life." his mother was still silent, though she had lifted a comer of her apron to her eyes, and the lad rose and without a word of good-night climbed the stairs to go to bed. then the mother spoke to her husband angrily. "you oughtn't to let the boy put all the blame on me, steve--you made me sell that land." steve's answer was another yawn, and he rose to get ready for bed, and mavis, too, turned indignant eyes on him, for she had heard enough from the two to know that her step-mother spoke the truth. her father opened the door and she heard the creak of his heavy footsteps across the freezing porch. her step-mother went into the kitchen and mavis climbed the stairs softly and opened jason's door. "jasie!" she called. "whut you want?" "jasie, take me back home with ye, won't you?" a rough denial was on his lips, but her voice broke into a little sob and the boy lay for a moment without answering. "whut on earth would you do down thar, mavis?" and then he remembered how he had told her that he would come for her some day, and he remembered the hawn boast that a hawn's word was as good as his bond and he added kindly: "wait till mornin', mavis. i'll take ye if ye want to go." the door closed instantly and she was gone. when the lad came down before day next morning mavis had finished tying a few things in a bundle and was pushing it out of sight under a bed, and jason knew what that meant. "you hain't told 'em?" mavis shook her head. "mebbe yo' pap won't let ye." "he ain't hyeh," said the little girl. "whar is he?" "i don't know." "mavis," said the boy seriously, "i'm a boy an' hit don't make no difference whar i go, but you're a gal an' hit looks like you ought to stay with yo' daddy." the girl shook her head stubbornly, but he paid no attention. "i tell ye, i'm a-goin' back to that new-fangled school when i git to grandpap's, an' whut'll you do?" "i'll go with ye." "i've thought o' that," said the boy patiently, "but they mought not have room fer neither one of us--an' i can take keer o' myself anywhar." "yes," said the little girl proudly, "an' i'll trust ye to take keer o' me--anywhar." the boy looked at her long and hard, but there was no feminine cunning in her eyes--nothing but simple trust--and his silence was a despairing assent. from the kitchen his mother called them to breakfast. "whar's steve?" asked the boy. the mother gave the same answer as had mavis, but she looked anxious and worried. "mavis is a-goin' back to the mountains with me," said the boy, and the girl looked up in defiant expectation, but the mother did not even look around from the stove. "mebbe yo' pap won't let ye," she said quietly. "how's he goin' to help hisself," asked the girl, "when he ain't hyeh?" "he'll blame me fer it, but i ain't a-blamin' you." the words surprised and puzzled both and touched both with sympathy and a little shame. the mother looked at her son, opened her lips again, but closed them with a glance at mavis that made her go out and leave them alone. "jasie," she said then, "i reckon when babe was a-playin' 'possum in the bushes that day, he could 'a' shot ye when you run down the hill." she took his silence for assent and went on: "that shows he don't hold no grudge agin you fer shootin' at him." still jason was silent, and a line of stern justice straightened the woman's lips. "i hain't got no right to say a word, just because babe air my own brother. mebbe babe knows who the man was, but i don't believe babe done it. hit hain't enough that he was jes' seed a-comin' outen the bushes, an' afore you go a-layin' fer babe, all i axe ye is to make plumb dead shore." it was a strange new note to come from his mother's voice, and it kept the boy still silent from helplessness and shame. she had spoken calmly, but now there was a little break in her voice. "i want ye to go back, an' i'd go blind fer the rest o' my days if that land was yours an' was a-waitin' down thar fer ye." from the next room came the sound of mavis's restless feet, and the boy rose. "i hain't a-goin' to lay fer babe, mammy," he said huskily; "i hain't a-goin' to lay fer nobody--now. an' don't you worry no more about that land." half an hour later, just when day was breaking, mavis sat behind jason with her bundle in her lap, and the mother looked up at them. "i wish i was a-goin' with ye," she said. and when they had passed out of sight down the lane, she turned back into the house--weeping. xiv little mavis did not reach the hills. at sunrise a few miles down the road, the two met steve hawn on a borrowed horse, his pistol buckled around him and his face pale and sleepless. "whar you two goin'?" he asked roughly. "home," was jason's short answer, and he felt mavis's arm about his waist begin to tremble. "git off, mavis, an' git up hyeh behind me. yo' home's with me." jason valiantly reached for his gun, but mavis caught his hand and, holding it, slipped to the ground. "don't, jasie--i'll come, pap, i'll come." whereat steve laughed and jason, raging, saw her ride away behind her step-father, clutching him about the waist with one arm and with the other bent over her eyes to shield her tears. a few miles farther, jason came on the smoking, charred remains of a toll-gate, and he paused a moment wondering if steve might not have had a hand in that, and rode on toward the hills. two hours later the school-master's horse shied from those black ruins, and john burnham kept on toward school with a troubled face. to him the ruins meant the first touch of the writhing tentacles of the modern trust and the blue-grass kentuckian's characteristic way of throwing them off, for turnpikes of white limestone, like the one he travelled, thread the blue-grass country like strands of a spider's web. the spinning of them started away back in the beginning of the last century. that far back, the strand he followed pierced the heart of the region from its chief town to the ohio and was graded for steam-wagons that were expected to roll out from the land of dreams. every few miles on each of these roads sat a little house, its porch touching the very edge of the turnpike, and there a long pole, heavily weighted at one end and pulled down and tied fast to the porch, blocked the way. every traveller, except he was on foot, every drover of cattle, sheep, hogs, or mules, must pay his toll before the pole was lifted and he could go on his way. and burnham could remember the big fat man who once a month, in a broad, low buggy, drawn by two swift black horses, would travel hither and thither, stopping at each little house to gather in the deposits of small coins. as time went on, this man and a few friends began to gather in as well certain bits of scattered paper that put the turnpike webs like reins into a few pairs of hands, with the natural, inevitable result: fewer men had personal need of good roads, the man who parted with his bit of paper lost his power of protest, and while the traveller paid the small toll, the path that he travelled got steadily worse. a mild effort to arouse a sentiment for county control was made, and this failing, the kentuckian had straightway gone for firebrand and gun. the dormant spirit of ku-klux awakened, the night-rider was born again, and one by one the toll-gates were going up in flame and settling back in ashes to the mother earth. the school-master smiled when he thought of the result of one investigation in the county by law. a sturdy farmer was haled before the grand jury. "do you know the perpetrators of the unlawful burning of the toll-gate on the cave hill pike?" asked the august body. the farmer ran his fearless eyes down the twelve of his peers and slowly walked the length of them, pointing his finger at this juror and that. "yes, i do," he said quietly, "and so do you--and you and you. your son was in it--and yours--and mine; and you were in it yourself. now, what are you going to do about it?" and, unrebuked and unrestrained, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving the august body, startled, grimly smiling and reduced to a helpless pulp of inactivity. that morning mavis was late to school, and the school-master and gray and marjorie all saw that she had been weeping. only marjorie suspected the cause, but at little recess john burnham went to her to ask where jason was, and gray was behind him with the same question on his lips. and when mavis burst into tears, marjorie answered for her and sat down beside her and put her arms around the mountain girl. after school she even took mavis home behind her, and gray rode along with them on his pony. steve hawn was sitting on his little porch smoking when they rode up, and he came down and hospitably asked them to "light and hitch their beastes," and the black-haired step-mother called from the doorway for them to "come in an' rest a spell." gray and marjorie concealed with some difficulty their amusement at such queer phrases of welcome, and a wonder at the democratic ease of the two and their utter unconsciousness of any social difference between the lords and ladies of the blue-grass and poor people from the mountains, for the other tobacco tenants were not like these. and there was no surprise on the part of the man, the woman, or the little girl when a sudden warm impulse to relieve loneliness led marjorie to ask mavis to go to her own home and stay all night with her. "course," said the woman. "go right along, mavis," said the man, and marjorie turned to gray. "you can carry her things," she said, and she turned to mavis and met puzzled, unabashed eyes. "whut things?" asked little mavis, whereat marjorie blushed, looked quickly to gray, whose face was courteously unsmiling, and started her pony abruptly. it was a wonderful night for the mountaineer girl in the big-pillared house on the hill. when they got home, marjorie drove her in a little pony-cart over the big farm, while gray trotted alongside--through pastures filled with cattle so fat they could hardly walk, past big barns bursting with hay and tobacco and stables full of slender, beautiful horses. even the pigs had little red houses of refuge from the weather and flocks of sheep dotted the hill-side like unmelted patches of snow. the mountain girl's eyes grew big with wonder when she entered the great hall with its lofty ceiling, its winding stairway, and its polished floor, so slippery that she came near falling down, and they stayed big when she saw the rows of books, the pictures on the walls, the padded couches and chairs, the noiseless carpets, the polished andirons that gleamed like gold before the blazing fires, and when she glimpsed through an open door the long dining-table with its glistening glass and silver. when she mounted that winding stairway and entered marjorie's room she was stricken dumb by its pink curtains, pink wall-paper, and gleaming brass bedstead with pink coverlid and pink pillow-facings. and she nearly gasped when marjorie led her on into another room of blue. "this is your room," she said smiling, "right next to mine. i'll be back in a minute." mavis stood a moment in the middle of the room when she was alone, hardly daring to sit down. a coal fire crackled behind a wire screen--coal from her mountains. a door opened into a queer little room, glistening white, and she peeped, wondering, within. "there's the bath-room," marjorie had said. she had not known what was meant, and she did not now, looking at the long white tub and the white tiling floor and walls until she saw the multitudinous towels, and she marvelled at the new mystery. she went back and walked to the window and looked out on the endless rolling winter fields over which she had driven that afternoon--all, gray had told her, to be marjorie's some day, just as all across the turnpike, marjorie had told her, was some day to be gray's. she thought of herself and of jason, and her tears started, not for herself, but for him. then she heard marjorie coming in and she brushed her eyes swiftly. "whar can i git some water to wash?" she asked. marjorie laughed delightedly and led her back to that wonderful little white room, turned a gleaming silver star, and the water spurted joyously into the bowl. "well, i do declare!" soon they went down to supper, and mavis put out a shy hand to marjorie's mother, a kind-eyed, smiling woman in black. and gray, too, was there, watching the little mountain girl and smiling encouragement whenever he met her eyes. and mavis passed muster well, for the mountaineer's sensitiveness makes him wary of his manners when he is among strange people, and he will go hungry rather than be guilty unknowingly of a possible breach. marjorie's mother was much interested and pleased with mavis, and she made up her mind at once to discuss with her daughter how they could best help along the little stranger. after supper marjorie played on the piano, and she and gray sang duets, but the music was foreign to mavis, and she did not like it very much. when the two went upstairs, there was a dainty long garment spread on mavis's bed, which mavis fingered carefully with much interest and much curiosity until she recalled suddenly what marjorie had said about gray carrying her "things." this was one of these things, and mavis put it on wondering what the other things might be. then she saw that a silver-backed comb and brush had appeared on the bureau along with a tiny pair of scissors and a little ivory stick, the use of which she could not make out at all. but she asked no questions, and when marjorie came in with a new toothbrush and a little tin box and put them in the bath-room, mavis still showed no surprise, but ran her eyes down the nightgown with its dainty ribbons. "ain't it purty?" she said, and her voice and her eyes spoke all her thanks with such sincerity and pathos that marjorie was touched. then they sat down in front of the fire--a pair of slim brown feet that had been bruised by many a stone and pierced by many a thorn stretched out to a warm blaze side by side with a pair of white slim ones that had been tenderly guarded against both since the first day they had touched the earth, and a golden head that had never been without the caress of a tender hand and a tousled dark one that had been bared to sun and wind and storm--close together for a long time. unconsciously marjorie had mavis tell her much about jason, just as mavis without knowing it had marjorie tell her much about gray. mavis got the first good-night kiss of her life that night, and she went to bed thinking of the blue-grass boy's watchful eyes, little courtesies, and his sympathetic smile, just as gray, riding home, was thinking of the dark, shy little mountain girl with a warm glow of protection about his heart, and marjorie fell asleep dreaming of the mountain boy who, under her promise, had gone back homeless to his hills. in them perhaps it was the call of the woods and wilds that had led their pioneer forefathers long, long ago into woods and wilds, or perhaps, after all, it was only the little blind god shooting arrows at them in the dark. at least with little jason one arrow had gone home. at the forks of the road beyond the county-seat he turned not toward his grandfather's, but up the spur and over the mountain. and st. hilda, sitting on her porch, saw him coming again. his face looked beaten but determined, and he strode toward her as straight and sturdy as ever. "i've come back to stay with ye," he said. again she started to make denial, but he shook his head. "'tain't no use--i'm a-goin' to stay this time," he said, and he walked up the steps, pulling two or three dirty bills from his pocket with one hand and unbuckling his pistol belt with the other. "me an' my nag'll work fer ye an' i'll wear gal's stockin's an' a poke-bonnet an' do a gal's work, if you'll jus' l'arn me whut i want to know." xv the funeral of old hiram sudduth, marjorie's grandfather on her mother's side, was over. the old man had been laid to rest, by the side of his father and his pioneer grandfather, in the cedar-filled burying-ground on the broad farm that had belonged in turn to the three in an adjoining county that was the last stronghold of conservatism in the blue-grass world, and john burnham, the school-master, who had spent the night with an old friend after the funeral, was driving home. not that there had not been many changes in that stronghold, too, but they were fewer than elsewhere and unmodern, and whatever profit was possible through these changes was reaped by men of the land like old hiram and not by strangers. for the war there, as elsewhere, had done its deadly work. with the negro quarters empty, the elders were too old to change their ways, the young would not accept the new and hard conditions, and as mortgages slowly ate up farm after farm, quiet, thrifty, hard-working old hiram would gradually take them in, depleting the old stonewall neighborhood of its families one by one, and sending them west, never to come back. the old man, john burnham knew, had bitterly opposed the marriage of his daughter with a "spendthrift pendleton," and he wondered if now the old man's will would show that he had carried that opposition to the grave. it was more than likely, for marjorie's father had gone his careless, generous, magnificent way in spite of the curb that the inherited thrift and inherited passion for land in his sudduth wife had put upon him. old hiram knew, moreover, the parental purpose where gray and marjorie were concerned, and it was not likely that he would thwart one generation and tempt the succeeding one to go on in its reckless way. right now burnham knew that trouble was imminent for gray's father, and he began to wonder what for him and his kind the end would be, for no change that came or was coming to his beloved land ever escaped his watchful eye. from the crest of the cumberland to the yellow flood of the ohio he knew that land, and he loved every acre of it, whether blue-grass, bear-grass, peavine, or pennyroyal, and he knew its history from daniel boone to the little boones who still trapped skunk, mink, and muskrat, and shot squirrels in the hills with the same old-fashioned rifle, and he loved its people--his people--whether they wore silk and slippers, homespun and brogans, patent leathers and broadcloth, or cowhide boots and jeans. and now serious troubles were threatening them. a new man with a new political method had entered the arena and had boldly offered an election bill which, if passed and enforced, would create a state-wide revolution, for it would rob the people of local self-government and centralize power in the hands of a triumvirate that would be the creature of his government and, under the control of no court or jury, the supreme master of the state and absolute master of the people. and burnham knew that, in such a crisis, ties of blood, kinship, friendship, religion, business, would count no more in the blue-grass than they did during the civil war, and that now, as then, father and son, brother and brother, neighbor and neighbor, would each think and act for himself, though the house divided against itself should fall to rise no more. nor was that all. in the farmer's fight against the staggering crop of mortgages that had slowly sprung up from the long-ago sowing of the dragon's teeth burnham saw with a heavy heart the telling signs of the land's slow descent from the strength of hemp to the weakness of tobacco--the ravage of the woodlands, the incoming of the tenant from the river-valley counties, the scars on the beautiful face of the land, the scars on the body social of the region--and now he knew another deadlier crisis, both social and economic, must some day come. in the toll-gate war, long over, the law had been merely a little too awkward and slow. county sentiment had been a little lazy, but it had got active in a hurry, and several gentlemen, among them gray's father, had ridden into town and deposited bits of gilt-scrolled paper to be appraised and taken over by the county, and the whole problem had been quickly solved, but the school-master, looking back, could not help wondering what lawless seeds the firebrand had then sowed in the hearts of the people and what weeds might not spring from those seeds even now; for the trust element of the toll-gate troubles had been accidental, unintentional, even unconscious, unrecognized; and now the real spirit of a real trust from the outside world was making itself felt. courteous emissaries were smilingly fixing their own price on the kentuckian's own tobacco and assuring him that he not only could not get a higher price elsewhere, but that if he declined he would be offered less next time, which he would have to accept or he could not sell at all. and the incredulous, fiery, independent kentuckian found his crop mysteriously shadowed on its way to the big town markets, marked with an invisible "noli me tangere" except at the price that he was offered at home. and so he had to sell it in a rage at just that price, and he went home puzzled and fighting-mad. if, then, the blue-grass people had handled with the firebrand corporate aggrandizement of toll-gate owners who were neighbors and friends, how would they treat meddlesome interference from strangers? already one courteous emissary in one county had fled the people's wrath on a swift thoroughbred, and burnham smiled sadly to himself and shook his head. rounding a hill a few minutes later, the school-master saw far ahead the ancestral home of the pendletons, where the stern old head of the house, but lately passed in his ninetieth year, had wielded patriarchal power. the old general had entered the mexican war a lieutenant and come out a colonel, and from the civil war he had emerged a major-general. he had two sons--twins--and for the twin brothers he had built twin houses on either side of the turnpike and had given each five hundred acres of land. and these houses had literally grown from the soil, for the soil had given every stick of timber in them and every brick and stone. the twin brothers had married sisters, and thus as the results of those unions gray's father and marjorie's father were double cousins, and like twin brothers had been reared, and the school-master marvelled afresh when he thought of the cleavage made in that one family by the terrible civil war. for the old general carried but one of his twin sons into the confederacy with him--the other went with the union--and his grandsons, the double cousins, who were just entering college, went not only against each other, but each against his own father, and there was the extraordinary fact of three generations serving in the same war, cousin against cousin, brother against brother, and father against son. the twin brothers each gave up his life for his cause. after the war the cousins lived on like brothers, married late, and, naturally, each was called uncle by the other's only child. in time the two took their fathers' places in the heart of the old general, and in the twin houses on the hills. gray's father had married an aristocrat, who survived the birth of gray only a few years, and marjorie's father died of an old wound but a year or two after she was born. and so the balked affection of the old man dropped down through three generations to centre on marjorie, and his passionate family pride to concentrate on gray. now the old roman was gone, and john burnham looked with sad eyes at the last stronghold of him and his kind--the rambling old house stuccoed with aged brown and covered with ancient vines, knotted and gnarled like an old man's hand; the walls three feet thick and built as for a fort, as was doubtless the intent in pioneer days; the big yard of unmown blue-grass and filled with cedars and forest trees; the numerous servants' quarters, the spacious hen-house, the stables with gables and long sloping roofs and the arched gateway to them for the thoroughbreds, under which no hybrid mule or lowly work-horse was ever allowed to pass; the spring-house with its dripping green walls, the long-silent blacksmith-shop; the still windmill; and over all the atmosphere of careless, magnificent luxury and slow decay; the stucco peeled off in great patches, the stable roofs sagging, the windmill wheelless, the fences following the line of a drunken man's walk, the trees storm-torn, and the mournful cedars harping with every passing wind a requiem for the glory that was gone. as he looked, the memory of the old man's funeral came to burnham: the white old face in the coffin--haughty, noble, proud, and the spirit of it unconquered even by death; the long procession of carriages, the slow way to the cemetery, the stops on that way, the creaking of wheels and harness, and the awe of it all to the boy, gray, who rode with him. then the hospitable doors of the princely old house were closed and the princely life that had made merry for so long within its walls came sharply to an end, and it stood now, desolate, gloomy, haunted, the last link between the life that was gone and the life that was now breaking just ahead. a mile on, the twin-pillared houses of brick jutted from a long swelling knoll on each side of the road. in each the same spirit had lived and was yet alive. in gray's home it had gone on unchecked toward the same tragedy, but in marjorie's the thrifty, quiet force of her mother's hand had been in power, and in the little girl the same force was plain. her father was a pendleton of the pendletons, too, but the same gentle force had, without curb or check-rein, so guided him that while he lived he led proudly with never a suspicion that he was being led. and since the death of gray's mother and marjorie's father each that was left had been faithful to the partner gone, and in spite of prediction and gossip, the common neighborhood prophecy had remained unfulfilled. a mile farther onward, the face of the land on each side changed suddenly and sharply and became park-like. not a ploughed acre was visible, no tree-top was shattered, no broken boughs hung down. the worm fence disappeared and neat white lines flashed divisions of pastures, it seemed, for miles. a great amphitheatrical red barn sat on every little hill or a great red rectangular tobacco barn. a huge dairy was building of brick. paddocks and stables were everywhere, macadamized roads ran from the main highway through the fields, and on the highest hill visible stood a great villa--a colossal architectural stranger in the land--and burnham was driving by a row of neat red cottages, strangers, too, in the land. in the old stonewall neighborhood that burnham had left the gradual depopulation around old hiram left him almost as alone as his pioneer grandfather had been, and the home of the small farmers about him had been filled by the tobacco tenant. from the big villa emanated a similar force with a similar tendency, but old hiram, compared with old morton sanders, was as a slow fire to a lightning-bolt. sanders was from the east, had unlimited wealth, and loved race-horses. purchasing a farm for them, the saxon virus in his kentucky blood for land had gotten hold of him, and he, too, had started depopulating the country; only where old hiram bought roods, he bought acres; and where hiram bagged the small farmer for game, sanders gunned for the aristocrat as well. it was for sanders that colonel pendleton had gone to the mountains long ago to gobble coal lands. it was to him that the roof over little jason's head and the earth under his feet had been sold, and the school-master smiled a little bitterly when he turned at last into a gate and drove toward a stately old home in the midst of ancient cedars, for he was thinking of the little mountaineer and of the letter st. hilda had sent him years ago. "jason has come back," she wrote, "to learn some way o' gittin' his land back.'" for the school-master's reflections during his long drive had not been wholly impersonal. with his own family there had been the same change, the same passing, the workings of the same force in the same remorseless way, and to him, too, the same doom had come. the home to which he was driving had been his, but it was morton sanders's now. his brother lived there as manager of sanders's flocks, herds, and acres, and in the house of his fathers the school-master now paid his own brother for his board. xvi the boy was curled up on the rear seat of the smoking-car. his face was upturned to the glare of light above him, the train bumped, jerked, and swayed; smoke and dust rolled in at the open window and cinders stung his face, but he slept as peacefully as though he were in one of the huge feather-beds at his grandfather's house--slept until the conductor shook him by the shoulder, when he opened his eyes, grunted, and closed them again. the train stopped, a brakeman yanked him roughly to his feet, put a cheap suit-case into his hand, and pushed him, still dazed, into the chill morning air. the train rumbled on and left him blinking into a lantern held up to his face, but he did not look promising as a hotel guest and the darky porter turned abruptly; and the boy yawned long and deeply, with his arms stretched above his head, dropped on the frosty bars of a baggage-truck and rose again shivering. cocks were crowing, light was showing in the east, the sea of mist that he well knew was about him, but no mountains loomed above it, and st. hilda's prize pupil, jason hawn, woke sharply at last with a tingling that went from head to foot. once more he was in the land of the blue-grass, his journey was almost over, and in a few hours he would put his confident feet on a new level and march on upward. gradually, as the lad paced the platform, the mist thinned and the outlines of things came out. a mysterious dark bulk high in the air showed as a water-tank, roofs new to mountain eyes jutted upward, trees softly emerged, a desolate dusty street opened before him, and the cocks crowed on lustily all around him and from farm-houses far away. the crowing made him hungry, and he went to the light of a little eating-house and asked the price of the things he saw on the counter there, but the price was too high. he shook his head and went out, but his pangs were so keen that he went back for a cup of coffee and a hard-boiled egg, and then he heard the coming thunder of his train. the sun was rising as he sped on through the breaking mist toward the blue-grass town that in pioneer days was known as the athens of the west. in a few minutes the train slackened in mid-air and on a cloud of mist between jutting cliffs, it seemed, and the startled lad, looking far down through it, saw a winding yellow light, and he was rushing through autumn fields again before he realized that the yellow light was the kentucky river surging down from the hills. back up the stream surged his memories, making him faint with homesickness, for it was the last link that bound him to the mountains. but both home and hills were behind him now, and he shook himself sharply and lost him-self again in the fields of grass and grain, the grazing stock and the fences, houses, and barns that reeled past his window. steve hawn met him at the station with a rattle-trap buggy and, stared at him long and hard. "i'd hardly knowed ye--you've growed like a weed." "how's the folks?" asked jason. "stirrin'." silently they rattled down the street, each side of which was lined with big wagons loaded with tobacco and covered with cotton cloth--there seemed to be hundreds of them. "hell's a-comin' about that terbaccer up here," said steve. "hell's a-comin' in the mountains if that robber up here at the capital steals the next election for governor," said jason, and steve looked up quickly and with some uneasiness. he himself had heard vaguely that somebody, somewhere, and in some way, had robbed his own party of their rights and would go on robbing at the polls, but this new jason seemed to know all about it, so steve nodded wisely. "yes, my feller." through town they drove, and when they started out into the country they met more wagons of tobacco coming in. "how's the folks in the mountains?" "about the same as usual," said the boy, "grandpap's poorly. the war's over just now--folks 'r' busy makin' money. uncle arch's still takin' up options. the railroad's comin' up the river"--the lad's face darkened--"an' land's sellin' fer three times as much as you sold me out fer." steve's face darkened too, but he was silent. "found out yit who killed yo' daddy?" jason's answer was short. "if i had i wouldn't tell you." "must be purty good shot now?" "i hain't shot a pistol off fer four year," said the lad again shortly, and steve stared. "whut devilmint are you in up here now?" asked jason calmly and with no apparent notice of the start steve gave. "who's been a-tellin' you lies about me?" asked steve with angry suspicion. "i hain't heerd a word," said jason coolly. "i bet you burned that toll-gate the morning i left here. thar's devilmint goin' on everywhar, an' if there's any around you i know you can't keep out o' it." steve laughed with relief. "you can't git away with devilmint here like you can in the mountains, an' i'm 'tendin' to my own business." jason made no comment and steve went on: "i've paid fer this hoss an' buggy an' i got things hung up at home an' a leetle money in the bank, an' yo' ma says she wouldn't go back to the mountains fer nothin'." "how's mavis?" asked jason abruptly. "reckon you wouldn't know her. she's al'ays runnin' aroun' with that pendleton boy an' gal, an' she's chuck-full o' new-fangled notions. she's the purtiest gal i ever seed, an'," he added slyly, "looks like that pendleton boy's plumb crazy 'bout her." jason made no answer and showed no sign of interest, much less jealousy, and yet, though he was thinking of the pendleton girl and wanted to ask some question about her, a little inconsistent rankling started deep within him at the news of mavis's disloyalty to him. they were approaching the lane that led to steve's house now, and beyond the big twin houses were visible. "yo' uncle arch's been here a good deal, an' he's tuk a powerful fancy to mavis an' he's goin' to send her to the same college school in town whar you're goin'. marjorie and gray is a-goin' thar too, i reckon." jason's heart beat fast at these words. gray had the start of him, but he would give the blue-grass boy a race now in school and without. as they turned into the lane, he could see the woods--could almost see the tree around which he had circled drunk, raging, and shooting his pistol, and his face burned with the memory. and over in the hollow he had met marjorie on her pony, and he could see the tears in her eyes, hear her voice, and feel the clasp of her hand again. though neither knew it, a new life had started for him there and then. he had kept his promise, and he wondered if she would remember and be glad. his mother was on the porch, waiting and watching for him, with one hand shading her eyes. she rushed for the gate, and when he stepped slowly from the buggy she gave a look of wondering surprise and pride, burst into tears, and for the first time in her life threw her arms around him and kissed him, to his great confusion and shame. in the doorway stood a tall, slender girl with a mass of black hair, and she, too, with shining eyes rushed toward him, stopping defiantly short within a few feet of him when she met his cool, clear gaze, and, without even speaking his name, held out her hand. then with intuitive suspicion she flashed a look at steve and knew that his tongue had been wagging. she flushed angrily, but with feminine swiftness caught her lost poise and, lifting her head, smiled. "i wouldn't 'a' known ye," she said. "an' i wouldn't 'a' known you," said jason. the girl said no more, and the father looked at his daughter and the mother at her son, puzzled by the domestic tragedy so common in this land of ours, where the gates of opportunity swing wide for the passing on of the young. but of the two, steve hawn was the more puzzled and uneasy, for jason, like himself, was a product of the hills and had had less chance than even he to know the outside world. the older mountaineer wore store clothes, but so did jason. he had gone to meet the boy, self-assured and with the purpose of patronage and counsel, and he had met more assurance than his own and a calm air of superiority that was troubling to steve's pride. the mother, always apologetic on account of the one great act of injustice she had done her son, felt awe as she looked, and as her pride grew she became abject, and the boy accepted the attitude of each as his just due. but on mavis the wave of his influence broke as on a rock. she was as much changed from the mavis he had last seen as she was at that time from the little mavis of the hills, and he felt her eyes searching him from head to foot just as she had done that long-ago time when he saw her first in the hunting-field. he knew that now she was comparing him with even higher standards than she was then, and that now, as then, he was falling short, and he looked up suddenly and caught her eyes with a grim, confident little smile that made her shift her gaze confusedly. she moved nervously in her chair and her cheeks began to burn. and steve talked on--volubly for him--while the mother threw in a timid homesick question to jason now and then about something in the mountains, and mavis kept still and looked at the boy no more. by and by the two women went to their work, and jason followed steve about the little place to look at the cow and a few pigs and at the garden and up over the hill to the tobacco-patch that steve was tending on shares with colonel pendleton. after dinner mavis disappeared, and the stepmother reckoned she had gone over to see marjorie pendleton--"she was al'ays a-goin' over thar"--and in the middle of the afternoon the boy wandered aimlessly forth into the blue-grass fields. spring green the fields were, and the woods, but scarcely touched by the blight of autumn, were gray as usual from the limestone turnpike, which, when he crossed it, was ankle-deep in dust. a cloud of yellow butterflies fluttered crazily before him in a sunlight that was hardly less golden, and when he climbed the fence a rabbit leaped beneath him and darted into a patch of ironweeds. instinctively he leaped after it, crashing, through the purple crowns, and as suddenly stopped at the foolishness of pursuit, when he had left his pistol in his suit-case, and with another sharp memory of the rabbit hunt he had encountered when he made his first appearance in that land. half unconsciously then his thoughts turned him through the woods and through a pasture toward the twin homes of the pendletons, and on the top of the next hill he could see them on their wooded eminences--could even see the stile where he had had his last vision of marjorie, and he dropped in the thick grass, looking long and hard and wondering. around the corner of the yard fence a negro appeared leading a prancing iron-gray horse, the front doors opened, a tall girl in a black riding-habit came swiftly down the walk, and a moment later the iron-gray was bearing her at a swift gallop toward the turnpike gate. as she disappeared over a green summit, his heart stood quite still. could that tall woman be the little girl who, with a tear, a tremor of the voice, and a touch of the hand, had swerved him from the beaten path of a century? mavis had grown, he himself had grown--and, of course, marjorie, too, had grown. he began to wonder whether she would recollect him, would know him when he met her face to face, would remember the promise she had asked and he had given, and if she would be pleased to know that he had kept it. in the passing years the boy had actually lost sight of her as flesh and blood, for she had become enshrined among his dreams by night and his dreams by day; among the visions his soul had seen when he had sat under the old circuit rider and heard pictured the glories of the blessed when mortals should mingle with the shining hosts on high: and above even st. hilda, on the very pinnacle of his new-born and ever-growing ambitions, marjorie sat enthroned and alone. light was all he remembered of her--the light of her eyes and of her hair--yes, and that one touch of her hand. his heart turned to water at the thought of seeing her again and his legs were trembling when he rose to start back through the fields. another rabbit sprang from its bed in a tuft of grass, but he scarcely paid any heed to it. when he crossed the creek a muskrat was leisurely swimming for its hole in the other bank, and he did not even pick up a stone to throw at it, but walked on dreaming through the woods. as he was about to emerge from them he heard voices ahead of him, high-pitched and angry, and with the caution of his race he slipped forward and stopped, listening. in a tobacco-patch on the edge of the woods steve hawn had stopped work and was leaning on the fence. seated on it was one of the small farmers of the neighborhood. they were not quarrelling, and the boy could hardly believe his ears. "i tell you that fellow--they're callin' him the autocrat already--that fellow will have two of his judges to your one at every election booth in the state. he'll steal every precinct and he'll be settin' in the governor's chair as sure as you are standing here. i'm a democrat, but i've been half a republican ever since this free-silver foolishness came up, and i'm going to vote against him. now, all you mountain people are republicans, but you might as well all be democrats. you haven't got a chance oh earth. what are you goin' to do about it?" steve hawn shook his head helplessly, but jason saw his huge hand grip his tobacco knife and his own blood beat indignantly at his temples. the farmer threw one leg back over the fence. "there'll be hell to pay when the day comes," he said, and he strode away, while the mountaineer leaned motionless on the fence with his grip on the knife unrelaxed. noiselessly the boy made his way through the edge of the woods, out under the brow of a hill, and went on his restless way up the bank of the creek toward steve's home. when he turned toward the turnpike he found that he had passed the house a quarter of a mile, so he wheeled back down the creek, and where the mouth of the lane opened from the road he dropped in a spot of sunlight on the crest of a little cliff, his legs weary but his brain still tirelessly at work. these people of the blue-grass were not only robbing him and his people of their lands, but of their political birthright as well. the fact that the farmer was on his side but helped make the boy know it was truth, and the resentments that were always burning like a bed of coals deep within him sprang into flames again. the shadows lengthened swiftly about him and closed over him, and then the air grew chill. abruptly he rose and stood rigid, for far up the lane, and coming over a little hill, he saw the figure of a man leading a black horse and by his side the figure of a woman--both visible for a moment before they disappeared behind the bushes that lined the lane. when they were visible again jason saw that they were a boy and girl, and when they once more came into view at a bend of the lane and stopped he saw that the girl, with her face downcast, was mavis. while they stood the boy suddenly put his arm around her, but she eluded him and fled to the fence, and with a laugh he climbed on his horse and came down the lane. in a burning rage jason started to slide down the cliff and pull the intruder, whoever he was, from his horse, and then he saw mavis, going swiftly through the fields, turn and wave her hand. that stopped him still--he could not punish where there was apparently no offence--so with sullen eyes he watched the mouth of the lane give up a tall lad on a black thoroughbred, his hat in his hand and his handsome face still laughing and still turned for another glimpse of the girl. another hand-wave came from mavis at the edge of the woods, and glowering jason stood in full view unseen and watched gray pendleton go thundering past him down the road. mavis had not gone to see marjorie--she had sneaked away to meet gray; his lips curled contemptuously--mavis was a sneak, and so was gray pendleton. then a thought struck him--why was mavis behaving like a brush-girl this way, and why didn't gray go to see her in her own home, open and above-board, like a man? the curl of the boy's lips settled into a straight, grim line, and once more he turned slowly down the stream that he might approach steve's house from another direction. half an hour later, when he climbed the turnpike fence, he heard the gallop of iron-shod feet and he saw bearing down on him an iron-gray horse. it was marjorie. he knew her from afar; he gripped the rail beneath him with both hands and his heart seemed almost to stop. she was looking him full in the face now, and then, with a nod and a smile she would have given a beggar or a tramp, she swept him by. xvii there was little about jason and his school career that john burnham had not heard from his friend st. hilda, for she kept sending at intervals reports of him, so that burnham knew how doggedly the lad had worked in school and out; what a leader he was among his fellows, and how, that he might keep out of the feud, he had never gone to his grandfather's even during vacations, except for a day or two, but had hired himself out to some mountain farmer and had toiled like a slave, always within st. hilda's reach. she had won jason's heart from the start, so that he had told her frankly about his father's death, the coming of the geologist, the sale of his home, the flight of his mother and steve hawn, his shooting at babe honeycutt, and his own flight after them, but at the brink of one confession he always balked. never could st. hilda learn just why he had given up the manly prerogatives of pistol, whiskey-jug, and a deadly purpose of revenge, to accept in their place, if need be, the despised duties of women-folks. but his grim and ready willingness for the exchange appealed to st. hilda so strongly that she had always saved him as much of these duties as she could. the truth was that the school-master had slyly made a diplomatic use of their mutual interest in jason that was masterly. there had been little communication between them since the long-ago days when she had given him her final decision and gone on her mission to the mountains, until jason had come to be an important link between them. gradually, after that, st. hilda had slowly come to count on the school-master's sympathy and understanding, and more than once she had written not only for his advice but for his help as well. and wisely, through it all, burnham had never sounded the personal note, and smilingly he had noted the passing of all suspicion on her part, the birth of her belief that he was cured of his love for her and would bother her no more, and now, in her last letter announcing jason's coming to the blue-grass, there was a distinct personal atmosphere that almost made him chuckle. st. hilda even wondered whether he might not care, during some vacation, to come down and see with his own eyes the really remarkable work he knew she was doing down there. and when he wrote during the summer that he had been called to the suddenly vacated chair of geology in the college jason had been prepared for, her delight thrilled him, though he had to wonder how much of it might be due to the fact that her protege would thus be near him for help and counsel. his face was almost aglow when he drove out through the gate that morning on his way to the duties of his first day. the neighborhood children were already on their way to school, but they were mostly the children of tobacco tenants, and when he passed the school-house he saw a young woman on the porch--two facts that were significant. the neighborhood church was going, the neighborhood school was going, the man-teacher was gone--and he himself was perhaps the last of the line that started in coonskin caps and moccasins. the gentleman farmers who had made the land distinct and distinguished were renting their acres to tobacco tenants on shares and were moving to town to get back their negro servants and to provide their children with proper schooling. and those children of the gentle people, it seemed, were growing more and more indifferent to education and culture, and less and less marked by the gentle manners that were their birthright. and when he thought of the toll-gate war, the threatened political violence almost at hand, and the tobacco troubles which he knew must some day come, he wondered with a sick heart if a general decadence was not going on in the land for which he would have given his life in peace as readily as in war. in the mountains, according to st. hilda, the people had awakened from a sleep of a hundred years. lawlessness was on the decrease, the feud was disappearing, railroads were coming in, the hills were beginning to give up the wealth of their timber, iron, and coal. county schools were increasing, and the pathetic eagerness of mountain children to learn and the pathetic hardships they endured to get to school and to stay there made her heart bleed and his ache to help them. and in his own land, what a contrast! three years before, the wedge of free silver had split the state in twain. into this breach had sprung that new man with the new political method that threatened disaster to the commonwealth. to his supporters, he was the enemy of corporations, the friend of widows and orphans, the champion of the poor--this man; to his enemies, he was the most malign figure that had ever thrust head above the horizon of kentucky politics--and so john burnham regarded him; to both he was the autocrat, cold, exacting, imperious, and his election bill would make him as completely master of the commonwealth as diaz in mexico or menelik in abyssinia. the dazed people awoke and fought, but the autocrat had passed his bill. it was incredible, but could he enforce it? no one knew, but the midsummer convention for the nomination of governor came, and among the candidates he entered it, the last in public preference. but he carried that convention at the pistol's point, came out the democratic nominee, and now stood smilingly ready to face the most terrible political storm that had ever broken over kentucky. the election was less than two months away, the state was seething as though on the trembling crisis of a civil war, and the division that john burnham expected between friend and friend, brother and brother, and father and son had come. the mountains were on fire and there might even be an invasion from those black hills led by the spirit of the picts and scots of old, and aided and abetted by the head, hand, and tongue of the best element of the blue-grass. the people of the blue-grass had known little and cared less about these shadowy hillsmen, but it looked to john burnham as though they might soon be forced to know and care more than would be good for the peace of the state and its threatened good name. a rattle-trap buggy was crawling up a hill ahead of him, and when he passed it steve hawn was flopping the reins, and by him was mavis with a radiant face and sparkling eyes. "where's jason?" john burnham called, and the girl's face grew quickly serious. "gone on, afoot," laughed steve loudly. "he started 'bout crack o' day." the school-master smiled. on the slope of the next hill, two carriages, each drawn by a spanking pair of trotters, swept by him. from one he got a courteous salute from colonel pendleton and a happy shout from gray, and from the other a radiant greeting from marjorie and her mother. again john burnham smiled thoughtfully. for him the hope of the blue-grass was in the joyous pair ahead of him, the hope of the mountains was in the girl behind and the sturdy youth streaking across the dawn-wet fields, and in the four the hope of his state; and his smile was pleased and hopeful. soon on his left were visible the gray lines of the old transylvania university where jefferson davis had gone to college while abraham lincoln was splitting rails and studying by candlelight a hundred miles away, and its campus was dotted with swiftly moving figures of boys and girls on their way to the majestic portico on the hill. the streets were filled with eager young faces, and he drove on through them to the red-brick walls of the state university, on the other side of the town, where his labors were to begin. and when, half an hour later, he turned into the campus afoot, he found himself looking among the boys who thronged the walk, the yard, and the entrances of the study halls for the face of jason hawn. tremblingly the boy had climbed down from the fence after marjorie galloped by him the day before, had crossed the pike slowly, sunk dully at the foot of an oak in the woods beyond, and sat there, wide-eyed and stunned, until dark. had he been one of the followers of the star of bethlehem, and had that star vanished suddenly from the heavens, he could hardly have known such darkness, such despair. for the time mavis and gray passed quite out of the world while he was wrestling with that darkness, and it was only when he rose shakily to his feet at last that they came back into it again. supper was over when he reached the house, but mavis had kept it for him, and while she waited on him she tried to ask him questions about his school-life in the mountains, to tell him of her own in the blue-grass--tried to talk about the opening of college next day, but he sat silent and sullen, and so, puzzled and full of resentment, she quietly withdrew. after he was through, he heard her cleaning the dishes and putting them away, and he saw her that night no more. next morning, without a word to her or to his mother, he went out to the barn where steve was feeding. "if you'll bring my things on in the buggy, i reckon i'll just be goin' on." "why, we can all three git in the buggy." jason shook his head. "i hain't goin' to be late." steve laughed. "well, you'll shore be on time if you start now. why, mavis says--" but jason had started swiftly on, and steve, puzzled, did not try to stop him. mavis came out on the porch, and he pointed out the boy's figure going through the dim fields. "jason's gone on," he said, "afeerd he'll be late. that boy's plum' quar." jason was making a bee-line for more than the curve of the pike, for more than the college--he was making it now for everything in his life that was ahead of him, and he meant now to travel it without help or hindrance, unswervingly and alone. with st. hilda, each day had started for him at dawn, and whether it started that early at the college in town he did not ask himself or anybody else. he would wait now for nothing--nobody. the time had come to start, so he had started on his own new way, stout in body, heart, and soul, and that was all. soft mists of flame were shooting up the eastern horizon, soft dew-born mists were rising from little hollows and trailing through the low trees. there had been a withering drought lately, but the merciful rain had come, the parched earth had drunk deep, and now under its mantle of rich green it seemed to be heaving forth one vast long sigh of happy content. the corn was long ready for the knife, green sprouts of winter wheat were feathering their way above the rich brown soil, and the cut upturned tobacco stalks, but dimly seen through the mists, looked like little hunchbacked witches poised on broomsticks, and ready for flight at dawn. vast deviltry those witches had done, for every cut field, every poor field, recovering from the drastic visit of years before was rough, weedy, shaggy, unkempt, and worn. the very face of the land showed decadence, and, in the wake of the witches, white top, dockweed, ragweed, cockle burr, and sweet fern had up-leaped like some joyous swarm of criminals unleashed from the hand of the law, while the beautiful pastures and grassy woodlands, their dignity outraged, were stretched here and there between them, helpless, but breathing in the very mists their scorn. when he reached the white, dusty road, the fires of his ambition kept on kindling with every step, and his pace, even in the cool of the early morning, sent his hat to his hand, and plastered his long lank hair to his temples and the back of his sturdy sunburnt neck. the sun was hardly star-pointing the horizon when he saw the luminous smoke-cloud over the town. he quickened his step, and in his dark eyes those fires leaped into steady flames. the town was wakening from sleep. the driver of a milk-cart pointed a general direction for him across the roof-tops, but when he got into the wilderness of houses he lost that point of the compass and knew not which way to turn. on a street corner he saw a man in a cap and a long coat with brass buttons on it, a black stick in his hand, and something bulging at his hip, and light dawned for jason. "air you the constable?" he asked, and the policeman grinned kindly. "i'm one of 'em," he said. "well, how do i git to the college i'm goin' to?" the officer grinned good-naturedly again, and pointed with his stick. "follow that street, and hurry up or you'll get a whippin'." "thar now," thought jason, and started into a trot up the hill, and the officer, seeing the boy's suddenly anxious face, called to him to take it easy, but jason, finding the pavements rather uneven, took to the middle of the street, and without looking back sped on. it was a long run, but jason never stopped until he saw a man standing at the door of a long, low, brick building with the word "tobacco" painted in huge letters above its closed doors, and he ran across the street to him. "whar's the college?" the man pointed across the street to an entrance between two gray stone pillars with pyramidal tops, and jason trotted back, and trotted on through them, and up the smooth curve of the road. not a soul was in sight, and on the empty steps of the first building he came to jason dropped, panting. xviii the campus was thick with grass and full of trees, there were buildings of red brick everywhere, and all were deserted. he began to feel that the constable had made game of him, and he was indignant. nobody in the mountains would treat a stranger that way; but he had reached his goal, and, no matter when "school took up," he was there. still, he couldn't help rising restlessly once, and then with a deep breath he patiently sat down again and waited, looking eagerly around meanwhile. the trees about him were low and young--they looked like maples--and multitudinous little gray birds were flitting and chattering around him, and these he did not know, for the english sparrow has not yet captured the mountains. above the closed doors of the long brick building opposite the stone-guarded gateway he could see the word "tobacco" printed in huge letters, and farther away he could see another similar sign, and somehow he began wondering why steve hawn had talked so much about the troubles that were coming over tobacco, and seemed to care so little about the election troubles that had put the whole state on the wire edge of quivering suspense. half an hour passed and jason was getting restless again, when he saw an old negro shuffling down the stone walk with a bucket in one hand, a mop in the other, and trailing one leg like a bird with a broken wing. "good-mornin', son." "do you know whar john burnham is?" "whut's dat--whut's dat?" "i'm a-lookin' fer john burnham." "look hyeh, chile, is you referrin' to perfesser burnham?" "i reckon that's him." "well, if you is, you better axe fer him jes' that-a-way--perfesser perfesser--burnham. well, perfesser burnham won't sanctify dis hall wid his presence fer quite a long while--quite a long while. may i inquire, son, if yo' purpose is to attend dis place o' learnin'?" "i come to go to college." "yassuh, yassuh," said the old negro, and with no insolence whatever he guffawed loudly. "well, suh, looks lak you come a long way, an' you sutinly got hyeh on time--you sho did. well, son, you jes' set hyeh as long as you please an', walk aroun' an' come back an' den ef you set hyeh long enough agin, you'se a-gwine to see perfesser burnham come right up dese steps." so jason took the old man's advice, and strolled around the grounds. a big pond caught his eye, and he walked along its grassy bank and under the thick willows that fringed it. he pulled himself to the top of a high board fence at the upper end of it, peered over at a broad, smooth athletic-field, and he wondered what the two poles that stood at each end with a cross-bar between them could be, and why that tall fence ran all around it. he stared at the big chimney of the powerhouse, as tall as the trunk of a poplar in a "deadening" at home, and covered with vines to the top, and he wondered what on earth that could be. he looked over the gate at the president's house. through the windows of one building he saw hanging rings and all sorts of strange paraphernalia, and he wondered about them, and, peering through one ground-floor window, he saw three beds piled one on top of the other, each separated from the other by the length of its legs. it would take a step-ladder to get into the top bed--good lord, did people sleep that way in this college? suppose the top boy rolled out! and every building was covered with vines, and it was funny that vines grew on houses, and why in the world didn't folks cut 'em off? it was all wonder--nothing but wonder--and he got tired of wondering and went back to his steps and sat patiently down again. it was not long now before windows began to bang up and down in the dormitory near him. cries and whistles began to emanate from the rooms, and now and then a head would protrude, and its eyes never failed, it seemed, to catch and linger on the lonely, still figure clinging to the steps. soon there was a rush of feet downstairs, and a crowd of boys emerged and started briskly for breakfast. girls began to appear--short-skirted, with and without hats, with hair up and hair down--more girls than he had ever seen before--tall and short, fat and thin, and brunette and blonde. students began to stroll through the campus gates, and now and then a buggy or a carriage would enter and whisk past him to deposit its occupants in front of the building opposite from where he sat. what was going on over there? he wanted to go over and see, for school might be taking up over there, and, from being too early, he might be too late after all; but he might miss john burnham, and if he himself were late, why lots of the boys and girls about him would be late too, and surely if they knew, which they must, they would not let that happen. so, all eyes, he sat on, taking in everything, like the lens of a camera. some of the boys wore caps, or little white hats with the crown pushed in all around, and, though it wasn't muddy and didn't look as though it were going to rain, each one of them had his "britches" turned up, and that puzzled the mountain boy sorely; but no matter why they did it, he wouldn't have to turn his up, for they didn't come to the tops of his shoes. swiftly he gathered how different he himself was, particularly in clothes, from all of them. nowhere did he see a boy who matched himself as so lonely and set apart, but with a shake of his head he tossed off his inner plea for sympathetic companionship, and the little uneasiness creeping over him--proudly. there was a little commotion now in the crowd nearest him, all heads turned one way, and jason saw approaching an old gentleman on crutches, a man with a thin face that was all pure intellect and abnormally keen; that, centuries old in thought, had yet the unquenchable soul-fire of youth. he stopped, lifted his hat in response to the cheers that greeted him, and for a single instant over that thin face played, like the winking eye of summer lightning, the subtle humor that the world over is always playing hide-and-seek in the heart of the scot. a moment, and jason halted a passing boy with his eye. "who's that ole feller?" he blurted. the lad looked shocked, for he could not know that jason meant not a particle of disrespect. "that 'ole feller,'" he mimicked indignantly and with scathing sarcasm, "is the president of this university"; and he hurried on while jason miserably shrivelled closer to the steps. after that he spoke to nobody, and nobody spoke to him, and he lifted his eyes only to the gateway through which he longed for john burnham to come. but the smile of the old president haunted him. there sat a man on heights no more to be scaled by him than heaven, and yet that puzzling smile for the blissful ignorance, in the young, of how gladly the old would give up their crowns in exchange for the swift young feet on the threshold--no wonder the boy could not understand. through that gate dashed presently a pair of proud, high-headed black horses--"star-gazers," as the kentuckians call them--with a rhythmic beat of high-lifted feet, and the boy's eyes narrowed as the carriage behind them swept by him, for in it were colonel pendleton and gray, with eager face and flashing eyes. there was a welcoming shout when gray leaped out, and a crowd of students rushed toward him and surrounded him. one of them took off his hat, lifted both hands above his head, and then they all barked out a series of barbaric yells with a long shout of gray's full name at the end, while the blue-grass lad stood among them, flushed and embarrassed but not at all displeased. again jason's brow knitted with wonder, for he could not know what a young god in that sternly democratic college gray pendleton, aristocrat though he was, had made himself, and he shrank deeper still into his loneliness and turned wistful eyes again to the gate. somebody had halted in front of him, and he looked up to see the same lad of whom he had just asked a question. "and that young feller," said the boy in the same mimicking tone, "is another president--of the sophomore class and the captain of the football team." lightning-like and belligerent, jason sprang to his feet. "air you pokin' fun at me?" he asked thickly and clenching his fists. genuinely amazed, the other lad stared at him a moment, smiled, and held out his hand. "i reckon i was, but you're all right. shake!" and within jason, won by the frank eyes and winning smile, the tumult died quickly, and he shook--gravely. "my name's burns--jack burns." "mine's hawn--jason hawn." the other turned away with a wave of his hand. "see you again." "shore," said jason, and then his breast heaved and his heart seemed to stop quite still. another pair of proud horses shot between the stone pillars, and in the carriage behind them was marjorie. the boy dropped to his seat, dropped his chin in both hands as though to keep his face hidden, but as the sound of her coming loudened he simply could not help lifting his head. erect, happy, smiling, the girl was looking straight past him, and he felt like one of the yellow grains of dust about her horses' feet. and then within him a high, shrill little yell rose above the laughter and vocal hum going on around him--there was john burnham coming up the walk, the school-master, john burnham--and jason sprang to meet him. immediately burnham's searching eyes fell upon him, and he stopped--smiling, measuring, surprised. could this keen-faced, keen-eyed, sinewy, tall lad be the faithful little chap who had trudged sturdily at his heels so many days in the mountains? "well, well, well," he said; "why, i wouldn't have known you. you got here in time, didn't you?" "i have been waitin' fer you," said jason. "miss hilda told me to come straight to you." "that's right--how is she?" "she ain't well--she works too hard." the school-master shook his head with grave concern. "i know. you've been lucky, jason. she is the best woman on earth." "i'd lay right down here an' die fer her right now," said the lad soberly. so would john burnham, and he loved the lad for saying that. "she said you was the best man on earth--but i knowed that," the lad went on simply; "an' she told me to tell you to make me keep out o' fights and study hard and behave." "all right, jason," said burnham with a smile. "have you matriculated yet?" jason was not to be caught napping. his eyes gave out the quick light of humor, but his face was serious. "i been so busy waitin' fer you that i reckon i must 'a' forgot that." the school-master laughed. "come along." through the thick crowd that gave way respectfully to the new professor, jason followed across the road to the building opposite, and up the steps into a room where he told his name and his age, and the name of his father and mother, and pulled from his pooket a little roll of dirty bills. there was a fee of five dollars for "janitor"; jason did not know what a janitor was, but john burnham nodded when he looked up inquiringly and jason asked no question. there was another fee for "breakage," and that was all, but the latter item was too much for jason. "s'pose i don't break nothin'," he asked shrewdly, "do i git that back?" then registrar and professor laughed. "you get it back." down they went again. "that's a mighty big word fer such little doin's," the boy said soberly, and the school-master smiled. "you'll find just that all through college now, jason, but don't wait to find out what the big word means." "i won't," said jason, "next time." many eyes now looked on the lad curiously when he followed john burnham back through the crowd to the steps, where the new professor paused. "i passed mavis on the road. i wonder if she has come." "i don't know," said jason, and a curious something in his tone made john burnham look at him quickly--but he said nothing. "oh well," he said presently, "she knows what to do." a few minutes later the two were alone in the new professor's recitation-room. "have you seen marjorie and gray?" the lad hesitated. "i seed--i saw 'em when they come in." "gray finishes my course this year. he's going to be a civil engineer." "so'm i," said jason; and the quick shortness of his tone again made john burnham look keenly at him. "you know a good deal about geology already--are you going to take my course too?" "i want to know just what to do with that land o' mine. i ain't forgot what you told me--to go away and git an education--and when i come back what that land 'ud be worth." "yes, but--" the lad's face had paled and his mouth had set. "i'm goin' to git it back." behind them the door had opened, and gray's spirited, smiling face was thrust in. "good morning, professor," he cried, and then, seeing jason, he came swiftly in with his hand outstretched. "why, how are you, jason? mavis told me yesterday you were here. i've been looking for you. glad to see you." watching both, john burnham saw the look of surprise in gray's face when the mountain boy's whole frame stiffened into the rigidity of steel, saw the haughty uplifting of the blue-grass boy's chin, as he wheeled to go, and like gray, he, too, thought jason had never forgotten the old feud between them. for a moment he was tempted to caution jason about the folly of it all, but as suddenly he changed his mind. outside a bugle blew. "go on down, jason," he said instead, "and follow the crowd--that's chapel--prayer-meeting," he explained. at the foot of the stairs the boy mingled with the youthful stream pouring through the wide doors of the chapel hall. he turned to the left and was met by the smiling eyes of his new acquaintance, burns, who waved him good-humoredly away: "this is the sophomore corner--i reckon you belong in there." and toward the centre jason went among the green, the countrified, the uneasy, and the unkempt. the other half of the hall was banked with the faces of young girls--fresh as flowers--and everywhere were youth and eagerness, eagerness and youth. the members of the faculty were climbing the steps to a platform and ranging themselves about the old gentleman with the crutches. john burnham entered, and the vault above rocked with the same barbaric yells that jason had heard given gray pendleton, for burnham had been a mighty foot-ball player in his college days. the old president rose, and the tumult sank to reverential silence while a silver tongue sent its beautiful diction on high in a prayer for the bodies, the minds, and the souls of the whole buoyant throng in the race for which they were about to be let loose. and that was just what the tense uplifted faces suggested to john burnham--he felt in them the spirit of the thoroughbred at the post, the young hound straining at the leash, the falcon unhooded for flight, when, at the president's nod, he rose to his feet to speak to the host the welcome of the faculty within these college walls and the welcome of the blue-grass to the strangers from the confines of the state--particularly to those who had journeyed from their mountain homes. "these young people from the hills," he said, "for their own encouragement and for all patience in their own struggle, must always remember, and the young men and women of the blue-grass, for tolerance and a better understanding, must never forget, in what darkness and for how long their sturdy kinspeople had lived, how they were just wakening from a sleep into which, not of their own fault, they had lapsed but little after the revolution; how eagerly they had strained their eyes for the first glimmer from the outside world that had come to them, and how earnestly now they were fighting toward the light. so isolated, so primitive were they only a short while ago that neighbor would go to neighbor asking 'lend us fire,' and now they were but asking of the outer world, 'lend us fire.' and he hoped that the young men and women from those dark fastnesses who had come there to light their torches would keep them burning, and take them back home still sacredly aflame, so that in the hills the old question with its new meaning could never again be asked in vain." jason's eyes had never wavered from the speaker's face, nor had gray's, but, while john burnham purposely avoided the eyes of both, he noted here and there the sudden squaring of shoulders, and the face of a mountain boy or girl lift quickly and with open-mouthed interest remain fixed; and far back he saw mavis, wide-eyed and deep in some new-born dream, and he thought he saw marjorie turn at the end to look at the mountain girl as though to smile understanding and sympathy. a mental tumult still held jason when the crowd about him rose to go, and he kept his seat. john burnham had been talking about mavis and him, and maybe about marjorie and gray, and he had a vague desire to see the school-master again. moreover, a doubt, at once welcome and disturbing to him, had coursed through his brain. if secret meetings in lanes and by-ways were going on between mavis and gray, gray would hardly have been so frank in saying he had seen mavis the previous afternoon for gray must know that jason knew there had been no meeting at steve hawn's house. perhaps gray had overtaken her in the lane quite by accident, and the boy was bothered and felt rather foolish and ashamed when, seeing john burnham still busy on the platform, he rose to leave. on the steps more confusion awaited him. a group of girls was standing to one side of them, and he turned hurriedly the other way. light footsteps followed him, and a voice called: "oh, jason!" his blood rushed, and he turned dizzily, for he knew it was marjorie. in her frank eyes was a merry smile instead of the tear that had fixed them in his memory, but the clasp of her hand was the same. "why, i didn't know you yesterday--did i? no wonder. why, i wouldn't have known you now if i hadn't been looking for you. mavis told me you'd come. dear me, what a big man you are. professor burnham told me all about you, and i've been so proud. why, i came near writing to you several times. i'm expecting you to lead your class here, and"--she took in with frank admiration his height and the breadth of his shoulders--"gray will want you, maybe, for the foot-ball team." the crowds of girls near by were boring him into the very ground with their eyes. his feet and his hands had grown to enormous proportions and seemed suddenly to belong to somebody else. he felt like an ant in a grain-hopper, or as though he were deep under water in a long dive and must in a moment actually gasp for breath. and, remembering st. hilda, he did manage to get his hat off, but he was speechless. marjorie paused, the smile did not leave her eyes, but it turned serious, and she lowered her voice a little. "did you keep your promise, jason?" then the boy found himself, and as he had said before, that winter dusk, he said now soberly: "i give you my hand." and, as before, taking him literally, marjorie again stretched out her hand. "i'm so glad." once more the bugle sent its mellow summons through the air. "and you are coming to our house some saturday night to go coon-hunting--good-by." jason turned weakly away, and all the rest of the day he felt dazed. he did not want to see mavis or gray or marjorie again, or even john burnham. so he started back home afoot, and all the way he kept to the fields through fear that some one of them might overtake him on the road, for he wanted to be alone. and those fields looked more friendly now than they had looked at dawn, and his heart grew lighter with every step. now and then a rabbit leaped from the grass before him, or a squirrel whisked up the rattling bark of a hickory-tree. a sparrow trilled from the swaying top of a purple ironwood, and from grass, and fence-rail, and awing, meadow larks were fluting everywhere, but the song of no wood-thrush reached his waiting ear. over and over again his brain reviewed every incident of the day, only to end each time with marjorie's voice, her smile with its new quality of mischief, and the touch of her hand. she had not forgotten--that was the thrill of it all--and she had even asked if he had kept his promise to her. and at that thought his soul darkened, for the day would come when he must ask to be absolved of one part of that promise, as on that day he must be up and on his dead father's business. and he wondered what, when he told her, she would say. it was curious, but the sense of the crime involved was naught, as was the possible effect of it on his college career--it was only what that girl would say. but the day might still be long off, and he had so schooled himself to throwing aside the old deep, sinister purpose that he threw it off now and gave himself up to the bubbling relief that had come to him. that meeting in the lane must have been chance, john burnham was kind, and marjorie had not forgotten. he was not alone in the world, nor was he even lonely, for everywhere that day he had found a hand stretched out to help him. mavis was sitting on the porch when he walked through the gate, and the moment she saw his face a glad light shone in her own, for it was the old jason coming back to her: "mavie," he said huskily, "i reckon i'm the biggest fool this side o' hell, whar i reckon i ought to be." mavis asked no question, made no answer. she merely looked steadily at him for a moment, and then, brushing quickly at her eyes, she rose and turned into the house. the sun gave way to darkness, but it kept on shining in jason's heart, and when at bedtime he stood again on the porch, his gratitude went up to the very stars. he heard mavis behind him, but he did not turn, for all he had to say he had said, and the break in his reserve was over. "i'm glad you come back, jasie," was all she said, shyly, for she understood, and then she added the little phrase that is not often used in the mountain world: "good-night." from st. hilda, jason, too, had learned that phrase, and he spoke it with a gruffness that made the girl smile: "good-night, mavie." xix jason drew the top bed in a bare-walled, bare-floored room with two other boys, as green and countrified as was he, and he took turns with them making up those beds, carrying water for the one tin basin, and sweeping up the floor with the broom that stood in the corner behind it. but even then the stark simplicity of his life was a luxury. his meals cost him three dollars a week, and that most serious item began to worry him, but not for long. within two weeks he was meeting a part of that outlay by delivering the morning daily paper of the town. this meant getting up at half past three in the morning, after a sleep of five hours and a half, but if this should begin to wear on him, he would simply go earlier to bed; there was no sign of wear and tear, however, for the boy was as tough as a bolt-proof black gum-tree back in the hills, his capacity for work was prodigious, and the early rising hour but lengthened the range of each day's activities. indeed jason missed nothing and nothing missed him. his novitiate passed quickly, and while his fund for "breakage" was almost gone, he had, without knowing it, drawn no little attention to himself. he had wandered innocently into "heaven"--the seniors' hall--a satanic offence for a freshman, and he had been stretched over a chair, "strapped," and thrown out. but at dawn next morning he was waiting at the entrance and when four seniors appeared he tackled them all valiantly. three held him while the fourth went for a pair of scissors, for thus far jason had escaped the tonsorial betterment that had been inflicted on most of his classmates. the boy stood still, but in a relaxed moment of vigilance he tore loose just as the scissors appeared, and fled for the building opposite. there he turned with his back to the wall. "when i want my hair cut, i'll git my mammy to do it or pay fer it myself," he said quietly, but his face was white. when they rushed on, he thrust his hand into his shirt and pulled it out with a mighty oath of helplessness--he had forgotten his knife. they cut his hair, but it cost them two bloody noses and one black eye. at the flag-rush later he did not forget. the sophomores had enticed the freshmen into the gymnasium, stripped them of their clothes, and carried them away, whereat the freshmen got into the locker-rooms of the girls, and a few moments later rushed from the gymnasium in bloomers to find the sophomores crowded about the base of the pole, one of them with an axe in his hand, and jason at the top with his hand again in his shirt. "chop away!" he was shouting, "but i'll git some o' ye when this pole comes down." above the din rose john burnham's voice, stern and angry, calling jason's name. the student with the axe had halted at the unmistakable sincerity of the boy's threat. "jason," called burnham again, for he knew what the boy meant, and the lad tossed knife and scabbard over the heads of the crowd to the grass, and slid down the pole. and in the fight that followed, the mountain boy fought with a calm, half-smiling ferocity that made the wavering freshmen instinctively surge behind him as a leader, and the onlooking foot-ball coach quickly mark him for his own. even at the first foot-ball "rally," where he learned the college yells, jason had been singled out, for the mountaineer measures distance by the carry of his voice and with a "whoop an' a holler" the boy could cover a mile. above the din, jason's clear cry was, so to speak, like a cracker on the whip of the cheer, and the "yell-master," a swaying figure of frenzied enthusiasm, caught his eye in time, nodded approvingly, and saw in him a possible yell-leader for the freshman class. after the rally the piano was rolled joyously to the centre of the gymnasium and a pale-faced lad began to thump it vigorously, much to jason's disapproval, for he could not understand how a boy could, or would, play anything but a banjo or a fiddle. then, with the accompaniment of a snare-drum, there was a merry, informal dance, at which jason and mavis looked yearningly on. and, as that night long ago in the mountains, gray and marjorie floated like feathers past them, and over gray's shoulder the girl's eyes caught jason's fixed on her, and mavis's fixed on gray; so on the next round she stopped a moment near them. "i'm going to teach you to dance, jason," she said, as though she were tossing a gauntlet to somebody, "and gray can teach mavis." "sure," laughed gray, and off they whirled again. the eyes of the two mountaineers met, and they might have been back in their childhood again, standing on the sunny river-bank and waiting for gray and marjorie to pass, for what their tongues said then their eyes said now: "i seed you a-lookin' at him." "'tain't so--i seed you a-lookin' at her." and it was true now as it was then, and then as now both knew it and both flushed. jason turned abruptly away, for he knew more of mavis's secret than she of his, and it was partly for that reason that he had not yet opened his lips to her. he had seen no consciousness in gray's face, he resented the fact, somehow, that there was none, and his lulled suspicions began to stir again within him. in marjorie's face he had missed what mavis had caught, a fleeting spirit of mischief, which stung the mountain girl with jealousy and a quick fierce desire to protect jason, just as jason, with the same motive, was making up his mind again to keep a close eye on gray pendleton. as for marjorie, she, too, knew more of mavis's secret than mavis knew of hers, and of the four, indeed, she was by far the wisest. during the years that jason was in the hills she had read as on an open page the meaning of the mountain girl's flush at any unexpected appearance of gray, the dumb adoration for him in her dark eyes, and more than once, riding in the woods, she had come upon mavis, seated at the foot of an oak, screened by a clump of elder-bushes and patiently waiting, as marjorie knew, to watch gray gallop by. she even knew how unconsciously gray had been drawn by all this toward mavis, but she had not bothered her head to think how much he was drawn until just before the opening of the college year, for, from the other side of the hill, she, too, had witnessed the meeting in the lane that jason had seen, and had wondered about it just as much, though she, too, had kept still. that the two boys knew so little, that the two girls knew so much, and that each girl resented the other's interest in her own cousin, was merely a distinction of sex, as was the fact that matters would have to be made very clear before jason or gray could see and understand. and for them matters were to become clearer, at least--very soon. xx already the coach had asked jason to try foot-ball, but the boy had kept away from the field, for the truth was that he had but one suit of clothes and he couldn't afford to have them soiled and torn. gray suspected this, and told the coach, who explained to jason that practice clothes would be furnished him, but still the boy did not come until one day when, out of curiosity, he wandered over to the field to see what the game was like. soon his eyes brightened, his lips parted, and his face grew tense as the players swayed, clenched struggling, fell in a heap, and leaped to their feet again. and everywhere he saw gray's yellow head darting among them like a sun-ball, and he began to wonder, if he could not outrun and outwrestle his old enemy. he began to fidget in his seat and presently he could stand it no longer, and he ran out into the field and touched the coach on the shoulder. "can i git them clothes now?" the coach looked at his excited face, nodded with a smile, and pointed to the gymnasium, and jason was off in a run. the matter was settled in the thrill and struggle of that one practice game, and right away jason showed extraordinary aptitude, for he was quick, fleet, and strong, and the generalship and tactics of the game fascinated him from the start. and when he discovered that the training-table meant a savings-bank for him, he counted his money, gave up the morning papers without hesitation or doubt, and started in for the team. thus he and gray were brought violently together on the field, for within two weeks jason was on the second team, but the chasm between them did not close. gray treated the mountain boy with a sort of curt courtesy, and while jason tackled him, fell upon him with a savage thrill, and sometimes wanted to keep on tightening his wiry arms and throttling him, the mountain boy could discover no personal feeling whatever against him in return, and he was mystified. with the ingrained suspicion of the mountaineer toward an enemy, he supposed gray had some cunning purpose. as captain, gray had been bound, jason knew, to put him on the second team, but as day after day went by and the magic word that he longed for went unsaid, the boy began to believe that the sinister purpose of gray's concealment was, without evident prejudice, to keep him off the college team. the ball was about to be snapped back on gray's side, and gray had given him one careless, indifferent glance over the bent backs of the guards, when jason came to this conclusion, and his heart began to pound with rage. there was the shock of bodies, the ball disappeared from his sight, he saw gray's yellow head dart three times, each time a different way, and then it flashed down the side line with a clear field for the goal. with a bound jason was after him, and he knew that even if gray had wings, he would catch him. with a flying leap he hurled himself on the speeding figure, in front of him, he heard gray's breath go out in a quick gasp under the fierce lock of his arms, and, as they crashed to the ground, jason for one savage moment wanted to use his teeth on the back of the sunburnt neck under him, but he sprang to his feet, fists clenched and ready for the fight. with another gasp gray, too, sprang lightly up. "good!" he said heartily. no mortal fist could have laid jason quite so low as that one word. the coach's whistle blew and gray added carelessly: "come around, hawn, to the training-table to-night." no mortal command could have filled him with so much shame, and jason stood stock-still and speechless. then, fumbling for an instant at his shirt collar as though he were choking, he walked swiftly away. as he passed the benches he saw mavis and marjorie, who had been watching the practice. apparently mavis had started out into the field, and marjorie, bewildered by her indignant outcry, had risen to follow her; and jason, when he met the accusing fire of his cousin's eyes, knew that she alone, on the field, had understood it all, that she had started with the impulse of protecting gray, and his shame went deeper still. he did not go to the training-table that night, and the moonlight found him under the old willows wondering and brooding, as he had been--long and hard. gray was too much for him, and the mountain boy had not been able to solve the mystery of the blue-grass boy's power over his fellows, for the social complexity of things had unravelled very slowly for jason. he saw that each county had brought its local patriotism to college and had its county club. there were too few students from the hills and a sectional club was forming, "the mountain club," into which jason naturally had gone; but broadly the students were divided into "frat" men and "non-frat" men, chiefly along social lines, and there were literary clubs of which the watchword was merit and nothing else. in all these sectional cliques from the purchase, pennyroyal, and peavine, as the western border of the state, the southern border, and the eastern border of hills were called; indeed, in all the sections except the bear-grass, where was the largest town and where the greatest wealth of the state was concentrated, he found a widespread, subconscious, home-nursed resentment brought to that college against the lordly blue-grass. in the social life of the college he found that resentment rarely if ever voiced, but always tirelessly at work. he was not surprised then to discover that in the history of the college, gray pendleton was the first plainsman, the first aristocrat, who had ever been captain of the team and the president of his class. he began to understand now, for he could feel the tendrils of the boy's magnetic personality enclosing even him, and by and by he could stand it no longer, and he went to gray. "i wanted to kill you that day." gray smiled. "i knew it," he said quietly. "then why--" "we were playing foot-ball. almost anybody can lose his head entirely--but you didn't. that's why i didn't say anything to you afterward. that's why you'll be captain of the team after i'm gone." again jason choked, and again he turned speechless away, and then and there was born within him an idolatry for gray that was carefully locked in his own breast, for your mountaineer openly worships, and then but shyly, the almighty alone. jason no longer wondered about the attitude of faculty and students of both sexes toward gray, no longer at mavis, but at marjorie he kept on wondering mightily, for she alone seemed the one exception to the general rule. like everybody else, jason knew the parental purpose where those two were concerned, and he began to laugh at the daring presumptions of his own past dreams and to worship now only from afar. but he could not know the effect of that parental purpose on that wilful, high-strung young person, the pique that gray's frank interest in mavis brought to life within her, and he was not yet far enough along in the classics to suspect that marjorie might weary of hearing aristides called the just. nor could he know the spirit of coquetry that lurked deep behind her serious eyes, and was for that reason the more dangerously effective. he only began to notice one morning, after the foot-ball incident, that marjorie was beginning to notice him; that, worshipped now only on the horizon, his star seemed to be drawing a little nearer. a passing lecturer had told jason much of himself and his people that morning. the mountain people, said the speaker, still lived like the pioneer forefathers of the rest of the state. indeed they were "our contemporary ancestors"; so that, sociologically speaking, jason, young as he was, was the ancestor of all around him. the thought made him grin and, looking up, he caught the mischievous eyes of marjorie, who later seemed to be waiting for him on the steps: "good-morning, grandfather," she said demurely, and went rapidly on her way. xxi meanwhile that political storm was raging and jason got at the heart of it through his morning paper and john burnham. he knew that at home republicans ran against republicans for all offices, and now he learned that his own mountains were the gibraltar of that party, and that the line of its fortifications ran from the big sandy, three hundred miles by public roads, to the line of tennessee. when free silver had shattered the democratic ranks three years before, the mountaineers had leaped forth and unfurled the republican flag over the state for the first time since the civil war. ballots were falsified--that was the democratic cry, and that was the democratic excuse for that election law which had been forced through the senate, whipped through the lower house with the party lash, and passed over the veto of the republican governor by the new democratic leader--the bold, cool, crafty, silent autocrat. from bombastic orators jason learned that a fair ballot was the bulwark of freedom, that some god-given bill of rights had been smashed, and the very altar of liberty desecrated. and when john burnham explained how the autocrat's triumvirate could at will appoint and remove officers of election, canvass returns, and certify and determine results, he could understand how the "atrocious measure," as the great editor of the state called it, "was a ready chariot to the governor's chair." and in the summer convention the spirit behind the measure had started for that goal in just that way, like a scythe-bearing chariot of ancient days, but cutting down friend as well as foe. straightway, democrats long in line for honors, and gray in the councils of the party, bolted; the rural press bolted; and jason heard one bolter thus cry his fealty and his faithlessness: "as charged, i do stand ready to vote for a yellow dog, if he be the regular nominee, but lower than that you shall not drag me." the autocrat's retort was courteous. "you have a brother in the penitentiary." "no," was the answer, "but your brothers have a brother who ought to be." the pulpit thundered. half a million kentuckians, "professing christians and temperance advocates," repudiated the autocrat's claim to support. a new convention was the cry, and the wheel-horse of the party, an ex-confederate, ex-governor, and aristocrat, answered that cry. the leadership of the democratic bolters he took as a "sacred duty"--took it with the gentle statement that the man who tampers with the rights of the humblest citizen is worse than the assassin, and should be streaked with a felon's stripes, and suffered to speak only through barred doors. from the same tongue, jason heard with puckered brow that the honored and honest yeomanry of the commonwealth, through coalition by judge and politician, would be hoodwinked by the leger-demain of ballot-juggling magicians; but he did understand when he heard this yeomanry called brave, adventurous self-gods of creation, slow to anger and patient with wrongs, but when once stirred, let the man who had done the wrong--beware! long ago jason had heard the republican chieftain who was to be pitted against such a foe characterized as "a plain, unknown man, a hill-billy from the pennyroyal, and the nominee because there was no opposition and no hope." but hope was running high now, and now with the aristocrat, the autocrat, and the plebeian from the pennyroyal--whose slogan was the repeal of the autocrat's election law--the tricornered fight was on. on a hot day in the star county of the star district, the autocrat, like caesar, had a fainting fit and left the democrats, explaining for the rest of the campaign that republican eyes had seen a big dirk under his coat; and jason never rested until with his own eyes he had seen the man who had begun to possess his brain like an evil dream. and he did see him and heard him defend his law as better than the old one, and declare that never again could the democrats steal the state with mountain votes--heard him confidently leave to the common people to decide whether imperialism should replace democracy, trusts destroy the business of man with man, and whether the big railroad of the state was the servant or the master of the people. he heard a senator from the national capital, whose fortunes were linked with the autocrat's, declare that leader as the most maligned figure in american politics, and that he was without a blemish or vice on his private or public life, but, unlike pontius pilate, jason never thought to ask himself what was truth, for, in spite of the mountaineer's blue-grass allies, the lad had come to believe that there was a state conspiracy to rob his own people of their rights. this autocrat was the head and front of that conspiracy; while he spoke the boy's hatred grew with every word, and turned personal, so that at the close of the speech he moved near the man with a fierce desire to fly at his throat then and there. the boy even caught one sweeping look--cool, fearless, insolent, scorning--the look the man had for his enemies--and he was left with swimming head and trembling knees. then the great nebraskan came, and jason heard him tell the people to vote against him for president if they pleased--but to stand by democracy; and in his paper next morning jason saw a cartoon of the autocrat driving the great editor and the nebraskan on a race-track, hitched together, but pulling like oxen apart. and through the whole campaign he heard the one republican cry ringing like a bell through the state: "elect the ticket by a majority that can't be counted out." thus the storm went on, the republicans crying for a free ballot and a fair count, flaunting on a banner the picture of a man stuffing a ballot-box and two men with shot-guns playfully interrupting the performance, and hammering into the head of the state that no man could be trusted with unlimited power over the suffrage of a free people. any ex-confederate who was for the autocrat, any repentant bolter that swung away from the aristocrat, any negro that was against the man from the pennyroyal, was lifted by the beneficiary to be looked on by the public eye. the autocrat would cut down a republican majority by contesting votes and throw the matter into the hands of the legislature--that was the republican prophecy and the republican fear. manufacturers, merchants, and ministers pleaded for a fair election. an anti-autocratic grip became prevalent in the hills. the hawns and honeycutts sent word that they had buried the feud for a while and would fight like brothers for their rights, and from more than one mountain county came the homely threat that if those rights were denied, there would somewhere be "a mighty shovellin' of dirt." and so to the last minute the fight went on. the boy's head buzzed and ached with the multifarious interests that filled it, but for all that the autumn was all gold for him and with both hands he gathered it in. sometimes he would go home with gray for sunday. with colonel pendleton for master, he was initiated into exercises with dirk and fencing-foil, for not yet was the boxing-glove considered meet, by that still old-fashioned courtier, for the hand of a gentleman. sometimes he would spend sunday with john burnham, and wander with him through the wonders of morton sanders' great farm, and he listened to burnham and the colonel talk politics and tobacco, and the old days, and the destructive changes that were subtly undermining the glories of those old days. in the tri-cornered foot-ball fight for the state championship, he had played one game with central university and one with old transylvania, and he had learned the joy of victory in one and in the other the heart-sickening depression of defeat. one never-to-be-forgotten night he had gone coon-hunting with mavis and marjorie and gray--riding slowly through shadowy woods, or recklessly galloping over the blue-grass fields, and again, as many times before, he felt his heart pounding with emotions that seemed almost to make it burst. for marjorie, child of sunlight, and mavis, child of shadows, riding bareheaded together under the brilliant moon, were the twin spirits of the night, and that moon dimmed the eyes of both only as she dimmed the stars. he saw mavis swerving at every stop and every gallop to gray's side, and always he found marjorie somewhere near him. and only john burnham understood it all, and he wondered and smiled, and with the smile wondered again. there had been no time for dancing lessons, but the little comedy of sentiment went on just the same. in neither mavis nor jason was there the slightest consciousness of any chasm between them and marjorie and gray, though at times both felt in the latter pair a vague atmosphere that neither would for a long time be able to define as patronage, and so when jason received an invitation to the first dance given in the hotel ballroom in town, he went straight to marjorie and solemnly asked "the pleasure of her company" that night. for a moment marjorie was speechless. "why, jason," she gasped, "i--i--you're a freshman, and anyhow--" for the first time the boy gained an inkling of that chasm, and his eyes turned so fiercely sombre and suspicious that she added in a hurry: "it's a joke, jason--that invitation. no freshman can go to one of those dances." jason looked perplexed now, and still a little suspicious. "who'll keep me from goin'?" he asked quietly, "the sophomores. they sent you that invitation to get you into trouble. they'll tear your clothes off." as was the habit of his grandfather hawn, jason's tongue went reflectively to the hollow of one cheek, and his eyes dropped to the yellow leaves about their feet, and marjorie waited with a tingling thrill that some vague thing of importance was going to happen. jason's face was very calm when he looked up at last, and he held out the card of invitation. "will that git--get me in, when i a-get to the door?" "of course, but--" "then i'll be th-there," said jason, and he turned away. now marjorie knew that gray expected to take her to that dance, but he had not yet even mentioned it. jason had come to her swift and straight; the thrill still tingled within her, and before she knew it she had cried impulsively: "jason, if you get to that dance, i'll--i'll dance every square dance with you." jason nodded simply and turned away. the mischief-makers soon learned the boy's purpose, and there was great joy among them, and when gray finally asked marjorie to go with him, she demurely told him she was going with jason. gray was amazed and indignant, and he pleaded with her not to do anything so foolish. "why, it's outrageous. it will be the talk of the town. your mother won't like it. maybe they won't do anything to him because you are along, but they might, and think of you being mixed up in such a mess. anyhow i tell you--you can't do it." marjorie paled and gray got a look from her that he had never had before. "did i hear you say 'can't'?" she asked coldly. "well, i'm not going with him--he won't let me. he's going alone. i'll meet him there." gray made a helpless gesture. "well, i'll try to get the fellows to let him alone--on your account." "don't bother--he can take care of himself." "why, marjorie!" the girl's coldness was turning to fire. "why don't you take mavis?" gray started an impatient refusal, and stopped--mavis was passing in the grass on the other side of the road, and her face was flaming violently. "she heard you," said gray in a low voice. the heel of one of marjorie's little boots came sharply down on the gravelled road. "yes, and i hope she heard you--and don't you ever--ever--ever say can't to me again." and she flashed away. the news went rapidly through the college and, as gray predicted, became the talk of the young people of the town, marjorie's mother did object violently, but marjorie remained firm--what harm was there in dancing with jason hawn, even if he was a poor mountaineer and a freshman? she was not a snob, even if gray was. jason himself was quiet, non-communicative, dignified. he refused to discuss the matter with anybody, ignored comment and curiosity, and his very silence sent a wave of uneasiness through some of the sophomores and puzzled them all. even john burnham, who had severely reprimanded and shamed jason for the flag incident, gravely advised the boy not to go, but even to him jason was respectfully non-committal, for this was a matter that, as the boy saw it, involved his rights, and the excitement grew quite feverish when one bit of news leaked out. at the beginning of the session the old president, perhaps in view of the political turmoil imminent, had made a request that one would hardly hear in the chapel of any other hall of learning in the broad united states. "if any student had brought with him to college any weapon or fire-arm, he would please deliver it to the commandant, who would return it to him at the end of the session, or whenever he should leave college." now jason had deliberated deeply on that request; on the point of personal privilege involved he differed with the president, and a few days before the dance one of his room-mates found not only a knife, but a huge pistol--relics of jason's feudal days--protruding from the top bed. this was the bit of news that leaked, and marjorie paled when she heard it, but her word was given, and she would keep it. there was no sneaking on jason's part that night, and when a crowd of sophomores gathered at the entrance of his dormitory they found a night-hawk that jason had hired, waiting at the door, and patiently they waited for jason. down at the hotel ballroom gray and marjorie waited, gray anxious, worried, and angry, and marjorie with shining eyes and a pale but determined face. and she shot a triumphant glance toward gray when she saw the figure of the young mountaineer framed at last in the doorway of the ballroom. there jason stood a moment, uncouth and stock-still. his eyes moved only until he caught sight of marjorie, and then, with them fixed steadily on her, he solemnly walked through the sudden silence that swiftly spread through the room straight for her. he stood cool, calm, and with a curious dignity before her, and the only sign of his emotion was in a reckless lapse into his mountain speech. "i've come to tell ye i can't dance with ye. nobody can keep me from goin' whar i've got a right to go, but i won't stay nowhar i'm not wanted." and, without waiting for her answer, he turned and stalked solemnly out again. xxii the miracle had happened, and just how nobody could ever say. the boy had appeared in the door-way and had paused there full in the light. no revolver was visible--it could hardly have been concealed in the much-too-small clothes that he wore--and his eyes flashed no challenge. but he stood there an instant, with face set and stern, and then he walked slowly to the old rattletrap vehicle, and, unchallenged, drove away, as, unchallenged, he walked quietly back to his room again. that defiance alone would have marked him with no little dignity. it gave john burnham a great deal of carefully concealed joy, it dumfounded gray, and, while mavis took it as a matter of course, it thrilled marjorie, saddened her, and made her a little ashamed. nor did it end there. some change was quickly apparent to jason in mavis. she turned brooding and sullen, and one day when she and jason met gray in the college yard, she averted her eyes when the latter lifted his cap, and pretended not to see him. jason saw an uneasy look in gray's eyes, and when he turned questioningly to mavis, her face was pale with anger. that night he went home with her to see his mother, and when the two sat on the porch in the dim starlight after supper, he bluntly asked her what the matter was, and bluntly she told him. only once before had he ever spoken of gray to mavis, and that was about the meeting in the lane, and then she scorned to tell him whether or not the meeting was accidental, and jason knew thereby that it was. unfortunately he had not stopped there. "i saw him try to kiss ye," he said indignantly. "have you never tried to kiss a girl?" mavis had asked quietly, and jason reddened. "yes," he admitted reluctantly. "and did she always let ye?" "well, no--not--" "very well, then," mavis snapped, and she flaunted away. it was different now, the matter was more serious, and now they were cousins and hawns. blood spoke to blood and answered to blood, and when at the end mavis broke into a fit of shame and tears, a burst of light opened in jason's brain and his heart raged not only for mavis, but for himself. gray had been ashamed to go to that dance with mavis, and marjorie had been ashamed to go with him--there was a chasm, and with every word that mavis spoke the wider that chasm yawned. "oh, i know it," she sobbed. "i couldn't believe it at first, but i know it now"--she began to drop back into her old speech--"they come down in the mountains, and grandpap was nice to 'em, and when we come up here they was nice to us. but down thar and up here we was just queer and funny to 'em--an' we're that way yit. they're good-hearted an' they'd do anything in the world fer us, but we ain't their kind an' they ain't ourn. they knowed it and we didn't--but i know it now." so that was the reason marjorie had hesitated when jason asked her to go to the dance with him. "then why did she go?" he burst out. he had mentioned no name even, but mavis had been following his thoughts. "any gal 'ud do that fer fun," she answered, "an' to git even with gray." "why do you reckon--" "that don't make no difference--she wants to git even with me, too." jason wheeled sharply, but before his lips could open mavis had sprung to her feet. "no, i hain't!" she cried hotly, and rushed into the house. jason sat on under the stars, brooding. there was no need for another word between them. alike they saw the incident and what it meant; they felt alike, and alike both would act. a few minutes later his mother came out on the porch. "whut's the matter with mavis?" "you'll have to ask her, mammy." with a keen look at the boy, martha hawn went back into the house, and jason heard steve's heavy tread behind him. "i know whut the matter is," he drawled. "thar hain't nothin' the matter 'ceptin' that mavis ain't the only fool in this hyeh fambly." jason was furiously silent, and steve walked chuckling to the railing of the porch and spat over it through his teeth and fingers. then he looked up at the stars and yawned, and with his mouth still open, went casually on: "i seed arch hawn in town this mornin'. he says folks is a-hand-grippin' down thar in the mountains right an' left. thar's a truce on betwixt the hawns an' honeycutts an' they're gittin' ready fer the election together." the lad did not turn his head nor did his lips open. "these fellers up here tried to bust our county up into little pieces once--an' do you know why? bekase we was so lawless." steve laughed sayagely. "they're gittin' wuss'n we air. they say we stole the state fer that bag o' wind, bryan, when we'd been votin' the same way fer forty years. now they're goin' to gag us an' tie us up like a yearlin' calf. but folks in the mountains ain't a-goin' to do much bawlin'--they're gittin' ready." still jason refused to answer, but steve saw that the lad's hands and mouth were clenched. "they're gittin' ready," he repeated, "an' i'll be thar." xxiii but the sun of election day went down and a breath of relief passed like a south wind over the land. perhaps it was the universal recognition of the universal danger that prevented an outbreak, but the morning after found both parties charging fraud, claiming victory, and deadlocked like two savage armies in the crisis of actual battle. for a fortnight each went on claiming the victory. in one mountain county the autocrat's local triumvirate was surrounded by five hundred men, while it was making its count; in another there were three thousand determined onlookers; and still another mountain triumvirate was visited by nearly all the male inhabitants of the county who rode in on horseback and waited silently and threateningly in the court-house square. at the capital the arsenal was under a picked guard and the autocrat was said to be preparing for a resort to arms. a few mountaineers were seen drifting about the streets, and the state offices--"just a-lookin' aroun' to see if their votes was a-goin' to be counted in or not." at the end of the fortnight the autocrat claimed the fight by one vote, but three days before thanksgiving day two of the state triumvirate declared for the republican from the pennyroyal--and resigned. "great caesar!" shouted colonel pendleton. "can the one that's left appoint his own board?" being for the autocrat, he not only could but did--for the autocrat's work was only begun. the contest was yet to come. meanwhile the great game was at hand. the fight for the championship lay now between the state university and old transylvania, and, amid a forest of waving flags and a frenzied storm from human throats, was fought out desperately on the day that the nation sets aside for peace, prayer, and thanksgiving. every atom of resentment, indignation, rebellion, ambition that was stored up in jason went into that fight. it seemed to john burnham and to mavis and marjorie that their team was made up of just one black head and one yellow one, for everywhere over the field and all the time, like a ball of fire and its shadow, those two heads darted, and, when they came together, they were the last to go down in the crowd of writhing bodies and the first to leap into view again--and always with the ball nearer the enemy's goal. behind that goal each head darted once, and by just those two goals was the game won. gray was the hero he always was; jason was the coming idol, and both were borne off the field on the shoulders of a crowd that was hoarse with shouting triumph and weeping tears of joy. and on that triumphal way jason swerved his eyes from marjorie and mavis swerved hers from gray. there was no sleep for jason that night, but the next night the fierce tension of mind and muscle relaxed and he slept long and hard; and sunday morning found him out in the warm sunlight of the autumn fields, seated on a fence rail--alone. he had left the smoke cloud of the town behind him and walked aimlessly afield, except to take the turnpike that led the opposite way from mavis and marjorie and john burnham and gray, for he wanted to be alone. now, perched in the crotch of a stake-and-ridered fence, he was calmly, searchingly, unsparingly taking stock with himself. in the first place the training-table was no more, and he must go back to delivering morning papers. with foot-ball, with diversions in college and in the country, he had lost much time and he must make that up. the political turmoil had kept his mind from his books and for a while marjorie had taken it away from them altogether. he had come to college none too well prepared, and already john burnham had given him one kindly warning; but so supreme was his self-confidence that he had smiled at the geologist and to himself. now he frowningly wondered if he had not lost his head and made a fool of himself; and a host of worries and suspicions attacked him so sharply and suddenly that, before he knew what he was doing, he had leaped panic-stricken from the fence and at a half-trot was striking back across the fields in a bee-line for his room and his books. and night and day thereafter he stuck to them. meanwhile the struggle was going on at the capital, and by the light of every dawn the boy drank in every detail of it from the morning paper that was literally his daily bread. two weeks after the big game, the man from the pennyroyal was installed as governor. the picked guard at the arsenal was reinforced. the contesting autocrat was said to have stored arms in the penitentiary, a gray, high-walled fortress within a stone's throw of the governor's mansion, for the democratic warden thereof was his loyal henchman. the first rumor of the coming of the mountaineers spread, and the capital began to fill with the ward heelers and bad men of the autocrat. a week passed, there was no filing of a protest, a pall of suspense hung over the land like a black cloud, and under it there was no more restless spirit than jason, who had retreated into his own soul as though it were a fortress of his hills. no more was he seen at any social gathering--not even at the gymnasium, for the delivery of his morning papers gave him all the exercise that he needed and more. his hard work and short hours of sleep began to tell on him. sometimes the printed page of his book would swim before his eyes and his brain go panic-stricken. he grew pale, thin, haggard, and worn, and marjorie saw him only when he was silently, swiftly striding from dormitory to class-room and back again--grim, reticent, and non-approachable. when christmas approached he would not promise to go to gray's nor to john burnham's, and he rarely went now even to his mother. in mavis hawn, gray found the same mystifying change, for when the morbidly sensitive spirit of the mountaineer is wounded, healing is slow and cure difficult. one day, however, each pair met. passing the mouth of the lane, gray saw mavis walking slowly along it homeward and he rode after her. she turned when she heard his horse behind her, her chin lifted, and her dark sullen eyes looked into his with a stark, direct simplicity that left him with his lips half open--confused and speechless. and gently, at last: "what's the matter, mavis?" still she looked, unquestioning, uncompromising, and turned without answer and went slowly on home while the boy sat his horse and looked after her until she climbed the porch of her cottage and, without once turning her head, disappeared within. but jason at his meeting with marjorie broke his grim reticence in spite of himself. she had come upon him at sunset under the snowy willows by the edge of the ice-locked pond. he had let the floodgates down and she had been shaken and terrified by the torrent that rushed from him. the girl shrank from his bitter denunciation of himself. he had been a fool. the mid-year examinations would be a tragedy for him, and he must go to the "kitchen" or leave college with pride broken and in just disgrace. fate had trapped him like a rat. a grewsome oath had been put on him as a child and from it he could never escape. he had been robbed of his birthright by his own mother and the people of the blue-grass, and marjorie's people were now robbing his of their national birthrights as well. the boy did not say her people, but she knew that was what he meant, and she looked so hurt that jason spoke quickly his gratitude for all the kindness that had been shown him. and when he started with his gratitude to her, his memories got the better of him and he stopped for a moment with hungry eyes, but seeing her consternation over what might be coming next, he had ended with a bitter smile at the further bitter proof she was giving him. "but i understand--now," he said sternly to himself and sadly to her, and he turned away without seeing the quiver of her mouth and the starting of her tears. going to his mother's that afternoon, jason found mavis standing by the fence, hardly less pale than the snow under her feet, and looking into the sunset. she started when she heard the crunch of his feet, and from the look of her face he knew that she thought he might be some one else. he saw that she had been crying, and as quickly she knew that the boy was in a like agony of mind. there was only one swift look--a mutual recognition of a mutual betrayal--but no word passed then nor when they walked together back to the house, for race and relationship made no word possible. within the house jason noticed his mother's eyes fixed anxiously on him, and when mavis was clearing up in the kitchen after supper, she subtly shifted her solicitude to the girl in order to draw some confession from her son. "mavis wants to go back to the mountains." the ruse worked, for jason looked up quickly and then into the fire while the mother waited. "sometimes i want to go back myself," he said wearily; "it's gittin' too much for me here." martha hawn looked at her husband stretched on the bed in a drunken sleep and began to cry softly. "it's al'ays been too much fer me," she sobbed. "i've al'ays wanted to go back." for the first time jason began to think how lonely her life must be, and, perhaps as the result of his own suffering, his heart suddenly began to ache for her. "don't worry, mammy--i'll take ye back some day." mavis came back from the kitchen. again she had been crying. again the same keen look passed between them and with only that look jason climbed the stairs to her room. as his eyes wandered about the familiar touches the hand of civilization had added to the bare little chamber it once was, he saw on the dresser of varnished pine one touch of that hand that he had never noticed before--the picture of gray pendleton. evidently mavis had forgotten to put it away, and jason looked at it curiously a moment--the frank face, strong mouth, and winning smile--but he never noticed that it was placed where she could see it when she kneeled at her bedside, and never guessed that it was the last earthly thing her eyes rested on before darkness closed about her, and that the girl took its image upward with her even in her prayers. xxiv the red dawn of the twentieth century was stealing over the frost-white fields, and in the alien house of his fathers john burnham was watching it through his bedroom window. there had been little sleep for him that new year's night, and even now, when he went back to bed, sleep would not come. the first contest in the life of the state was going on at the little capital. that capital was now an armed camp. the law-makers there themselves were armed, divided, and men of each party were marked by men of the other for the first shot when the crisis should come. there was a democratic conspiracy to defraud--a republican conspiracy to resist by force to the death. even in the placing of the ballots in the box for the drawing of the contest board, fraud was openly charged, and even then pistols almost leaped from their holsters. republicans whose seats were contested would be unseated and the autocrat's triumph would thus be sure--that was the plan wrought out by his inflexible will and iron hand. the governor from the pennyroyal swore he would leave his post only on a stretcher. disfranchisement was on the very eve of taking place, liberty was at stake, and kentuckians unless aroused to action would be a free people no longer. the republican cry was that the autocrat had created his election triumvirate, had stolen his nomination, tried to steal his election, and was now trying to steal the governorship. there was even a meeting in the big town of the state to determine openly whether there should be resistance to him by force. two men from the mountains had met in the lobby of the capitol hotel and a few moments later, under the drifting powder smoke, two men lay wounded and three lay dead. the quarrel was personal, it was said, but the dial-hand of the times was left pointing with sinister prophecy at tragedy yet to come. and in the dark of the first moon of that century the shadowy hillsmen were getting ready to swoop down. and it was the dawn of the twentieth century of the christian era that burnham watched, the dawn of the one hundred and twenty-fifth year of the nation's life--of the one hundred and seventh year of statehood for kentucky. and thinking of the onward sweep of the world, of the nation, north, east, west, and south, the backward staggering of his own loved state tugged sorely at his heart. in chapel next morning john burnham made another little talk--chiefly to the young men of the blue-grass among whom this tragedy was taking place. no inheritance in american life was better than theirs, he told them--no better ideals in the relations of family, state, and nation. but the state was sick now with many ills and it was coming to trial now before the judgment of the watching world. if it stood the crucial fire, it would be the part of all the youth before him to maintain and even better the manhood that should come through unscathed. and if it failed, god forbid, it would be for them to heal, to mend, to upbuild, and, undaunted, push on and upward again. and as at the opening of the session he saw again, lifted to him with peculiar intenseness, the faces of marjorie and gray pendleton, and of mavis and jason hawn--only now gray looked deeply serious and jason sullen and defiant. and at mavis, marjorie did not turn this time to smile. nor was there any furtive look from any one of the four to any other, when the students rose, though each pair of cousins drifted together on the way out, and in pairs went on their separate ways. the truth was that marjorie and gray were none too happy over the recent turn of affairs. both were too fine, too generous, to hurt the feelings of others except with pain to themselves. they knew mavis and jason were hurt but, hardly realizing that between the four the frank democracy of childhood was gone, they hardly knew how and how deeply. both were mystified, greatly disturbed, drawn more than ever by the proud withdrawal of the mountain boy and girl, and both were anxious to make amends. more than once gray came near riding over to steve hawn's and trying once more to understand and if possible to explain and restore good feeling, but the memory of his rebuff from mavis and the unapproachable quality in jason made him hesitate. naturally with marjorie this state of mind was worse, because of the brink of jason's confession for which she knew she was much to blame, and because of the closer past between them. once only she saw him striding the fields, and though she pulled in her horse to watch him, jason did not know; and once he came to her when he did not know that she knew. it was the night before the mid-year examinations and marjorie, in spite of that fact, had gone to a dance and, because of it, was spending the night in town with a friend. the two girls had got home a little before three in the morning, and marjorie had put out her light and gone to bed but, being sleepless, had risen and sat dreaming before the fire. the extraordinary whiteness of the moonlight had drawn her to the window when she rose again, and she stood there like a tall lily, looking silent sympathy to the sufferers in the bitter cold outside. she put one bare arm on the sill of the closed window and looked down at the snow-crystals hardly less brilliant under the moon than they would be under the first sun-rays next morning, looked through the snow-laden branches of the trees, over the white house-tops, and out to the still white fields--the white world within her answering the white world without as in a dream. she was thinking of jason, as she had been thinking for days, for she could not get the boy out of her mind. all night at the dance she had been thinking of him, and when between the stone pillars of the gateway a figure appeared without overcoat, hands in pockets and a bundle of something under one arm, the hand on the window-sill dropped till it clutched her heart at the strangeness of it, for her watching eyes saw plain in the moonlight the drawn white face of jason hawn. he tossed something on the porch and her tears came when she realized what it meant. then he drew a letter out of his pocket, hesitated, turned, turned again, tossed it too upon the porch, and wearily crunched out through the gate. the girl whirled for her dressing-gown and slippers, and slipped downstairs to the door, for her instinct told her the letter was for her, and a few minutes later she was reading it by the light of the fire. "i know where you are," the boy had written. "don't worry, but i want to tell you that i take back that promise i made in the road that day." john burnham's examination was first for jason that morning, and when the boy came into the recitation-room the school-master was shocked by the tumult in his face. he saw the lad bend listlessly over his papers and look helplessly up and around--worn, brain-fagged, and half wild--saw him rise suddenly and hurriedly, and nodded him an excuse before he could ask for it, thinking the boy had suddenly gone ill. when he did not come back burnham got uneasy, and after an hour he called another member of the faculty to take his place and hurried out. as he went down the corridor a figure detached itself from a group of girls and flew after him. he felt his arm caught tightly and he turned to find marjorie, white, with trembling lips, but struggling to be calm: "where is jason?" burnham recovered quickly. "why, i don't believe he is very well," he said with gentle carelessness. "i'm going over now to see him. i'll be back in a minute." wondering and more than ever uneasy, burnham went on, while the girl unconsciously followed him to the door, looking after him and almost on the point of wringing her hands. in the boy's room burnham found an old dress-suit case packed and placed on the study table. on it was a pencil-scribbled note to one of his room-mates: "i'll send for this later," it read, and that was all. jason was gone. xxv the little capital sits at the feet of hills on the edge of the blue-grass, for the kentucky river that sweeps past it has brought down those hills from the majestic highlands of the cumberland. the great railroad of the state had to bore through rock to reach the place and clangs impudently through it along the main street. for many years other sections of the state fought to wrest this fountain-head of law and government from its moorings and transplant it to the heart of the blue-grass, or to the big town on the ohio, because, as one claimant said: "you had to climb a mountain, swim a river, or go through a hole to get to it." this geographical witticism cost the claimant his eternal political life, and the capital clung to its water, its wooded heaps of earth, and its hole in the gray wall. not only hills did the river bring down but birds, trees, and even mountain mists, and from out the black mouth of that hole in the wall and into those morning mists stole one day a long train and stopped before the six great gray pillars of the historic old state-house. out of this train climbed a thousand men, with a thousand guns, and the mists might have been the breath of the universal whisper: "the mountaineers are here!" of their coming jason had known for some time from arch hawn, and just when they were to come he had learned from steve. the boy had not enough carfare even for the short ride of less than thirty miles to the capital, so he rode as far as his money would carry him and an hour before noon found him striding along on foot, his revolver bulging at his hip, his dogged eyes on the frozen turnpike. it was all over for him, he thought with the passionate finality of youth--his college career with its ambitions and dreams. he was sorry to disappoint saint hilda and john burnham, but his pride was broken and he was going back now to the people and the life that he never should have left. he would find his friends and kinsmen down there at the capital, and he would play his part first in whatever they meant to do. babe honeycutt would be there, and about babe he had not forgotten his mother's caution. he had taken his promise back from marjorie merely to be free to act in a double emergency, but babe would be safe until he himself was sure. then he would tell his mother what he meant to do, or after it was done, and as to what she would then say the boy had hardly a passing wonder, so thin yet was the coating with which civilization had veneered him. and yet the boy almost smiled to himself to think how submerged that childhood oath was now in the big new hatred that had grown within him for the man who was threatening the political life of his people and his state--had grown steadily since the morning before he had taken the train in the mountains for college in the blue-grass. on the way he had stayed all night in a little mountain town in the foot-hills. he had got up at dawn, but already, to escape the hot rays of an august sun, mountaineers were coming in on horseback from miles and miles around to hear the opening blast of the trumpet that was to herald forth their wrongs. under the trees and along the fences they picketed their horses, thousands of them, and they played simple games patiently, or patiently sat in the shade of pine and cedar waiting, while now and then a band made havoc with the lazy summer air. and there, that morning, jason had learned from a red-headed orator that "a vicious body of deformed democrats and degenerate americans" had passed a law at the capital that would rob the mountaineers of the rights that had been bought with the blood of their forefathers in , , , and . every ear caught the emphasis on "rob" and "rights," the patient eye of the throng grew instantly alert and keen and began to burn with a sinister fire, while the ear of it heard further how, through that law, their ancient democratic enemies would throw their votes out of the ballot-box or count them as they pleased--even for themselves. if there were three democrats in a mountain county--and the speaker had heard that in one county there was only one--that county could under that law run every state and national election to suit itself. would the men of the mountains stand that?--no! he knew them--that orator did. he knew that if the spirit of liberty, that at jamestown and plymouth rock started blazing its way over a continent, lived unchanged anywhere, it dwelt, however unenlightened and unenlightening, in a heart that for an enemy was black with hate, red with revenge, though for the stranger, white and kind; that in an eagle's isolation had kept strung hard and fast to god, country, home; that ticking clock-like for a century without hurry or pause was beginning to quicken at last to the march-rhythm of the world--the heart of the southern hills. now the prophecy from the flaming tongue of that red-headed orator was coming to pass, and the heart of the kentucky hills was making answer. it was just before noon when the boy reached the hill overlooking the capital. he saw the gleam of the river that came down from the mountains, and the home-thrill of it warmed him from head to foot. past the cemetery he went, with a glimpse of the statue of daniel boone rising above the lesser dead. a little farther down was the castle-like arsenal guarded by soldiers, and he looked at them curiously, for they were the first his had ever seen. below him was the gray, gloomy bulk of the penitentiary, which was the state building that he used to hear most of in the mountains. about the railway station he saw men slouching whom he knew to belong to his people, but no guns were now in sight, for the mountaineers had checked them at the adjutant-general's office, and each wore a tag for safe-keeping in his button-hole. around the greek portico of the capitol building he saw more soldiers lounging, and near a big fountain in the state-house yard was a gatling-gun which looked too little to do much harm. everywhere were the stern, determined faces of mountain men, walking the streets staring at things, shuffling in and out of the buildings; and, through the iron pickets of the yard fence, jason saw one group cooking around a camp-fire. a newspaper man was setting his camera for them and the boy saw a big bearded fellow reach under his blanket. the photographer grasped his instrument and came flying through the iron gate, crying humorously, "excuse me!" and then jason ran into steve hawn, who looked at him with mild wonder and, without a question, drawled simply: "i kind o' thought you'd be along." "is grandpap here?" asked the boy, and steve shook his head. "he was too po'ly--but thar's more hawns and honeycutts in town than you kin shake a stick at, an' they're walkin' round hyeh jes like brothers. hello, hyeh's one now!" jason turned to see big babe honeycutt, who, seeing him, paled a little, smiled sheepishly, and, without speaking, moved uneasily away. whereat steve laughed. "looks like babe is kind o' skeered o' you fer some reason--hello, they're comin'!" a group had gathered on the brick flagging between the frozen fountain and the greek portico of the old capitol, and every slouching figure was moving toward it. among them jason saw hawns and honeycutts--saw even his old enemy, "little aaron" honeycutt, and he was not even surprised, for in a foot-ball game with one college on the edge of the blue-grass, he had met a pair of envious, hostile eyes from the side-lines and he knew then that little aaron, too, had gone away to school. from the habit of long hostility now, jason swerved to the other edge of the crowd. from the streets, the boarding-houses, the ancient capitol hotel, gray, too, as a prison, from the state buildings in the yard, mountaineers were surging forth and massing before the capitol steps and around the big fountain. already the democrats had grown hoarse with protest and epithet. it was an outrage for the republicans to bring down this "mountain army of intimidationists"--and only god knew what they meant to do or might do. the autocrat might justly and legally unseat a few republicans, to be sure, but one open belief was that these "unkempt feudsmen and outlaws" would rush the legislative halls, shoot down enough democrats to turn the republican minority, no matter how small, into a majority big enough to enforce the ballot-proven will of the people. wild, pale, horrified faces began to appear in the windows of the houses that bordered the square and in the buildings within the yard--perhaps they were going to do it now. every soldier stiffened where he stood and caught his gun tightly, and once more the militia colonel looked yearningly at the gatling-gun as helpless as a firecracker in the midst of the crowd, and then imploringly to the adjutant-general, who once again smiled and shook his head. if sinister in purpose, that mountain army was certainly well drilled and under the dominant spirit of some amazing leadership, for no sound, no gesture, no movement came from it. and then jason saw a pale, dark young man, the secretary of state, himself a mountain man, rise above the heads of the crowd and begin to speak. "you are not here as revolutionists, criminals, or conspirators, because you are loyal to government and law." the words were big and puzzling to the untutored ears that heard them, but a grim, enigmatical smile was soon playing over many a rugged face. "you are here under your god-given bill of rights to right your wrongs through petitions to the legislators in whose hands you placed your liberties and your laws. and to show how non-partisan this meeting is, i nominate as chairman a distinguished democrat and ex-confederate soldier." and thereupon, before jason's startled eyes, rose none other than colonel pendleton, who silently swept the crowd with his eyes. "i see from the faces before me that the legislators behind me shall not overturn the will of the people," he said quietly but sonorously, and then, like an invocation to the deity, the dark young mountaineer slowly read from the paper in his hand how they were all peaceably assembled for the common good and the good of the state to avert the peril hovering over its property, peace, safety, and happiness. how they prayed for calmness, prudence, wisdom; begged that the legislators should not suffer themselves to be led into the temptation of partisan pride or party predilection; besought them to remember that their own just powers were loaned to them by the people at the polls, and that they must decide the people's will and not their own political preference; implored them not to hazard the subversion of that supreme law of the land; and finally begged them to receive, and neither despise nor spurn, their earnest petition, remonstrance, but preserve and promote the safety and welfare and, above all, the honor of the commonwealth committed to their keeping. there was no applause, no murmur even of approval--stern faces had only grown sterner, hard eyes harder, and that was all. again the mountain secretary of state rose, started to speak, and stopped, looking over the upturned faces and toward the street behind them; and something in his look made every man who saw it turn his head. a whisper started on the outer edge of the crowd and ran backward, and men began to tiptoe and crane their necks. a tall figure was entering the iron gateway--and that whisper ran like a wind through the mass, the whisper of a hated name. the autocrat was coming. the mountaineers blocked his royal way to the speaker's chair behind them, but he came straight on. his cold, strong, crafty face was suddenly and fearlessly uplifted when he saw the hostile crowd, and a half-scornful smile came to his straight thin lips. a man behind him put a detaining hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off impatiently. almost imperceptibly men swerved this way and that until there was an open way through them to the state-house steps, and through that human lane, nearly every man of which was at that moment longing to take his life, the autocrat strode, meeting every pair of eyes with a sneer of cold defiance. behind him the lane closed; the crowd gasped at the daring of the man and slowly melted away. the mountain secretary followed him into the senate with the resolutions he had just read, and the autocrat, still with that icy smile, received and passed them--into oblivion. that night the mountain army disappeared as quickly as it had come, on a special train through that hole in the wall and with a farewell salute of gun and pistol into the drum-tight air of the little capital. but a guard of two hundred stayed, quartered in boarding-houses and the executive buildings, and hung about the capitol with their arms handy, or loitered about the contest-board meetings where the great "steal" was feared. so those meetings adjourned to the city hall where the room was smaller, admission more limited, and which was, as the republicans claimed, a democratic arsenal. next day the republicans asked for three days more for testimony and were given three hours by the autocrat. the real fight was now on, every soul knew it, and the crisis was at hand. and next morning it came, when the same bold figure was taking the same way to the capitol. a rifle cracked, a little puff of smoke floated from a window of a state building, and on the brick flagging the autocrat sank into a heap. the legislature was at the moment in session. the minority in the house was on edge for the next move. the secretary was droning on and beating time, for the autocrat was late that morning, but he was on his way. cool, wary, steeled to act relentlessly at the crucial moment, his hand was within reach of the prize, and the play of that master-hand was on the eve of a master-stroke. two men hurried into the almost deserted square, the autocrat and his body-guard, a man known in the annals of the state for his ready use of knife or pistol. the rifle spoke and the autocrat bent double, groaned harshly, clutched his right side, and fell to his knees. men picked him up, the building emptied, and all hurried after the throng gathering around the wounded man. there was the jostling of bodies, rushing of feet, the crowding of cursing men to the common centre of excitement. a negro pushed against a white man. the white man pulled his pistol, shot him dead, and hardly a look was turned that way. the doors of the old hotel closed on the wounded man, his friends went wild, and chaos followed. it was a mountain trick, they cried, and a mountaineer had turned it. the lawless hillsmen had come down and brought their cowardly custom of ambush with them. the mountain secretary of state was speeding away from the capitol at the moment the shot was fired, and that was a favorite trick of alibi in the hills. that shot had come from his window. within ten minutes the terrified governor had ringed every state building with bayonets and had telegraphed for more militia. nobody, not even the sheriff, could enter to search for the assassin: what else could this mean but that there was a conspiracy--that the governor himself knew of the plot to kill and was protecting the slayer? about the state-house, even after the soldiers had taken possession, stood rough-looking men, a wing of the army of intimidation. a mob was forming at the hotel, and when a company of soldiers was assembled to meet it, a dozen old mountaineers, looking in the light of the camp-fires like the aged paintings of pioneers on the state-house walls, fell silently and solemnly in line with winchesters and shot-guns. the autocrat's bitterest enemies, though unregretting the deed, were outraged at the way it was done, and the rush of sympathy in his wake could hardly fail to achieve his purpose now. that night even, the democratic members tried to decide the contest in the autocrat's favor. that night the governor adjourned the legislature to a mountain town, and next morning the legislators found their chambers closed. they tried to meet at hotel, city hall, court-house; and solons and soldiers raced through the streets and never could the solons win. but at nightfall they gathered secretly and declared the autocrat governor of the commonwealth. and the wild rumor was that the wounded man had passed before his name was sealed by the legislative hand, and that the feet of a dead man had been put into a living one's shoes. that night the news flashed that one mountaineer as assassin and a mountain boy as accomplice had been captured and were on the way to jail. and the assassin was steve and the boy none other than jason hawn. xxvi one officer pushed jason up the steps of the car with one hand clutched in the collar of the boy's coat. steve hawn followed, handcuffed, and as the second officer put his foot on the first step, steve flashed around and brought both of his huge manacled fists down on the man's head, knocking him senseless to the ground. "git, jason!" he yelled, but the boy had already got. feeling the clutch on his coat collar loosen suddenly, he had torn away and, without looking back even to see what the crashing blow was that he heard, leaped from the moving train into the darkness on the other side of the train. one shot that went wild followed him, but by the time steve was subdued by the blow of a pistol butt and the train was stopped, jason was dashing through a gloomy woodland with a speed that he had never equalled on a foot-ball field. on top of a hill he stopped for a moment panting and turned to listen. there were no sounds of pursuit, the roar of the train had started again, and he saw the lights of it twinkling on toward the capital. he knew they would have bloodhounds on his trail as soon as possible; that every railway-station agent would have a description of him and be on the lookout for him within a few hours; and that his mother's house would be closely watched that night: so, gathering his breath, he started in the long, steady stride of his foot-ball training across the fields and, a fugitive from justice, fled for the hills. the night was crisp, the moon was not risen, and the frozen earth was slippery, but he did not dare to take to the turnpike until he saw the lights of farm-houses begin to disappear, and then he climbed the fence into the road and sped swiftly on. now and then he would have to leap out of the road again and crouch close behind the fence when he heard the rattle of some coming vehicle, but nothing overtook him, and when at last he had the dark silent fields and the white line of the turnpike all to himself he slowed into a swift walk. before midnight he saw the lights of his college town ahead of him and again he took to the fields to circle about it and strike the road again on the other side where it led on toward the mountains. but always his eyes were turned leftward toward those town lights that he was leaving perhaps forever and on beyond them to his mother's home. he could see her still seated before the fire and staring into it, newly worn and aged, and tearless; and he knew mavis lay sleepless and racked with fear in her little room. by this time they all must have heard, and he wondered what john burnham was thinking, and gray, and then with a stab at his heart he thought of marjorie. he wondered if she had got his good-by note--the taking back of his promise to her. well, it was all over now. the lights fell behind him, the moon rose, and under it he saw again the white line of the road. he was tired, but he put his weary feet on the frozen surface and kept them moving steadily on. at the first cock-crow, he passed the house where he had stayed all night when he first rode to the bluegrass on his old mare. a little later lights began once more to twinkle from awakening farm-houses. the moon paled and a whiter light began to steal over the icy fields. here was the place where he and the old mare had seen for the first time a railroad train. hunger began to gnaw within him when he saw the smoke rising from a negro cabin down a little lane, and he left the road and moved toward it. at the bars which let into a little barnyard an old negro was milking a cow, and when, at the boy's low cry of "hello!" he rose to his feet, a ruse carne to jason quickly. "seen any chestnut hoss comin' along here?" the old man shook his head. "i jist got up, son." "well, he got away from me an' i reckon he's gone back toward home. i started before breakfast--can i get a bite here?" it looked suspicious--a white man asking a negro for food, and jason had learned enough in the blue-grass to guess the reason for the old darky's hesitation, for he added quickly: "i don't want to walk all the way back to that white house where i was goin' to get something to eat." a few minutes later the boy was devouring cornbread and bacon so ravenously that again he saw suspicion in the old darky's eyes, and for that reason when he struck the turnpike again he turned once more into the fields. the foot-hills were in sight now, and from the top of a little wooded eminence he saw the beginning of the dirt road and he almost shouted his gladness aloud. an hour later he was on top of the hill whence he and his old mare had looked first over the land of the blue-grass, and there he turned to look once more. the sun was up now and each frozen weed, belated corn-stalk, and blade of grass caught its light, shattered it into glittering bits, and knit them into a veil of bewildering beauty for the face of the yet sleeping earth. the lad turned again to the white breasts of his beloved hills. the nation's army could never catch him when he was once among them--and now jason smiled. xxvii back at the little capital, the pennyroyal governor sat pat behind thick walls and the muskets of a thousand men. the militia, too, remained loyal, and the stacking up of ammunition in the adjutant-general's office went merrily on. the dead autocrat was reverently borne between two solid walls of living people to the little cemetery on the high hill overlooking the river and with tribute of tongue and pen was laid to rest, but beneath him the struggle kept on. mutual offers of compromise were mutually refused and the dual government went on. the state-house was barred to the legislators. to test his authority the governor issued a pardon--the democratic warden of the penitentiary refused to recognize it. a company of soldiers came from his own pennyroyal home and the wing of the mountain army still hovered nigh. meanwhile companies of militia were drafted for service under the banner of the dead autocrat. the governor ate and slept in the state-house--never did he leave it. once more a democratic mob formed before the square and the gatling-gun dispersed it. the president at washington declined to interfere. then started the arrests. it was declared that the fatal shot came from the window of the office of the pale, dark young secretary of state, and that young mountaineer was taken--with a pardon from the governor in his pocket; his brother, a captain of the state guard, the ex-secretary of state, also a mountain man, and still another mountaineer were indicted as accessories before the fact and those indictments charged complicity to the pennyroyal governor himself. and three other men who were found in the executive building were indicted for murder along with steve and jason hawn. indeed, the democrats were busy unearthing, as they claimed, a gigantic republican conspiracy. no less than one hundred thousand dollars was offered as a reward for the conviction of the murderers, and the republican cry was that with such a sum it was possible to convict even the innocent. in turn, liberty leagues were even formed throughout the state to protect the innocent, and lives and property were pledged to that end, but the ex-secretary of state fled for refuge across the ohio, and the governor over there refused to give him up. the democrats held forth at the capitol hotel--the republicans at the executive building. the governor sent arms from the state arsenal to his mountain capital. two speakers were always on hand in the senate, and war talk once again became rife. there was a heavy guard of soldiers at every point in the capitol square, there were sentries at the governor's mansion, and the rumor was that the militia would try to arrest the lieutenant-governor who now was successor to the autocrat. so, to guard him, special police were sworn in--police around the hotel, police in the lobby, police patrolling the streets day and night; a system of signals was formed to report suspicious movements of troops, and more men were stationed at convenient windows and in dark alleyways, armed with pistols, but with rifles and shot-guns close at hand, while the police station was full of arms and ammunition. to the courts it was at last agreed that the whole matter should go, and there was panting peace for a while. a curious pall overhung the college the morning of jason's flight for the hills. the awful news spread from lip to lip, hushing shouts and quelling laughter. the stream of students moved into the chapel with little noise--a larger stream than usual, for the feeling was that there would be comment from the old president. a common seriousness touched the face of every teacher on the platform and deepened the seriousness of the young faces that looked expectantly upward. in the centre of the freshman corner one seat only was vacant, and that to john burnham suggested the emptiness of even more than death. among the girls one chair, too, yawned significantly, for mavis was not there and the two places might have been side by side, so close was the mute link between them. but no word of jason reached any curious ear, and only a deeper feeling in the old president's voice when it was lifted, and a deeper earnestness in his prayer that especial guidance might now be granted the state in the crisis it was passing through, showed that the thought of all hearts was working alike in his. at noon the news of jason's escape and flight spread like fire through town and college--then news that bloodhounds were on his trail, that the trail led to the hills, and that a quick capture was certain. before night the name of the boy was on the lips of the state and for a day at least on the lips of the nation. the night before, john burnham had gone down to the capital to see jason. all that day he had been hardly able to keep his mind on book or student, all day he had kept recalling how often the boy had asked him about this or that personage in history who had sought to win liberty for his people by slaying with his own hand some tyrant. he knew what part politics, the awful disregard of human life, and the revengeful spirit of the mountains had played in the death of the autocrat, but he knew also that if there was in that mountain army that had gone to the capital the fearful, mistaken, higher spirit of the fanatic it was in the breast of jason hawn. he believed, however, that in the boy the spirit was all there was, and that the deed must have been done by some hand that had stolen the cloak of that spirit to conceal a malicious purpose. coming out of his class-room, he had seen gray, whose face showed that he was working with the same bewildering, incredible problem. outside marjorie had halted him and tremblingly told him of jason's long-given promise and how he had taken it back; and so as he drove to the country that afternoon his faith in jason was miserably shaken and a sickening fear for the boy possessed him. he was hardly aware he had reached his own gate, so lost in thought was he all the way, until his horse of its own accord stopped in front of it, and then he urged it on with a sudden purpose to go to jason's mother. on top of the hill he stopped again, for marjorie's carriage was turning into the lane that led to martha hawn's house. his kindly purpose had been forestalled and with intense relief he turned back on his heart-sick way homeward. with marjorie, too, it had been a sudden thought to go to jason's mother, but as she drew near the gate she grew apprehensive. she had not been within the house often and then only for a moment to wait for mavis. she had always been half-fearful and ill at ease with the sombre-faced woman who always searched her with big dark eyes whose listlessness seemed but to veil mysteries and hidden fires. as she was getting out of her carriage she saw martha hawn's pale face at the window. she expected the door to be opened, as she climbed the steps, but it was not, and when she timidly knocked there was no bid to enter. she was even about to turn away bewildered and indignant when the door did open and a forbidding figure stood before her. "mavis has gone down to see her pappy." "yes, i know--but i thought i'd come--" she halted helplessly. she did not know that knocking was an unessential formality in the hills; she did not realize that it was her first friendly call on martha hawn; and curiously enough the mountain woman became at that moment the quicker of the two. "come right in and set down," she said with a sudden change of manner. "rest yo' hat thar on the bed, won't you?" the girl entered, her rosy face rising from her furs, and she seemed to flood the poor little room with warmth and light and make it poor indeed. she sat down and felt the deep black eyes burning at her not unkindly now and with none of her own embarrassment, for she had expected to find a woman bowed with grief and she found her unshaken, stolid, calm. for the first time she noticed that jason had got his eyes and his brow from his mother, and now her voice was an echo of his. "they've got dogs atter my boy," she said simply. that was all she said, but it started the girl's tears, for there was not even resentment in the voice--only the resignation that meant a life-long comradeship with sorrow. marjorie had tried to speak, but tears began to choke her and she turned her face to hide them. she had come to comfort, but now she felt a hand patting her on the shoulder. "why, honey, you mustn't take on that-a-way. jason wouldn't want nobody to worry 'bout him--not fer a minute. they'll never ketch him--never in this world. an' bless yo' dear heart, honey, this ain't nothin'. ever'thing 'll come out all right. why, i been used to killin' an' fightin' an' trouble all my life. jason hain't done nothin' he didn't think was right--i know that--an' if hit was right i'm glad he done hit. i ain't so shore 'bout steve, but the lord's been good to steve fer holdin' off his avengin' hand even this long. hit'll all come out right--don't you worry." half an hour later the girl on her way home found colonel pendleton at his gate on horseback, apparently waiting for some one, and, looking back through the carriage window, marjorie saw gray galloping along behind her. she did not stop to speak with the colonel, and a look of uneasy wonder crossed his face as she drove by. "what's the matter with marjorie?" he asked when gray drew nigh. the boy shook his head worriedly. "she's been to the hawns," he said, and the colonel looked grave. twenty minutes later mrs. pendleton sat in her library, also looking grave. marjorie had told her where she had been and why she had gone, and the mother, startled by the girl's wildness and distress, had barely opened her lips in remonstrance when marjorie, in a whirlwind of tears and defiance, fled to her room. xxviii on through the snowy mountains jason went, keeping fearlessly now to the open road, and telling the same story to the same question that was always looked, even when not asked, by every soul with whom he passed a word: he had gone to the capital when the mountain people went down, he had been left behind, and, having no money, was obliged to make his way back home on foot. always he was plied with questions, but news of the death of the autocrat had not yet penetrated that far. always he was gladly given food and lodging, and sometimes his host or some horseman, overtaking him, would take him up behind and save him many a weary mile. boldly he went until one morning he stood on the icy, glittering crest of pine mountain and looked down a white wooded ravine to the frozen cumberland locked motionless in the valley below. he could see the mouth of hawn branch and the mouth of honeycutt creek--could see the spur, the neck of which once separated mavis's home from his--and with a joyful throb and a quickly following pang he plunged down the ravine. ahead of him was the house of a honeycutt and he had no fear, but as he swiftly approached it along the river road, he saw two men, strangers, appear on the porch and instinctively he scudded noiselessly behind a great clump of evergreen rhododendron and lay flat to the frozen earth. a moment later they rode by him at a walk and talking in low, earnest tones. "he's sure to come back here," said one, "and it won't be long before some honeycutt will give him away. this peace business ain't skin-deep and a five-dollar bill will do the trick for us and i'll find the right man in twenty-four hours." the other man grunted an assent and the two rode on. already they were after jason; they had guessed where he would go, and the boy knew that what he had heard from these men was true. when he rose now he kept out of the road and skirted his way along the white flanks of the hills. passing high up the spur above hawn branch, he could see his grandfather's house. a horse was hitched to the fence and a man was walking toward the porch and the lad wondered if that stranger, too, could be on his trail. on upward he went until just below him he could see the old circuit rider's cabin under a snow-laden pine, and all up and down the hawn creek were signs of activity from the outside world. already he had watched engineers mapping out the line of railway up the river. he had seen the coming of the railroad darkies who lived in shacks like cave-men, who were little above brutes and driven like slaves by rough men in blue woollen shirts and high-laced boots. and now he saw that old morton sanders' engineers had mapped out a line up the creek of his fathers; that the darkies had graded it and their wretched shacks were sagging drunkenly here and there from the hill-sides. around the ravine the boy curved toward the neck of the dividing spur and half-unconsciously toward the little creek where he had uncovered his big vein of coal, and there where with hand, foot, and pick he had toiled so long was a black tunnel boring into the very spot, with supporting columns of wood and a great pile of coal at its gaping mouth. the robbery was under way and the boy looked on with fierce eyes at the three begrimed and coal-blackened darkies hugging a little fire near by. cautiously he backed away and slipped on down to a point where he could see his mother's old home and steve hawn's, and there he almost groaned. one was desolate, deserted, the door swinging from one hinge, the chimney fallen, every paling of the fence gone and the roof of the little barn caved in. smoke was coming from steve hawn's chimney, and in the porch were two or three slatternly negro women. the boy knew the low, sinister meaning of their presence on public works; and these blacks ate, slept, and plied their trade in the home of mavis hawn! all the old rebellion and rage of his early years came back to him and boiled the more fiercely that his mother's home could never be hers, nor mavis's hers--for a twofold reason now--again. it was nearing noon and the boy's hunger was a keen pain. rapidly he went down the crest of the spur until his grandfather's house was visible beneath him. the horse at the front fence was gone, but as he slipped toward the rear of the house he looked into the stable to make sure that the horse was not there. and then a moment later he reached the back porch and noiselessly opened the door--so noiselessly that the old man sitting in front of the fire did not hear. "grandpap," he called tremulously. the old man started and turned his great shaggy head. he said nothing, but it seemed to the boy that from under his bushy brows a flash of lightning was searching him from head to foot. "well," he rumbled scathingly, "you've been a-playin' hell, hain't ye? i mought 'a' knowed whut would happen with honeycutts a-leadin' that gang. i tol' 'em to go up thar an' fight open--man to man. they don't know nothin' but way-layin'. a thousand of 'em shootin' one pore man in the back! whut've i been tryin' to l'arn ye since you was a baby? god knows i wanted him killed. why," thundered the old man savagely, "didn't you kill him face to face?" the boy's chin had gone up proudly while the old man talked and now there was a lightning-flash in his own eyes. "i tried to git him face to face fer three days. i knowed he had a gun. i was aimin' to give him a chance fer his life. but seemed like thar wasn't no other--" "stop!" thundered the old man again, "don't you say a word." there was a loud "hello" at the gate. "thar they air now," said the old man with a break in his voice, and as he rose from his chair he said sternly: "an' stay right where you air." through the window the boy saw the two horsemen who had passed him in the road that morning. his eyes grew wild and he began to tremble violently, but he stood still. the old man went to the door. "hyeh he is, men," he shouted; "come in hyeh an' git him." then he turned to the boy. "you air goin' back thar an' stand yore trial like a man." the boy leaped wildly for the door, but the old man caught him and with one hand held him as though he were a child, and thus the two astonished detectives from the blue-grass found them, and they gaped at the mystery, for they knew the kinship of the two. one pulled from his pocket a pair of handcuffs, and old jason glared at him with contempt. "don't you put them things on this boy--he's my grandson. an', anyhow, ef you two full-grown men can't handle a boy without 'em i'll go 'long with you myself." shamed, the man put the irons back in his pocket, and the other one started to speak but stopped. the old man turned hospitably toward his unwelcome guests. "i reckon all o' ye want a bite to eat afore ye start. mammy!" the door to the kitchen opened and the aged grandmother halted there, peering through brass-rimmed spectacles at her husband and the two men, and catching sight last of little jason standing in the corner--trapped, white-faced, silent. instantly she caught the meaning of the scene, and with a little cry she tottered over to the boy and putting both her hands on his breast began to pat him gently. then, still helplessly patting him with one hand, she turned to her husband. "you hain't goin' to give the boy up, jason?" she asked plaintively, and the old man swerved his face aside and nodded. "git up somethin' to eat, mammy," he said with rough gentleness, and without another look or word she turned with her apron at her eyes to the kitchen door. the old man glared out the window, the boy sank on a chair at the corner of the fireplace, and in the face of one of the men there was sympathy. the other, shifty of eyes and crafty of face, spoke harshly. "how much o' this reward do you want?" old jason wheeled and the other man cried sternly: "shut up, you fool!" "you lop-yeared rattlesnake!" began old jason, and with a contemptuous gesture dismissed him. "how much is that reward?" the other man hesitated, and then with the thought that the fact would soon be world-known answered promptly: "for the capture and conviction of the murderer--one hundred thousand dollars." the old man gasped at the amazing sum; his face worked suddenly with convulsive rage and calmed in a sudden way that made the watching boy know that something was going to happen. quietly old jason walked over to the fire and stood with his back to it. he pulled out his pipe, filled it, and turned again to the mantel-piece as though to reach for a match, but instead whipped two big revolvers from it and wheeled. "hands up, men!" he said quietly. for a moment the two were paralyzed, but the thick-set man, whose instincts were quicker, obeyed slowly. the other one started to laugh. "up!" called the old man sternly, levelling one pistol, and the laugh stopped, the man's face paled, and his hands flew high. "git their guns fer a minute, jasie, an' put em' up hyeh on the mantel. a hundred thousand dollars is a leetle too much." the kitchen door opened and again the old woman peered through her spectacles within. "i knowed you wouldn't do it, pap," she said. "dinner's ready--come on in now, men, an' git a bite to eat." the thin man's shifty eyes roved to his companion, who had almost begun to smile and who muttered to himself as he rose: "well, by god!" in utter silence the meal went through, except that the old man, with his pistols crossed in his lap, kept urging his guests to the full of their appetites. jason ate like a wolf. "git a poke, mammy," said old jason when the boy dropped knife and fork, "an' fill it full o' victuals." and still with a smile the thick-set man watched her gather food from the table, put it in a paper sack, and hand it to the boy. "now git, jasie--these men air goin' to stay hyeh with me fer' bout an hour, an' then they can go atter ye ef they think they can ketch ye." with no word at all even of good-by, little jason noiselessly disappeared. a few minutes later, sitting in front of the fire with his pistols still in his lap, old jason hawn explained: "fer a mule, a winchester, and a hundred dollars i can git most any man in this country killed. fer a thousand i reckon i could git hit proved that i had stole a side o' bacon or a hoss. fer a hundred thousand i could git hit proved that the president of these united states killed that feller--an' human natur' is about the same, i reckon, ever'whar. you don't git no grandson o' mine when thar's a bunch o' greenbacks like that tied to the rope that's a-pinin' to hang him." an hour later he told his guests that they could be on their way, though he'd be mighty glad to have 'em stay all night--and they went, both chagrined, the thin one raging within but obedient and respectful without, while the other, chuckling at his companion's discomfiture and no little at his own, watched with a smile the old fellow's method of speeding his parting guests. "git on yo' hosses, men," he suggested, and when the two stepped from the porch he replaced his own guns on the mantel and followed them with both of their guns in one hand and a winchester in the other. while they were mounting he walked to the corner of the yard, laid both their pistols on the fence, walked back to the porch, and stood there with his winchester in the hollow of his arm. "ride by thar, men, and git yo' guns; an' i reckon," he suggested casually but convincingly, "when you pick 'em up you better not even look back--nary one o' ye." "can you beat it?" murmured the quiet man, while the other snarled helplessly. "an' when you git down to town you can tell the sheriff. he's a honeycutt, an' he won't come atter me, but i'll go down thar to him an' pay my leetle fine." again the man said: "well, by god!" and as the two rode on, the old fellow's voice followed them: "come ag'in, men--i wish ye both well." two nights later st. hilda, reading by her fire, heard a tap on her window-pane, and, looking up, saw jason's pale face outside. she ran to the door, and the boy stumbled wearily toward the threshold and stopped with a look of fear and piteous appeal. she stretched out her arms to him, and, broken at last, the boy sank at her feet, and, with his head in her lap, sobbed out of his heart the truth. xxix st. hilda herself took jason back to the blue-grass, took him to the gray frowning prison at the capital, and with streaming eyes watched the iron gates close between them. then she went home, sent for john burnham, and within an hour both started working for the boy's freedom, for jason must keep on with his studies, and, with steve hawn in jail, must help his mother. through gray's influence colonel pendleton, and through marjorie's, mrs. pendleton as well, offered to go sponsors for the boy's appearance at his trial. the man from the pennyroyal who sat in the governor's chair, and even the successor to the autocrat who was trying to pre-empt that seat, gave letters to help, and before any prison pallor could touch the boy's sun-tanned face he was out in the open air once more on bail. and when old jason hawn in the mountains heard what had happened, he laughed. "well, i reckon if he's indicted only fer helpin' steve, he ain't in much danger, fer they can't git him onless they git steve, an' if thar is one man no money can ketch--that man is slick steve hawn. an' lemme tell ye: if the right feller was from the mountains an' only mountain folks knows it, they hain't nuver goin' to find him out. mebbe i was a leetle hasty--mebbe i was." after one talk with john burnham, the old president suggested that jason drop down into the "kitchen" and go on with his books, but against this plan jason shook his head. he was going to raise steve hawn's tobacco crop on shares with colonel pendleton, he would study at home, and john burnham saw, moreover, that the boy shrank from the ordeal of college associations and any further hurt to his pride. the pores of the earth were beginning to open now to the warm breath of spring. already martha hawn and mavis had burnt brush on the soil to kill the grass, and jason ploughed the soil and harrowed it with minute care, and sowed the seed broadcast by hand. within two weeks lettuce-like leaves were peeping through the ground, and jason and mavis stretched canvas over the beds to hold in the heat of day and hold off the frost of night. three weeks later came the first ploughing; then there was ploughing and ploughing and ploughing again, and weeding and weeding and weeding again. just before ripening, the blooms came--blooms that were for all the word like the blooms of purple rhododendron back in the hills, and then the task of suckering began. sometimes mavis would help and the mother started in to work like a man, but the boy had absorbed from his environment its higher ideal of woman and, all he could, he kept both of them out of the tobacco field. this made it all the harder for him and there was no let-up to his toil. just the same, jason put in every spare moment on his books, and in mavis's little room, which had been turned over to him, his lamp burned far into every night. when he struck a knotty point or problem, he would walk over to john burnham's for help, or the school-master, as he went to and fro from his college duties, would find the boy on a fence by the roadside waiting with his question for him. all the summer jason toiled. when there was no hard labor, always he had to fight the tobacco worms with spray, and hand, and boot-heel, until the rich dark-green of the leaves took on a furry, velvety sheen--until at ripening they turned to a bright gold and were ready for the chisel-bladed, double-edged knife with which the plants are cut close to the ground. then they must be hung on upright tobacco sticks, stalks upward, to wilt under the august sun, and then on to be housed in colonel pendleton's great barns to dry within their slitted walls. several times during the summer arch hawn came by and looked at the boy's work with keen, approving eye and in turn won a falling-off in jason's old prejudice against him; for arch had built a church in the county-seat in the mountains, had helped the county schools, was making ready to help the mountain people fight unjust claims to their lands, and, himself charged with helping to bring the mountain army down to the capital, stood boldly ready to surrender to the call of the law--he even meant to help steve hawn in his trouble, for steve, after an examining trial, had been remanded back to prison without bail: and he was going to help jason in his trial, which would closely follow steve's. all summer, too, gray and marjorie were riding or driving past the tobacco field, and jason and mavis, when they saw either or both coming, would move to the end of the field that was farthest from the turnpike and, turning their backs, would pretend not to see. sometimes the two mountaineers would be caught where avoidance was impossible, and then marjorie and gray would call out cheerily and with a smile--to get in return from the children of the soil a grave, silent nod of the head and a grave, answering glance of the eye--for neither knew the part the blue-grass boy and girl had played in the getting of jason's freedom, until one late afternoon of the closing summer days, for john burnham had been asked to keep the matter a secret. but steve hawn had learned from his lawyer and had told his wife martha when she came to visit him in prison; and that late afternoon she was in the tobacco field when mavis and jason moved to the other end and turned their backs as marjorie rode by on her way home and gray an hour later galloped past the other way. "i reckon," she said quietly to jason, "ef you knowed whut that boy an' gal has been a-doin' fer ye, you wouldn't be a-actin' that-a-way." and then she explained and started for home. both stood still--silent and dumfounded--and only mavis spoke at last. "both of us beholden to both of 'em." jason made no answer, but bent to his work. when mavis, too, started for home he stayed behind without explanation, and when she was out of sight he climbed the fence at the edge of the woods, and sat there looking toward the sunset fading behind marjorie's home. xxx the tobacco was dry now, for the autumn was at hand. it must come to case yet, then it must be stripped, the grades picked out, and left then in bulk for sale. with all this jason had nothing to do. he had done good work on his books during the spring and autumn, such good work that, with the old president's gladly given permission, he was allowed a special examination which admitted him with but one or two "conditions" into his own sophomore class. then was there the extraordinary spectacle of a college boy--quiet, serious, toiling--making the slow way toward the humanities under charge of murder and awaiting trial for his life. and that course jason hawn followed with a dignity, reticence, and self-effacement that won the steadily increasing respect of every student and teacher within the college walls. a belief in his innocence became wide-spread, and that coming trial began to be regarded in time as a trial of the good name of the college itself. a change of venue had been obtained and the trial was to be held in the college town. it came in mid-december. jason, neatly dressed, sat beside his lawyer, and his mother, in black, and mavis sat quite near him. in the first row among the spectators were gray and marjorie and colonel pendleton. behind them was john burnham, and about him and behind him were several other professors, while the room was crowded with students. the boy was pale when he went to the witness-chair, and the court-room was as still as a wooded ravine in the hills when he began to tell his story, which apparently no other soul than his own lawyer had ever heard; indeed it was soon apparent that even he had never heard it all. "i went down there to kill him," the boy said calmly, though his eyes were two deep points of fire--so calmly, indeed, that as one man the audience gasped audibly--"an' i reckon all of ye know why. my grandpap al'ays told me the meanest thing a man could do was to shoot another man in the back. i tried for three days to git face to face with him. i knowed he had a gun all the time, an' i meant to give him a fair chance fer his life. that mornin' i heard through the walls of the boardin'-house i was in--an' i didn't know who was doin' the talkin'--that the man was goin' to be waylaid right then an' i run over to that ex-ec-u-tive building to reach steve hawn an' keep him anyways from doin' the shootin'. i heard the shots soon as i got inside the door, and purty soon i met steve runnin' down the stairs. 'i didn't do it!' steve says, 'but any feller from the mountains better git away from here.' we run out through the yard an' got into steve's buggy an' travelled the road till we was ketched--an' that's all i know." and that was all. no other fact, no other admission, no other statement could the rigid, bitter cross-examination bring from the lad's lips than just those words; and those words alone the jury carried to their room. nor were they long gone. back they came, and again the court-room was as the holding in of one painful breath, and then tears started in the eyes of the woman in black, the mountain girl by her side, and in marjorie's, and the court-room broke into stifled cheer, for the words all heard were: "not guilty." at the gate of the college a crowd of students, led by gray pendleton, awaited jason. the boy was borne aloft on their shoulders through the yard amid the cheers of boys and girls--was borne on into the gymnasium, and before the lad could quite realize what was going on he heard himself cheered as captain of the foot-ball team for the next year, and was once more borne out, around and aloft again--while john burnham with a full heart, and mavis and marjorie with wet eyes, looked smilingly on. a week later arch hawn persuaded the boy to allow him to lend him money to complete his course and a week later still it was christmas again. christmas night there was a glad gathering at colonel pendleton's. even st. hilda was there, and she and john burnham, and colonel pendleton and mrs. pendleton, gray and mavis, and marjorie and jason, danced the virginia reel together, and all the stars were stars of bethlehem to mavis and jason hawn as they crunched across the frozen fields at dawn for home. xxxi the pale, dark young secretary of state had fled from the capital in a soldier's uniform and had been captured with a pardon in his pocket from the pennyroyal governor, which the authorities refused to honor. the mountain ex-secretary of state had fled across the ohio, to live there an exile. the governor from the pennyroyal had carried his case to the supreme court of the land, had lost, and he, too, amid the condemnation of friends and foes, had crossed the same yellow river to the protection of the same northern state. with his flight the troubles at the capital had passed the acute crisis and settled down into a long, wearisome struggle to convict the assassins of the autocrat. during the year the young secretary of state had been once condemned to death, once to life imprisonment, and was now risking the noose again on a third trial. jason hawn's testimony at his own trial, it was thought, would help steve hawn. indeed, another mountaineer, hiram honeycutt, an uncle to little aaron, was, it seemed, in greater danger than steve, but the suspect in most peril was an auditor's clerk from the blue-grass; so it looked as though old jason's prophecy--that the real murderer, if a mountaineer, would never be convicted--might yet come true. the autocrat was living on in the hearts of his followers as a martyr to the cause of the people, and a granite shaft was to rise in the little cemetery on the river bluff to commemorate his deeds and his name. his death had gratified the blood-lust of his foes, his young democratic successor would amend that "infamous election law" and was plainly striving for a just administration, and so bitterness began swiftly to abate, tolerance grew rapidly, and the state went earnestly on trying to cure its political ills. and yet even while john burnham and his like were congratulating themselves that cool heads and strong hands had averted civil war, checked further violence, and left all questions to the law and the courts, the economic poison that tobacco had been spreading through the land began to shake the commonwealth with a new fever: for not liberty but daily bread was the farmer's question now. the big trust had cut out competitive buyers, cut down prices to the cost of production, and put up the price of the tobacco bag and the plug. so that the farmer must smoke and chew his own tobacco, or sell it at a loss and buy it back again at whatever price the trust chose to charge him. already along the southern border of the state the farmers had organized for mutual protection and the members had agreed to plant only half the usual acreage. when the non-members planted more than ever, masked men descended upon them at night and put the raiser to the whip and his barn to the torch. it seemed as though the passions of men, aroused by the political troubles and getting no vent in action, welcomed this new outlet, and already the night-riding of ku-klux and toll gate days was having a new and easy birth. and these sinister forces were sweeping slowly toward the blue-grass. thus the injection of this new problem brought a swift subsidence of politics in the popular mind. it caused a swift withdrawal of the political background from the lives of the pendletons and dwarfed its importance for the time in the lives of the hawns, for again the following spring colonel pendleton, in the teeth of the coming storm, raised tobacco, and so, for his mother, did jason hawn. in the mountains, meanwhile, the trend, contrariwise, was upward--all upward. railroads were building, mines were opening, great trees were falling for timber. even the hawns and honeycutts were too busy for an actual renewal of the feud, though the casual traveller was amazed to discover slowly how bitter the enmity still was. but the feud in no way checked the growth going on in all ways, nor was that growth all material. more schools than st. hilda's had come into the hills from the outside and were doing hardly less effective work. county schools, too, were increasing in number and in strength. more and more mountain boys and girls were each year going away to college, bringing back the fruits of their work and planting the seeds of them at home. the log cabin was rapidly disappearing, the frame cottages were being built with more neatness and taste, and garish colors were becoming things of the past. indeed, a quick uplift through all the mountains was perceptible to any observant eye that had known and knew now the hills. to the law-makers at the capital and to the men of law and business in the blue-grass, that change was plain when they came into conflict with the lawyers and bankers and merchants of the highlands, for they found this new hillsman shrewd, resourceful, quick-witted, tenacious, and strong, and john burnham began to wonder if the vigorous type of kentuckian that seemed passing in the blue-grass might not be coming to a new birth in the hills. he smiled grimly that following spring when he heard that a company of mountain militia from a county that was notorious for a desperate feud had been sent down to keep order in the tobacco lowlands; he kept on smiling every time he heard that a mountaineer had sold his coal lands and moved down to buy some blue-grass farm, and wondering how far this peaceful dispossessment might go in time; and whether a fusion of these social extremes of civilization might not be in the end for the best good of the state. and he knew that the basis of his every speculation about the fortunes of the state rested on the intertwining hand of fate in the lives of marjorie and gray pendleton and mavis and jason hawn. xxxii in june, gray pendleton closed his college career as he had gone through it--like a meteor--and jason went for the summer to the mountains, while mavis stayed with his mother, for again steve hawn had been tried and convicted and returned to jail to await a new trial. in the mountains jason got employment at some mines below the county-seat, and there he watched the incoming of the real "furriners," italians, "hunks," and slavs, and the uprising of a mining town. he worked, too, in every capacity that was open to him, and he kept his keen eyes and keen mind busy that he might know as much as possible of the great machine that old morton sanders would build and set to work on his mother's land. and more than ever that summer he warmed to his uncle arch hawn for the fight that arch was making to protect native titles to mountain lands--a fight that would help the achievement of the purpose that, though faltering at last, was still deep in the boy's heart. in the autumn, when he went back to college, gray had set off to some northern college for a post-graduate course in engineering and marjorie had gone to some fashionable school in the great city of the nation for the finishing touches of hats and gowns, painting and music, and for a wider knowledge of her own social world. that autumn the tobacco trouble was already pointing to a crisis for colonel pendleton. the whip and lash and the destruction of seed-beds had been ineffective, and as the trust had got control of the trade, the raisers must now get control of the raw leaf in the field and in the barn. that autumn jason himself drifted into a mass-meeting of growers in the court-house one day on his way home from college. an orator from the far west with a shock of black hair and gloomy black brows and eyes urged a general and permanent alliance of the tillers of the soil. an old white-bearded man with cane and spectacles and a heavy goatee working under a chew of tobacco tremulously pleaded for a pooling of the crops. the answer was that all would not pool, and the question was how to get all in. a great-shouldered, red-faced man and a bull-necked fellow with gray, fearless eyes, both from the southern part of the state, openly urged the incendiary methods that they were practising at home--the tearing up of tobacco-beds, burning of barns, and the whipping of growers who refused to go into the pool. and then colonel pendleton rose, his face as white as his snowy shirt, and bowed courteously to the chairman. "these gentlemen, i think, are beside themselves," he said quietly, "and i must ask your permission to withdraw." jason followed him out to the court-house door and watched him, erect as a soldier, march down the street, and he knew the trouble that was in store for the old gentleman, for already he had heard similar incendiary talk from the small farmers around his mother's home. the following june marjorie and gray pendleton brought back finishing touches of dress, manner, and atmosphere to the dazzled envy of the less fortunate, in spite of the fact that both bore their new claims to distinction with a modesty that would have kept a stranger from knowing that they had ever been away from home. jason and mavis were still at the old university when the two arrived. to the mountaineers all four had once seemed almost on the same level, such had once been the comradeship between them, but now the old chasm seemed to yawn wider than ever between them, and there was no time for it to close, if closing were possible, for again jason went back to the hills--this time to morton sanders' opening mines--and, this time, mavis went with him to teach hawns and honeycutts in a summer school on the outskirts of the little mining town. again for jason the summer was one of unflagging work and learning--learning all he could, all the time. he had discovered that to get his land back through the law, he must prove that arch hawn or colonel pendleton not only must have known about the big seam of coal, not only must have concealed the fact of their knowledge from his mother and steve hawn, but, in addition, must have told one or both, with the purpose of fraud, that the land was worth no more than was visible to the eye in timber and seams of coal that were known to all. that colonel pendleton could have been guilty of such underhandedness was absurd. moreover, jason's mother said that no such statement had been made to her by either, though steve had sworn readily that arch had said just that thing to him. but jason began to believe that steve had lied, and arch hawn laughed when he heard of jason's investigations. "son, if you want that land back, or, ruther, the money it's worth, you git right down to work, learn the business, and dig it back in another way." and that was what jason, half unconsciously, was doing. and yet, with all the ambition that was in him, his interest in the work, his love for the hills, his sense of duty to his people and his wish to help them, the boy was sorely depressed that summer, for the talons with which the fate of birth and environment clutched him seemed to be tightening now again. the trials of steve hawn and of hiram honeycutt for the death of the autocrat were bringing back the old friction. charges and counter-charges of perjury among witnesses had freshened the old enmity between the hawns and the honeycutts. jason himself had once to go back to the blue-grass as witness, and when he returned he learned that the charge whispered against him, particularly by little aaron, was that he had sworn falsely for steve hawn and falsely against hiram honeycutt. again babe honeycutt had come back from the west and had quietly slipped out of the mountains again, and jason was led to believe it was on his account. so once more the old oath began to weigh heavily upon him, for everybody seemed to take it as much for granted that he would some day fulfil that oath as that, after the dark of the moon, that moon would rise again. moreover, fate was inexorably pushing him and little aaron into the same channels that their fathers had followed and putting on each the duty and responsibility of leadership. and jason, though shirking nothing, turned sick and faint of heart and was glad when the summer neared its close. through all his vacation he and mavis had seen but little of each other, though mavis lived with the old circuit rider and jason in a little shack on the spur above her, for the boy was on the night shift and through most of the day was asleep. moreover, both were rather morose and brooding, each felt the deep trouble of the other, and to it each paid the mutual respect of silence. how much mavis knew, jason little guessed, though he was always vaguely uneasy under the constant search of her dark eyes, and often he would turn toward her expecting her to speak. but not until the autumn was at hand and they were both making ready to go back to the blue-grass did she break her silence. the news had just reached them that steve hawn had come clear at last and was at home--and mavis heard it with little elation and no comment. next day she announced calmly that she was not going back with jason, but would stay in the hills and go on with her school. jason stared questioningly, but she would not explain--she only became more brooding and silent than ever, and only when they parted one drowsy day in september was the thought within her betrayed: "i reckon maybe you won't come back again." jason was startled. she knew then--knew his discontent, his new longing to break the fetters of the hills, knew even that in his dreams marjorie's face was still shining like a star. "course i'm comin' back," he said, with a little return of his old boyish roughness, but his eyes fell before hers as he turned hurriedly away. he was rolling away from the hills, and his mind had gone back to her seated with folded hands and unseeing eyes in the old circuit rider's porch, dreaming, thinking--thinking, dreaming--before he began fully to understand. he remembered his mother telling him how unhappy mavis had been the summer the two were alone in the blue-grass, and how she had kept away from marjorie and gray and all to herself. he recalled mavis telling him bitterly how she had once overheard some girl student speak of her as the daughter of a jail-bird. he began to see that she had stayed in the blue-grass that summer on his mother's account and on her account would have gone back with him again. he knew that there was no disloyalty to her father in her decision, for he knew that she would stick to him, jail-bird or whatever he was, till the end of time. but now neither her father nor jason's mother needed her. through eyes that had gained a new vision in the blue-grass mavis had long ago come to see herself as she was seen there; and now to escape wounds that any malicious tongue could inflict she would stay where the sins of fathers rested less heavily on the innocent. there was, to be sure, good reason for jason to feel as mavis felt--he had been a jail-bird himself--but not to act like her--no. and then as he rolled along he began to wonder what part gray might be playing in her mind and heart. the vision of her seated in the porch thinking--thinking--would not leave him, and a pang of undefined remorse for leaving her behind started within him. she, too, had outgrown his and her people as he had--perhaps she was as rebellious against her fate as he was against his own, but, unlike him, utterly helpless. and suddenly the boy's remorse merged into a sympathetic terror for the loneliness that was hers. xxxiii down in the blue-grass a handsome saddle-horse was hitched at the stile in front of colonel pendleton's house and the front door was open to the pale gold of the early sun. upstairs gray was packing for his last year away from home, after which he too would go to morton sanders' mines, on the land jason's mother once had owned. below him his father sat at his desk with two columns of figures before him, of assets and liabilities, and his face was gray and his form seemed to have shrunk when he rose from his chair; but he straightened up when he heard his boy's feet coming down the stairway, forced a smile to his lips, and called to him cheerily. together they walked down to the stile. "i'm going to drive into town this morning, dad," said gray. "can i do anything for you?" "no, son--nothing--except come back safe." in the distance a tree crashed to the earth as the colonel was climbing his horse, and a low groan came from his lips, but again he quickly recovered himself at the boy's apprehensive cry. "nothing, son. i reckon i'm getting too fat to climb a horse--good-by." he turned and rode away, erect as a youth of twenty, and the lad looked after him puzzled and alarmed. one glance his father had turned toward the beautiful woodland that had at last been turned over to axe and saw for the planting of tobacco, and it was almost the last tree of that woodland that had just fallen. when the first struck the earth two months before, the lad now recalled hearing his father mutter: "this is the meanest act of my life." suddenly now the boy knew that the act was done for him--and his eyes filled as he looked after the retreating horseman upon whose shoulders so much secret trouble weighed. and when the elder man passed through the gate and started down the pike, those broad shoulders began to droop, and the lad saw him ride out of sight with his chin close to his breast. the boy started back to his packing, but with a folded coat in his hand dropped in a chair by the open window, looking out on the quick undoing in that woodland of the master's slow upbuilding for centuries, and he began to recall how often during the past summer he had caught his father brooding alone, or figuring at his desk, or had heard him pacing the floor of his bedroom late at night; how frequently he had made trips into town to see his lawyer, how often the lad had seen in his mail, lately, envelopes stamped with the name of his bank; and, above all, how often the old family doctor had driven out from town, and though there was never a complaint, how failing had been his father's health, and how he had aged. and suddenly gray sprang to his feet, ordered his buggy and started for town. along the edge of the bleeding stumps of noble trees the colonel rode slowly, his thoughts falling and rising between his boy in the room above and his columns of figures in the room below. the sacrilege of destruction had started in his mind years before from love of the one, but the actual deed had started under pressure of the other, and now it looked as though each motive would be thwarted, for the tobacco war was on in earnest now, and again the poor old commonwealth was rent as by a forked tongue of lightning. and, like the state, the colonel too was pitifully divided against himself. already many blue-grass farmers had pooled their crops against the great tobacco trust--already they had decided that no tobacco at all should be raised that coming year just when the colonel was deepest in debt and could count only on his tobacco for relief. and so the great-hearted gentleman must now go against his neighbor, or go to destruction himself and carry with him his beloved son. toward noon he reined in on a little knoll above the deserted house of the old general, the patriarchal head of the family--who had passed not many years before--the rambling old house, stuccoed with aged brown and still in the faithful clasp of ancient vines. the old landmark had passed to morton sanders, and on and about it the ruthless hand of progress was at work. the atmosphere of careless, magnificent luxury was gone. the servants' quarters, the big hen-house, the old stables with gables and sunken roofs, the staggering fences, the old blacksmith-shop, the wheelless windmill--all were rebuilt or torn away. only the arched gate-way under which only thoroughbreds could pass was left untouched, for sanders loved horses and the humor of that gate-way, and the old spring-house with its green dripping walls. no longer even were the forest trees in the big yard ragged and storm-torn, but trimmed carefully, their wounds dressed, and sturdy with a fresh lease on life; only the mournful cedars were unchanged and still harping with every passing wind the same requiem for the glory that was gone. with another groan the old colonel turned his horse toward home--the home that but for the slain woodlands would soon pass in that same way to house a sanders tenant or an overseer. when he reached his front door he heard his boy whistling like a happy lark in his room at the head of the stairway. the sounds pierced him for one swift instant and then his generous heart was glad for the careless joy of youth, and instead of going into his office he slowly climbed the stairs. when he reached the door of the boy's room, he saw two empty trunks, the clothes that had been in them tossed in a whirlwind over bed and chair and floor, and gray hanging out of the window and shouting to a servant: "come up here, tom, and help put my things back--i'm not going away." a joyous whoop from below answered: "yassuh, yassuh; my gord, but i is glad. why, de colonel--" just then the boy heard a slight noise behind him and he turned to see his father's arms stretched wide for him. gray remained firm. he would not waste another year. he had a good start; he would go to the mines and begin work, and he could come home when he pleased, if only over sunday. so, as mavis had watched jason leave to be with marjorie in the blue-grass, so marjorie now watched gray leave to be with mavis in the hills. and between them john burnham was again left wondering. xxxiv at sunset gray pendleton pushed his tired horse across the cumberland river and up into the county-seat of the hawns and honeycutts. from the head of the main street two battered signs caught his eye--hawn hotel and honeycutt inn--the one on the right-hand side close at hand, and the other far down on the left, and each on the corner of the street. both had double balconies, both were ramshackle and unpainted, and near each was a general store, run now by a subleader of each faction--hiram honeycutt and shade hawn--for old jason and old aaron, except in councils of war and business, had retired into the more or less peaceful haven of home and old age. naturally the boy drew up and stopped before hawn hotel, from the porch of which keen eyes scrutinized him with curiosity and suspicion, and before he had finished his supper of doughy biscuits, greasy bacon, and newly killed fried chicken, the town knew but little less about his business there than he himself. that night he asked many questions of shade hawn, the proprietor, and all were answered freely, except where they bore on the feud of half a century, and then gray encountered a silence that was puzzling but significant and deterrent. next morning everybody who spoke to him called him by name, and as he rode up the river there was the look of recognition in every face he saw, for the news of him had gone ahead the night before. at the mouth of hawn creek, in a bend of the river, he came upon a schoolhouse under a beech-tree on the side of a little hill; through the open door he saw, amidst the bent heads of the pupils, the figure of a young woman seated at a desk, and had he looked back when he turned up the creek he would have seen her at the window, gazing covertly after him with one hand against her heart. for mavis hawn, too, had heard that gray was come to the hills. all morning she had been watching the open door-way, and yet when she saw him pass she went pale and had to throw her head up sharply to get her breath. her hands trembled, she rose and went to the window, and she did not realize what she was doing until she turned to meet the surprised and curious eyes of one of the larger girls, who, too, could see the passing stranger, and then the young school-mistress flushed violently and turned to her seat. the girl was a honeycutt, and more than once that long, restless afternoon mavis met the same eyes searching her own and already looking mischief. slowly the long afternoon passed, school was dismissed, and mavis, with the circuit rider's old dog on guard at her heels, started slowly up the creek with her eyes fixed on every bend of the road she turned and on the crest of every little hill she climbed, watching for gray to come back. once a horse that looked like the one he rode and glimpsed through the bushes far ahead made her heart beat violently and stopped her, poised for a leap into the bushes, but it was only little aaron honeycutt, who lifted his hat, flushed, and spoke gravely; and mavis reached the old circuit rider's gate, slipped around to the back porch and sat down, still in a tumult that she could not calm. it was not long before she heard a clear shout of "hello" at the gate, and she clenched her chair with both hands, for the voice was gray's. she heard the old woman go to the door, heard her speak her surprise and hearty welcome--heard gray's approaching steps. "is mavis here?" gray asked. "she ain't got back from school." "was that her school down there at the mouth of the creek?" "shore." "well, i wish i had known that." calmly and steadily then mavis rose, and a moment later gray saw her in the door and his own heart leaped at the rich, grave beauty of her. gravely she shook hands, gravely looked full into his eyes, without a question sat down with quiet hands folded in her lap, and it was the boy who was embarrassed and talked. he would live with the superintendent on the spur just above and he would be a near neighbor. his father was not well. marjorie was not going away again, but would stay at home that winter. mavis's stepmother was well, and he had not seen jason before he left--they must have passed each other on the way. since mavis's father was now at home, jason would stay at the college, as he lost so much time going to and fro. gray was glad to get to work, he already loved the mountains; but there had been so many changes he hardly remembered the creek--how was mavis's grandfather, old mr. hawn? mavis raised her eyes, but she was so long answering that the old woman broke in: "he's mighty peart fer sech a' old man, but he's a-breakin' fast an' he ain't long fer this wuld." she spoke with the frank satisfaction that, among country folks, the old take in ushering their contemporaries through the portals, and gray could hardly help smiling. he rose to leave presently, and the old woman pressed him to stay for supper; but mavis's manner somehow forbade, and the boy climbed back up the spur, wondering, ill at ease, and almost shaken by the new beauty the girl seemed to have taken on in the hills. for there she was at home. she had the peace and serenity of them: the pink-flecked laurel was in her cheeks, the white of the rhododendron was at the base of her full round throat, and in her eyes were the sleepy shadows of deep ravines. it might not be so lonely for him after all in his exile, and the vision of the girl haunted gray when he went to bed that night and made him murmur and stir restlessly in his sleep. xxxv once more, on his way for his last year at college, jason hawn had stepped into the chill morning air at the railway junction, on the edge of the blue-grass. again a faint light was showing in the east, and cocks were crowing from a low sea of mist that lay motionless over the land, but this time the darky porter reached without hesitation for his bag and led him to the porch of the hotel, where he sat waiting for breakfast. once more at sunrise he sped through the breaking mist and high over the yellow kentucky river, but there was no pang of homesickness when he looked down upon it now. again fields of grass and gram, grazing horses and cattle, fences, houses, barns reeled past his window, and once more steve hawn met him at the station in the same old rattletrap buggy, and again stared at him long and hard. "ain't much like the leetle feller i met here three year ago--air ye?" steve was unshaven and his stubbly, thick, black beard emphasized the sickly touch of prison pallor that was still on his face. his eyes had a new, wild, furtive look, and his mouth was cruel and bitter. again each side of the street was lined with big wagons loaded with tobacco and covered with cotton cloth. steve pointed to them. "rickolect whut i tol' you about hell a-comin' about that terbaccer?" jason nodded. "well, hit's come." his tone was ominous, personal, and disturbed the boy. "look here, steve," he said earnestly, "haven't you had enough now? ain't you goin' to settle down and behave yourself?" the man's face took on the snarl of a vicious dog. "no, by god!--i hain't. the trouble's on me right now. colonel pendleton hain't treated me right--he cheated me out--" steve got no further; the boy turned squarely in the buggy and his eyes blazed. "that's a lie. i don't know anything about it, but i know it's a lie." steve, too, turned furious, but he had gone too far, and had counted too much on kinship, so he controlled himself, and with vicious cunning whipped about. "well," he said in an injured tone, "i mought be mistaken. we'll see--we'll see." jason had not asked about his mother, and he did not ask now, for steve's manner worried him and made him apprehensive. he answered the man's questions about the mountains shortly, and with diabolical keenness steve began to probe old wounds. "i reckon," he said sympathetically, "you hain't found no way yit o' gittin' yo' land back?" "no." "ner who shot yo' pap?" "no." "well, i hear as how colonel pendleton owns a lot in that company that's diggin' out yo' coal. mebbe you might git it back from him." jason made no answer, for his heart was sinking with every thought of his mother and the further trouble steve seemed bound to make. martha hawn was standing in her porch with one hand above her eyes when they drove into the mouth of the lane. she came down to the gate, and jason put his arms around her and kissed her; and when he saw the tears start in her eyes he kissed her again while steve stared, surprised and uncomprehending. again that afternoon jason wandered aimlessly into the blue-grass fields, and again his feet led him to the knoll whence he could see the twin houses of the pendletons bathed in the yellow sunlight, and their own proud atmosphere of untroubled calm. and again, even, he saw marjorie galloping across the fields, and while he knew the distressful anxiety in one of the households, he little guessed the incipient storm that imperious young woman was at that moment carrying within her own breast from the other. for marjorie missed gray; she was lonely and she was bored; she had heard that jason had been home several days; she was irritated that he had not been to see her, nor had sent her any message, and just now what she was going to do, she did not exactly know or care. half an hour later he saw her again, coming back at a gallop along the turnpike, and seeing him, she pulled in and waved her whip. jason took off his hat, waved it in answer, and kept on, whereat imperious marjorie wheeled her horse through a gate into the next field and thundered across it and up the slope toward him. jason stood hat in hand--embarrassed, irresolute, pale. when she pulled in, he walked forward to take her outstretched gloved hand, and when he looked up into her spirited face and challenging eyes, a great calm came suddenly over him, and from it emerged his own dominant spirit which the girl instantly felt. she had meant to tease, badger, upbraid, domineer over him, but the volley of reproachful questions that were on her petulant red lips dwindled lamely to one: "how's mavis, jason?" "she's well as common." "you didn't see gray?" "no." "i got a letter from him yesterday. he's living right above mavis. he says she is more beautiful than ever, and he's already crazy about his life down there--and the mountains." "i'm mighty glad." she turned to go, and the boy walked down the hill to open the gate for her--and sidewise marjorie scrutinized him. jason had grown taller, darker, his hair was longer, his clothes were worn and rather shabby, the atmosphere of the hills still invested him, and he was more like the jason she had first seen, so that the memories of childhood were awakened in the girl and she softened toward him. when she passed through the gate and turned her horse toward him again, the boy folded his arms over the gate, and his sunburnt hands showed to marjorie's eyes the ravages of hard work. "why haven't you been over to see me, jason?" she asked gently. "i just got back this mornin'." "why, gray wrote you left home several days ago." "i did--but i stopped on the way to visit some kinfolks." "oh. well, aren't you coming? i'm lonesome, and i guess you will be too--without mavis." "i won't have time to get lonesome." the girl smiled. "that's ungracious--but i want you to take the time." the boy looked at her; since his trial he had hardly spoken to her, and had rarely seen her. somehow he had come to regard his presence at colonel pendleton's the following christmas night as but a generous impulse on their part that was to end then and there. he had kept away from marjorie thereafter, and if he was not to keep away now, he must make matters very clear. "maybe your mother won't like it," he said gravely. "i'm a jail-bird." "don't, jason," she said, shocked by his frankness; "you couldn't help that. i want you to come." jason was reddening with embarrassment now, but he had to get out what had been so long on his mind. "i'm comin' once anyhow. i know what she did for me and i'm comin' to thank her for doin' it." marjorie was surprised and again she smiled. "well, she won't like that, jason," she said, and the boy, not misunderstanding, smiled too. "i'm comin'." marjorie turned her horse. "i hope i'll be at home." her mood had turned to coquetry again. jason had meant to tell her that he knew she herself had been behind her mother's kindness toward him, but a sudden delicacy forbade, and to her change of mood he answered: "you will be--when i come." this was a new deftness for jason, and a little flush of pleasure came to the girl's cheeks and a little seriousness to her eyes. "well, you are mighty nice, jason--good-by." "good-by," said the boy soberly. at her own gate the girl turned to look back, but jason was striding across the fields. she turned again on the slope of the hill but jason was still striding on. she watched him until he had disappeared, but he did not turn to look and her heart felt a little hurt. she was very quiet that night, so quiet that she caught a concerned look in her mother's eyes, and when she had gone to her room her mother came in and found her in a stream of moonlight at her window. and when mrs. pendleton silently kissed her, she broke into tears. "i'm lonely, mother," she sobbed; "i'm so lonely." a week later jason sat on the porch one night after supper and his mother came to the doorway. "i forgot to tell ye, jason, that marjorie pendleton rid over here the day you got here an' axed if you'd come home." "i saw her down the pike that day," said jason, not showing the surprise he felt. steve hawn, coming around the corner of the house, heard them both and on his face was a malicious grin. "down the pike," he repeated. "i seed ye both a-talkin', up thar at the edge of the woods. she looked back at ye twice, but you wouldn't take no notice. now that gray ain't hyeh i reckon you mought--" the boy's protest, hoarse and inarticulate, stopped steve, who dropped his bantering tone and turned serious. "now looky here, jason, yo' uncle arch has tol' me about gray and mavis already up that in the mountains, an' i see what's comin' down here fer you. you an' gray ought to have more sense--gittin' into such trouble--" "trouble!" cried the boy. "yes, i know," steve answered. "hit is funny fer me to be talkin' about trouble. i was born to it, as the circuit rider says, as the sparks fly upward. that ain't no hope fer me, but you--" the boy rose impatiently but curiously shaken by such words and so strange a tone from his step-father. he was still shaken when he climbed to mavis's room and was looking out of her window, and that turned his thoughts to her and to gray in the hills. what was the trouble that steve had already heard about mavis and gray, and what the trouble at which steve had hinted--for him? once before steve had dropped a bit of news, also gathered from arch hawn, that during the truce in the mountains little aaron honeycutt had developed a wild passion for mavis, but at that absurdity jason had only laughed. still the customs of the blue-grass and the hills were widely divergent, and if gray, only out of loneliness, were much with mavis, only one interpretation was possible to the hawns and honeycutts, just as only one interpretation had been possible for steve with reference to marjorie and himself, and steve's interpretation he contemptuously dismissed. his grandfather might make trouble for gray, or gray and little aaron might clash. he would like to warn gray, and yet even with that wish in his mind a little flame of jealousy was already licking at his heart, though already that heart was thumping at the bid of marjorie. impatiently he began to wonder at the perverse waywardness of his own soul, and without undressing he sat at the window--restless, sleepless, and helpless against his warring self--sat until the shadows of the night began to sweep after the light of the sinking moon. when he rose finally, he thought he saw a dim figure moving around the corner of the barn. he rubbed his eyes to make sure, and then picking up his pistol he slipped down the stairs and out the side door, taking care not to awaken his mother and steve. when he peered forth from the corner of the house, steve's chestnut gelding was outside the barn and somebody was saddling him. some negro doubtless was stealing him out for a ride, as was not unusual in that land, and that negro jason meant to scare half to death. noiselessly the boy reached the hen-house, and when he peered around that he saw to his bewilderment that the thief was steve. once more steve went into the barn, and this time when he come out he began to fumble about his forehead with both hands, and a moment later jason saw him move toward the gate, masked and armed. a long shrill whistle came from the turnpike and he heard steve start into a gallop down the lane. xxxvi it was three days before steve hawn returned, ill-humored, reddened by drink, and worn. as ever, martha hawn asked no questions and jason betrayed no curiosity, no suspicion, though he was not surprised to learn that in a neighboring county the night riders had been at their lawless work, and he had no doubt that steve was among them. jason would be able to help but little that autumn in the tobacco field, for it was his last year in college and he meant to work hard at his books, but he knew that the dispute between his step-father and colonel pendleton was still unsettled--that steve was bitter and had a secret relentless purpose to get even. he did not dare give colonel pendleton a warning, for it was difficult, and he knew the fiery old gentleman would receive such an intervention with a gracious smile and dismiss it with haughty contempt; so jason decided merely to keep a close watch on steve. on the opening day of college, as on the opening day three years before, jason walked through the fields to town, but he did not start at dawn. the dew-born mists were gone and the land lay, with no mystery to the eye or the mind, under a brilliant sun-the fields of stately corn, the yellow tents of wheat gone from the golden stretches of stubble, and green trees rising from the dull golden sheen of the stripped blue-grass pastures. the cut, upturned tobacco no longer looked like hunchbacked witches on broom-sticks and ready for flight, for the leaves, waxen, oily, inert, hung limp and listless from the sticks that pointed like needles to the north to keep the stalks inclined as much as possible from the sun. even they had taken on the midas touch of gold, for all green and gold that world of blue-grass was--all green and gold, except for the shaggy unkempt fields where the king of weeds had tented the year before and turned them over to his camp followers--ragweed, dockweed, white-top, and cockle-burr. but the resentment against such an agricultural outrage that the boy had caught from john burnham was no longer so deep, for that tobacco had kept his mother and himself alive and the father of his best friend must look to it now to save himself from destruction. all the way jason, walking leisurely, confidently, proudly, and with the fires of his ambition no less keen, thought of the green mountain boy who had torn across those fields at sunrise, that when "school took up" he might not be late--thought of him with much humor and with no little sympathy. when he saw the smoke cloud over the town he took to the white turnpike and quickened his pace. again the campus of the rival old transylvania was dotted with students moving to and fro. again the same policeman stood on the same corner, but now he shook hands with jason and called him by name. when he passed between the two gray stone pillars with pyramidal tops and swung along the driveway between the maple-trees and chattering sparrows, there were the same boys with caps pushed back and trousers turned up, the same girls with hair up and hair down, but what a difference now for him! even while he looked around there was a shout from a crowd around john burnham's doorway; several darted from that crowd toward him and the crowd followed. a dozen of them were trying to catch his hand at once, and the welcome he had seen gray pendleton once get he got now for himself, for again a pair of hands went high, a series of barbaric yells were barked out, and the air was rent with the name of jason hawn. among them jason stood flushed, shy, grateful. a moment later he saw john burnham in the doorway--looking no less pleased and waiting for him. even the old president paused on his crutches for a handshake and a word of welcome. the boy found himself wishing that marjorie--and mavis--were there, and, as he walked up the steps, from out behind john burnham marjorie stepped--proud for him and radiant. and so, through that autumn, the rectangular, diametric little comedy went on between marjorie and jason in the blue-grass and between gray and mavis in the hills. no saturday passed that jason did not spend at his mother's home or with john burnham, and to the mother and steve and to burnham his motive was plain--for most of the boy's time was spent with marjorie pendleton. somehow marjorie seemed always driving to town or coming home when jason was on his way home or going to town, and somehow he was always afoot and marjorie was always giving him a kindly lift one or the other way. moreover, horses were plentiful as barn-yard fowls on morton sanders' farm, and the manager, john burnham's brother, who had taken a great fancy to jason, gave him a mount whenever the boy pleased. and so john burnham saw the pair galloping the turnpikes or through the fields, or at dusk going slowly toward marjorie's home. besides, marjorie organized many hunting parties that autumn, and the moon and the stars looking down saw the two never apart for long. about the intimacy mrs. pendleton and the colonel thought little. colonel pendleton liked the boy, mrs. pendleton wanted marjorie at home, and she was glad for her to have companionship. moreover, to both, marjorie was still a child, anything serious would be absurd, and anyway marjorie was meant for gray. in the mountains gray's interest in his life was growing every day. he liked to watch things planned and grow into execution. his day began with the screech of a whistle at midnight. every morning he saw the sun rise and the mists unroll and the drenched flanks of the mountains glisten and drip under the sunlight. during the afternoon he woke up in time to stroll down the creek, meet mavis after school and walk back to the circuit rider's house with her. after supper every night he would go down the spur and sit under the honeysuckles with her on the porch. the third time he came the old man and woman quietly withdrew and were seen no more, and this happened thereafter all the time. meanwhile in the blue-grass and the hills the forked tongues of gossip began to play, reaching last, as usual, those who were most concerned, but, as usual, reaching them, too, in time. in the blue-grass it was criticism of colonel and mrs. pendleton, their indifference, carelessness, blindness, a gaping question of their sanity at the risk of even a suspicion that such a mating might be possible--the proud daughter of a proud family with a nobody from the hills, unknown except that he belonged to a fierce family whose history could be written in human blood; who himself had been in jail on the charge of murder; whose mother could not write her own name; whose step-father was a common tobacco tenant no less illiterate, and with a brain that was a hotbed of lawless mischief, and who held the life of a man as cheap as the life of a steer fattening for the butcher's knife. but in all the gossip there was no sinister suggestion or even thought save in the primitive inference of this same steve hawn. in the mountains, too, the gossip was for a while innocent. to the simple democratic mountain way of thinking, there was nothing strange in the intimacy of mavis and gray. there gray was no better than any mountain boy. he was in love with mavis, he was courting her, and if he won her he would marry her, and that simply was all--particularly in the mind of old grandfather hawn. likewise, too, was there for a while nothing sinister in the talk, for at first mavis held to the mountain custom, and would not walk in the woods with gray unless one of the school-children was along--nothing sinister except to little aaron honeycutt, whose code had been a little poisoned by his two years' stay outside the hills. once more about each pair the elements of social tragedy began to concentrate, intensify, and become active. the new development in the hills made business competition keen between shade hawn and hiram honeycutt, who each ran a hotel and store in the county-seat. as old jason hawn and old aaron honeycutt had retired from the leadership, and little jason and little aaron had been out of the hills, leadership naturally was assumed by these two business rivals, who revived the old hostility between the factions, but gave vent to it in a secret, underhanded way that disgusted not only old jason but even old aaron as well. for now and then a hired hawn would drop a honeycutt from the bushes and a hired honeycutt would drop a hawn. there was, said old jason with an oath of contempt, no manhood left in the feud. no principal went gunning for a principal--no hired assassin for another of his kind. "nobody ain't shootin' the right feller," said the old man. "looks like hit's a question of which hired feller gits fust the man who hired the other feller." and when this observation reached old aaron he agreed heartily. "fer once in his life," he said, "old jason hawn kind o' by accident is a-hittin' the truth." and each old man bet in his secret heart, if little aaron and little jason were only at home together, things would go on in quite a different way. in the lowlands the tobacco pool had been formed and, when persuasion and argument failed, was starting violent measures to force into the pool raisers who would not go in willingly. in the western and southern parts of the state the night riders had been more than ever active. tobacco beds had been destroyed, barns had been burned, and men had been threatened, whipped, and shot. colonel pendleton found himself gradually getting estranged from some of his best friends. he quarrelled with old morton sanders, and in time he retired to his farm, as though it were the pole of the earth. his land was his own to do with as he pleased. no man, no power but the almighty and the law, could tell him what he must do. the tobacco pool was using the very methods of the trust it was seeking to destroy. under those circumstances he considered his duty to himself paramount to his duty to his neighbor, and his duty to himself he would do; and so the old gentleman lived proudly in his loneliness and refused to know fear, though the night riders were getting busy now in the counties adjacent to the blue-grass, and were threatening raids into the colonel's own county--the proudest in the state. other "independents" hardly less lonely, hardly less hated, had electrified their barbed-wire fences, and had hired guards--fighting men from the mountains--to watch their barns and houses, but such an example the colonel would not follow, though john burnham pleaded with him, and even jason dared at last to give him a covert warning, with no hint, however, that the warning was against his own step-father steve. it was the duty of the law to protect him, the colonel further argued; the county judge had sworn that the law would do its best; and only when the law could not protect him would the colonel protect himself. and so the winter months passed until one morning a wood-thrush hidden in green depths sent up a song of spring to gray's ears in the hills, and in the blue-grass a meadow-lark wheeling in the sun-light showered down the same song upon the heart of jason hawn. almost every saturday mavis would go down to stay till monday with her grandfather hawn. gray would drift down there to see her--and always, while mavis was helping her grandmother in the kitchen, gray and old jason would sit together on the porch. gray never tired of the old man's shrewd humor, quaint philosophy, his hunting tales and stories of the feud, and old jason liked gray and trusted him more the more he saw of him. and gray was a little startled when it soon became evident that the old man took it for granted that in his intimacy with mavis was one meaning and only one. "i al'ays thought mavis would marry jason," he said one night, "but, lordy mighty, i'm nigh on to eighty an' i don't know no more about gals than when i was eighteen. a feller stands more chance with some of 'em stayin' away, an' agin if he stays away from some of 'em he don't stand no chance at all. an' agin i rickollect that if i hadn't 'a' got mad an' left grandma in thar jist at one time an' hadn't 'a' come back jist at the right time another time, i'd 'a' lost her--shore. looks like you're cuttin' jason out mighty fast now--but which kind of a gal mavis in thar is, i don't know no more'n if i'd never seed her." gray flushed and said nothing, and a little later the old man went frankly on: "i'm gittin' purty old now an' i hain't goin' to last much longer, i reckon. an' i want you to know if you an' mavis hitch up fer a life-trot tergether i aim to divide this farm betwixt her an' jason, an' you an' mavis can have the half up thar closest to the mines, so you can be close to yo' work." the boy was saved any answer, for the old man expected and waited for none, so simple was the whole matter to him, but gray, winding up the creek homeward in the moonlight that night, did some pretty serious thinking. no such interpretation could have been put on the intimacy between him and mavis at home, for there companionship, coquetry, sentiment, devotion even, were possible without serious parental concern. young people in the blue-grass handled their own heart affairs, and so they did for that matter in the hills, but gray could not realize that primitive conditions forbade attention without intention: for life was simple, mating was early because life was so simple, and nature's way with humanity was as with her creatures of the fields and air except for the eye of god and the hand of the law. a license, a few words from the circuit rider, a cleared hill-side, a one-room log cabin, a side of bacon, and a bag of meal--and, from old jason's point of view, gray and mavis could enter the happy portals, create life for others, and go on hand in hand to the grave. so that where complexity would block jason in the blue-grass, simplicity would halt gray in the hills. to be sure, the strangeness, the wildness, the activity of the life had fascinated gray. he loved to ride the mountains and trails--even to slosh along the river road with the rain beating on him, dry and warm under a poncho. often he would be caught out in the hills and have to stay all night in a cabin; and thus he learned the way of life away from the mines and the river bottoms. so far that poor life had only been pathetic and picturesque, but now when he thought of it as a part of his own life, of the people becoming through mavis his people, he shuddered and stopped in the moonlit road-aghast. still, the code of his father was his, all women were sacred, and with all there would be but one duty for him, if circumstances, as they bade fair to now, made that one duty plain. and if his father should go under, if morton sanders took over his home and the boy must make his own way and live his life where he was--why not? gray sat in the porch of the house on the spur, long asking himself that question. he was asking it when he finally went to bed, and he went with it, unanswered, to sleep. xxxvii the news reached colonel pendleton late one afternoon while he was sitting on his porch--pipe in mouth and with a forbidden mint julep within easy reach. he had felt the reticence of gray's letters, he knew that the boy was keeping back some important secret from him as long as he could, and now, in answer to his own kind, frank letter gray had, without excuse or apology, told the truth, and what he had not told the colonel fathomed with ease. he had hardly made up his mind to go at once to gray, or send for him, when a negro boy galloped up to the stile and brought him a note from marjorie's mother to come to her at once--and the colonel scented further trouble in the air. there had been a turmoil that afternoon at mrs. pendleton's. marjorie had come home a little while before with jason hawn and, sitting in the hallway, mrs. pendleton had seen jason on the stile, with his hat in one hand and his bridle reins in the other, and marjorie halting suddenly on her way to the house and wheeling impetuously back toward him. to the mother's amazement and dismay she saw that they were quarrelling--quarrelling as only lovers can. the girl's face was flushed with anger, and her red lips were winging out low, swift, bitter words. the boy stood straight, white, courteous, and unanswering. he lifted his chin a little when she finished, and unanswering turned to his horse and rode away. the mother saw her daughter's face pale quickly. she saw tears as marjorie came up the walk, and when she rose in alarm and stood waiting in the doorway, the girl fled past her and rushed weeping upstairs. mrs. pendleton was waiting in the porch when the colonel rode to the stile, and the distress in her face was so plain even that far away, that the colonel hurried up the walk, and there was no greeting between the two: "it's marjorie, robert," she said simply, and the old gentleman, who had seen jason come out of the yard gate and gallop toward john burnham's, guessed what the matter was, and he took the slim white hands that were clenched together and patted them gently: "there--there! don't worry, don't worry!" he led her into the house, and at the top of the steps stood marjorie in white, her hair down and tears streaming down her face: "come here, marjorie," called colonel pendleton, and she obeyed like a child, talking wildly as she came: "i know what you're going to say, uncle bob--i know it all. i'm tired of all this talk about family, uncle bob, i'm tired of it." she had stopped a few steps above, clinging with one trembling hand to the balcony, as though to have her say quite out before she went helplessly into the arms that were stretched out toward her: "dead people are dead, uncle bob, and only live people really count. people have to be alive to help you and make you happy. i want to be happy, uncle bob--i want to be happy. i know all about the pendletons, uncle bob. they were cavaliers--i know all that--and they used to ride about sticking lances into peasants who couldn't afford a suit of armor, but they can't do anything for me now, and they mustn't interfere with me now. anyhow, the sudduths were plain people and i'm not a bit ashamed of it, mother. great-grandfather hiram lived in a log cabin. grandfather hiram ate with his knife. i've seen him do it, and he kept on doing it when he knew better just out of habit or stubbornness, but jason's people ate with their knives because they didn't have anything but two-pronged forks--i heard john burnham say that. and jason's family is as good as the sudduths, and maybe as the pendletons, and he wouldn't know it because his grandfathers were out of the world and were too busy, fighting indians and killing bears and things for food. they didn't have time to keep their family trees trimmed, and they didn't care anything about the old trees anyhow, and i don't either. john burnham has told me--" "marjorie!" said the colonel gently, for she was getting hysterical. he held out his arms to her, and with another burst of weeping she went into them. half an hour later, when she was calm, the colonel got her to ride over home with him, and what she had not told her mother marjorie on the way told him--in a halting voice and with her face turned aside. "there's something funny and deep about him, uncle bob, and i never could reach it. it piqued me and made me angry. i knew he cared for me, but i could never make him tell it." the colonel was shaking his old head wisely and comprehendingly. "i don't know why, but i flew into a rage with him this afternoon about nothing, and he never answered me a word, but stood there listening--why, uncle bob, he stood there like--like a--a gentleman--till i got through, and then he turned away--he never did say anything, and i was so sorry and ashamed that i nearly died. i don't know what to do now--and he won't come back, uncle bob--i know he won't." her voice broke again, and the colonel silenced her by putting one hand comfortingly on her knee and by keeping still himself. his shoulders drooped a little as they walked from the stile toward the house, and marjorie ran her arm through his: "why, you're a little tired, aren't you, uncle bob?" she said tenderly, and he did not answer except to pat her hand, against which she suddenly felt his heart throb. he almost stumbled going up the steps, and deadly pale he sank with a muffled groan into a chair. with a cry the girl darted for a glass of water, but when she came back, terrified, he was smiling: "i'm all right--don't worry. i thought thas sun to-day was going to be too much for me." but still marjorie watched him anxiously, and when the color came back to his face she went behind him and wrapped her arms about his neck and put her mouth to his ear: "i'm just a plain little fool, uncle bob, and, as gray says, i talk through my aigrette. now, don't you and mother worry--don't worry the least little bit," and she tightened her arms and kissed him several times on his forehead and cheek. "i must go now--and if you don't take better care of yourself i'm going to come over here and take care of you myself." she was in front of him now and looking down fondly; and a wistfulness that was almost childlike had come into the colonel's face: "i wish you could, little marjorie--i wish you would." he watched her gallop away--turning to wave her whip to him as she went over the slope, her tears gone and once more radiant and gay--and the sadness of the coming twilight slowly overspread the colonel's face. it was the one hope of his life that she would one day come over to take care of him--and gray. on into the twilight he sat still and thoughtful. it looked serious for her and gray. back his mind flashed to that night of the dance in the mountains, when the four were children, and his wonder then as to what might take place if that mountain boy and girl should have the chance in the world that had already come to them. he began to wonder how much of her real feeling marjorie might have concealed--how much gray in his letters was keeping back of his. such a union was preposterous. he realized too late now the danger to youth of simple proximity--he knew the exquisite sensitiveness of gray in any matter that meant consideration for others and for his own honor, the generous warmhearted impulsiveness of marjorie, and the appeal that any romantic element in the situation would make to them both. perhaps he ought to go to the mountains. there was much he might say to gray, but what to jason, or to marjorie, with that life-absorbing motive of his own--and his affairs at such a crisis? the colonel shook his head helplessly. he was very tired, and wished he could put the matter off till morning when he was rested and his head was clear, but the questions had sunk talons into his heart and brain that would not be unloosed, and the colonel rose wearily and went within. marjorie looked serious after she told her mother that night that she feared her uncle was not well, for mrs. pendleton became very grave: "your uncle robert is very far from well. i'm afraid sometimes he is sicker than any of us know." "mother!" "and he is in great trouble, marjorie." the girl hesitated: "money trouble, mother?" she asked at last, "why, you--we--why don't--" the mother interrupted with a shake of her head: "he would go bankrupt first." "mother?" the older woman looked up with apprehension, so suddenly charged with an incredible something was the girl's tone: "why don't you marry uncle robert?" the mother clutched at her heart with both hands, for an actual spasm caught her there. every trace of color shot from her face, and with a rush came back--fire. she rose, gave her daughter one look that was almost terror, and quickly left the room. marjorie sat aghast. she had caught with careless hand the veil of some mystery--what long-hidden shrine was there behind it, what sacred deeps long still had she stirred? xxxviii jason hawn rode rapidly to one of morton sanders' great stables, put his horse away himself, and, avoiding the chance of meeting john burnham, slipped down the slope to the creek, crossed on a water gap, and struck across the sunset fields for home. he had felt no anger at marjorie's mysterious outbreak--only bewilderment; and only bewilderment he felt now. but as he strode along with his eyes on the ground, things began to clear a little. the fact was that, as he had become more enthralled by the girl's witcheries, the more helpless and stupid he had become. marjorie's nimble wit had played about his that afternoon like a humming-bird around a sullen sunflower. he hardly knew that every word, every glance, every gesture was a challenge, and when she began stinging into him sharp little arrows of taunt and sarcasm he was helpless as the bull's-hide target at which the two sometimes practised archery. even now when the poisoned points began to fester, he could stir himself to no anger--he only felt dazed and hurt and sore. nobody was in sight when he reached his mother's home and he sat down on the porch in the twilight wretched and miserable. around the corner of the house presently he heard his mother and steve coming, and around there they stopped for some reason for a moment. "i seed babe honeycutt yestiddy," steve was saying. "he says thar's a lot o' talk goin' on about mavis an' gray pendleton. the honeycutts air doin' most o' the talkin' an' looks like the ole trouble's comin' up again. old jason is tearin' mad an' swears gray'll have to git out o' them mountains--" jason heard them start moving and he rose and went quickly within that they might know he had overheard. after supper he was again on the porch brooding about mavis and gray when his mother came out. he knew that she wanted to say something, and he waited. "jason," she said finally, "you don't believe colonel pendleton cheated steve--do you?" "no," said the lad sharply. "colonel pendleton never cheated anybody in his life--except himself." "that's all i wanted to know," she sighed, but jason knew that was not all she wanted to say. "jason, i heerd two fellers in the lane to-day' talkin' about tearin' up colonel pendleton's tobacco beds." the boy was startled, but he did not show it. "nothin' but talk, i reckon." "well, if i was in his place i'd git some guards." marjorie sat at her window a long time that night before she went to sleep. her mother had come in, had held her tightly to her breast, and had gone out with only a whispered good-night. and while the girl was wondering once more at the strange effect of her naive question, she recalled suddenly the yearning look of her uncle that afternoon when she had mentioned gray's name. could there be some thwarted hope in the lives of gray's father and her mother that both were now trying to realize in the lives of her and gray? her mother had never spoken her wish, nor doubtless gray's father to him--nor was it necessary, for as children they had decided the question themselves, as had mavis and jason hawn, and had talked about it with the same frankness, though with each pair alike the matter had not been mentioned for a long time. then her mind leaped, and after it leaped her heart--if her uncle robert would not let her mother help him, why, she too could never help gray, unless--why, of course, if gray were in trouble she would marry him and give him everything she had. the thought made her glow, and she began to wish gray would come home. he had been a long time in those hills, his father was sick and worried--and what was he doing down there anyhow? he had mentioned mavis often in his first letters, and now he wrote rarely, and he never spoke of her at all. she began to get resentful and indignant, not only at him but at mavis, and she went to bed wishing more than ever that gray would come home. and yet playing around in her brain was her last vision of that mountain boy standing before her, white and silent--"like a gentleman"--and that vision would not pass even in her dreams. through colonel pendleton's bed-room window an hour later two pistol shots rang sharply, and through that window the colonel saw a man leap the fence around his tobacco beds and streak for the woods. from the shadow of a tree at his yard fence another flame burst, and by its light he saw a crouching figure. he called out sharply, the figure rose and came toward him, and in the moonlight the colonel saw uplifted to him, apologetic and half shamed, the face of jason hawn. "no harm, colonel," he called. "somebody was tearing up your tobacco beds and i just scared him off. i didn't try to hit him." the colonel was dazed, but he spoke at last gently. "well, well, i can't let you lose your sleep this way, jason; i'll get some guards now." "if you won't let me," said the boy quickly, "you ought to send for gray." the old gentleman looked thoughtful. "of course, perhaps i ought--why, i will." "he won't come again to-night," said jason. "i shot close enough to scare him, i reckon, good-night, colonel." "thank you, my boy--good-night." xxxix it was court day at the county-seat. a honeycutt had shot down a hawn in the open street, had escaped, and a hawn posse was after him. the incident was really a far effect of the recent news that jason hawn was soon coming back home--and coming back to live. straightway the professional sneaks and scandal-mongers of both factions got busy to such purpose that the honeycutts were ready to believe that the sole purpose of jason's return was to revive the feud and incidentally square a personal account with little aaron. old jason hawn had started home that afternoon almost apoplectic with rage, for word had been brought him that little aaron had openly said that it was high time that jason hawn came home to look after his cousin and gray pendleton went home to take care of his. it was a double insult, and to the old man's mind subtly charged with a low meaning. old as he was, he had tried to find little aaron, but the boy had left town. gray and mavis were seated on the old man's porch when he came in sight of his house, for it was saturday, and mavis started the moment she saw her grandfather's face, and rose to meet him. "what's the matter, grandpap?" the old man waved her back. "git back inter the house," he commanded shortly. "no--stay whar you air. when do you two aim to git married?" had a bolt of lightning flashed through the narrow sunlit space between him and them, the pair could not have been more startled, blinded. mavis flushed angrily, paled, and wheeled into the house. gray rose in physical response to the physical threat in the old man's tone and fearlessly met the eyes that were glaring at him. "i don't know what you mean, mr. hawn," he said respectfully. "i--" "the hell you don't," broke in the old man furiously. "i'll give ye jes two minutes to hit the road and git a license. i'll give ye an hour an' a half to git back. an' if you don't come back i'll make jason foller you to the mouth o' the pit o' hell an' bring ye back alive or dead." again the boy tried to speak, but the old man would not listen. "git!" he cried, and, as the boy still made no move, old jason hurried on trembling legs into the house. gray heard him cursing and searching inside, and at the corner of the house appeared mavis with both of the old man's pistols and his winchester. "go on, gray," she said, and her face was still red with shame. "you'll only make him worse, an' he'll kill you sure." gray shook his head: "no!" "please, gray," she pleaded; "for god's sake--for my sake." that the boy could not withstand. he started for the gate with his hat in hand--is head high, and, as he slowly passed through the gate and turned, the old man reappeared, looked fiercely after him, and sank into a chair sick with rage and trembling. as mavis walked toward him with his weapons he glared at her, but she passed him by as though she did not see him, and put the winchester and pistols in their accustomed places. she came out with her bonnet in her hand, and already her calmness and her silence had each had its effect--old jason was still trembling, but from his eyes the rage was gone. "i'm goin' home, grandpap," she said quietly, "an' if it wasn't for grandma i wouldn't come back. you've been bullyin' an' rough-ridin' over men-folks and women-folks all your life, but you can't do it no more with me. an' you're not goin' to meddle in my business any more. you know i'm a good girl--why didn't you go after the folks who've been talkin' instead o' pitchin' into gray? you know he'd die before he'd harm a hair o' my head or allow you or anybody else to say anything against my good name. an' i tell you to your face"--her tone fiercened suddenly--"if you hadn't 'a' been an old man an' my grandfather, he'd 'a' killed you right here. an' i'm goin' to tell you something more. he ain't responsible for this talk--_i_ am. he didn't know it was goin' on--_i_ did. i'm not goin' to marry him to please you an' the miserable tattletales you've been listenin' to. i reckon _i_ ain't good enough--but i know my kinfolks ain't fit to be his--even by marriage. my daddy ain't, an' you ain't, an' there ain't but one o' the whole o' our tribe who is--an' that's little jason hawn. now you let him alone an' you let me alone." she put her bonnet on, flashed to the gate, and disappeared in the dusk down the road. the old man's shaggy head had dropped forward on his chest, he had shrunk down in his chair bewildered, and he sat there a helpless, unanswering heap. when the moon rose, mavis was seated on the porch with her chin in both hands. the old circuit rider and his wife had gone to bed. a whippoorwill was crying with plaintive persistence far up a ravine, and the night was deep and still about her, save for the droning of insect life from the gloomy woods. straight above her stars glowed thickly, and in a gap of the hills beyond the river, where the sun had gone down, the evening star still hung like a great jewel on the velvety violet curtain of the night, and upon that her eyes were fixed. on the spur above, her keen ears caught the soft thud of a foot against a stone, and her heart answered. she heard a quick leap across the branch, the sound of a familiar stride along the road, and saw the quick coming of a familiar figure along the edge of the moonlight, but she sat where she was and as she was until gray, with hat in hand, stood before her, and then only did she lift to him eyes that were dark as the night but shining like that sinking star in the little gap. the boy went down on one knee before her, and gently pulled both of her, hands away from her face with both his own, and held them tightly. "mavis," he said, "i want you to marry me--won't you, mavis?" the girl showed no surprise, said nothing--she only disengaged her hands, took his face into them, and looked with unwavering silence deep into his eyes, looked until he saw that the truth was known in hers, and then he dropped his face into her lap and she put her hands on his head and bent over him, so that her heart beat with the throbbing at his temples. for a moment she held him as though she were shielding him from every threatening danger, and then she lifted his face again. "no, gray--it won't do--hush, now." she paused a moment to get self-control, and then she went on rapidly, as though what she had to say had been long prepared and repeated to herself many times: "i knew you were coming to-night. i know why you were so late. i know why you came. hush, now--i know all that, too. why, gray, ever since i saw you the first time--you remember?--why, it seems to me that ever since then, even, i've been thinkin' o' this very hour. all the time i was goin' to school when i first went to the blue-grass, when i was walkin' in the fields and workin' around the house and always lookin' to the road to see you passin' by--i was thinkin', thinkin' all the time. it seems to me every night of my life i went to sleep thinkin'--i was alone so much and i was so lonely. it was all mighty puzzlin' to me, but that time you didn't take me to that dance--hush now--i began to understand. i told jason an' he only got mad. he didn't understand, for he was wilful and he was a man, and men don't somehow seem to see and take things like women--they just want to go ahead and make them the way they want them. but i understood right then. and then when i come here the thinkin' started all over again differently when i was goin' back and forwards from school and walkin' around in the woods and listenin' to the wood-thrushes, and sittin' here in the porch at night alone and lyin' up in the loft there lookin' out of the little window. and when i heard you were comin' here i got to thinkin' differently, because i got to hopin' differently and wonderin' if some miracle mightn't yet happen in this world once more. but i watched you here, and the more i watched you, the more i began to go back and think as i used to think. your people ain't mine, gray, nor mine yours, and they won't benot in our lifetime. i've seen you shrinkin' when you've been with me in the houses of some of my own kin--shrinkin' at the table at grandpap's and here, at the way folks eat an' live--shrinkin' at oaths and loud voices and rough talk and liquor-drinkin' and all this talk about killin' people, as though they were nothin' but hogs--shrinkin' at everybody but me. if we stayed here, the time would come when you'd be shrinkin' from me--don't now! but you ain't goin' to stay here, gray. i've heard uncle arch say you'd never make a business man. you're too trustin', you've been a farmer and a gentleman for too many generations. you're goin' back home--you've got to--some day--i know that, and then the time would come when you'd be ashamed of me if i went with you. it's the same way with jason and marjorie. jason will have to come back here--how do you suppose marjorie would feel here, bein' a woman, if you feel the way you do, bein' a man? why, the time would come when she'd be ashamed o' him--only worse. it won't do, gray." she turned his face toward the gap in the hills. "you see that star there? well, that's your star, gray. i named it for you, and every night i've been lookin' out at it from my window in the loft. and that's what you've been to me and what marjorie's been to jason--just a star--a dream. we're not really real to each other--you an' me--and marjorie and jason ain't. only jason and i are real to each other and only you and marjorie, jason and i have been worshippin' stars, and they've looked down mighty kindly on us, so that they came mighty nigh foolin' us and themselves. i read a book the other day that said ideals were stars and were good to point the way, but that people needed lamps to follow that way. it won't do, gray. you are goin' back home to carry a lamp for marjorie, and maybe jason'll come back to these hills to carry a lantern for me." throughout the long speech the boy's eyes had never wavered from hers. after one or two efforts to protest he had listened quite intensely, marvelling at the startling revelation of such depths of mind and heart-the startling penetration to the truth, for he knew it was the truth. and when she rose he stayed where he was, clinging to her hand, and kissing it reverently. he was speechless even when, obeying the impulse of her hand, he rose in front of her and she smiled gently. "you don't have to say one word, gray--i understand, bless your dear, dear heart, i understand. good-by, now." she stretched out her hand, but his trembling lips and the wounded helplessness in his eyes were too much for her, and she put her arms around him, drew his head to her breast, and a tear followed her kiss to his forehead. at the door she paused a moment. "and until he comes," she half-whispered, "i reckon i'll keep my lamp burning." then she was gone. slowly the boy climbed back to the little house on the spur, and to the porch, on which he sank wearily. while he and marjorie and jason were blundering into a hopeless snarl of all their lives, this mountain girl, alone with the hills and the night and the stars, had alone found the truth--and she had pointed the way. the camp lights twinkled below. the moon swam in majestic splendor above. the evening star still hung above the little western gap in the hills. it was his star; it was sinking fast: and she would keep her lamp burning. when he climbed to his room, the cry of the whippoorwill in the ravine came to him through his window--futile, persistent, like a human wail for happiness. the boy went to his knees at his bedside that night, and the prayer that went on high from the depths of his heart was that god would bring the wish of her heart to mavis hawn. xl gray pendleton was coming home. like jason, he, too, waited at the little junction for dawn, and swept along the red edge of it, over the yellow kentucky river and through the blue-grass fields. drawn up at the station was his father's carriage and in it sat marjorie, with a radiant smile of welcome which gave way to sudden tears when they clasped hands--tears that she did not try to conceal. uncle robert was in bed, she said, and gray did not perceive any significance in the tone with which she added, that her mother hardly ever left him. she did not know what the matter was, but he was very pale, and he seemed to be growing weaker. the doctor was cheery and hopeful, but her mother, she emphasized, was most alarmed, and again gray did not notice the girl's peculiar tone. nor did the colonel seem to be worried by the threats of the night riders. it was jason hawn who was worried and had persuaded the colonel to send for gray. the girl halted when she spoke jason's name, and the boy looked up to find her face scarlet and her eyes swerve suddenly from his to the passing fields. but as quickly they swerved back to find gray's face aflame with the thought of mavis. for a moment both looked straight ahead in silence, and in that silence marjorie became aware that gray had not asked about jason, and gray that marjorie had not mentioned mavis's name. but now both made the omission good-and gray spoke first. mavis was well. she was still teaching school. she had lived a life of pathetic loneliness, but she had developed in an amazing way through that very fact, and she had grown very beautiful. she had startled him by her insight into--he halted--into everything--and how was jason getting along? the girl had been listening, covertly watching, and had grown quite calm. jason, too, was well, but he looked worried and overworked. his examinations were going on now. he had written his graduating speech but had not shown it to her, though he had said he would. her mother and uncle robert had grown very fond of him and admired him greatly, but lately she had not seen him, he was so busy. again there was a long silence between them, but when they reached, the hill whence both their homes were visible marjorie began as though she must get out something' that was on her mind before they reached colonel pendleton's gate. "gray," she said hesitantly and so seriously that the boy turned to her, "did it ever cross your mind that there was ever any secret between uncle robert and mother?" the boy's startled look was answer enough and she went on telling him of the question she had asked her mother. "sometimes," she finished, "i think that your father and my mother must have loved each other first and that something kept them from marrying. i know that they must have talked it over lately, for there seems to be a curious understanding between them now, and the sweetest peace has come to both of them." she paused, and gray, paralyzed with wonder, still made no answer. they had passed through the gate now and in a moment more would be at gray's home. around each barn gray saw an armed guard; there was another at the yard gate, and there were two more on the steps of the big portico. "maybe," the girl went on naively, almost as though she were talking to herself, "that's why they've both always been so anxious to have us--" again she stopped--scarlet. xli jason hawn's last examination was over, and he stepped into the first june sunlight and drew it into his lungs with deep relief. looking upward from the pavement below, the old president saw his confident face. "it seems you are not at all uneasy," he said, and his keen old eyes smiled humorously. jason reddened a little. "no, sir--i'm not." "nor am i," said the old gentleman, "nor will you forget that this little end is only the big beginning." "thank you, sir." "you are going back home? you will be needed there." "yes, sir." "good!" it was the longest talk jason had ever had with the man he all but worshipped, and while it was going on the old scholar was painfully climbing the steps--so that the last word was flung back with the sharp, soldier-like quality of a command given by an officer who turned his back with perfect trust that it would be obeyed, and in answer to that trust the boy's body straightened and his very much about changing his ways, that he no longer had any resentment against colonel pendleton, and wanted now to live a better life. his talk might have fooled jason but for the fact that he shrewdly noted the little effect it all had on his mother. entering the mouth of the lane, jason saw steve going from the yard gate to the house, and his brows wrinkled angrily--steve was staggering. he came to the door and glared at jason. "whut you doin' out hyeh?" "i'm goin' to see gray through his troubles," said jason quietly. "i kind o' thought you had troubles enough o' yo' own," sneered the man. jason did not answer. his mother was seated within with her back to the door, and when she turned jason saw that she had been weeping, and, catching sight of a red welt on her temple, he walked over to her. "how'd that happen, mammy?" she hesitated and jason whirled with such fury that his mother caught him with both arms, and steve lost no time reaching for his gun. "i jammed it agin the kitchen door, jasie." he looked at her, knew that she was lying, and when he turned to go, halted at the door. "if you ever touch my mother again," he said with terrifying quiet, "i'll kill you as sure as there is a god in heaven to forgive me." across the midsummer fields jason went swiftly. on his right, half of a magnificent woodland was being laid low--on his left, another was all gone--and with colonel pendleton both, he knew, had been heart-breaking deeds of necessity, for his first duty, that gentleman claimed, was to his family and to his creditors, and nobody could rob him of his right to do what he pleased, much less what he ought, with his own land. and so the colonel still stood out against friend and neighbor, and open and secret foes. his tobacco beds had been raided, one of his barns had been burned, his cattle had been poisoned, and, sick as he was, threats were yet coming in that the night riders would burn his house and take his life. across the turnpike were the fields and untouched woodlands of marjorie, and it looked as though the hand of providence had blessed one side of the road and withered the other with a curse. on top of the orchard fence, to the western side of the house, jason sat a while. the curse was descending on gray's innocent head and he had had the weakness and the folly to lift his eyes to the blessing across the way. as mavis had pointed out the way to gray, so marjorie, without knowing it, had pointed the way for him. when long ago he had been helpless before her by the snow-fringed willows at the edge of the pond in the old college yard, she had been frightened and had shrunk away. when he gained his self-control, she had lost hers, and in her loneliness had come trailing toward him almost like a broken-winged young bird looking for mother help--and he had not misunderstood, though his heart ached for her suffering as it ached for her. and marjorie had been quite right--he had never come back after that one quarrel, and he would never come. the old colonel had gone to him, but he had hardly more than opened his lips when he had both hands on the boy's shoulders with broken words of sympathy and then had turned away--so quickly had he seen that jason fully understood the situation and had disposed of it firmly, proudly, and finally--for himself. the mountains were for jason--there were his duty and the work of his life. under june apples turning golden, and amid the buzzing of bees, the boy went across the orchard, and at the fence he paused again. marjorie and her mother were coming out of the house with gray, and jason watched them walk to the stile. gray was tanned, and even his blonde head had been turned copper by the mountain sun, while the girl looked like a great golden-hearted lily. but it was gray's face as he looked at her that caught the boy's eyes and held them fast, for the face was tense, eager, and worshipping. he saw marjorie and her mother drive away, saw gray wave to them and turn back to the house, and then he was so shocked at the quick change to haggard worry that draped his friend like a cloak from head to foot that he could hardly call to him. and so jason waited till gray had passed within, and then he leaped the fence and made for the portico. gray himself answered his ring and with a flashing smile hurried forward when he saw jason in the doorway. the two clasped hands and for one swift instant searched each other's eyes with questions too deep and delicate to be put into words--each wondering how much the other might know, each silent if the other did not know. for gray had learned from his father about steve hawn, and jason's suspicions of steve he had kept to himself. "my father would like to have you as our guest, jason, while i am here," gray said with some embarrassment, "but he doesn't feel like letting you take the risk." jason threw back the lapel of his coat that covered his badge as deputy. "that's what i'm here for," he said with a smile, "but i think i'd better stay at home. i'll be on hand when the trouble comes." gray, too, smiled. "you don't have to tell me that." "how is the colonel?" "he's pretty bad. he wants to see you." jason lowered his voice when they entered the hallway. "the soldiers have reached town to-day. if there's anything going to be done, it will probably be done to-night." "i know." "we won't tell the colonel." "no." then gray led the way to the sick-room and softly opened the door. in a great canopied bed lay colonel pendleton with his face turned toward the window, through which came the sun and air, the odors and bird-songs of spring-time, and when that face turned, jason was shocked by its waste and whiteness and by the thinness of the hand that was weakly thrust out to him. but the fire of the brilliant eyes burned as ever; there was with him, prone in bed, still the same demeanor of stately courtesy; and jason felt his heart melt and then fill as always with admiration for the man, the gentleman, who unconsciously had played such a part in the moulding of his own life, and as always with the recognition of the unbridgable chasm between them--between even him and gray. the bitter resentment he had first felt against this chasm was gone now, for now he understood and accepted. as men the three were equal, but father and son had three generations the start of him. he could see in them what he lacked himself, and what they were without thought he could only consciously try to be--and he would keep on trying. the sick man turned his face again to the window and the morning air. when he turned again he was smiling faintly and his voice was friendly and affectionate: "jason, i know why you are here. i'm not going to thank you, but i--gray"--he paused ever so little, and jason sadly knew what it meant--"will never forget it. i want you two boys to be friends as long as you live. i'm sorry, but it looks as though you would both have to give up yourselves to business--particularly sorry about gray, for that is my fault. for the good of our state i wish you both were going to sit side by side at frankfort, in congress, and the senate, and fight it out"--he smiled whimsically--"some day for the nomination for the presidency. the poor old commonwealth is in a bad way, and it needs just such boys as you two are. the war started us downhill, but we might have done better--i know i might. the earth was too rich--it made life too easy. the horse, the bottle of whiskey, and the plug of tobacco were all too easily the best--and the pistol always too ready. we've been cartooned through the world with a fearsome, half-contemptuous slap on the back. our living has been made out of luxuries. agriculturally, socially, politically, we have gone wrong, and but for the american sense of humor the state would be in a just, nation-wide contempt. the ku-klux, the burning of toll-gates, the goebel troubles, and the night rider are all links in the same chain of lawlessness, and but for the first the others might not have been. but we are, in spite of all this, a law-abiding people, and the old manhood of the state is still here. don't forget that--the old manhood is here." jason had sat eager-eyed and listening hard. bewildered gray felt his tears welling, for never had he heard in all his life his father talk this way. again colonel pendleton turned his face to the window and went on as though to the world outside. "i wouldn't let anybody out there say this about us, nor would you, and maybe if i thought i was going to live many years longer i might not be saying it now, for some kentuckian might yet make me eat my words." at this the eyes of the two boys crossed and both smiled faintly, for though the sick man had been a generous liver, his palate could never have known the taste of one of his own words. "i don't know--but our ambition is either dying or sinking to a lower plane, and what a pity, for the capacity is still here to keep the old giants still alive if the young men could only see, feel, and try. and if i were as young as one of you two boys, i'd try to find and make the appeal." he turned his brilliant eyes to jason and looked for a moment silently. "the death-knell of me and mine has been sounded unless boys like gray here keep us alive after death, but the light of your hills is only dawning. it's a case of the least shall be first, for your pauper counties are going to be the richest in the state. the easterners are buying up our farms as they would buy a yacht or a motor-car, the tobacco tenants are getting their mites of land here and there, and even you mountaineers, when you sell your coal lands, are taking up blue-grass acres. don't let the easterner swallow you, too. go home, and, while you are getting rich, enrich your citizenship, and you and gray help land-locked, primitive old kentucky take her place among the modern sisterhood that is making the nation. to use a phrase of your own--get busy, boys, get busy after i am gone." and then colonel pendleton laughed. "i am hardly the one to say all this, or rather i am just the one because i am a--failure." "father." the word came like a sob from gray. "oh, yes, i am--but i have never lied except for others, and i have not been afraid." again his face went toward the window. "even now," he added in a solemn whisper that was all to himself, "i believe, and am not afraid." presently he lifted himself on one elbow and with gray's assistance got to a sitting posture. then he pulled a paper from beneath his pillow. "i want to tell you something, jason. that was all true, every word you said the first time gray and i saw you at your grandfather's house, and i want you to know now that your land was bought over my protest and without my knowledge. my own interest in the general purchase was in the form of stock, and here it is." jason's heart began to beat violently. "whatever happens to me, this farm will have to be sold, but there will be something left for gray. this stock is in gray's name, and it is worth now just about what would have been a fair price for your land five years after it was bought. it is gray's, and i am going to give it to him." he handed the paper to bewildered gray, who looked at it dazedly, went with it to the window, and stood there looking out--his father watching him closely. "you might win in a suit, jason, i know, but i also know that you could never collect even damages." at these words gray wheeled. "then this belongs to you, jason." the father smiled and nodded approval and assent. that night there was a fusillade of shots, and jason and gray rushed out with a winchester in hand to see one barn in flames and a tall figure with a firebrand sneaking toward the other. both fired and the man dropped, rose to his feet, limped back to the edge of the woods, and they let him disappear. but all the night, fighting the fire and on guard against another attack, jason was possessed with apprehension and fear--that limping figure looked like steve hawn. so at the first streak of dawn he started for his mother's home, and when that early he saw her from afar standing on the porch and apparently looking for him, he went toward her on a run. she looked wild-eyed, white, and sleepless, but she showed no signs of tears. "where's steve, mammy?" called jason in a panting whisper, and when she nodded back through the open door his throat eased and he gulped his relief. "is he all right?" she looked at him queerly, tried to speak, and began to tremble so violently that he stepped quickly past her and stopped on the threshold--shuddering. a human shape lay hidden under a brilliantly colored quilt on his mother's bed, and the rigidity of death had moulded its every outline. "i reckon you've done it at last, jasie," said a dead, mechanical voice behind him. "good god, mammy--it must have been gray or me." "one of you, shore. he said he saw you shoot at the same time, and only one of you hit him. i hope hit was you." jason turned--horrified, but she was calm and steady now. "hit was fitten fer you to be the one. babe never killed yo' daddy, jasie--hit was steve." xlii gray pendleton, hearing from a house-servant of the death of steve hawn, hurried over to offer his help and sympathy, and martha hawn, too quick for jason's protest, let loose the fact that the responsibility for that death lay between the two. to her simple faith it was jason's aim that the intervening hand of god had directed, but she did not know what the law of this land might do to her boy, and perhaps her motive was to shield him if possible. while she spoke, one of her hands was hanging loosely at her side and the other was clenched tightly at her breast. "what have you got there, mammy?" said jason gently. she hesitated, and at last held out her hand--in the palm lay a misshapen bullet. "steve give me this--hit was the one that got him, he said. he said mebbe you boys could tell whichever one's gun hit come from." both looked at the piece of battered, blood-stained lead with fascinated horror until gray, with a queer little smile, took it from her hand, for he knew, what jason did not, that the night before they had used guns of a different calibre, and now his heart and brain worked swiftly and to a better purpose than he meant, or would ever know. "come on, jason, you and i will settle the question right now." and, followed by mystified jason, he turned from the porch and started across the yard. standing in the porch, the mother saw the two youths stop at the fence, saw gray raise his right hand high, and then the piece of lead whizzed through the air and dropped with hardly more than the splash of a raindrop in the centre of the pond. the mother understood and she gulped hard. for a moment the two talked and she saw them clasp hands. then gray turned toward home and jason came slowly back to the house. the boy said nothing, the stony calm of the mother's face was unchanged--their eyes met and that was all. an hour later, john burnham came over, told jason to stay with his mother, and went forthwith to town. within a few hours all was quickly, quietly done, and that night jason started with his mother and the body of mavis's father back to the hills. the railroad had almost reached the county-seat now, and at the end of it old jason hawn and mavis were waiting in the misty dawn with two saddled horses and a spring wagon. the four met with a handshake, a grave "how-dye," and no further speech. and thus old jason and martha hawn jolted silently ahead, and little jason and mavis followed silently behind. once or twice jason turned to look at her. she was in black, and the whiteness of her face, unstained with tears, lent depth and darkness to her eyes, but the eyes were never turned toward him. when they entered town there were hawns in front of one store and one hotel on one side of the street. there were honeycutts in front of one store and one hotel on the other side, and jason saw the lowering face of little aaron, and towering in one group the huge frame of babe honeycutt. silently the hawns fell in behind on horseback, and on foot, and gravely the honeycutts watched the procession move through the town and up the winding road. the pink-flecked cups of the laurel were dropping to the ground, the woods were starred with great white clusters of rhododendron, wood-thrushes, unseen, poured golden rills of music from every cool ravine, air and sunlight were heavy with the richness of june, and every odor was a whisper, every sound a voice, and every shaking leaf a friendly little beckoning hand--all giving him welcome home. the boy began to choke with memories, but mavis still gave no sign. once she turned her head when they passed her little log school-house where was a little group of her pupils who had not known they were to have a holiday that day, and whose faces turned awe-stricken when they saw the reason, and sympathetic when mavis gave them a kindly little smile. up the creek there and over the sloping green plain of the tree-tops hung a cloud of smoke from the mines. a few moments more and they emerged from an arched opening of trees. the lightning-rod of old jason's house gleamed high ahead, and on the sunny crest of a bare little knoll above it were visible the tiny homes built over the dead in the graveyard of the hawns. and up there, above the murmuring sweep of the river, and with many of his kin who had died in a similar way, they laid "slick steve" hawn. the old circuit rider preached a short funeral sermon, while mavis and her mother stood together, the woman dry-eyed, much to the wonder of the clan, the girl weeping silently at last, and jason behind them--solemn, watchful, and with his secret working painfully in his heart. he had forbade his mother to tell mavis, and perhaps he would never tell her himself; for it might be best for her never to know that her father had raised the little mound under which his father slept but a few yards away, and that in turn his hands, perhaps, were lowering steve hawn into his grave. from the graveyard all went to old jason's house, for the old man insisted that martha hawn must make her home with him until young jason came back to the mountains for good. until then mavis, too, would stay there with jason's mother, and with deep relief the boy saw that the two women seemed drawn to each other closer than ever now. in the early afternoon old jason limped ahead of him to the barn to show his stock, and for the first time jason noticed how feeble his grandfather was and how he had aged during his last sick spell. his magnificent old shoulders had drooped, his walk was shuffling, and even the leonine spirit of his bushy brows and deep-set eyes seemed to have lost something of its old fire. but that old fire blazed anew when the old man told him about the threats and insults of little aaron honeycutt, and the story of mavis and gray. "mavis in thar," he rumbled, "stood up fer him agin me--agin me. she 'lowed thar wasn't a hawn fitten to be kinfolks o' his even by marriage, less'n 'twas you." "me?" "an' she told me--me--to mind my own business. is that boy gray comin' back hyeh?" "yes, sir, if his father gets well, and maybe he'll come anyhow." "well, that gal in thar is plum' foolish about him, but i'm goin' to let you take keer o' all that now." jason answered nothing, for the memory of gray's worshipping face, when he went down the walk with marjorie at gray's own home, came suddenly back to him, and the fact that mavis was yet in love with gray began to lie with sudden heaviness on his mind and not lightly on his heart. "an' as fer little aaron honeycutt--" over the barn-yard gate loomed just then the huge shoulders of babe honeycutt coming from the house where he had gone to see his sister martha. jason heard the shuffling of big feet and he turned to see babe coming toward him fearlessly, his good-natured face in a wide smile and his hand outstretched. old jason peered through his spectacles with some surprise, and then grunted with much satisfaction when they shook hands. "well, jason, i'm glad you air beginnin' to show some signs o' good sense. this feud business has got to stop--an' now that you two air shakin' hands, hit all lays betwixt you and little aaron." babe colored and hesitated. "that's jus' whut i wanted to say to jason hyeh. aaron's drinkin' a good deal now. i hears as how he's a-threatenin' some, but if jason kind o' keeps outen his way an' they git together when he's sober, hit'll be easy." "yes," said old jason, grimly, "but i reckon you honeycutts had better keep aaron outen his way a leetle, too." "i'm a-doin' all i can," said babe earnestly, and he slouched away. "got yo' gun, jason?" "no." "well, you kin have mine till you git away again. i want all this feud business stopped, but i hain't goin' to have you shot down like a turkey at christmas by a fool boy who won't hardly know whut he's doin'." jason started for the house, but the old man stayed at the stable to give directions to a neighbor who had come to feed his stock. it sickened the boy to think that he must perhaps be drawn into the feud again, but he would not be foolish enough not to take all precaution against young aaron. at the yard fence he stopped, seeing mavis under an apple-tree with one hand clutching a low bough and her tense face lifted to the west. he could see that the hand was clenched tightly, for even the naked forearm was taut as a bowstring. the sun was going down in the little gap, above it already one pale star was swung, and upon it her eyes seemed to be fixed. she heard his step and he knew it, for he saw her face flush, but without looking around she turned into the house. that night she seemed to avoid the chance that he might speak to her alone, and the boy found himself watching her covertly and closely, for he recalled what gray had said about her. indeed, some change had taken place that was subtle and extraordinary. he saw his mother deferring to her--leaning on her unconsciously. and old jason, to the boy's amazement, was less imperious when she was around, moderated his sweeping judgments, looked to her from under his heavy brows, apparently for approval or to see that at least he gave no offence--deferred to her more than to any man or woman within the boy's memory. and jason himself felt the emanation from her of some new power that was beginning to chain his thoughts to her. all that night mavis was on his mind, and when he woke next morning it was mavis, mavis still. she was clear-eyed, calm, reserved when she told him good-by, and once only she smiled. old jason had brought out one of his huge pistols, but mavis took it from his unresisting hands and jason rode away unarmed. it was just as well, for as his train started, a horse and a wild youth came plunging down the riverbank, splashed across, and with a yell charged up to the station. through the car window jason saw that it was little aaron, flushed of face and with a pistol in his hand, looking for him. a sudden storm of old instincts burst suddenly within him, and had he been armed he would have swung from the train and settled accounts then and there. as it was, he sat still and was borne away shaken with rage from head to foot. xliii commencement day was over, jason hawn had made his last speech in college, and his theme was "kentucky." in all seriousness and innocence he had lashed the commonwealth for lawlessness from mountain-top to river-brim, and his own hills he had flayed mercilessly. in all seriousness and innocence, when he was packing his bag three hours later in "heaven," he placed his big pistol on top of his clothes so that when the lid was raised, the butt of it would be within an inch of his right hand. on his way home he might meet little aaron on the train, and he did not propose to be at aaron's mercy again. while the band played, ushers with canes wrapped with red, white, and blue ribbons had carried him up notes of congratulation, and among them was a card from marjorie and a bouquet from her own garden. john burnham's eyes sought his with pride and affection. the old president, handing him his diploma, said words that covered him with happy confusion and brought a cheer from his fellow-students. when he descended from the platform, gray grasped his hand, and marjorie with lips and eyes gave him ingenuous congratulations, as though the things that were between them had never been. an hour later he drove with john burnham through soldiers in the streets and past the gatling-gun out into the country, and was deposited at the mouth of the lane. for the last time he went to the little cottage that had been his mother's home and walked slowly around garden and barn, taking farewell of everything except memories that he could never lose. across the fields he went once more to colonel pendleton's, and there he found gray radiant, for his father was better, and the doctor, who was just leaving, said that he might yet get well. and there was little danger now from the night riders, for the county judge had arranged a system of signals by bonfires through all the country around the town. he had watchers on top of the court-house, soldiers always ready, and motor-cars waiting below to take them to any place of disturbance if a bonfire blazed. so gray said it was not good-by for them for long, for when his father was well enough he was coming back to the hills. again the old colonel wished jason well and patted him on the arm affectionately when they shook hands, and then jason started for the twin house on the hill across the turnpike to tell marjorie and her mother good-by. an hour later gray found marjorie seated on a grape-vine bench under honeysuckles in her mother's old-fashioned garden, among flowers and bees. jason had just told her good-by. for the last time he had felt the clasp of her hand, had seen the tears in her eyes, and now he was going for the last time through the fragrant fields--his face set finally for the hills. "father is better, the county judge has waked up, and there is no more danger from the night riders, and so i am going back to the mountains now myself." "jason has just gone." "i know." "back to mavis?" "i don't know." marjorie smiled with faint mischief and grew serious. "i wonder if you have had the same experience, gray, that i've had with mavis and jason. there was never a time that i did not feel in both a mysterious something that always baffled me--a barrier that i couldn't pass, and knew i never could pass. i've felt it with mavis, even when we were together in my own room late at night, talking our hearts to each other." "i know--i've felt the same thing in jason always." "what is it?" "i've heard john burnham say it's a reserve, a reticence that all primitive people have, especially mountaineers; a sort of indian-like stoicism, but less than the indian's because the influences that produce it--isolation, loneliness, companionship with primitive wilds-have been a shorter while at work." "that's what attracted me," said marjorie frankly, "and i couldn't help always trying to break it down--but i never did. was--was that what attracted you?" she asked naively. "i don't know--but i felt it." "and did you try to break it down?" "no; it broke me down." "ah!" marjorie looked very thoughtful for a moment. they were getting perilously near the old theme now, and gray was getting grim and marjorie petulant. and then suddenly: "gray, did you ever ask mavis to marry you?" gray reddened furiously and turned his face away. "yes," he said firmly. when he looked around again a hostile right shoulder was pointing at him, and over the other shoulder the girl was gazing at--he knew not what. "marjorie, you oughtn't to have asked me that. i can't explain very well. i--" he stumbled and stopped, for the girl had turned astonished eyes upon him. "explain what?" she asked with demure wonder. "it's all right. i came near asking jason to marry me." "marjorie!" exploded gray. "well!" a negro boy burst down the path, panting: "miss marjorie, yo' mother says you an' mr. gray got to come right away." both sprang to their feet, gray white and marjorie's mischievous face all quick remorse and tenderness. together they went swiftly up the walk and out to the stile where gray's horse and buggy were hitched, and without a word marjorie, bareheaded as she was, climbed into the buggy and they silently sped through the fields. mrs. pendleton met them at the door, her face white and her hands clenched tightly in front of her. speechless with distress, she motioned them toward the door of the sick-room, and when the old colonel saw them coming together, his tired eyes showed such a leap of happiness that gray, knowing that he misunderstood, had not the heart to undeceive him, and he looked helplessly to marjorie. but that extraordinary young woman's own eyes answered the glad light in the colonel's, and taking bewildered gray by the hand she dropped with him on one knee by the bedside. "yes, uncle bob," gray heard her say tenderly, "gray's not going back to the mountains. he's going to stay here with us, for you and i need him." the old man laid a hand on the bright head of each, his eyes lighting with the happiness of his life's wish fulfilled, and chokingly he murmured: "my children--gray--marjorie." and then his eyes rose above them to the woman who had glided in. "mary--look here." she nodded, smiling tenderly, and gray felt marjorie rising to her feet. "call us, mother," she whispered. both saw her kneel, and then they were alone in the big hallway, and gray, still dazed, was looking into marjorie's eyes. "marjorie--marjorie--do you--" her answer was a rush into his outstretched arms, and, locked fast, they stood heart to heart until the door opened behind them. again hand in hand they kneeled side by side with the mother. the colonel's eyes dimmed slowly with the coming darkness, the smiling, pallid lips moved, and both leaned close to hear. "gray--marjorie--mary." his last glance turned from them to her, rested there, and then came the last whisper: "our children." xliv jason did not meet young aaron on the train, though as he neared the county-seat he kept a close watch, whenever the train stopped at a station, on both doors of his car, with his bag on the seat in front of him unbuckled and unlocked. at the last station was one honeycutt lounging about, but plainly evasive of him. there was a little group of hawns about the hawn store and hotel, and more honeycutts and hawns on the other side of the street farther down, but little aaron did not appear. it seemed, as he learned a few minutes later, that both factions were in town for the meeting between aaron and him, and later still he learned that young honeycutt loped into town after jason had started up the river and was much badgered about his late arrival. at the forks of the road jason turned toward the mines, for he had been casually told by arch hawn that he would find his mother up that way. the old circuit rider's wife threw her arms around the boy when he came to her porch, and she smiled significantly when she told him that his mother had walked over the spur that morning to take a look at her old home, and that mavis had gone with her. jason slowly climbed the spur. to his surprise he saw a spiral of smoke ascending on the other side, just where he once used to see it, but he did not hurry, for it might be coming from a miner's cabin that had been built near the old place. on top of the spur, however, he stopped-quite stunned. that smoke was coming out of his mother's old chimney. there was a fence around the yard, which was clear of weeds. the barn was rebuilt, there was a cow browsing near it, and near her were three or four busily rooting pigs. and stringing beans on the porch were his mother--and mavis hawn. jason shouted his bewilderment, and the two women lifted their eyes. a high, shrill, glad answer came from his mother, who rose to meet him, but mavis sat where she was with idle hands. "mammy!" cried jason, for there was a rich color in the pallid face he had last seen, she looked years younger, and she was smiling. it was all the doing of arch hawn--a generous impulse or an act of justice long deferred. "why, jason!" said his mother. "arch is a-goin' to gimme back the farm fer my use as long as i live." and mavis had left the old circuit rider and come to live with her. the girl looked quiet, placid, content--only, for a moment, she sank the deep lights of her eyes deep into his and the scrutiny seemed to bring her peace, for she drew a long breath and at him her eyes smiled. there was more when later mavis had strolled down toward the barn to leave the two alone. "is mavis goin' to live with you all the time?" "hit looks like hit--she brought over ever'thing she has." the mother smiled suddenly, looked to see that the girl was out of sight, and then led the way into the house and up into the attic, where she reached behind the rafters. "look hyeh," she said, and she pulled into sight the fishing-pole and the old bow and arrow that jason had given mavis years and years ago. "she fetched 'em over when i wasn't hyeh an' hid 'em." slyly the mother watched her son's face, and though jason said nothing, she got her reward when she saw him color faintly. she was too wise to say anything more herself, nor did she show any consciousness when the three were together in the porch, nor make any move to leave them alone. the two women went to their work again, and while mavis asked nothing, the mother plied jason with questions about colonel and mrs. pendleton and marjorie and gray, and had him tell about his graduating speech and commencement day. the girl listened eagerly, though all the time her eyes were fixed on her busy fingers, and when jason told that gray would most likely come back to the hills, now that his father would get well, she did not even lift her eyes and the calm of her face changed not at all. a little later jason started back over to the mines. from the corner of the yard he saw the path he used to follow when he was digging for his big seam of coal. he passed his trysting-place with mavis on top of the spur, walled in now, as then, with laurel and rhododendron. again he felt the same pang of sympathy when he saw her own cabin on the other side, tenanted now by negro miners. together their feet had beat every road, foot-path, trail, the rocky bed of every little creek that interlaced in the great green cup of the hills about him. so that all that day he walked with memories and mavis hawn; all that day it was good to think that his mother's home was hers, that he would find her there when his day's work was done, and that she would be lonesome no more. and it was a comfort when he went down the spur before sunset to see her in the porch, to get her smile of welcome that for all her calm sense of power seemed shy, to see her moving around the house, helping his mother in the kitchen, and, after the old way, waiting on him at the table. jason slept in the loft of his childhood that night, and again he pulled out the old bow and arrow, bandling them gently and looking at them long. from his bed he could look through the same little window out on the night. the trees were full-leafed and as still as though sculptured from the hill of broken shadows and flecks of moonlight that had paled on their way through thin mists just rising. high from the tree-trunks came the high vibrant whir of toads, the calls of katydids were echoing through forest aisles, and from the ground crickets chirped modestly upward. the peace and freshness and wildness of it all! ah, god, it was good to be home again! xlv next day jason carried over to mavis and his mother the news of the death of colonel pendleton, and while mavis was shocked she asked no question about gray. the next day a letter arrived from gray saying he would not come back to the hills--and again mavis was silent. a week later jason was made assistant superintendent in gray's place by the president of morton sanders' coal company, and this jason knew was gray's doing. he had refused to accept the stock gray had offered him, and gray was thus doing his best for him in another way. moreover, jason was to be quartered in gray's place at the superintendent's little cottage, far up the ravine in which the boy had unearthed the great seam of coal, a cottage that had been built under gray's personal supervision and with a free rein, for it must have a visitor's room for any officer or stockholder who might come that way, a sitting-room with a wood fireplace, and colonel pendleton had meant, moreover, that his son should have all the comfort possible. jason dropped on the little veranda under a canopy of moon-flowers, exultant but quite overcome. how glad and proud his mother would be--and mavis. while he sat there arch hawn rode by, his face lighted up with a humorous knowing smile. "how about it?" he shouted. "d'you have anything to do with this?" "oh, just a leetle." "well, you won't be sorry." "course not. what'd i tell ye, son? you go in now an' dig it out. and say, jason--" he pulled his horse in and spoke seriously: "keep away from town till little aaron gets over his spree. you don't know it, but that boy is a fine feller when he's sober. don't you shoot first now. so long." the next day jason ran upon babe honeycutt shambling up the creek. babe was fearless and cordial, and jason had easily guessed why. "babe, my mammy told you something." the giant hesitated, started to lie, but nodded assent. "you haven't told anybody else?" "nary a livin' soul." "well, don't." babe shuffled on, stopped, called jason, and came back close enough to whisper: "i had all i could do yestiddy to keep little aaron from comin' up hyeh to the mines to look for ye." then he shuffled away. jason began to get angry now. he had no intention of shooting first or shooting at all except to save his own life, but he went straightway over the spur to get his pistol, mavis saw him buckling it on, he explained why, and the girl sadly nodded assent. jason flung himself into his work now with prodigious energy. he never went to the county-seat, was never seen on the river road on the honeycutt side of the ancient dead-line, and the tale-bearers on each side proceeded to get busy again. the hawns heard that jason had fled from little aaron the morning jason had gone back for his commencement in the blue-grass. the honeycutts heard that aaron had been afraid to meet jason when he returned to the county-seat. old jason and old aaron were each cautioning his grandson to put an end to the folly, and each was warning his business representative in town with commercial annihilation if he should be discovered trying to bring on the feud again. on the first county-court day jason had to go to court, and the meeting came. the town was full with members of both factions, armed and ready for trouble. jason had ridden ahead of his grandfather that morning and little aaron had ridden ahead of his. jason reached town first, and there was a stir in the honeycutt hotel and store. half an hour later there was a stir among the hawns, for little aaron rode by. a few minutes later aaron came toward the hawn store, in the middle of the street, swaggering. jason happened at that moment to be crossing the same street, and a hawn shouted warning. jason looked up and saw aaron coming. he stopped, turned, and waited until aaron reached for his gun. then his own flashed, and the two reports sounded as one. one black lock was clipped from jason's right temple and a little patch flew from the left shoulder of aaron's coat. to jason's surprise aaron lowered his weapon and began working at it savagely with both hands, and while jason waited, aaron looked up. "shoot ahead," he said sullenly; "it's a new gun and it won't work." but no shot came and aaron looked up again, mystified and glaring, but jason was smiling and walking toward him. "aaron, there are two or three trifling fellows on our side who hate you and are afraid of you. you know that, don't you?" "yes." "well, the same thing is true about me of two or three men on your side, isn't it?" "yes." "they've been carrying tales from one side to the other. i've never said anything against you." aaron, genuinely disbelieving, stared questioningly for a moment--and believed. "i've never said anything against you, either." "i believe you. well, do you see any reason why we should be shooting each other down to oblige a few cowards?" "no, by god, i don't." "well, i don't want to die and i don't believe you do. there are a lot of things i want to do and a lot that you want to do. we want to help our own people and our own mountains all we can, and the best thing we can do for them and for ourselves is to stop this feud." "it's the god's truth," said aaron solemnly, but looking still a little incredulous. "you and i can do it." "you bet we can!" "let's do it. shake hands." and thus, while the amazed factions looked on the two modern young mountaineers, eye to eye and hand gripping hand, pledged death to the long warfare between their clans and a deathless friendship between themselves. and a little later a group of lounging hawns and honeycutts in the porches of the two ancient hostile hotels saw the two riding out of town side by side, unarmed, and on their way to bring old aaron and old jason together and make peace between them. the coincidence was curious, but old aaron, who had started for town, met old jason coming out of a ravine only a mile from town, for old jason, with a sudden twitch of memory, had turned to go up a hollow where lived a hawn he wanted to see and was coming back to the main road again. both were dim-sighted, both wore spectacles, both of their old nags were going at a walk, making no noise in the deep sand, and only when both horses stopped did either ancient peer forward and see the other. "well, by god," quavered both in the same voice. and each then forgot his mission of peace, and began to climb, grunting, from his horse, each hitching it to the fence. "this is the fust time in five year, jason hawn, you an' me come together, an' you know whut i swore i'd do," cackled old aaron. old jason's voice was still deep. "well, you've got yo' chance now, you old bag o' bones! them two boys o' ours air all right but thar hain't no manhood left in this hyeh war o' ours. hit's just a question of which hired feller gits the man who hired the other feller. we'll fight the ole way. you hain't got a knife--now?" "damn yo' hide!" cried old aaron. "do you reckon i need hit agin you?" he reached in his pocket and tossed a curved-bladed weapon into the bushes. "well," mumbled old jason, "i can whoop you, fist an' skull, right now, just as i allers have done." both were stumbling back into the road now. "you air just as big a liar as ever, jase, an' i'm goin' to prove it." and then the two tottering old giants squared off, their big, knotted, heavily veined fists revolving around each other in the old-fashioned country way. old jason first struck the air, was wheeled around by the force of his own blow, and got old aaron's fist in the middle of the back. again the hawn struck blindly as he turned, and from old aaron's grunt he knew he had got him in the stomach. then he felt a fist in his own stomach, and old aaron cackled triumphantly when he heard the same tell-tale grunt. "oh, yes, dad--blast ye! come on agin, son." they clinched, and as they broke away a blind sweep from old jason knocked aaron's brassrimmed spectacles from his nose. they fell far apart, and when old jason advanced again, peering forward, he saw his enemy silently pawing the air with his back toward him, and he kicked him. "here i am, you ole idgit!" "stop!" shouted old aaron, "i've lost my specs." "whar?" "i don't know," and as he dropped to his knees old jason bent too to help him find his missing eyes. then they went at it again--and the same cry came presently from old jason. "stop, i've lost mine!" and both being out of breath sat heavily down in the sand, old jason feeling blindly with his hands and old aaron peering about him as far as he could see. and thus young jason and young aaron found them, and were utterly mystified until the old men rose creakily and got ready for battle again--when both spurred forward with a shout of joy, and threw themselves from their horses. "go for him, grandpap!" shouted each, and the two old men turned. "uncle aaron," shouted jason, "i bet you can lick him!" "he can't do it, uncle jason!" shouted aaron. each old man peered at his own grandson, dumbfounded. neither was armed, both were helpless with laughter, and each was urging on the oldest enemy of his clan against his own grandfather. the face of each old man angered, and then both began to grin sheepishly; for both were too keen-witted not to know immediately that what both really wished for had come to pass. "aaron," said old jason, "the boys have ketched us. i reckon we better call this thing a draw." "all right," piped old aaron, "we're a couple o' ole fools anyhow." so they shook hands. each grandson helped the other's grandfather laughingly on his horse, and the four rode back toward town. and thus old jason and old aaron, side by side in front, and young jason and young aaron, side by side behind, appeared to the astonished eyes of hawns and honeycutts on the main street of the county-seat. before the honeycutt store they stopped, and old aaron called his henchman into the middle of the street and spoke vigorous words that all the honeycutts could hear. then they rode to the hawn store, and old jason called his henchman out and spoke like words that all the hawns could hear. and each old man ended his discourse with a profane dictum that sounded like the vicious snap of a black-snake whip. "by god, hit's got to stop."' then turned the four again and rode homeward, and for the first time in their lives old aaron and young aaron darkened the door of old jason's house, and in there the jug went round the four of them, and between the best of the old order and the best of the new, final peace was cemented at last. jason reached the mines a little before dusk, and the old circuit rider lifted his eyes heavenward that his long prayer had been answered at last and the old woman rocked silently back and forth--her old eyes dimmed with tears. then jason hurried over the hill and took to his mother a peace she had not known even in her childhood, and a joy that she never dreamed would be hers while she lived--that her boy was safe from blood-oaths, a life of watchful terror, and constant fear of violent death. in mavis's eyes was deep content when the moon rose on the three that night. jason stayed a while after his mother was gone within, and, as they sat silently together, he suddenly took one of her hands in both his own and kissed it, and then he was gone. she watched him, and when his form was lost in the shadows of the trees she lifted that hand to her own lips. xlvi winter came and passed swiftly. throughout it jason was on the night shift, and day for him was turned into night. throughout it mavis taught her school, and she reached home just about the time jason was going to work, for school hours are long in the hills. meanwhile, the railroad crept through the county-seat up the river, and the branch line up the hawn creek to the mines was ready for it. and just before the junction was made, there was an event up that creek in which mavis shared proudly, for the work in great part was jason's own. throughout the winter, coke-ovens had sprung up like great beehives along each side of the creek, and the battery of them was ready for firing. into each, shavings and kindlings were first thrust and then big sticks of wood. jason tied packing to the end of a pole, saturated it with kerosene, lighted it, and handed it to mavis. along the batteries men with similar poles waited for her. the end of the pole was a woolly ball of oily flames, writhing like little snakes when she thrust it into the first oven, and they leaped greedily at the waiting feast and started a tiny gluttonous roar within. with a yell a grinning darky flourished another mass of little flames at the next oven, and down the line the balls of fire flashed in the dusk and disappeared, and mavis and jason and his mother stood back and waited. along came eager men throwing wood and coal into the hungry maws above them. little black clouds began to belch from them and from the earth packed around, and over them arose white clouds of steam. the swirling smoke swooped down the sides of the batteries and drove the watching three farther back. flames burst angrily from the oven doors and leaped like yellow lightning up through the belching smoke. behind them was the odor of the woods, fresh and damp and cool, and the sound of the little creek in its noisy way over rocks and stray fallen timbers. down from the mines came mules with their drivers, their harness rattling as they trotted past, and from the houses poured women and children to see the first flaming signs of a great industry. and good cheer was in the air like wine, for times were good, and work and promise of work a-plenty. exultant jason felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to find the big superintendent smiling at him. "you go on the day shift after this," he said. "go to bed now." the boy's eyes glistened, for he had been working for forty-eight hours, and with mavis and his mother he walked up the hill. at the cottage he went inside and came out with a paper in his hand which he handed to mavis without a word. then he went back and with his clothes on fell across his bed. mavis walked down the spur with her step-mother home. she knew what the paper contained for two days before was the date fixed for the wedding-day of marjorie and gray pendleton, and gray had written jason and marjorie had written her, begging them both to come. by the light of a lamp she read the account, fulsome and feminine, aloud: the line of carriages and motor-cars sweeping from the pike gate between two rows of softly glowing, gently swinging japanese lanterns, up to the noble old southern home gleaming like a fairy palace on the top of a little hill; the gay gathering of the gentlefolk of the state; the aisle made through them by two silken white ribbons and leading to the rose-canopied altar; the coming down that aisle of the radiant bride with her flowers, and her bridesmaids with theirs; the eager waiting of the young bridegroom, the bending of two proud, sunny heads close together, and the god-sealed union of their hearts and lives. and then the silent coming of a great gleaming motor-car, the showers of rice, the showering chorus of gay good wishes and good-bys, and then they shot away in the night for some mysterious bourne of the honeymoon. and behind them the dance went on till dawn. the paper dropped in mavis's lap, and martha hawn sighed and rose to get ready for bed. "my, but some folks is lucky!" on the porch mavis waited up awhile, with no envy in her heart. the moon was soaring over the crest of the cumberland, and somewhere, doubtless, marjorie and gray, too, had their eyes lifted toward it. she looked toward the little gap in the western hills where gray's star had gone down. "i'm so glad they're happy," she whispered. the moon darkened just then, and beyond and over the dark spur flashed a new light in the sky, that ran up the mounting clouds like climbing roses of flame. the girl smiled happily. under it tired jason was asleep, but the light up there was the work of his hands below, and it hung in the heavens like a pillar of fire. xlvii sitting on the porch next morning, mavis and martha hawn saw jason come striding down the spur. "i'm taking a holiday to-day," he said, and there was a light in his eyes and a quizzical smile on his face that puzzled mavis, but the mother was quick to understand. it was saturday, a holiday, too, for mavis, and a long one, for her school had just closed that her children might work in the fields. without a word, but still smiling to himself, jason went out on the back porch, got a hoe, and disappeared behind the garden fence. he came back presently with a tin can in his hands and held it out to mavis. "let's go fishing," he said. while mavis hesitated the mother, with an inward chuckle, went within and emerged with the bow and arrow and an old fishing-pole. "mebbe you'll need 'em," she said dryly. mavis turned scarlet and jason, pretending bewilderment, laughed happily. "that's just what we do need," he said, with no further surprise, no question as to how those old relics of their childhood happened to be there. his mother's diplomacy was crude, but he was grateful for it, and he smiled at her understandingly. so, like two children again, they set off, as long ago, over the spur, down the branch, across the road below the mines, and down into the deep bowl, filled to the brim with bush and tree, and to where the same deep pool lay in deep shadows asleep--jason striding ahead and mavis his obedient shadow once more--only this time jason would look back every now and then and smile. nor did he drop her pole on the ground and turn ungallantly to his bow and arrow, but unwound the line, baited her hook, cast it, and handed her the pole. as of yore, he strung his bow, which was a ridiculous plaything in his hands now, and he peered as of yore into every sunlit depth, but he turned every little while to look at the quiet figure on the bank, not squatted with childish abandon, but seated as a maiden should be, with her skirts drawn decorously around her pretty ankles. and all the while she felt him looking, and her face turned into lovely rose, though her shining eyes never left the pool that mirrored her below. only her squeal was the same when, as of yore, she flopped a glistening chub on the bank, and another and another. nor did he tell her she was "skeerin' the big uns" and set her to work like a little slave, but unhooked each fish and put on another worm. and only was jason little jason once more when at last he saw the waving outlines of an unwary bass in the depths below. again mavis saw him crouch, saw again the arrow drawn to his actually paling cheek, heard again the rushing hiss through the air and the burning hiss into the water, and saw a bass leap from the convulsed surface. only this time there was no headless arrow left afloat, for, with a boyish yell, jason dragged his squirming captive in. this time jason gathered the twigs and built the fire and helped to clean the fish. and when all was ready, who should step forth with a loud laugh of triumph from the bushes but the same giant--babe honeycutt! "i seed you two comin' down hyeh," he shouted. "hit reminded me o' ole times. i been settin' thar in the bushes an' the smell o' them fish might' nigh drove me crazy. an' this time, by the jumpin' jehosiphat, i'm a-goin' to have my share." babe did take his share, and over his pipe grew reminiscent. "i'm mighty glad you didn't git me that day, jason," he said, with another laugh, "an' i reckon you air too now that--" he stopped in confusion, for jason had darted him a warning glance. so confused was he, indeed, that he began to feel suddenly very much in the way, and he rose quickly, and with a knowing look from one to the other melted with a loud laugh into the bushes again. "now, wasn't that curious?" said jason, and mavis nodded silently. all the time they had been drifting along the backward current of memories, and perhaps it was that current that bore them unconsciously along when they rose, for unconsciously jason went on toward the river, until once more they stood on the little knoll whence they had first seen gray and marjorie ride through the arched opening of the trees. hitherto, speech had been as sparse between them as it had been that long-ago day, but here they looked suddenly into each other's eyes, and each knew the other's thought. "are you sorry, mavis?" she flushed a little. "not now"; and then shyly, "are you?" "not now," repeated jason. back they went again, lapsing once more into silence, until they came again to the point where they had started to part that day, and mavis's fear had led him to take her down the dark ravine to her home. the spirals of smoke were even rising on either side of the spur from jason's cottage and his mother's home, and both high above were melting into each other and into the drowsy haze that, veiled the face of the mountain. jason turned quickly, and the subdued fire in his eyes made the girl's face burn and her eyes droop. "mavis," he said huskily, "do you remember what i said that day right here?" and then suddenly the woman became the brave. "yes, jasie," she said, meeting his eyes unflinchingly now and with a throb of desire to end his doubt and suffering quickly: "and i remember what we both did--once." she looked down toward the old circuit rider's house at the forks of the road, and jason's hand and lip trembled and his face was transfigured with unbelievable happiness. "why, mavis--i thought you--gray--mavis, will you, will you?" "poor jasie," she said, and almost as a mother to a child who had long suffered she gently put both arms around his neck, and, as his arms crushed her to him, lifted her mouth to meet his. two hours it took jason to go to town and back, galloping all the way. and then at sunset they walked together through the old circuit rider's gate and to the porch, and stood before the old man hand in hand. "me an' mavis hyeh want to git married," said jason, with a jesting smile, and the old man's memory was as quick as his humor. "have ye got a license?" he asked, with a serious pursing of his lips. "you got to have a license, an' hit costs two dollars an' you got to be a man." jason smilingly pulled a paper from his pockets, and mavis interrupted: "he's my man." "well, he will be in a minute--come in hyeh." the old circuit rider's wife met them at the door and hugged them both, and when they came out on the porch again, there was jason's mother hurrying down the spur and calling to them with a half-tearful laugh of triumph. "i knowed it--oh, i knowed it." the news spread swiftly. within half an hour the big superintendent was tumbling his things from the cottage into the road, for his own family was coming, he explained to jason's mother, and he needed a larger house anyway. and so babe honeycutt swung twice down the spur on the other side and up again with mavis's worldly goods on his great shoulders, while inside the cottage martha hawn and the old circuit rider's wife were as joyously busy as bees. on his last trip mavis and jason followed, and on top of the spur babe stopped, cocked his ear, and listened. coming on a slow breeze up the ravine from the river far below was the long mellow blast of a horn. "'i god," laughed babe triumphantly, "ole jason's already heerd it." and, indeed, within half an hour word came that the old man must have the infair at his house that night, and already to all who could hear he had blown welcome on the wind. so, at dusk, when jason, on the circuit rider's old nag, rode through camp with mavis on a pillion behind in laughing acceptance of the old pioneer custom, women and children waved at them from doorways and the miners swung their hats and cheered them as they passed. there was an old-fashioned gathering at the old hawn home that night. old aaron and young aaron and many honeycutts were there; the house was thronged, fiddles played old tunes for nimble feet, and hawns and honeycutts ate and drank and made merry until the morning sun fanned its flames above the sombre hills. but before midnight jason and mavis fared forth pillion-fashion again. only, jason too rode sidewise every now and then that he might clasp her with one arm and kiss her again and again under the smiling old moon. through the lights and noise of the mighty industry that he would direct, they passed and climbed on. soon only lights showed that their grimy little working world was below. soon they stood on the porch of their own little home. to them there the mighty on-sweeping hills sent back their own peace, god-guarded and never to be menaced by the hand of man. and there, clasped in each other's arms, their spirits rushed together, and with the spiral of smoke from their own hearthstones, went upward. xlviii gently that following midsummer the old president's crutch thumped the sidewalk leading to the college. between the pillars of the gateway he paused, lifted his undimmed keen blue eyes, and more gently still the crutch thumped on the gravelled road as he passed slowly on under the trees. when he faced the first deserted building, he stopped quite still. the campus was deserted and the buildings were as silent as tombs. that loneliness he had known many, many years; but there was a poignant sorrow in it now that was never there before, for only that morning he had turned over the reins of power into a pair of younger hands. the young men and young women would come again, but now they would be his no longer. there would be the same eager faces, dancing eyes, swift coming and going, but not for him. the same cries of greeting, the tramp of many feet, shouts from the playgrounds-but not for his ears. the same struggle for supremacy in the class-room--but not for his favor and his rewarding hand. that hand had all but upraised each building, brick by brick and stone by stone. he had started alone, he had fought alone, and in spite of his scotch shrewdness, business sagacity, indomitable pluck and patience, and a nationwide fame for scholarship, the fight had been hard and long. he had won, but the work was yet unfinished, and it was his no longer. for a little while he stood there, and john burnham, coming from his class-room with a little bag of books, saw the still figure on crutches and paused noiselessly on the steps. he saw the old scholar's sensitive mouth quiver and his thin face wrenched with pain, and he guessed the tragedy of farewell that was taking place. he saw the old president turn suddenly, limp toward the willow-trees, and burnham knew that he could not bear at that moment to pass between those empty beloved halls. and burnham watched him move under the willows along the edge of the quiet pond, watched him slowly climbing a little hill on the other side of the campus, and then saw him wearily pass through his own gate-home. he wished that the old scholar could know how much better he had builded than he knew; could know what an exchange and clearing-house that group of homely buildings was for the human wealth of the state. and he wondered if in the old thoroughbred's heart was the comfort that his spirit would live on and on to help mould the lives of generations unborn, who might perhaps never hear his name. there was a youthful glad light in john burnham's face when he turned his back on the deserted college, for he, too, was on his way at last to the hills--and st. hilda. as he swept through the blue-grass he almost smiled upon the passing fields. the betterment of the tobacco troubles was sure to come, and only that summer the farmer was beginning to realize that in the end the seed of his blue-grass would bring him a better return than the leaf of his troublesome weed-king. there were groaning harvests that summer and herds of sheep and hogs and fat cattle. there was plenty of wheat and rye and oats and barley and corn yet coming out of the earth, and, as woodland after woodland reeled past his window, he realized that the trees were not yet all gone. perhaps after all his beloved kentucky would come back to her own, and there was peace in his grateful heart. two nights later, sitting on the porch of her little log cabin, he told st. hilda about gray and marjorie, as she told him about mavis and jason hawn. gray and jason had gone back, each to his own, having learned at last what mavis and marjorie, without learning, already knew--that duty is to others rather than self, to life rather than love. but john burnham now knew that in the dreams of each girl another image would live always; just as always jason would see another's eyes misty with tears for him and feel the comforting clutch of a little hand, while in gray's heart a wood-thrush would sing forever. and, looking far ahead, both could see strong young men hurrying up from the laggard blue-grass into the lagging hills and strong young men hurrying down from them, and could hear the heart of the hills beating as one with the heart of the bluegrass, and both beating as one with the heart of the world. the end the little shepherd of kingdom come by john fox, jr. to currie duke daughter of the chief among morgan's men kentucky, april, contents . two runaways from lonesome . fighting their way . a "blab school" on kingdom come . the coming of the tide . out of the wilderness . lost at the capital . a friend on the road . home with the major . margaret . the bluegrass . a tournament . back to kingdom come . on trial for his life . the major in the mountains . to college in the bluegrass . again the bar sinister . chadwick buford, gentleman . the spirit of ' and the shadow of ' . the blue or the gray . off to the war . melissa . morgan's men . chad captures an old friend . a race between dixie and dawn . after daws dillon--guerilla . brother against brother at last . at the hospital of morgan's men . pall-bearers of the lost cause . melissa and margaret . peace . the westward way the little shepherd of kingdom come chapter two runaways from lonesome the days of that april had been days of mist and rain. sometimes, for hours, there would come a miracle of blue sky, white cloud, and yellow light, but always between dark and dark the rain would fall and the mist creep up the mountains and steam from the tops--only to roll together from either range, drip back into the valleys, and lift, straightway, as mist again. so that, all the while nature was trying to give lustier life to every living thing in the lowland bluegrass, all the while a gaunt skeleton was stalking down the cumberland--tapping with fleshless knuckles, now at some unlovely cottage of faded white and green, and now at a log cabin, stark and gray. passing the mouth of lonesome, he flashed his scythe into its unlifting shadows and went stalking on. high up, at the source of the dismal little stream, the point of the shining blade darted thrice into the open door of a cabin set deep into a shaggy flank of black mountain, and three spirits, within, were quickly loosed from aching flesh for the long flight into the unknown. it was the spirit of the plague that passed, taking with it the breath of the unlucky and the unfit: and in the hut on lonesome three were dead--a gaunt mountaineer, a gaunt daughter, and a gaunt son. later, the mother, too, "jes' kind o' got tired," as little chad said, and soon to her worn hands and feet came the well-earned rest. nobody was left then but chad and jack, and jack was a dog with a belly to feed and went for less than nothing with everybody but his little master and the chance mountaineer who had sheep to guard. so, for the fourth time, chad, with jack at his heels, trudged up to the point of a wooded spur above the cabin, where, at the foot of a giant poplar and under a wilderness of shaking june leaves, were three piles of rough boards, loosely covering three hillocks of rain-beaten earth; and, near them, an open grave. there was no service sung or spoken over the dead, for the circuit-rider was then months away; so, unnoticed, chad stood behind the big poplar, watching the neighbors gently let down into the shallow trench a home-made coffin, rudely hollowed from the half of a bee-gum log, and, unnoticed, slipped away at the first muffled stroke of the dirt--doubling his fists into his eyes and stumbling against the gnarled bodies of laurel and rhododendron until, out in a clear sunny space, he dropped on a thick, velvet mat of moss and sobbed himself to sleep. when he awoke, jack was licking his face and he sat up, dazed and yawning. the sun was dropping fast, the ravines were filling with blue shadows, luminous and misty, and a far drowsy tinkling from the valley told him that cows were starting homeward. from habit, he sprang quickly to his feet, but, sharply conscious on a sudden, dropped slowly back to the moss again, while jack, who had started down the spur, circled back to see what the matter was, and stood with uplifted foot, much puzzled. there had been a consultation about chad early that morning among the neighbors, and old nathan cherry, who lived over on stone creek, in the next cove but one, said that he would take charge of the boy. nathan did not wait for the burial, but went back home for his wagon, leaving word that chad was to stay all night with a neighbor and meet him at the death-stricken cabin an hour by sun. the old man meant to have chad bound to him for seven years by law--the boy had been told that--and nathan hated dogs as much as chad hated nathan. so the lad did not lie long. he did not mean to be bound out, nor to have jack mistreated, and he rose quickly and jack sprang before him down the rocky path and toward the hut that had been a home to both. under the poplar, jack sniffed curiously at the new-made grave, and chad called him away so sharply that jack's tail drooped and he crept toward his master, as though to ask pardon for a fault of which he was not conscious. for one moment, chad stood looking. again the stroke of the falling earth smote his ears and his eyes filled; a curious pain caught him by the throat and he passed on, whistling--down into the shadows below to the open door of the cabin. it was deathly still. the homespun bedclothes and hand-made quilts of brilliant colors had been thrown in a heap on one of the two beds of hickory withes; the kitchen utensils--a crane and a few pots and pans--had been piled on the hearth, along with strings of herbs and beans and red pepper-pods--all ready for old nathan when he should come over for them, next morning, with his wagon. not a living thing was to be heard or seen that suggested human life, and chad sat down in the deepening loneliness, watching the shadows rise up the green walls that bound him in, and wondering what he should do, and where he should go, if he was not to go to old nathan; while jack, who seemed to know that some crisis was come, settled on his haunches a little way off, to wait, with perfect faith and patience, for the boy to make up his mind. it was the first time, perhaps, that chad had ever thought very seriously about himself, or wondered who he was, or whence he had come. digging back into his memory as far as he could, it seemed to him that what had just happened now had happened to him once before, and that he had simply wandered away. he could not recollect where he had started from first, but he could recall many of the places where he had lived, and why he had left them--usually because somebody, like old nathan, had wanted to have him bound out, or had misused jack, or would not let the two stray off into the woods together, when there was nothing else to be done. he had stayed longest where he was now, because the old man and his son and his girl had all taken a great fancy to jack, and had let the two guard cattle in the mountains and drive sheep and, if they stayed out in the woods over night, struck neither a stroke of hand nor tongue. the old mother had been his mother and, once more, chad leaned his head against the worn lintel and wept silently. so far, nobody had seemed to care particularly who he was, or was not--nor had chad. most people were very kind to him, looking upon him as one of the wandering waifs that one finds throughout the cumberland, upon whom the good folks of the mountains do not visit the father's sin. he knew what he was thought to be, and it mattered so little, since it made no discrimination against him, that he had accepted it without question. it did not matter now, except as it bore on the question as to where he should start his feet. it was a long time for him to have stayed in one place, and the roving memories, stirred within him now, took root, doubtless, in the restless spirit that had led his unknown ancestor into those mountain wilds after the revolution. all this while he had been sitting on the low threshold, with his elbows in the hollows of his thighs and his left hand across his mouth. once more, he meant to be bound to no man's service and, at the final thought of losing jack, the liberty loving little tramp spat over his hand with sharp decision and rose. just above him and across the buck antlers over the door, lay a long flint-lock rifle; a bullet-pouch, a powder-horn, and a small raccoon-skin haversack hung from one of the prongs: and on them the boy's eyes rested longingly. old nathan, he knew, claimed that the dead man had owed him money; and he further knew that old nathan meant to take all he could lay his hands on in payment: but he climbed resolutely upon a chair and took the things down, arguing the question, meanwhile: "uncle jim said once he aimed to give this rifle gun to me. mebbe he was foolin', but i don't believe he owed ole nathan so much, an', anyways," he muttered grimly, "i reckon uncle jim ud kind o' like fer me to git the better of that ole devil--jes a leetle, anyways." the rifle, he knew, was always loaded, there was not much powder in the horn and there were not more than a dozen bullets in the pouch, but they would last him until he could get far away. no more would he take, however, than what he thought he could get along with--one blanket from the bed and, from the fireplace, a little bacon and a pone of corn-bread. "an' i know aunt jane wouldn't 'a' keered about these leetle fixin's, fer i have to have 'em, an' i know i've earned 'em anyways." then he closed the door softly on the spirits of the dead within, and caught the short, deer skin latch-string to the wooden pin outside. with his barlow knife, he swiftly stripped a bark string from a pawpaw bush near by, folded and tied his blanket, and was swinging the little pack to his shoulder, when the tinkle of a cow-bell came through the bushes, close at hand. old nance, lean and pied, was coming home; he had forgotten her, it was getting late, and he was anxious to leave for fear some neighbor might come; but there was no one to milk and, when she drew near with a low moo, he saw that her udders were full and dripping. it would hurt her to go unmilked, so chad put his things down and took up a cedar piggin from a shelf outside the cabin and did the task thoroughly--putting the strippings in a cup and, so strong was the habit in him, hurrying with both to the rude spring-house and setting them in cool running water. a moment more and he had his pack and his rifle on one shoulder and was climbing the fence at the wood-pile. there he stopped once more with a sudden thought, and wrenching loose a short axe from the face of a hickory log, staggered under the weight of his weapons up the mountain. the sun was yet an hour high and, on the spur, he leaned his rifle against the big poplar and set to work with his axe on a sapling close by--talking frankly now to the god who made him: "i reckon you know it, but i'm a-goin' to run away now. i hain't got no daddy an' no mammy, an' i hain't never had none as i knows--but aunt jane hyeh--she's been jes' like a mother to me an' i'm a-doin' fer her jes' whut i wish you'd have somebody do fer my mother, ef you know whar she's a-layin'." eight round sticks he cut swiftly--four long and four short--and with these he built a low pen, as is the custom of the mountaineers, close about the fresh mound, and, borrowing a board or two from each of the other mounds, covered the grave from the rain. then he sunk the axe into the trunk of the great poplar as high up as he could reach--so that it could easily be seen--and brushing the sweat from his face, he knelt down: "god!" he said, simply, "i hain't nothin' but a boy, but i got to ack like a man now. i'm a-goin' now. i don't believe you keer much and seems like i bring ever'body bad luck: an' i'm a-goin' to live up hyeh on the mountain jes' as long as i can. i don't want you to think i'm a-complainin'--fer i ain't. only hit does seem sort o' curious that you'd let me be down hyah--with me a-keerint fer nobody now, an' nobody a-keerin' fer me. but thy ways is inscrutable--leastwise, that's whut the circuit-rider says--an' i ain't got a word more to say--amen." chad rose then and jack, who had sat perfectly still, with his head cocked to one side, and his ears straight forward in wonder over this strange proceeding, sprang into the air, when chad picked up his gun, and, with a joyful bark, circled a clump of bushes and sped back, leaping as high as the little fellow's head and trying to lick his face--for jack was a rover, too. the sun was low when the two waifs turned their backs upon it, and the blue shadows in valley and ravine were darkening fast. down the spur they went swiftly--across the river and up the slope of pine mountain. as they climbed, chad heard the last faint sound of a cow-bell far below him and he stopped short, with a lump in his throat that hurt. soon darkness fell, and, on the very top, the boy made a fire with his flint and steel, cooked a little bacon, warmed his corn-pone, munched them and, wrapping his blanket around him and letting jack curl into the hollow of his legs and stomach, turned his face to the kindly stars and went to sleep. chapter fighting their way twice, during the night, jack roused him by trying to push himself farther under the blanket and chad rose to rebuild the fire. the third time he was awakened by the subtle prescience of dawn and his eyes opened on a flaming radiance in the east. again from habit he started to spring hurriedly to his feet and, again sharply conscious, he lay down again. there was no wood to cut, no fire to rekindle, no water to carry from the spring, no cow to milk, no corn to hoe; there was nothing to do--nothing. morning after morning, with a day's hard toil at a man's task before him, what would he not have given, when old jim called him, to have stretched his aching little legs down the folds of the thick feather-bed and slipped back into the delicious rest of sleep and dreams? now he was his own master and, with a happy sense of freedom, he brushed the dew from his face and, shifting the chunk under his head, pulled his old cap down a little more on one side and closed his eyes. but sleep would not come and chad had his first wonder over the perverse result of the full choice to do, or not to do. at once, the first keen savor of freedom grew less sweet to his nostrils and, straightway, he began to feel the first pressure of the chain of duties that was to be forged for him out of his perfect liberty, link by link, and he lay vaguely wondering. meanwhile, the lake of dull red behind the jagged lines of rose and crimson that streaked the east began to glow and look angry. a sheen of fiery vapor shot upward and spread swiftly over the miracle of mist that had been wrought in the night. an ocean of it and, white and thick as snowdust, it filled valley, chasm, and ravine with mystery and silence up to the dark jutting points and dark waving lines of range after range that looked like breakers, surged up by some strange new law from an under-sea of foam; motionless, it swept down the valleys, poured swift torrents through high gaps in the hills and one long noiseless cataract over a lesser range--all silent, all motionless, like a great white sea stilled in the fury of a storm. morning after morning, the boy had looked upon just such glory, calmly watching the mist part, like the waters, for the land, and the day break, with one phrase, "let there be light," ever in his mind--for chad knew his bible. and, most often, in soft splendor, trailing cloud-mist, and yellow light leaping from crest to crest, and in the singing of birds and the shining of leaves and dew--there was light. but that morning there was a hush in the woods that chad understood. on a sudden, a light wind scurried through the trees and showered the mistdrops down. the smoke from his fire shot through the low undergrowth, without rising, and the starting mists seemed to clutch with long, white fingers at the tree-tops, as though loath to leave the safe, warm earth for the upper air. a little later, he felt some great shadow behind him, and he turned his face to see black clouds marshalling on either flank of the heavens and fitting their black wings together, as though the retreating forces of the night were gathering for a last sweep against the east. a sword flashed blindingly from the dome high above them and, after it, came one shaking peal that might have been the command to charge, for chad saw the black hosts start fiercely. afar off, the wind was coming; the trees began to sway above him, and the level sea of mist below began to swell, and the wooded breakers seemed to pitch angrily. challenging tongues ran quivering up the east, and the lake of red coals under them began to heave fiercely in answer. on either side the lightning leaped upward and forward, striking straight and low, sometimes, as though it were ripping up the horizon to let into the conflict the host of dropping stars. then the artillery of the thunder crashed in earnest through the shaking heavens, and the mists below pitched like smoke belched from gigantic unseen cannon. the coming sun answered with upleaping swords of fire and, as the black thunder hosts swept overhead, chad saw, for one moment, the whole east in a writhing storm of fire. a thick darkness rose from the first crash of battle and, with the rush of wind and rain, the mighty conflict went on unseen. chad had seen other storms at sunrise, but something happened now and he could never recall the others nor ever forget this. all it meant to him, young as he was then, was unrolled slowly as the years came on--more than the first great rebellion of the powers of darkness when, in the beginning, the master gave the first command that the seven days' work of his hand should float through space, smitten with the welcoming rays of a million suns; more than the beginning thus of light--of life; more even than the first birth of a spirit in a living thing: for, long afterward, he knew that it meant the dawn of a new consciousness to him--the birth of a new spirit within him, and the foreshadowed pain of its slow mastery over his passion-racked body and heart. never was there a crisis, bodily or spiritual, on the battle-field or alone under the stars, that this storm did not come back to him. and, always, through all doubt, and, indeed, in the end when it came to him for the last time on his bed of death, the slow and sullen dispersion of wind and rain on the mountain that morning far, far back in his memory, and the quick coming of the sun-king's victorious light over the glad hills and trees held out to him the promise of a final victory to the sun-king's king over the darkness of all death and the final coming to his own brave spirit of peace and rest. so chad, with jack drawn close to him, lay back, awe-stricken and with his face wet from mysterious tears. the comfort of the childish self-pity that came with every thought of himself, wandering, a lost spirit along the mountain-tops, was gone like a dream and ready in his heart was the strong new purpose to strike into the world for himself. he even took it as a good omen, when he rose, to find his fire quenched, the stopper of his powder-horn out, and the precious black grains scattered hopelessly on the wet earth. there were barely more than three charges left, and something had to be done at once. first, he must get farther away from old nathan: the neighbors might search for him and find him and take him back. so he started out, brisk and shivering, along the ridge path with jack bouncing before him. an hour later, he came upon a hollow tree, filled with doty wood which he could tear out with his hands and he built a fire and broiled a little more bacon. jack got only a bit this time and barked reproachfully for more; but chad shook his head and the dog started out, with both eyes open, to look for his own food. the sun was high enough now to make the drenched world flash like an emerald and its warmth felt good, as chad tramped the topmost edge of pine mountain, where the brush was not thick and where, indeed, he often found a path running a short way and turning into some ravine--the trail of cattle and sheep and the pathway between one little valley settlement and another. he must have made ten miles and more by noon--for he was a sturdy walker and as tireless almost as jack--and ten miles is a long way in the mountains, even now. so, already, chad was far enough away to have no fear of pursuit, even if old nathan wanted him back, which was doubtful. on the top of the next point, jack treed a squirrel and chad took a rest and brought him down, shot through the head and, then and there, skinned and cooked him and divided with jack squarely. "jack," he said, as he reloaded his gun, "we can't keep this up much longer. i hain't got more'n two more loads o' powder here." and, thereupon, jack leaped suddenly in the air and, turning quite around, lighted with his nose pointed, as it was before he sprang. chad cocked the old gun and stepped forward. a low hissing whir rose a few feet to one side of the path and, very carefully, the boy climbed a fallen trunk and edged his way, very carefully, toward the sound: and there, by a dead limb and with his ugly head reared three inches above his coil of springs, was a rattlesnake. the sudden hate in the boy's face was curious--it was instinctive, primitive, deadly. he must shoot off-hand now and he looked down the long barrel, shaded with tin, until the sight caught on one of the beady, unblinking eyes and pulled the trigger. jack leaped with the sound, in spite of chad's yell of warning, which was useless, for the ball had gone true and the poison was set loose in the black, crushed head. "jack," said chad, "we just got to go down now." so they went on swiftly through the heat of the early afternoon. it was very silent up there. now and then, a brilliant blue-jay would lilt from a stunted oak with the flute-like love-notes of spring; or a lonely little brown fellow would hop with a low chirp from one bush to another as though he had been lost up there for years and had grown quite hopeless about seeing his kind again. when there was a gap in the mountains, he could hear the querulous, senseless love-quarrel of flickers going on below him; passing a deep ravine, the note of the wood-thrush--that shy lyrist of the hills--might rise to him from a dense covert of maple and beech: or, with a startling call, a red-crested cock of the woods would beat his white-striped wings from spur to spur, as though he were keeping close to the long swells of an unseen sea. several times, a pert flicker squatting like a knot to a dead limb or the crimson plume of a cock of the woods, as plain as a splash of blood on a wall of vivid green, tempted him to let loose his last load, but he withstood them. a little later, he saw a fresh bear-track near a spring below the head of a ravine; and, later still, he heard the far-away barking of a hound and a deer leaped lightly into an open sunny spot and stood with uplifted hoof and pointed ears. this was too much and the boy's gun followed his heart to his throat, but the buck sprang lightly into the bush and vanished noiselessly. the sun had dropped midway between the zenith and the blue bulks rolling westward and, at the next gap, a broader path ran through it and down the mountain. this, chad knew, led to a settlement and, with a last look of choking farewell to his own world, he turned down. at once, the sense of possible human companionship was curiously potent: at once, the boy's half-wild manner changed and, though alert and still watchful, he whistled cheerily to jack, threw his gun over his shoulder, and walked erect and confident. his pace slackened. carelessly now his feet tramped beds of soft exquisite moss and lone little settlements of forget-me-nots, and his long riflebarrel brushed laurel blossoms down in a shower behind him. once even, he picked up one of the pretty bells and looked idly at it, turning it bottom upward. the waxen cup might have blossomed from a tiny waxen star. there was a little green star for a calyx; above this, a little white star with its prongs outstretched--tiny arms to hold up the pink-flecked chalice for the rain and dew. there came a time when he thought of it as a star-blossom; but now his greedy tongue swept the honey from it and he dropped it without another thought to the ground. at the first spur down which the road turned, he could see smoke in the valley. the laurel blooms and rhododendron bells hung in thicker clusters and of a deeper pink. here and there was a blossoming wild cucumber and an umbrella-tree with huger flowers and leaves; and, sometimes, a giant magnolia with a thick creamy flower that the boy could not have spanned with both hands and big, thin oval leaves, a man's stride from tip to stem. soon, he was below the sunlight and in the cool shadows where the water ran noisily and the air hummed with the wings of bees. on the last spur, he came upon a cow browsing on sassafras-bushes right in the path and the last shadow of his loneliness straightway left him. she was old, mild, and unfearing, and she started down the road in front of him as though she thought he had come to drive her home, or as though she knew he was homeless and was leading him to shelter. a little farther on, the river flashed up a welcome to him through the trees and at the edge of the water, her mellow bell led him down stream and he followed. in the next hollow, he stooped to drink from a branch that ran across the road and, when he rose to start again, his bare feet stopped as though riven suddenly to the ground; for, half way up the next low slope, was another figure as motionless as his--with a bare head, bare feet, a startled face and wide eyes--but motionless only until the eyes met his: then there was a flash of bright hair and scarlet homespun, and the little feet, that had trod down the centuries to meet his, left the earth as though they had wings and chad saw them, in swift flight, pass silently over the hill. the next moment, jack came too near the old brindle and, with a sweep of her horns at him and a toss of tail and heels in the air, she, too, swept over the slope and on, until the sound of her bell passed out of hearing. even to-day, in lonely parts of the cumberland, the sudden coming of a stranger may put women and children to flight--something like this had happened before to chad--but the sudden desertion and the sudden silence drew him in a flash back to the lonely cabin he had left and the lonely graves under the big poplar and, with a quivering lip, he sat down. jack, too, dropped to his haunches and sat hopeless, but not for long. the chill of night was coming on and jack was getting hungry. so he rose presently and trotted ahead and squatted again, looking back and waiting. but still chad sat irresolute and in a moment, jack heard something that disturbed him, for he threw his ears toward the top of the hill and, with a growl, trotted back to chad and sat close to him, looking up the slope. chad rose then with his thumb on the lock of his gun and over the hill came a tall figure and a short one, about chad's size and a dog, with white feet and white face, that was bigger than jack: and behind them, three more figures, one of which was the tallest of the group. all stopped when they saw chad, who dropped the butt of his gun at once to the ground. at once the strange dog, with a low snarl, started down toward the two little strangers with his yellow ears pointed, the hair bristling along his back, and his teeth in sight. jack answered the challenge with an eager whimper, but dropped his tail, at chad's sharp command--for chad did not care to meet the world as an enemy, when he was looking for a friend. the group stood dumb with astonishment for a moment and the small boy's mouth was wide-open with surprise, but the strange dog came on with his tail rigid, and lifting his feet high. "begone!" said chad, sharply, but the dog would not begone; he still came on as though bent on a fight. "call yo' dog off," chad called aloud. "my dog'll kill him. you better call him off," he called again, in some concern, but the tall boy in front laughed scornfully. "let's see him," he said, and the small one laughed, too. chad's eyes flashed--no boy can stand an insult to his dog--and the curves of his open lips snapped together in a straight red line. "all right," he said, placidly, and, being tired, he dropped back on a stone by the wayside to await results. the very tone of his voice struck all shackles of restraint from jack, who, with a springy trot, went forward slowly, as though he were making up a definite plan of action; for jack had a fighting way of his own, which chad knew. "sick him, whizzer!" shouted the tall boy, and the group of five hurried eagerly down the hill and halted in a half circle about jack and chad; so that it looked an uneven conflict, indeed, for the two waifs from over pine mountain. the strange dog was game and wasted no time. with a bound he caught jack by the throat, tossed him several feet away, and sprang for him again. jack seemed helpless against such strength and fury, but chad's face was as placid as though it had been jack who was playing the winning game. jack himself seemed little disturbed; he took his punishment without an outcry of rage or pain. you would have thought he had quietly come to the conclusion that all he could hope to do was to stand the strain until his opponent had worn himself out. but that was not jack's game, and chad knew it. the tall boy was chuckling, and his brother of chad's age was bent almost double with delight. "kill my dawg, will he?" he cried, shrilly. "oh, lawdy!" groaned the tall one. jack was much bitten and chewed by this time, and, while his pluck and purpose seemed unchanged, chad had risen to his feet and was beginning to look anxious. the three silent spectators behind pressed forward and, for the first time, one of these--the tallest of the group--spoke: "take yo' dawg off, daws dillon," he said, with quiet authority; but daws shook his head, and the little brother looked indignant. "he said he'd kill him," said daws, tauntingly. "yo' dawg's bigger and hit ain't fair," said the other again and, seeing chad's worried look, he pressed suddenly forward; but chad had begun to smile, and was sitting down on his stone again. jack had leaped this time, with his first growl during the fight, and whizzer gave a sharp cry of surprise and pain. jack had caught him by the throat, close behind the jaws, and the big dog shook and growled and shook again. sometimes jack was lifted quite from the ground, but he seemed clamped to his enemy to stay. indeed he shut his eyes, finally, and seemed to go quite to sleep. the big dog threshed madly and swung and twisted, howling with increasing pain and terror and increasing weakness, while jack's face was as peaceful as though he were a puppy once more and hanging to his mother's neck instead of her breast, asleep. by and by, whizzer ceased to shake and began to pant; and, thereupon, jack took his turn at shaking, gently at first, but with maddening regularity and without at all loosening his hold. the big dog was too weak to resist soon and, when jack began to jerk savagely, whizzer began to gasp. "you take yo' dawg off," called daws, sharply. chad never moved. "will you say 'nough for him?" he asked, quietly; and the tall one of the silent three laughed. "call him off, i tell ye," repeated daws, savagely; but again chad never moved, and daws started for a club. chad's new friend came forward. "hol'on, now, hol'on," he said, easily. "none o' that, i reckon." daws stopped with an oath. "whut you got to do with this, tom turner?" "you started this fight," said tom. "i don't keer ef i did--take him off," daws answered, savagely. "will you say 'nough fer him?" said chad again, and again tall tom chuckled. the little brother clinched his fists and turned white with fear for whizzer and fury for chad, while daws looked at the tall turner, shook his head from side to side, like a balking steer, and dropped his eyes. "y-e-s," he said, sullenly. "say it, then," said chad, and this time tall tom roared aloud, and even his two silent brothers laughed. again daws, with a furious oath, started for the dogs with his club, but chad's ally stepped between. "you say 'nough, daws dillon," he said, and daws looked into the quiet half-smiling face and at the stalwart two grinning behind. "takin' up agin yo' neighbors fer a wood-colt, air ye?" "i'm a-takin' up fer what's right and fair. how do you know he's a wood-colt--an' suppose he is? you say 'nough now, or--" again daws looked at the dogs. jack had taken a fresh grip and was shaking savagely and steadily. whizzer's tongue was out--once his throat rattled. "nough!" growled daws, angrily, and the word was hardly jerked from his lips before chad was on his feet and prying jack's jaws apart. "he ain't much hurt," he said, looking at the bloody hold which jack had clamped on his enemy's throat, "but he'd a-killed him though, he al'ays does. thar ain't no chance fer no dog, when jack gits that hold." then he raised his eyes and looked into the quivering face of the owner of the dog--the little fellow--who, with the bellow of a yearling bull, sprang at him. again chad's lips took a straight red line and being on one knee was an advantage, for, as he sprang up, he got both underholds and there was a mighty tussle, the spectators yelling with frantic delight. "trip him, tad," shouted daws, fiercely. "stick to him, little un," shouted tom, and his brothers, stoical dolph and rube, danced about madly. even with underholds, chad, being much the shorter of the two, had no advantage that he did not need, and, with a sharp thud, the two fierce little bodies struck the road side by side, spurting up a cloud of dust. "dawg--fall!" cried rube, and dolph rushed forward to pull the combatants apart. "he don't fight fair," said chad, panting, and rubbing his right eye which his enemy had tried to "gouge"; "but lemme at him--i can fight thataway, too." tall tom held them apart. "you're too little, and he don't fight fair. i reckon you better go on home--you two--an' yo' mean dawg," he said to daws; and the two dillons--the one sullen and the other crying with rage--moved away with whizzer slinking close to the ground after them. but at the top of the hill both turned with bantering yells, derisive wriggling of their fingers at their noses, and with other rude gestures. and, thereupon, dolph and rube wanted to go after them, but the tall brother stopped them with a word. "that's about all they're fit fer," he said, contemptuously, and he turned to chad. "whar you from, little man, an' whar you goin', an' what mought yo' name be?" chad told his name, and where he was from, and stopped. "whar you goin'?" said tom again, without a word or look of comment. chad knew the disgrace and the suspicion that his answer was likely to generate, but he looked his questioner in the face fearlessly. "i don't know whar i'm goin'." the big fellow looked at him keenly, but kindly. "you ain't lyin' an' i reckon you better come with us." he turned for the first time to his brothers and the two nodded. "you an' yo' dawg, though mammy don't like dawgs much; but you air a stranger an' you ain't afeerd, an' you can fight--you an' yo' dawg--an' i know dad'll take ye both in." so chad and jack followed the long strides of the three turners over the hill and to the bend of the river, where were three long cane fishing-poles with their butts stuck in the mud--the brothers had been fishing, when the flying figure of the little girl told them of the coming of a stranger into those lonely wilds. taking these up, they strode on--chad after them and jack trotting, in cheerful confidence, behind. it is probable that jack noticed, as soon as chad, the swirl of smoke rising from a broad ravine that spread into broad fields, skirted by the great sweep of the river, for he sniffed the air sharply, and trotted suddenly ahead. it was a cheering sight for chad. two negro slaves were coming from work in a corn-field close by, and jack's hair rose when he saw them, and, with a growl, he slunk behind his master. dazed, chad looked at them. "whut've them fellers got on their faces?" he asked. tom laughed. "hain't you nuver seed a nigger afore?" he asked. chad shook his head. "lots o' folks from yo' side o' the mountains nuver have seed a nigger," said tom. "sometimes hit skeers 'em." "hit don't skeer me," said chad. at the gate of the barn-yard, in which was a long stable with a deeply sloping roof, stood the old brindle cow, who turned to look at jack, and, as chad followed the three brothers through the yard gate, he saw a slim scarlet figure vanish swiftly from the porch into the house. in a few minutes, chad was inside the big log cabin and before a big log-fire, with jack between his knees and turning his soft human eyes keenly from one to another of the group about his little master, telling how the mountain cholera had carried off the man and the woman who had been father and mother to him, and their children; at which the old mother nodded her head in growing sympathy, for there were two fresh mounds in her own graveyard on the point of a low hill not far away; how old nathan cherry, whom he hated, had wanted to bind him out, and how, rather than have jack mistreated and himself be ill-used, he had run away along the mountain-top; how he had slept one night under a log with jack to keep him warm; how he had eaten sassafras and birch back and had gotten drink from the green water-bulbs of the wild honeysuckle; and how, on the second day, being hungry, and without powder for his gun, he had started, when the sun sank, for the shadows of the valley at the mouth of kingdom come. before he was done, the old mother knocked the ashes from her clay pipe and quietly went into the kitchen, and jack, for all his good manners, could not restrain a whine of eagerness when he heard the crackle of bacon in a frying-pan and the delicious smell of it struck his quivering nostrils. after dark, old joel, the father of the house, came in--a giant in size and a mighty hunter--and he slapped his big thighs and roared until the rafters seemed to shake when tall tom told him about the dog-fight and the boy-fight with the family in the next cove: for already the clanship was forming that was to add the last horror to the coming great war and prolong that horror for nearly half a century after its close. by and by, the scarlet figure of little melissa came shyly out of the dark shadows behind and drew shyly closer and closer, until she was crouched in the chimney corner with her face shaded from the fire by one hand and a tangle of yellow hair, listening and watching him with her big, solemn eyes, quite fearlessly. already the house was full of children and dependents, but no word passed between old joel and the old mother, for no word was necessary. two waifs who had so suffered and who could so fight could have a home under that roof if they pleased, forever. and chad's sturdy little body lay deep in a feather-bed, and the friendly shadows from a big fireplace flickered hardly thrice over him before he was asleep. and jack, for that night at least, was allowed to curl up by the covered coals, or stretch out his tired feet, if he pleased, to a warmth that in all the nights of his life, perhaps, he had never known before. chapter . a "blab school" on kingdom come chad was awakened by the touch of a cold nose at his ear, the rasp of a warm tongue across his face, and the tug of two paws at his cover. "git down, jack!" he said, and jack, with a whimper of satisfaction, went back to the fire that was roaring up the chimney, and a deep voice laughed and called: "i reckon you better git up, little man!" old joel was seated at the fire with his huge legs crossed and a pipe in his mouth. it was before busily astir. there was the sound of tramping in the frosty air outside and the noise of getting breakfast ready in the kitchen. as chad sprang up, he saw melissa's yellow hair drop out of sight behind the foot of the bed in the next corner, and he turned his face quickly, and, slipping behind the foot of his own bed and into his coat and trousers, was soon at the fire himself, with old joel looking him over with shrewd kindliness. "yo' dawg's got a heap o' sense," said the old hunter, and chad told him how old jack was, and how a cattle-buyer from the "settlements" of the bluegrass had given him to chad when jack was badly hurt and his owner thought he was going to die. and how chad had nursed him and how the two had always been together ever since. through the door of the kitchen, chad could see the old mother with her crane and pots and cooking-pans; outside, he could hear the moo of the old brindle, the bleat of her calf, the nicker of a horse, one lusty sheep-call, and the hungry bellow of young cattle at the barn, where tall tom was feeding the stock. presently rube stamped in with a back log and dolph came through with a milk-pail. "i can milk," said chad, eagerly, and dolph laughed. "all right, i'll give ye a chance," he said, and old joel looked pleased, for it was plain that the little stranger was not going to be a drone in the household, and, taking his pipe from his mouth but without turning his head, he called out: "git up thar, melissy." getting no answer, he looked around to find melissa standing at the foot of the bed. "come here to the fire, little gal, nobody's agoin to eat ye." melissa came forward, twisting her hands in front of her, and stood, rubbing one bare foot over the other on the hearth-stones. she turned her face with a blush when chad suddenly looked at her, and, thereafter, the little man gazed steadily into the fire in order to embarrass her no more. with the breaking of light over the mountain, breakfast was over and the work of the day began. tom was off to help a neighbor "snake" logs down the mountain and into kingdom come, where they would be "rafted" and floated on down the river to the capital--if a summer tide should come--to be turned into fine houses for the people of the bluegrass. dolph and rube disappeared at old joel's order to "go meet them sheep." melissa helped her mother clear away the table and wash the dishes; and chad, out of the tail of his eye, saw her surreptitiously feeding greedy jack, while old joel still sat by the fire, smoking silently. chad stepped outside. the air was chill, but the mists were rising and a long band of rich, warm light lay over a sloping spur up the river, and where this met the blue morning shadows, the dew was beginning to drip and to sparkle. chad could nor stand inaction long, and his eye lighted up when he heard a great bleating at the foot of the spur and the shouts of men and boys. just then the old mother called from the rear of the cabin. "joel, them sheep air comin'!" the big form of the old hunter filled the doorway and jack bounded out between his legs, while little melissa appeared with two books, ready for school. down the road came the flock of lean mountain-sheep, dolph and rube driving them. behind, slouched the dillon tribe--daws and whizzer and little tad; daws's father, old tad, long, lean, stooping, crafty: and two new ones cousins to daws--jake and jerry, the giant twins. "joel turner," said old tad, sourly, "here's yo' sheep!" joel had bought the dillons' sheep and meant to drive them to the county-seat ten miles down the river. there had evidently been a disagreement between the two when the trade was made, for joel pulled out a gray pouch of coonskin, took from it a roll of bills, and, without counting them, held them out. "tad dillon," he said, shortly, "here's yo' money!" the dillon father gave possession with a gesture and the dillon faction, including whizzer and the giant twins, drew aside together--the father morose; daws watching dolph and rube with a look of much meanness; little tad behind him, watching chad, his face screwed up with hate; and whizzer, pretending not to see jack, but darting a surreptitious glance at him now and then, for then and there was starting a feud that was to run fiercely on, long after the war was done. "git my hoss, rube," said old joel, and rube turned to the stable, while dolph kept an eye on the sheep, which were lying on the road or straggling down the river. as rube opened the stable-door, a dirty white object bounded out, and rube, with a loud curse, tumbled over backward into the mud, while a fierce old ram dashed with a triumphant bleat for the open gate. beelzebub, as the turner mother had christened the mischievous brute, had been placed in the wrong stall and beelzebub was making for freedom. he gave another triumphant baa as he swept between dolph's legs and through the gate, and, with an answering chorus, the silly sheep sprang to their feet and followed. a sheep hates water, but not more than he loves a leader, and beelzebub feared nothing. straight for the water of the low ford the old conqueror made and, in the wake of his masterful summons, the flock swept, like a mormon household, after him. then was there a commotion indeed. old joel shouted and swore; dolph shouted and swore and rube shouted and swore. old dillon smiled grimly, daws and little tad shouted with derisive laughter, and the big twins grinned. the mother came to the door, broom in hand, and, with a frowning face, watched the sheep splash through the water and into the woods across the river. little melissa looked frightened. whizzer, losing his head, had run down after the sheep, barking and hastening their flight, until called back with a mighty curse from old joel, while jack sat on his haunches looking at chad and waiting for orders. "goddlemighty!" said joel, "how air we goin' to git them sheep back?" up and up rose the bleating and baaing, for beelzebub, like the prince of devils that he was, seemed bent on making all the mischief possible. "how air we goin' to git 'em back?" chad nodded then, and jack with an eager yelp made for the river--whizzer at his heels. again old joel yelled furiously, as did dolph and rube, and whizzer stopped and turned back with a drooping tail, but jack plunged in. he knew but one voice behind him and chad's was not in the chorus. "call yo' dawg back, boy," said joel, sternly, and chad opened his lips with anything but a call for jack to come back--it was instead a fine high yell of encouragement and old joel was speechless. "that dawg'll kill them sheep," said daws dillon aloud. joel's face was red and his eyes rolled. "call that damned feist back, i tell ye," he shouted at last. "hyeh, rube, git my gun, git my gun!" rube started for the house, but chad laughed. jack had reached the other bank now, and was flashing like a ball of gray light through the weeds and up into the woods; and chad slipped down the bank and into the river, hieing him on excitedly. joel was beside himself and he, too, lumbered down to the river, followed by dolph, while the dillons roared from the road. "boy!" he roared. "eh, boy, eh! what's his name, dolph? call him back, dolph, call the little devil back. if i don't wear him out with a hickory; holler fer 'em, damn 'em! heh-o-oo-ee!" the old hunter's bellow rang through the woods like a dinner-horn. dolph was shouting, too, but jack and chad seemed to have gone stone-deaf; and rube, who had run down with the gun, started with an oath into the river himself, but joel halted him. "hol'on, hol'on!" he said, listening. "by the eternal, he's a-roundin' 'em up!" the sheep were evidently much scattered, to judge from the bleating, but here, there, and everywhere, they could hear jack's bark, while chad seemed to have stopped in the woods and, from one place, was shouting orders to his dog. plainly, jack was no sheep-killer and by and by dolph and rube left off shouting, and old joel's face became placid and all of them from swearing helplessly fell to waiting quietly. soon the bleating became less and less, and began to concentrate on the mountain-side. not far below, they could hear chad: "coo-oo-sheep! coo-oo-sh'p-cooshy-cooshy-coo-oo-sheep!" the sheep were answering. they were coming down a ravine, and chad's voice rang out above: "somebody come across, an' stand on each side o' the holler." dolph and rube waded across then, and soon the sheep came crowding down the narrow ravine with jack barking behind them and chad shooing them down. but for dolph and rube, beelzebub would have led them up or down the river, and it was hard work to get him into the water until jack, who seemed to know what the matter was, sharply nipped several sheep near him. these sprang violently forward, the whole flock in front pushed forward, too, and beelzebub was thrust from the bank. nothing else being possible, the old ram settled himself with a snort into the water and made for the other shore. chad and jack followed and, when they reached the road, beelzebub was again a prisoner; the sheep, swollen like sponges, were straggling down the river, and dillons and turners were standing around in silence. jack shook himself and dropped panting in the dust at his master's feet, without so much as an upward glance or a lift of his head for a pat of praise. as old joel raised one foot heavily to his stirrup, he grunted, quietly: "well, i be damned." and when he was comfortably in his saddle he said again, with unction: "i do be damned. i'll just take that dawg to help drive them sheep down to town. come on, boy." chad started joyfully, but the old mother called from the door: "who's a-goin' to take this gal to school, i'd like to know?" old joel pulled in his horse, straightened one leg, and looked all around--first at the dillons, who had started away, then at dolph and rube, who were moving determinedly after the sheep (it was court day in town and they could not miss court day), and then at chad, who halted. "boy," he said, "don't you want to go to school--you ought to go to school?" "yes," said chad, obediently, though the trip to town--and chad had never been to a town--was a sore temptation. "go on, then, an' tell the teacher i sent ye. here, mammy--eh, what's yo' name, boy? oh, mammy--chad, here 'll take her. take good keer o' that gal, boy, an' learn yo' a-b-abs like a man now." melissa came shyly forward from the door and joel whistled to jack and called him, but jack though he liked nothing better than to drive sheep lay still, looking at chad. "go 'long, jack," said chad, and jack sprang up and was off, though he stopped again and looked back, and chad had to tell him again to go on. in a moment dog, men, and sheep were moving in a cloud of dust around a bend in the road and little melissa was at the gate. "take good keer of 'lissy," said the mother from the porch, kindly; and chad, curiously touched all at once by the trust shown him, stalked ahead like a little savage, while melissa with her basket followed silently behind. the boy never thought of taking the basket himself: that is not the way of men with women in the hills and not once did he look around or speak on the way up the river and past the blacksmith's shop and the grist-mill just beyond the mouth of kingdom come; but when they arrived at the log school-house it was his turn to be shy and he hung back to let melissa go in first. within, there was no floor but the bare earth, no window but the cracks between the logs, and no desks but the flat sides of slabs, held up by wobbling pegs. on one side were girls in linsey and homespun: some thin, undersized, underfed, and with weak, dispirited eyes and yellow tousled hair; others, round-faced, round-eyed, dark, and sturdy; most of them large-waisted and round-shouldered--especially the older ones--from work in the fields; but, now and then, one like melissa, the daughter of a valley farmer, erect, agile, spirited, intelligent. on the other side were the boys, in physical characteristics the same and suggesting the same social divisions: at the top the farmer--now and then a slave-holder and perhaps of gentle blood--who had dropped by the way on the westward march of civilization and had cleared some rich river bottom and a neighboring summit of the mountains, where he sent his sheep and cattle to graze; where a creek opened into this valley some free-settler, whose grandfather had fought at king's mountain--usually of scotch-irish descent, often english, but sometimes german or sometimes even huguenot--would have his rude home of logs; under him, and in wretched cabins at the head of the creek or on the washed spur of the mountain above, or in some "deadenin"' still higher up and swept by mists and low-trailing clouds, the poor white trash--worthless descendants of the servile and sometimes criminal class who might have traced their origin back to the slums of london; hand-to-mouth tenants of the valley-aristocrat, hewers of wood for him in the lowlands and upland guardians of his cattle and sheep. and finally, walking up and down the earth floor--stern and smooth of face and of a preternatural dignity hardly to be found elsewhere--the mountain school-master. it was a "blab school," as the mountaineers characterize a school in which the pupils study aloud, and the droning chorus as shrill as locust cries ceased suddenly when chad came in, and every eye was turned on him with a sexless gaze of curiosity that made his face redden and his heart throb. but he forgot them when the school-master pierced him with eyes that seemed to shoot from under his heavy brows like a strong light from deep darkness. chad met them, nor did his chin droop, and caleb hazel saw that the boy's face was frank and honest, and that his eye was fearless and kind, and, without question, he motioned to a seat--with one wave of his hand setting chad on the corner of a slab and the studious drone to vibrating again. when the boy ventured to glance around, he saw daws dillon in one corner, making a face at him, and little tad scowling from behind a book: and on the other side, among the girls, he saw another hostile face--next little melissa which had the pointed chin and the narrow eyes of the "dillon breed," as old joel called the family, whose farm was at the mouth of kingdom come and whose boundary touched his own. when the first morning recess came, "little recess," as it was called--the master kept chad in and asked him his name; if he had ever been to school, and whether he knew his a b c's; and he showed no surprise when chad, without shame, told him no. so the master got melissa's spelling-book and pointed out the first seven letters of the alphabet, and made chad repeat them three times--watching the boy's earnest, wrinkling brow closely and with growing interest. when school "took up" again, chad was told to say them aloud in concert with the others--which he did, until he could repeat them without looking at his book, and the master saw him thus saying them while his eyes roved around the room, and he nodded to himself with satisfaction--for he was accustomed to visible communion with himself, in school and out. at noon--"big recess" melissa gave chad some corn-bread and bacon, and the boys gathered around him, while the girls looked at him curiously, merely because he was a stranger, and some of them--especially the dillon girl--whispered, and chad blushed and was uncomfortable, for once the dillon girl laughed unkindly. the boys had no games, but they jumped and threw "rocks" with great accuracy at a little birch-tree, and daws and tad always spat on their stones and pointed with the forefinger of the left hand first at what they were going to throw at, while chad sat to one side and took no part, though he longed to show them what he could do. by and by they fell to wrestling, and finally tad bantered him for a trial. chad hesitated, and his late enemy misunderstood. "i'll give ye both underholts agin," he said, loftily, "you're afeerd!" this was too much, and chad sprang to his feet and grappled, disdaining the proffered advantage, and got hurled to the ground, his head striking the earth violently, and making him so dizzy that the brave smile with which he took his fall looked rather sickly and pathetic. "yes, an' whizzer can whoop yo' dawg, too," said tad, and chad saw that he was going to have trouble with those dillons, for daws winked at the other boys, and the dillon girl laughed again scornfully--at which chad saw melissa's eyes flash and her hands clinch as, quite unconsciously, she moved toward him to take his part; and all at once he was glad that he had nobody else to champion him. "you wouldn' dare tech him if one of my brothers was here," she said, indignantly, "an' don t you dare tech him again, tad dillon. an' you--" she said, witheringly, "you--" she repeated and stopped helpless for the want of words but her eyes spoke with the fierce authority of the turner clan, and its dominant power for half a century, and nancy dillon shrank, though she turned and made a spiteful face, when melissa walked toward the school-house alone. that afternoon was the longest of chad's life--it seemed as though it would never come to an end; for chad had never sat so still for so long. his throat got dry repeating the dreary round of letters over and over and his head ached and he fidgeted in his chair while the slow hours passed and the sun went down behind the mountain and left the school-house in rapidly cooling shadow. his heart leaped when the last class was heard and the signal was given that meant freedom for the little prisoners; but melissa sat pouting in her seat--she had missed her lesson and must be kept in for a while. so chad, too, kept his seat and the master heard him say his letters, without the book, and nodded his head as though to say to himself that such quickness was exactly what he had looked for. by the time chad had learned down to the letter o, melissa was ready, for she was quick, too, and it was her anger that made her miss--and the two started home, chad stalking ahead once more. to save him, he could not say a word of thanks, but how he wished that a bear or a wild-cat would spring into the road! he would fight it with teeth and naked hands to show her how he felt and to save her from harm. the sunlight still lay warm and yellow far under the crest of pine mountain, and they had not gone far when caleb hazel overtook them and with long strides forged ahead. the school-master "boarded around" and it was his week with the turners, and chad was glad, for he already loved the tall, gaunt, awkward man who asked him question after question so kindly--loved him as much as he revered and feared him--and the boy's artless, sturdy answers in turn pleased caleb hazel. and when chad told who had given him jack, the master began to talk about the faraway, curious country of which the cattle-dealer had told chad so much: where the land was level and there were no mountains at all; where on one farm might be more sheep, cattle, and slaves than chad had seen in all his life; where the people lived in big houses of stone and brick--what brick was chad could not imagine--and rode along hard, white roads in shiny covered wagons, with two "niggers" on a high seat in front and one little "nigger" behind to open gates, and were proud and very high-heeled indeed; where there were towns that had more people than a whole county in the mountains, with rock roads running through them in every direction and narrow rock paths along these roads--like rows of hearth-stones--for the people to walk on--the land of the bluegrass--the "settlemints of old kaintuck." and there were churches everywhere as tall as trees and school-houses a-plenty; and big schools, called colleges, to which the boys went when they were through with the little schools. the master had gone to one of these colleges for a year, and he was trying to make enough money to go again. and chad must go some day, too; there was no reason why he shouldn't, since any boy could do anything he pleased if he only made up his mind and worked hard and never gave up. the master was an orphan, too, he said with a slow smile; he had been an orphan for a long while, and indeed the lonely struggle of his own boyhood was what was helping to draw him to chad. this college, he said, was a huge brown house as big as a cliff that the master pointed out, that, gray and solemn, towered high above the river; and with a rock porch bigger than a great bowlder that hung just under the cliff, with twenty long, long stone steps to climb before one came to the big double front door. "how do you git thar?" chad asked so breathlessly that melissa looked quickly up with a sudden foreboding that she might lose her little playfellow some day. the master had walked, and it took him a week. a good horse could make the trip in four days, and the river-men floated logs down the river to the capital in eight or ten days, according to the "tide." "when did they go?" in the spring, when the 'tides' came. "the turners went down, didn't they, melissa?" and melissa said that her brother tom had made one trip, and that dolph and rube were "might' nigh crazy" to go that coming spring; and, thereupon, a mighty resolution filled chad's heart to the brim and steadied his eyes, but he did not open his lips then. dusk was settling when the turner cabin came in sight. none of the men-folks had come home yet, and the mother was worried; there was wood to cut and the cows to milk, and chad's friend, old betsey the brindle, had strayed off again; but she was glad to see caleb hazel, who, without a word, went out to the wood-pile, took off his coat, and swung the axe with mighty arms, while chad carried in the wood and piled it in the kitchen and then the two went after the old brindle together. when they got back there was a great tumult at the cabin. tom had brought some friends from over the mountain, and had told the neighbors as he came along that there was going to be a party at his house that night. so there was a great bustle about the barn where rube was getting the stock fed and the milking done; and around the kitchen, where dolph was cutting more wood and piling it up at the door. inside, the mother was hurrying up supper with sintha, an older daughter, who had just come home from a visit, and melissa helping her, while old joel sat by the fire in the sleeping-room and smoked, with jack lying on the hearth, or anywhere he pleased, for jack, with his gentle ways, was winning the household one by one. he sprang up when he heard chad's voice, and flew at him, jumping up and pawing him affectionately and licking his face while chad hugged him and talked to him as though he were human and a brother; never before had the two been separated for a day. so, while the master helped rube at the barn and chad helped dolph at the wood-pile, jack hung about his master--tired and hungry as he was and much as he wanted to be by the fire or waiting in the kitchen for a sly bit from melissa, whom he knew at once as the best of his new friends. after supper, dolph got out his banjo and played "shady grove," and "blind coon dog," and "sugar hill," and "gamblin' man," while chad's eyes glistened and his feet shuffled under his chair. and when dolph put the rude thing down on the bed and went into the kitchen, chad edged toward it and, while old joel was bragging about jack to the school-master, he took hold of it with trembling fingers and touched the strings timidly. then he looked around cautiously: nobody was paying any attention to him and he took it up into his lap and began to pick, ever so softly. nobody saw him but melissa, who slipped quietly to the back of the room and drew near him. softly and swiftly chad's fingers worked and melissa could scarcely hear the sound of the banjo under her father's loud voice, but she could make out that he was playing a tune that still vibrates unceasingly from the pennsylvania border to the pine-covered hills of georgia--"sourwood mountain." melissa held her breath while she listened--dolph could not play like that--and by and by she slipped quietly to her father and pulled his sleeve and pointed to chad. old joel stopped talking, but chad never noticed; his head was bent over the neck of the banjo, his body was swaying rhythmically, his chubby fingers were going like lightning, and his eyes were closed--the boy was fairly lost to the world. the tune came out in the sudden silence, clean-cut and swinging: heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedle-dahdee-dee! rang the strings and old joel's eyes danced. "sing it, boy!" he roared, "sing it!" and chad sprang from the bed, on fire with confusion and twisting his fingers helplessly. he looked almost frightened when dolph ran back into the room and cried: "who was that a-pickin' that banjer?" it was not often that dolph showed such excitement, but he had good cause, and, when he saw chad standing, shamefaced and bashful, in the middle of the floor, and melissa joyously pointing her finger at him, he caught up the banjo from the bed and put it into the boy's hands. "here, you just play that tune agin!" chad shrank back, half distressed and half happy, and only a hail outside from the first of the coming guests saved him from utter confusion. once started, they came swiftly, and in half an hour all were there. each got a hearty welcome from old joel, who, with a wink and a laugh and a nod to the old mother, gave a hearty squeeze to some buxom girl, while the fire roared a heartier welcome still. then was there a dance indeed--no soft swish of lace and muslin, but the active swing of linsey and simple homespun; no french fiddler's bows and scrapings, no intricate lancers, no languid waltz; but neat shuffling forward and back, with every note of the music beat; floor-thumping "cuttings of the pigeon's wing," and jolly jigs, two by two, and a great "swinging of corners," and "caging the bird," and "fust lady to the right cheat an' swing"; no flirting from behind fans and under stairways and little nooks, but honest, open courtship--strong arms about healthy waists, and a kiss taken now and then, with everybody to see and nobody to care who saw. if a chair was lacking, a pair of brawny knees made one chair serve for two, but never, if you please, for two men. rude, rough, semi-barbarous, if you will, but simple, natural, honest, sane, earthy--and of the earth whence springs the oak and in time, maybe, the flower of civilization. at the first pause in the dance, old joel called loudly for chad. the boy tried to slip out of the door, but dolph seized him and pulled him to a chair in the corner and put the banjo in his hands. everybody looked on with curiosity at first, and for a little while chad suffered; but when the dance turned attention from him, he forgot himself again and made the old thing hum with all the rousing tunes that had ever swept its string. when he stopped at last, to wipe the perspiration from his face, he noticed for the first time the school-master, who was yet divided between the church and the law, standing at the door, silent, grave, disapproving. and he was not alone in his condemnation; in many a cabin up and down the river, stern talk was going on against the ungodly 'carryings on,' under the turner roof, and, far from accepting them as proofs of a better birth and broader social ideas, these calvinists of the hills set the merry-makers down as the special prey of the devil, and the dance and the banjo as sly plots of the same to draw their souls to hell. chad felt the master's look, and he did not begin playing again, but put the banjo down by his chair and the dance came to an end. once more chad saw the master look, this time at sintha, who was leaning against the wall with a sturdy youth in a fringed hunting-shirt bending over her--his elbow against a log directly over her shoulder, sintha saw the look, too, and she answered with a little toss of her head, but when caleb hazel turned to go out the door, chad saw that the girl's eyes followed him. a little later, chad went out too, and found the master at the corner of the fence and looking at a low red star whose rich, peaceful light came through a gap in the hills. chad shyly drew near him, hoping in some way to get a kindly word, but the master was so absorbed that he did not see or hear the boy and chad, awed by the stern, solemn face, withdrew and, without a word to anybody, climbed into the loft and went to bed. he could hear every stroke on the floor below, every call of the prompter, and the rude laughter and banter, but he gave little heed to it all. for he lay thinking of caleb hazel and listening again to the stories he and the cattle-dealer had told him about the wonderful settlements. "god's country," the dealer always called it, and such it must be, if what he and the master said was true. by and by the steady beat of feet under him, the swift notes of the banjo, the calls of the prompter and the laughter fused, became inarticulate, distant--ceased. and chad, as he was wont to do, journeyed on to "god's country" in his dreams. chapter . the coming of the tide while the corn grew, school went on and, like the corn, chad's schooling put forth leaves and bore fruit rapidly. the boy's mind was as clear as his eye and, like a mountain-pool, gave back every image that passed before it. not a word dropped from the master's lips that he failed to hear and couldn't repeat, and, in a month, he had put dolph and rube, who, big as they were, had little more than learned the alphabet, to open shame; and he won immunity with his fists from gibe and insult from every boy within his inches in school--including tad dillon, who came in time to know that it was good to let the boy alone. he worked like a little slave about the house, and, like jack, won his way into the hearts of old joel and his wife, and even of dolph and rube, in spite of their soreness over chad's having spelled them both down before the whole school. as for tall tom, he took as much pride as the school-master in the boy, and in town, at the grist-mill, the cross-roads, or blacksmith shop, never failed to tell the story of the dog and the boy, whenever there was a soul to listen. and as for melissa, while she ruled him like a queen and chad paid sturdy and uncomplaining homage, she would have scratched out the eyes of one of her own brothers had he dared to lay a finger on the boy. for chad had god's own gift--to win love from all but enemies and nothing but respect and fear from them. every morning, soon after daybreak, he stalked ahead of the little girl to school, with dolph and rube lounging along behind, and, an hour before sunset, stalked back in the same way home again. when not at school, the two fished and played together--inseparable. corn was ripe now, and school closed and chad went with the men into the fields and did his part, stripping the gray blades from the yellow stalks, binding them into sheaves, stowing them away under the low roof of the big barn, or stacking them tent-like in the fields--leaving each ear perched like a big roosting bird on each lone stalk. and when the autumn came, there were husking parties and dances and much merriment; and, night after night, chad saw sintha and the school-master in front of the fire--"settin' up"--close together with their arms about each other's necks and whispering. and there were quilting parties and housewarmings and house-raisings--one that was of great importance to caleb hazel and to chad. for, one morning, sintha disappeared and came back with the tall young hunter in the deerskin leggings--blushing furiously--a bride. at once old joel gave them some cleared land at the head of a creek; the neighbors came in to build them a cabin, and among them all, none worked harder than the school-master; and no one but chad guessed how sorely hit he was. meanwhile, the woods high and low were ringing with the mellow echoes of axes, and the thundering crash of big trees along the mountain-side; for already the hillsmen were felling trees while the sap was in the roots, so that they could lie all winter, dry better and float better in the spring, when the rafts were taken down the river to the little capital in the bluegrass. and caleb hazel said that he would go down on a raft in the spring and perhaps chad could go with him who knew? for the school-master had now made up his mind finally--he would go out into the world and make his way out there; and nobody but chad noticed that his decision came only after, and only a little while after, the house-raising at the head of the creek. when winter came, school opened again, and on saturdays and sundays and cold snowy nights, chad and the school-master--for he too lived at the turners' now--sat before the fire in the kitchen, and the school-master read to him from "ivanhoe" and "the talisman," which he had brought from the bluegrass, and from the bible which had been his own since he was a child. and the boy drank in the tales until he was drunk with them and learned the conscious scorn of a lie, the conscious love of truth and pride in courage, and the conscious reverence for women that make the essence of chivalry as distinguished from the unthinking code of brave, simple people. he adopted the master's dignified phraseology as best he could; he watched him, as the master stood before the fire with his hands under his coat-tails, his chin raised, and his eyes dreamily upward, and tall tom caught the boy in just this attitude one day and made fun of him before all the others. he tried some high-sounding phrases on melissa, and melissa told him he must be crazy. once, even, he tried to kiss her hand gallantly and she slapped his face. undaunted, he made a lance of white ash, threaded some loose yarn into melissa's colors, as he told himself, sneaked into the barn, where beelzebub was tied, got on the sheep's back and, as the old ram sprang forward, couched his lance at the trough and shattered it with a thrill that left him trembling for half an hour. it was too good to give up that secret joust and he made another lance and essayed another tournament, but this time beelzebub butted the door open and sprang with a loud ba-a-a into the yard and charged for the gate--in full view of old joel, the three brothers, and the school-master, who were standing in the road. instinctively, chad swung on in spite of the roar of laughter and astonishment that greeted him and, as tom banged the gate, the ram swerved and chad shot off sidewise as from a catapult and dropped, a most unheroic little knight, in the mire. that ended chad's chivalry in the hills, for in the roars of laughter that greeted him, chad recognized caleb hazel's as the loudest. if he laughed, chivalry could never thrive there, and chad gave it up; but the seeds were sown. the winter passed, and what a time chad and jack had, snaking logs out of the mountains with two, four, six--yes, even eight yoke of oxen, when the log was the heart of a monarch oak or poplar--snaking them to the chute; watching them roll and whirl and leap like jack-straws from end to end down the steep incline and, with one last shoot in the air, roll, shaking, quivering, into a mighty heap on the bank of kingdom come. and then the "rafting" of those logs--dragging them into the pool of the creek, lashing them together with saplings driven to the logs with wooden pins in auger-holes--wading about, meanwhile, waist deep in the cold water: and the final lashing of the raft to a near-by tree with a grape-vine cable--to await the coming of a "tide." would that tide never come? it seemed not. the spring ploughing was over, the corn planted; there had been rain after rain, but gentle rains only. there had been prayers for rain: "o lord," said the circuit-rider, "we do not presume to dictate to thee, but we need rain, an' need it mighty bad. we do not presume to dictate, but, if it pleases thee, send us, not a gentle sizzle-sizzle, but a sod-soaker, o lord, a gullywasher. give us a tide, o lord!" sunrise and sunset, old joel turned his eye to the east and the west and shook his head. tall tom did the same, and dolph and rube studied the heavens for a sign. the school-master grew visibly impatient and chad was in a fever of restless expectancy. the old mother had made him a suit of clothes--mountain-clothes--for the trip. old joel gave him a five-dollar bill for his winter's work. even jack seemed to know that something unusual was on hand and hung closer about the house, for fear he might be left behind. softly at last, one night, came the patter of little feet on the roof and passed--came again and paused; and then there was a rush and a steady roar that wakened chad and thrilled him as he lay listening. it did not last long, but the river was muddy enough and high enough for the turner brothers to float the raft slowly out from the mouth of kingdom come and down in front of the house, where it was anchored to a huge sycamore in plain sight. at noon the clouds gathered and old joel gave up his trip to town. "hit'll begin in about an hour, boys," he said, and in an hour it did begin. there was to be no doubt about this flood. at dusk, the river had risen two feet and the raft was pulling at its cable like an awakening sea-monster. meanwhile, the mother had cooked a great pone of corn-bread, three feet in diameter, and had ground coffee and got sides of bacon ready. all night it poured and the dawn came clear, only to darken into gray again. but the river--the river! the roar of it filled the woods. the frothing hem of it swished through the tops of the trees and through the underbrush, high on the mountain-side. arched slightly in the middle, for the river was still rising, it leaped and surged, tossing tawny mane and fleck and foam as it thundered along--a mad, molten mass of yellow struck into gold by the light of the sun. and there the raft, no longer the awkward monster it was the day before, floated like a lily-pad, straining at the cable as lightly as a greyhound leaping against its leash. the neighbors were gathered to watch the departure--old jerry budd, blacksmith and "yarb doctor," and his folks; the cultons and middletons, and even the dillons--little tad and whizzer--and all. and a bright picture of arcadia the simple folk made, the men in homespun and the women with their brilliant shawls, as they stood on the bank laughing, calling to one another, and jesting like children. all were aboard now and there was no kissing nor shaking hands in the farewell. the good old mother stood on the bank, with melissa holding to her apron and looking at chad gravely. "take good keer o' yo'self, chad," she said kindly, and then she looked down at the little girl. "he's a-comin' back, honey--chad's a-comin' back." and chad nodded brightly, but melissa drew her apron across her mouth, dropped her eyes to the old rifle in the boy's lap, and did not smile. all were aboard now--dolph and rube, old squire middleton, and the school-master, all except tall tom, who stood by the tree to unwind the cable. "hold on!" shouted the squire. a raft shot suddenly around the bend above them and swept past with the dillon brothers jake and jerry, nephews of old tad dillon, at bow and stern--passed with a sullen wave from jerry and a good-natured smile from stupid jake. "all right," tom shouted, and he unwound the great brown pliant vine from the sycamore and leaped aboard. just then there was a mad howl behind the house and a gray streak of light flashed over the bank and jack, with a wisp of rope around his neck, sprang through the air from a rock ten feet high and landed lightly on the last log as the raft shot forward. chad gulped once and his heart leaped with joy, for he had agreed to leave jack with old joel, and old joel had tied the dog in the barn. "hi!" shouted the old hunter. "throw that dawg off, chad--throw him off." but chad shook his head and smiled. "he won't go back," he shouted, and, indeed, there was jack squatted on his haunches close by his little master and looking gravely back as though he were looking a last good-by. "hi there!" shouted old joel again. "how am i goin to git along without that dawg? throw him off, boy--throw him off, i tell ye!" chad seized the dog by the shoulders, but jack braced himself and, like a child, looked up in his master's face. chad let go and shook his head. a frantic yell from tall tom at the bow oar drew every eye to him. the current was stronger than anyone guessed and the raft was being swept by an eddy straight for the point of the opposite shore where there was a sharp turn in the river. "watch out thar," shouted old joel, "you're goin to 'bow'!" dolph and rube were slashing the stern oar forward and back through the swift water, but straight the huge craft made for that deadly point. every man had hold of an oar and was tussling in silence for life. every man on shore was yelling directions and warning, while the women shrank back with frightened faces. chad scarcely knew what the matter was, but he gripped his rifle and squeezed jack closer to him. he heard tom roar a last warning as the craft struck, quivered a moment, and the stern swept around. the craft had "bowed." "watch out--jump, boys, jump! watch when she humps! watch yo' legs!" these were the cries from the shore, and still chad did not understand. he saw tom leap from the bow, and, as the stern swung to the other shore, dolph, too, leaped. then the stern struck. the raft humped in the middle like a bucking horse--the logs ground savagely together. chad heard a cry of pain from jack and saw the dog fly up in the air and drop in the water. he and his gun had gone up, too, but he came back on the raft with one leg in between two logs and he drew it up in time to keep the limb from being smashed to a pulp as the logs crashed together again, but not quickly enough to save the foot from a painful squeeze. then he saw tom and dolph leap back again, the raft whirled on and steadied in its course, and behind him he saw jack swimming feebly for the shore--fighting the waves for his life, for the dog was hurt. twice he turned his eyes despairingly toward chad, and the boy would have leaped in the water to save him if tom had not caught him by the arm. "tell him to git to shore," he said quickly, and chad motioned, when jack looked again, and the dog obediently made for land. old joel was calling tenderly: "come on, jack; come on, ole feller!" chad watched with a thumping heart. once jack went under, but gave no sound. again he disappeared, and when he came up he gave a cry for help, but when he heard chad's answering cry he fought on stroke by stroke until chad saw old joel reach out from the bushes and pull him in. and chad could see that one of his hind legs hung limp. then the raft swung around the curve out of sight. behind, the whole crowd rushed down to the water's edge. jack tried to get away from old joel and scramble after chad on his broken leg, but old joel held him, soothing him, and carried him back to the house, where the old "yarb doctor" put splints on the leg and bound it up tightly, just as though it had been the leg of a child. melissa was crying and the old man put his hand on her head. "he'll be all right, honey. that leg'll be as good as the other one in two or three weeks. it's all right, little gal." melissa stopped weeping with a sudden gulp. but when jack was lying in the kitchen by the fire alone, she slipped in and put her arm around the dog's head, and, when jack began to lick her face, she bent her own head down and sobbed. chapter . out of the wilderness on the way to god's country at last! already chad had schooled himself for the parting with jack, and but for this he must--little man that he was--have burst into tears. as it was, the lump in his throat stayed there a long while, but it passed in the excitement of that mad race down the river. the old squire had never known such a tide. "boys," he said, gleefully, "we're goin' to make a record on this trip--you jus' see if we don't. that is, if we ever git thar alive." all the time the old man stood in the middle of the raft yelling orders. ahead was the dillon raft, and the twin brothers--the giants, one mild, the other sour-faced--were gesticulating angrily at each other from bow and stern. as usual, they were quarrelling. on the turner raft, dolph was at the bow, the school-master at the stern, while rube--who was cook--and chad, in spite of a stinging pain in one foot, built an oven of stones, where coffee could be boiled and bacon broiled, and started a fire, for the air was chill on the river, especially when they were running between the hills and no sun could strike them. when the fire blazed up, chad sat by it watching tall tom and the school-master at the stern oar and rube at the bow. when the turn was sharp, how they lashed the huge white blades through the yellow water--with the handle across their broad chests, catching with their toes in the little notches that had been chipped along the logs and tossing the oars down and up with a mighty swing that made the blades quiver and bend like the tops of pliant saplings! then, on a run, they would rush back to start the stroke again, while the old squire yelled: "hit her up thar now--easy--easy! now! hit her up! hit her up--now!" now they passed between upright, wooded, gray mountain-sides, threaded with faint lines of the coming green; now between gray walls of rock streaked white with water-falls, and now past narrow little valleys which were just beginning to sprout with corn. at the mouth of the creeks they saw other rafts making ready and, now and then, a raft would shoot out in the river from some creek ahead or behind them. in an hour, they struck a smooth run of several hundred yards where the men at the oars could sit still and rest, while the raft shot lightly forward in the middle of the stream; and down the river they could see the big dillons making the next sharp turn and, even that far away, they could hear jerry yelling and swearing at his patient brother. "some o' these days," said the old squire, "that fool jake's a-goin' to pick up somethin' an' knock that mean jerry's head off. i wonder he hain't done it afore. hit's funny how brothers can hate when they do git to hatin'." that night, they tied up at jackson--to be famous long after the war as the seat of a bitter mountain-feud. at noon the next day, they struck "the nahrrers" (narrows), where the river ran like a torrent between high steep walls of rock, and where the men stood to the oars watchfully and the old squire stood upright, watching every movement of the raft; for "bowing" there would have meant destruction to the raft and the death of them all. that night they were in beattyville, whence they floated next day, along lower hills and, now and then, past a broad valley. once chad looked at the school-master--he wondered if they were approaching the bluegrass--but caleb hazel smiled and shook his head. and had chad waited another half hour, he would not have asked the question, even with his eyes, for they swept between high cliffs again--higher than he had yet seen. that night they ran from dark to dawn, for the river was broader and a brilliant moon was high; and, all night, chad could hear the swish of the oars, as they floated in mysterious silence past the trees and the hills and the moonlit cliffs, and he lay on his back, looking up at the moon and the stars, and thinking about the land to which he was going and of jack back in the land he had left; and of little melissa. she had behaved very strangely during the last few days before the boy had left. she had not been sharp with him, even in play. she had been very quiet--indeed, she scarcely spoke a word to him, but she did little things for him that she had never done before, and she was unusually kind to jack. once, chad found her crying behind the barn, and then she was very sharp with him, and told him to go away and cried more than ever. her little face looked very white, as she stood on the bank, and, somehow, chad saw it all that night in the river and among the trees and up among the stars, but he little knew what it all meant to him or to her. he thought of the turners back at home, and he could see them sitting around the big fire--joel with his pipe, the old mother spinning flax, jack asleep on the hearth, and melissa's big solemn eyes shining from the dark corner where she lay wide-awake in bed and, when he went to sleep, her eyes followed him in his dreams. when he awoke, the day was just glimmering over the hills, and the chill air made him shiver, as he built up the fire and began to get breakfast ready. at noon, that day, though the cliffs were still high, the raft swung out into a broader current, where the water ran smoothly and, once, the hills parted and, looking past a log-cabin on the bank of the river, chad saw a stone house--relic of pioneer days--and, farther out, through a gap in the hills, a huge house with great pillars around it and, on the hill-side, many sheep and fat cattle and a great barn. there dwelt one of the lords of the bluegrass land, and again chad looked to the school-master and, this time, the school-master smiled and nodded as though to say: "we're getting close now, chad." so chad rose to his feet thrilled, and watched the scene until the hills shut it off again. one more night and one more dawn, and, before the sun rose, the hills had grown smaller and smaller and the glimpses between them more frequent and, at last, far down the river, chad saw a column of smoke and all the men on the raft took off their hats and shouted. the end of the trip was near, for that black column meant the capital! chad trembled on his feet and his heart rose into his throat, while caleb hazel seemed hardly less moved. his hat was off and he stood motionless, with his face uplifted, and his grave eyes fastened on that dark column as though it rose from the pillar of fire that was leading him to some promised land. as they rounded the next curve, some monster swept out of the low hills on the right, with a shriek that startled the boy almost into terror and, with a mighty puffing and rumbling, shot out of sight again. the school-master shouted to chad, and the turner brothers grinned at him delightedly: "steam-cars!" they cried, and chad nodded back gravely, trying to hold in his wonder. sweeping around the next curve, another monster hove in sight with the same puffing and a long "h-o-o-ot!" a monster on the river and moving up stream steadily, with no oar and no man in sight, and the turners and the school-master shouted again. chad's eyes grew big with wonder and he ran forward to see the rickety little steamboat approach and, with wide eyes, devoured it, as it wheezed and labored up-stream past them--watched the thundering stern-wheel threshing the water into a wake of foam far behind it and flashing its blades, water-dripping in the sun--watched it till it puffed and wheezed and labored on out of sight. great heavens! to think that he--chad--was seeing all that! about the next bend, more but thinner columns of smoke were visible. soon the very hills over the capital could be seen, with little green wheat-fields dotting them and, as the raft drew a little closer, chad could see houses on the hills--more strange houses of wood and stone, and porches, and queer towers on them from which glistened shining points. "what's them?" he asked. "lightnin'-rods," said tom, and chad understood, for the school-master had told him about them back in the mountains. was there anything that caleb hazel had not told him? the haze over the town was now visible, and soon they swept past tall chimneys puffing out smoke, great warehouses covered on the outside with weather-brown tin, and, straight ahead--heavens, what a bridge!--arching clear over the river and covered like a house, from which people were looking down on them as they swept under. there were the houses, in two rows on the streets, jammed up against each other and without any yards. and people! where had so many people come from? close to the river and beyond the bridge was another great mansion, with tall pillars, about it was a green yard, as smooth as a floor, and negroes and children were standing on the outskirting stone wall and looking down at them as they floated by. and another great house still, and a big garden with little paths running through it and more patches of that strange green grass. was that bluegrass? it was, but it didn't look blue and it didn't look like any other grass chad had ever seen. below this bridge was another bridge, but not so high, and, while chad looked, another black monster on wheels went crashing over it. tom and the school-master were working the raft slowly to the shore now, and, a little farther down, chad could see more rafts tied up--rafts, rafts, nothing but rafts on the river, everywhere! up the bank a mighty buzzing was going on, amid a cloud of dust, and little cars with logs on them were shooting about amid the gleamings of many saws, and, now and then, a log would leap from the river and start up toward that dust-cloud with two glistening iron teeth sunk in one end and a long iron chain stretching up along a groove built of boards--and heaven only knew what was pulling it up. on the bank was a stout, jolly-looking man, whose red, kind face looked familiar to chad, as he ran down shouting a welcome to the squire. then the raft slipped along another raft, tom sprang aboard it with the grape-vine cable, and the school-master leaped aboard with another cable from the stern. "why, boy," cried the stout man. "where's yo' dog?" then chad recognized him, for he was none other than the cattle-dealer who had given him jack. "i left him at home." "is he all right?" "yes--i reckon." "then i'd like to have him back again." chad smiled and shook his head. "not much." "well, he's the best sheep-dog on earth." the raft slowed up, creaking--slower--straining and creaking, and stopped. the trip was over, and the squire had made his "record," for the red-faced man whistled incredulously when the old man told him what day he had left kingdom come. an hour later the big dillon twins hove in sight, just as the turner party was climbing the sawdust hill into the town, where dolph and rube were for taking the middle of the street like other mountaineers, who were marching thus ahead of them, single file, but tom and the school-master laughed at them and drew them over to the sidewalk. bricks and stones laid down for people to walk on--how wonderful. and all the houses were of brick or were weather-boarded--all built together wall against wall. and the stores with the big glass windows all filled with wonderful things! then a pair of swinging green shutters through which, while chad and the school-master waited outside, tom insisted on taking dolph and rube and giving them their first drink of bluegrass whiskey--red liquor, as the hill-men call it. a little farther on, they all stopped still on a corner of the street, while the school-master pointed out to chad and dolph and rube the capitol--a mighty structure of massive stone, with majestic stone columns, where people went to the legislature. how they looked with wondering eyes at the great flag floating lazily over it, and at the wonderful fountain tossing water in the air, and with the water three white balls which leaped and danced in the jet of shining spray and never flew away from it. how did they stay there? the school-master laughed--chad had asked him a question at last that he couldn't answer. and the tall spiked iron fence that ran all the way around the yard, which was full of trees--how wonderful that was, too! as they stood looking, law-makers and visitors poured out through the doors--a brave array--some of them in tight trousers, high hats, and blue coats with brass buttons, and, as they passed, caleb hazel reverently whispered the names of those he knew--distinguished lawyers, statesmen, and mexican veterans: witty tom marshall; roger hanson, bulky, brilliant; stately preston, eagle-eyed buckner, and breckenridge, the magnificent, forensic in bearing. chad was thrilled. a little farther on, they turned to the left, and the school-master pointed out the governor's mansion, and there, close by, was a high gray wall--a wall as high as a house, with a wooden box taller than a man on each corner, and, inside, another big gray building in which, visible above the walls, were grated windows--the penitentiary! every mountaineer has heard that word, and another--the legislator. chad shivered as he looked, for he could recall that sometimes down in the mountains a man would disappear for years and turn up again at home, whitened by confinement; and, during his absence, when anyone asked about him, the answer was penitentiary. he wondered what those boxes on the walls were for, and he was about to ask, when a guard stepped from one of them with a musket and started to patrol the wall, and he had no need to ask. tom wanted to go up on the hill and look at the armory and the graveyard, but the school-master said they did not have time, and, on the moment, the air was startled with whistles far and near--six o'clock! at once caleb hazel led the way to supper in the boarding-house, where a kind-faced old lady spoke to chad in a motherly way, and where the boy saw his first hot biscuit and was almost afraid to eat anything at the table for fear he might do something wrong. for the first time in his life, too, he slept on a mattress without any feather-bed, and chad lay wondering, but unsatisfied still. not yet had he been out of sight of the hills, but the master had told him that they would see the bluegrass next day, when they were to start back to the mountains by train as far as lexington. and chad went to sleep, dreaming his old dream. chapter lost at the capital it had been arranged by the school-master that they should all meet at the railway station to go home, next day at noon, and, as the turner boys had to help the squire with the logs at the river, and the school-master had to attend to some business of his own, chad roamed all morning around the town. so engrossed was he with the people and the sights and sounds of the little village that he came to himself with a start and trotted back to the boarding-house for fear that he might not be able to find the station alone. the old lady was standing in the sunshine at the gate. chad panted--"where's--?" "they're gone." "gone!" echoed chad, with a sinking heart. "yes, they've been gone--" but chad did not wait to listen; he whirled into the hall-way, caught up his rifle, and, forgetting his injured foot, fled at full speed down the street. he turned the corner, but could not see the station, and he ran on about another corner and still another, and, just when he was about to burst into tears, he saw the low roof that he was looking for, and hot, panting, and tired, he rushed to it, hardly able to speak. "has that enjine gone?" he asked breathlessly. the man who was whirling trunks on their corners into the baggage-room did not answer. chad's eyes flashed and he caught the man by the coat-tail. "has that enjine gone?" he cried. the man looked over his shoulder. "leggo my coat, you little devil. yes, that enjine's gone," he added, mimicking. then he saw the boy's unhappy face and he dropped the trunk and turned to him. "what's the matter?" he asked, kindly. chad had turned away with a sob. "they've lef' me--they've lef' me," he said, and then, controlling himself: "is thar another goin'?" "not till to-morrow mornin'." another sob came, and chad turned away--he did not want anybody to see him cry. and this was no time for crying, for chad's prayer back at the grave under the poplar flashed suddenly back to him. "i got to ack like a man now." and, sobered at once, he walked on up the hill--thinking. he could not know that the school-master was back in the town, looking for him. if he waited until the next morning, the turners would probably have gone on; whereas, if he started out now on foot, and walked all night, he might catch them before they left lexington next morning. and if he missed the squire and the turner boys, he could certainly find the school-master there. and if not, he could go on to the mountains alone. or he might stay in the "settlemints"--what had he come for? he might--he would--oh, he'd get along somehow, he said to himself, wagging his head--he always had and he always would. he could always go back to the mountains. if he only had jack--if he only had jack! nothing would make any difference then, and he would never be lonely, if he only had jack. but, cheered with his determination, he rubbed the tears from his eyes with his coat-sleeve and climbed the long hill. there was the armory, which, years later, was to harbor union troops in the great war, and beyond it was the little city of the dead that sits on top of the hill far above the shining river. at the great iron gates he stopped a moment, peering through. he saw a wilderness of white slabs and, not until he made his way across the thick green turf and spelled out the names carved on them, could he make out what they were for. how he wondered when he saw the innumerable green mounds, for he hardly knew there were as many people in the world living as he saw there must be in that place, dead. but he had no time to spare and he turned quickly back to the pike--saddened--for his heart went back, as his faithful heart was always doing, to the lonely graves under the big poplar back in the mountains. when he reached the top of the slope, he saw a rolling country of low hills stretching out before him, greening with spring; with far stretches of thick grass and many woodlands under a long, low sky, and he wondered if this was the bluegrass. but he "reckoned" not--not yet. and yet he looked in wonder at the green slopes, and the woods, and the flashing creek, and nowhere in front of him--wonder of all--could he see a mountain. it was as caleb hazel had told him, only chad was not looking for any such mysterious joy as thrilled his sensitive soul. there had been a light sprinkle of snow--such a fall as may come even in early april--but the noon sun had let the wheat-fields and the pastures blossom through it, and had swept it from the gray moist pike until now there were patches of white only in gully and along north hill-sides under little groups of pines and in the woods, where the sunlight could not reach; and chad trudged sturdily on in spite of his heavy rifle and his lame foot, keenly alive to the new sights and sounds and smells of the new world--on until the shadows lengthened and the air chilled again; on, until the sun began to sink close to the far-away haze of the horizon. never had the horizon looked so far away. his foot began to hurt, and on the top of a hill he had to stop and sit down for a while in the road, the pain was so keen. the sun was setting now in a glory of gold, rose, pink, and crimson over him, the still clouds caught the divine light which swept swiftly through the heavens until the little pink clouds over the east, too, turned golden pink and the whole heavens were suffused with green and gold. in the west, cloud was piled on cloud like vast cathedrals that must have been built for worship on the way straight to the very throne of god. and chad sat thrilled, as he had been at the sunrise on the mountains the morning after he ran away. there was no storm, but the same loneliness came to him now and he wondered what he should do. he could not get much farther that night--his foot hurt too badly. he looked up--the clouds had turned to ashes and the air was growing chill--and he got to his feet and started on. at the bottom of the hill and down a little creek he saw a light and he turned toward it. the house was small, and he could hear the crying of a child inside and could see a tall man cutting wood, so he stopped at the bars and shouted "hello!" the man stopped his axe in mid-air and turned. a woman, with a baby in her arms, appeared in the light of the door with children crowding about her. "hello!" answered the man. "i want to git to stay all night." the man hesitated. "we don't keep people all night." "not keep people all night," thought chad with wonder. "oh, i reckon you will," he said. was there anybody in the world who wouldn't take in a stranger for the night? from the doorway the woman saw that it was a boy who was asking shelter and the trust in his voice appealed vaguely to her. "come in!" she called, in a patient, whining tone. "you can stay, i reckon." but chad changed his mind suddenly. if they were in doubt about wanting him--he was in no doubt as to what he would do. "no, i reckon i'd better git on," he said sturdily, and he turned and limped back up the hill to the road--still wondering, and he remembered that, in the mountains, when people wanted to stay all night, they usually stopped before sundown. travelling after dark was suspicious in the mountains, and perhaps it was in this land, too. so, with this thought, he had half a mind to go back and explain, but he pushed on. half a mile farther, his foot was so bad that he stopped with a cry of pain in the road and, seeing a barn close by, he climbed the fence and into the loft and burrowed himself under the hay. from under the shed he could see the stars rising. it was very still and very lonely and he was hungry--hungrier and lonelier than he had ever been in his life, and a sob of helplessness rose to his lips--if he only had jack--but he held it back. "i got to ack like a man now." and, saying this over and over to himself, he went to sleep. chapter . a friend on the road rain fell that night--gentle rain and warm, for the south wind rose at midnight. at four o clock a shower made the shingles over chad rattle sharply, but without wakening the lad, and then the rain ceased; and when chad climbed stiffly from his loft--the world was drenched and still, and the dawn was warm, for spring had come that morning, and chad trudged along the road--unchilled. every now and then he had to stop to rest his foot. now and then he would see people getting breakfast ready in the farm-houses that he passed, and, though his little belly was drawn with pain, he would not stop and ask for something to eat--for he did not want to risk another rebuff. the sun rose and the light leaped from every wet blade of grass and bursting leaf to meet it--leaped as though flashing back gladness that the spring was come. for a little while chad forgot his hunger and forgot his foot--like the leaf and grass-blade his stout heart answered with gladness, too, and he trudged on. meanwhile, far behind him, an old carriage rolled out of a big yard and started toward him and toward lexington. in the driver's seat was an old gray-haired, gray-bearded negro with knotty hands and a kindly face; while, on the oval shaped seat behind the lumbering old vehicle, sat a little darky with his bare legs dangling down. in the carriage sat a man who might have been a stout squire straight from merry england, except that there was a little tilt to the brim of his slouch hat that one never sees except on the head of a southerner, and in his strong, but easy, good-natured mouth was a pipe of corn-cob with a long cane stem. the horses that drew him were a handsome pair of half thoroughbreds, and the old driver, with his eyes half closed, looked as though, even that early in the morning, he were dozing. an hour later, the pike ran through an old wooden-covered bridge, to one side of which a road led down to the water, and the old negro turned the carriage to the creek to let his horses drink. the carriage stood still in the middle of the stream and presently the old driver turned his head: "mars cal!" he called in a low voice. the major raised his head. the old negro was pointing with his whip ahead and the major saw something sitting on the stone fence, some twenty yards beyond, which stirred him sharply from his mood of contemplation. "shades of dan'l boone!" he said, softly. it was a miniature pioneer--the little still figure watching him solemnly and silently. across the boy's lap lay a long rifle--the major could see that it had a flintlock--and on his tangled hair was a coonskin cap--the scalp above his steady dark eyes and the tail hanging down the lad's neck. and on his feet were--moccasins! the carriage moved out of the stream and the old driver got down to hook the check-reins over the shining bit of metal that curved back over the little saddles to which the boy's eyes had swiftly strayed. then they came back to the major. "howdye!" said chad. "good-mornin', little man," said the major pleasantly, and chad knew straightway that he had found a friend. but there was silence. chad scanned the horses and the strange vehicle and the old driver and the little pickaninny who, hearing the boy's voice, had stood up on his seat and was grinning over one of the hind wheels, and then his eyes rested on the major with a simple confidence and unconscious appeal that touched the major at once. "are you goin' my way?" the major's nature was too mellow and easy-going to pay any attention to final g's. chad lifted his old gun and pointed up the road. "i'm a-goin' thataway." "well, don't you want to ride?" "yes," he said, simply. "climb right in, my boy." so chad climbed in, and, holding the old rifle upright between his knees, he looked straight forward, in silence, while the major studied him with a quiet smile. "where are you from, little man?" "i come from the mountains." "the mountains?" said the major. the major had fished and hunted in the mountains, and somewhere in that unknown region he owned a kingdom of wild mountain-land, but he knew as little about the people as he knew about the hottentots, and cared hardly more. "what are you doin' up here?" "i'm goin' home," said chad. "how did you happen to come away?" "oh, i been wantin' to see the settlemints." "the settlemints," echoed the major, and then he understood. he recalled having heard the mountaineers call the bluegrass region the "settlemints" before. "i come down on a raft with dolph and tom and rube and the squire and the school-teacher, an' i got lost in frankfort. they've gone on, i reckon, an' i'm tryin' to ketch 'em." "what will you do if you don't?" "foller'em," said chad, sturdily. "does your father live down in the mountains?" "no," said chad, shortly. the major looked at the lad gravely. "don't little boys down in the mountains ever say sir to their elders?" "no," said chad. "no, sir," he added gravely and the major broke into a pleased laugh--the boy was quick as lightning. "i ain't got no daddy. an' no mammy--i ain't got--nothin'." it was said quite simply, as though his purpose merely was not to sail under false colors, and the major's answer was quick and apologetic: "oh!" he said, and for a moment there was silence again. chad watched the woods, the fields, and the cattle, the strange grain growing about him, and the birds and the trees. not a thing escaped his keen eye, and, now and then, he would ask a question which the major would answer with some surprise and wonder. his artless ways pleased the old fellow. "you haven't told me your name." "you hain't axed me." "well, i axe you now," laughed the major, but chad saw nothing to laugh at. "chad," he said. "chad what?" now it had always been enough in the mountains, when anybody asked his name, for him to answer simply--chad. he hesitated now and his brow wrinkled as though he were thinking hard. "i don't know," said chad. "what? don't know your own name?" the boy looked up into the major's face with eyes that were so frank and unashamed and at the same time so vaguely troubled that the major was abashed. "of course not," he said kindly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that a boy should not know his own name. presently the major said, reflectively: "chadwick." "chad," corrected the boy. "yes, i know"; and the major went on thinking that chadwick happened to be an ancestral name in his own family. chad's brow was still wrinkled--he was trying to think what old nathan cherry used to call him. "i reckon i hain't thought o' my name since i left old nathan," he said. then he told briefly about the old man, and lifting his lame foot suddenly, he said: "ouch!" the major looked around and chad explained: "i hurt my foot comin' down the river an' hit got wuss walkin' so much." the major noticed then that the boy's face was pale, and that there were dark hollows under his eyes, but it never occurred to him that the lad was hungry, for, in the major's land, nobody ever went hungry for long. but chad was suffering now and he leaned back in his seat and neither talked nor looked at the passing fields. by and by, he spied a crossroads store. "i wonder if i can't git somethin' to eat in that store." the major laughed: "you ain't gettin' hungry so soon, are you? you must have eaten breakfast pretty early." "i ain't had no breakfast--an' i didn't hev no supper last night." "what?" shouted the major. chad stated the fact with brave unconcern, but his lip quivered slightly--he was weak. "well, i reckon we'll get something to eat there whether they've got anything or not." and then chad explained, telling the story of his walk from frankfort. the major was amazed that anybody could have denied the boy food and lodging. "who were they, tom?" he asked the old driver turned: "they was some po' white trash down on cane creek, i reckon, suh. must'a' been." there was a slight contempt in the negro's words that made chad think of hearing the turners call the dillons white trash--though they never said "po' white trash." "oh!" said the major. so the carriage stopped, and when a man in a black slouch hat came out, the major called: "jim, here's a boy who ain't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours. get him a cup of coffee right away, and i reckon you've got some cold ham handy." "yes, indeed, major," said jim, and he yelled to a negro girl who was standing on the porch of his house behind the store. chad ate ravenously and the major watched him with genuine pleasure. when the boy was through, he reached in his pocket and brought out his old five-dollar bill, and the major laughed aloud and patted him on the head. "you can't pay for anything while you are with me, chad." the whole earth wore a smile when they started out again. the swelling hills had stretched out into gentler slopes. the sun was warm, the clouds were still, and the air was almost drowsy. the major's eyes closed and everything lapsed into silence. that was a wonderful ride for chad. it was all true, just as the school-master had told him; the big, beautiful houses he saw now and then up avenues of blossoming locusts; the endless stone fences, the whitewashed barns, the woodlands and pastures; the meadow-larks flitting in the sunlight and singing everywhere; fluting, chattering blackbirds, and a strange new black bird with red wings, at which chad wondered very much, as he watched it balancing itself against the wind and singing as it poised. everything seemed to sing in that wonderful land. and the seas of bluegrass stretching away on every side, with the shadows of clouds passing in rapid succession over them, like mystic floating islands--and never a mountain in sight. what a strange country it was. "maybe some of your friends are looking for you in frankfort," said the major. "no, sir, i reckon not," said chad--for the man at the station had told him that the men who had asked about him were gone. "all of them?" asked the major. of course, the man at the station could not tell whether all of them had gone, and perhaps the school-master had stayed behind--it was caleb hazel if anybody. "well, now, i wonder," said chad--"the school-teacher might'a' stayed." again the two lapsed into silence--chad thinking very hard. he might yet catch the school-master in lexington, and he grew very cheerful at the thought. "you ain't told me yo' name," he said, presently. the major's lips smiled under the brim of his hat. "you hain't axed me." "well, i axe you now." chad, too, was smiling. "cal," said the major. "cal what?" "i don't know." "oh, yes, you do, now--you foolin' me"--the boy lifted one finger at the major. "buford, calvin buford." "buford--buford--buford," repeated the boy, each time with his forehead wrinkled as though he were trying to recall something. "what is it, chad?" "nothin'--nothin'." and then he looked up with bewildered face at the major and broke into the quavering voice of an old man. "chad buford, you little devil, come hyeh this minute or i'll beat the life outen you!" "what--what!" said the major excitedly. the boy's face was as honest as the sky above him. "well, that's funny--very funny." "well, that's it," said chad, "that's what ole nathan used to call me. i reckon i hain't naver thought o' my name agin tell you axed me." the major looked at the lad keenly and then dropped back in his seat ruminating. away back in a linchpin had slipped in a wagon on the wilderness road and his grandfather's only brother, chadwick buford, had concluded to stop there for a while and hunt and come on later--thus ran an old letter that the major had in his strong box at home--and that brother had never turned up again and the supposition was that he had been killed by indians. now it would be strange if he had wandered up in the mountains and settled there and if this boy were a descendant of his. it would be very, very strange, and then the major almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea. the name buford was all over the state. the boy had said, with amazing frankness and without a particle of shame, that he was a waif--a "woodscolt," he said, with paralyzing candor. and so the major dropped the matter out of his mind, except in so far that it was a peculiar coincidence--again saying, half to himself-- "it certainly is very odd!" chapter . home with the major ahead of them, it was court day in lexington. from the town, as a centre, white turnpikes radiated in every direction like the strands of a spider's web. along them, on the day before, cattle, sheep, and hogs had made their slow way. since dawn, that morning, the fine dust had been rising under hoof and wheel on every one of them, for court day is yet the great day of every month throughout the bluegrass. the crowd had gone ahead of the major and chad. only now and then would a laggard buggy or carriage turn into the pike from a pasture-road or locust-bordered avenue. only men were occupants, for the ladies rarely go to town on court days--and probably none would go on that day. trouble was expected. an abolitionist, one brutus dean--not from the north, but a kentuckian, a slave-holder and a gentleman--would probably start a paper in lexington to exploit his views in the heart of the bluegrass; and his quondam friends would shatter his press and tear his office to pieces. so the major told chad, and he pointed out some "hands" at work in a field. "an', mark my words, some day there's goin' to be the damnedest fight the world ever saw over these very niggers. an' the day ain't so far away." it was noon before they reached the big cemetery on the edge of lexington. through a rift in the trees the major pointed out the grave of henry clay, and told him about the big monument that was to be reared above his remains. the grave of henry clay! chad knew all about him. he had heard caleb hazel read the great man's speeches aloud by the hour--had heard him intoning them to himself as he walked the woods to and fro from school. would wonders never cease. there seemed to be no end to the houses and streets and people in this big town, and chad wondered why everybody turned to look at him and smiled, and, later in the day, he came near getting into a fight with another boy who seemed to be making fun of him to his companions. he wondered at that, too, until it suddenly struck him that he saw nobody else carrying a rifle and wearing a coonskin cap--perhaps it was his cap and his gun. the major was amused and pleased, and he took a certain pride in the boy's calm indifference to the attention he was drawing to himself. and he enjoyed the little mystery which he and his queer little companion seemed to create as they drove through the streets. on one corner was a great hemp factory. through the windows chad could see negroes, dusty as millers, bustling about, singing as they worked. before the door were two men--one on horseback. the major drew up a moment. "how are you, john? howdye, dick?" both men answered heartily, and both looked at chad--who looked intently at them--the graceful, powerful man on foot and the slender, wiry man with wonderful dark eyes on horseback. "pioneering, major?" asked john morgan. "this is a namesake of mine from the mountains. he's come up to see the settlements." richard hunt turned on his horse. "how do you like 'em?" "never seed nothin' like 'em in my life," said chad, gravely. morgan laughed and richard hunt rode on with them down the street. "was that captin morgan?" asked chad. "yes," said the major. "have you heard of him before?" "yes, sir. a feller on the road tol' me, if i was lookin' fer somethin' to do hyeh in lexington to go to captin morgan." the major laughed: "that's what everybody does." at once, the major took the boy to an old inn and gave him a hearty meal; and while the major attended to some business, chad roamed the streets. "don't get into trouble, my boy," said the major, "an' come back here an hour or two by sun." naturally, the lad drifted where the crowd was thickest--to cheapside. cheapside--at once the market-place and the forum of the bluegrass from pioneer days to the present hour--the platform that knew clay, crittenden, marshall, breckenridge, as it knows the lesser men of to-day, who resemble those giants of old as the woodlands of the bluegrass to-day resemble the primeval forests from which they sprang. cheapside was thronged that morning with cattle, sheep, hogs, horses, farmers, aristocrats, negroes, poor whites. the air was a babel of cries from auctioneers--head, shoulders, and waistband above the crowd--and the cries of animals that were changing owners that day--one of which might now and then be a human being. the major was busy, and chad wandered where he pleased--keeping a sharp lookout everywhere for the school-master, but though he asked right and left he could find nobody, to his great wonder, who knew even the master's name. in the middle of the afternoon the country people began to leave town and cheapside was cleared, but, as chad walked past the old inn, he saw a crowd gathered within and about the wide doors of a livery-stable, and in a circle outside that lapped half the street. the auctioneer was in plain sight above the heads of the crowd, and the horses were led out one by one from the stable. it was evidently a sale of considerable moment, and there were horse-raisers, horse-trainers, jockeys, stable-boys, gentlemen--all eager spectators or bidders. chad edged his way through the outer rim of the crowd and to the edge of the sidewalk, and, when a spectator stepped down from a dry-goods box from which he had been looking on, chad stepped up and took his place. straightway, he began to wish he could buy a horse and ride back to the mountains. what fun that would be, and how he would astonish the folks on kingdom come. he had his five dollars still in his pocket, and when the first horse was brought out, the auctioneer raised his hammer and shouted in loud tones: "how much am i offered for this horse?" there was no answer, and the silence lasted so long that before he knew it chad called out in a voice that frightened him: "five dollars!" nobody heard the bid, and nobody paid any attention to him. "one hundred dollars," said a voice. "one hundred and twenty-five," said another, and the horse was knocked down for two hundred dollars. a black stallion with curving neck and red nostrils and two white feet walked proudly in. "how much am i offered?" "five dollars," said chad, promptly. a man who sat near heard the boy and turned to look at the little fellow, and was hardly able to believe his ears. and so it went on. each time a horse was put up chad shouted out: "five dollars," and the crowd around him began to smile and laugh and encourage him and wait for his bid. the auctioneer, too, saw him, and entered into the fun himself, addressing himself to chad at every opening bid. "keep it up, little man," said a voice behind him. "you'll get one by and by." chad looked around. richard hunt was smiling to him from his horse on the edge of the crowd. the last horse was a brown mare--led in by a halter. she was old and a trifle lame, and chad, still undispirited, called out this time louder than ever: "five dollars!" he shouted out this time loudly enough to be heard by everybody, and a universal laugh rose; then came silence, and, in that silence, an imperious voice shouted back: "let him have her!" it was the owner of the horse who spoke--a tall man with a noble face and long iron-gray hair. the crowd caught his mood, and as nobody wanted the old mare very much, and the owner would be the sole loser, nobody bid against him, and chad's heart thumped when the auctioneer raised his hammer and said: "five dollars, five dollars--what am i offered? five dollars, five dollars, going at five dollars, five dollars--going at five dollars--going--going, last bid, gentlemen!" the hammer came down with a blow that made chad's heart jump and brought a roar of laughter from the crowd. "what is the name, please?" said the auctioneer, bending forward with great respect and dignity toward the diminutive purchaser. "chad." the auctioneer put his hand to one ear. "i beg your pardon--dan'l boone did you say?" "no!" shouted chad indignantly--he began to feel that fun was going on at his expense. "you heerd me--chad." "ah, mr. chad." not a soul knew the boy, but they liked his spirit, and several followed him when he went up and handed his five dollars and took the halter of his new treasure trembling so that he could scarcely stand. the owner of the horse placed his hand on the little fellow's head. "wait a minute," he said, and, turning to a negro boy: "jim, go bring a bridle." the boy brought out a bridle, and the tall man slipped it on the old mare's head, and chad led her away--the crowd watching him. just outside he saw the major, whose eyes opened wide: "where'd you get that old horse, chad?" "bought her," said chad. "what? what'd you give for her?" "five dollars." the major looked pained, for he thought the boy was lying, but richard hunt called him aside and told the story of the purchase; and then how the major did laugh--laughed until the tears rolled down his face. and then and there he got out of his carriage and went into a saddler's shop and bought a brand new saddle with a red blanket, and put it on the old mare and hoisted the boy to his seat. chad was to have no little honor in his day, but he never knew a prouder moment than when he clutched the reins in his left hand and squeezed his short legs against the fat sides of that old brown mare. he rode down the street and back again, and then the major told him he had better put the black boy on the mare, to ride her home ahead of him, and chad reluctantly got off and saw the little darky on his new saddle and his new horse. "take good keer o' that hoss, boy," he said, with a warning shake of his head, and again the major roared. first, the major said, he would go by the old university and leave word with the faculty for the school-master when he should come there to matriculate; and so, at a turnstile that led into a mighty green yard in the middle of which stood a huge gray mass of stone, the carriage stopped, and the major got out and walked through the campus and up the great flight of stone steps and disappeared. the mighty columns, the stone steps--where had chad heard of them? and then the truth flashed. this was the college of which the school-master had told him down in the mountains, and, looking, chad wanted to get closer. "i wonder if it'll make any difference if i go up thar?" he said to the old driver. "no," the old man hesitated--"no, suh, co'se not." and chad climbed out and the old negro followed him with his eyes. he did not wholly approve of his master's picking up an unknown boy on the road. it was all right to let him ride, but to be taking him home--old tom shook his head. "jess wait till miss lucy sees that piece o' white trash," he said, shaking his head. chad was walking slowly with his eyes raised. it must be the college where the school-master had gone to school--for the building was as big as the cliff that he had pointed out down in the mountains, and the porch was as big as the black rock that he pointed out at the same time--the college where caleb hazel said chad, too, must go some day. the major was coming out when the boy reached the foot of the steps, and with him was a tall, gray man with spectacles and a white tie and very white nails, and the major said: "there he is now, professor." and the professor looked at chad curiously, and smiled and smiled again kindly when he saw the boy's grave, unsmiling eyes fastened on him. then, out of the town and through the late radiant afternoon they went until the sun sank and the carriage stopped before a gate. while the pickaninny was opening it, another carriage went swiftly behind them, and the major called out cleanly to the occupants--a quiet, sombre, dignified-looking man and two handsome boys and a little girl. "they're my neighbors, chad," said the major. not a sound did the wheels make on the thick turf as they drove toward the old-fashioned brick house (it had no pillars), with its windows shining through the firs and cedars that filled the yard. the major put his hand on the boy's shoulder: "well, here we are, little man." at the yard gate there was a great barking of dogs, and a great shout of welcome from the negroes who came forward to take the horses. to each of them the major gave a little package, which each darky took with shining teeth and a laugh of delight--all looking with wonder at the curious little stranger with his rifle and coonskin cap, until a scowl from the major checked the smile that started on each black face. then the major led chad up a flight of steps and into a big hall and on into a big drawing-room, where there was a huge fireplace and a great fire that gave chad a pang of homesickness at once. chad was not accustomed to taking off his hat when he entered a house in the mountains, but he saw the major take off his, and he dropped his own cap quickly. the major sank into a chair. "here we are, little man," he said, kindly. chad sat down and looked at the books, and the portraits and prints, and the big mirrors and the carpets on the floor, none of which he had ever seen before, and he wondered at it all and what it all might mean. a few minutes later, a tall lady in black, with a curl down each side of her pale face, came in. like old tom, the driver, the major, too, had been wondering what his sister, miss lucy, would think of his bringing so strange a waif home, and now, with sudden humor, he saw himself fortified. "sister," he said, solemnly, "here's a little kinsman of yours. he's a great-great-grandson of your great-great-uncle--chadwick buford. that's his name. what kin does that make us?" "hush, brother," said miss lucy, for she saw the boy reddening with embarrassment and she went across and shook hands with him, taking in with a glance his coarse strange clothes and his soiled hands and face and his tangled hair, but pleased at once with his shyness and his dark eyes. she was really never surprised at any caprice of her brother, and she did not show much interest when the major went on to tell where he had found the lad--for she would have thought it quite possible that he might have taken the boy out of a circus. as for chad, he was in awe of her at once--which the major noticed with an inward chuckle, for the boy had shown no awe of him. chad could hardly eat for shyness at supper and because everything was so strange and beautiful, and he scarcely opened his lips when they sat around the great fire, until miss lucy was gone to bed. then he told the major all about himself and old nathan and the turners and the school-master, and how he hoped to come back to the bluegrass, and go to that big college himself, and he amazed the major when, glancing at the books, he spelled out the titles of two of scott's novels, "the talisman" and "ivanhoe," and told how the school-master had read them to him. and the major, who had a passion for sir walter, tested chad's knowledge, and he could mention hardly a character or a scene in the two books that did not draw an excited response from the boy. "wouldn't you like to stay here in the bluegrass now and go to school?" chad's eyes lighted up. "i reckon i would; but how am i goin' to school, now, i'd like to know? i ain't got no money to buy books, and the school-teacher said you have to pay to go to school, up here." "well, we'll see about that," said the major, and chad wondered what he meant. presently the major got up and went to the sideboard and poured out a drink of whiskey and, raising it to his lips, stopped: "will you join me?" he asked, humorously, though it was hard for the major to omit that formula even with a boy. "i don't keer if i do," said chad, gravely. the major was astounded and amused, and thought that the boy was not in earnest, but he handed him the bottle and chad poured out a drink that staggered his host, and drank it down without winking. at the fire, the major pulled out his chewing tobacco. this, too, he offered and chad accepted, equalling the major in the accuracy with which he reached the fireplace thereafter with the juice, carrying off his accomplishment, too, with perfect and unconscious gravity. the major was nigh to splitting with silent laughter for a few minutes, and then he grew grave. "does everybody drink and chew down in the mountains?" "yes, sir," said chad. "everybody makes his own licker where i come from." "don't you know it's very bad for little boys to drink and chew?" "no, sir." "did nobody ever tell you it was very bad for little boys to drink and chew?" "no, sir"--not once had chad forgotten that. "well, it is." chad thought for a minute. "will it keep me from gittin' to be a big man?" "yes." chad quietly threw his quid into the fire. "well, i be damned," said the major under his breath. "are you goin' to quit?" "yes, sir." meanwhile, the old driver, whose wife lived on the next farm, was telling the servants over there about the queer little stranger whom his master had picked up on the road that day, and after chad was gone to bed, the major got out some old letters from a chest and read them over again. chadwick buford was his great-grandfather's twin brother, and not a word had been heard of him since the two had parted that morning on the old wilderness road, away back in the earliest pioneer days. so, the major thought and thought suppose--suppose? and at last he got up and with an uplifted candle, looked a long while at the portrait of his grandfather that hung on the southern wall. then, with a sudden humor, he carried the light to the room where the boy was in sound sleep, with his head on one sturdy arm, his hair loose on the pillow, and his lips slightly parted and showing his white, even teeth; he looked at the boy a long time and fancied he could see some resemblance to the portrait in the set of the mouth and the nose and the brow, and he went back smiling at his fancies and thinking--for the major was sensitive to the claim of any drop of the blood in his own veins--no matter how diluted. he was a handsome little chap. "how strange! how strange!" and he smiled when he thought of the boy's last question. "where's yo' mammy?" it had stirred the major. "i am like you, chad," he had said. "i've got no mammy--no nothin', except miss lucy, and she don't live here. i'm afraid she won't be on this earth long. nobody lives here but me, chad." chapter . margaret the major was in town and miss lucy had gone to spend the day with a neighbor; so chad was left alone. "look aroun', chad, and see how you like things," said the major. "go anywhere you please." and chad looked around. he went to the barn to see his old mare and the major's horses, and to the kennels, where the fox-hounds reared against the palings and sniffed at him curiously; he strolled about the quarters, where the little pickaninnies were playing, and out to the fields, where the servants were at work under the overseer, jerome conners, a tall, thin man with shrewd eyes, a sour, sullen face, and protruding upper teeth. one of the few smiles that ever came to that face came now when the overseer saw the little mountaineer. by and by chad got one of the "hands" to let him take hold of the plough and go once around the field, and the boy handled the plough like a veteran, so that the others watched him, and the negro grinned, when he came back, and said "you sutinly can plough fer a fac'!" he was lonesome by noon and had a lonely dinner, during which he could scarcely realize that it was really he--chad--chad sitting up at the table alone and being respectfully waited on by a kinky-headed little negro girl--called thanky-ma'am because she was born on thanksgiving day--and he wondered what the turners would think if they could see him now--and the school-master. where was the school-master? he began to be sorry that he hadn't gone to town to try to find him. perhaps the major would see him--but how would the major know the school-master? he was sorry he hadn't gone. after dinner he started out-doors again. earth and sky were radiant with light. great white tumbling clouds were piled high all around the horizon--and what a long length of sky it was in every direction down in the mountains, he had to look straight up, sometimes, to see the sky at all. blackbirds chattered in the cedars as he went to the yard gate. the field outside was full of singing meadow-larks, and crows were cawing in the woods beyond. there had been a light shower, and on the dead top of a tall tree he saw a buzzard stretching his wings out to the sun. past the edge of the woods, ran a little stream with banks that were green to the very water's edge, and chad followed it on through the woods, over a worn rail-fence, along a sprouting wheat-field, out into a pasture in which sheep and cattle were grazing, and on, past a little hill, where, on the next low slope, sat a great white house with big white pillars, and chad climbed on top of the stone fence--and sat, looking. on the portico stood a tall man in a slouch hat and a lady in black. at the foot of the steps a boy--a head taller than chad perhaps--was rigging up a fishing-pole. a negro boy was leading a black pony toward the porch, and, to his dying day, chad never forgot the scene that followed. for, the next moment, a little figure in a long riding-skirt stood in the big doorway and then ran down the steps, while a laugh, as joyous as the water running at his feet, floated down the slope to his ears. he saw the negro stoop, the little girl bound lightly to her saddle; he saw her black curls shake in the sunlight, again the merry laugh tinkled in his ears, and then, with a white plume nodding from her black cap, she galloped off and disappeared among the trees; and chad sat looking after her--thrilled, mysteriously thrilled--mysteriously saddened, straightway. would he ever see her again? the tall man and the lady in black went in-doors, the negro disappeared, and the boy at the foot of the steps kept on rigging his pole. several times voices sounded under the high creek bank below him, but, quick as his ears were, chad did not hear them. suddenly there was a cry that startled him, and something flashed in the sun over the edge of the bank and flopped in the grass. "snowball!" an imperious young voice called below the bank, "get that fish!" on the moment chad was alert again--somebody was fishing down there--and he sprang from his perch and ran toward the fish just as a woolly head and a jet-black face peeped over the bank. the pickaninny's eyes were stretched wide when he saw the strange figure in coonskin cap and moccasins running down on him, his face almost blanched with terror, and he loosed his hold and, with a cry of fright, rolled back out of sight. chad looked over the bank. a boy of his own age was holding another pole, and, hearing the little darky slide down, he said, sharply: "get that fish, i tell you!" "look dar, mars' dan, look dar!" the boy looked around and up and stared with as much wonder as his little body-servant, but with no fear. "howdye!" said chad; but the white boy stared on silently. "fishin'?" said chad. "yes," said dan, shortly--he had shown enough curiosity and he turned his eyes to his cork. "get that fish, snowball," he said again. "i'll git him fer ye," chad said; and he went to the fish and unhooked it and came down the bank with the perch in one hand and the pole in the other. "whar's yo' string?" he asked, handing the pole to the still trembling little darky. "i'll take it," said dan, sticking the butt of his cane-pole in the mud. the fish slipped through his wet fingers, when chad passed it to him, dropped on the bank, flopped to the edge of the creek, and the three boys, with the same cry, scrambled for it--snowball falling down on it and clutching it in both his black little paws. "dar now!" he shrieked. "i got him!" "give him to me," said dan. "lemme string him," said the black boy. "give him to me, i tell you!" and, stringing the fish, dan took the other pole and turned his eyes to his corks, while the pickaninny squatted behind him and chad climbed up and sat on the bank letting his legs dangle over. when dan caught a fish he would fling it with a whoop high over the bank. after the third fish, the lad was mollified and got over his ill-temper. he turned to chad. "want to fish?" chad sprang down the bank quickly. "yes," he said, and he took the other pole out of the bank, put on a fresh wriggling worm, and moved a little farther down the creek where there was an eddy. "ketchin' any?" said a voice above the bank, and chad looked up to see still another lad, taller by a head than either he or dan--evidently the boy whom he had seen rigging a pole up at the big house on the hill. "oh, 'bout 'leven," said dan, carelessly. "howdye!" said chad. "howdye!" said the other boy, and he, too, stared curiously, but chad had got used to people staring at him. "i'm goin' over the big rock," added the new arrival, and he went down the creek and climbed around a steep little cliff, and out on a huge rock that hung over the creek, where he dropped his hook. he had no cork, and chad knew that he was trying to catch catfish. presently he jerked, and a yellow mudcat rose to the surface, fighting desperately for his life, and dan and snowball yelled crazily. then dan pulled out a perch. "i got another one," he shouted. and chad fished silently. they were making "a mighty big fuss," he thought, "over mighty little fish." if he just had a minnow an' had 'em down in the mountains, "i gonnies, he'd show'em what fishin' was!" but he began to have good luck as it was. perch after perch he pulled out quietly, and he kept snowball busy stringing them until he had five on the string. the boy on the rock was watching him and so was the boy near him--furtively--while snowball's admiration was won completely, and he grinned and gurgled his delight, until dan lost his temper again and spoke to him sharply. dan did not like to be beaten at anything. pretty soon there was a light thunder of hoofs on the turf above the bank. a black pony shot around the bank and was pulled in at the edge of the ford, and chad was looking into the dancing black eyes of a little girl with a black velvet cap on her dark curls and a white plume waving from it. "howdye!" said chad, and his heart leaped curiously, but the little girl did not answer. she, too, stared at him as all the others had done and started to ride into the creek, but dan stopped her sharply: "now, margaret, don't you ride into that water. you'll skeer the fish." "no, you won't," said chad, promptly. "fish don't keer nothin' about a hoss." but the little girl stood still, and her brother's face flushed. he resented the stranger's interference and his assumption of a better knowledge of fish. "mind your own business," trembled on his tongue, and the fact that he held the words back only served to increase his ill-humor and make a worse outbreak possible. but, if chad did not understand, snowball did, and his black face grew suddenly grave as he sprang more alertly than ever at any word from his little master. meanwhile, all unconscious, chad fished on, catching perch after perch, but he could not keep his eyes on his cork while the little girl was so near, and more than once he was warned by a suppressed cry from the pickaninny when to pull. once, when he was putting on a worm, he saw the little girl watching the process with great disgust, and he remembered that melissa would never bait her own hook. all girls were alike, he "reckoned" to himself, and when he caught a fish that was unusually big, he walked over to her. "i'll give this un to you," he said, but she shrank from it. "go 'way!" she said, and she turned her pony. dan was red in the face by this time. how did this piece of poor white trash dare to offer a fish to his sister. and this time the words came out like the crack of a whip: "s'pose you mind your own business!" chad started as though he had been struck and looked around quickly. he said nothing, but he stuck the butt of his pole in the mud at once and climbed up on the bank again and sat there, with his legs hanging over; and his own face was not pleasant to see. the little girl was riding at a walk up the road. chad kept perfect silence, for he realized that he had not been minding his own business; still he did not like to be told so and in such a way. both corks were shaking at the same time now. "you got a bite," said dan, but chad did not move. "you got a bite, i tell you," he said, in almost the tone he had used to snowball, but chad, when the small aristocrat looked sharply around, dropped his elbows to his knees and his chin into his hand--taking no notice. once he spat dexterously into the creek. dan's own cork was going under: "snowball!" he cried--"jerk!" a fish flew over chad's head. snowball had run for the other pole at command and jerked, too, but the fish was gone and with it the bait. "you lost that fish!" said the boy, hotly, but chad sat silent--still. if he would only say something! dan began to think that the stranger was a coward. so presently, to show what a great little man he was, he began to tease snowball, who was up on the bank unhooking the fish, of which chad had taken no notice. "what's your name?" "snowball!" henchman, obediently. "louder!" "s-n-o-w-b-a-l-l!" "louder!" the little black fellow opened his mouth wide. "s-n-o-w-b-a-l-l!" he shrieked. "louder!" at last chad spoke quietly. "he can't holler no louder." "what do you know about it? louder!", and dan started menacingly after the little darky but chad stepped between. "don't hit him!" now dan had never struck snowball in his life, and he would as soon have struck his own brother--but he must not be told that he couldn't. his face flamed and little hotspur that he was, he drew his fist back and hit chad full in the chest. chad leaped back to avoid the blow, tumbling snowball down the bank; the two clinched, and, while they tussled, chad heard the other brother clambering over the rocks, the beat of hoofs coming toward him on the turf, and the little girl's cry: "don't you dare touch my brother!" both went down side by side with their head just hanging over the bank, where both could see snowball's black wool coming to the surface in the deep hole, and both heard his terrified shriek as he went under again. chad was first to his feet. "git a rail!" he shouted and plunged in, but dan sprang in after him. in three strokes, for the current was rather strong, chad had the kinky wool in his hand, and, in a few strokes more, the two boys had snowball gasping on the bank. harry, the taller brother, ran forward to help them carry him up the bank, and they laid him, choking and bawling, on the grass. whip in one hand and with the skirt of her long black riding-habit in the other, the little girl stood above, looking on--white and frightened. the hullabaloo had reached the house and general dean was walking swiftly down the hill, with snowball's mammy, topped by a red bandanna handkerchief, rushing after him and the kitchen servants following. "what does this mean?" he said, sternly, and chad was in a strange awe at once--he was so tall, and he stood so straight, and his eye was so piercing. few people could lie into that eye. the little girl spoke first--usually she does speak first, as well as last. "dan and--and--that boy were fighting and they pushed snowball into the creek." "dan was teasin' snowball," said harry the just. "and that boy meddled," said dan. "who struck first?" asked the general, looking from one boy to the other. dan dropped his eyes sullenly and chad did not answer. "i wasn't goin' to hit snowball," said dan. "i thought you wus," said chad. "who struck first?" repeated the general, looking at dan now. "that boy meddled and i hit him." chad turned and answered the general's eyes steadily. "i reckon i had no business meddlin'!" "he tried to give sister a fish." that was unwise in dan--margaret's chin lifted. "oh," she said, "that was it, too, was it? well--" "i didn't see no harm givin' the little gal a fish," said chad. "little gal," indeed! chad lost the ground he might have gained. margaret's eyes looked all at once like her father's. "i'm a little girl, thank you." chad turned to her father now, looking him in the face straight and steadily. "i reckon i had no business meddlin', but i didn't think hit was fa'r fer him to hit the nigger; the nigger was littler, an' i didn't think hit 'as right." "i didn't mean to hit him--i was only playin'!" "but i thought you was goin' to hit him," said chad. he looked at the general again. "but i had no business meddlin'." and he picked up his old coonskin cap from the grass to start away. "hold on, little man," said the general. "dan, haven't i told you not to tease snowball?" dan dropped his eyes again. "yes, sir." "you struck first, and this boy says he oughtn't to have meddled, but i think he did just right. have you anything to say to him?" dan worked the toe of his left boot into the turf for a moment "no, sir." "well, go up to your room and think about it awhile and see if you don't owe somebody an apology. hurry up now an' change your clothes. "you'd better come up to the house and get some dry clothes for yourself, my boy," he added to chad. "you'll catch cold." "much obleeged," said chad. "but i don't ketch cold." he put on his old coonskin cap, and then the general recognized him. "why, aren't you the little boy who bought a horse from me in town the other day?" and then chad recognized him as the tall man who had cried "let him have her." "yes, sir." "well, i know all about you," said the general, kindly. "you are staying with major buford. he's a great friend and neighbor of mine. now you must come up and get some clothes, harry!"--but chad, though he hesitated, for he knew now that the gentleman had practically given him the mare, interrupted, sturdily, "no, sir, i can't go--not while he's a-feelin' hard at me." "very well," said the general, gravely. chad started off on a trot and stopped suddenly, "i wish you'd please tell that little gurl"--chad pronounced the word with some difficulty--"that i didn't mean nothin' callin' her a little gal. ever'body calls gurls gals whar i come from." "all right," laughed the general. chad trotted all the way home and there miss lucy made him take off his wet clothes at once, though the boy had to go to bed while they were drying, for he had no other clothes, and while he lay in bed the major came up and listened to chad's story of the afternoon, which chad told him word for word just as it had all happened. "you did just right, chad," said the major, and he went down the stairs, chuckling: "wouldn't go in and get dry clothes because dan wouldn't apologize. dear me! i reckon they'll have it out when they see each other again. i'd like to be on hand, and i'd bet my bottom dollar on chad." but they did not have it out. half an hour after supper somebody shouted "hello!" at the gate, and the major went out and came back smiling. "somebody wants to see you, chad," he said. and chad went out and found dan there on the black pony with snowball behind him. "i've come over to say that i had no business hittin' you down at the creek, and--" chad interrupted him: "that's all right," he said, and dan stopped and thrust out his hand. the two boys shook hands gravely. "an' my papa says you are a man an' he wants you to come over and see us and i want you--and harry and margaret. we all want you." "all right," said chad. dan turned his black pony and galloped off. "an' come soon!" he shouted back. out in the quarters mammy ailsie, old tom's wife, was having her own say that night. "ole marse cal buford pickin' a piece of white trash out de gutter an' not sayin' whar he come from an' nuttin' 'bout him. an' old mars henry takin' him jus' like he was quality. my tom say dae boy don' know who is his mammy ner his daddy. i ain' gwine to let my little mistis play wid no sech trash, i tell you--'deed i ain't!" and this talk would reach the drawing-room by and by, where the general was telling the family, at just about the same hour, the story of the horse sale and chad's purchase of the old brood mare. "i knew where he was from right away," said harry. "i've seen mountain-people wearing caps like his up at uncle brutus's, when they come down to go to richmond." the general frowned. "well, you won't see any more people like him up there again." "why, papa?" "because you aren't going to uncle brutus's any more." "why, papa?" the mother put her hand on her husband's knee. "never mind, son," she said. chapter . the bluegrass god's country! no humor in that phrase to the bluegrass kentuckian! there never was--there is none now. to him, the land seems in all the new world, to have been the pet shrine of the great mother herself. she fashioned it with loving hands. she shut it in with a mighty barrier of mighty mountains to keep the mob out. she gave it the loving clasp of a mighty river, and spread broad, level prairies beyond that the mob might glide by, or be tempted to the other side, where the earth was level and there was no need to climb; that she might send priests from her shrine to reclaim western wastes or let the weak or the unloving--if such could be--have easy access to another land. in the beginning, such was her clear purpose to the kentuckian's eye, she filled it with flowers and grass and trees, and fish and bird and wild beasts. just as she made eden for adam and eve. the red men fought for the paradise--fought till it was drenched with blood, but no tribe, without mortal challenge from another straightway, could ever call a rood its own. boone loved the land from the moment the eagle eye in his head swept its shaking wilderness from a mountain-top, and every man who followed him loved the land no less. and when the chosen came, they found the earth ready to receive them--lifted above the baneful breath of river-bottom and marshland, drained by rivers full of fish, filled with woods full of game, and underlaid--all--with thick, blue, limestone strata that, like some divine agent working in the dark, kept crumbling--ever crumbling--to enrich the soil and give bone-building virtue to every drop of water and every blade of grass. for those chosen people such, too, seemed her purpose--the mother went to the race upon whom she had smiled a benediction for a thousand years--the race that obstacle but strengthens, that thrives best under an alien effort to kill, that has ever conquered its conquerors, and that seems bent on the task of carrying the best ideals any age has ever known back to the old world from which it sprang. the great mother knows! knows that her children must suffer, if they stray too far from her great teeming breasts. and how she has followed close when this saxon race--her youngest born--seemed likely to stray too far--gathering its sons to her arms in virgin lands that they might suckle again and keep the old blood fresh and strong. who could know what danger threatened it when she sent her blue-eyed men and women to people the wilderness of the new world? to climb the alleghenies, spread through the wastes beyond, and plant their kind across a continent from sea to sea. who knows what dangers threaten now, when, his task done, she seems to be opening the eastern gates of the earth with a gesture that seems to say--"enter, reclaim, and dwell therein!" one little race of that race in the new world, and one only, has she kept flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone--to that race only did she give no outside aid. she shut it in with gray hill and shining river. she shut it off from the mother state and the mother nation and left it to fight its own fight with savage nature, savage beast, and savage man. and thus she gave the little race strength of heart and body and brain, and taught it to stand together as she taught each man of the race to stand alone, protect his women, mind his own business, and meddle not at all; to think his own thoughts and die for them if need be, though he divided his own house against itself; taught the man to cleave to one woman, with the penalty of death if he strayed elsewhere; to keep her--and even himself--in dark ignorance of the sins against herself for which she has slain other nations, and in that happy ignorance keeps them to-day, even while she is slaying elsewhere still. and nature holds the kentuckians close even to-day--suckling at her breasts and living after her simple laws. what further use she may have for them is hid by the darkness of to-morrow, but before the great war came she could look upon her work and say with a smile that it was good. the land was a great series of wooded parks such as one might have found in merry england, except that worm fence and stone wall took the place of hedge along the highways. it was a land of peace and of a plenty that was close to easy luxury--for all. poor whites were few, the beggar was unknown, and throughout the region there was no man, woman, or child, perhaps, who did not have enough to eat and to wear and a roof to cover his head, whether it was his own roof or not. if slavery had to be--then the fetters were forged light and hung loosely. and, broadcast, through the people, was the upright sturdiness of the scotch-irishman, without his narrowness and bigotry; the grace and chivalry of the cavalier without his quixotic sentiment and his weakness; the jovial good-nature of the english squire and the leavening spirit of a simple yeomanry that bore itself with unconscious tenacity to traditions that seeped from the very earth. and the wings of the eagle hovered over all. for that land it was the flowering time of the age and the people; and the bud that was about to open into the perfect flower had its living symbol in the little creature racing over the bluegrass fields on a black pony, with a black velvet cap and a white nodding plume above her shaking curls, just as the little stranger who had floated down into those elysian fields--with better blood in his veins than he knew--was a reincarnation perhaps of the spirit of the old race that had lain dormant in the hills. the long way from log-cabin to greek portico had marked the progress of the generations before her, and, on this same way, the boy had set his sturdy feet. chapter . a tournament on sunday, the major and miss lucy took chad to church--a country church built of red brick and overgrown with ivy--and the sermon was very short, chad thought, for, down in the mountains, the circuit-rider would preach for hours--and the deacons passed around velvet pouches for the people to drop money in, and they passed around bread, of which nearly everybody took a pinch, and a silver goblet with wine, from which the same people took a sip--all of which chad did not understand. usually the deans went to lexington to church, for they were episcopalians, but they were all at the country church that day, and with them was richard hunt, who smiled at chad and waved his riding-whip. after church dan came to him and shook hands. harry nodded to him gravely, the mother smiled kindly, and the general put his hand on the boy's head. margaret looked at him furtively, but passed him by. perhaps she was still "mad" at him, chad thought, and he was much worried. margaret was not shy like melissa, but her face was kind. the general asked them all over to take dinner, but miss lucy declined--she had asked people to take dinner with her. and chad, with keen disappointment, saw them drive away. it was a lonely day for him that sunday. he got tired staying so long at the table, and he did not understand what the guests were talking about. the afternoon was long, and he wandered restlessly about the yard and the quarters. jerome conners, the overseer, tried to be friendly with him for the first time, but the boy did not like the overseer and turned away from him. he walked down to the pike gate and sat on it, looking over toward the deans'. he wished that dan would come over to see him or, better still, that he could go over to see dan and harry and--margaret. but dan did not come and chad could not ask the major to let him go--he was too shy about it--and chad was glad when bedtime came. two days more and spring was come in earnest. it was in the softness of the air, the tenderness of cloud and sky, and the warmth of the sunlight. the grass was greener and the trees quivered happily. hens scratched and cocks crowed more lustily. insect life was busier. a stallion nickered in the barn, and from the fields came the mooing of cattle. field-hands going to work chaffed the maids about the house and quarters. it stirred dreamy memories of his youth in the major, and it brought a sad light into miss lucy's faded eyes. would she ever see another spring? it brought tender memories to general dean, and over at woodlawn, after he and mrs. dean had watched the children go off with happy cries and laughter to school, it led them back into the house hand in hand. and it set chad's heart aglow as he walked through the dewy grass and amid the singing of many birds toward the pike gate. he, too, was on his way to school--in a brave new suit of clothes--and nobody smiled at him now, except admiringly, for the major had taken him to town the preceding day and had got the boy clothes such as dan and harry wore. chad was worried at first--he did not like to accept so much from the major. "i'll pay you back," said chad. "i'll leave you my hoss when i go 'way, if i don't," and the major laughingly said that was all right and he made chad, too, think that it was all right. and so spring took the shape of hope in chad's breast, that morning, and a little later it took the shape of margaret, for he soon saw the dean children ahead of him in the road and he ran to catch up with them. all looked at him with surprise--seeing his broad white collar with ruffles, his turned-back, ruffled cuffs, and his boots with red tops; but they were too polite to say anything. still chad felt margaret taking them all in and he was proud and confident. and, when her eyes were lifted to the handsome face that rose from the collar and the thick yellow hair, he caught them with his own in an unconscious look of fealty, that made the little girl blush and hurry on and not look at him again until they were in school, when she turned her eyes, as did all the other boys and girls, to scan the new "scholar." chad's work in the mountains came in well now. the teacher, a gray, sad-eyed, thin-faced man, was surprised at the boy's capacity, for he could read as well as dan, and in mental arithmetic even harry was no match for him; and when in the spelling class he went from the bottom to the head in a single lesson, the teacher looked as though he were going to give the boy a word of praise openly and margaret was regarding him with a new light in her proud eyes. that was a happy day for chad, but it passed after school when, as they went home together, margaret looked at him no more; else chad would have gone by the deans' house when dan and harry asked him to go and look at their ponies and the new sheep that their father had just bought; for chad was puzzled and awed and shy of the little girl. it was strange--he had never felt that way about melissa. but his shyness kept him away from her day after day until, one morning, he saw her ahead of him going to school alone, and his heart thumped as he quietly and swiftly overtook her without calling to her; but he stopped running that she might not know that he had been running, and for the first time she was shy with him. harry and dan were threatened with the measles, she said, and would say no more. when they went through the fields toward the school-house, chad stalked ahead as he had done in the mountains with melissa, and, looking back, he saw that margaret had stopped. he waited for her to come up, and she looked at him for a moment as though displeased. puzzled, chad gave back her look for a moment and turned without a word--still stalking ahead. he looked back presently and margaret had stopped and was pouting. "you aren't polite, little boy. my mamma says a nice little boy always lets a little girl go first." but chad still walked ahead. he looked back presently and she had stopped again--whether angry or ready to cry, he could not make out--so he waited for her, and as she came slowly near he stepped gravely from the path, and margaret went on like a queen. in town, a few days later, he saw a little fellow take off his hat when a lady passed him, and it set chad to thinking. he recalled asking the school-master once what was meant when the latter read about a knight doffing his plume, and the school-master had told him that men, in those days, took off their hats in the presence of ladies just as they did in the bluegrass now; but chad had forgotten. he understood it all then and he surprised margaret, next morning, by taking off his cap gravely when he spoke to her; and the little lady was greatly pleased, for her own brothers did not do that, at least, not to her, though she had heard her mother tell them that they must. all this must be chivalry, chad thought, and when harry and dan got well, he revived his old ideas, but harry laughed at him and dan did, too, until chad, remembering beelzebub, suggested that they should have a tournament with two rams that the general had tied up in the stable. they would make spears and each would get on a ram. harry would let them out into the lot and they would have "a real charge--sure enough." but margaret received the plan with disdain, until dan, at chad's suggestion, asked the general to read them the tournament scene in "ivanhoe," which excited the little lady a great deal; and when chad said that she must be the "queen of love and beauty" she blushed prettily and thought, after all, that it would be great fun. they would make lances of ash-wood and helmets of tin buckets, and perhaps margaret would make red sashes for them. indeed, she would, and the tournament would take place on the next saturday. but, on saturday, one of the sheep was taken over to major buford's and the other was turned loose in the major's back pasture and the great day had to be postponed. it was on the night of the reading from "ivanhoe" that harry and dan found out how chad could play the banjo. passing old mammy's cabin that night before supper, the three boys had stopped to listen to old tom play, and after a few tunes, chad could stand it no longer. "i foller pickin' the banjer a leetle," he said shyly, and thereupon he had taken the rude instrument and made the old negro's eyes stretch with amazement, while dan rolled in the grass with delight, and every negro who heard ran toward the boy. after supper, dan brought the banjo into the house and made chad play on the porch, to the delight of them all. and there, too, the servants gathered, and even old mammy was observed slyly shaking her foot--so that margaret clapped her hands and laughed the old woman into great confusion. after that no saturday came that chad did not spend the night at the deans', or harry and dan did not stay at major buford's. and not a saturday passed that the three boys did not go coon-hunting with the darkies, or fox-hunting with the major and the general. chad never forgot that first starlit night when he was awakened by the near winding of a horn and heard the major jump from bed. he jumped too, and when the major reached the barn, a dark little figure was close at his heels. "can i go, too?" chad asked, eagerly. "think you can stick on?" "yes, sir." "all right. get my bay horse. that old mare of yours is too slow." the major's big bay horse! chad was dizzy with pride. when they galloped out into the dark woods, there were the general and harry and dan and half a dozen neighbors, sitting silently on their horses and listening to the music of the hounds. the general laughed. "i thought you'd come," he said, and the major laughed too, and cocked his ear. "old rock's ahead," he said, for he knew, as did everyone there, the old hound's tongue. "he's been ahead for an hour," said the general with quiet satisfaction, "and i think he'll stay there." just then a dark object swept past them, and the major with a low cry hied on his favorite hound. "not now, i reckon," he said, and the general laughed again. dan and harry pressed their horses close to chad, and all talked in low voices. "ain't it fun?" whispered dan. chad answered with a shiver of pure joy. "he's making for the creek," said the major, sharply, and he touched spurs to his horse. how they raced through the woods, cracking brush and whisking around trees, and how they thundered over the turf and clattered across the road and on! for a few moments the major kept close to chad, watching him anxiously, but the boy stuck to the big bay like a jockey, and he left dan and harry on their ponies far behind. all night they rode under the starlit sky, and ten miles away they caught poor reynard. chad was in at the kill, with the major and the general, and the general gave chad the brush with his own hand. "where did you learn to ride, boy?" "i never learned," said chad, simply, whereat the major winked at his friends and patted chad on the shoulder. "i've got to let my boys ride better horses, i suppose," said the general; "i can't have a boy who does not know how to ride beating them this way." day was breaking when the major and chad rode into the stable-yard. the boy's face was pale, his arms and legs ached, and he was so sleepy that he could hardly keep his eyes open. "how'd you like it, chad?" "i never knowed nothing like it in my life," said chad. "i'm going to teach you to shoot." "yes, sir," said chad. as they approached the house, a squirrel barked from the woods. "hear that, chad?" said the major. "we'll get him." the following morning, chad rose early and took his old rifle out into the woods, and when the major came out on the porch before breakfast the boy was coming up the walk with six squirrels in his hand. the major's eyes opened and he looked at the squirrels when chad dropped them on the porch. every one of them was shot through the head. "well, i'm damned! how many times did you shoot, chad?" "seven." "what--missed only once?" "i took a knot fer a squirrel once," said chad. the major roared aloud. "did i say i was going to teach you to shoot, chad?" "yes, sir." the major chuckled and that day he told about those squirrels and that knot to everybody he saw. with every day the major grew fonder and prouder of the boy and more convinced than ever that the lad was of his own blood. "there's nothing that i like that that boy don't take to like a duck to water." and when he saw the boy take off his hat to margaret and observed his manner with the little girl, he said to himself that if chad wasn't a gentleman born, he ought to have been, and the major believed that he must be. everywhere, at school, at the deans', with the darkies--with everybody but conners, the overseer, had became a favorite, but, as to napoleon, so to chad, came waterloo--with the long deferred tournament came waterloo to chad. and it came after a certain miracle on may-day. the major had taken chad to the festival where the dance was on sawdust in the woodland--in the bottom of a little hollow, around which the seats ran as in an amphitheatre. ready to fiddle for them stood none other than john morgan himself, his gray eyes dancing and an arch smile on his handsome face; and, taking a place among the dancers, were richard hunt and--margaret. the poised bow fell, a merry tune rang out, and richard hunt bowed low to his little partner, who, smiling and blushing, dropped him the daintiest of graceful courtesies. then the miracle came to pass. rage straightway shook chad's soul--shook it as a terrier shakes a rat--and the look on his face and in his eyes went back a thousand years. and richard hunt, looking up, saw the strange spectacle, understood, and did not even smile. on the contrary, he went at once after the dance to speak to the boy and got for his answer fierce, white, staring silence and a clinched fist, that was almost ready to strike. something else that was strange happened then to chad. he felt a very firm and a very gentle hand on his shoulder, his own eyes dropped before the piercing dark eyes and kindly smile above him, and, a moment later, he was shyly making his way with richard hunt toward margaret. it was on thursday of the following week that dan told him the two rams were once more tied in his father's stable. on saturday, then, they would have the tournament. to get mammy's help, margaret had to tell the plan to her, and mammy stormed against the little girl taking part in any such undignified proceedings, but imperious margaret forced her to keep silent and help make sashes and a tent for each of the two knights. chad would be the "knight of the cumberland" and dan the "knight of the bluegrass." snowball was to be dan's squire and black rufus, harry's body-servant, would be squire to chad. harry was king john, the other pickaninnies would be varlets and vassals, and outraged uncle tom, so dan told him, would, "by the beard of abraham," have to be a "dog of an unbeliever." margaret was undecided whether she would play rebecca, or the "queen of love and beauty," until chad told her she ought to be both, so both she decided to be. so all was done--the spears fashioned of ash, the helmets battered from tin buckets, colors knotted for the spears, and shields made of sheepskins. on the stiles sat harry and margaret in royal state under a canopy of calico, with indignant mammy behind them. at each end of the stable-lot was a tent of cotton, and before one stood snowball and before the other black rufus, each with his master's spear and shield. near harry stood sam, the trumpeter, with a fox-horn to sound the charge, and four black vassals stood at the stable-door to lead the chargers forth. near the stiles were the neighbors' children, and around the barn was gathered every darky on the place, while behind the hedge and peeping through it were the major and the general, the one chuckling, the other smiling indulgently. the stable-doors opened, the four vassals disappeared and came forth, each pair leading a ram, one covered with red calico, the other with blue cotton, and each with a bandanna handkerchief around his neck. each knight stepped forth from his tent, as his charger was dragged--ba-a-ing and butting--toward it, and, grasping his spear and shield and setting his helmet on more firmly, got astride gravely--each squire and vassal solemn, for the king had given command that no varlet must show unseemly mirth. behind the hedge, the major was holding his hands to his side, and the general was getting grave. it had just occurred to him that those rams would make for each other like tornadoes, and he said so. "of course they will," chuckled the major. "don't you suppose they know that? that's what they're doing it for. bless my soul!" the king waved his hand just then and his black trumpeter tooted the charge. "leggo!" said chad. "leggo!" said dan. and snowball and rufus let go, and each ram ran a few paces and stopped with his head close to the ground, while each knight brandished his spear and dug with his spurred heels. one charger gave a ba-a! the other heard, raised his head, saw his enemy, and ba-a-ed an answering challenge. then they started for each other with a rush that brought a sudden fearsome silence, quickly followed by a babel of excited cries, in which mammy's was loudest and most indignant. dan, nearly unseated, had dropped his lance to catch hold of his charger's wool, and chad had gallantly lowered the point of his, because his antagonist was unarmed. but the temper of rams and not of knights was in that fight now and they came together with a shock that banged the two knights into each other and hurled both violently to the ground. general dean and the major ran anxiously from the hedge. several negro men rushed for the rams, who were charging and butting like demons. harry tumbled from the canopy in a most unkingly fashion. margaret cried and mammy wrung her hands. chad rose dizzily, but dan lay still. chad's elbow had struck him in the temple and knocked him unconscious. the servants were thrown into an uproar when dan was carried back into the house. harry was white and almost in tears. "i did it, father, i did it," he said, at the foot of the steps. "no," said chad, sturdily, "i done it myself." margaret heard and ran from the hallway and down the steps, brushing away her tears with both hands. "yes, you did--you did," she cried. "i hate you." "why, margaret," said general dan. chad startled and stung, turned without a word and, unnoticed by the rest, made his way slowly across the fields. chapter . back to kingdom come it was the tournament that, at last, loosed mammy's tongue. she was savage in her denunciation of chad to mrs. dean--so savage and in such plain language that her mistress checked her sharply, but not before margaret had heard, though the little girl, with an awed face, slipped quietly out of the room into the yard, while harry stood in the doorway, troubled and silent. "don't let me hear you speak that way again mammy," said mrs. dean, so sternly that the old woman swept out of the room in high dudgeon and yet she told her husband of mammy's charge; "i am rather surprised at major buford." "perhaps he doesn't know," said the general. "perhaps it isn't true." "nobody knows anything about the boy." "well, i cannot have my children associating with a waif." "he seems like a nice boy." "he uses extraordinary language. i cannot have him teaching my children mischief. why i believe margaret is really fond of him. i know harry and dan are." the general looked thoughtful. "i will speak to major buford about him," he said, and he did--no little to that gentleman's confusion--though he defended chad staunchly--and the two friends parted with some heat. thereafter, the world changed for chad, for is there any older and truer story than that evil has wings, while good goes a plodding way? chad felt the change, in the negroes, in the sneering overseer, and could not understand. the rumor reached miss lucy's ears and she and the major had a spirited discussion that rather staggered chad's kind-hearted companion. it reached the school, and a black-haired youngster, named georgie forbes, who had long been one of margaret's abject slaves, and who hated chad, brought out the terrible charge in the presence of a dozen school-children at noon-recess one day. it had been no insult in the mountains, but chad, dazed though he was, knew it was meant for an insult, and his hard fist shot out promptly, landing in his enemy's chin and bringing him bawling to the earth. others gave out the cry then, and the boy fought right and left like a demon. dan stood sullenly near, taking no part, and harry, while he stopped the unequal fight, turned away from chad coldly, calling margaret, who had run up toward them, away at the same time, and chad's three friends turned from him then and there, while the boy, forgetting all else, stood watching them with dumb wonder and pain. the school-bell clanged, but chad stood still--with his heart well nigh breaking. in a few minutes the last pupil had disappeared through the school-room door, and chad stood under a great elm--alone. but only a moment, for he turned quickly away, the tears starting to his eyes, walked rapidly through the woods, climbed the worm fence beyond, and dropped, sobbing, in the thick bluegrass. an hour later he was walking swiftly through the fields toward the old brick house that had sheltered him. he was very quiet at supper that night, and after miss lucy had gone to bed and he and the major were seated before the fire, he was so quiet that the major looked at him anxiously. "what's the matter chad? are you sick?" "nothin'--no, sir." but the major was uneasy, and when he rose to go to bed, he went over and put his hand on the boy's head. "chad," he said, "if you hear of people saying mean things about you, you mustn't pay any attention to them." "no, sir." "you're a good boy, and i want you to live here with me. good-night, chad," he added, affectionately. chad nearly broke down, but he steadied himself. "good-by, major," he said, brokenly. "i'm obleeged to you." "good-by?" repeated the major. "why?" "good-night, i mean," stammered chad. the major stood inside his own door, listening to the boy's slow steps up the second flight. "i'm gettin' to love that boy," he said, wonderingly--"an' i'm damned if people who talk about him don't have me to reckon with"--and the major shook his head from side to side. several times he thought he could hear the boy moving around in the room above him, and while he was wondering why the lad did not go to bed, he fell asleep. chad was moving around. first, by the light of a candle, he laboriously dug out a short letter to the major--scalding it with tears. then he took off his clothes and got his old mountain-suit out of the closet--moccasins and all--and put them on. very carefully he folded the pretty clothes he had taken off--just as miss lucy had taught him--and laid them on the bed. then he picked up his old rifle in one hand and his old coonskin cap in the other, blew out the candle, slipped noiselessly down the stairs in his moccasined feet, out the unbolted door and into the starlit night. from the pike fence he turned once to look back to the dark, silent house amid the dark trees. then he sprang down and started through the fields--his face set toward the mountains. it so happened that mischance led general dean to go over to see major buford about chad next morning. the major listened patiently--or tried ineffectively to listen--and when the general was through, he burst out with a vehemence that shocked and amazed his old friend. "damn those niggers!" he cried, in a tone that seemed to include the general in his condemnation, "that boy is the best boy i ever knew. i believe he is my own blood, he looks a little like that picture there"--pointing to the old portrait--"and if he is what i believe he is, by ----, sir, he gets this farm and all i have. do you understand that?" "i believe he told you what he was." "he did--but i don't believe he knows, and, anyhow, whatever he is, he shall have a home under this roof as long as he lives." the general rose suddenly--stiffly. "he must never darken my door again." "very well." the major made a gesture which plainly said, "in that event, you are darkening mine too long," and the general rose, slowly descended the steps of the portico, and turned: "do you really mean, that you are going to let a little brat that you picked up in the road only yesterday stand between you and me?" the major softened. "look here," he said, whisking a sheet of paper from his coat-pocket. while the general read chad's scrawl, the major watched his face. "he's gone, by ----. a hint was enough for him. if he isn't the son of a gentleman, then i'm not, nor you." "cal," said the general, holding out his hand, "we'll talk this over again." the bees buzzed around the honeysuckles that clambered over the porch. a crow flew overhead. the sound of a crying child came around the corner of the house from the quarters, and the general's footsteps died on the gravel-walk, but the major heard them not. mechanically he watched the general mount his black horse and canter toward the pike gate. the overseer called to him from the stable, but the major dropped his eyes to the scrawl in his hand, and when miss lucy came out he silently handed it to her. "i reckon you know what folks is a-sayin' about me. i tol' you myself. but i didn't know hit wus any harm, and anyways hit ain't my fault, i reckon, an' i don't see how folks can blame me. but i don' want nobody who don' want me. an' i'm leavin' 'cause i don't want to bother you. i never bring nothing but trouble nohow an' i'm goin' back to the mountains. tell miss lucy good-by. she was mighty good to me, but i know she didn't like me. i left the hoss for you. if you don't have no use fer the saddle, i wish you'd give hit to harry, 'cause he tuk up fer me at school when i was fightin', though he wouldn't speak to me no more. i'm mighty sorry to leave you. i'm obleeged to you cause you wus so good to me an' i'm goin' to see you agin some day, if i can. good-by." "left that damned old mare to pay for his clothes and his board and his schooling," muttered the major. "by the gods"--he rose suddenly and strode away--"i beg your pardon, lucy." a tear was running down each of miss lucy's faded cheeks. dawn that morning found chad springing from a bed in a haystack--ten miles from lexington. by dusk that day, he was on the edge of the bluegrass and that night he stayed at a farm-house, going in boldly, for he had learned now that the wayfarer was as welcome in a bluegrass farm-house as in a log-cabin in the mountains. higher and higher grew the green swelling slopes, until, climbing one about noon next day, he saw the blue foothills of the cumberland through the clear air--and he stopped and looked long, breathing hard from pure ecstasy. the plain-dweller never knows the fierce home hunger that the mountain-born have for hills. besides, beyond those blue summits were the turners and the school-master and jack, waiting for him, and he forgot hunger and weariness as he trod on eagerly toward them. that night, he stayed in a mountain-cabin, and while the contrast of the dark room, the crowding children, the slovenly dress, and the coarse food was strangely disagreeable, along with the strange new shock came the thrill that all this meant hills and home. it was about three o'clock of the fourth day that, tramping up the kentucky river, he came upon a long, even stretch of smooth water, from the upper end of which two black boulders were thrust out of the stream, and with a keener thrill he realized that he was nearing home. he recalled seeing those rocks as the raft swept down the river, and the old squire had said that they were named after oxen--"billy and buck." opposite the rocks he met a mountaineer. "how fer is it to uncle joel turner's?" "a leetle the rise o' six miles, i reckon." the boy was faint with weariness, and those six miles seemed a dozen. idea of distance is vague among the mountaineers, and two hours of weary travel followed, yet nothing that he recognized was in sight. once a bend of the river looked familiar, but when he neared it, the road turned steeply from the river and over a high bluff, and the boy started up with a groan. he meant to reach the summit before he stopped to rest, but in sheer pain, he dropped a dozen paces from the top and lay with his tongue, like a dog's, between his lips. the top was warm, but a chill was rising from the fast-darkening shadows below him. the rim of the sun was about to brush the green tip of a mountain across the river, and the boy rose in a minute, dragged himself on to the point where, rounding a big rock, he dropped again with a thumping heart and a reeling brain. there it was--old joel's cabin in the pretty valley below--old joel's cabin--home! smoke was rising from the chimney, and that far away it seemed that chad could smell frying bacon. there was the old barn and he could make out one of the boys feeding stock and another chopping wood--was that the school-master? there was the huge form of old joel at the fence talking with a neighbor. he was gesticulating as though angry, and the old mother came to the door as the neighbor moved away with a shuffling gait that the boy knew belonged to the dillon breed. where was jack? jack! chad sprang to his feet and went down the hill on a run. he climbed the orchard fence, breaking the top rail in his eagerness, and as he neared the house, he gave a shrill yell. a scarlet figure flashed like a flame out of the door, with an answering cry, and the turners followed: "why, boy," roared old joel. "mammy, hit's chad!" dolph dropped an armful of feed. the man with the axe left it stuck in a log, and each man shouted: "chad!" the mountaineers are an undemonstrative race, but mother turner took the boy in her arms and the rest crowded around, slapping him on the back and all asking questions at once. dolph and rube and tom. yes, and there was the school-master--every face was almost tender with love for the boy. but where was jack? "where's--where's jack?" said chad. old joel changed face--looking angry; the rest were grave. only the old mother spoke: "jack's all right." "oh," said chad, but he looked anxious. melissa inside heard. he had not asked for her, and with the sudden choking of a nameless fear she sprang out the door to be caught by the school-master, who had gone around the corner to look for her. "lemme go," she said, fiercely, breaking his hold and darting away, but stopping, when she saw chad in the doorway, looking at her with a shy smile. "howdye, melissa!" the girl stared at him mildly and made no answer, and a wave of shame and confusion swept over the boy as his thoughts flashed back to a little girl in a black cap and on a black pony, and he stood reddening and helpless. there was a halloo at the gate. it was old squire middleton and the circuit-rider, and old joel went toward them with a darkening face. "why, hello, chad," the squire said. "you back again?" he turned to joel. "look hyeh, joel. thar hain't no use o' your buckin' agin yo' neighbors and harborin' a sheep-killin' dog." chad started and looked from one face to another--slowly but surely making out the truth. "you never seed the dawg afore last spring. you don't know that he hain't a sheep-killer." "it's a lie--a lie," chad cried, hotly, but the school-master stopped him. "hush, chad," he said, and he took the boy inside and told him jack was in trouble. a dillon sheep had been found dead on a hill-side. daws dillon had come upon jack leaping out of the pasture, and jack had come home with his muzzle bloody. even with this overwhelming evidence, old joel stanchly refused to believe the dog was guilty and ordered old man dillon off the place. a neighbor had come over, then another, and an other, until old joel got livid with rage. "that dawg mought eat a dead sheep but he never would kill a live one, and if you kill him, by ----, you've got to kill me fust." now there is no more unneighborly or unchristian act for a farmer than to harbor a sheep-killing dog. so the old squire and the circuit-rider had come over to show joel the grievous error of his selfish, obstinate course, and, so far, old joel had refused to be shown. all of his sons sturdily upheld him and little melissa fiercely--the old mother and the school-master alone remaining quiet and taking no part in the dissension. "have they got jack?" "no, chad," said the school-master. "he's safe--tied up in the stable." chad started out, and no one followed but melissa. a joyous bark that was almost human came from the stable as chad approached, for the dog must have known the sound of his master's footsteps, and when chad drew open the door, jack sprang the length of his tether to meet him and was jerked to his back. again and again he sprang, barking, as though beside himself, while chad stood at the door, looking sorrowfully at him. "down, jack!" he said sternly, and jack dropped obediently, looking straight at his master with honest eyes and whimpering like a child. "jack," said chad, "did you kill that sheep?" this was all strange conduct for his little master, and jack looked wondering and dazed, but his eyes never wavered or blinked. chad could not long stand those honest eyes. "no," he said, fiercely--"no, little doggie, no--no!" and chad dropped on his knees and took jack in his arms and hugged him to his breast. chapter . on trial for his life by degrees the whole story was told chad that night. now and then the turners would ask him about his stay in the bluegrass, but the boy would answer as briefly as possible and come back to jack. before going to bed, chad said he would bring jack into the house: "somebody might pizen him," he explained, and when he came back, he startled the circle about the fire: "whar's whizzer?" he asked, sharply. "who's seen whizzer?" then it developed that no one had seen the dillon dog--since the day before the sheep was found dead near a ravine at the foot of the mountain in a back pasture. late that afternoon melissa had found whizzer in that very pasture when she was driving old betsy, the brindle, home at milking-time. since then, no one of the turners had seen the dillon dog. that, however, did not prove that whizzer was not at home. and yet, "i'd like to know whar whizzer is now!" said chad, and, after, at old joel's command, he had tied jack to a bedpost--an outrage that puzzled the dog sorely--the boy threshed his bed for an hour--trying to think out a defence for jack and wondering if whizzer might not have been concerned in the death of the sheep. it is hardly possible that what happened, next day, could happen anywhere except among simple people of the hills. briefly, the old squire and the circuit-rider had brought old joel to the point of saying, the night before, that he would give jack up to be killed, if he could be proven guilty. but the old hunter cried with an oath: "you've got to prove him guilty." and thereupon the squire said he would give jack every chance that he would give a man--he would try him; each side could bring in witnesses; old joel could have a lawyer if he wished, and jack's case would go before a jury. if pronounced innocent, jack should go free: if guilty--then the dog should be handed over to the sheriff, to be shot at sundown. joel agreed. it was a strange procession that left the gate of the turner cabin next morning. old joel led the way, mounted, with "ole sal," his rifle, across his saddle-bow. behind him came mother turner and melissa on foot and chad with his rifle over his left shoulder, and leading jack by a string with his right hand. behind them slouched tall tom with his rifle and dolph and rube, each with a huge old-fashioned horse-pistol swinging from his right hip. last strode the school-master. the cabin was left deserted--the hospitable door held closed by a deer-skin latch caught to a wooden pin outside. it was a strange humiliation to jack thus to be led along the highway, like a criminal going to the gallows. there was no power on earth that could have moved him from chad's side, other than the boy's own command--but old joel had sworn that he would keep the dog tied and the old hunter always kept his word. he had sworn, too, that jack should have a fair trial. therefore, the guns--and the school-master walked with his hands behind him and his eyes on the ground: he feared trouble. half a mile up the river and to one side of the road, a space of some thirty feet square had been cut into a patch of rhododendron and filled with rude benches of slabs--in front of which was a rough platform on which sat a home-made, cane-bottomed chair. except for the opening from the road, the space was walled with a circle of living green through which the sun dappled the benches with quivering disks of yellow light--and, high above, great poplars and oaks arched their mighty heads. it was an open-air "meeting-house" where the circuit-rider preached during his summer circuit and there the trial was to take place. already a crowd was idling, whittling, gossiping in the road, when the turner cavalcade came in sight--and for ten miles up and down the river people were coming in for the trial. "mornin', gentlemen," said old joel, gravely. "mornin'," answered several, among whom was the squire, who eyed joel's gun and the guns coming up the road. "squirrel-huntin'?" he asked and, as the old hunter did not answer, he added, sharply: "air you afeerd, joel turner, that you ain't a-goin' to git justice from me?" "i don't keer whar it comes from," said joel, grimly--"but i'm a-goin' to have it." it was plain that the old man not only was making no plea for sympathy, but was alienating the little he had: and what he had was very little, for who but a lover of dogs can give full sympathy to his kind? and, then, jack was believed to be guilty. it was curious to see how each dillon shrank unconsciously as the turners gathered--all but jerry, one of the giant twins. he always stood his ground--fearing nor man, nor dog--nor devil. ten minutes later, the squire took his seat on the platform, while the circuit-rider squatted down beside him. the crowd, men and women and children, took the rough benches. to one side sat and stood the dillons, old tad and little tad, daws, nance, and others of the tribe. straight in front of the squire gathered the turners about melissa and chad--and jack as a centre--with jack squatted on his hanches foremost of all, facing the squire with grave dignity and looking at none else save, occasionally, the old hunter or his little master. to the right stood the sheriff with his rifle, and on the outskirts hung the school-master. quickly the old squire chose a jury--giving old joel the opportunity to object as he called each man's name. old joel objected to none, for every man called, he knew, was more friendly to him than to the dillons: and old tad dillon raised no word of protest, for he knew his case was clear. then began the trial, and any soul that was there would have shuddered could he have known how that trial was to divide neighbor against neighbor, and mean death and bloodshed for half a century after the trial itself was long forgotten. the first witness, old tad--long, lean, stooping, crafty--had seen the sheep rushing wildly up the hill-side "'bout crack o' day," he said, and had sent daws up to see what the matter was. daws had shouted back: "that damned turner dog has killed one o' our sheep. thar he comes now. kill him!" and old tad had rushed in-doors for his rifle and had taken a shot at jack as he leaped into the road and loped for home. just then a stern, thick little voice rose from behind jack: "hit was a god's blessin' fer you that you didn't hit him." the squire glared down at the boy and old joel said, kindly: "hush, chad." old dillon had then gone down to the turners and asked them to kill the dog, but old joel had refused. "whar was whizzer?" chad asked, sharply. "you can't axe that question," said the squire. "hit's er-er-irrelevant." daws came next. when he reached the fence upon the hill-side he could see the sheep lying still on the ground. as he was climbing over, the turner dog jumped the fence and daws saw blood on his muzzle. "how close was you to him?" asked the squire. "'bout twenty feet," said daws. "humph!" said old joel. "whar was whizzer?" again the old squire glared down at chad. "don't you axe that question again, boy. didn't i tell you hit was irrelevant?" "what's irrelevant?" the boy asked, bluntly. the squire hesitated. "why--why, hit ain't got nothin' to do with the case." "hit ain't?" shouted chad. "joel," said the squire, testily, "ef you don't keep that boy still, i'll fine him fer contempt o' court." joel laughed, but he put his heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. little tad dillon and nance and the dillon mother had all seen jack running down the road. there was no doubt but that it was the turner dog. and with this clear case against poor jack, the dillons rested. and what else could the turners do but establish jack's character and put in a plea of mercy--a useless plea, old joel knew--for a first offence? jack was the best dog old joel had ever known, and the old man told wonderful tales of the dog's intelligence and kindness and how one night jack had guarded a stray lamb that had broken its leg--until daybreak--and he had been led to the dog and the sheep by jack's barking for help. the turner boys confirmed this story, though it was received with incredulity. how could a dog that would guard one lone helpless lamb all night long take the life of another? there was no witness that had aught but kind words to say of the dog or aught but wonder that he should have done this thing--even back to the cattle-dealer who had given him to chad. for at that time the dealer said--so testified chad, no objection being raised to hearsay evidence--that jack was the best dog he ever knew. that was all the turners or anybody could do or say, and the old squire was about to turn the case over to the jury when chad rose: "squire," he said and his voice trembled, "jack's my dog. i lived with him night an' day for 'bout three years an' i want to axe some questions." he turned to daws: "i want to axe you ef thar was any blood around that sheep." "thar was a great big pool o' blood," said daws, indignantly. chad looked at the squire. "well, a sheep-killin' dog don't leave no great big pool o' blood, squire, with the fust one he kills! he sucks it!" several men nodded their heads. "squire! the fust time i come over these mountains, the fust people i seed was these dillons--an' whizzer. they sicked whizzer on jack hyeh and jack whooped him. then tad thar jumped me and i whooped him." (the turner boys were nodding confirmation.) "sence that time they've hated jack an' they've hated me and they hate the turners partly fer takin' keer o' me. now you said somethin' i axed just now was irrelevant, but i tell you, squire, i know a sheep-killin' dawg, and jes' as i know jack ain't, i know the dillon dawg naturely is, and i tell you, if the dillons' dawg killed that sheep and they could put it on jack--they'd do it. they'd do it--squire, an' i tell you, you--ortern't--to let--that sheriff--thar--shoot my--dog--until the dillons answers what i axed--" the boy's passionate cry rang against the green walls and out the opening and across the river-- "whar's whizzer?" the boy startled the crowd and the old squire himself, who turned quickly to the dillons. "well, whar is whizzer?" nobody answered. "he ain't been seen, squire, sence the evenin' afore the night o' the killin'!" chad's statement seemed to be true. not a voice contradicted. "an' i want to know if daws seed signs o' killin' on jack's head when he jumped the fence, why them same signs didn't show when he got home." poor chad! here old tad dillon raised his hand. "axe the turners, squire," he said, and as the school-master on the outskirts shrank, as though he meant to leave the crowd, the old man's quick eye caught the movement and he added: "axe the school-teacher!" every eye turned with the squire's to the master, whose face was strangely serious straightway. "did you see any signs on the dawg when he got home?" the gaunt man hesitated, with one swift glance at the boy, who almost paled in answer. "why," said the school-master, and again he hesitated, but old joel, in a voice that was without hope, encouraged him: "go on!" "what was they?" "jack had blood on his muzzle, and a little strand o' wool behind one ear." there was no hope against that testimony. melissa broke away from her mother and ran out to the road--weeping. chad dropped with a sob to his bench and put his arms around the dog: then he rose up and walked out the opening while jack leaped against his leash to follow. the school-master put out his hand to stop him, but the boy struck it aside without looking up and went on. he could not stay to see jack condemned. he knew what the verdict would be, and in twenty minutes the jury gave it, without leaving their seats. "guilty!" the sheriff came forward. he knew jack and jack knew him, and wagged his tail and whimpered up at him when he took the leash. "well, by ----, this is a job i don't like, an' i'm damned ef i'm agoin' to shoot this dawg afore he knows what i'm shootin' him fer. i'm goin' to show him that sheep fust. whar's that sheep, daws?" daws led the way down the road, over the fence, across the meadow, and up the hill-side where lay the slain sheep. chad and melissa saw them coming--the whole crowd--before they themselves were seen. for a minute the boy watched them. they were going to kill jack where the dillons said he had killed the sheep, and the boy jumped to his feet and ran up the hill a little way and disappeared in the bushes, that he might not hear jack's death-shot, while melissa sat where she was, watching the crowd come on. daws was at the foot of the hill, and she saw him make a gesture toward her, and then the sheriff came on with jack--over the fence, past her, the sheriff saying, kindly, "howdy, melissa. i shorely am sorry ta have to kill jack," and on to the dead sheep, which lay fifty yards beyond. if the sheriff expected to drop head and tail and look mean he was greatly mistaken. jack neither hung back nor sniffed at the carcass. instead he put one fore foot on it and with the other bent in the air, looked without shame into the sheriff's eyes--as much as to say: "yes, this is a wicked and shameful thing, but what have i got to do with it? why are you bringing me here?" the sheriff came back greatly puzzled and shaking his head. passing melissa, he stopped to let the unhappy little girl give jack a last pat, and it was there that jack suddenly caught scent of chad's tracks. with one mighty bound the dog snatched the rawhide string from the careless sheriff's hand, and in a moment, with his nose to the ground, was speeding up toward the woods. with a startled yell and a frightful oath the sheriff threw his rifle to his shoulder, but the little girl sprang up and caught the barrel with both hands, shaking it fiercely up and down and hieing jack on with shriek after shriek. a minute later jack had disappeared in the bushes, melissa was running like the wind down the hill toward home, while the whole crowd in the meadow was rushing up toward the sheriff, led by the dillons, who were yelling and swearing like madmen. above them, the crestfallen sheriff waited. the dillons crowded angrily about him, gesticulating and threatening, while he told his story. but nothing could be done--nothing. they did not know that chad was up in the woods or they would have gone in search of him--knowing that when they found him they would find jack--but to look for jack now would be like searching for a needle in a hay-stack. there was nothing to do, then, but to wait for jack to come home, which he would surely do--to get to chad--and it was while old joel was promising that the dog should be surrendered to the sheriff that little tad dillon gave an excited shriek. "look up thar!" and up there at the edge of the wood was chad standing and, at his feet, jack sitting on his haunches, with his tongue out and looking as though nothing had happened or could ever happen to chad or to him. "come up hyeh," shouted chad. "you come down hyeh," shouted the sheriff, angrily. so chad came down, with jack trotting after him. chad had cut off the rawhide string, but the sheriff caught jack by the nape of the neck. "you won't git away from me agin, i reckon." "well, i reckon you ain't goin' to shoot him," said chad. "leggo that dawg." "don't be a fool, jim," said old joel. "the dawg ain't goin' to leave the boy." the sheriff let go. "come on up hyeh," said chad. "i got somethin' to show ye." the boy turned with such certainty that with out a word squire, sheriff, turners, dillons, and spectators followed. as they approached a deep ravine the boy pointed to the ground where were evidences of some fierce struggle--the dirt thrown up, and several small stones scattered about with faded stains of blood on them. "wait hyeh!" said the boy, and he slid down the ravine and appeared again dragging something after him. tall tom ran down to help him and the two threw before the astonished crowd the body of a black and white dog. "now i reckon you know whar whizzer is," panted chad vindictively to the dillons. "well, what of it?" snapped daws "oh, nothin'," said the boy with fine sarcasm. "only whizzer killed that sheep and jack killed whizzer." from every dillon throat came a scornful grunt. "oh, i reckon so," said chad, easily. "look dhar!" he lifted the dead dog's head, and pointed at the strands of wool between his teeth. he turned it over, showing the deadly grip in the throat and close to the jaws, that had choked the life from whizzer--jack's own grip. "ef you will jes' rickollect, jack had that same grip the time afore--when i pulled him off o' whizzer." "by ----, that is so," said tall tom, and dolph and rube echoed him amid a dozen voices, for not only old joel, but many of his neighbors knew jack's method of fighting, which had made him a victor up and down the length of kingdom come. there was little doubt that the boy was right--that jack had come on whizzer killing the sheep, and had caught him at the edge of the ravine, where the two had fought, rolling down and settling the old feud between them in the darkness at the bottom. and up there on the hill-side, the jury that pronounced jack guilty pronounced him innocent, and, as the turners started joyfully down the hill, the sun that was to have sunk on jack stiff in death sank on jack frisking before them--home. and yet another wonder was in store for chad. a strange horse with a strange saddle was hitched to the turner fence; beside it was an old mare with a boy's saddle, and as chad came through the gate a familiar voice called him cheerily by name. on the porch sat major buford. chapter . the major in the mountains the quivering heat of august was giving way and the golden peace of autumn was spreading through the land. the breath of mountain woods by day was as cool as the breath of valleys at night. in the mountains, boy and girl were leaving school for work in the fields, and from the cumberland foothills to the ohio, boy and girl were leaving happy holidays for school. along a rough, rocky road and down a shining river, now sunk to deep pools with trickling riffles between--for a drouth was on the land--rode a tall, gaunt man on an old brown mare that switched with her tail now and then at a long-legged, rough-haired colt stumbling awkwardly behind. where the road turned from the river and up the mountain, the man did a peculiar thing, for there, in that lonely wilderness, he stopped, dismounted, tied the reins to an overhanging branch and, leaving mare and colt behind, strode up the mountain, on and on, disappearing over the top. half an hour later, a sturdy youth hove in sight, trudging along the same road with his cap in his hand, a long rifle over one shoulder and a dog trotting at his heels. now and then the boy would look back and scold the dog and the dog would drop his muzzle with shame, until the boy stooped to pat him on the head, when he would leap frisking before him, until another affectionate scolding was due. the old mare turned her head when she heard them coming, and nickered. without a moment's hesitation the lad untied her, mounted and rode up the mountain. for two days the man and the boy had been "riding and tying," as this way of travel for two men and one horse is still known in the hills, and over the mountain, they were to come together for the night. at the foot of the spur on the other side, boy and dog came upon the tall man sprawled at full length across a moss-covered bowlder. the dog dropped behind, but the man's quick eye caught him: "where'd that dog come from, chad?" jack put his belly to the earth and crawled slowly forward--penitent, but determined. "he broke loose, i reckon. he come tearin' up behind me 'bout an hour ago, like a house afire. let him go." caleb hazel frowned. "i told you, chad, that we'd have no place to keep him." "well, we can send him home as easy from up thar as we can from hyeh--let him go." "all right!" chad understood not a whit better than the dog; for jack leaped to his feet and jumped around the school-master, trying to lick his hands, but the school-master was absorbed and would none of him. there, the mountain-path turned into a wagon-road and the school-master pointed with one finger. "do you know what that is, chad?" "no, sir." chad said "sir" to the school-master now. "well, that's"--the school-master paused to give his words effect--"that's the old wilderness road." ah, did he not know the old, old wilderness road! the boy gripped his rifle unconsciously, as though there might yet be a savage lying in ambush in some covert of rhododendron close by. and, as they trudged ahead, side by side now, for it was growing late, the school-master told him, as often before, the story of that road and the pioneers who had trod it--the hunters, adventurers, emigrants, fine ladies and fine gentlemen who had stained it with their blood; and how that road had broadened into the mighty way for a great civilization from sea to sea. the lad could see it all, as he listened, wishing that he had lived in those stirring days, never dreaming in how little was he of different mould from the stout-hearted pioneers who beat out the path with their moccasined feet; how little less full of danger were his own days to be; how little different had been his own life, and was his purpose now--how little different after all was the bourn to which his own restless feet were bearing him. chad had changed a good deal since that night after jack's trial, when the kind-hearted old major had turned up at joel's cabin to take him back to the bluegrass. he was taller, broader at shoulder, deeper of chest; his mouth and eyes were prematurely grave from much brooding and looked a little defiant, as though the boy expected hostility from the world and was prepared to meet it, but there was no bitterness in them, and luminous about the lad was the old atmosphere of brave, sunny cheer and simple self-trust that won people to him. the major and old joel had talked late that night after jack's trial. the major had come down to find out who chad was, if possible, and to take him back home, no matter who he might be. the old hunter looked long into the fire. "co'se i know hit 'ud be better fer chad, but, lawd, how we'd hate to give him up. still, i reckon i'll have to let him go, but i can stand hit better, if you can git him to leave jack hyeh." the major smiled. did old joel know where nathan cherry lived? the old hunter did. nathan was a "damned old skinflint who lived across the mountain on stone creek--who stole other folks' farms and if he knew anything about chad the old hunter would squeeze it out of his throat; and if old nathan, learning where chad now was, tried to pester him he would break every bone in the skinflint's body." so the major and old joel rode over next day to see nathan, and nathan with his shifting eyes told them chad's story in a high, cracked voice that, recalling chad's imitation of it, made the major laugh. chad was a foundling, nathan said: his mother was dead and his father had gone off to the mexican war and never come back: he had taken the mother in himself and chad had been born in his own house, when he lived farther up the river, and the boy had begun to run away as soon as he was old enough to toddle. and with each sentence nathan would call for confirmation on a silent, dark-faced daughter who sat inside: "didn't he, betsy?" or "wasn't he, gal?" and the girl would nod sullenly, but say nothing. it seemed a hopeless mission except that, on the way back, the major learned that there were one or two bufords living down the cumberland, and like old joel, shook his head over nathan's pharisaical philanthropy to a homeless boy and wondered what the motive under it was--but he went back with the old hunter and tried to get chad to go home with him. the boy was rock-firm in his refusal. "i'm obleeged to you, major, but i reckon i better stay in the mountains." that was all chad would say, and at last the major gave up and rode back over the mountain and down the cumberland alone, still on his quest. at a blacksmith's shop far down the river he found a man who had "heerd tell of a chad buford who had been killed in the mexican war and whose daddy lived 'bout fifteen mile down the river." the major found that buford dead, but an old woman told him his name was chad, that he had "fit in the war o' when he was nothin' but a chunk of a boy, and that his daddy, whose name, too, was chad, had been killed by injuns some'eres aroun' cumberland gap." by this time the major was as keen as a hound on the scent, and, in a cabin at the foot of the sheer gray wall that crumbles into the gap, he had the amazing luck to find an octogenarian with an unclouded memory who could recollect a queer-looking old man who had been killed by indians--"a ole feller with the curiosest hair i ever did see," added the patriarch. his name was colonel buford, and the old man knew where he was buried, for he himself was old enough at the time to help bury him. greatly excited, the major hired mountaineers to dig into the little hill that the old man pointed out, on which there was, however, no sign of a grave, and, at last, they uncovered the skeleton of an old gentleman in a wig and peruke! there was little doubt now that the boy, no matter what the blot on his 'scutcheon, was of his own flesh and blood, and the major was tempted to go back at once for him, but it was a long way, and he was ill and anxious to get back home. so he took the wilderness road for the bluegrass, and wrote old joel the facts and asked him to send chad to him whenever he would come. but the boy would not go. there was no definite reason in his mind. it was a stubborn instinct merely--the instinct of pride, of stubborn independence--of shame that festered in his soul like a hornet's sting. even melissa urged him. she never tired of hearing chad tell about the bluegrass country, and when she knew that the major wanted him to go back, she followed him out in the yard that night and found him on the fence whittling. a red star was sinking behind the mountains. "why won't you go back no more, chad?" she said. "'cause i hain't got no daddy er mammy." then melissa startled him. "well, i'd go--an' i hain't got no daddy er mammy." chad stopped his whittling. "whut'd you say, lissy?" he asked, gravely. melissa was frightened--the boy looked so serious. "cross yo' heart an' body that you won't nuver tell no body." chad crossed. "well, mammy said i mustn't ever tell nobody--but i hain't got no daddy er mammy. i heerd her a-tellin' the school-teacher." and the little girl shook her head over her frightful crime of disobedience. "you hain't?" "i hain't!" melissa, too, was a waif, and chad looked at her with a wave of new affection and pity. "now, why won't you go back just because you hain't got no daddy an' mammy?" chad hesitated. there was no use making melissa unhappy. "oh, i'd just ruther stay hyeh in the mountains," he said, carelessly--lying suddenly like the little gentleman that he was--lying as he knew, and as melissa some day would come to know. then chad looked at the little girl a long while, and in such a queer way that melissa turned her face shyly to the red star. "i'm goin' to stay right hyeh. ain't you glad, lissy?" the little girl turned her eyes shyly back again. "yes, chad," she said. he would stay in the mountains and work hard; and when he grew up he would marry melissa and they would go away where nobody knew him or her: or they would stay right there in the mountains where nobody blamed him for what he was nor melissa for what she was; and he would study law like caleb hazel, and go to the legislature--but melissa! and with the thought of melissa in the mountains came always the thought of dainty margaret in the bluegrass and the chasm that lay between the two--between margaret and him, for that matter; and when mother turner called melissa from him in the orchard next day, chad lay on his back under an apple-tree, for a long while, thinking; and then he whistled for jack and climbed the spur above the river where he could look down on the shadowed water and out to the clouded heaps of rose and green and crimson, where the sun was going down under one faint white star. melissa was the glow-worm that, when darkness came, would be a watch-fire at his feet--margaret, the star to which his eyes were lifted night and day--and so runs the world. he lay long watching that star. it hung almost over the world of which he had dreamed so long and upon which he had turned his back forever. forever? perhaps, but he went back home that night with a trouble in his soul that was not to pass, and while he sat by the fire he awoke from the same dream to find melissa's big eyes fixed on him, and in them was a vague trouble that was more than his own reflected back to him. still the boy went back sturdily to his old life, working in the fields, busy about the house and stable, going to school, reading and studying with the school-master at nights, and wandering in the woods with jack and his rifle. and he hungered for spring to come again when he should go with the turner boys to take another raft of logs down the river to the capital. spring came, and going out to the back pasture one morning, chad found a long-legged, ungainly creature stumbling awkwardly about his old mare--a colt! that, too, he owed the major, and he would have burst with pride had he known that the colt's sire was a famous stallion in the bluegrass. that spring he did go down the river again. he did not let the major know he was coming and, through a nameless shyness, he could not bring himself to go to see his old friend and kinsman, but in lexington, while he and the school-master were standing on cheapside, the major whirled around a corner on them in his carriage, and, as on the turnpike a year before, old tom, the driver, called out: "look dar, mars cal!" and there stood chad. "why, bless my soul! chad--why, boy! how you have grown!" for chad had grown, and his face was curiously aged and thoughtful. the major insisted on taking him home, and the school-master, too, who went reluctantly. miss lucy was there, looking whiter and more fragile than ever, and she greeted chad with a sweet kindliness that took the sting from his unjust remembrance of her. and what that failure to understand her must have been chad better knew when he saw the embarrassed awe, in her presence, of the school-master, for whom all in the mountains had so much reverence. at the table was thankyma'am waiting. around the quarters and the stable the pickaninnies and servants seemed to remember the boy in a kindly genuine way that touched him, and even jerome conners, the overseer, seemed glad to see him. the major was drawn at once to the grave school-master, and he had a long talk with him that night. it was no use, caleb hazel said, trying to persuade the boy to live with the major--not yet. and the major was more content when he came to know in what good hands the boy was, and, down in his heart, he loved the lad the more for his sturdy independence, and for the pride that made him shrink from facing the world with the shame of his birth; knowing that chad thought of him perhaps more than of himself. such unwillingness to give others trouble seemed remarkable in so young a lad. not once did the major mention the deans to the boy, and about them chad asked no questions--not even when he saw their carriage passing the major's gate. when they came to leave the major said: "well, chad, when that filly of yours is a year old, i'll buy 'em both from you, if you'll sell 'em, and i reckon you can come up and go to school then." chad shook his head. sell that colt? he would as soon have thought of selling jack. but the temptation took root, just the same, then and there, and grew steadily until, after another year in the mountains, it grew too strong. for, in that year, chad grew to look the fact of his birth steadily in the face, and in his heart grew steadily a proud resolution to make his way in the world despite it. it was curious how melissa came to know the struggle that was going on within him and how chad came to know that she knew--though no word passed between them: more curious still, how it came with a shock to chad one day to realize how little was the tragedy of his life in comparison with the tragedy in hers, and to learn that the little girl with swift vision had already reached that truth and with sweet unselfishness had reconciled herself. he was a boy--he could go out in the world and conquer it, while her life was as rigid and straight before her as though it ran between close walls of rock as steep and sheer as the cliff across the river. one thing he never guessed--what it cost the little girl to support him bravely in his purpose, and to stand with smiling face when the first breath of one sombre autumn stole through the hills, and chad and the school-master left the turner home for the bluegrass, this time to stay. she stood in the doorway after they had waved good-by from the head of the river--the smile gone and her face in a sudden dark eclipse. the wise old mother went in-doors. once the girl started through the yard as though she would rush after them and stopped at the gate, clinching it hard with both hands. as suddenly she became quiet. she went in-doors to her work and worked quietly and without a word. thus she did all day while her mind and her heart ached. when she went after the cows before sunset she stopped at the barn where beelzebub had been tied. she lifted her eyes to the hay-loft where she and chad had hunted for hens' eggs and played hide-and-seek. she passed through the orchard where they had worked and played so many happy hours, and on to the back pasture where the dillon sheep had been killed and she had kept the sheriff from shooting jack. and she saw and noted everything with a piteous pain and dry eyes. but she gave no sign that night, and not until she was in bed did she with covered head give way. then the bed shook with her smothered sobs. this is the sad way with women. after the way of men, chad proudly marched the old wilderness road that led to a big, bright, beautiful world where one had but to do and dare to reach the stars. the men who had trod that road had made that big world beyond, and their life chad himself had lived so far. only, where they had lived he had been born--in a log cabin. their weapons--the axe and the rifle--had been his. he had had the same fight with nature as they. he knew as well as they what life in the woods in "a half-faced camp" was. their rude sports and pastimes, their log-rollings, house-raisings, quilting parties, corn-huskings, feats of strength, had been his. he had the same lynx eyes, cool courage, swiftness of foot, readiness of resource that had been trained into them. his heart was as stout and his life as simple and pure. he was taking their path and, in the far west, beyond the bluegrass world where he was going, he could, if he pleased, take up the same life at the precise point where they had left off. at sunset, chad and the school-master stood on the summit of the cumberland foothills and looked over the rolling land with little less of a thrill, doubtless, than the first hunters felt when the land before them was as much a wilderness as the wilds through which they had made their way. below them a farmhouse shrank half out of sight into a little hollow, and toward it they went down. the outside world had moved swiftly during the two years that they had been buried in the hills as they learned at the farm-house that night. already the national storm was threatening, the air was electrically charged with alarms, and already here and there the lightning had flashed. the underground railway was busy with black freight, and john brown, fanatic, was boldly lifting his shaggy head. old brutus dean was even publishing an abolitionist paper at lexington, the aristocratic heart of the state. he was making abolition speeches throughout the bluegrass with a dagger thrust in the table before him--shaking his black mane and roaring defiance like a lion. the news thrilled chad unaccountably, as did the shadow of any danger, but it threw the school-master into gloom. there was more. a dark little man by the name of douglas and a sinewy giant by the name of lincoln were thrilling the west. phillips and garrison were thundering in massachusetts, and fiery tongues in the south were flashing back scornful challenges and threats that would imperil a nation. an invisible air-line shot suddenly between the north and the south, destined to drop some day and lie a dead-line on the earth, and on each side of it two hordes of brothers, who thought themselves two hostile peoples, were shrinking away from each other with the half-conscious purpose of making ready for a charge. in no other state in the union was the fratricidal character of the coming war to be so marked as in kentucky, in no other state was the national drama to be so fully played to the bitter end. that night even, brutus dean was going to speak near by, and chad and caleb hazel went to hear him. the fierce abolitionist first placed a bible before him. "this is for those who believe in religion," he said; then a copy of the constitution: "this for those who believe in the laws and in freedom of speech. and this," he thundered, driving a dagger into the table and leaving it to quiver there, "is for the rest!" then he went on and no man dared to interrupt. and only next day came the rush of wind that heralds the storm. just outside of lexington chad and the school-master left the mare and colt at a farm-house and with jack went into town on foot. it was saturday afternoon, the town was full of people, and an excited crowd was pressing along main street toward cheapside. the man and the boy followed eagerly. cheapside was thronged--thickest around a frame building that bore a newspaper sign on which was the name of brutus dean. a man dashed from a hardware store with an axe, followed by several others with heavy hammers in their hands. one swing of the axe, the door was crashed open and the crowd went in like wolves. shattered windows, sashes and all, flew out into the street, followed by showers of type, chair-legs, table-tops, and then, piece by piece, the battered cogs, wheels, and forms of a printing-press. the crowd made little noise. in fifteen minutes the house was a shell with gaping windows, surrounded with a pile of chaotic rubbish, and the men who had done the work quietly disappeared. chad looked at the school-master for the first time: neither of them had uttered a word. the school-master's face was white with anger, his hands were clinched, and his eyes were so fierce and burning that the boy was frightened. chapter . to college in the bluegrass as the school-master had foretold, there was no room at college for jack. several times major buford took the dog home with him, but jack would not stay. the next morning the dog would turn up at the door of the dormitory where chad and the school-master slept, and as a last resort the boy had to send jack home. so, one sunday morning chad led jack out of the town for several miles, and at the top of a high hill pointed toward the mountains and sternly told him to go home. and jack, understanding that the boy was in earnest, trotted sadly away with a placard around his neck: i own this dog. his name is jack. he is on his way to kingdom come. please feed him. uncle joel turner will shoot any man who steels him. chad. it was no little consolation to chad to think that the faithful sheep-dog would in no small measure repay the turners for all they had done for him. but jack was the closest link that bound him to the mountains, and dropping out of sight behind the crest of the hill, chad crept to the top again and watched jack until he trotted out of sight, and the link was broken. then chad went slowly and sorrowfully back to his room. it was the smallest room in the dormitory that the school-master had chosen for himself and chad, and in it were one closet, one table, one lamp, two chairs and one bed--no more. there were two windows in the little room--one almost swept by the branches of a locust-tree and overlooking the brown-gray sloping campus and the roofs and church-steeples of the town--the other opening to the east on a sweep of field and woodland over which the sun rose with a daily message from the unseen mountains far beyond and toward which chad had sent jack trotting home. it was a proud day for chad when caleb hazel took him to "matriculate"--leading him from one to another of the professors, who awed the lad with their preternatural dignity, but it was a sad blow when he was told that in everything but mathematics he must go to the preparatory department until the second session of the term--the "kitchen," as it was called by the students. he bore it bravely, though, and the school-master took him down the shady streets to the busy thoroughfare, where the official book-store was, and where chad, with pure ecstasy, caught his first new books under one arm and trudged back, bending his head now and then to catch the delicious smell of the fresh leaves and print. it was while he was standing with his treasures under the big elm at the turnstile, looking across the campus at the sundown that two boys came down the gravel path. he knew them both at once as dan and harry dean. both looked at him curiously, as he thought, but he saw that neither knew him and no one spoke. the sound of wheels came up the street behind him just then, and a carriage halted at the turnstile to take them in. turning, chad saw a slender girl with dark hair and eyes and heard her call brightly to the boys. he almost caught his breath at the sound of her voice, but he kept sturdily on his way, and the girl's laugh rang in his ears as it rang the first time he heard it, was ringing when he reached his room, ringing when he went to bed that night, and lay sleepless, looking through his window at the quiet stars. for some time, indeed, no one recognized him, and chad was glad. once he met richard hunt riding with margaret, and the piercing dark eyes that the boy remembered so well turned again to look at him. chad colored and bravely met them with his own, but there was no recognition. and he saw john morgan--captain john morgan--at the head of the "lexington rifles," which he had just formed from the best blood of the town, as though in long preparation for that coming war--saw him and richard hunt, as lieutenant, drilling them in the campus, and the sight thrilled him as nothing else, except margaret, had ever done. many times he met the dean brothers on the playground and in the streets, but there was no sign that he was known until he was called to the blackboard one day in geometry, the only course in which he had not been sent to the "kitchen." then chad saw harry turn quickly when the professor called his name. confused though he was for a moment, he gave his demonstration in his quaint speech with perfect clearness and without interruption from the professor, who gave the boy a keen look as he said, quietly: "very good, sir!" and harry could see his fingers tracing in his class-book the figures that meant a perfect recitation. "how are you, chad?" he said in the hallway afterward. "howdye!" said chad, shaking the proffered hand. "i didn't know you--you've grown so tall. didn't you know me?" "yes." "then why didn't you speak to me?" "'cause you didn't know me." harry laughed. "well, that isn't fair. see you again." "all right," said chad. that very afternoon chad met dan in a football game--an old-fashioned game, in which there were twenty or thirty howling lads on each side and nobody touched the ball except with his foot--met him so violently that, clasped in each other's arms, they tumbled to the ground. "leggo!" said dan. "s'pose you leggo!" said chad. as dan started after the ball he turned to look at chad and after the game he went up to him. "why, aren't you the boy who was out at major buford's once?" "yes." dan thrust out his hand and began to laugh. so did chad, and each knew that the other was thinking of the tournament. "in college?" "math'matics," said chad. "i'm in the kitchen fer the rest." "oh!" said dan. "where you living?" chad pointed to the dormitory, and again dan said "oh!" in a way that made chad flush, but added, quickly: "you better play on our side to-morrow." chad looked at his clothes--foot-ball seemed pretty hard on clothes--"i don't know," he said--"mebbe." it was plain that neither of the boys was holding anything against chad, but neither had asked the mountain lad to come to see him--an omission that was almost unforgivable according to chad's social ethics. so chad proudly went into his shell again, and while the three boys met often, no intimacy developed. often he saw them with margaret, on the street, in a carriage or walking with a laughing crowd of boys and girls; on the porticos of old houses or in the yards; and, one night, chad saw, through the wide-open door of a certain old house on the corner of mill and market streets, a party going on; and margaret, all in white, dancing, and he stood in the shade of the trees opposite with new pangs shooting through him and went back to his room in desolate loneliness, but with a new grip on his resolution that his own day should yet come. steadily the boy worked, forging his way slowly but surely toward the head of his class in the "kitchen," and the school-master helped him unwearyingly. and it was a great help--mental and spiritual--to be near the stern puritan, who loved the boy as a brother and was ever ready to guide him with counsel and aid him with his studies. in time the major went to the president to ask him about chad, and that august dignitary spoke of the lad in a way that made the major, on his way through the campus, swish through the grass with his cane in great satisfaction. he always spoke of the boy now as his adopted son and, whenever it was possible, he came in to take chad out home to spend sunday with him; but, being a wise man and loving chad's independence, he let the boy have his own way. he had bought the filly--and would hold her, he said, until chad could buy her back, and he would keep the old nag as a broodmare and would divide profits with chad--to all of which the boy agreed. the question of the lad's birth was ignored between them, and the major rarely spoke to chad of the deans, who were living in town during the winter, nor questioned him about dan or harry or margaret. but chad had found out where the little girl went to church, and every sunday, despite caleb hazel's protest, he would slip into the episcopal church, with a queer feeling--little calvinist of the hills that he was--that it was not quite right for him even to enter that church; and he would watch the little girl come in with her family and, after the queer way of these "furriners," kneel first in prayer. and there, with soul uplifted by the dim rich light and the peal of the organ, he would sit watching her; rising when she rose, watching the light from the windows on her shining hair and sweet-spirited face, watching her reverent little head bend in obeisance to the name of the master, though he kept his own held straight, for no popery like that was for him. always, however, he would slip out before the service was quite over and never wait even to see her come out of church. he was too proud for that and, anyhow, it made him lonely to see the people greeting one another and chatting and going off home together when there was not a soul to speak to him. it was just one such sunday that they came face to face for the first time. chad had gone down the street after leaving the church, had changed his mind and was going back to his room. people were pouring from the church, as he went by, but chad did not even look across. a clatter rose behind him and he turned to see a horse and rockaway coming at a gallop up the street, which was narrow. the negro driver, frightened though he was, had sense enough to pull his running horse away from the line of vehicles in front of the church so that the beast stumbled against the curb-stone, crashed into a tree, and dropped struggling in the gutter below another line of vehicles waiting on the other side of the street. like lightning, chad leaped and landed full length on the horse's head and was tossed violently to and fro, but he held on until the animal lay still. "unhitch the hoss," he called, sharply. "well, that was pretty quick work for a boy," said a voice across the street that sounded familiar, and chad looked across to see general dean and margaret watching him. the boy blushed furiously when his eyes met margaret's and he thought he saw her start slightly, but he lowered his eyes and hurried away. it was only a few days later that, going up from town toward the campus, he turned a corner and there was margaret alone and moving slowly ahead of him. hearing his steps she turned her head to see who it was, but chad kept his eyes on the ground and passed her without looking up. and thus he went on, although she was close behind him, across the street and to the turnstile. as he was passing through, a voice rose behind him: "you aren't very polite, little boy." he turned quickly--margaret had not gone around the corner: she, too, was coming through the campus and there she stood, grave and demure, though her eyes were dancing. "my mamma says a nice little boy always lets a little girl go first." "i didn't know you was comin' through." "was comin' through!" margaret made a little face as though to say--"oh, dear." "i said i didn't know you were coming through this way." margaret shook her head. "no," she said; "no, you didn't." "well, that's what i meant to say." chad was having a hard time with his english. he had snatched his cap from his head, had stepped back outside the stile and was waiting to turn it for her. margaret passed through and waited where the paths forked. "are you going up to the college?" she asked. "i was--but i ain't now--if you'll let me walk a piece with you." he was scarlet with confusion--a tribute that chad rarely paid his kind. his way of talking was very funny, to be sure, but had she not heard her father say that "the poor little chap had had no chance in life;" and harry, that some day he would be the best in his class? "aren't you--chad?" "yes--ain't you margaret--miss margaret?" "yes, i'm margaret." she was pleased with the hesitant title and the boy's halting reverence. "an' i called you a little gal." margaret's laugh tinkled in merry remembrance. "an' you wouldn't take my fish." "i can't bear to touch them." "i know," said chad, remembering melissa. they passed a boy who knew chad, but not margaret. the lad took off his hat, but chad did not lift his; then a boy and a girl and, when only the two girls spoke, the other boy lifted his hat, though he did not speak to margaret. still chad's hat was untouched and when margaret looked up, chad's face was red with confusion again. but it never took the boy long to learn and, thereafter, during the walk his hat came off unfailingly. everyone looked at the two with some surprise and chad noticed that the little girl's chin was being lifted higher and higher. his intuition told him what the matter was, and when they reached the stile across the campus and chad saw a crowd of margaret's friends coming down the street, he halted as if to turn back, but the little girl told him imperiously to come on. it was a strange escort for haughty margaret--the country-looking boy, in coarse homespun--but margaret spoke cheerily to her friends and went on, looking up at chad and talking to him as though he were the dearest friend she had on earth. at the edge of town she suggested that they walk across a pasture and go back by another street, and not until they were passing through the woodland did chad come to himself. "you know i didn't rickollect when you called me 'little boy.'" "indeed!" "not at fust, i mean," stammered chad. margaret grew mock-haughty and chad grew grave. he spoke very slowly and steadily. "i reckon i rickollect ever'thing that happened out thar a sight better'n you. i ain't forgot nothin'--anything." the boy's sober and half-sullen tone made margaret catch her breath with a sudden vague alarm. unconsciously she quickened her pace, but, already, she was mistress of an art to which she was born and she said, lightly: "now, that's much better." a piece of pasteboard dropped from chad's jacket just then, and, taking the little girl's cue to swerve from the point at issue, he picked it up and held it out for margaret to read. it was the first copy of the placard which he had tied around jack's neck when he sent him home, and it set margaret to laughing and asking questions. before he knew it chad was telling her about jack and the mountains; how he had run away; about the turners and about melissa and coming down the river on a raft--all he had done and all he meant to do. and from looking at chad now and then, margaret finally kept her eyes fixed on his--and thus they stood when they reached the gate, while crows flew cawing over them and the air grew chill. "and did jack go home?" chad laughed. "no, he didn't. he come back, and i had to hide fer two days. then, because he couldn't find me he did go, thinking i had gone back to the mountains, too. he went to look fer me." "well, if he comes back again i'll ask my papa to get them to let you keep jack at college," said margaret. chad shook his head. "then i'll keep him for you myself." the boy looked his gratitude, but shook his head again. "he won't stay." margaret asked for the placard again as they moved down the street. "you've got it spelled wrong," she said, pointing to "steel." chad blushed. "i can't spell when i write," he said. "i can't even talk--right." "but you'll learn," she said. "will you help me?" "yes." "tell me when i say things wrong?" "yes." "where'm i goin' to see you?" margaret shook her head thoughtfully: then the reason for her speaking first to chad came out. "papa and i saw you on sunday, and papa said you must be very strong as well as brave, and that you knew something about horses. harry told us who you were when papa described you, and then i remembered. papa told harry to bring you to see us. and you must come," she said, decisively. they had reached the turnstile at the campus again. "have you had any more tournaments?" asked margaret. "no," said chad, apprehensively. "do you remember the last thing i said to you?" "i rickollect that better'n anything," said chad. "well, i didn't hate you. i'm sorry i said that," she said gently. chad looked very serious. "that's all right," he said. "i seed--i saw you on sunday, too." "did you know me?" "i reckon i did. and that wasn't the fust time." margaret's eyes were opening with surprise. "i been goin' to church ever' sunday fer nothin' else but just to see you." again his tone gave her vague alarm, but she asked: "why didn't you speak to me?" they were nearing the turnstile across the campus now, and chad did not answer. "why didn't you speak to me?" chad stopped suddenly, and margaret looked quickly at him, and saw that his face was scarlet. the little girl started and her own face flamed. there was one thing she had forgotten, and even now she could not recall what it was--only that it was something terrible she must not know--old mammy's words when dan was carried in senseless after the tournament. frightened and helpless, she shrank toward the turnstile, but chad did not wait. with his cap in his hand, he turned abruptly, without a sound, and strode away. chapter . again the bar sinister and yet, the next time chad saw margaret, she spoke to him shyly but cordially, and when he did not come near her, she stopped him on the street one day and reminded him of his promise to come and see them. and chad knew the truth at once--that she had never asked her father about him, but had not wanted to know what she had been told she must not know, and had properly taken it for granted that her father would not ask chad to his house, if there were a good reason why he should not come. but chad did not go even to the christmas party that margaret gave in town, though the major urged him. he spent christmas with the major, and he did go to a country party, where the major was delighted with the boy's grace and agility dancing the quadrille, and where the lad occasioned no little amusement with his improvisations in the way of cutting pigeon's wings and shuffling, which he had learned in the mountains. so the major made him accept a loan and buy a suit for social purposes after christmas, and had him go to madam blake's dancing school, and promise to go to the next party to which he was asked. and that chad did--to the big gray house on the corner, through whose widespread doors his longing eyes had watched margaret and her friends flitting like butterflies months before. it intoxicated the boy--the lights, music, flowers, the little girls in white--and margaret. for the first time he met her friends, nellie hunt, sister to richard; elizabeth morgan, cousin to john morgan; and miss jennie overstreet, who, young as she was, wrote poems--but chad had eyes only for margaret. it was while he was dancing a quadrille with her, that he noticed a tall, pale youth with black hair, glaring at him, and he recognized georgie forbes, a champion of margaret, and the old enemy who had caused his first trouble in his new home. chad laughed with fearless gladness, and margaret tossed her head. it was georgie now who blackened and spread the blot on chad's good name, and it was georgie to whom chad--fast learning the ways of gentlemen--promptly sent a pompous challenge, that the difficulty might be settled "in any way the gentleman saw fit." georgie insultingly declined to fight with one who was not his equal, and chad boxed his jaws in the presence of a crowd, floored him with one blow, and contemptuously twisted his nose. thereafter open comment ceased. chad was making himself known. he was the swiftest runner on the football field; he had the quickest brain in mathematics; he was elected to the periclean society, and astonished his fellow-members with a fiery denunciation of the men who banished napoleon to st. helena--so fiery was it, indeed, that his opponents themselves began to wonder how that crime had ever come to pass. he would fight at the drop of a hat, and he always won; and by-and-by the boy began to take a fierce joy in battling his way upward against a block that would have crushed a weaker soul. it was only with margaret that that soul was in awe. he began to love her with a pure reverence that he could never know at another age. every saturday night, when dusk fell, he was mounting the steps of her house. every sunday morning he was waiting to take her home from church. every afternoon he looked for her, hoping to catch sight of her on the streets, and it was only when dan and harry got indignant, and after margaret had made a passionate defence of chad in the presence of the family, that the general and mrs. dean took the matter in hand. it was a childish thing, of course; a girlish whim. it was right that they should be kind to the boy--for major buford's sake, if not for his own; but they could not have even the pretence of more than a friendly intimacy between the two, and so margaret was told the truth. immediately, when chad next saw her, her honest eyes sadly told him that she knew the truth, and chad gave up then. thereafter he disappeared from sports and from his kind every way, except in the classroom and in the debating hall. sullenly he stuck to his books. from five o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night, he was at them steadily, in his room, or at recitation except for an hour's walk with the school-master and the three half-hours that his meals kept him away. he grew so pale and thin that the major and caleb hazel were greatly worried, but protest from both was useless. before the end of the term he had mounted into college in every study, and was holding his own. at the end he knew his power--knew what he could do, and his face was set, for his future, dauntless. when vacation came, he went at once to the major's farm, but not to be idle. in a week or two he was taking some of the reins into his own hands as a valuable assistant to the major. he knew a good horse, could guess the weight of a steer with surprising accuracy, and was a past master in knowledge of sheep. by instinct he was canny at a trade--what mountaineer is not?--and he astonished the major with the shrewd deals he made. authority seemed to come naturally to him, and the major swore that he could get more work out of the "hands" than the overseer himself, who sullenly resented chad's interference, but dared not open his lips. not once did he go to the deans', and neither harry nor dan came near him. there was little intercourse between the major and the general, as well; for, while the major could not, under the circumstances, blame the general, inconsistently, he could not quite forgive him, and the line of polite coolness between the neighbors was never overstepped. at the end of july, chad went to the mountains to see the turners and jack and melissa. he wore his roughest clothes, put on no airs, and, to all eyes, save melissa's, he was the same old chad. but feminine subtlety knows no social or geographical lines, and while melissa knew what had happened as well as chad, she never let him see that she knew. apparently she was giving open encouragement to dave hilton, a tawny youth from down the river, who was hanging, dog-like, about the house, and foolish chad began to let himself dream of margaret with a light heart. on the third day before he was to go back to the bluegrass, a boy came from over black mountain with a message from old nathan cherry. old nathan had joined the church, had fallen ill, and, fearing he was going to die, wanted to see chad. chad went over with curious premonitions that were not in vain, and he came back with a strange story that he told only to old joel, under promise that he would never make it known to melissa. then he started for the bluegrass, going over pine mountain and down through cumberland gap. he would come back every year of his life, he told melissa and the turners, but chad knew he was bidding a last farewell to the life he had known in the mountains. at melissa's wish and old joel's, he left jack behind, though he sorely wanted to take the dog with him. it was little enough for him to do in return for their kindness, and he could see that melissa's affection for jack was even greater than his own: and how incomparably lonelier than his life was the life that she must lead! this time melissa did not rush to the yard gate when he was gone. she sank slowly where she stood to the steps of the porch, and there she sat stone-still. old joel passed her on the way to the barn. several times the old mother walked to the door behind her, and each time starting to speak, stopped and turned back, but the girl neither saw nor heard them. jack trotted by, whimpering. he sat down in front of her, looking up at her unseeing eyes, and it was only when he crept to her and put his head in her lap, that she put her arms around him and bent her own head down; but no tears came. chapter . chadwick buford, gentleman and so, returned to the bluegrass, the midsummer of that year, chadwick buford gentleman. a youth of eighteen, with the self-possession of a man, and a pair of level, clear eyes, that looked the world in the face as proudly as ever but with no defiance and no secret sense of shame it was a curious story that chad brought back and told to the major, on the porch under the honeysuckle vines, but it seemed to surprise the major very little: how old nathan had sent for him to come to his death-bed and had told chad that he was no foundling; that one of his farms belonged to the boy; that he had lied to the major about chad's mother, who was a lawful wife, in order to keep the land for himself; how old nathan had offered to give back the farm, or pay him the price of it in livestock, and how, at old joel's advice he had taken the stock and turned the stock into money. how, after he had found his mother's grave, his first act had been to take up the rough bee-gum coffin that held her remains, and carry it down the river, and bury her where she had the right to lie, side by side with her grandfather and his--the old gentleman who slept in wig and peruke on the hill-side--that her good name and memory should never again suffer insult from any living tongue. it was then that major took chad by the shoulders roughly, and, with tears in his eyes, swore that he would have no more nonsense from the boy; that chad was flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone; that he would adopt him and make him live where he belonged, and break his damned pride. and it was then that chad told him how gladly he would come, now that he could bring him an untarnished name. and the two walked together down to the old family graveyard, where the major said that the two in the mountains should be brought some day and where the two brothers who had parted nearly fourscore years ago could, side by side, await judgment day. when they went back into the house the major went to the sideboard. "have a drink, chad?" chad laughed: "do you think it will stunt my growth?" "stand up here, and let's see," said the major. the two stood up, back to back, in front of a long mirror, and chad's shaggy hair rose at least an inch above the major's thin locks of gray. the major turned and looked at him from head to foot with affectionate pride. "six feet in your socks, to the inch, without that hair. i reckon it won't stunt you--not now." "all right," laughed chad, "then i'll take that drink." and together they drank. thus, chadwick buford, gentleman, after the lapse of three-quarters of a century, came back to his own: and what that own, at that day and in that land, was! it was the rose of virginia, springing, in full bloom, from new and richer soil--a rose of a deeper scarlet and a stronger stem: and the big village where the old university reared its noble front was the very heart of that rose. there were the proudest families, the stateliest homes, the broadest culture, the most gracious hospitality, the gentlest courtesies, the finest chivalry, that the state has ever known. there lived the political idols; there, under the low sky, rose the memorial shaft to clay. there had lived beaux and belles, memories of whom hang still about the town, people it with phantom shapes, and give an individual or a family here and there a subtle distinction to-day. there the grasp of calvinism was most lax. there were the dance, the ready sideboard, the card table, the love of the horse and the dog, and but little passion for the game-cock. there were as manly virtues, as manly vices, as the world has ever known. and there, love was as far from lust as heaven from hell. it was on the threshold of this life that chad stood. kentucky had given birth to the man who was to uphold the union--birth to the man who would seek to shatter it. fate had given chad the early life of one, and like blood with the other; and, curiously enough, in his own short life, he already epitomized the social development of the nation, from its birth in a log cabin to its swift maturity behind the columns of a greek portico. against the uncounted generations of gentlepeople that ran behind him to sunny england, how little could the short sleep of three in the hills count! it may take three generations to make a gentleman, but one is enough, if the blood be there, the heart be right, and the brain and hand come early under discipline. it was to general dean that the major told chad's story first. the two old friends silently grasped hands, and the cloud between them passed like mist. "bring him over to dinner on saturday, cal--you and miss lucy, won't you? some people are coming out from town." in making amends, there was no half-way with general dean. "i will," said the major, "gladly." the cool of the coming autumn was already in the air that saturday when miss lucy and the major and chad, in the old carriage, with old tom as driver and the pickaninny behind, started for general dean's. the major was beautiful to behold, in his flowered waistcoat, his ruffled shirt, white trousers strapped beneath his highly polished, high-heeled boots, high hat and frock coat, with only the lowest button fastened, in order to give a glimpse of that wonderful waistcoat, just as that, too, was unbuttoned at the top that the ruffles might peep out upon the world. chad's raiment, too, was a solomon's--for him. he had protested, but in vain; and he, too, wore white trousers with straps, high-heeled boots, and a wine-colored waistcoat and slouch hat, and a brave, though very conscious, figure he made, with his tall body, well-poised head, strong shoulders and thick hair. it was a rare thing for miss lucy to do, but the old gentlewoman could not resist the major, and she, too, rode in state with them, smiling indulgently at the major's quips, and now, kindly, on chad. a drowsy peace lay over the magnificent woodlands, unravaged then except for firewood; the seared pastures, just beginning to show green again for the second spring; the flashing creek, the seas of still hemp and yellow corn, and chad saw a wistful shadow cross miss lucy's pale face, and a darker one anxiously sweep over the major's jesting lips. guests were arriving, when they entered the yard gate, and guests were coming behind them. general and mrs. dean were receiving them on the porch, and harry and dan were helping the ladies out of their carriages, while, leaning against one of the columns, in pure white, was the graceful figure of margaret. that there could ever have been any feeling in any member of the family other than simple, gracious kindliness toward him, chad could neither see nor feel. at once every trace of embarrassment in him was gone, and he could but wonder at the swift justice done him in a way that was so simple and effective. even with margaret there was no trace of consciousness. the past was wiped clean of all save courtesy and kindness. there were the hunts--nellie, and the lieutenant of the lexington rifles, richard hunt, a dauntless-looking dare-devil, with the ready tongue of a coffee-house wit and the grace of a cavalier. there was elizabeth morgan, to whom harry's grave eyes were always wandering, and miss jennie overstreet, who was romantic and openly now wrote poems for the observer, and who looked at chad with no attempt to conceal her admiration of his appearance and her wonder as to who he was. and there were the neighbors roundabout--the talbotts, quisenberrys, clays, prestons, morgans--surely no less than forty strong, and all for dinner. it was no little trial for chad in that crowd of fine ladies, judges, soldiers, lawyers, statesmen--but he stood it well. while his self-consciousness made him awkward, he had pronounced dignity of bearing; his diffidence emphasized his modesty, and he had the good sense to stand and keep still. soon they were at table--and what a table and what a dinner that was! the dining-room was the biggest and sunniest room in the house; its walls covered with hunting prints, pictures of game and stag heads. the table ran the length of it. the snowy tablecloth hung almost to the floor. at the head sat mrs. dean, with a great tureen of calf's head soup in front of her. before the general was the saddle of venison that was to follow, drenched in a bottle of ancient madeira, and flanked by flakes of red-currant jelly. before the major rested broiled wild ducks, on which he could show his carving skill--on game as well as men. a great turkey supplanted the venison, and last to come, and before richard hunt, lieutenant of the rifles, was a kentucky ham. that ham! mellow, aged, boiled in champagne, baked brown, spiced deeply, rosy pink within, and of a flavor and fragrance to shatter the fast of a pope; and without, a brown-edged white layer, so firm that the lieutenant's deft carving knife, passing through, gave no hint to the eye that it was delicious fat. there had been merry jest and laughter and banter and gallant compliment before, but it was richard hunt's turn now, and story after story he told, as the rose-flakes dropped under his knife in such thin slices that their edges coiled. it was full half an hour before the carver and story-teller were done. after that ham the tablecloth was lifted, and the dessert spread on another lying beneath; then that, too, was raised, and the nuts and wines were placed on a third--red damask this time. then came the toasts: to the gracious hostess from major buford; to miss lucy from general dean; from valiant richard hunt to blushing margaret, and then the ladies were gone, and the talk was politics--the election of lincoln, slavery, disunion. "if lincoln is elected, no power but god's can avert war," said richard hunt, gravely. dan's eyes flashed. "will you take me?" the lieutenant lifted his glass. "gladly, my boy." "kentucky's convictions are with the union; her kinship and sympathies with the south," said a deep-voiced lawyer. "she must remain neutral." "straddling the fence," said the major, sarcastically. "no; to avert the war, if possible, or to act the peacemaker when the tragedy is over." "well, i can see kentuckians keeping out of a fight," laughed the general, and he looked around. three out of five of the men present had been in the mexican war. the general had been wounded at cerro gordo, and the major had brought his dead home in leaden coffins. "the fanatics of boston, the hot-heads of south carolina--they are making the mischief." "and new england began with slavery," said the lawyer again. "and naturally, with that conscience that is a national calamity, was the first to give it up," said richard hunt, "when the market price of slaves fell to sixpence a pound in the open boston markets." there was an incredulous murmur. "oh, yes," said hunt, easily, "i can show you advertisements in boston papers of slaves for sale at sixpence a pound." perhaps it never occurred to a soul present that the word "slave" was never heard in that region except in some such way. with southerners, the negroes were "our servants" or "our people"--never slaves. two lads at that table were growing white--chad and harry--and chad's lips opened first. "i don't think slavery has much to do with the question, really," he said, "not even with mr. lincoln." the silent surprise that followed the boy's embarrassed statement ended in a gasp of astonishment when harry leaned across the table and said, hotly: "slavery has everything to do with the question." the major looked bewildered; the general frowned, and the keen-eyed lawyer spoke again: "the struggle was written in the constitution. the framers evaded it. logic leads one way as well as another and no man can logically blame another for the way he goes." "no more politics now, gentlemen," said the general quickly. "we will join the ladies. harry," he added, with some sternness, "lead the way!" as the three boys rose, chad lifted his glass. his face was pale and his lips trembled. "may i propose a toast, general dean?" "why, certainly," said the general, kindly. "i want to drink to one man but for whom i might be in a log cabin now, and might have died there for all i know--my friend and, thank god! my kinsman--major buford." it was irregular and hardly in good taste, but the boy had waited till the ladies were gone, and it touched the major that he should want to make such a public acknowledgment that there should be no false colors in the flag he meant henceforth to bear. the startled guests drank blindly to the confused major, though they knew not why, but as the lads disappeared the lawyer asked: "who is that boy, major?" outside, the same question had been asked among the ladies and the same story told. the three girls remembered him vaguely, they said, and when chad reappeared, in the eyes of the poetess at least, the halo of romance floated above his head. she was waiting for chad when he came out on the porch, and she shook her curls and flashed her eyes in a way that almost alarmed him. old mammy dropped him a curtsey, for she had had her orders, and, behind her, snowball, now a tall, fine-looking coal-black youth, grinned a welcome. the three girls were walking under the trees, with their arms mysteriously twined about one anther's waists, and the poetess walked down toward them with the three lads, richard hunt following. chad could not know how it happened, but, a moment later, dan was walking away with nellie hunt one way; harry with elizabeth morgan the other; the lieutenant had margaret alone, and miss overstreet was leading him away, raving meanwhile about the beauty of field and sky. as they went toward the gate he could not help flashing one look toward the pair under the fir tree. an amused smile was playing under the lieutenant's beautiful mustache, his eyes were dancing with mischief, and margaret was blushing with anything else than displeasure. "oho!" he said, as chad and his companion passed on. "sits the wind in that corner? bless me, if looks could kill, i'd have a happy death here at your feet, mistress margaret. see the young man! it's the second time he has almost slain me." chad could scarcely hear miss jennie's happy chatter, scarcely saw the shaking curls, the eyes all but in a frenzy of rolling. his eyes were in the back of his head, and his backward-listening ears heard only margaret's laugh behind him. "oh, i do love the autumn"--it was at the foot of those steps, thought chad, that he first saw margaret springing to the back of her pony and dashing off under the fir trees--"and it's coming. there's one scarlet leaf already"--chad could see the rock fence where he had sat that spring day--"it's curious and mournful that you can see in any season a sign of the next to come." and there was the creek where he found dan fishing, and there the road led to the ford where margaret had spurned his offer of a slimy fish--ugh! "i do love the autumn. it makes me feel like the young woman who told emerson that she had such mammoth thoughts she couldn't give them utterance--why, wake up, mr. buford, wake up!" chad came to with a start. "do you know you aren't very polite, mr. buford?" mr. buford! that did sound funny. "but i know what the matter is," she went on. "i saw you look"--she nodded her head backward. "can you keep a secret?" chad nodded; he had not yet opened his lips. "thae's going to be a match back there. he's only a few years older. the french say that a woman should be half a man's age plus seven years. that would make her only a few years too young, and she can wait." chad was scarlet under the girl's mischievous torture, but a cry from the house saved him. dan was calling them back. "mr. hunt has to go back early to drill the rifles. can you keep another secret?" again chad nodded gravely. "well, he is going to drive me back. i'll tell him what a dangerous rival he has." chad was dumb; there was much yet for him to learn before he could parry with a tongue like hers. "he's very good-looking," said miss jennie, when she joined the girls, "but oh, so stupid." margaret turned quickly and unsuspiciously. "stupid! why, he's the first man in his class." "oh," said miss jennie, with a demure smile, "perhaps i couldn't draw him out," and margaret flushed to have caught the deftly tossed bait so readily. a moment later the lieutenant was gathering up the reins, with miss jennie by his side. he gave a bow to margaret, and miss jennie nodded to chad. "come see me when you come to town, mr. buford," she called, as though to an old friend, and still chad was dumb, though he lifted his hat gravely. at no time was chad alone with margaret, and he was not sorry--her manner so puzzled him. the three lads and three girls walked together through mrs. dean's garden with its grass walks and flower beds and vegetable patches surrounded with rose bushes. at the lower edge they could see the barn with sheep in the yard around it, and there were the very stiles where harry and margaret had sat in state when dan and chad were charging in the tournament. the thing might never have happened for any sign from harry or dan or margaret, and chad began to wonder if his past or his present were a dream. how fine this courtesy was chad could not realize. neither could he know that the favor margaret had shown him when he was little more than outcast he must now, as an equal, win for himself. miss jennie had called him "mr. buford." he wondered what margaret would call him when he came to say good-by. she called him nothing. she only smiled at him. "you must come to see us soon again," she said, graciously, and so said all the deans. the major was quiet going home, and miss lucy drowsed. all evening the major was quiet. "if a fight does come," he said, when they were going to bed, "i reckon i'm not too old to take a hand." "and i reckon i'm not too young," said chad. chapter . the spirit of ' and the shadow of ' one night, in the following april, there was a great dance in lexington. next day the news of sumter came. chad pleaded to be let off from the dance, but the major would not hear of it. it was a fancy-dress ball, and the major had a pet purpose of his own that he wanted gratified and chad had promised to aid him. that fancy was that chad should go in regimentals, as the stern, old soldier on the wall, of whom the major swore the boy was the "spit and image." the major himself helped chad dress in wig, peruke, stock, breeches, boots, spurs, cocked hat, sword and all. and then he led the boy down into the parlor, where miss lucy was waiting for them, and stood him up on one side of the portrait. to please the old fellow, chad laughingly struck the attitude of the pictured soldier, and the major cried: "what'd i tell you, lucy!" then he advanced and made a low bow. "general buford," he said, "general washington's compliments, and will general buford plant the flag on that hill where the left wing of the british is entrenched?" "hush, cal," said miss lucy, laughing. "general buford's compliments to general washington. general buford will plant that flag on any hill that any enemy holds against it." the lad's face paled as the words, by some curious impulse, sprang to his lips, but the unsuspecting major saw no lurking significance in his manner, nor in what he said, and then there was a rumble of carriage wheels at the door. the winter had sped swiftly. chad had done his work in college only fairly well, for margaret had been a disturbing factor. the girl was an impenetrable mystery to him, for the past between them was not only wiped clean--it seemed quite gone. once only had he dared to open his lips about the old days, and the girl's flushed silence made a like mistake forever impossible. he came and went at the deans' as he pleased. always they were kind, courteous, hospitable--no more, no less, unvaryingly. during the christmas holidays he and margaret had had a foolish quarrel, and it was then that chad took his little fling at his little world--a fling that was foolish, but harmful, chiefly in that it took his time and his mind and his energy from his work. he not only neglected his studies, but he fell in with the wild young bucks of the town, learned to play cards, took more wine than was good for him sometimes, was on the verge of several duels, and night after night raced home in his buggy against the coming dawn. though miss lucy looked worried, the indulgent old major made no protest. indeed he was rather pleased. chad was sowing his wild oats--it was in the blood, and the mood would pass. it did pass, naturally enough, on the very day that the breach between him and margaret was partly healed; and the heart of caleb hazel, whom chad, for months, had not dared to face, was made glad when the boy came back to him remorseful and repentant--the old chad once more. they were late in getting to the dance. every window in the old hunt home was brilliant with light. chinese lanterns swung in the big yard. the scent of early spring flowers smote the fresh night air. music and the murmur of nimble feet and happy laughter swept out the wide-open doors past which white figures flitted swiftly. scarcely anybody knew chad in his regimentals, and the major, with the delight of a boy, led him around, gravely presenting him as general buford here and there. indeed, the lad made a noble figure with his superb height and bearing, and he wore sword and spurs as though born to them. margaret was dancing with richard hunt when she saw his eyes searching for her through the room, and she gave him a radiant smile that almost stunned him. she had been haughty and distant when he went to her to plead forgiveness: she had been too hard, and margaret, too, was repentant. "why, who's that?" asked richard hunt. "oh, yes," he added, getting his answer from margaret's face. "bless me, but he's fine--the very spirit of ' . i must have him in the rifles." "will you make him a lieutenant?" asked margaret. "why, yes, i will," said mr. hunt, decisively. "i'll resign myself in his favor, if it pleases you." "oh, no, no--no one could fill your place." "well, he can, i fear--and here he comes to do it. i'll have to retreat some time, and i suppose i'd as well begin now." and the gallant gentleman bowed to chad. "will you pardon me, miss margaret? my mother is calling me." "you must have keen ears," said margaret; "your mother is upstairs." "yes; but she wants me. everybody wants me, but--" he bowed again with an imperturbable smile and went his way. margaret looked demurely into chad's eager eyes. "and how is the spirit of ' ?" "the spirit of ' is unchanged." "oh, yes, he is; i scarcely knew him." "but he's unchanged; he never will change." margaret dropped her eyes and chad looked around. "i wish we could get out of here." "we can," said margaret, demurely. "we will!" said chad, and he made for a door, outside which lanterns were swinging in the wind. margaret caught up some flimsy garment and wound it about her pretty round throat--they call it a "fascinator" in the south. chad looked down at her. "i wish you could see yourself; i wish i could tell you how you look." "i have," said margaret, "every time i passed a mirror. and other people have told me. mr. hunt did. he didn't seem to have much trouble." "i wish i had his tongue." "if you had, and nothing else, you wouldn't have me"--chad started as the little witch paused a second, drawling--"leaving my friends and this jolly dance to go out into a freezing yard and talk to an aged colonial who doesn't appreciate his modern blessings. the next thing you'll be wanting, i suppose--will be--" "you, margaret; you--you!" it had come at last and margaret hardly knew the choked voice that interrupted her. she had turned her back to him to sit down. she paused a moment, standing. her eyes closed; a slight tremor ran through her, and she sank with her face in her hands. chad stood silent, trembling. voices murmured about them, but like the music in the house, they seemed strangely far away. the stirring of the wind made the sudden damp on his forehead icy-cold. margaret's hands slowly left her face, which had changed as by a miracle. every trace of coquetry was gone. it was the face of a woman who knew her own heart, and had the sweet frankness to speak it, that was lifted now to chad. "i'm so glad you are what you are, chad; but had you been otherwise--that would have made no difference to me. you believe that, don't you, chad? they might not have let me marry you, but i should have cared, just the same. they may not now, but that, too, will make no difference." she turned her eyes from his for an instant, as though she were looking far backward. "ever since that day," she said, slowly, "when i heard you say, 'tell the little gurl i didn't mean nothin' callin' her a little gal'"--there was a low, delicious gurgle in the throat as she tried to imitate his odd speech, and then her eyes suddenly filled with tears, but she brushed them away, smiling brightly. "ever since then, chad--" she stopped--a shadow fell across the door of the little summer house. "here i am, mr. hunt," she said, lightly; "is this your dance?" she rose and was gone. "thank you, mr. buford," she called back, sweetly. for a moment chad stood where he was, quite dazed--so quickly, so unexpectedly had the crisis come. the blood had rushed to his face and flooded him with triumphant happiness. a terrible doubt chilled him as quickly. had he heard aright?--could he have misunderstood her? had the dream of years really come true? what was it she had said? he stumbled around in the half darkness, wondering. was this another phase of her unceasing coquetry? how quickly her tone had changed when richard hunt's shadow came. at that moment, he neither could nor would have changed a hair had some genie dropped them both in the midst of the crowded ball-room. he turned swiftly toward the dancers. he must see, know--now! the dance was a quadrille and the figure was "grand right and left." margaret had met richard hunt opposite, half-way, when chad reached the door and was curtseying to him with a radiant smile. again the boy's doubts beat him fiercely; and then margaret turned her head, as though she knew he must be standing there. her face grew so suddenly serious and her eyes softened with such swift tenderness when they met his, that a wave of guilty shame swept through him. and when she came around to him and passed, she leaned from the circle toward him, merry and mock-reproachful: "you mustn't look at me like that," she whispered, and hunt, close at hand, saw, guessed and smiled. chad turned quickly away again. that happy dawn--going home! the major drowsed and fell asleep. the first coming light, the first cool breath that was stealing over the awakening fields, the first spring leaves with their weight of dew, were not more fresh and pure than the love that was in the boy's heart. he held his right hand in his left, as though he were imprisoning there the memory of the last little clasp that she had given it. he looked at the major, and he wondered how anybody on earth, at that hour, could be asleep. he thought of the wasted days of the past few months; the silly, foolish life he had led, and thanked god that, in the memory of them, there was not one sting of shame. how he would work for her now! little guessing how proud she already was, he swore to himself how proud she should be of him some day. he wondered where she was, and what she was doing. she could not be asleep, and he must have cried aloud could he have known--could he have heard her on her knees at her bedside, whispering his name for the first time in her prayers; could he have seen her, a little later, at her open window, looking across the fields, as though her eyes must reach him through the morning dusk. that happy dawn--for both, that happy dawn! it was well that neither, at that hour, could see beyond the rim of his own little world. in a far southern city another ball, that night, had been going on. down there the air was charged with the prescience of dark trouble, but, while the music moaned to many a heart like a god in pain, there was no brooding--only a deeper flush to the cheek, a brighter sparkle to the eye, a keener wit to the tongue; to the dance, a merrier swing. and at that very hour of dawn, ladies, slippered, bare of head, and in evening gowns, were fluttering like white moths along the streets of old charleston, and down to the battery, where fort sumter lay, gray and quiet in the morning mist--to await with jest and laughter the hissing shriek of one shell that lighted the fires of a four years' hell in a happy land of god-fearing peace and god-given plenty, and the hissing shriek of another that anderson, kentuckian, hurled back, in heroic defence of the flag struck for the first time by other than an alien hand. chapter . the blue or the gray in the far north, as in the far south, men had but to drift with the tide. among the kentuckians, the forces that moulded her sons--davis and lincoln--were at war in the state, as they were at war in the nation. by ties of blood, sympathies, institutions, kentucky was bound fast to the south. yet, ten years before, kentuckians had demanded the gradual emancipation of the slave. that far back, they had carved a pledge on a block of kentucky marble, which should be placed in the washington monument, that kentucky would be the last to give up the union. for ten years, they had felt the shadow of the war creeping toward them. in the dark hours of that dismal year, before the dawn of final decision, the men, women, and children of kentucky talked of little else save war, and the skeleton of war took its place in the closet of every home from the ohio to the crest of the cumberland. when the dawn of that decision came, kentucky spread before the world a record of independent-mindedness, patriotism, as each side gave the word, and sacrifice that has no parallel in history. she sent the flower of her youth--forty thousand strong--into the confederacy; she lifted the lid of her treasury to lincoln, and in answer to his every call, sent him a soldier, practically without a bounty and without a draft. and when the curtain fell on the last act of the great tragedy, half of her manhood was behind it--helpless from disease, wounded, or dead on the battle-field. so, on a gentle april day, when the great news came, it came like a sword that, with one stroke, slashed the state in twain, shearing through the strongest bonds that link one man to another, whether of blood, business, politics or religion, as though they were no more than threads of wool. nowhere in the union was the national drama so played to the bitter end in the confines of a single state. as the nation was rent apart, so was the commonwealth; as the state, so was the county; as the county, the neighborhood; as the neighborhood, the family; and as the family, so brother and brother, father and son. in the nation the kinship was racial only. brother knew not the face of brother. there was distance between them, antagonism, prejudice, a smouldering dislike easily fanned to flaming hatred. in kentucky the brothers had been born in the same bed, slept in the same cradle, played under the same roof, sat side by side in the same schoolroom, and stood now on the threshold of manhood arm in arm, with mutual interests, mutual love, mutual pride in family that made clan feeling peculiarly intense. for antislavery fanaticism, or honest unionism, one needed not to go to the far north; as, for imperious, hotheaded, non-interference or pure state sovereignty, one needed not to go to the far south. they were all there in the state, the county, the family--under the same roof. along the border alone did feeling approach uniformity--the border of kentucky hills. there unionism was free from prejudice as nowhere else on the continent save elsewhere throughout the southern mountains. those southern yankees knew nothing about the valley aristocrat, nothing about his slaves, and cared as little for one as for the other. since ' they had known but one flag, and one flag only, and to that flag instinctively they rallied. but that the state should be swept from border to border with horror, there was division even here: for, in the kentucky mountains, there was, here and there, a patriarch like joel turner who owned slaves, and he and his sons fought for them as he and his sons would have fought for their horses, or their cattle, or their sheep. it was the prescient horror of such a condition that had no little part in the neutral stand that kentucky strove to maintain. she knew what war was--for every fireside was rich in memories that men and women had of kindred who had fallen on numberless battle-fields--back even to st. clair's defeat and the raisin massacre; and though she did not fear war for its harvest of dangers and death, she did look with terror on a conflict between neighbors, friends, and brothers. so she refused troops to lincoln; she refused them to davis. both pledged her immunity from invasion, and, to enforce that pledge, she raised home guards as she had already raised state guards for internal protection and peace. and there--as a state--she stood: but the tragedy went on in the kentucky home--a tragedy of peculiar intensity and pathos in one kentucky home--the deans'. harry had grown up tall, pale, studious, brooding. he had always been the pet of his uncle brutus--the old lion of white hall. visiting the hall, he had drunk in the poison, or consecration, as was the point of view, of abolitionism. at the first sign he was never allowed to go again. but the poison had gone deep. whenever he could he went to hear old brutus speak. eagerly he heard stories of the fearless abolitionist's hand-to-hand fights with men who sought to skewer his fiery tongue. deeply he brooded on every word that his retentive ear had caught from the old man's lips, and on the wrongs he endured in behalf of his cause and for freedom of speech. one other hero did he place above him--the great commoner after whom he had been christened, henry clay dean. he knew how clay's life had been devoted to averting the coming war, and how his last days had been darkly shadowed by the belief that, when he was gone, the war must come. at times he could hear that clarion voice as it rang through the senate with the bold challenge to his own people that paramount was his duty to the nation--subordinate his duty to his state. who can tell what the nation owed, in kentucky, at least, to the passionate allegiance that was broadcast through the state to henry clay? it was not in the boy's blood to be driven an inch, and no one tried to drive him. in his own home he was a spectre of gnawing anguish to his mother and margaret, of unspeakable bitterness and disappointment to his father, and an impenetrable sphinx to dan. for in dan there was no shaking doubt. he was the spirit, incarnate, of the young, unquestioning, unthinking, generous, reckless, hotheaded, passionate south. and chad? the news reached major buford's farm at noon, and chad went to the woods and came in at dusk, haggard and spent. miserably now he held his tongue and tortured his brain. purposely, he never opened his lips to harry dean. he tried to make known to the major the struggle going on within him, but the iron-willed old man brushed away all argument with an impatient wave of his hand. with margaret he talked once, and straightway the question was dropped like a living coal. so, chad withdrew from his fellows. the social life of the town, gayer than ever now, knew him no more. he kept up his college work, but when he was not at his books, he walked the fields, and many a moonlit midnight found him striding along a white turnpike, or sitting motionless on top of a fence along the border of some woodland, his chin in both hands, fighting his fight out in the cool stillness alone. he himself little knew the unmeant significance there was in the old continental uniform he had worn to the dance. even his old rifle, had he but known it, had been carried with daniel morgan from virginia to washington's aid in cambridge. his earliest memories of war were rooted in thrilling stories of king's mountain. he had heard old men tell of pointing deadly rifles at red-coats at new orleans, and had absorbed their own love of old hickory. the school-master himself, when a mere lad, had been with scott in mexico. the spirit of the back-woodsman had been caught in the hills, and was alive and unchanged at that very hour. the boy was practically born in revolutionary days, and that was why, like all mountaineers, chad had little love of state and only love of country--was first, last and all the time, simply american. it was not reason--it was instinct. the heroes the school-master had taught him to love and some day to emulate, had fought under one flag, and, like them, the mountaineers never dreamed there could be another. and so the boy was an unconscious reincarnation of that old spirit, uninfluenced by temporary apostasies in the outside world, untouched absolutely by sectional prejudice or the appeal of the slave. the mountaineer had no hatred of the valley aristocrat, because he knew nothing of him, and envied no man what he was, what he had, or the life he led. so, as for slavery, that question, singularly enough, never troubled his soul. to him slaves were hewers of wood and drawers of water. the lord had made them so and the bible said that it was right. that the school-master had taught chad. he had read "uncle tom's cabin," and the story made him smile. the tragedies of it he had never known and he did not believe. slaves were sleek, well-fed, well-housed, loved and trusted, rightly inferior and happy; and no aristocrat ever moved among them with a more lordly, righteous air of authority than did this mountain lad who had known them little more than half a dozen years. unlike the north, the boy had no prejudice, no antagonism, no jealousy, no grievance to help him in his struggle. unlike harry, he had no slave sympathy to stir him to the depths, no stubborn, rebellious pride to prod him on. in the days when the school-master thundered at him some speech of the prince of kentuckians, it was always the national thrill in the fiery utterance that had shaken him even then. so that unconsciously the boy was the embodiment of pure americanism, and for that reason he and the people among whom he was born stood among the millions on either side, quite alone. what was he fighting then--ah, what? if the bed-rock of his character was not loyalty, it was nothing. in the mountains the turners had taken him from the wilderness. in the bluegrass the old major had taken him from the hills. his very life he owed to the simple, kindly mountaineers, and what he valued more than his life he owed to the simple gentleman who had picked him up from the roadside and, almost without question, had taken him to his heart and to his home. the turners, he knew, would fight for their slaves as they would have fought dillon or devil had either proposed to take from them a cow, a hog, or a sheep. for that chad could not blame them. and the major was going to fight, as he believed, for his liberty, his state, his country, his property, his fireside. so in the eyes of both, chad must be the snake who had warmed his frozen body on their hearthstones and bitten the kindly hands that had warmed him back to life. what would melissa say? mentally he shrank from the fire of her eyes and the scorn of her tongue when she should know. and margaret--the thought of her brought always a voiceless groan. to her, he had let his doubts be known, and her white silence closed his own lips then and there. the simple fact that he had doubts was an entering wedge of coldness between them that chad saw must force them apart for he knew that the truth must come soon, and what would be the bitter cost of that truth. she could never see him as she saw harry. harry was a beloved and erring brother. hatred of slavery had been cunningly planted in his heart by her father's own brother, upon whose head the blame for harry's sin was set. the boy had been taunted until his own father's scorn had stirred his proud independence into stubborn resistance and intensified his resolution to do what he pleased and what he thought was right. but chad--she would never understand him. she would never understand his love for the government that had once abandoned her people to savages and forced her state and his to seek aid from a foreign land. in her eyes, too, he would be rending the hearts that had been tenderest to him in all the world: and that was all. of what fate she would deal out to him he dared not think. if he lifted his hand against the south, he must strike at the heart of all he loved best, to which he owed most. if against the union, at the heart of all that was best in himself. in him the pure spirit that gave birth to the nation was fighting for life. ah, god! what should he do--what should he do? chapter . off to the war throughout that summer chad fought his fight, daily swaying this way and that--fought it in secret until the phantom of neutrality faded and gave place to the grim spectre of war--until with each hand kentucky drew a sword and made ready to plunge both into her own stout heart. when sumter fell, she shook her head resolutely to both north and south. crittenden, in the name of union lovers and the dead clay, pleaded with the state to take no part in the fratricidal crime. from the mothers, wives, sisters and daughters of thirty-one counties came piteously the same appeal. neutrality, to be held inviolate, was the answer to the cry from both the north and the south; but armed neutrality, said kentucky. the state had not the moral right to secede; the nation, no constitutional right to coerce: if both the north and the south left their paths of duty and fought--let both keep their battles from her soil. straightway state guards went into camp and home guards were held in reserve, but there was not a fool in the commonwealth who did not know that, in sympathy, the state guards were already for the confederacy and the home guards for the union cause. this was in may. in june, federals were enlisting across the ohio; confederates, just over the border of dixie which begins in tennessee. within a month stonewall jackson sat on his horse, after bull run, watching the routed yankees, praying for fresh men that he might go on and take the capitol, and, from the federal dream of a sixty-days' riot, the north woke with a gasp. a week or two later, camp dick robinson squatted down on the edge of the bluegrass, the first violation of the state's neutrality, and beckoned with both hands for yankee recruits. soon an order went round to disarm the state guards, and on that very day the state guards made ready for dixie. on that day the crisis came at the deans', and on that day chad buford made up his mind. when the major and miss lucy went to bed that night, he slipped out of the house and walked through the yard and across the pike, following the little creek half unconsciously toward the deans', until he could see the light in margaret's window, and there he climbed the worm fence and sat leaning his head against one of the forked stakes with his hat in his lap. he would probably not see her again. he would send her word next morning to ask that he might, and he feared what the result of that word would be. several times his longing eyes saw her shadow pass the curtain, and when her light was out, he closed his eyes and sat motionless--how long he hardly knew; but, when he sprang down, he was stiffened from the midnight chill and his unchanged posture. he went back to his room then, and wrote margaret a letter and tore it up and went to bed. there was little sleep for him that night, and when the glimmer of morning brightened at his window, he rose listlessly, dipped his hot head in a bowl of water and stole out to the barn. his little mare whinnied a welcome as he opened the barn door. he patted her on the neck. "good-by, little girl," he said. he started to call her by name and stopped. margaret had named the beautiful creature "dixie." the servants were stirring. "good-mawnin', mars chad," said each, and with each he shook hands, saying simply that he was going away that morning. only old tom asked him a question. "foh gawd, mars chad," said the old fellow, "old mars buford can't git along widout you. you gwine to come back soon?" "i don't know, uncle tom," said chad, sadly. "whar you gwine, mars chad?" "into the army." "de ahmy?" the old man smiled. "you gwine to fight de yankees?" "i'm going to fight with the yankees." the old driver looked as though he could not have heard aright. "you foolin' this ole nigger, mars chad, ain't you?" chad shook his head, and the old man straightened himself a bit. "i'se sorry to heah it, suh," he said, with dignity, and he turned to his work. miss lucy was not feeling well that morning and did not come down to breakfast. the boy was so pale and haggard that the major looked at him anxiously. "what's the matter with you, chad? are you--?" "i didn't sleep very well last night, major." the major chuckled. "i reckon you ain't gettin' enough sleep these days. i reckon i wouldn't, either, if i were in your place." chad did not answer. after breakfast he sat with the major on the porch in the fresh, sunny air. the major smoked his pipe, taking the stem out of his mouth now and then to shout some order as a servant passed under his eye. "what's the news, chad?" "mr. crittenden is back." "what did old lincoln say?" "that camp dick robinson was formed for kentuckians by kentuckians, and he did not believe that it was the wish of the state that it should be removed." "well, by ----! after his promise. what did davis say?" "that if kentucky opened the northern door for invasion, she must not close the southern door to entrance for defence." "and dead right he is," growled the major with satisfaction. "governor magoffin asked ohio and indiana to join in an effort for a peace congress," chad added. "well?" "both governors refused." "i tell you, boy, the hour has come." the hour had come. "i'm going away this morning, major." the major did not even turn his head. "i thought this was coming," he said quietly. chad's face grew even paler, and he steeled his heart for the revelation. "i've already spoken to lieutenant hunt," the major went on. "he expects to be a captain, and he says that, maybe, he can make you a lieutenant. you can take that boy brutus as a body servant." he brought his fist down on the railing of the porch. "god, but i'd give the rest of my life to be ten years younger than i am now." "major, i'm going into the union army." the major's pipe almost dropped from between his lips. catching the arms of his chair with both hands, he turned heavily and with dazed wonder, as though the boy had struck him with his fist from behind, and, without a word, stared hard into chad's tortured face. the keen old eye had not long to look before it saw the truth, and then, silently, the old man turned back. his hands trembled on the chair, and he slowly thrust them into his pockets, breathing hard through his nose. the boy expected an outbreak, but none came. a bee buzzed above them. a yellow butterfly zigzagged by. blackbirds chattered in the firs. the screech of a peacock shrilled across the yard, and a ploughman's singing wailed across the fields: trouble, o lawd! nothin' but trouble in de lan' of canaan. the boy knew he had given his old friend a mortal hurt. "don't, major," he pleaded. "you don't know how i have fought against this. i tried to be on your side. i thought i was. i joined the rifles. i found first that i couldn't fight with the south, and--then--i--found that i had to fight for the north. it almost kills me when i think of all you have done." the major waved his hand imperiously. he was not the man to hear his favors recounted, much less refer to them himself. he straightened and got up from his chair. his manner had grown formal, stately, coldly courteous. "i cannot understand, but you are old enough, sir, to know your own mind. you should have prepared me for this. you will excuse me a moment." chad rose and the major walked toward the door, his step not very steady, and his shoulders a bit shrunken--his back, somehow, looked suddenly old. "brutus!" he called sharply to a black boy who was training rosebushes in the yard. "saddle mr. chad's horse." then, without looking again at chad, he turned into his office, and chad, standing where he was, with a breaking heart, could hear, through the open window, the rustling of papers and the scratching of a pen. in a few minutes he heard the major rise and he turned to meet him. the old man held a roll of bills in one hand and a paper in the other. "here is the balance due you on our last trade," he said, quietly. "the mare is yours--dixie," he added, grimly. "the old mare is in foal. i will keep her and send you your due when the time comes. we are quite even," he went on in a level tone of business. "indeed, what you have done about the place more than exceeds any expense that you have ever caused me. if anything, i am still in your debt." "i can't take it!" said chad, choking back a sob. "you will have to take it," the major broke in, curtly, "unless--" the major held back the bitter speech that was on his lips and chad understood. the old man did not want to feel under any obligations to him. "i would offer you brutus, as was my intention, except that i know you would not take him," again he added, grimly, "and brutus would run away from you." "no, major," said chad, sadly, "i would not take brutus," and he stepped down one step of the porch backward. "i tried to tell you, major, but you wouldn't listen. i don't wonder, for i couldn't explain to you what i couldn't understand myself. i--" the boy choked and tears filled his eyes. he was afraid to hold out his hand. "good-by, major," he said, brokenly. "good-by, sir," answered the major, with a stiff bow, but the old man's lip shook and he turned abruptly within. chad did not trust himself to look back, but, as he rode through the pasture to the pike gate, his ears heard, never to forget, the chatter of the blackbirds, the noises around the barn, the cry of the peacock, and the wailing of the ploughman: trouble, o lawd! nothin' but trouble-- at the gate the little mare turned her head toward town and started away in the easy swinging lope for which she was famous. from a cornfield jerome conners, the overseer, watched horse and rider for a while, and then his lips were lifted over his protruding teeth in one of his ghastly, infrequent smiles. chad buford was out of his way at last. at the deans' gate, snowball was just going in on margaret's pony and chad pulled up. "where's mr. dan, snowball?--and mr. harry?" "mars dan he gwine to de wah--an' i'se gwine wid him." "is mr. harry going, too?" snowball hesitated. he did not like to gossip about family matters, but it was a friend of the family who was questioning him. "yessuh! but mammy say mars harry's teched in de haid. he gwine to fight wid de po' white trash." "is miss margaret at home?" "yessuh." chad had his note to margaret, unsealed. he little felt like seeing her now, but he had just as well have it all over at once. he took it out and looked it over once more--irresolute. "i'm going away to join the union army, margaret. may i come to tell you good-by? if not, god bless you always. chad." "take this to miss margaret, snowball, and bring me an answer here as soon as you can." "yessuh." the black boy was not gone long. chad saw him go up the steps, and in a few moments he reappeared and galloped back. "ole mistis say dey ain't no answer." "thank you, snowball." chad pitched him a coin and loped on toward lexington with his head bent, his hands folded on the pommel, and the reins flapping loosely. within one mile of lexington he turned into a cross-road and set his face toward the mountains. an hour later, the general and harry and dan stood on the big portico. inside, the mother and margaret were weeping in each other's arms. two negro boys were each leading a saddled horse from the stable, while snowball was blubbering at the corner of the house. at the last moment dan had decided to leave him behind. if harry could have no servant, dan, too, would have none. dan was crying without shame. harry's face was as white and stern as his father's. as the horses drew near the general stretched out the sabre in his hand to dan. "this should belong to you, harry." "it is yours to give, father," said harry, gently. "it shall never be drawn against my roof and your mother." the boy was silent. "you are going far north?" asked the general, more gently. "you will not fight on kentucky soil?" "you taught me that the first duty of a soldier is obedience. i must go where i'm ordered." "god grant that you two may never meet." "father!" it was a cry of horror from both the lads. the horses were waiting at the stiles. the general took dan in his arms and the boy broke away and ran down the steps, weeping. "father," said harry, with trembling lips, "i hope you won't be too hard on me. perhaps the day will come when you won't be so ashamed of me. i hope you and mother will forgive me. i can't do otherwise than i must. will you shake hands with me, father?" "yes, my son. god be with you both." and then, as he watched the boys ride side by side to the gate, he added: "i could kill my own brother with my own hand for this." he saw them stop a moment at the gate; saw them clasp hands and turn opposite ways--one with his face set for tennessee, the other making for the ohio. dan waved his cap in a last sad good-by. harry rode over the hill without turning his head. the general stood rigid, with his hands clasped behind his back, staring across the gray fields between them. through the winds, came the low sound of sobbing. chapter . melissa shortly after dusk, that night, two or three wagons moved quietly out of lexington, under a little guard with guns loaded and bayonets fixed. back at the old armory--the home of the "rifles"--a dozen youngsters drilled vigorously with faces in a broad grin, as they swept under the motto of the company--"our laws the commands of our captain." they were following out those commands most literally. never did lieutenant hunt give his orders more sonorously--he could be heard for blocks away. never did young soldiers stamp out maneuvers more lustily--they made more noise than a regiment. not a man carried a gun, though ringing orders to "carry arms" and "present arms" made the windows rattle. it was john morgan's first ruse. while that mock-drill was going on, and listening unionists outside were laughing to think how those rifles were going to be fooled next day, the guns of the company were moving in those wagons toward dixie--toward mocking-bird-haunted bowling green, where the underfed, unclothed, unarmed body of albert sydney johnston's army lay, with one half-feathered wing stretching into the cumberland hills and the frayed edge of the other touching the ohio. next morning, the home guards came gayly around to the armory to seize those guns, and the wily youngsters left temporarily behind (they, too, fled for dixie, that night) gibed them unmercifully; so that, then and there, a little interchange of powder-and-ball civilities followed; and thus, on the very first day, daniel dean smelled the one and heard the other whistle right harmlessly and merrily. straightway, more guards were called out; cannon were planted to sweep the principal streets, and from that hour the old town was under the rule of a northern or southern sword for the four years' reign of the war. meanwhile, chad buford was giving a strange journey to dixie. whenever he dismounted, she would turn her head toward the bluegrass, as though it surely were time they were starting for home. when they reached the end of the turnpike, she lifted her feet daintily along the muddy road, and leaped pools of water like a cat. climbing the first foot-hills, she turned her beautiful head to right and left, and with pointed ears snorted now and then at the strange dark woods on either side and the tumbling water-falls. the red of her wide nostrils was showing when she reached the top of the first mountain, and from that high point of vantage she turned her wondering eyes over the wide rolling stretch that waved homeward, and whinnied with distinct uneasiness when chad started her down into the wilderness beyond. distinctly that road was no path for a lady to tread, but dixie was to know it better in the coming war. within ten miles of the turners', chad met the first man that he knew--hence sturgill from kingdom come. he was driving a wagon. "howdye, hence!" said chad, reining in. "whoa!" said hence, pulling in and staring at chad's horse and at chad from hat to spur. "don't you know me, hence?" "well, god--i--may--die, if it ain't chad! how air ye, chad? goin' up to ole joel's?" "yes. how are things on kingdom come?" hence spat on the ground and raised one hand high over his head: "god--i--may--die, if thar hain't hell to pay on kingdom come. you better keep offo' kingdom come," and then he stopped with an expression of quick alarm, looked around him into the bushes and dropped his voice to a whisper: "but i hain't sayin' a word--rickollect now--not a word!" chad laughed aloud. "what's the matter with you, hence?" hence put one finger on one side of his nose--still speaking in a low tone: "whut'd i say, chad? d'i say one word?" he gathered up his reins. "you rickollect jake and jerry dillon?" chad nodded. "you know jerry was al'ays a-runnin' over jake 'cause jake' didn't have good sense. jake was drapped when he was a baby. well, jerry struck jake over the head with a fence-rail 'bout two months ago, an when jake come to, he had just as good sense as anybody, and now he hates jerry like pizen, an jerry's half afeard of him. an' they do say a how them two brothers air a-goin'" again hence stopped abruptly and clucked to his team "but i ain't a-sayin' a word, now, mind ye--not a word!" chad rode on, amused, and thinking that hence had gone daft, but he was to learn better. a reign of forty years' terror was starting in those hills. not a soul was in sight when he reached the top of the hill from which he could see the turner home below--about the house or the orchard or in the fields. no one answered his halloo at the turner gate, though chad was sure that he saw a woman's figure flit past the door. it was a full minute before mother turner cautiously thrust her head outside the door and peered at him. "why, aunt betsey," called chad, "don't you know me?" at the sound of his voice melissa sprang out the door with a welcoming cry, and ran to him, mother turner following with a broad smile on her kind old face. chad felt the tears almost come--these were friends indeed. how tall melissa had grown, and how lovely she was, with her tangled hair and flashing eyes and delicately modelled face. she went with him to the stable to help him put up his horse, blushing when he looked at her and talking very little, while the old mother, from the fence, followed him with her dim eyes. at once chad began to ply both with questions--where was uncle joel and the boys and the school-master? and, straightway, chad felt a reticence in both--a curious reticence even with him. on each side of the fireplace, on each side of the door, and on each side of the window, he saw narrow blocks fixed to the logs. one was turned horizontal, and through the hole under it chad saw daylight--portholes they were. at the door were taken blocks as catches for a piece of upright wood nearby, which was plainly used to bar the door. the cabin was a fortress. by degrees the story came out. the neighborhood was in a turmoil of bloodshed and terror. tom and dolph had gone off to the war--rebels. old joel had been called to the door one night, a few weeks since, and had been shot down without warning. they had fought all night. melissa herself had handled a rifle at one of the portholes. rube was out in the woods now, with jack guarding and taking care of his wounded father. a home guard had been organized, and daws dillon was captain. they were driving out of the mountains every man who owned a negro, for nearly every man who owned a negro had taken, or was forced to take, the rebel side. the dillons were all yankees, except jerry, who had gone off with tom; and the giant brothers, rebel jerry and yankee jake--as both were already known--had sworn to kill each other on sight. bushwhacking had already begun. when chad asked about the school-master, the old woman's face grew stern, and melissa's lip curled with scorn. "yankee!" the girl spat the word out with such vindictive bitterness that chad's face turned slowly scarlet, while the girl's keen eyes pierced him like a knife, and narrowed as, with pale face and heaving breast, she rose suddenly from her chair and faced him--amazed, bewildered, burning with sudden hatred. "and you're another!" the girl's voice was like a hiss. "why, 'lissy!" cried the old mother, startled, horrified. "look at him!" said the girl. the old woman looked; her face grew hard and frightened, and she rose feebly, moving toward the girl as though for protection against him. chad's very heart seemed suddenly to turn to water. he had been dreading the moment to come when he must tell. he knew it would be hard, but he was not looking for this. "you better git away!" quavered the old woman, "afore joel and rube come in." "hush!" said the girl, sharply, her hands clinched like claws, her whole body stiff, like a tigress ready to attack, or awaiting attack. "mebbe he come hyeh to find out whar they air--don't tell him!" "lissy!" said chad, brokenly. "then whut did you come fer?" "to tell you good-by, i came to see all of you, lissy." the girl laughed scornfully, and chad knew he was helpless. he could not explain, and they could not understand--nobody had understood. "aunt betsey," he said, "you took jack and me in, and you took care of me just as though i had been your own child. you know i'd give my life for you or uncle joel, or any one of the boys"--his voice grew a little stern--"and you know it, too, lissy--" "you're makin' things wuss," interrupted the girl, stridently, "an' now you're goin' to do all you can to kill us. i reckon you can see that door. why don't you go over to the dillons?" she panted. "they're friends o' your'n. an' don't let uncle joel or rube ketch you anywhar round hyeh!" "i'm not afraid to see uncle joel or rube, lissy." "you must git away, chad," quavered the old woman. "they mought hurt ye!" "i'm sorry not to see jack. he's the only friend i have now." "why, jack would snarl at ye," said the girl, bitterly. "he hates a yankee." she pointed again with her finger. "i reckon you can see that door." they followed him, melissa going on the porch and the old woman standing in the doorway. on one side of the walk chad saw a rose-bush that he had brought from the bluegrass for melissa. it was dying. he took one step toward it, his foot sinking in the soft earth where the girl had evidently been working around it, and broke off the one green leaf that was left. "here, lissy! you'll be sorry you were so hard on me. i'd never get over it if i didn't think you would. keep this, won't you, and let's be friends, not enemies." he held it out, and the girl angrily struck the rose-leaf from his hand to her feet. chad rode away at a walk. two hundred yards below, where the hill rose, the road was hock-deep with sand, and dixie's feet were as noiseless as a cat's. a few yards beyond a ravine on the right, a stone rolled from the bushes into the road. instinctively chad drew rein, and dixie stood motionless. a moment later, a crouching figure, with a long squirrel rifle, slipped out of the bushes and started noiselessly across the ravine. chad's pistol flashed. "stop!" the figure crouched more, and turned a terror-stricken face--daws dillon's. "oh, it's you, is it--well, drop that gun and come down here." the dillon boy rose, leaving his gun on the ground, and came down, trembling. "what're you doin' sneaking around in the brush?" "nothin'!" the dillon had to make two efforts before he could speak at all. "nothin', jes' a-huntin'!" "huntin'!" repeated chad. he lowered his pistol and looked at the sorry figure silently. "i know what you were huntin', you rattlesnake! i understand you are captain of the home guard. i reckon you don't know that nobody has to go into this war. that a man has the right to stay peaceably at home, and nobody has the right to bother him. if you don't know it, i tell you now. i believe you had something to do with shooting uncle joel." the dillon shook his head, and fumbled with his hands. "if i knew it, i'd kill you where you stand, now. but i've got one word to say to you, you hell-pup. i hate to think it, but you and i are on the same side--that is, if you have any side. but in spite of that, if i hear of any harm happening to aunt betsey, or melissa, or uncle joel, or rube, while they are all peaceably at home, i'm goin' to hold you and tad responsible, whether you are or not, and i'll kill you"--he raised one hand to make the almighty a witness to his oath--"i'll kill you, if i have to follow you both to hell for doin' it. now, you take keer of 'em! turn 'round!" the dillon hesitated. "turn!" chad cried, savagely, raising his pistol. "go back to that gun, an' if you turn your head i'll shoot you where you're sneakin' aroun' to shoot rube or uncle joel--in the back, you cowardly feist. pick up that gun! now, let her off! see if you can hit that beech-tree in front of you. just imagine that it's me." the rifle cracked and chad laughed. "well, you ain't much of a shot. i reckon you must have chills and fever. now, come back here. give me your powder-horn. you'll find it on top of the hill on the right-hand side of the road. now, you trot--home!" then dillon stared. "double-quick!" shouted chad. "you ought to know what that means if you are a soldier--a soldier!" he repeated, contemptuously. the dillon disappeared on a run. chad rode all that night. at dawn he reached the foot-hills, and by noon he drew up at the road which turned to camp dick robinson. he sat there a long time thinking, and then pushed on toward lexington. if he could, he would keep from fighting on kentucky soil. next morning he was going at an easy "running-walk" along the old maysville road toward the ohio. within three miles of major buford's, he leaped the fence and stuck across the fields that he might go around and avoid the risk of a painful chance meeting with his old friend or any of the deans. what a land of peace and plenty it was--the woodlands, meadows, pasture lands! fat cattle raised their noses from the thick grass and looked with mild inquiry at him. sheep ran bleating toward him, as though he were come to salt them. a rabbit leaped from a thorn-bush and whisked his white flag into safety in a hemp-field. squirrels barked in the big oaks, and a covey of young quail fluttered up from a fence corner and sailed bravely away. 'possum signs were plentiful, and on the edge of the creek he saw a coon solemnly searching under a rock with one paw for crawfish every now and then dixie would turn her head impatiently to the left, for she knew where home was. the deans' house was just over the hill he would have but the ride to the top to see it and, perhaps, margaret. there was no need. as he sat, looking up the hill, margaret herself rode slowly over it, and down, through the sunlight slanting athwart the dreaming woods, straight toward him. chad sat still. above him the road curved, and she could not see him until she turned the little thicket just before him. her pony was more startled than was she. a little leap of color to her face alone showed her surprise. "did you get my note?" "i did. you got my mother's message?" "i did." chad paused. "that is why i am passing around you." the girl said nothing. "but i'm glad i came so near. i wanted to see you once more. i wish i could make you understand. but nobody understands. i hardly understand myself. but please try to believe that what i say is true. i'm just back from the mountains, and listen, margaret--" he halted a moment to steady his voice. "the turners down there took me in when i was a ragged outcast. they clothed me, fed me, educated me. the major took me when i was little more; and he fed me, clothed me, educated me. the turners scorned me--melissa told me to go herd with the dillons. the major all but turned me from his door. your father was bitter toward me, thinking that i had helped turn harry to the union cause. but let me tell you! if the turners died, believing me a traitor; if lissy died with a curse on her lips for me; if the major died without, as he believed, ever having polluted his lips again with my name; if harry were brought back here dead, and your father died, believing that his blood was on my hands; and if i lost you and your love, and you died, believing the same thing--i must still go. oh, margaret, i can't understand--i have ceased to reason. i only know i must go!" the girl in the mountains had let her rage and scorn loose like a storm, but the gentlewoman only grew more calm. every vestige of color left her, but her eyes never for a moment wavered from his face. her voice was quiet and even and passionless. "then, why don't you go?" the lash of an overseer's whip across his face could not have made his soul so bleed. even then he did not lose himself. "i am in your way," he said, quietly. and backing dixie from the road, and without bending his head or lowering his eyes, he waited, hat in hand, for margaret to pass. all that day chad rode, and, next morning, dixie climbed the union bank of the ohio and trotted into the recruiting camp of the fourth ohio cavalry. the first man chad saw was harry dean--grave, sombre, taciturn, though he smiled and thrust out his hand eagerly. chad's eyes dropped to the sergeant's stripes on harry's sleeves, and again harry smiled. "you'll have 'em yourself in a week. these fellows ride like a lot of meal-bags over here. here's my captain," he added, in a lower voice. a pompous officer rode slowly up. he pulled in his horse when he saw chad. "you want to join the army?" "yes," said chad. "all right. that's a fine horse you've got." chad said nothing. "what's his name?" "her name is dixie." the captain stared. some soldiers behind laughed in a smothered fashion, sobering their' faces quickly when the captain turned upon them, furious. "well, change her name!" "i'll not change her name," said chad, quietly. "what!" shouted the officer. "how dare you--" chad's eyes looked ominous. "don't you give any orders to me--not yet. you haven't the right; and when you have, you can save your breath by not giving that one. this horse comes from kentucky, and so do i; her name will stay dixie as long as i straddle her, and i propose to straddle her until one of us dies, or,"--he smiled and nodded across the river--"somebody over there gets her who won't object to her name as much as you do." the astonished captain's lips opened, but a quiet voice behind interrupted him: "never mind, captain." chad turned and saw a short, thick-set man with a stubbly brown beard, whose eyes were twinkling, though his face was grave. "a boy who wants to fight for the union, and insists on calling his horse dixie, must be all right. come with me, my lad." as chad followed, he heard the man saluted as colonel grant, but he paid no heed. few people at that time did pay heed to the name of ulysses grant. chapter . morgan's men boots and saddles at daybreak! over the border, in dixie, two videttes in gray trot briskly from out a leafy woodland, side by side, and looking with keen eyes right and left; one, erect, boyish, bronzed; the other, slouching, bearded, huge--the boy, daniel dean; the man, rebel jerry dillon, one of the giant twins. fifty yards behind them emerges a single picket; after him come three more videttes, the same distance apart. fifty yards behind the last rides "the advance"--a guard of twenty-five picked men. no commission among "morgan's men" was more eagerly sought than a place on that guard of hourly risk and honor. behind it trot still three more videttes, at intervals of one hundred yards, and just that interval behind the last of these ride morgan's men, the flower of kentucky's youth, in columns of fours--colonel hunt's regiment in advance, the colors borne by renfrew the silent in a brilliant zouave jacket studded with buttons of red coral. in the rear rumble two parrot guns, affectionately christened the "bull pups." skirting the next woodland ran a cross-road. down one way gallops dan, and down the other lumbers rebel jerry, each two hundred yards. a cry rings from vidette to vidette behind them and back to the guard. two horsemen spur from the "advance" and take the places of the last two videttes, while the videttes in front take and keep the original formation until the column passes that cross-road, when dean and dillon gallop up to their old places in the extreme front again. far in front, and on both flanks, are scouting parties, miles away. this was the way morgan marched. yankees ahead! not many, to be sure--no more numerous than two or three to one; so back fall the videttes and forward charges that advance guard like a thunderbolt, not troubling the column behind. wild yells, a clattering of hoofs, the crack of pistol-shots, a wild flight, a merry chase, a few riderless horses gathered in from the fleeing yankees, and the incident is over. ten miles more, and many hostile bayonets gleam ahead. a serious fight, this, perhaps--so back drops the advance, this time as a reserve; up gallops the column into single rank and dismounts, while the flank companies, deploying as skirmishers, cover the whole front, one man out of each set of fours and the corporals holding the horses in the rear. the "bull pups" bark and the rebel yell rings as the line--the files two yards apart--"a long flexible line curving forward at each extremity"--slips forward at a half run. this time the yankees charge. from every point of that curving line pours a merciless fire, and the charging men in blue recoil--all but one. (war is full of grim humor.) on comes one lone yankee, hatless, red-headed, pulling on his reins with might and main, his horse beyond control, and not one of the enemy shoot as he sweeps helplessly into their line. a huge rebel grabs his bridle-rein. "i don't know whether to kill you now," he says, with pretended ferocity, "or wait till the fight is over." "for god's sake, don't kill me at all!" shouts the yankee. "i'm a dissipated character, and not prepared to die." shots from the right flank and rear, and the line is thrown about like a rope. but the main body of the yankees is to the left. "left face! double-quick!" is the ringing order, and, by magic, the line concentrates in a solid phalanx and sweeps forward. this was the way morgan fought. and thus, marching and fighting, he went his triumphant way into the land of the enemy, without sabres, without artillery, without even the "bull pups," sometimes--fighting infantry, cavalry, artillery with only muzzle-loading rifles, pistols, and shotguns; scattering home guards like turkeys; destroying railroads and bridges; taking towns and burning government stores, and encompassed, usually, with forces treble his own. this was what morgan did on a raid, was what he had done, what he was starting out now to do again. darkness threatens, and the column halts to bivouac for the night on the very spot where, nearly a year before, morgan's men first joined johnston's army, which, like a great, lean, hungry hawk, guarded the southern border. daniel dean was a war-worn veteran now. he could ride twenty hours out of the twenty-four; he could sleep in his saddle or anywhere but on picket duty, and there was no trick of the trade in camp, or on the march, that was not at his finger's end. fire first! nobody had a match, the leaves were wet and the twigs soggy, but by some magic a tiny spark glows under some shadowy figure, bites at the twigs, snaps at the branches, and wraps a log in flames. water next! a tin cup rattles in a bucket, and another shadowy figure steals off into the darkness, with an instinct as unerring as the skill of a water-witch with a willow wand. the yankees chose open fields for camps, but your rebel took to the woods. each man and his chum picked a tree for a home, hung up canteens and spread blankets at the foot of it. supper--heavens, what luck--fresh beef! one man broils it on coals, pinning pieces of fat to it to make gravy; another roasts it on a forked stick, for morgan carried no cooking utensils on a raid. here, one man made up bread in an oilcloth (and every morgan's man had one soon after they were issued to the federals); another worked up corn-meal into dough in the scooped-out half of a pumpkin; one baked bread on a flat rock, another on a board, while a third had twisted his dough around his ram-rod; if it were spring-time, a fourth might be fitting his into a cornshuck to roast in ashes. all this dan dean could do. the roaring fire thickens the gloom of the woods where the lonely pickets stand. pipes are out now. an oracle outlines the general campaign of the war as it will be and as it should have been. a long-winded, innocent braggart tells of his personal prowess that day. a little group is guying the new recruit. a wag shaves a bearded comrade on one side of his face, pockets his razor and refuses to shave the other side. a poet, with a bandaged eye, and hair like a windblown hay-stack, recites "i am dying, egypt--dying," and then a pure, clear, tenor voice starts through the forest-aisles, and there is sudden silence. every man knows that voice, and loves the boy who owns it--little tom morgan, dan's brother-in-arms, the general's seventeen-year-old brother--and there he stands leaning against a tree, full in the light of the fire, a handsome, gallant figure--a song like a seraph's pouring from his lips. one bearded soldier is gazing at him with curious intentness, and when the song ceases, lies down with a suddenly troubled face. he has seen the "death-look" in the boy's eyes--that prophetic death-look in which he has unshaken faith. the night deepens, figures roll up in blankets, quiet comes, and dan lies wide awake and deep in memories, and looking back on those early helpless days of the war with a tolerant smile. he was a war-worn veteran now, but how vividly he could recall that first night in the camp of a big army, in the very woods where he now lay--dusk settling over the green river country, which morgan's men grew to love so well; a mocking-bird singing a farewell song from the top of a stunted oak to the dead summer and the dying day; morgan seated on a cracker-box in front of his tent, contemplatively chewing one end of his mustache; lieutenant hunt swinging from his horse, smiling grimly. "it would make a horse laugh--a yankee cavalry horse, anyhow--to see this army." hunt had been over the camp that first afternoon on a personal tour of investigation. they were not a thousand springfield and enfield rifles at that time in johnston's army. half of the soldiers were armed with shotguns and squirrel rifle and the greater part of the other half with flintlock muskets. but nearly every man, thinking he was in for a rough-and-tumble fight, had a bowie knife and a revolver swung to his belt. "those arkansas and texas fellows have got knives that would make a malay's blood run cold." "well, they'll do to hew firewood and cut meat," laughed morgan. the troops were not only badly armed. on his tour, hunt had seen men making blankets of pieces of old carpet, lined on one side with a piece of cotton cloth; men wearing ox-hide buskins, or complicated wrapping of rags, for shoes; orderly sergeants making out reports on shingles; surgeon using a twisted handkerchief instead of a tourniquet. there was a total lack of medicine, and camp diseases were already breaking out--measles, typhoid fever, pneumonia, bowel troubles--each fatal, it seemed, in time of war. "general johnston has asked richmond for a stand of thirty thousand arms," morgan had mused, and hunt looked up inquiringly. "mr. davis can only spare a thousand." "that's lucky," said hunt, grimly. and then the military organization of that army, so characteristic of the southerner! an officer who wanted to be more than a colonel, and couldn't be a brigadier, would have a "legion"--a hybrid unit between a regiment and a brigade. sometimes there was a regiment whose roll-call was more than two thousand men, so popular was its colonel. companies would often refuse to designate themselves by letter, but by the thrilling titles they had given themselves. how morgan and hunt had laughed over "the yellow jackets," "the dead shots," "the earthquakes," "the chickasha desperadoes," and "the hell roarers"! regiments would bear the names of their commanders--a singular instance of the southerner's passion for individuality, as a man, a company, a regiment, or a brigade. and there was little or no discipline, as the word is understood among the military elect, and with no army that the world has ever seen, richard hunt always claimed, was there so little need of it. for southern soldiers, he argued, were, from the start, obedient, zealous, and tolerably patient, from good sense and a strong sense of duty. they were born fighters; a spirit of emulation induced them to learn the drill; pride and patriotism kept them true and patient to the last, but they could not be made, by punishment or the fear of it, into machines. they read their chance of success, not in opposing numbers, but in the character and reputation of their commanders, who, in turn, believed, as a rule, that "the unthinking automaton, formed by routine and punishment, could no more stand before the high-strung young soldier with brains and good blood, and some practice and knowledge of warfare, than a tree could resist a stroke of lightning." so that with southern soldiers discipline came to mean "the pride which made soldiers learn their duties rather than incur disgrace; the subordination that came from self-respect and respect for the man whom they thought worthy to command them." boots and saddles again at daybreak! by noon the column reached green river, over the kentucky line, where morgan, even on his way down to join johnston, had begun the operations which were to make him famous. no picket duty that infantry could do as well, for morgan's cavalry! he wanted it kept out on the front or the flanks of an army, and as close as possible upon the enemy. right away, there had been thrilling times for dan in the green river country--setting out at dark, chasing countrymen in federal pay or sympathy, prowling all night around and among pickets and outposts; entrapping the unwary; taking a position on the line of retreat at daybreak, and turning leisurely back to camp with prisoners and information. how memories thronged! at this very turn of the road, dan remembered, they had their first brush with the enemy. no plan of battle had been adopted, other than to hide on both sides of the road and send their horses to the rear. "i think we ought to charge 'em," said georgie forbes, chad's old enemy. dan saw that his lip trembled, and, a moment later, georgie, muttering something, disappeared. the yankees had come on, and, discovering them, halted. morgan himself stepped out in the road and shot the officer riding at the head of the column. his men fell back without returning the fire, deployed and opened up. dan recognized the very tree behind which he had stood, and again he could almost hear richard hunt chuckling from behind another close by. "we would be in bad shape," said richard hunt, as the bullets whistled high overhead, "if we were in the tops of these trees instead of behind them." there had been no maneuvering, no command given among the confederates. each man fought his own fight. in ten minutes a horse-holder ran up from the rear, breathless, and announced that the yankees were flanking. every man withdrew, straightway, after his own fashion, and in his own time. one man was wounded and several were shot through the clothes. "that was like a camp-meeting or an election row," laughed morgan, when they were in camp. "or an affair between austrian and italian outposts," said hunt. a chuckle rose behind them. a lame colonel was limping past. "i got your courier," he said. "i sent no courier," said morgan. "it was forbes who wanted to charge 'em," said dan. again the colonel chuckled. "the yankees ran when you did," he said, and limped, chuckling, away. but it was great fun, those moonlit nights, burning bridges and chasing home guards who would flee fifteen or twenty miles sometimes to "rally." here was a little town through which dan and richard hunt had marched with nine prisoners in a column--taken by them alone--and a captured united states flag, flying in front, scaring confederate sympathizers and straggling soldiers, as hunt reported, horribly. dan chuckled at the memory, for the prisoners were quartered with different messes, and, that night, several bottles of sparkling catawba happened, by some mystery, to be on hand. the prisoners were told that this was regularly issued by their commissaries, and thereupon they plead, with tears, to be received into the confederate ranks. this kind of service was valuable training for morgan's later work. slight as it was, it soon brought him thirty old, condemned artillery-horses--dan smiled now at the memory of those ancient chargers--which were turned over to morgan to be nursed until they would bear a mount, and, by and by, it gained him a colonelcy and three companies, superbly mounted and equipped, which, as "morgan's squadron," became known far and near. then real service began. in january, the right wing of johnston's hungry hawk had been broken in the cumberland mountains. early in february, johnston had withdrawn it from kentucky before buell's hosts, with its beak always to the foe. by the middle of the month, grant had won the western border states to the union, with the capture of fort donelson. in april, the sun of shiloh rose and set on the failure of the first confederate aggressive campaign at the west; and in that fight dan saw his first real battle, and captain hunt was wounded. in may, buell had pushed the confederate lines south and east toward chattanooga. to retain a hold on the mississippi valley, the confederates must make another push for kentucky, and it was this great southern need that soon put john morgan's name on the lips of every rebel and yankee in the middle south. in june, provost-marshals were appointed in every county in kentucky; the dogs of war began to be turned locals on the "secesh sympathizers" throughout the state, and jerome conners, overseer, began to render sly service to the union cause. for it was in june that morgan paid his first memorable little visit to the bluegrass, and daniel dean wrote his brother harry the short tale of the raid. "we left dixie with nine hundred men," the letter ran, "and got back in twenty-four days with twelve hundred. travelled over one thousand miles, captured seventeen towns, destroyed all government supplies and arms in them, scattered fifteen hundred home guards, and paroled twelve hundred regular troops. lost of the original nine hundred, in killed, wounded, and missing, about ninety men. how's that? we kept twenty thousand men busy guarding government posts or chasing us, and we're going back often. oh harry, i am glad that you are with grant." but harry was not with grant--not now. while morgan was marching up from dixie to help kirby smith in the last great effort that the confederacy was about to make to win kentucky--down from the yellow river marched the fourth ohio cavalry to go into camp at lexington; and with it marched chadwick buford and harry dean who, too, were veterans now--who, too, were going home. both lads wore a second lieutenant's empty shoulder-straps, which both yet meant to fill with bars, but chad's promotion had not come as swiftly as harry had predicted; the captain, whose displeasure he had incurred, prevented that. it had come, in time, however, and with one leap he had landed, after shiloh, at harry's side. in the beginning, young dean had wanted to go to the army of the potomac, as did chad, but one quiet word from the taciturn colonel with the stubbly reddish-brown beard and the perpetual black cigar kept both where they were. "though," said grant to chad, as his eye ran over beautiful dixie from tip of nose to tip of tail, and came back to chad, slightly twinkling, "i've a great notion to put you in the infantry just to get hold of that horse." so it was no queer turn of fate that had soon sent both the lads to help hold zollicoffer at cumberland gap, that stopped them at camp dick robinson to join forces with wolford's cavalry, and brought chad face to face with an old friend. wolford's cavalry was gathered from the mountains and the hills, and when some scouts came in that afternoon, chad, to his great joy, saw, mounted on a gaunt sorrel, none other than his old school-master, caleb hazel, who, after shaking hands with both harry and chad, pointed silently at a great, strange figure following him on a splendid horse some fifty yards behind. the man wore a slouch hat, tow linen breeches, home-made suspenders, a belt with two pistols, and on his naked heels were two huge texan spurs. harry broke into a laugh, and chad's puzzled face cleared when the man grinned; it was yankee jake dillon, one of the giant twins. chad looked at him curiously; that blow on the head that his brother, rebel jerry, had given him, had wrought a miracle. the lips no longer hung apart, but were set firmly, and the eye was almost keen; the face was still rather stupid, but not foolish--and it was still kind. chad knew that, somewhere in the confederate lines, rebel jerry was looking for jake, as yankee jake, doubtless, was now looking for jerry, and he began to think that it might be well for jerry if neither was ever found. daws dillon, so he learned from caleb hazel and jake, was already making his name a watchword of terror along the border of virginia and tennessee, and was prowling, like a wolf, now and then, along the edge of the bluegrass. old joel turner had died of his wound, rube had gone off to the war and mother turner and melissa were left at home, alone. "daws fit fust on one side and then on t'other," said jake, and then he smiled in a way that chad understood; "an' sence you was down thar last daws don't seem to hanker much atter meddlin' with the turners, though the two women did have to run over into virginny, once in a while. melissy," he added, "was a-goin' to marry dave hilton, so folks said; and he reckoned they'd already hitched most likely, sence chad thar--" a flash from chad's eyes stopped him, and chad, seeing harry's puzzled face, turned away. he was glad that melissa was going to marry--yes, he was glad; and how he did pray that she might be happy! fighting zollicoffer, only a few days later, chad and harry had their baptism of fire, and strange battle orders they heard, that made them smile even in the thick of the fight. "huddle up thar!" "scatterout, now!" "form a line of fight!" "wait till you see the shine of their eyes!" "i see 'em!" shouted a private, and "bang" went his gun. that was the way the fight opened. chad saw harry's eyes blazing like stars from his pale face, which looked pained and half sick, and chad understood--the lads were fighting their own people, and there was no help for it. a voice bellowed from the rear, and a man in a red cap loomed in the smoke-mist ahead: "now, now! git up and git, boys!" that was the order for the charge, and the blue line went forward. chad never forgot that first battle-field when he saw it a few hours later strewn with dead and wounded, the dead lying, as they dropped, in every conceivable position, features stark, limbs rigid; one man with a half-smoked cigar on his breast; the faces of so many beardless; some frowning, some as if asleep and dreaming; and the wounded--some talking pitifully, some in delirium, some courteous, patient, anxious to save trouble, others morose, sullen, stolid, independent; never forgot it, even the terrible night after shiloh, when he searched heaps of wounded and slain for caleb hazel, who lay all through the night wounded almost to death. later, the fourth ohio followed johnston, as he gave way before buell, and many times did they skirmish and fight with ubiquitous morgan's men. several times harry and dan sent each other messages to say that each was still unhurt, and both were in constant horror of some day coming face to face. once, indeed, harry, chasing a rebel and firing at him, saw him lurch in his saddle, and chad, coming up, found the lad on the ground, crying over a canteen which the rebel had dropped. it was marked with the initials d. d., the strap was cut by the bullet harry had fired, and not for a week of agonizing torture did harry learn that the canteen, though dan's, had been carried that day by another man. it was on these scouts and skirmishes that the four--harry and chad, and caleb hazel and yankee jake dillon, whose dog-like devotion to chad soon became a regimental joke--became known, not only among their own men, but among their enemies, as the shrewdest and most daring scouts in the federal service. every morgan's man came to know the name of chad buford; but it was not until shiloh that chad got his shoulder-straps, leading a charge under the very eye of general grant. after shiloh, the fourth ohio went back to its old quarters across the river, and no sooner were chad and harry there than kentucky was put under the department of the ohio; and so it was also no queer turn of fate that now they were on their way to new head-quarters in lexington. straight along the turnpike that ran between the dean and the buford farms, the fourth ohio went in a cloud of thick dust that rose and settled like a gray choking mist on the seared fields. side by side rode harry and chad, and neither spoke when, on the left, the white columns of the dean house came into view, and, on the right, the red brick of chad's old home showed through the dusty leaves; not even when both saw on the dean porch the figures of two women who, standing motionless, were looking at them. harry's shoulders drooped, and he stared stonily ahead, while chad turned his head quickly. the front door and shutters of the buford house were closed, and there were few signs of life about the place. only at the gate was the slouching figure of jerome conners, the overseer, who, waving his hat at the column, recognized chad, as he rode by, and spoke to him, chad thought, with a covert sneer. farther ahead, and on the farthest boundary of the buford farm, was a federal fort, now deserted, and the beautiful woodland that had once stood in perfect beauty around it was sadly ravaged and nearly gone, as was the dean woodland across the road. it was plain that some people were paying the yankee piper for the death-dance in which a mighty nation was shaking its feet. on they went, past the old college, down broadway, wheeling at second street--harry going on with the regiment to camp on the other edge of the town; chad reporting with his colonel at general ward's head-quarters, a columned brick house on one corner of the college campus, and straight across from the hunt home, where he had first danced with margaret dean. that night the two lay on the edge of the ashland woods, looking up at the stars, the ripened bluegrass--a yellow, moonlit sea--around them and the woods dark and still behind them. both smoked and were silent, but each knew that to the other his thoughts were known; for both had been on the same errand that day, and the miserable tale of the last ten months both had learned. trouble had soon begun for the ones who were dear to them, when both left for the war. at once general anderson had promised immunity from arrest to every peaceable citizen in the state, but at once the shiftless, the prowling, the lawless, gathered to the home guards for self-protection, to mask deviltry and to wreak vengeance for private wrongs. at once mischief began. along the ohio, men with southern sympathies were clapped into prison. citizens who had joined the confederates were pronounced guilty of treason, and breckinridge was expelled from the senate as a traitor. morgan's great raid in june, ' , spread consternation through the land and, straightway, every district and county were at the mercy of a petty local provost. no man of southern sympathies could stand for office. courts in session were broken up with the bayonet. civil authority was overthrown. destruction of property, indemnity assessments on innocent men, arrests, imprisonment, and murder became of daily occurrence. ministers were jailed and lately prisons had even been prepared for disloyal women. major buford, forced to stay at home on account of his rheumatism and the serious illness of miss lucy, had been sent to prison once and was now under arrest again. general dean, old as he was, had escaped and had gone to virginia to fight with lee; and margaret and mrs. dean, with a few servants, were out on the farm alone. but neither spoke of the worst that both feared was yet to come--and "taps" sounded soft and dear on the night air. chapter . chad captures an old friend meanwhile morgan was coming on--led by the two videttes in gray--daniel dean and rebel jerry dillon--coming on to meet kirby smith in lexington after that general had led the bluegrass into the confederate fold. they were taking short cuts through the hills now, and rebel jerry was guide, for he had joined morgan for that purpose. jerry had long been notorious along the border. he never gave quarter on his expeditions for personal vengeance, and it was said that not even he knew how many men he had killed. every morgan's man had heard of him, and was anxious to see him; and see him they did, though they never heard him open his lips except in answer to a question. to dan he seemed to take a strange fancy right away, but he was as voiceless as the grave, except for an occasional oath, when bush-whackers of daws dillon's ilk would pop at the advance guard--sometimes from a rock directly overhead, for chase was useless. it took a roundabout climb of one hundred yards to get to the top of that rock, so there was nothing for videttes and guards to do but pop back, which they did to no purpose. on the third day, however, after a skirmish in which dan had charged with a little more dare-deviltry than usual, the big dillon ripped out an oath of protest. an hour later he spoke again: "i got a brother on t'other side." dan started. "why, so have i," he said. "what's your brother with?" "wolford's cavalry." "that's curious. so was mine--for a while. he's with grant now." the boy turned his head away suddenly. "i might meet him, if he were with wolford now," he said, half to himself, but jerry heard him and smiled viciously. "well, that's what i'm goin' with you fellers fer--to meet mine." "what!" said dan, puzzled. "we've been lookin' fer each other sence the war broke out. i reckon he went on t'other side to keep me from killin' him." dan shrank away from the giant with horror; but next day the mountaineer saved the boy's life in a fight in which dan's chum--gallant little tom morgan--lost his; and that night, as dan lay sleepless and crying in his blanket, jerry dillon came in from guard-duty and lay down by him. "i'm goin' to take keer o' you." "i don't need you," said dan, gruffly, and rebel jerry grunted, turned over on his side and went to sleep. night and day thereafter he was by the boy's side. a thrill ran through the entire command when the column struck the first bluegrass turnpike, and a cheer rang from front to rear. near midway, a little bluegrass town some fifteen miles from lexington, a halt was called, and another deafening cheer arose in the extreme rear and came forward like a rushing wind, as a coal-black horse galloped the length of the column--its rider, hat in hand, bowing with a proud smile to the flattering storm--for the idolatry of the man and his men was mutual--with the erect grace of an indian, the air of a courtier, and the bearing of a soldier in every line of the six feet and more of his tireless frame. no man who ever saw john morgan on horseback but had the picture stamped forever on his brain, as no man who ever saw that coal-black horse ever forgot black bess. behind him came his staff, and behind them came a wizened little man, whose nickname was "lightning"--telegraph operator for morgan's men. there was need of lightning now, so morgan sent him on into town with dan and jerry dillon, while he and richard hunt followed leisurely. the three troopers found the station operator seated on the platform--pipe in mouth, and enjoying himself hugely. he looked lazily at them. "call up lexington," said lightning, sharply. "go to hell!" said the operator, and then he nearly toppled from his chair. lightning, with a vicious gesture, had swung a pistol on him. "here--here!" he gasped, "what'd you mean?" "call up lexington," repeated lightning. the operator seated himself. "what do you want in lexington?" he growled. "ask the time of day?" the operator stared, but the instrument clicked. "what's your name?" asked lightning. "woolums." "well, woolums, you're a 'plug.' i wanted to see how you handled the key. yes, woolums, you're a plug." then lightning seated himself, and woolums' mouth flew open--lightning copied his style with such exactness. again the instrument clicked and lightning listened, smiling: "will there be any danger coming to midway?" asked a railroad conductor in lexington. lightning answered, grinning: "none. come right on. no sign of rebels here." again a click from lexington. "general ward orders general finnell of frankfort to move his forces. general ward will move toward georgetown, to which morgan with eighteen hundred men is marching." lightning caught his breath--this was morgan's force and his intention exactly. he answered: "morgan with upward of two thousand men has taken the road to frankfort. this is reliable." ten minutes later, lightning chuckled. "ward orders finnell to recall his regiment to frankfort." half an hour later another idea struck lightning. he clicked as though telegraphing from frankfort: "our pickets just driven in. great excitement. force of enemy must be two thousand." then lightning laughed. "i've fooled 'em," said lightning. there was turmoil in lexington. the streets thundered with the tramp of cavalry going to catch morgan. daylight came and nothing was done--nothing known. the afternoon waned, and still ward fretted at head-quarters, while his impatient staff sat on the piazza talking, speculating, wondering where the wily raider was. leaning on the campus-fence near by were chadwick buford and harry dean. it had been a sad day for those two. the mutual tolerance that prevailed among their friends in the beginning of the war had given way to intense bitterness now. there was no thrill for them in the flags fluttering a welcome to them from the windows of loyalists, for under those flags old friends passed them in the street with no sign of recognition, but a sullen, averted face, or a stare of open contempt. elizabeth morgan had met them, and turned her head when harry raised his cap, though chad saw tears spring to her eyes as she passed. sad as it was for him, chad knew what the silent torture in harry's heart must be, for harry could not bring himself, that day, even to visit his own home. and now morgan was coming, and they might soon be in a death-fight, harry with his own blood-brother and both with boyhood friends. "god grant that you two may never meet!" that cry from general dean was beating ceaselessly through harry's brain now, and he brought one hand down on the fence, hardly noticing the drop of blood that oozed from the force of the blow. "oh, i wish i could get away from here!" "i shall the first chance that comes," said chad, and he lifted his head sharply, staring down the street. a phaeton was coming slowly toward them and in it were a negro servant and a girl in white. harry was leaning over the fence with his back toward the street, and chad, the blood rushing to his face, looked in silence, for the negro was snowball and the girl was margaret. he saw her start and flush when she saw him, her hands giving a little convulsive clutch at the reins; but she came on, looking straight ahead. chad's hand went unconsciously to his cap, and when harry rose, puzzled to see him bareheaded, the phaeton stopped, and there was a half-broken cry: "harry!" cap still in hand, chad strode away as the brother, with an answering cry, sprang toward her. . . . . . when he came back, an hour later, at dusk, harry was seated on the portico, and the long silence between them was broken at last. "she--they oughtn't to come to town at a time like this," said chad, roughly. "i told her that," said harry, "but it was useless. she will come and go just as she pleases." harry rose and leaned for a moment against one of the big pillars, and then he turned impulsively, and put one hand lightly on the other's shoulder. "i'm sorry, old man," he said, gently. a pair of heels clicked suddenly together on the grass before them, and an orderly stood at salute. "general ward's compliments, and will lieutenant buford and lieutenant dean report to him at once?" the two exchanged a swift glance, and the faces of both grew grave with sudden apprehension. inside, the general looked worried, and his manner was rather sharp. "do you know general dean?" he asked, looking at harry. "he is my father." the general wheeled in his chair. "what!" he exclaimed. "well--um--i suppose one of you will be enough. you can go." when the door closed behind harry, he looked at chad. "there are two rebels at general dean's house to-night," he said, quietly. "one of them, i am told---why, he must be that boy's brother," and again the general mused; then he added, sharply: "take six good men out there right away and capture them. and watch out for daws dillon and his band of cut-throats. i am told he is in this region. i've sent a company after him. but you capture the two at general dean's." "yes, sir," said chad, turning quickly, but the general had seen the lad's face grow pale. "it is very strange down here--they may be his best friends," he thought, and, being a kindhearted man, he reached out his hand toward a bell to summon chad back, and drew it in again. "i cannot help that; but that boy must have good stuff in him." harry was waiting for him outside. he knew that dan would go home if it was possible, and what chad's mission must be. "don't hurt him, chad." "you don't have to ask that," answered chad, sadly. . . . . . so chad's old enemy, daws dillon, was abroad. there was a big man with the boy at the deans', general ward had said, but chad little guessed that it was another old acquaintance, rebel jerry dillon, who, at that hour, was having his supper brought out to the stable to him, saying that he would sleep there, take care of the horses, and keep on the look-out for yankees. jerome conners's hand must be in this, chad thought, for he never for a moment doubted that the overseer had brought the news to general ward. he was playing a fine game of loyalty to both sides, that overseer, and chad grimly made up his mind that, from one side or the other, his day would come. and this was the fortune of war--to be trotting, at the head of six men, on such a mission, along a road that, at every turn, on every little hill, and almost in every fence-corner, was stored with happy memories for him; to force entrance as an enemy under a roof that had showered courtesy and kindness down on him like rain, that in all the world was most sacred to him; to bring death to an old playmate, the brother of the woman whom he loved, or capture, which might mean a worse death in a loathsome prison. he thought of that dawn when he drove home after the dance at the hunts' with the old major asleep at his side and his heart almost bursting with high hope and happiness, and he ran his hand over his eyes to brush the memory away. he must think only of his duty now, and that duty was plain. across the fields they went in a noiseless walk, and leaving their horses in the woods, under the care of one soldier, slipped into the yard. two men were posted at the rear of the house, one was stationed at each end of the long porch to command the windows on either side, and, with a sergeant at his elbow, chad climbed the long steps noiselessly and knocked at the front door. in a moment it was thrown open by a woman, and the light fell full in chad's face. "you--you--you!" said a voice that shook with mingled terror and contempt, and margaret shrank back, step by step. hearing her, mrs. dean hurried into the hallway. her face paled when she saw the federal uniform in her doorway, but her chin rose haughtily, and her voice was steady and most courteous: "what can we do for you?" she asked, and she, too, recognized chad, and her face grew stern as she waited for him to answer. "mrs. dean," he said, half choking, "word has come to head-quarters that two confederate soldiers are spending the night here, and i have been ordered to search the house for them. my men have surrounded it, but if you will give me your word that they are not here, not a man shall cross your threshold--not even myself." without a word mrs. dean stood aside. "i am sorry," said chad, motioning to the sergeant to follow him. as he passed the door of the drawing-room, he saw, under the lamp, a pipe with ashes strewn about its bowl. chad pointed to it. "spare me, mrs. dean." but the two women stood with clinched hands, silent. dan had flashed into the kitchen, and was about to leap from the window when he saw the gleam of a rifle-barrel, not ten feet away. he would be potted like a rat if he sprang out there, and he dashed noiselessly up the back stairs, as chad started up the front stairway toward the garret, where he had passed many a happy hour playing with margaret and harry and the boy whom he was after as an enemy, now. the door was open at the first landing, and the creak of the stairs under dan's feet, heard plainly, stopped. the sergeant, pistol in hand, started to push past his superior. "keep back," said chad, sternly, and as he drew his pistol, a terrified whisper rose from below. "don't, don't!" and then dan, with hands up, stepped into sight. "i'll spare you," he said, quietly. "not a word, mother. they've got me. you can tell him there is no one else in the house, though." mrs. dean's eyes filled with tears, and a sob broke from margaret. "there is no one else," she said, and chad bowed. "in the house," she added, proudly, scorning the subterfuge. "search the barn," said chad, "quick!" the sergeant ran down the steps. "i reckon you are a little too late, my friend," said dan. "why, bless me, it's my old friend chad--and a lieutenant! i congratulate you," he added, but he did not offer to shake hands. chad had thought of the barn too late. snowball had seen the men creeping through the yard, had warned jerry dillon, and jerry had slipped the horses into the woodland, and had crept back to learn what was going on. "i will wait for you out here," said chad. "take your time." "thank you," said dan. he came out in a moment and mrs. dean and margaret followed him. at a gesture from the sergeant, a soldier stationed himself on each side of dan, and, as chad turned, he took off his cap again. his face was very pale and his voice almost broke: "you will believe, mrs. dean," he said, "that this was something i had to do." mrs. dean bent her head slightly. "certainly, mother," said dan. "don't blame lieutenant chad. morgan will have lexington in a few days and then i'll be free again. maybe i'll have lieutenant chad a prisoner--no telling!" chad smiled faintly, and then, with a flush, he spoke again--warning mrs. dean, in the kindliest way, that, henceforth, her house would be under suspicion, and telling her of the severe measures that had been inaugurated against rebel sympathizers. "such sympathizers have to take oath of allegiance and give bonds to keep it." "if they don't?" "arrest and imprisonment." "and if they give the oath and violate it?" "the penalty is death, mrs. dean." "and if they aid their friends?" "they are to be dealt with according to military law." "anything else?" "if loyal citizens are hurt or damaged by guerrillas, disloyal citizens of the locality must make compensation." "is it true that a confederate sympathizer will be shot down if on the streets of lexington?" "there was such an order, mrs. dean." "and if a loyal citizen is killed by one of these so-called guerillas, for whose acts nobody is responsible, prisoners of war are to be shot in retaliation?" "mother!" cried margaret. "no, mrs. dean--not prisoners of war--guerillas." "and when will you begin war on women?" "never, i hope." his hesitancy brought a scorn into the searching eyes of his pale questioner that chad could not face, and without daring even to look at margaret he turned away. such retaliatory measures made startling news to dan. he grew very grave while he listened, but as he followed chad he chatted and laughed and joked with his captors. morgan would have lexington in three days. he was really glad to get a chance to fill his belly with yankee grub. it hadn't been full more than two or three times in six months. all the time he was watching for jerry dillon, who, he knew, would not leave him if there was the least chance of getting him out of the yankee's clutches. he did not have to wait long. two men had gone to get the horses, and as dan stepped through the yard-gate with his captors, two figures rose out of the ground. one came with head bent like a battering-ram. he heard snowball's head strike a stomach on one side of him, and with an astonished groan the man went down. he saw the man on his other side drop from some crashing blow, and he saw chad trying to draw his pistol. his own fist shot out, catching chad on the point of the chin. at the same instant there was a shot and the sergeant dropped. "come on, boy!" said a hoarse voice, and then he was speeding away after the gigantic figure of jerry dillon through the thick darkness, while a harmless volley of shots sped after them. at the edge of the woods they dropped. jerry dillon had his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. "the hosses ain't fer away," he said. "oh, lawd!" "did you kill him?" "i reckon not," whispered jerry. "i shot him on the wrong side. i'm al'ays a-fergettin' which side a man's heart's on." "what became of snowball?" "he run jes' as soon as he butted the feller on his right. he said he'd git one, but i didn't know what he was doin' when i seed him start like a sheep. listen!" there was a tumult at the house--moving lights, excited cries, and a great hurrying. black rufus was the first to appear with a lantern, and when he held it high as the fence, chad saw margaret in the light, her hands clinched and her eyes burning. "have you killed him?" she asked, quietly but fiercely. "you nearly did once before. have you succeeded this time?" then she saw the sergeant writhing on the ground, his right forearm hugging his breast, and her hands relaxed and her face changed. "did dan do that? did dan do that?" "dan was unarmed," said chad, quietly. "mother," called the girl, as though she had not heard him, "send someone to help. bring him to the house," she added, turning. as no movement was made, she turned again. "bring him up to the house," she said, imperiously, and when the hesitating soldiers stooped to pick up the wounded man, she saw the streak of blood running down chad's chin and she stared open-eyed. she made one step toward him, and then she shrank back out of the light. "oh!" she said. "are you wounded, too? oh!" "no!" said chad, grimly. "dan didn't do that"--pointing to the sergeant--"he did this--with his fist. it's the second time dan has done this. easy, men," he added, with low-voiced authority. mrs. dean was holding the door open. "no," said chad, quickly. "that wicker lounge will do. he will be cooler on the porch." then he stooped, and loosening the sergeant's blouse and shirt examined the wound. "it's only through the shoulder, lieutenant," said the man, faintly. but it was under the shoulder, and chad turned. "jake," he said, sharply, "go back and bring a surgeon--and an officer to relieve me. i think he can be moved in the morning, mrs. dean. with your permission i will wait here until the surgeon comes. please don't disturb yourself further"--margaret had appeared at the door, with some bandages that she and her mother had been making for confederates and behind her a servant followed with towels and a pail of water--"i am sorry to trespass." "did the bullet pass through?" asked mrs. dean, simply. "no, mrs. dean," said chad. margaret turned indoors. without another word, her mother knelt above the wounded man, cut the shirt away, staunched the trickling blood, and deftly bound the wound with lint and bandages, while chad stood, helplessly watching her. "i am sorry," he said again, when she rose, "sorry--" "it is nothing," said mrs. dean, quietly. "if you need anything, you will let me know. i shall be waiting inside." she turned and a few moments later chad saw margaret's white figure swiftly climb the stairs--but the light still burned in the noiseless room below. . . . . . meanwhile dan and jerry dillon were far across the fields on their way to rejoin morgan. when they were ten miles away, dan, who was leading, turned. "jerry, that lieutenant was an old friend of mine. general morgan used to say he was the best scout in the union army. he comes from your part of the country, and his name is chad buford. ever heard of him?" "i've knowed him sence he was a chunk of a boy, but i don't rickollect ever hearin' his last name afore. i naver knowed he had any." "well, i heard him call one of his men jake--and he looked exactly like you." the giant pulled in his horse. "i'm goin' back." "no, you aren't," said dan; "not now--it's too late. that's why i didn't tell you before." then he added, angrily: "you are a savage and you ought to be ashamed of yourself harboring such hatred against your own blood-brother." dan was perhaps the only one of morgan's men who would have dared to talk that way to the man, and jerry dillon took it only in sullen silence. a mile farther they struck a pike, and, as they swept along, a brilliant light glared into the sky ahead of them, and they pulled in. a house was in flames on the edge of a woodland, and by its light they could see a body of men dash out of the woods and across the field on horseback, and another body dash after them in pursuit--the pursuers firing and the pursued sending back defiant yells. daws dillon was at his work again, and the yankees were after him. . . . . . long after midnight chad reported the loss of his prisoner. he was much chagrined--for failure was rare with him--and his jaw and teeth ached from the blow dan had given him, but in his heart he was glad that the boy had got away when he went to his tent, harry was awake and waiting for him. "it's i who have escaped," he said; "escaped again. four times now we have been in the same fight. somehow fate seems to be pointing always one way--always one way. why, night after night, i dream that either he or i--" harry's voice trembled--he stopped short, and, leaning forward, stared out the door of his tent. a group of figures had halted in front of the colonel's tent opposite, and a voice called, sharply: "two prisoners, sir. we captured 'em with daws dillon. they are guerillas, sir." "it's a lie, colonel," said an easy voice, that brought both chad and harry to their feet, and plain in the moonlight both saw daniel dean, pale but cool, and near him, rebel jerry dillon--both with their hands bound behind them. chapter . a race between dixie and dawn but the sun sank next day from a sky that was aflame with rebel victories. it rose on a day rosy with rebel hopes, and the prophetic coolness of autumn was in the early morning air when margaret in her phaeton moved through the front pasture on her way to town--alone. she was in high spirits and her head was lifted proudly. dan's boast had come true. kirby smith had risen swiftly from tennessee, had struck the federal army on the edge of the bluegrass the day before and sent it helter-skelter to the four winds. only that morning she had seen a regiment of the hated yankees move along the turnpike in flight for the ohio. it was the fourth ohio cavalry, and harry and one whose name never passed her lips were among those dusty cavalrymen; but she was glad, and she ran down o the stile and, from the fence, waved the stars and bars at them as they passed--which was very foolish, but which brought her deep content. now the rebels did hold lexington. morgan's men were coming that day and she was going into town to see dan and colonel hunt and general morgan and be fearlessly happy and triumphant. at the major's gate, whom should she see coming out but the dear old fellow himself, and, when he got off his horse and came to her, she leaned forward and kissed him, because he looked so thin and pale from confinement, and because she was so glad to see him. morgan's men were really coming, that very day, the major said, and he told her much thrilling news. jackson had obliterated pope at the second battle of manassas. eleven thousand prisoners had been taken at harper's ferry and lee had gone on into maryland on the flank of washington. recruits were coming into the confederacy by the thousands. bragg had fifty-five thousand men and an impregnable stronghold in front of buell, who had but few men more--not enough to count a minute, the major said. "lee has routed 'em out of virginia," cried the old fellow, "and buell is doomed. i tell you, little girl, the fight is almost won." jerome conners rode to the gate and called to the major in a tone that arrested the girl's attention. she hated that man and she had noted a queer change in his bearing since the war began. she looked for a flash of anger from the major, but none came, and she began to wonder what hold the overseer could have on his old master. she drove on, puzzled, wondering, and disturbed; but her cheeks were flushed--the south was going to win, the yankees were gone, and she must get to town in time to see the triumphant coming of morgan's men. they were coming in when she reached the yankee head-quarters, which, she saw, had changed flags--thank god--coming proudly in, amid the waving of the stars and bars and frenzied shouts of welcome. where were the bluegrass yankees now? the stars and stripes that had fluttered from their windows had been drawn in and they were keeping very quiet, indeed--oh! it was joy! there was gallant morgan himself swinging from black bess to kiss his mother, who stood waiting for him at her gate, and there was colonel hunt, gay, debonair, jesting, shaking hands right and left, and crowding the streets, morgan's men--the proudest blood in the land, every gallant trooper getting his welcome from the lips and arms of mother, sister, sweetheart, or cousin of farthest degree. but where was dan? she had heard nothing of him since the night he had escaped capture, and while she looked right and left for him to dash toward her and swing from his horse, she heard her name called, and turning she saw richard hunt at the wheel of her phaeton. he waved his hand toward the happy reunions going on around them. "the enforced brotherhood, miss margaret," he said, his eyes flashing, "i belong to that, you know." for once the subtle colonel made a mistake. perhaps the girl in her trembling happiness and under the excitement of the moment might have welcomed him, as she was waiting to welcome dan, but she drew back now. "oh! no, colonel--not on that ground." her eyes danced, she flushed curiously, as she held out her hand, and the colonel's brave heart quickened. straightway he began to wonder--but a quick shadow in margaret's face checked him. "but where's dan? where is dan?" she repeated, impatiently. richard hunt looked puzzled. he had just joined his command and something must have gone wrong with dan. so he lied swiftly. "dan is out on a scout. i don't think he has got back yet. i'll find out." margaret watched him ride to where morgan stood with his mother in the midst of a joyous group of neighbors and friends, and, a moment later, the two officers came toward her on foot. "don't worry, miss margaret," said morgan, with a smile. "the yankees have got dan and have taken him away as prisoner--but don't worry, we'll get him exchanged in a week. i'll give three brigadier-generals for him." tears came to the girl's eyes, but she smiled through them bravely. "i must go back and tell mother," she said, brokenly. "i hoped--" "don't worry, little girl," said morgan again. "i'll have him if i have to capture the whole state of ohio." again margaret smiled, but her heart was heavy, and richard hunt was unhappy. he hung around her phaeton all the while she was in town. he went home with her, cheering her on the way and telling her of the confederate triumph that was at hand. he comforted mrs. dean over dan's capture, and he rode back to town slowly, with his hands on his saddle-bow--wondering again. perhaps margaret had gotten over her feeling for that mountain boy--that yankee--and there richard hunt checked his own thoughts, for that mountain boy, he had discovered, was a brave and chivalrous enemy, and to such, his own high chivalry gave salute always. he was very thoughtful when he reached camp. he had an unusual desire to be alone, and that night, he looked long at the stars, thinking of the girl whom he had known since her babyhood--knowing that he would never think of her except as a woman again. so the confederates waited now in the union hour of darkness for bragg to strike his blow. he did strike it, but it was at the heart of the south. he stunned the confederacy by giving way before buell. he brought hope back with the bloody battle of perryville. again he faced buell at harrodsburg, and then he wrought broadcast despair by falling back without battle, dividing his forces and retreating into tennessee. the dream of a battle-line along the ohio with a hundred thousand more men behind it was gone and the last and best chance to win the war was lost forever. morgan, furious with disappointment, left lexington. kentucky fell under federal control once more; and major buford, dazed, dismayed, unnerved, hopeless, brought the news out to the deans. "they'll get me again, i suppose, and i can't leave home on account of lucy." "please do, major," said mrs. dean. "send miss lucy over here and make your escape. we will take care of her." the major shook his head sadly and rode away. next day margaret sat on the stile and saw the yankees coming back to lexington. on one side of her the stars and bars were fixed to the fence from which they had floated since the day she had waved the flag at them as they fled. she saw the advance guard come over the hill and jog down the slope and then the regiment slowly following after. in the rear she could see two men, riding unarmed. suddenly three cavalrymen spurred forward at a gallop and turned in at her gate. the soldier in advance was an officer, and he pulled out a handkerchief, waved it once, and, with a gesture to his companions, came on alone. she knew the horse even before she recognized the rider, and her cheeks flushed, her lips were set, and her nostrils began to dilate. the horseman reined in and took off his cap. "i come under a flag of truce," he said, gravely, "to ask this garrison to haul down its colors--and--to save useless effusion of blood," he added, still more gravely. "your war on women has begun, then?" "i am obeying orders--no more, no less." "i congratulate you on your luck or your good judgment always to be on hand when disagreeable duties are to be done." chad flushed. "won't you take the flag down?" "no, make your attack. you will have one of your usual victories--with overwhelming numbers--and it will be safe and bloodless. there are only two negroes defending this garrison. they will not fight, nor will we." "won't you take the flag down?" "no!" chad lifted his cap and wheeled. the colonel was watching at the gate. "well, sir" he asked, frowning. "i shall need help, sir, to take that flag down," said chad. "what do you mean, sir?" "a woman is defending it." "what!" shouted the colonel. "that is my sister, colonel," said harry dean. the colonel smiled and then grew grave. "you should warn her not to provoke the authorities. the government is advising very strict measures now with rebel sympathizers." then he smiled again. "fours! left wheel! halt! present--sabres!" a line of sabres flashed in the sun, and margaret, not understanding, snatched the flag from the fence and waved it back in answer. the colonel laughed aloud. the column moved on, and each captain, following, caught the humor of the situation and each company flashed its sabres as it went by, while margaret stood motionless. in the rear rode those two unarmed prisoners. she could see now that their uniforms were gray and she knew that they were prisoners, but she little dreamed that they were her brother dan and rebel jerry dillon, nor did chad buford or harry dean dream of the purpose for which, just at that time, they were being brought back to lexington. perhaps one man who saw them did know: for jerome conners, from the woods opposite, watched the prisoners ride by with a malicious smile that nothing but impending danger to an enemy could ever bring to his face; and with the same smile he watched margaret go slowly back to the house, while her flag still fluttered from the stile. the high tide of confederate hopes was fast receding now. the army of the potomac, after antietam, which overthrew the first confederate aggressive campaign at the east, was retreating into its southern stronghold, as was the army of the west after bragg's abandonment of mumfordsville, and the rebel retirement had given the provost-marshals in kentucky full sway. two hundred southern sympathizers, under arrest, had been sent into exile north of the ohio, and large sums of money were levied for guerilla outrages here and there--a heavy sum falling on major buford for a vicious murder done in his neighborhood by daws dillon and his band on the night of the capture of daniel dean and rebel jerry. the major paid the levy with the first mortgage he had ever given in his life, and straightway jerome conners, who had been dealing in mules and other government supplies, took an attitude that was little short of insolence toward his old master, whose farm was passing into the overseer's clutches at last. only two nights before, another band of guerillas had burned a farm-house, killed a unionist, and fled to the hills before the incoming yankees, and the kentucky commandant had sworn vengeance after the old mosaic way on victims already within his power. that night chad and harry were summoned before general ward. they found him seated with his chin in his hand, looking out the window at the moonlit campus. without moving, he held out a dirty piece of paper to chad. "read that," he said. "you have ketched two of my men and i hear as how you mean to hang 'em. if you hang them two men, i'm a-goin' to hang every man of yours i can git my hands on. "daws dillon--captain." chad gave a low laugh and harry smiled, but the general kept grave. "you know, of course, that your brother belongs to morgan's command?" "i do, sir," said harry, wonderingly. "do you know that his companion--the man dillon--jerry dillon--does?" "i do not, sir." "they were captured by a squad that was fighting daws dillon. this jerry dillon has the same name and you found the two together at general dean's." "but they had both just left general morgan's command," said harry, indignantly. "that may be true, but this daws dillon has sent a similar message to the commandant, and he has just been in here again and committed two wanton outrages night before last. the commandant is enraged and has issued orders for stern retaliation." "it's a trick of daws dillon," said chad, hotly, "an infamous trick. he hates his cousin jerry, he hates me, and he hates the deans, because they were friends of mine." general ward looked troubled. "the commandant says he has been positively informed that both the men joined daws dillon in the fight that night. he has issued orders that not only every guerilla captured shall be hung, but that, whenever a union citizen has been killed by one of them, four of such marauders are to be taken to the spot and shot in retaliation. it is the only means left, he says." there was a long silence. the faces of both the lads had turned white as each saw the drift of the general's meaning, and harry strode forward to his desk. "do you mean to say, general ward--" the general wheeled in his chair and pointed silently to an order that lay on the desk, and as harry started to read it, his voice broke. daniel dean and rebel jerry were to be shot next morning at sunrise. . . . . . the general spoke very kindly to harry. "i have known this all day, but i did not wish to tell you until i had done everything i could. i did not think it would be necessary to tell you at all, for i thought there would be no trouble. i telegraphed the commandant, but"--he turned again to the window--"i have not been able to get them a trial by court-martial, or even a stay in the execution. you'd better go see your brother--he knows now--and you'd better send word to your mother and sister." harry shook his head. his face was so drawn and ghastly as he stood leaning heavily against the table that chad moved unconsciously to his side. "where is the commandant?" he asked. "in frankfort," said the general. chad's eyes kindled. "will you let me go see him to-night?" "certainly, and i will give you a message to him. perhaps you can yet save the boy, but there is no chance for the man dillon." the general took up a pen. harry seemed to sway as he turned to go, and chad put one arm around him and went with him to the door. "there have been some surprising desertions from the confederate ranks," said the general, as he wrote. "that's the trouble." he looked at his watch as he handed the message over his shoulder to chad. "you have ten hours before sunrise and it is nearly sixty miles there and back if you are not here with a stay of execution both will be shot. do you think that you can make it? of course you need not bring the message back yourself. you can get the commandant to telegraph--" the slam of a door interrupted him--chad was gone. harry was holding dixie's bridle when he reached the street and chad swung into the saddle. "don't tell them at home," he said. "i'll be back here on time, or i'll be dead." the two grasped hands. harry nodded dumbly and dixie's feet beat the rhythm of her matchless gallop down the quiet street. the sensitive little mare seemed to catch at once the spirit of her rider. her haunches quivered. she tossed her head and champed her bit, but not a pound did she pull as she settled into an easy lope that told how well she knew that the ride before her was long and hard. out they went past the old cemetery, past the shaft to clay rising from it, silvered with moonlight, out where the picket fires gleamed and converging on toward the capital, unchallenged for the moon showed the blue of chad's uniform and his face gave sign that no trivial business, that night, was his. over quiet fields and into the aisles of sleeping woods beat that musical rhythm ceaselessly, awakening drowsy birds by the wayside, making bridges thunder, beating on and on up hill and down until picket fires shone on the hills that guard the capital. through them, with but one challenge, chad went, down the big hill, past the armory, and into the town--pulling panting dixie up before a wondering sentinel who guarded the commandant's sleeping quarters. "the commandant is asleep." "wake him up," said chad, sharply. a staff-officer appeared at the door in answer to the sentinel's knock. "what is your business?" "a message from general ward." "the commandant gave orders that he was not to be disturbed." "he must be," said chad. "it is a matter of life and death." above him a window was suddenly raised and the commandant's own head was thrust out. "stop that noise," he thundered. chad told his mission and the commandant straightway was furious. "how dare general ward broach that matter again? my orders are given and they will not be changed." as he started to pull the window down, chad cried: "but, general--" and at the same time a voice called down the street: "general!" two men appeared under the gaslight--one was a sergeant and the other a frightened negro. "here is a message, general." the sash went down, a light appeared behind it, and soon the commandant, in trousers and slippers, was at the door. he read the note with a frown. "where did you get this?" "a sojer come to my house out on the edge o' town, suh, and said he'd kill me to-morrow if i didn't hand dis note to you pussonally." the commandant turned to chad. somehow his manner seemed suddenly changed. "do you know that these men belonged to morgan's command?" "i know that daniel dean did and that the man dillon was with him when captured." still frowning savagely, the commandant turned inside to his desk and a moment later the staff-officer brought out a telegram and gave it to chad. "you can take this to the telegraph office yourself. it is a stay of execution." "thank you." chad drew a long breath of relief and gladness and patted dixie on the neck as he rode slowly toward the low building where he had missed the train on his first trip to the capital. the telegraph operator dashed to the door as chad drew up in front of it. he looked pale and excited. "send this telegram at once," said chad. the operator looked at it. "not in that direction to-night," he said, with a strained laugh, "the wires are cut." chad almost reeled in his saddle--then the paper was whisked from the astonished operator's hand and horse and rider clattered up the hill. . . . . . at head-quarters the commandant was handing the negro's note to a staff-officer. it read: "you hang those two men at sunrise to-morrow, and i'll hang you at sundown." it was signed "john morgan," and the signature was morgan's own. "i gave the order only last night. how could morgan have heard of it so soon, and how could he have got this note to me? could he have come back?" "impossible," said the staff-officer. "he wouldn't dare come back now." the commandant shook his head doubtfully, and just then there was a knock at the door and the operator, still pale and excited, spoke his message: "general, the wires are cut." the two officers stared at each other in silence. . . . . . twenty-seven miles to go and less than three hours before sunrise. there was a race yet for the life of daniel dean. the gallant little mare could cover the stretch with nearly an hour to spare, and chad, thrilled in every nerve, but with calm confidence, raced against the coming dawn. "the wires are cut." who had cut them and where and when and why? no matter--chad had the paper in his pocket that would save two lives and he would be on time even if dixie broke her noble heart, but he could not get the words out of his brain--even dixie's hoofs beat them out ceaselessly: "the wires are cut--the wires are cut!" the mystery would have been clear, had chad known the message that lay on the commandant's desk back at the capital, for the boy knew morgan, and that morgan's lips never opened for an idle threat. he would have ridden just as hard, had he known, but a different purpose would have been his. an hour more and there was still no light in the east. an hour more and one red streak had shot upward; then ahead of him gleamed a picket fire--a fire that seemed farther from town than any post he had seen on his way down to the capital--but he galloped on. within fifty yards a cry came: "halt! who comes there?" "friend," he shouted, reining in. a bullet whizzed past his head as he pulled up outside the edge of the fire and chad shouted indignantly: "don't shoot, you fool! i have a message for general ward!" "oh! all right! come on!" said the sentinel, but his hesitation and the tone of his voice made the boy alert with suspicion. the other pickets about the fire had risen and grasped their muskets. the wind flared the flames just then and in the leaping light chad saw that their uniforms were gray. the boy almost gasped. there was need for quick thought and quick action now. "lower that blunderbuss," he called out, jestingly, and kicking loose from one stirrup, he touched dixie with the spur and pulled her up with an impatient "whoa," as though he were trying to replace his foot. "you come on!" said the sentinel, but he dropped his musket to the hollow of his arm, and, before he could throw it to his shoulder again, fire flashed under dixie's feet and the astonished rebel saw horse and rider rise over the pike-fence. his bullet went overhead as dixie landed on the other side, and the pickets at the fire joined in a fusillade at the dark shapes speeding across the bluegrass field. a moment later chad's mocking yell rang from the edge of the woods beyond and the disgusted sentinel split the night with oaths. "that beats the devil. we never touched him i swear, i believe that hoss had wings." morgan! the flash of that name across his brain cleared the mystery for chad like magic. nobody but morgan and his daredevils could rise out of the ground like that in the very midst of enemies when they were supposed to be hundreds of mlles away in tennessee. morgan had cut those wires. morgan had every road around lexington guarded, no doubt, and was at that hour hemming in chad's unsuspicious regiment, whose camp was on the other side of town, and unless he could give warning, morgan would drop like a thunderbolt on it, asleep. he must circle the town now to get around the rebel posts, and that meant several miles more for dixie. he stopped and reached down to feel the little mare's flanks. dixie drew a long breath and dropped her muzzle to tear up a rich mouthful of bluegrass. "oh, you beauty!" said the boy, "you wonder!" and on he went, through woodland and field, over gully, log, and fence, bullets ringing after him from nearly every road he crossed. morgan was near. in disguise, when bragg retreated, he had got permission to leave kentucky in his own way. that meant wheeling and making straight back to lexington to surprise the fourth ohio cavalry; representing himself on the way, one night, as his old enemy wolford, and being guided a short cut through the edge of the bluegrass by an ardent admirer of the yankee colonel--the said admirer giving morgan the worst tirade possible, meanwhile, and nearly tumbling from his horse when morgan told him who he was and sarcastically advised him to make sure next time to whom he paid his compliments. so that while chad, with the precious message under his jacket, and dixie were lightly thundering along the road, morgan's men were gobbling up pickets around lexington and making ready for an attack on the sleeping camp at dawn. the dawn was nearly breaking now, and harry dean was pacing to and fro before the old courthouse where dan and rebel jerry lay under guard--pacing to and fro and waiting for his mother and sister to come to say the last good-by to the boy--for harry had given up hope and had sent for them. at that very hour richard hunt was leading his regiment around the ashland woods where the enemy lay; another regiment was taking its place between the camp and the town, and gray figures were slipping noiselessly on the provost-guard that watched the rebel prisoners who were waiting for death at sunrise. as the dawn broke, the dash came, and harry dean was sick at heart as he sharply rallied the startled guard to prevent the rescue of his own brother and straightway delirious with joy when he saw the gray mass sweeping on him and knew that he would fail. a few shots rang out; the far rattle of musketry rose between the camp and town; the thunder of the "bull pups" saluted the coming light, and dan and rebel jerry had suddenly--instead of death--life, liberty, arms, a horse each, and the sudden pursuit of happiness in a wild dash toward the yankee camp, while in a dew-drenched meadow two miles away chad buford drew dixie in to listen. the fight was on. if the rebels won, dan dean would be safe; if the yankees--then there would still be need of him and the paper over his heart. he was too late to warn, but not, maybe, to fight--so he galloped on. but the end came as he galloped. the amazed fourth ohio threw down its arms at once, and richard hunt and his men, as they sat on their horses outside the camp picking up stragglers, saw a lone scout coming at a gallop across the still, gray fields. his horse was black and his uniform was blue, but he came straight on, apparently not seeing the rebels behind the ragged hedge along the road. when within thirty yards, richard hunt rode through a roadside gate to meet him and saluted. "you are my prisoner," he said, courteously. the yankee never stopped, but wheeled, almost brushing the hedge as he turned. "prisoner--hell!" he said, clearly, and like a bird was skimming away while the men behind the hedge, paralyzed by his daring, fired not a shot. only dan dean started through the gate in pursuit. "i want him," he said, savagely. "who's that?" asked morgan, who had ridden up. "that's a yankee," laughed colonel hunt. "why didn't you shoot him?" the colonel laughed again. "i don't know," he said, looking around at his men, who, too, were smiling. "that's the fellow who gave us so much trouble in the green river country," said a soldier. "it's chad buford." "well, i'm glad we didn't shoot him," said colonel hunt, thinking of margaret. that was not the way he liked to dispose of a rival. "dan will catch him," said an officer. "he wants him bad, and i don't wonder." just then chad lifted dixie over a fence. "not much," said morgan. "i'd rather you'd shot him than that horse." dan was gaining now, and chad, in the middle of the field beyond the fence, turned his head and saw the lone rebel in pursuit. deliberately he pulled weary dixie in, faced about, and waited. he drew his pistol, raised it, saw that the rebel was daniel dean, and dropped it again to his side. verily the fortune of that war was strange. dan's horse refused the fence and the boy, in a rage, lifted his pistol and fired. again chad raised his own pistol and again he lowered it just as dan fired again. this time chad lurched in his saddle, but recovering himself, turned and galloped slowly away, while dan--his pistol hanging at his side--stared after him, and the wondering rebels behind the hedge stared hard at dan. . . . . . all was over. the fourth ohio cavalry was in rebel hands, and a few minutes later dan rode with general morgan and colonel hunt toward the yankee camp. there had been many blunders in the fight. regiments had fired into each other in the confusion and the "bull pups" had kept on pounding the yankee camp even while the rebels were taking possession of it. on the way they met renfrew, the silent, in his brilliant zouave jacket. "colonel," he said, indignantly--and it was the first time many had ever heard him open his lips--"some officer over there deliberately fired twice at me, though i was holding my arms over my head." "it was dark," said colonel hunt, soothingly. "he didn't know you." "ah, colonel, he might not have known me--but he must have known this jacket." on the outskirts of one group of prisoners was a tall, slender young lieutenant with a streak of blood across one cheek. dan pulled in his horse and the two met each other's eyes silently. dan threw himself from his horse. "are you hurt, harry?" "it's nothing--but you've got me, dan." "why, harry!" said morgan. "is that you? you are paroled, my boy," he added, kindly. "go home and stay until you are exchanged." so, harry, as a prisoner, did what he had not done before--he went home immediately. and home with him went dan and colonel hunt, while they could, for the yankees would soon be after them from the north, east, south and west. behind them trotted rebel jerry. on the edge of town they saw a negro lashing a pair of horses along the turnpike toward them. two white faced women were seated in a carriage behind him, and in a moment dan was in the arms of his mother and sister and both women were looking, through tears, their speechless gratitude to richard hunt. the three confederates did not stay long at the deans'. jerry dillon was on the lookout, and even while the deans were at dinner, rufus ran in with the familiar cry that yankees were coming. it was a regiment from an adjoining county, but colonel hunt finished his coffee, amid all the excitement, most leisurely. "you'll pardon us for eating and running, won't you, mrs. dean?" it was the first time in her life that mrs. dean ever speeded a parting guest. "oh, do hurry, colonel--please, please." dan laughed. "good-by, harry," he said. "we'll give you a week or two at home before we get that exchange." "don't make it any longer than necessary, please," said harry, gravely. "we're coming back again, mrs. dean," said he colonel, and then in a lower tone to margaret: "i'm coming often," he added, and margaret blushed in a way that would not have given very great joy to one chadwick buford. very leisurely the three rode out to the pike gate, where they halted and surveyed the advancing column, which was still several hundred yards away, and then with a last wave of their caps, started in a slow gallop for town. the advance guard started suddenly in pursuit, and the deans saw dan turn in his saddle and heard his defiant yell. margaret ran down and fixed her flag in its place on the fence--harry watching her. "mother," he said, sadly, "you don't know what trouble you may be laying up for yourself." fate could hardly lay up more than what she already had, but the mother smiled. "i can do nothing with margaret," she said. in town the federal flags had been furled and the stars and bars thrown out to the wind. morgan was preparing to march when dan and colonel hunt galloped up to head-quarters. "they're coming," said hunt, quietly. "yes," said morgan, "from every direction." "ah, john," called an old fellow, who, though a unionist, believing in keeping peace with both sides, "when we don't expect you--then is the time you come. going to stay long?" "not long," said morgan, grimly. "in fact, i guess we'll be moving along now." and he did--back to dixie with his prisoners, tearing up railroads, burning bridges and trestles, and pursued by enough yankees to have eaten him and his entire command if they ever could have caught him. as they passed into dixie, "lightning" captured a telegraph office and had a last little fling at his yankee brethren. "head-quarters, telegraph dept. of ky., confederate states of america"--thus he headed his general order no.--to the various union authorities throughout the state. "hereafter," he clicked, grinning, "an operator will destroy telegraphic instruments and all material in charge when informed that morgan has crossed the border. such instances of carelessness as lately have been exhibited in the bluegrass will be severely dealt with. "by order of lightning, "gen. supt. c. s. tel. dept." just about that time chad buford, in a yankee hospital, was coming back from the land of ether dreams. an hour later, the surgeon who had taken dan's bullet from his shoulder, handed him a piece of paper, black with faded blood and scarcely legible. "i found that in your jacket," he said. "is it important?" chad smiled. "no," he said. "not now." chapter . after daws dillon--guerilla once more, and for the last time, chadwick buford jogged along the turnpike from the ohio to the heart of the bluegrass. he had filled his empty shoulder-straps with two bars. he had a bullet wound through one shoulder and there was a beautiful sabre cut across his right cheek. he looked the soldier every inch of him; he was, in truth, what he looked; and he was, moreover, a man. naturally, his face was stern and resolute, if only from habit of authority, but he had known no passion during the war that might have seared its kindness; no other feeling toward his foes than admiration for their unquenchable courage and miserable regret that to such men he must be a foe. now, it was coming spring again--the spring of ' , and but one more year of the war to come. the capture of the fourth ohio by morgan that autumn of ' had given chad his long-looked-for chance. he turned dixie's head toward the foothills to join wolford, for with wolford was the work that he loved--that leader being more like morgan in his method and daring than any other federal cavalryman in the field behind him. in kentucky, he left the state under martial sway once more, and, thereafter, the troubles of rebel sympathizers multiplied steadily, for never again was the state under rebel control. a heavy hand was laid on every rebel roof. major buford was sent to prison again. general dean was in virginia, fighting, and only the fact that there was no man in the dean household on whom vengeance could fall, saved margaret and mrs. dean from suffering, but even the time of women was to come. on the last day of ' , murfreesboro was fought and the second great effort of the confederacy at the west was lost. again bragg withdrew. on new year's day, ' , lincoln freed the slaves--and no rebel was more indignant than was chadwick buford. the kentucky unionists, in general, protested: the confederates had broken the constitution, they said; the unionists were helping to maintain that contract and now the federals had broken the constitution, and their own high ground was swept from beneath their feet. they protested as bitterly as their foes, be it said, against the federals breaking up political conventions with bayonets and against the ruin of innocent citizens for the crimes of guerillas, for whose acts nobody was responsible, but all to no avail. the terrorism only grew the more. when summer came, and while grant was bisecting the confederacy at vicksburg, by opening the mississippi, and lee was fighting gettysburg, chad, with wolford, chased morgan when he gathered his clans for his last daring venture--to cross the ohio and strike the enemy on its own hearth-stones--and thus give him a little taste of what the south had long known from border to border. pursued by federals, morgan got across the river, waving a farewell to his pursuing enemies on the other bank, and struck out. within three days, one hundred thousand men were after him and his two thousand daredevils, cutting down trees behind him (in case he should return!), flanking him, getting in his front, but on he went, uncaught and spreading terror for a thousand miles, while behind him for six hundred miles country people lined the dusty road, singing "rally 'round the flag, boys," and handing out fried chicken and blackberry-pie to his pursuers. men taken afterward with typhoid fever sang that song through their delirium and tasted fried chicken no more as long as they lived. hemmed in as morgan was, he would have gotten away, but for the fact that a heavy fog made him miss the crossing of the river, and for the further reason that the first rise in the river in that month for twenty years made it impossible for his command to swim. he might have fought out, but his ammunition was gone. many did escape, and morgan himself could have gotten away. chad, himself, saw the rebel chief swimming the river on a powerful horse, followed by a negro servant on another--saw him turn deliberately in the middle of the stream, when it was plain that his command could not escape, and make for the ohio shore to share the fortunes of his beloved officers who were left behind. chad heard him shout to the negro: "go back, you will be drowned." the negro turned his face and chad laughed--it was snowball, grinning and shaking his head: "no, mars john, no suh!" he yelled. "it's all right fer you! you can git a furlough, but dis nigger ain't gwine to be cotched in no free state. 'sides, mars dan, he gwine to get away, too." and dan did get away, and chad, to his shame, saw morgan and colonel hunt loaded on a boat to be sent down to prison in a state penitentiary! it was a grateful surprise to chad, two months later, to learn from a federal officer that morgan with six others had dug out of prison and escaped. "i was going through that very town," said the officer, "and a fellow, shaved and sheared like a convict, got aboard and sat down in the same seat with me. as we passed the penitentiary, he turned with a yawn--and said, in a matter-of-fact way: "'that's where morgan is kept, isn't it?" and then he drew out a flask. i thought he had wonderfully good manners in spite of his looks, and, so help me, if he didn't wave his hand, bow like a bayard, and hand it over to me: "'let's drink to the hope that morgan may always be as safe as he is now.' i drank to his toast with a hearty amen, and the fellow never cracked a smile. it was morgan himself." early in ' the order had gone round for negroes to be enrolled as soldiers, and again no rebel felt more outraged than chadwick buford. wolford, his commander, was dishonorably dismissed from the service for bitter protests and harsh open criticism of the government, and chad, himself, felt like tearing off with his own hands the straps which he had won with so much bravery and worn with so much pride. but the instinct that led him into the union service kept his lips sealed when his respect for that service, in his own state, was well-nigh gone--kept him in that state where he thought his duty lay. there was need of him and thousands more like him. for, while active war was now over in kentucky, its brood of evils was still thickening. every county in the state was ravaged by a guerilla band--and the ranks of these marauders began to be swelled by confederates, particularly in the mountains and in the hills that skirt them. banks, trains, public vaults, stores, were robbed right and left, and murder and revenge were of daily occurrence. daws dillon was an open terror both in the mountains and in the bluegrass. hitherto the bands had been union and confederate but now, more and more, men who had been rebels joined them. and chad buford could understand. for, many a rebel soldier--"hopeless now for his cause," as richard hunt was wont to say, "fighting from pride, bereft of sympathy, aid, and encouragement that he once received, and compelled to wring existence from his own countrymen; a cavalryman on some out-post department, perhaps, without rations, fluttering with rags; shod, if shod at all, with shoes that sucked in rain and cold; sleeping at night under the blanket that kept his saddle by day from his sore-backed horse; paid, if paid at all, with waste paper; hardened into recklessness by war--many a rebel soldier thus became a guerrilla--consoling himself, perhaps, with the thought that his desertion was not to the enemy." bad as the methods of such men were, they were hardly worse than the means taken in retaliation. at first, confederate sympathizers were arrested and held as hostages for all persons captured and detained by guerillas. later, when a citizen was killed by one of these bands, four prisoners, supposed to be chosen from this class of free-booters, were taken from prison and shot to death on the spot where the deed was done. now it was rare that one of these brigands was ever taken alive, and thus regular soldier after soldier who was a prisoner of war, and entitled to consideration as such, was taken from prison and murdered by the commandant without even a court-martial. it was such a death that dan dean and rebel jerry had narrowly escaped. union men were imprisoned even for protesting against these outrages, so that between guerilla and provost-marshal no citizen, whether federal or confederate, in sympathy, felt safe in property, life, or liberty. the better unionists were alienated, but worse yet was to come. hitherto, only the finest chivalry had been shown women and children throughout the war. women whose brothers and husbands and sons were in the rebel army, or dead on the battle-field, were banished now with their children to canada under a negro guard, or sent to prison. state authorities became openly arrayed against provost-marshals and their followers. there was almost an open clash. the governor, a unionist, threatened even to recall the kentucky troops from the field to come back and protect their homes. even the home guards got disgusted with their masters, and for a while it seemed as if the state, between guerilla and provost-marshal, would go to pieces. for months the confederates had repudiated all connection with these free-booters and had joined with federals in hunting them down, but when the state government tried to raise troops to crush them, the commandant not only ordered his troops to resist the state, but ordered the muster-out of all state troops then in service. the deans little knew then how much trouble captain chad buford, whose daring service against guerillas had given him great power with the union authorities, had saved them--how he had kept them from arrest and imprisonment on the charge of none other than jerome conners, the overseer; how he had ridden out to pay his personal respects to the complainant, and that brave gentleman, seeing him from afar, had mounted his horse and fled, terror-stricken. they never knew that just after this he had got a furlough and gone to see grant himself, who had sent him on to tell his story to mr. lincoln. "go back to kentucky, then," said grant, with his quiet smile, "and if general ward has nothing particular for you to do, i want him to send you to me," and chad had gone from him, dizzy with pride and hope. "i'm going to do something," said mr. lincoln, "and i'm going to do it right away." and now, in the spring of ' , chad carried in his breast despatches from the president himself to general ward at lexington. as he rode over the next hill, from which he would get his first glimpse of his old home and the deans', his heart beat fast and his eyes swept both sides of the road. both houses: even the deans'--were shuttered and closed--both tenantless. he saw not even a negro cabin that showed a sign of life. on he went at a gallop toward lexington. not a single rebel flag had he seen since he left the ohio, nor was he at all surprised; the end could not be far off, and there was no chance that the federals would ever again lose the state. on the edge of the town he overtook a federal officer. it was harry dean, pale and thin from long imprisonment and sickness. harry had been with sherman, had been captured again, and, in prison, had almost died with fever. he had come home to get well only to find his sister and mother sent as exiles to canada. major buford was still in prison, miss lucy was dead, and jerome conners seemed master of the house and farm. general dean had been killed, had been sent home, and was buried in the garden. it was only two days after the burial, harry said, that margaret and her mother had to leave their home. even the bandages that mrs. dean had brought out to chad's wounded sergeant, that night he had captured and lost dan, had been brought up as proof that she and margaret were aiding and abetting confederates. dan had gone to join morgan and colonel hunt over in southwestern virginia, where morgan had at last got a new command only a few months before. harry made no word of comment, but chad's heart got bitter as gall as he listened. and this had happened to the deans while he was gone to serve them. but the bloody commandant of the state would be removed from power--that much good had been done--as chad learned when he presented himself, with a black face, to his general. "i could not help it," said the general, quickly. "he seems to have hated the deans." and again read the despatches slowly. "you have done good work. there will be less trouble now." then he paused. "i have had a letter from general grant. he wants you on his staff." again he paused, and it took the three past years of discipline to help chad keep his self-control. "that is, if i have nothing particular for you to do. he seems to know what you have done and to suspect that there may be something more here for you to do. he's right. i want you to destroy daws dillon and his band. there will be no peace until he is out of the way. you know the mountains better than anybody. you are the man for the work. you will take one company from wolford's regiment--he has been reinstated, you know--and go at once. when you have finished that--you can go to general grant." the general smiled. "you are rather young to be so near a major--perhaps." a major! the quick joy of the thought left him when he went down the stairs to the portico and saw harry dean's thin, sad face, and thought of the new grave in the deans' garden and those two lonely women in exile. there was one small grain of consolation. it was his old enemy, daws dillon, who had slain joel turner; daws who had almost ruined major buford and had sent him to prison--daws had played no small part in the sorrows of the deans, and on the heels of daws dillon he soon would be. "i suppose i am to go with you," said harry. "why, yes," said chad, startled; "how did you know?" "i didn't know. how far is dillon's hiding-place from where morgan is?" "across the mountains." chad understood suddenly. "you won't have to go," he said, quickly. "i'll go where i am ordered," said harry dean. chapter . brother against brother at last it was the first warm day of spring and the sunshine was very soothing to melissa as she sat on the old porch early in the afternoon. perhaps it was a memory of childhood, perhaps she was thinking of the happy days she and chad had spent on the river bank long ago, and perhaps it was the sudden thought that, with the little they had to eat in the house and that little the same three times a day, week in and week out, mother turner, who had been ailing, would like to have some fish; perhaps it was the primitive hunting instinct that, on such a day, sets a country boy's fingers itching for a squirrel rifle or a cane fishing-pole, but she sprang from her seat, leaving old jack to doze on the porch, and, in half an hour, was crouched down behind a boulder below the river bend, dropping a wriggling worm into a dark, still pool. as she sat there, contented and luckless, the sun grew so warm that she got drowsy and dozed--how long she did not know--but she awoke with a start and with a frightened sense that someone was near her, though she could hear no sound. but she lay still--her heart beating high--and so sure that her instinct was true that she was not even surprised when she heard a voice in the thicket above--a low voice, but one she knew perfectly well: "i tell you he's a-comin' up the river now. he's a-goin' to stay with ole ham blake ter-night over the mountain an' he'll be a-comin' through hurricane gap 'bout daylight termorrer or next day, shore. he's got a lot o' men, but we can layway 'em in the gap an' git away all right." it was tad dillon speaking--daws dillon, his brother, answered: "i don't want to kill anybody but that damned chad--captain chad buford, he calls hisself." "well, we can git him all right. i heerd that they was a-lookin' fer us an' was goin' to ketch us if they could." "i wish i knowed that was so," said daws with an oath. "nary a one of 'em would git away alive if i just knowed it was so. but we'll git captain chad buford, shore as hell! you go tell the boys to guard the gap ter-night. they mought come through afore day." and then the noise of their footsteps fainted out of hearing and melissa rose and sped back to the house. from behind a clump of bushes above where she had sat, rose the gigantic figure of rebel jerry dillon. he looked after the flying girl with a grim smile and then dropped his great bulk down on the bed of moss where he had been listening to the plan of his enemies and kinsmen. jerry had made many expeditions over from virginia lately and each time he had gone back with a new notch on the murderous knife that he carried in his belt. he had but two personal enemies alive now--daws dillon, who had tried to have him shot, and his own brother, yankee jake. this was the second time he had been over for daws, and after his first trip he had persuaded dan to ask permission from general morgan to take a company into kentucky and destroy daws and his band, and morgan had given him leave, for federals and confederates were chasing down these guerillas now--sometimes even joining forces to further their common purpose. jerry had been slipping through the woods after daws, meaning to crawl close enough to kill him and, perhaps, tad dillon too, if necessary, but after hearing their plan he had let them go, for a bigger chance might be at hand. if chad buford was in the mountains looking for daws, yankee jake was with him. if he killed daws now, chad and his men would hear of his death and would go back, most likely--and that was the thought that checked his finger on the trigger of his pistol. another thought now lifted him to his feet with surprising quickness and sent him on a run down the river where his horse was hitched in the bushes. he would go over the mountain for dan. he could lead dan and his men to hurricane gap by daylight. chad buford could fight it out with daws and his gang, and he and dan would fight it out with the men who won--no matter whether yankees or guerillas. and a grim smile stayed on rebel jerry's face as he climbed. on the porch of the turner cabin sat melissa with her hands clinched and old jack's head in her lap. there was no use worrying mother turner--she feared even to tell her--but what should she do? she might boldly cross the mountain now, for she was known to be a rebel, but the dillons knowing, too, how close chad had once been to the turners might suspect and stop her. no, if she went at all, she must go after nightfall--but how would she get away from mother turner, and how could she make her way, undetected through hurricane gap? the cliffs were so steep and close together in one place that she could hardly pass more than forty feet from the road on either side and she could not pass that close to pickets and not be heard. her brain ached with planning and she was so absorbed as night came on that several times old mother turner querulously asked what was ailing her and why she did not pay more heed to her work, and the girl answered her patiently and went on with her planning. before dark, she knew what she would do, and after the old mother was asleep, she rose softly and slipped out the door without awakening even old jack, and went to the barn, where she got the sheep-bell that old beelzebub used to wear and with the clapper caught in one hand, to keep the bell from tinkling, she went swiftly down the road toward hurricane gap. several times she had to dart into the bushes while men on horseback rode by her, and once she came near being caught by three men on foot--all hurrying at daws dillon's order to the gap through which she must go. when the road turned from the river, she went slowly along the edge of it, so that if discovered, she could leap with one spring into the bushes. it was raining--a cold drizzle that began to chill her and set her to coughing so that she was half afraid that she might disclose herself. at the mouth of the gap she saw a fire on one side of the road and could hear talking, but she had no difficulty passing it, on the other side. but on, where the gap narrowed--there was the trouble. it must have been an hour before midnight when she tremblingly neared the narrow defile. the rain had ceased, and as she crept around a boulder she could see, by the light of the moon between two black clouds, two sentinels beyond. the crisis was at hand now. she slipped to one side of the road, climbed the cliff as high as she could and crept about it. she was past one picket now, and in her eagerness one foot slipped and she half fell. she almost held her breath and lay still. "i hear somethin' up thar in the bresh," shouted the second picket. "halt!" melissa tinkled the sheep-bell and pushed a bush to and fro as though a sheep or a cow might be rubbing itself, and the picket she had passed laughed aloud. "goin' to shoot ole sally perkins's cow, air you?" he said, jeeringly. "yes, i heerd her," he added, lying; for, being up all the night before, he had drowsed at his post. a moment later, melissa moved on, making considerable noise and tinkling her bell constantly. she was near the top now and when she peered out through the bushes, no one was in sight and she leaped into the road and fled down the mountain. at the foot of the spur another ringing cry smote the darkness in front of her: "halt! who goes there?" "don't shoot!" she cried, weakly. "it's only me." "advance, 'me,'" said the picket, astonished to hear a woman's voice. and then into the light of his fire stepped a shepherdess with a sheep-bell in her hand, with a beautiful, pale, distressed face, a wet, clinging dress, and masses of yellow hair surging out of the shawl over her head. the ill startled picket dropped the butt of his musket to the ground and stared. "i want to see chad, your captain," she said, timidly. "all right," said the soldier, courteously. "he's just below there and i guess he's up. we are getting ready to start now. come along." "oh, no!" said melissa, hurriedly. "i can't go down there." it had just struck her that chad must not see her; but the picket thought she naturally did not wish to face a lot of soldiers in her bedraggled and torn dress, and he said quickly: "all right. give me your message and i'll take it to him." he smiled. "you can wait here and stand guard." melissa told him hurriedly how she had come over the mountain and what was going on over there, and the picket with a low whistle started down toward his camp without another word. chad could not doubt the accuracy of the information--the picket had names and facts. "a girl, you say?" "yes, sir"--the soldier hesitated--"and a very pretty one, too. she came over the mountain alone and on foot through this darkness. she passed the pickets on the other side--pretending to be a sheep. she had a bell in her hand." chad smiled--he knew that trick. "where is she?" "she's standing guard for me." the picket turned at a gesture from chad and led the way. they found no melissa. she had heard chad's voice and fled up the mountain. before daybreak she was descending the mountain on the other side, along the same way, tinkling her sheep-bell and creeping past the pickets. it was raining again now and her cold had grown worse. several times she had to muffle her face into her shawl to keep her cough from betraying her. as she passed the ford below the turner cabin, she heard the splash of many horses crossing the river and she ran on, frightened and wondering. before day broke she had slipped into her bed without arousing mother turner, and she did not get up that day, but lay ill abed. the splashing of those many horses was made by captain daniel dean and his men, guided by rebel jerry. high on the mountain side they hid their horses in a ravine and crept toward the gap on foot--so that while daws with his gang waited for chad, the rebels lay in the brush waiting for him. dan was merry over the prospect: "we will just let them fight it out," he said, "and then we'll dash in and gobble 'em both up. that was a fine scheme of yours, jerry." rebel jerry smiled: there was one thing he had not told his captain--who those rebels were. purposely he had kept that fact hidden. he had seen dan purposely refrain from killing chad buford once and he feared that dan might think his brother harry was among the yankees. all this rebel jerry failed to understand, and he wanted nothing known now that might stay anybody's hand. dawn broke and nothing happened. not a shot rang out and only the smoke of the guerillas' fire showed in the peaceful mouth of the gap. dan wanted to attack the guerillas, but jerry persuaded him to wait until he could learn how the land lay, and disappeared in the bushes. at noon he came back. "the yankees have found out daws is thar in the gap," he said, "an' they are goin' to slip over before day ter-morrer and s'prise him. hit don't make no difference to us, which s'prises which--does it?" so the rebels kept hid through the day in the bushes on the mountain side, and when chad slipped through the gap next morning, before day, and took up the guerilla pickets, dan had moved into the same gap from the other side, and was lying in the bushes with his men, near the guerillas' fire, waiting for the yankees to make their attack. he had not long to wait. at the first white streak of dawn overhead, a shout rang through the woods from the yankees to the startled guerillas. "surrender!" a fusillade followed. again: "surrender!" and there was a short silence, broken by low curses from the guerillas, and a stern yankee voice giving short, quick orders. the guerillas had given up. rebel jerry moved restlessly at dan's side and dan cautioned him. "wait! let them have time to disarm the prisoners," he whispered. "now," he added, a little while later--"creep quietly, boys." forward they went like snakes, creeping to the edge of the brush whence they could see the sullen guerillas grouped on one side of the fire--their arms stacked, while a tall figure in blue moved here and there, and gave orders in a voice that all at once seemed strangely familiar to dan. "now, boys," he said, half aloud, "give 'em a volley and charge." at his word there was a rattling fusillade, and then the rebels leaped from the bushes and dashed on the astonished yankees and their prisoners. it was pistol to pistol at first and then they closed to knife thrust and musket butt, hand to hand--in a cloud of smoke. at the first fire from the rebels chad saw his prisoner, daws dillon, leap for the stacked arms and disappear. a moment later, as he was emptying his pistol at his charging foes, he felt a bullet clip a lock of hair from the back of his head and he turned to see daws on the farthest edge of the firelight levelling his pistol for another shot before he ran. like lightning he wheeled and when his finger pulled the trigger, daws sank limply, his grinning, malignant face sickening as he fell. the tall fellow in blue snapped his pistol at dan, and as dan, whose pistol, too, was empty, sprang forward and closed with him, he heard a triumphant yell behind him and rebel jerry's huge figure flashed past him. with the same glance he saw among the yankees another giant--who looked like another jerry--saw his face grow ghastly with fear when jerry's yell rose, and then grow taut with ferocity as he tugged at his sheath to meet the murderous knife flashing toward him. the terrible dillon twins were come together at last, and dan shuddered, but he saw no more, for he was busy with the lithe yankee in whose arms he was closed. as they struggled, dan tried to get his knife and the yankee tugged for his second pistol each clasping the other's wrist. not a sound did they make nor could either see the other's face, for dan had his chin in his opponent's breast and was striving to bend him backward. he had clutched the yankee's right hand, as it went back for his pistol, just as the yankee had caught his right in front, feeling for his knife. the advantage would have been all dan's except that the yankee suddenly loosed his wrist and gripped him tight about the body in an underhold, so that dan could not whirl him round; but he could twist that wrist and twist it he did, with both hands and all his strength. once the yankee gave a smothered groan of pain and dan heard him grit his teeth to keep it back. the smoke had lifted now, and, when they fell, it was in the light of the fire. the yankee had thrown him with a knee-trick that harry used to try on him when they were boys, but something about the yankee snapped, as they fell, and he groaned aloud. clutching him by the throat, dan threw him oft--he could get at his knife now. "surrender!" he said, hoarsely. his answer was a convulsive struggle and then the yankee lay still. "surrender!" said dan again, lifting his knife above the yankee's breast, "or, damn you, i'll--" the yankee had turned his face weakly toward the fire, and dan, with a cry of horror, threw his knife away and sprang to his feet. straightway the yankee's closed eyes opened and he smiled faintly. "why, dan, is that you?" he asked. "i thought it would come," he added, quietly, and then harry dean lapsed into unconsciousness. thus, at its best, this fratricidal war was being fought out that daybreak in one little hollow of the kentucky mountains and thus, at its worst, it was being fought out in another little hollow scarcely twenty yards away, where the giant twins--rebel jerry and yankee jake--who did know they were brothers, sought each other's lives in mutual misconception and mutual hate. there were a dozen dead federals and guerillas around the fire, and among them was daws dillon with the pallor of death on his face and the hate that life had written there still clinging to it like a shadow. as dan bent tenderly over his brother harry, two soldiers brought in a huge body from the bushes, and he turned to see rebel jerry dillon. there were a half a dozen rents in his uniform and a fearful slash under his chin--but he was breathing still. chad buford had escaped and so had yankee jake. chapter . at the hospital of morgan's men in may, grant simply said--forward! the day he crossed the rapidan, he said it to sherman down in georgia. after the battle of the wilderness he said it again, and the last brutal resort of hammering down the northern buttress and sea-wall of the rebellion--old virginia--and atlanta, the keystone of the confederate arch, was well under way. throughout those bloody days chad was with grant and harry dean was with sherman on his terrible trisecting march to the sea. for, after the fight between rebels and yankees and daws dillon's guerilla band, over in kentucky, dan, coming back from another raid into the bluegrass, had found his brother gone. harry had refused to accept a parole and had escaped. not a man, dan was told, fired a shot at him, as he ran. one soldier raised his musket, but renfrew the silent struck the muzzle upward. in september, atlanta fell and, in that same month, dan saw his great leader, john morgan, dead in tennessee. in december, the confederacy toppled at the west under thomas's blows at nashville. in the spring of ' , one hundred and thirty-five thousand wretched, broken-down rebels, from richmond to the rio grande, confronted grant's million men, and in april, five forks was the beginning of the final end everywhere. at midnight, captain daniel dean, bearer of dispatches to the great confederate general in virginia, rode out of abandoned richmond with the cavalry of young fitzhugh lee. they had threaded their way amid troops, trains, and artillery across the bridge. the city was on fire. by its light, the stream of humanity was pouring out of town--davis and his cabinet, citizens, soldiers, down to the mechanics in the armories and workshops. the chief concern with all was the same, a little to eat for a few days; for, with the morning, the enemy would come and confederate money would be as mist. afar off the little fleet of confederate gunboats blazed and the thundering explosions of their magazines split the clear air. freight depots with supplies were burning. plunderers were spreading the fires and slipping like ghouls through red light and black shadows. at daybreak the last retreating gun rumbled past and, at sunrise, dan looked back from the hills on the smoking and deserted city and grant's blue lines sweeping into it. once only he saw his great chief--the next morning before day, when he rode through the chill mist and darkness to find the head-quarters of the commanding general--two little fires of rubbish and two ambulances--with lee lying on a blanket under the open sky. he rose, as dan drew near, and the firelight fell full on his bronzed and mournful face. he looked so sad and so noble that the boy's heart was wrenched, and as dan turned away, he said, brokenly: "general, i am general dean's son, and i want to thank you--" he could get no farther. lee laid one hand on his shoulder. "be as good a man as your father was, my boy," he said, and dan rode back the pitiable way through the rear of that noble army of virginia--through ranks of tattered, worn, hungry soldiers, among the broken debris of wagons and abandoned guns, past skeleton horses and skeleton men. all hope was gone, but fitz lee led his cavalry through the yankee lines and escaped. in that flight daniel dean got his only wound in the war--a bullet through the shoulder. when the surrender came, fitz lee gave up, too, and led back his command to get grant's generous terms. but all his men did not go with him, and among the cavalrymen who went on toward southwestern virginia was dan--making his way back to richard hunt--for now that gallant morgan was dead, hunt was general of the old command. behind, at appomattox, chad was with grant. he saw the surrender--saw lee look toward his army, when he came down the steps after he had given up, saw him strike his hands together three times and ride traveller away through the profound and silent respect of his enemies and the tearful worship of his own men. and chad got permission straightway to go back to ohio, and he mustered out with his old regiment, and he, too, started back through virginia. meanwhile, dan was drawing near the mountains. he was worn out when he reached abingdon. the wound in his shoulder was festering and he was in a high fever. at the camp of morgan's men he found only a hospital left--for general hunt had gone southward--and a hospital was what he most needed now. as he lay, unconscious with fever, next day, a giant figure, lying near, turned his head and stared at the boy. it was rebel jerry dillon, helpless from a sabre cut and frightfully scarred by the fearful wounds his brother, yankee jake, had given him. and thus, chadwick buford, making for the ohio, saw the two strange messmates, a few days later, when he rode into the deserted rebel camp. all was over. red mars had passed beyond the horizon and the white star of peace already shone faintly on the ravaged south. the shattered remnants of morgan's cavalry, pall-bearers of the lost cause--had gone south--bare-footed and in rags--to guard jefferson davis to safety, and chad's heart was wrung when he stepped into the little hospital they had left behind--a space cleared into a thicket of rhododendron. there was not a tent--there was little medicine--little food. the drizzling rain dropped on the group of ragged sick men from the branches above them. nearly all were youthful, and the youngest was a mere boy, who lay delirious with his head on the root of a tree. as chad stood looking, the boy opened his eyes and his mouth twitched with pain. "hello, you damned yankee." again his mouth twitched and again the old dare-devil light that chad knew so well kindled in his hazy eyes. "i said," he repeated, distinctly, "hello, you damned yank. damned yank i said." chad beckoned to two men. "go bring a stretcher." the men shook their heads with a grim smile--they had no stretcher. the boy talked dreamily. "say, yank, didn't we give you hell in--oh, well, in lots o' places. but you've got me." the two soldiers were lifting him in their arms. "goin' to take me to prison? goin' to take me out to shoot me, yank? you are a damned yank." a hoarse growl rose behind them and the giant lifted himself on one elbow, swaying his head from side to side. "let that boy alone!" dan nodded back at him confidently. "that's all right, jerry. this yank's a friend of mine." his brow wrinkled. "at any rate he looks like somebody i know. he's goin' to give me something to eat and get me well--like hell," he added to himself--passing off into unconsciousness again. chad had the lad carried to his own tent, had him stripped, bathed, and bandaged and stood looking down at him. it was hard to believe that the broken, aged youth was the red-cheeked, vigorous lad whom he had known as daniel dean. he was ragged, starved, all but bare-footed, wounded, sick, and yet he was as undaunted, as defiant, as when he charged with morgan's dare-devils at the beginning of the war. then chad went back to the hospital--for a blanket and some medicine. "they are friends," he said to the confederate surgeon, pointing at a huge gaunt figure. "i reckon that big fellow has saved that boy's life a dozen times. yes, they're mess-mates." and chad stood looking down at jerry dillon, one of the giant twins--whose name was a terror throughout the mountains of the middle south. then he turned and the surgeon followed. there was a rustle of branches on one side when they were gone, and at the sound the wounded man lifted his head. the branches parted and the oxlike face of yankee jake peered through. for a full minute, the two brothers stared at each other. "i reckon you got me, jake," said jerry. "i been lookin' fer ye a long while," said jake, simply, and he smiled strangely as he moved slowly forward and looked down at his enemy--his heavy head wagging from side to side. jerry was fumbling at his belt. the big knife flashed, but jake's hand was as quick as its gleam, and he had the wrist that held it. his great fingers crushed together, the blade dropped on the ground, and again the big twins looked at each other. slowly, yankee jake picked up the knife. the other moved not a muscle and in his fierce eyes was no plea for mercy. the point of the blade moved slowly down--down over the rebel's heart, and was thrust into its sheath again. then jake let go the wrist. "don't tech it agin," he said, and he strode away. the big fellow lay blinking. he did not open his lips when, in a moment, yankee jake slouched in with a canteen of water. when chad came back, one giant was drawing on the other a pair of socks. the other was still silent and had his face turned the other way. looking up, jake met chad's surprised gaze with a grin. a day later, dan came to his senses. a tent was above him, a heavy blanket was beneath him and there were clothes on his body that felt strangely fresh and clean. he looked up to see chad's face between the flaps of the tent. "d'you do this?" "that's all right," said chad. "this war is over." and he went away to let dan think it out. when he came again, dan held out his hand silently. chapter . pall-bearers of the lost cause the rain was falling with a steady roar when general hunt broke camp a few days before. the mountain-tops were black with thunderclouds, and along the muddy road went morgan's men--most of them on mules which had been taken from abandoned wagons when news of the surrender came--without saddles and with blind bridles or rope halters--the rest slopping along through the yellow mud on foot--literally--for few of them had shoes; they were on their way to protect davis and join johnston, now that lee was no more. there was no murmuring, no faltering, and it touched richard hunt to observe that they were now more prompt to obedience, when it was optional with them whether they should go or stay, than they had ever been in the proudest days of the confederacy. threatened from tennessee and cut off from richmond, hunt had made up his mind to march eastward to join lee, when the news of the surrender came. had the sun at that moment dropped suddenly to the horizon from the heaven above them, those confederates would have been hardly more startled or plunged into deeper despair. crowds of infantry threw down their arms and, with the rest, all sense of discipline was lost. of the cavalry, however, not more than ten men declined to march south, and out they moved through the drenching rain in a silence that was broken only with a single cheer when ninety men from another kentucky brigade joined them, who, too, felt that as long as the confederate government survived, there was work for them to do. so on they went to keep up the struggle, if the word was given, skirmishing, fighting and slipping past the enemies that were hemming them in, on with davis, his cabinet, and general breckinridge to join taylor and forrest in alabama. across the border of south carolina, an irate old lady upbraided hunt for allowing his soldiers to take forage from her barn. "you are a gang of thieving kentuckians," she said, hotly; "you are afraid to go home, while our boys are surrendering decently." "madam!"--renfrew the silent spoke--spoke from the depths of his once brilliant jacket--"you south carolinians had a good deal to say about getting up this war, but we kentuckians have contracted to close it out." then came the last confederate council of war. in turn, each officer spoke of his men and of himself and each to the same effect; the cause was lost and there was no use in prolonging the war. "we will give our lives to secure your safety, but we cannot urge our men to struggle against a fate that is inevitable, and perhaps thus forfeit all hope of a restoration to their homes and friends." davis was affable, dignified, calm, undaunted. "i will hear of no plan that is concerned only with my safety. a few brave men can prolong the war until this panic has passed, and they will be a nucleus for thousands more." the answer was silence, as the gaunt, beaten man looked from face to face. he rose with an effort. "i see all hope is gone," he said, bitterly, and though his calm remained, his bearing was less erect, his face was deathly pale and his step so infirm that he leaned upon general breckinridge as he neared the door--in the bitterest moment, perhaps, of his life. so, the old morgan's men, so long separated, were united at the end. in a broken voice general hunt forbade the men who had followed him on foot three hundred miles from virginia to go farther, but to disperse to their homes; and they wept like children. in front of him was a big force of federal cavalry; retreat the way he had come was impossible, and to the left, if he escaped, was the sea; but dauntless hunt refused to surrender except at the order of a superior, or unless told that all was done that could be done to assure the escape of his president. that order came from breckinridge. "surrender," was the message. "go back to your homes, i will not have one of these young men encounter one more hazard for my sake." that night richard hunt fought out his fight with himself, pacing to and fro under the stars. he had struggled faithfully for what he believed, still believed, and would, perhaps, always believe, was right. he had fought for the broadest ideal of liberty as he understood it, for citizen, state and nation. the appeal had gone to the sword and the verdict was against him. he would accept it. he would go home, take the oath of allegiance, resume the law, and, as an american citizen, do his duty. he had no sense of humiliation, he had no apology to make and would never have--he had done his duty. he felt no bitterness, and had no fault to find with his foes, who were brave and had done their duty as they had seen it; for he granted them the right to see a different duty from what he had decided was his. and that was all. renfrew the silent was waiting at the smouldering fire. he neither looked up nor made any comment when general hunt spoke his determination. his own face grew more sullen and he reached his hand into his breast and pulled from his faded jacket the tattered colors that he once had borne. "these will never be lowered as long as i live," he said, "nor afterwards if i can prevent it." and lowered they never were. on a little island in the pacific ocean, this strange soldier, after leaving his property and his kindred forever, lived out his life among the natives with this bloodstained remnant of the stars and bars over his hut, and when he died, the flag was hung over his grave, and above that grave to-day the tattered emblem still sways in southern air. . . . . . a week earlier, two rebels and two yankees started across the mountain together--chad and dan and the giant dillon twins--chad and yankee jake afoot. up lonesome they went toward the shaggy flank of black mountain where the great reaper had mowed down chad's first friends. the logs of the cabin were still standing, though the roof was caved in and the yard was a tangle of undergrowth. a dull pain settled in chad's breast, while he looked, and as they were climbing the spur, he choked when he caught sight of the graves under the big poplar. there was the little pen that he had built over his foster-mother's grave--still undisturbed. he said nothing and, as they went down the spur, across the river and up pine mountain, he kept his gnawing memories to himself. only ten years before, and he seemed an old, old man now. he recognized the very spot where he had slept the first night after he ran away and awakened to that fearful never-forgotten storm at sunrise, which lived in his memory now as a mighty portent of the storms of human passion that had swept around him on many a battlefield. there was the very tree where he had killed the squirrel and the rattlesnake. it was bursting spring now, but the buds of laurel and rhododendron were unbroken. down kingdom come they went. here was where he had met the old cow, and here was the little hill where jack had fought whizzer and he had fought tad dillon and where he had first seen melissa. again the scarlet of her tattered gown flashed before his eyes. at the bend of the river they parted from the giant twins. faithful jake's face was foolish when chad took him by the hand and spoke to him, as man to man, and rebel jerry turned his face quickly when dan told him that he would never forget him, and made him promise to come to see him, if jerry ever took another raft down to the capital. looking back from the hill, chad saw them slowly moving along a path toward the woods--not looking at each other and speaking not at all. beyond rose the smoke of the old turner cabin. on the porch sat the old turner mother, her bonnet in her hand, her eyes looking down the river. dozing at her feet was jack--old jack. she had never forgiven chad, and she could not forgive him now, though chad saw her eyes soften when she looked at the tattered butternut that dan wore. but jack--half-blind and aged--sprang trembling to his feet when he heard chad's voice and whimpered like a child. chad sank on the porch with one arm about the old dog's neck. mother turner answered all questions shortly. melissa had gone to the "settlemints." why? the old woman would not answer. she was coming back, but she was ill. she had never been well since she went afoot, one cold night, to warn some yankee that daws dillon was after him. chad started. it was melissa who had perhaps saved his life. tad dillon had stepped into daws's shoes, and the war was still going on in the hills. tom turner had died in prison. the old mother was waiting for dolph and rube to come back--she was looking for them every hour, day and night she did not know what had become of the school-master--but chad did, and he told her. the school-master had died, storming breastworks at gettysburg. the old woman said not a word. dan was too weak to ride now. so chad got dave hilton, melissa's old sweetheart, to take dixie to richmond--a little kentucky town on the edge of the bluegrass--and leave her there and he bought the old turner canoe. she would have no use for it, mother turner said--he could have it for nothing; but when chad thrust a ten dollar federal bill into her hands, she broke down and threw her arms around him and cried. so down the river went chad and dan--drifting with the tide--chad in the stern, dan lying at full length, with his head on a blue army-coat and looking up at the over-swung branches and the sky and the clouds above them--down, through a mist of memories for chad--down to the capital. and harry dean, too, was on his way home--coming up from the far south--up through the ravaged land of his own people, past homes and fields which his own hands had helped to lay waste. chapter . melissa and margaret the early spring sunshine lay like a benediction over the dean household, for margaret and her mother were home from exile. on the corner of the veranda sat mrs. dean, where she always sat, knitting. under the big weeping willow in the garden was her husband's grave. when she was not seated near it, she was there in the porch, and to it her eyes seemed always to stray when she lifted them from her work. the mail had just come and margaret was reading a letter from dan, and, as she read, her cheeks flushed. "he took me into his own tent, mother, and put his own clothes on me and nursed me like a brother. and now he is going to take me to you and margaret, he says, and i shall be strong enough, i hope, to start in a week. i shall be his friend for life." neither mother nor daughter spoke when the girl ceased reading. only margaret rose soon and walked down the gravelled walk to the stile. beneath the hill, the creek sparkled. she could see the very pool where her brothers and the queer little stranger from the mountains were fishing the day he came into her life. she remembered the indignant heart-beat with which she had heard him call her "little gal," and she smiled now, but she could recall the very tone of his voice and the steady look in his clear eyes when he offered her the perch he had caught. even then his spirit appealed unconsciously to her, when he sturdily refused to go up to the house because her brother was "feelin' hard towards him." how strange and far away all that seemed now! up the creek and around the woods she strolled, deep in memories. for a long while she sat on a stone wall in the sunshine--thinking and dreaming, and it was growing late when she started back to the house. at the stile, she turned for a moment to look at the old buford home across the fields. as she looked, she saw the pike-gate open and a woman's figure enter, and she kept her eyes idly upon it as she walked on toward the house. the woman came slowly and hesitatingly toward the yard. when she drew nearer, margaret could see that she wore homespun, home-made shoes, and a poke-bonnet. on her hands were yarn half-mits, and, as she walked, she pushed her bonnet from her eyes with one hand, first to one side, then to the other--looking at the locusts planted along the avenue, the cedars in the yard, the sweep of lawn overspread with springing bluegrass. at the yard gate she stopped, leaning over it--her eyes fixed on the stately white house, with its mighty pillars. margaret was standing on the steps now, motionless and waiting, and, knowing that she was seen, the woman opened the gate and walked up the gravelled path--never taking her eyes from the figure on the porch. straight she walked to the foot of the steps, and there she stopped, and, pushing her bonnet back, she said, simply: "are you mar-ga-ret?" pronouncing the name slowly and with great distinctness. margaret started. "yes," she said. the girl merely looked at her--long and hard. once her lips moved: "mar-ga-ret," and still she looked. "do you know whar chad is?" margaret flushed. "who are you?" "melissy." melissa! the two girls looked deep into each other's eyes and, for one flashing moment, each saw the other's heart--bared and beating--and margaret saw, too, a strange light ebb slowly from the other's face and a strange shadow follow slowly after. "you mean major buford?" "i mean chad. is he dead?" "no, he is bringing my brother home." "harry?" "no--dan." "dan--here?" "yes." "when?" "as soon as my brother gets well enough to travel. he is wounded." melissa turned her face then. her mouth twitched and her clasped hands were working in and out. then she turned again. "i come up here from the mountains, afoot jus' to tell ye--to tell you that chad ain't no"--she stopped suddenly, seeing margaret's quick flush--"chad's mother was married. i jus' found it out last week. he ain't no--"--she started fiercely again and stopped again. "but i come here fer him--not fer you. you oughtn't to 'a' keered. hit wouldn't 'a' been his fault. he never was the same after he come back from here. hit worried him most to death, an' i know hit was you--you he was always thinkin' about. he didn't keer 'cept fer you." again that shadow came and deepened. "an' you oughtn't to 'a' keered what he was--and that's why i hate you," she said, calmly--"fer worryin' him an' bein' so high-heeled that you was willin' to let him mighty nigh bust his heart about somethin' that wasn't his fault. i come fer him--you understand--fer him. i hate you!" she turned without another word, walked slowly back down the walk and through the gate. margaret stood dazed, helpless, almost frightened. she heard the girl cough and saw now that she walked as if weak and ill. as she turned into the road, margaret ran down the steps and across the fields to the turnpike. when she reached the road-fence the girl was coming around the bend her eyes on the ground, and every now and then she would cough and put her hand to her breast. she looked up quickly, hearing the noise ahead of her, and stopped as margaret climbed the low stone wall and sprang down. "melissa, melissa! you mustn't hate me. you mustn't hate me." margaret's eyes were streaming and her voice trembled with kindness. she walked up to the girl and put one hand on her shoulder. "you are sick. i know you are, and you must come back to the house." melissa gave way then, and breaking from the girl's clasp she leaned against the stone wall and sobbed, while margaret put her arms about her and waited silently. "come now," she said, "let me help you over. there now. you must come back and get something to eat and lie down." and margaret led melissa back across the fields. chapter . peace it was strange to chad that he should be drifting toward a new life down the river which once before had carried him to a new world. the future then was no darker than now, but he could hardly connect himself with the little fellow in coon-skin cap and moccasins who had floated down on a raft so many years ago, when at every turn of the river his eager eyes looked for a new and thrilling mystery. they talked of the long fight, the two lads, for, in spite of the war-worn look of them, both were still nothing but boys--and they talked with no bitterness of camp life, night attacks, surprises, escapes, imprisonment, incidents of march and battle. both spoke little of their boyhood days or the future. the pall of defeat overhung dan. to him the world seemed to be nearing an end, while to chad the outlook was what he had known all his life--nothing to begin with and everything to be done. once only dan voiced his own trouble: "what are you going to do, chad--now that this infernal war is over? going into the regular army?" "no," said chad, decisively. about his own future dan volunteered nothing--he only turned his head quickly to the passing woods, as though in fear that chad might ask some similar question, but chad was silent. and thus they glided between high cliffs and down into the lowlands until at last, through a little gorge between two swelling river hills, dan's eye caught sight of an orchard, a leafy woodland, and a pasture of bluegrass. with a cry he raised himself on one elbow. "home! i tell you, chad, we're getting home!" he closed his eyes and drew the sweet air in as though he were drinking it down like wine. his eyes were sparkling when he opened them again and there was a new color in his face. on they drifted until, toward noon, the black column of smoke that meant the capital loomed against the horizon. there mrs. dean was waiting for them, and chad turned his face aside when the mother took her son in her arms. with a sad smile she held out her hand to chad. "you must come home with us," mrs. dean said, with quiet decision. "where is margaret, mother?" chad almost trembled when he heard the name. "margaret couldn't come. she is not very well and she is taking care of harry." the very station had tragic memories to chad. there was the long hill which he had twice climbed--once on a lame foot and once on flying dixie--past the armory and the graveyard. he had seen enough dead since he peered through those iron gates to fill a dozen graveyards the like in size. going up in the train, he could see the barn where he had slept in the hayloft the first time he came to the bluegrass, and the creek-bridge where major buford had taken him into his carriage. major buford was dead. he had almost died in prison, mrs. dean said, and chad choked and could say nothing. once, dan began a series of eager questions about the house and farm, and the servants and the neighbors, but his mother's answers were hesitant and he stopped short. she, too, asked but few questions, and the three were quiet while the train rolled on with little more speed than chad and dixie had made on that long ago night-ride to save dan and rebel jerry. about that ride chad had kept harry's lips and his own closed, for he wished no such appeal as that to go to margaret dean. margaret was not at the station in lexington. she was not well rufus said; so chad would not go with them that night, but would come out next day. "i owe my son's life to you, captain buford," said mrs. dean, with trembling lip, "and you must make our house your home while you are here. i bring that message to you from harry and margaret. i know and they know now all you have done for us and all you have tried to do." chad could hardly speak his thanks. he would be in the bluegrass only a few days, he stammered, but he would go out to see them next day. that night he went to the old inn where the major had taken him to dinner. next day he hired a horse from the livery stable where he had bought the old brood mare, and early in the afternoon he rode out the broad turnpike in a nervous tumult of feeling that more than once made him halt in the road. he wore his uniform, which was new, and made him uncomfortable--it looked too much like waving a victorious flag in the face of a beaten enemy--but it was the only stitch of clothes he had, and that he might not explain. it was the first of may. just eight years before, chad with a burning heart had watched richard hunt gayly dancing with margaret, while the dead chieftain, morgan, gayly fiddled for the merry crowd. now the sun shone as it did then, the birds sang, the wind shook the happy leaves and trembled through the budding heads of bluegrass to show that nature had known no war and that her mood was never other than of hope and peace. but there were no fat cattle browsing in the dean pastures now, no flocks of southdown sheep with frisking lambs the worm fences had lost their riders and were broken down here and there. the gate sagged on its hinges; the fences around yard and garden and orchard had known no whitewash for years; the paint on the noble old house was cracked and peeling, the roof of the barn was sunken in, and the cabins of the quarters were closed, for the hand of war, though unclinched, still lay heavy on the home of the deans. snowball came to take his horse. he was respectful, but his white teeth did not flash the welcome chad once had known. another horse stood at the hitching-post and on it was a cavalry saddle and a rebel army blanket, and chad did not have to guess whose it might be. from the porch, dan shouted and came down to meet him, and harry hurried to the door, followed by mrs. dean. margaret was not to be seen, and chad was glad--he would have a little more time for self-control. she did not appear even when they were seated in the porch until dan shouted for her toward the garden; and then looking toward the gate chad saw her coming up the garden walk bare-headed, dressed in white, with flowers in her hand; and walking by her side, looking into her face and talking earnestly, was richard hunt. the sight of him nerved chad at once to steel. margaret did not lift her face until she was half-way to the porch, and then she stopped suddenly. "why, there's major buford," chad heard her say, and she came on ahead, walking rapidly. chad felt the blood in his face again, and as he watched margaret nearing him--pale, sweet, frank, gracious, unconscious--it seemed that he was living over again another scene in his life when he had come from the mountains to live with old major buford; and, with a sudden prayer that his past might now be wiped as clean as it was then, he turned from margaret's hand-clasp to look into the brave, searching eyes of richard hunt and feel his sinewy fingers in a grip that in all frankness told chad plainly that between them, at least, one war was not quite over yet. "i am glad to meet you, major buford, in these piping times of peace." "and i am glad to meet you, general hunt--only in times of peace," chad said, smiling. the two measured each other swiftly, calmly. chad had a mighty admiration for richard hunt. here was a man who knew no fight but to the finish, who would die as gamely in a drawing-room as on a battle-field. to think of him--a brigadier-general at twenty-seven, as undaunted, as unbeaten as when he heard the first bullet of the war whistle, and, at that moment, as good an american as chadwick buford or any unionist who had given his life for his cause! such a foe thrilled chad, and somehow he felt that margaret was measuring them as they were measuring each other. against such a man what chance had he? he would have been comforted could he have known richard hunt's thoughts, for that gentleman had gone back to the picture of a ragged mountain boy in old major buford's carriage, one court day long ago, and now he was looking that same lad over from the visor of his cap down his superb length to the heels of his riding-boots. his eyes rested long on chad's face. the change was incredible, but blood had told. the face was highly bred, clean, frank, nobly handsome; it had strength and dignity, and the scar on his cheek told a story that was as well known to foe as to friend. "i have been wanting to thank you, not only for trying to keep us out of that infernal prison after the ohio raid, but for trying to get us out. harry here told me. that was generous." "that was nothing," said chad. "you forget, you could have killed me once and--and you didn't." margaret was listening eagerly. "you didn't give me time," laughed general hunt. "oh, yes, i did. i saw you lift your pistol and drop it again. i have never ceased to wonder why you did that." richard hunt laughed. "perhaps i'm sorry sometimes that i did," he said, with a certain dryness. "oh, no, you aren't, general," said margaret. thus they chatted and laughed and joked together above the sombre tide of feeling that showed in the face of each if it reached not his tongue, for, when the war was over, the hatchet in kentucky was buried at once and buried deep. son came back to father, brother to brother, neighbor to neighbor; political disabilities were removed and the sundered threads, unravelled by the war, were knitted together fast. that is why the postbellum terrors of reconstruction were practically unknown in the state. the negroes scattered, to be sure, not from disloyalty so much as from a feverish desire to learn whether they really could come and go as they pleased. when they learned that they were really free, most of them drifted back to the quarters where they were born, and meanwhile the white man's hand that had wielded the sword went just as bravely to the plough, and the work of rebuilding war-shattered ruins began at once. old mammy appeared, by and by, shook hands with general hunt and made chad a curtsey of rather distant dignity. she had gone into exile with her "chile" and her "ole mistis" and had come home with them to stay, untempted by the doubtful sweets of freedom. "old tom, her husband, had remained with major buford, was with him on his deathbed," said margaret, "and was on the place still, too old, he said, to take root elsewhere." toward the middle of the afternoon dan rose and suggested that they take a walk about the place. margaret had gone in for a moment to attend to some household duty, and as richard hunt was going away next day he would stay, he said, with mrs. dean, who was tired and could not join them. the three walked toward the dismantled barn where the tournament had taken place and out into the woods. looking back, chad saw margaret and general hunt going slowly toward the garden, and he knew that some crisis was at hand between the two. he had hard work listening to dan and harry as they planned for the future, and recalled to each other and to him the incidents of their boyhood. harry meant to study law, he said, and practise in lexington; dan would stay at home and run the farm. neither brother mentioned that the old place was heavily mortgaged, but chad guessed the fact and it made him heartsick to think of the struggle that was before them and of the privations yet in store for mrs. dean and margaret. "why don't you, chad?" "do what?" "stay here and study law," harry smiled. "we'll go into partnership." chad shook his head. "no," he said, decisively. "i've already made up my mind. i'm going west." "i'm sorry," said harry, and no more; he had learned long ago how useless it was to combat any purpose of chadwick buford. general hunt and margaret were still away when they got back to the house. in fact, the sun was sinking when they came in from the woods, still walking slowly, general hunt talking earnestly and margaret with her hands clasped before her and her eyes on the path. the faces of both looked pale, even that far away, but when they neared the porch, the general was joking and margaret was smiling, nor was anything perceptible to chad when he said good-by, except a certain tenderness in his tone and manner toward margaret, and one fleeting look of distress in her clear eyes. he was on his horse now, and was lifting his cap. "good-by, major," he said. "i'm glad you got through the war alive. perhaps i'll tell you some day why i didn't shoot you that morning." and then he rode away, a gallant, knightly figure, across the pasture. at the gate he waved his cap and at a gallop was gone. after supper, a heaven-born chance led mrs. dean to stroll out into the lovely night. margaret rose to go too, and chad followed. the same chance, perhaps, led old mammy to come out on the porch and call mrs. dean back. chad and margaret walked on toward the stiles where still hung margaret's weather-beaten stars and bars. the girl smiled and touched the flag. "that was very nice of you to salute me that morning. i never felt so bitter against yankees after that day. i'll take it down now," and she detached it and rolled it tenderly about the slender staff. "that was not my doing," said chad, "though if i had been grant, and there with the whole union army, i would have had it salute you. i was under orders, but i went back for help. may i carry it for you?" "yes," said margaret, handing it to him. chad had started toward the garden, but margaret turned him toward the stile and they walked now down through the pasture toward the creek that ran like a wind-shaken ribbon of silver under the moon. "won't you tell me something about major buford? i've been wanting to ask, but i simply hadn't the heart. can't we go over there tonight? i want to see the old place, and i must leave to-morrow." "to-morrow!" said margaret. "why--i--i was going to take you over there to-morrow, for i--but, of course, you must go to-night if it is to be your only chance." and so, as they walked along, margaret told chad of the old major's last days, after he was released from prison, and came home to die. she went to see him every day, and she was at his bedside when he breathed his last. he had mortgaged his farm to help the confederate cause and to pay indemnity for a guerilla raid, and jerome conners held his notes for large amounts. "the lawyer told me that he believed some of the notes were forged, but he couldn't prove it. he says it is doubtful if more than the house and a few acres will be left." a light broke in on chad's brain. "he told you?" margaret blushed. "he left all he had to me," she said, simply. "i'm so glad," said chad. "except a horse which belongs to you. the old mare is dead." "dear old major!" at the stone fence margaret reached for the flag. "we'll leave it here until we come back," she said, dropping it in a shadow. somehow the talk of major buford seemed to bring them nearer together--so near that once chad started to call her by her first name and stopped when it had half passed his lips. margaret smiled. "the war is over," she said, and chad spoke eagerly: "and you'll call me?" "yes, chad." the very leaves over chad's head danced suddenly, and yet the girl was so simple and frank and kind that the springing hope in his breast was as quickly chilled. "did he ever speak of me except about business matters?" "never at all at first," said margaret, blushing again incomprehensively, "but he forgave you before he died." "thank god for that!" "and you will see what he did for you--the last thing of his life." they were crossing the field now. "i have seen melissa," said margaret, suddenly. chad was so startled that he stopped in the path. "she came all the way from the mountains to ask if you were dead, and to tell me about--about your mother. she had just learned it, she said, and she did not know that you knew. and i never let her know that i knew, since i supposed you had some reason for not wanting her to know." "i did," said chad, sadly, but he did not tell his reason. melissa would never have learned the one thing from him as margaret would not learn the other now. "she came on foot to ask about you and to defend you against--against me. and she went back afoot. she disappeared one morning before we got up. she seemed very ill, too, and unhappy. she was coughing all the time, and i wakened one night and heard her sobbing, but she was so sullen and fierce that i was almost afraid of her. next morning she was gone. i would have taken her part of the way home myself. poor thing!" chad was walking with his head bent. "i'm going down to see her before i go west." "you are going west--to live?" "yes." they had reached the yard gate now which creaked on rusty hinges when chad pulled it open. the yard was running wild with plantains, the gravelled walk was overgrown, the house was closed, shuttered, and dark, and the spirit of desolation overhung the place, but the ruin looked gentle in the moonlight. chad's throat hurt and his eyes filled. "i want to show you now the last thing he did," said margaret. her eyes lighted with tenderness and she led him wondering down through the tangled garden to the old family graveyard. "climb over and look, chad," she said, leaning over the wall. there was the grave of the major's father which he knew so well; next that, to the left, was a new mound under which rested the major himself. to the right was a stone marked "chadwick buford, born in virginia, , died in kentucky"--and then another stone marked simply: mary buford. "he had both brought from the mountains," said margaret, softly, "and the last time he was out of the house was when he leaned here to watch them buried there. he said there would always be a place next your mother for you. 'tell the boy that,' he said." chad put his arms around the tombstone and then sank on one knee by his mother's grave. it was strewn with withered violets. "you--you did that, margaret?" margaret nodded through her tears. . . . . . the wonder of it! they stood very still, looking for a long time into each other's eyes. could the veil of the hereafter have been lifted for them at that moment and they have seen themselves walking that same garden path, hand in hand, their faces seamed with age to other eyes, but changed in not a line to them, the vision would not have added a jot to their perfect faith. they would have nodded to each other and smiled--"yes, we know, we know!" the night, the rushing earth, the star-swept spaces of the infinite held no greater wonder than was theirs--they held no wonder at all. the moon shone, that night, for them; the wind whispered, leaves danced, flowers nodded, and crickets chirped from the grass for them; the farthest star kept eternal lids apart just for them and beyond, the maker himself looked down, that night, just to bless them. back they went through the old garden, hand in hand. no caress had ever passed between these two. that any man could ever dare even to dream of touching her sacred lips had been beyond the boy's imaginings--such was the reverence in his love for her--and his very soul shook when, at the gate, margaret's eyes dropped from his to the sabre cut on his cheek and she suddenly lifted her face. "i know how you got that, chad," she said, and with her lips she gently touched the scar. almost timidly the boy drew her to him. again her lips were lifted in sweet surrender, and every wound that he had known in his life was healed. . . . . . "i'll show you your horse, chad." they did not waken old tom, but went around to the stable and chad led out a handsome colt, his satiny coat shining in the moonlight like silver. he lifted his proud head, when he saw margaret, and whinnied. "he knows his mistress, margaret--and he's yours." "oh, no, chad." "yes," said chad, "i've still got dixie." "do you still call her dixie?" "all through the war." homeward they went through the dewy fields. "i wish i could have seen the major before he died. if he could only have known how i suffered at causing him so much sorrow. and if you could have known." "he did know and so did i--later. all that is over now." they had reached the stone wall and chad picked up the flag again. "this is the only time i have ever carried this flag, unless i--unless it had been captured." "you had captured it, chad." "there?" chad pointed to the stile and margaret nodded. "there--here everywhere." seated on the porch, mrs. dean and harry and dan saw them coming across the field and mrs. dean sighed. "father would not say a word against it, mother," said the elder boy, "if he were here." "no," said dan, "not a word." "listen, mother," said harry, and he told the two about chad's ride for dan from frankfort to lexington. "he asked me not to tell. he did not wish margaret to know. and listen again, mother. in a skirmish one day we were fighting hand to hand. i saw one man with his pistol levelled at me and another with his sabre lifted on chad. he saw them both. my pistol was empty, and do you know what he did? he shot the man who was about to shoot me instead of his own assailant. that is how he got that scar. i did tell margaret that." "yes, you must go down in the mountain first," margaret was saying, "and see if there is anything you can do for the people who were so good to you--and to see melissa. i am worried about her." "and then i must come back to you?" "yes, you must come back to see me once more if you can. and then some day you will come again and buy back the major's farm"--she stopped, blushing. "i think that was his wish chad, that you and i--but i would never let him say it." "and if that should take too long?" "i will come to you, chad," said margaret. old mammy came out on the porch as they were climbing the stile. "ole miss," she said, indignantly, "my tom say that he can't get nary a triflin' nigger to come out hyeh to wuk, an' ef that cawnfiel' ain't ploughed mighty soon, it's gwine to bu'n up." "how many horses are there on the place, mammy?" asked dan. "hosses!" sniffed the old woman. "they ain't nary a hoss--nothin' but two ole broken-down mules." "well, i'll take one and start a plough myself," said harry. "and i'll take the other," said dan. mammy groaned. . . . . . and still the wonder of that night to chad and margaret! "it was general hunt who taught me to understand--and forgive. do you know what he said? that every man, on both sides, was right--who did his duty." "god bless him," said chad. chapter . the westward way mother turner was sitting in the porch with old jack at her feet when chad and dixie came to the gate--her bonnet off, her eyes turned toward the west. the stillness of death lay over the place, and over the strong old face some preternatural sorrow. she did not rise when she saw chad, she did not speak when he spoke. she turned merely and looked at him with a look of helpless suffering. she knew the question that was on his lips, for she dumbly motioned toward the door and then put her trembling hands on the railing of the porch and bent her face down on them. with sickening fear, chad stepped on the threshold--cap in hand--and old jack followed, whimpering. as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior, he could see a sheeted form on a bed in the corner and, on the pillow, a white face. "melissa!" he called, brokenly. a groan from the porch answered him, and, as chad dropped to his knees, the old woman sobbed aloud. in low tones, as though in fear they might disturb the dead girl's sleep, the two talked on the porch. brokenly, the old woman told chad how the girl had sickened and suffered with never a word of complaint. how, all through the war, she had fought his battles so fiercely that no one dared attack him in her hearing. how, sick as she was, she had gone, that night, to save his life. how she had nearly died from the result of cold and exposure and was never the same afterward. how she worked in the house and in the garden to keep their bodies and souls together, after the old hunter was shot down and her boys were gone to the war. how she had learned the story of chad's mother from old nathan cherry's daughter and how, when the old woman forbade her going to the bluegrass, she had slipped away and gone afoot to clear his name. and then the old woman led chad to where once had grown the rose-bush he had brought melissa from the bluegrass, and pointed silently to a box that seemed to have been pressed a few inches into the soft earth, and when chad lifted it, he saw under it the imprint of a human foot--his own, made that morning when he held out a rose-leaf to her and she had struck it from his hand and turned him, as an enemy, from her door. chad silently went inside and threw open the window to let the last sunlight in: and he sat there, with his face as changeless as the still face on the pillow, sat there until the sun went down and the darkness came in and closed softly about her. she had died, the old woman said, with his name on her lips. . . . . . dolph and rube had come back and they would take good care of the old mother until the end of her days. but, jack--what should be done with jack? the old dog could follow him no longer. he could live hardly more than another year, and the old mother wanted him--to remind her, she said, of chad and of melissa, who had loved him. he patted his faithful old friend tenderly and, when he mounted dixie, late the next afternoon, jack started to follow him. "no, jack," said chad, and he rode on, with his eyes blurred. on the top of the steep mountain he dismounted, to let his horse rest a moment, and sat on a log, looking toward the sun. he could not go back to margaret and happiness--not now. it seemed hardly fair to the dead girl down in the valley. he would send margaret word, and she would understand. once again he was starting his life over afresh, with his old capital, a strong body and a stout heart. in his breast still burned the spirit that had led his race to the land, had wrenched it from savage and from king, had made it the high temple of liberty for the worship of freemen--the kingdom come for the oppressed of the earth--and, himself the unconscious shepherd of that spirit, he was going to help carry its ideals across a continent westward to another sea and on--who knows--to the gates of the rising sun. an eagle swept over his head, as he rose, and the soft patter of feet sounded behind him. it was jack trotting after him. he stooped and took the old dog in his arms. "go back home, jack!" he said. without a whimper, old jack slowly wheeled, but he stopped and turned again and sat on his haunches--looking back. "go home, jack!" again the old dog trotted down the path and once more he turned. "home, jack!" said chad. the eagle was a dim, black speck in the band of yellow that lay over the rim of the sinking sun, and after its flight, horse and rider took the westward way. this etext was produced by les bowler, st. ives, dorset. down the ravine by charles egbert craddock. chapter i. the new moon, a gleaming scimitar, cleft the gauzy mists above a rugged spur of the cumberland mountains. the sky, still crimson and amber, stretched vast and lonely above the vast and lonely landscape. a fox was barking in the laurel. this was an imprudent proceeding on the part of the fox, considering the value of his head-gear. a young mountaineer down the ravine was reminded, by the sharp, abrupt sound, of a premium offered by the state of tennessee for the scalp and ears of the pestiferous red fox. all unconscious of the legislation of extermination, the animal sped nimbly along the ledge of a cliff, becoming visible from the ravine below, a tawny streak against the gray rock. swift though he was, a jet of red light flashing out in the dusk was yet swifter. the echoing crags clamored with the report of a rifle. the tawny streak was suddenly still. three boys appeared in the depths of the ravine and looked up. "thar now! ye can't git him off'n that thar ledge, birt," said tim griggs. "the contrairy beastis couldn't hev fund a more ill- convenient spot ter die of he hed sarched the mounting." "i ain't goin' ter leave him thar, though," stoutly declared the boy who still held the rifle. "that thar fox's scalp an' his two ears air wuth one whole dollar." tim remonstrated. "look-a-hyar, birt; ef ye try ter climb up this hyar bluff, ye'll git yer neck bruk, sure." birt dicey looked up critically. it was a rugged ascent of forty feet or more to the narrow ledge where the red fox lay. although the face of the cliff was jagged, the rock greatly splintered and fissured, with many ledges, and here and there a tuft of weeds or a stunted bush growing in a niche, it was very steep, and would afford precarious foothold. the sunset was fading. the uncertain light would multiply the dangers of the attempt. but to leave a dollar lying there on the fox's head, that the wolf and the buzzard might dine expensively to-morrow! "an' me so tried for money!" he exclaimed, thinking aloud. nate griggs, who had not before spoken, gave a sudden laugh,--a dry, jeering laugh. "ef all the foxes on the mounting war ter hold a pertracted meet'n, jes' ter pleasure you-uns, thar wouldn't be enough scalps an' ears 'mongst 'em ter make up the money ye hanker fur ter buy a horse." to buy a horse was the height of birt's ambition. his mother was a widow; and as an instance of the fact that misfortunes seldom come singly, the horse on which the family depended to till their scanty acres died shortly after his owner. and so, whenever the spring opened and the ploughs all over the countryside were starting, their one chance to cultivate a crop was to hire a mule from their nearest neighbor, the tanner. birt was the eldest son, and his mother had only his work to offer in payment. the proposition always took the tanner in what he called a "jubious time." spring is the season for stripping the trees of their bark, which is richer in tannin when the sap flows most freely, and the mule was needed to haul up the piles of bark from out the depths of the woods to the tanyard. then, too, jubal perkins had his own crops to put in. as he often remarked in the course of the negotiation, "i don't eat tan bark-- nor yit raw hides." although the mule was a multifarious animal, and ploughed and worked in the bark-mill, and hauled from the woods, and went long journeys in the wagon or under the saddle, he was not ubiquitous, and it was impossible for him to be in the several places in which he was urgently needed at the same time. therefore, to hire him out on these terms seemed hardly an advantage to his master. nevertheless, this bargain was annually struck. the poverty-stricken widow always congratulated herself upon its conclusion, and it never occurred to her that the amount of work that birt did in the tanyard was a disproportionately large return for the few days that the tanner's mule ploughed their little fields. birt, however, was beginning to see that a boy to drive that mule around the bark-mill was as essential as the mule himself. as providence had failed to furnish the tanner with a son for this purpose--his family consisting of several small daughters--birt supplied a long-felt want. the boy appreciated that his simple mother was over-reached, yet he could not see that she could do otherwise. he sighed for independence, for a larger opportunity. as he drove the mule round the limited circuit, his mind was far away. he anxiously canvassed the future. he cherished fiery, ambitious schemes,--often scorched, poor fellow, by their futility. with his time thus mortgaged, he thought his help to his mother was far less than it might be. but until he could have a horse of his own, there was no hope--no progress. and for this he planned, and dreamed, and saved. partly these considerations, partly the love of adventure, and partly the jeer in nate's laugh determined him not to relinquish the price set upon the fox's head. he took off his coat and flung it on the ground beside his rifle. then he began to clamber up the cliff. the two brothers, their hands in the pockets of their brown jeans trousers, stood watching his ascent. nate had sandy hair, small gray eyes, set much too close together, and a sharp, pale, freckled face. tim seemed only a mild repetition of him, as if nature had tried to illustrate what nate would be with a better temper and less sly intelligence. birt was climbing slowly. it was a difficult matter. here was a crevice that would hardly admit his eager fingers, and again a projection so narrow that it seemed to grudge him foothold. some of the ledges, however, were wider, and occasionally a dwarfed huckleberry bush, nourished in a fissure, lifted him up like a helping hand. he quaked as he heard the roots strain and creak, for he was a pretty heavy fellow for sixteen years of age. they did not give way, however, and up and up he went, every moment increasing the depth below him and the danger. his breath was short; his strength flagged, he slipped more than once, giving himself a great fright; and when he reached the ledge where the dead fox lay, he thought, "the varmint don't wuth it." nevertheless he whooped out his triumph to nate and tim in a stentorian halloo, for they had already started homeward, and presently their voices died in the distance. birt faced about and sat down on the ledge to rest, his feet dangling over the depths beneath. it was a lonely spot, walled in by the mountains, and frequented only by the deer that were wont to come to lick salt from the briny margin of a great salt spring far down the ravine. their hoofs had worn a deep excavation around it in the countless years and generations that they had herded here. the "lick," as such places are called in tennessee, was nearly two acres in extent, and in the centre of the depression the brackish water stood to the depth of six feet or more. birt looked down at it, thinking of the old times when, according to tradition, it was the stamping ground of buffalo as well as deer. the dusk deepened. the shadows were skulking in and out of the wild ravine as the wind rose and fell. they took to his fancy the form of herds of the banished bison, revisiting in this impalpable guise the sylvan shades where they are but a memory now. presently he began the rugged descent, considerably hampered by the fox, which he carried by the tail. he stopped to rest whenever he found a ledge that would serve as a seat. looking up, high above the jagged summit of the cliff that sharply serrated the zenith, he saw the earliest star, glorious in the crimson and amber sky. below, a point of silver light quivered, reflected in the crimson and amber waters of the "lick." the fire-flies were flickering among the ferns; he saw about him their errant gleam. the shadowy herds trooped down the mountain side. now and then his weight uprooted a bush in his hands, and the clods fell. he missed his footing as he neared the base, and came down with a thump. it was a gravelly spot where he had fallen, and he saw in a moment that it was the summer-dried channel of a mountain rill. as he pulled himself up on one elbow, he suddenly paused with dilated eyes. the evening light fell upon a burnished glimmer;--a bit of stone--was it stone?--shining with a metallic lustre. he looked at it for a moment, his eyes glowing in the contemplation of a splendid possibility. what were those old stories that his father used to tell of the gold excitement in tennessee in , when the rich earth flung largess from its hidden wealth along the romantic banks of coca creek! gold had been found in tennessee--why not here? and once--why not again? the idea so possessed him that while he was skinning the fox his sharp knife almost sacrificed one of the two ears imperatively required by the statute, in order that the wily hunter may not be tempted to present one ear at a time, thus multiplying red foxes and premiums therefor like falstaff's "rogues in buckram." he took his way homeward through the darkening woods, carrying the pelt in his hand. it was not long before he could hear the dogs barking, and as he came suddenly upon a little clearing in the midst of the dense, encompassing wilderness, he saw them all trooping down from the unenclosed passage between the two log-rooms which constituted the house. an old hound had half climbed the fence, but as he laid his fore-paw on the topmost rail, his deep-mouthed bay was hushed,--he was recognizing the approaching step of his master. the yellow curs were still insisting upon a marauder theory. one of them barked defiance as he thrust his head between the rails of the fence. there was another head thrust through too, about on a level with towser's, but it was not a dog's head. as birt caught a glimpse of it, he called out hastily, "stand back thar, tennessee!" and then it was lost to view, for at the sound of his voice all the dogs came huddling over the bars, shrilly yelping a tumultuous welcome. when birt had vaulted over the fence, the little object withdrew its head from between the rails and came trotting along beside him, holding up its hand to clasp his. his mother, standing in the passage, her tall, thin figure distinct in the firelight that came flickering out through the open door, soliloquized querulously: - "ef that thar child don't quit that fool way o' stickin' her head a- twixt the rails ter watch fur her brother, she'll git cotched thar some day like a peeg in a pen, an' git her neck bruk." birt overheard her. "tennessee air too peart ter git herself hurt," he said, a trifle ashamed of his ready championship of his little sister, as a big rough boy is apt to be of gentler emotions. if ever infancy can be deemed uncouth, she was an uncouth little atom of humanity. her blue checked homespun dress, graced with big horn buttons, descended almost to her feet. her straight, awkwardly cropped hair was of a nondescript shade pleasantly called "tow." as she came into the light of the fire, she lifted wide black eyes deprecatingly to her mother. "she ain't pretty, i know, but she air powerful peart," birt used to say so often that the phrase became a formula with him. if she were "powerful peart," it was a fact readily apparent only to him, for she was a silent child, with the single marked characteristic of great affection for her eldest brother and a singular pertinacity in following him about. "i dunno 'bout tennie's peartness," his mother sarcastically rejoined. "'pears ter me like the chile hain't never hed good sense; afore she could walk she'd crawl along the floor arter ye, an' holler like a squeech-owel ef ye went off an' lef' her. an' ye air plumb teched in the head too, birt, ter set sech store by tennie. i look ter see her killed, or stunted, some day, in them travels o' hern." for when birt dicey went "yerrands" on the mule through the woods to the settlement, tennessee often rode on the pommel of his saddle. she followed in the furrow when he ploughed. she was as familiar an object at the tanyard as the bark-mill itself. when he wielded the axe, she perched on one end of the woodpile. but so far, she had passed safely through her varied adventures, and gratifying evidences of her growth were registered on the door. "stand back thar, tennessee!" in a loud, boyish halloo, was a command when danger was ahead, which she obeyed with the readiness of a veteran. sometimes, however, this incongruous companionship became irksome to him. her trusting, insistent affection made her a clog upon him, and he grew impatient of it. ah, little sister! he learned its value one day. the great wood fire was all aflare in the deep chimney-place. savory odors came from the gridiron and the skillet and the hoe, on the live coals drawn out on the broad hearth. the tow-headed children grew noisy as they assembled around the bare pine table, and began to clash their knives and forks. birt, unmindful, crouched by the hearth, silently turning his precious specimens about, that he might examine them by the firelight. tennessee, her chuffy hand on his shoulder, for she could reach it as he knelt, held her head close to his, and looked at them too with wide black eyes. his mother placed the supper on the table, and twice she called to him to come, but he did not hear. she turned and looked down at him, then broke out sharply in indignant surprise. "air ye bereft o' reason, birt dicey! ye set thar nosin' a handful o' rocks ez ef they war fitten ter eat! an' now look at the boy--a stuffin' 'em in his pockets ter sag 'em down and tear 'em out fur me ter sew in ag'in. waal, waal! sol'mon say ef ye spare the rod ye spile the child--mos' ennybody could hev fund that out from thar own 'sperience; but the wisest man that ever lived lef' no receipt how ter keep a boy's pockets whole in his breeches." chapter ii. birt dicey lay awake deep into the night, pondering and planning. but despite this unwonted vigil the old bark-mill was early astir, and he went alertly about his work. he felt eager, strong, capable. the spirit of progress was upon him. the tanyard lay in the midst of a forest so dense that, except at the verge of the clearing, it showed hardly a trace of its gradual despoliation by the industry that nestled in its heart like a worm in the bud. there were many stumps about the margin of the woods, the felled trees, stripped of their bark, often lying among them still, for the supply of timber exceeded the need. in penetrating the wilderness you might mark, too, here and there, a vacant space, where the chestnut-oak, prized for its tannin, had once grown on the slope. a little log house was in the midst of the clearing. it had, properly speaking, only one room, but there was a shed-room attached, for the purpose of storage, and also a large open shed at one side. the rail fence inclosed the space of an acre, perhaps, which was covered with spent bark. across the pits planks were laid, with heavy stones upon them to hold them in place. a rude roof sheltered the bark-mill from the weather, and there was the patient mule, with birt and a whip to make sure that he did not fall into reflective pauses according to his meditative wont. and there, too, was tennessee, perched on the lower edge of a great pile of bark, and gravely watching birt. he deprecated the attention she attracted. he was sometimes ashamed to have the persistent little sister seen following at his heels like a midday shadow. he could not know that the men who stopped and spoke to him and to her, and laughed at the infirmities of the infant tongue when she replied unintelligibly, thought better of him for his manifestation of strong fraternal affection. they said to each other that he was a "peart boy an' powerful good ter the t'other chill'en, an' holped the fambly along ez well ez a man-- better'n thar dad ever done;" for birt's father had been characterized always as "slack-twisted an' onlucky." the shadows dwindled on the tan. the winds had furled their wings. white clouds rose, dazzling, opaque, up to the blue zenith. the querulous cicada complained in the laurel. birt heard the call of a jay from the woods. and then, as he once more urged the old mule on, the busy bark-mill kept up such a whir that he could hear nothing else. he was not aware of an approach till the new-comer was close upon him; in fact, the first he knew of nate griggs's proximity was the sight of him. nate was glancing about with his usual air of questioning disparagement, and cracking a long lash at the spent bark on the ground. "hello, nate!" birt cried out, eagerly. "i'm powerful glad ye happened ter kem hyar, fur i hev a word ter say ter ye." "i dunno ez i'm minded ter bide," nate said cavalierly. "i hates to waste time an' burn daylight a-jowin'." he was still cracking his lash at the ground. there was a sudden, half-articulate remonstrance. birt, who had turned away to the bark-mill, whirled back in a rising passion. "did ye hit tennessee?" he asked, with a dangerous light in his eyes. "no--i never!" nate protested. "i hain't seen her till this minute. she war standin' a-hint ye." "waal, ye skeered her, then," said birt, hardly appeased. "quit snappin' that lash. 'pears-like ter me ez ye makes yerself powerful free round this hyar tanyard." "tennie air a-growin' wonderful fast," the sly nathan remarked pleasantly. birt softened instantly. "she air a haffen inch higher 'n she war las' march, 'cordin' ter the mark on the door," he declared, pridefully. "she ain't pretty, i know, but she air powerful peart." "what war the word ez ye war layin' off ter say ter me?" nate asked, curiosity vividly expressed in his face. birt leaned back against the pile of bark and hesitated. last night he had thought nate the most desirable person to whom he could confide his secret whose aid he could secure. there were many circumstances that made this seem wise. but when the disclosure was imminent, something in those small, bead-like eyes, unpleasantly close together, something in the expression of the thin, pale face, something in nate's voice and manner repelled confidence. "nate," said birt, at last, speaking with that subacute conviction, so strong yet so ill-defined, which vividly warns the ill-judged and yet cannot stop the tongue constrained by its own folly, "what d'ye s'pose i fund in the woods yestiddy?" the two small eyes, set close together, seemed merged in one, so concentrated was their gaze. again their expression struck birt's attention. he hesitated once more. "ef i tell ye, will ye promise never ter tell enny livin' human critter?" "i hope i may drap stone dead ef i ever tell!" nate exclaimed. "i fund a strange metal in the woods yestiddy. what d'ye s'pose 't war?" nate shook his head. his breath was quick and he could not control the keen anxiety in his face. a strong flush rose to the roots of his sandy hair, his lips quivered, and his small eyes glittered with greedy expectation. his tongue refused to frame a word. "gold!" cried birt, triumphantly. "whar be it?" exclaimed nate. he was about to start in full run for the spot. "i ain't agoin' ter tell ye, without we-uns kin strike a trade." "waal," said nate, with difficulty repressing his impatience, "what air you-uns aimin' ter do?" "ye knows ez i hev ter bide hyar with the bark-mill mos'ly, jes' now," said birt, beginning to expound the series of ideas which he had carefully worked out in his midnight vigil, "'kase they hev got ter hev a heap o' tan ter fill them thar vats ag'in. ef i war ter leave an' go a-gold huntin', the men on the mounting would find out what i war arter, an' they'd come a-grabblin' thar too, an' mebbe git it all, 'kase i dunno how much or how leetle thar be. i wants ter make sure of enough ter buy a horse, or a mule, or su'thin', ef i kin, 'fore i tells ennybody else. an' i 'lowed ez ye an' me would go pardners. ye'd take my place hyar at the tanyard one day, whilst i dug, an' i'd bide in the tanyard nex' day. an' we would divide fair an' even all we fund." nate did not reply. he was absorbed in a project that had come into his head as his friend talked, and the two dissimilar trains of thought combined in a mental mosaic that would have amazed birt dicey. "ye see," birt presently continued, "i dunno when i kin git shet o' the tanyard this year. old jube perkins 'lows ez he air mighty busy 'bout'n them hides an' sech, an' he wants me ter holp around ginerally. he say ef i do mo' work'n i owes him, he'll make that straight with my mother. an' he declares fur true ef i don't holp him at this junctry, when he needs me, he won't hire his mule to my mother nex' spring; an' ye know it won't do fur we-uns ter resk the corn-crap an' gyarden truck with sech a pack o' chill'n ter vittle ez we-uns hev got at our house." nate deduced an unexpected conclusion. "ye oughter gin me more'n haffen the make," he said. "'kase ef 'twarn't fur me, ye couldn't git none. an' ef ye don't say two thurds, i'll tell every critter on the mounting an' they'll be grabblin' in yer gold mine d'rec'ly." "ye dunno whar it is," said birt, quietly. if a sudden jet from the cold mountain torrent, that rioted through the wilderness down the ravine hard by, had been dashed into nate's thin, sharp face, he could not have cooled more abruptly. the change almost took his breath away. "i don't mean that, nuther," he gasped with politic penitence, "kase i hev promised not ter tell. i dunno whether i kin holp nohow. i hev got ter do my sheer o' work at home; we ain't through pullin' fodder off'n our late corn yit." birt looked at him in silent surprise. nate was older than his friend by several years. he was of an unruly and insubordinate temper, and did as little work as he pleased at home. he often remarked that he would like to see who could make him do what he had no mind to do. "mebbe old jube wouldn't want me round 'bout," he suggested. "waal," said birt, eager again to detail his plans, "he 'lowed when i axed him this mornin' ez he'd be willin' ef i could trade with another boy ter take my place wunst in a while." nate affected to meditate on this view of the question. "but it will be toler'ble fur away fur me ter go prowlin' in the woods, a- huntin' fur gold, an' our fodder jes' a-sufferin' ter be pulled. ef the spot air fur off, i can't come an' i won't, not fur haffen the make." "'t ain't fur off at all--scant haffen mile," replied unwary birt, anxious to convince. "it air jes' yander nigh that thar salt lick down the ravine. i marks the spot by a bowlder--biggest bowlder i ever see--on the slope o' the mounting." the instant this revelation passed his lips, regret seized him. "but ye ain't ter go thar 'thout me, ye onderstand, till we begins our work." "i ain't wantin' ter go," nate protested. "i ain't sati'fied in my mind whether i'll ondertake ter holp or no. that pullin' fodder ez i hev got ter do sets mighty heavy on my stomach." "tim an' yer dad always pulls the fodder an' sech--i knows ez that air a true word," said birt, bluntly. "an' i can't git away from the tanyard at all ef ye won't holp me, 'kase old jube 'lowed he wouldn't let me swop with a smaller boy ter work hyar; an' all them my size, an' bigger, air made ter work with thar dads, 'ceptin' you- uns." nate heard, but he hardly looked as if he did, so busily absorbed was he in fitting this fragment of fact into his mental mosaic. it had begun to assume the proportions of a distinct design. he suddenly asked a question of apparent irrelevancy. "this hyar land down the ravine don't b'long ter yer folkses--who do it b'long ter?" "don't b'long ter nobody, ye weasel!" birt retorted, in rising wrath. "d'ye s'pose i'd be a-stealin' of gold off'n somebody else's land?" nate's sly, thin face lighted up wonderfully. he seemed in a fever of haste to terminate the conference and get away. he agreed to his friend's proposition and promised to be at the bark-mill bright and early in the morning. as he trudged off, birt dicey stood watching the receding figure. his eyes were perplexed, his mind full of anxious foreboding. he hardly knew what he feared. he had only a vague sense of mischief in the air, as slight but as unmistakable as the harbinger of storm on a sunshiny summer day. "i wisht i hedn't tole him nuthin'," he said, as he wended his way home that night. "ef my mother hed knowed bout'n it all, i wouldn't hev been 'lowed ter tell him. she despises the very sight o' this hyar nate griggs--an' yit she say she dunno why." after supper he sat gloomy and taciturn in the uninclosed passage between the two rooms, watching alternately the fire-flies, as they instarred the dark woods with ever-shifting gold sparks, and the broad, pale flashes of heat lightning which from time to time illumined the horizon. there was no motion in the heavy black foliage, but it was filled with the shrill droning of the summer insects, and high in the branches a screech-owl pierced the air with its keen, quavering scream. "tennessee!" exclaimed birt, as the unwelcome sound fell upon his ear--"tennessee! run an' put the shovel in the fire!" whether the shovel, becoming hot among the live coals, burned the owl that was high in the tree-top outside, according to the countryside superstition, or whether by a singular coincidence, he discovered that he had business elsewhere, he was soon gone, and the night was left to the chorusing katydids and tree-toads and to the weird, fitful illuminations of the noiseless heat lightning. birt dicey rose suddenly and walked away silently into the dense, dark woods. "stop, tennessee! ye can't go too!" exclaimed mrs. dicey, appearing in the doorway just in time to intercept the juvenile excursionist. "ketch her, rufus! ef she wouldn't hev followed birt right off in the pitch dark! she ain't afeared o' nothin' when birt is thar. git that pomegranate she hed an' gin it ter her ter keep her from hollerin', rufe; i hed a sight ruther hear the squeech-owel." tennessee, overpowered by disappointment, sobbed herself to sleep upon the floor, and then ensued an interval of quiet. rufe, a towheaded boy of ten, dressed in an unbleached cotton shirt and blue-checked homespun trousers, concluded that this moment was the accepted time to count the balls in his brother's shot-pouch. this he proceeded to do, with the aid of the sullen glare from the embers within and the fluctuating gleams of the lightning without. there was no pretense of utility in rufe's performance; only the love of handling lead could explain it. "ye hed better mind," his mother admonished him. "birt war powerful tried the t'other day ter think what hed gone with his bullets. he'll nose ye out afore long." "they hev got sech a fool way o' slippin' through the chinks in the floor," said the boy in exasperation. "i never seen the beat! an' thar's no gittin' them out, nuther. i snaked under the house yestiddy an' sarched, an' sarched!--an' i never fund but two. an' towse, he dragged hisself under thar, too--jes' a-growlin' an' a- snappin'. i thought fur sartin every minit he'd bite my foot off." he resumed his self-imposed task of counting the rifle balls, and now and then a sharp click told that another was consigned to that limbo guarded by towse. mrs. dicey stood in silence for a time, gazing upon the unutterably gloomy forest, the distant, throbbing stars, and the broad, wan flashes at long intervals gleaming through the sky. "it puts me in a mighty tucker ter hev yer brother a-settin' out through the woods this hyar way, an' a-leavin' of we-uns hyar, all by ourselves sech a dark night. i'm always afeared thar mought be a bar a-prowlin' round. an' the cornfield air close ter the house, too." "pete thompson--him ez war yander ter the tanyard day 'fore yestiddy with his dad," said the boy, "he tole it ter me ez how he seen a bar las' wednesday a-climbin' over the fence ter thar cornfield, with a haffen dozen roastin'-ears under his arm an' a watermillion on his head. but war it a haffen dozen? i furgits now ef pete said it war a haffen dozen or nine ears of corn the bar hed;" and he paused to reflect in the midst of his important occupation. "i'll be bound pete never stopped ter count 'em," said mrs. dicey. "pick that chile up an' come in. i'm goin' ter bar up the door." birt dicey plodded away through the deep woods and the dense darkness down the ravine. although he could not now distinguish one stone from another, he had an uncontrollable impulse to visit again the treasure he had discovered. the murmur of the gently bubbling water warned him of the proximity of the deep salt spring almost at the base of the mountain, and, guiding himself partly by the sound, he made his way along the slope to the great bowlder beneath the cliffs that served to mark the spot. as he laid his hand on the bowlder, he experienced a wonderful exhilaration of spirit. once more he canvassed his scheme. this was the one great opportunity of his restricted life. visions of future possibilities were opening wide their fascinating vistas. he might make enough to buy a horse, and this expressed his idea of wealth. "but ef i live ter git a cent out'n it," he said to himself, "i'll take the very fust money i kin call my own an' buy tennessee a chany cup an' sarcer, an' a string o' blue beads an' a caliky coat--ef i die fur it." his pleased reverie was broken by a sudden discovery. he was not standing among stones about the great bowlder; no--his foot had sunk deep in the sand! he stooped down in the darkness and felt about him. the spot was not now as he had left it yesterday afternoon. he was sure of this, even before a fleet, wan flash of the heat lightning showed him at his feet the unmistakable signs of a recent excavation. it was not deep, it was not broad; but it was fresh and it betrayed a prying hand. again the heat lightning illumined the wide, vague sky. he saw the solemn dark forests; he saw the steely glimmer of the lick; the distant mountains flickered against the pallid horizon; and once more--densest gloom. chapter iii. it was nate who had been here,--birt felt sure of that; nate, who had promised he would not come. convinced that his friend was playing a false part, birt went at once to the bark-mill in the morning, confident that he would not find nate at work in the tanyard according to their agreement. it was later than usual, and jubal perkins swore at birt for his tardiness. he hardly heard; and as the old bark-mill ground and ground the bark, and the mule jogged around and around, and the hot sun shone, and the voices of the men handling the hides at the tanpit were loud on the air, all his thoughts were of the cool, dark, sequestered ravine, holding in its cloven heart the secret he had discovered. rufus happened to come to the tanyard today. birt seized the opportunity. "rufe," he said, "ye see i can't git away from the mill, 'kase i'm 'bleeged ter stay hyar whilst the old mule grinds. but ef ye'll go over yander ter nate griggs's house an' tell him ter come over hyar, bein' ez i want to see him partic'lar, i'll fix ye a squir'l-trap before long ez the peartest old bushy-tail on the mounting ain't got the gumption ter git out'n. an' let me know ef nate ain't thar." rufe was disposed to parley. he stood first on one foot, then on the other. he cast calculating eyes at the bark-mill and out upon the deep forest. the exact date on which this promise was to be fulfilled had to be fixed before he announced his willingness to set out. ten to one, he would have gone without the bribe, had none been suggested, for he loved the woods better than the woodpile, and a five-mile tramp through its tangles wearied his bones not so much as picking up a single basketful of chips. some boys' bones are constituted thus, strange as it may seem. so he went his way in his somewhat eccentric gait, compounded of a hop, and a skip, and a dawdle. he had made about half a mile when the path curved to the mountain's brink. he paused and parted the glossy leaves of the dense laurel that he might look out over the precipice at the distant heights. how blue--how softly blue they were!--the endless ranges about the horizon. what a golden haze melted on those nearer at hand, bravely green in the sunshine! from among the beetling crags, the first red leaf was whirling away against the azure sky. even a buzzard had its picturesque aspects, circling high above the mountains in its strong, majestic flight. to breathe the balsamic, sunlit air was luxury, happiness; it was a wonder that rufe got on as fast as he did. how fragrant and cool and dark was the shadowy valley! a silver cloud lay deep in the waters of the "lick." why rufe made up his mind to go down there, he could hardly have said--sheer curiosity, perhaps. he knew he had plenty of time to get to nate's house and back before dark. people who sent rufe on errands usually reckoned for two hours' waste in each direction. he had no idea of descending the cliffs as birt had done. he stolidly retraced his way until he was nearly home; then scrambling down rocky slopes he came presently upon a deer-path. all at once, he noticed the footprint of a man in a dank, marshy spot. he stopped and looked hard at it, for he had naturally supposed this path was used only by the woodland gentry. "some deer-hunter, i reckon," he said. and so he went on. with his characteristic curiosity, he peered all around the "lick" when he was at last there. he even applied his tongue, calf-like, to the briny earth; it did not taste so salty as he had expected. as he rolled over luxuriously on his back among the fragrant summer weeds, he caught sight of something in the branches of an oak tree. he sat up and stared. it looked like a rude platform. after a moment, he divined that it was the remnant of a scaffold from which some early settler of tennessee had been wont to fire upon the deer or the buffalo at the "lick," below. such relics, some of them a century old, are to be seen to this day in sequestered nooks of the cumberland mountains. rufe had heard of these old scaffolds, but he had never known of the existence of this one down by the "lick." he sprang up, a flush of excitement contending with the dirt on his countenance; he set his squirrel teeth resolutely together; he applied his sturdy fingers and his nimble legs to the bark of the tree, and up he went like a cat. he climbed to the lower branches easily enough, but he caused much commotion and swaying among them as he struggled through the foliage. an owl, with great remonstrant eyes, suddenly looked out of a hollow, higher still, with an inarticulate mutter of mingled reproach, and warning, and anxiety. rufe settled himself on the platform, his bare feet dangling about jocosely. then, beating his hands on either thigh to mark the time he sang in a loud, shrill soprano, prone now and then to be flat, and yet, impartially, prone now and then to be sharp: - thar war two sun-dogs in the red day-dawn, an' the wind war laid--'t war prime fur game. i went ter the woods betimes that morn, an' tuk my flint-lock, "nancy," by name; an' thar i see, in the crotch of a tree, a great big catamount grinnin' at me. a-kee! he! he! an' a-ho! ho! he! a pop-eyed catamount laffin' at me! and, as rufe sang, the anger and remonstrance in the owl's demeanor increased every moment. for the owl was a vocalist, too! bein' made game of by a brute beastis, war su'thin' i could in no ways allow. i jes' spoke up, for my dander hed riz, "cat--take in the slack o' yer jaw!" he bowed his back--nance sighted him gran', then the blamed old gal jes' flashed in the pan! a-kee! he! he! an' a-ho! ho! he! with a outraged catamount rebukin' of me! as rufe finished this with a mighty crescendo, he was obliged to pause for breath. he stared about, gaspily. the afternoon was waning. the mountains close at hand were a darker green. the distant ranges had assumed a rosy amethystine tint, like nothing earthly--like the mountains of a dream, perhaps. the buzzard had alighted in the top of a tree not far down the slope, a tree long ago lightning-scathed, but still rising, gaunt and scarred, above all the forest, and stretching dead stark arms to heaven. somehow rufe did not like the looks of it. he was aware of a revulsion of feeling, of the ebbing away of his merry spirit before he saw more. as he tried to sing: - i war the mightiest hunter that ever ye see till that thar catamount tuk arter me! - his tongue clove suddenly to the roof of his mouth. he could see something under that tree which no one else could see, not even from the summit of the crags, for the tree was beyond a projecting slope, and out of the range of vision thence. rufe could not make out distinctly what the object was, but it was evidently foreign to the place. he possessed the universal human weakness of regarding everything with a personal application. it now seemed strange to him that he should have come here at all; stranger still, that he should have mounted this queer relic of days so long gone by, and thus discovered that peculiar object under the dead tree. he began to think he had been led here for a purpose. now rufe was not so good a boy as to be on the continual lookout for rewards of merit. on the contrary, the day of reckoning meant with him the day of punishment. he had heard recounted an unpleasant superstition that when the red sunsets were flaming round the western mountains, and the valleys were dark and drear, and the abysses and gorges gloomed full of witches and weird spirits, satan himself might be descried, walking the crags, and spitting fire, and deporting himself generally in such a manner as to cause great apprehension to a small person who could remember so many sins as rufe could. his sins! they trooped up before his mental vision now, and in a dense convocation crowded the encompassing wilderness. rufe felt that he must not leave this matter in uncertainty. he must know whether that strange object under the tree could be intended as a warning to him to cease in time his evil ways-- tormenting towse, pulling tennessee's hair, shirking the woodpile, and squandering birt's rifle balls. he even feared this might be a notification that the hour of retribution had already come! he scuttled off the platform, and began to swing himself from bough to bough. he was nervous and less expert than when he had climbed up the tree. he lost his grip once, and crashed from one branch to another, scratching himself handsomely in the operation. the owl, emboldened by his retreat, flew awkwardly down upon the scaffold, and perched there, its head turned askew, and its great, round eyes fixed solemnly upon him. suddenly a wild hoot of derision rent the air; the echoes answered, and all the ravine was filled with the jeering clamor. "the wust luck in the worl'!" plained poor rufe, as the ill-omened cry rose again and again. "'tain't goin' ter s'prise me none now, ef i gits my neck bruk along o' this resky foolishness in this cur'ous place whar owels watch from the lookout ez dead men hev lef'." he came down unhurt, however. then he sidled about a great many times through "the laurel," for he could not muster courage for a direct approach to the strange object he had descried. the owl still watched him, and bobbed its head and hooted after him. when he drew near the lightning-scathed tree, he paused rooted to the spot, gazing in astonishment, his hat on the back of his tow head, his eyes opened wide, one finger inserted in his mouth in silent deprecation. for there stood a man dressed in black, and with a dark straw hat on his head. he had gray whiskers, and gleaming spectacles of a mildly surprised expression. he smiled kindly when he saw rufe. incongruously enough, he had a hammer in his hand. he was going down the ravine, tapping the rocks with it. and rufe thought he looked for all the world like some over-grown, demented woodpecker. chapter iv. as rufe still stood staring, the old gentleman held out his hand with a cordial gesture. "come here, my little man!" he said in a kind voice. rufe hesitated. then he was seized by sudden distrust. who was this stranger? and why did he call, "come here!" perhaps the fears already uppermost in rufe's mind influenced his hasty conclusion. he cast a horrified glance upon the old gentleman in black, a garb of suspicious color to the little mountaineer, who had never seen men clad in aught but the brown jeans habitually worn by the hunters of the range. he remembered, too, the words of an old song that chronicled how alluring were the invitations of satan, and with a frenzied cry he fled frantically through the laurel. away and away he dashed, up steep ascents, down sharp declivities, falling twice or thrice in his haste, but hurting his clothes more than himself. it was not long before he was in sight of home, and towse met him at the fence. the feeling between these two was often the reverse of cordial, and as rufe climbed down from rail to rail, his sullen "lemme 'lone, now!" was answered by sundry snaps at his heels and a low growl. not that towse would really have harmed him--fealty to the family forbade that; but in defense of his ears and tail he thought it best to keep fierce possibilities in rufe's contemplation. rufe sat down on the floor of the uninclosed passage between the two rooms, his legs dangling over the sparse sprouts of chickweed and clumps of mullein that grew just beneath, for there were no steps, and towse bounded up and sat upright close beside him. and as he sought to lean on towse, the dog sought to lean on him. they both looked out meditatively at the dense and sombre wilderness, upon which this little clearing and humble log-cabin were but meagre suggestions of that strong, full-pulsed humanity that has elsewhere subdued nature, and achieved progress, and preempted perfection. towse soon shut his eyes, and presently he was nodding. presumably he dreamed, for once he roused himself to snap at a fly, when there was no fly. rufe, however, was wide awake, and busily canvassing how to account to birt for the lack of a message from nate griggs, for he would not confess how untrustworthy he had proved himself. as he reflected upon this perplexity, he leaned his throbbing head on his hand, and his attitude expressed a downcast spirit. this chanced to strike his mother's attention as she came to the door. she paused and looked keenly at him. "them hoss apples ag'in!" she exclaimed, with the voice of accusation. she had no idea of youthful dejection disconnected with the colic. rufe was roused to defend himself. "hain't teched 'em, now!" he cried, acrimoniously. "waal, sometimes ye air sorter loose-jointed in yer jaw, an' ain't partic'lar what ye say," rejoined his mother, politely. "i'll waste a leetle yerb-tea on ye, ennyhow." she started back into the room, and rufe rose at once. this cruelty should not be practiced upon him, whatever might betide him at the tanyard. he set out at a brisk pace. he had no mind to be long alone in the woods since his strange adventure down the ravine, or he might have hid in the underbrush, as he had often done, until other matters usurped his mother's medicinal intentions. when rufe reached the tanyard, birt was still at work. he turned and looked eagerly at the juvenile ambassador. "did nate gin ye a word fur me?" he called sonorously, above the clamor of the noisy bark-mill. "he say he'll be hyar ter-morrer by sun-up!" piped out rufe, in a blatant treble. a lie seemed less reprehensible when he was obliged to labor so conscientiously to make it heard. and then compunction seized him. he sat down by tennessee on a pile of bark, and took off his old wool hat to mop the cold perspiration that had started on his head and face. he felt sick, and sad, and extremely wicked,--a sorry contrast to birt, who was so honest and reliable and, as his mother always said, "ez stiddy ez the mounting." birt was beginning to unharness the mule, for the day's work was at an end. the dusk had deepened to darkness. the woods were full of gloom. a timorous star palpitated in the sky. in the sudden stillness when the bark-mill ceased its whir, the mountain torrent hard by lifted a mystic chant. the drone of the katydid vibrated in the laurel, and the shrill-voiced cricket chirped. two of the men were in the shed examining a green hide by the light of a perforated tin lantern, that seemed to spill the rays in glinting white rills. as they flickered across the pile of bark where rufe and tennessee were sitting, he noticed how alert birt looked, how bright his eyes were. for birt's hopes were suddenly renewed. he thought that some mischance had detained nate to-day, and that he would come to-morrow to work at the bark-mill. the boy's blood tingled at the prospect of being free to seek for treasure down the ravine. he began to feel that he had been too quick to distrust his friend. perhaps the stipulation that nate should not go to the ravine until the work commenced was more than he ought to have asked. and perhaps, too, the trespasser was not nate! the traces of shallow delving might have been left by another hand. birt paused reflectively in unharnessing the mule. he stood with the gear in one hand, serious and anxious, in view of the possibility that this discovery was not his alone. then he strove to cast aside the thought. he said to himself that he had been hasty in concluding that the slight excavation argued human presence in that lonely spot; a rock dislodged and rolling heavily down the gorge might have thus scraped into the sand and gravel; or perhaps some burrowing animal, prospecting for winter quarters, had begun to dig a hole under the bowlder. he was perplexed, despite his plausible reasoning, and he continued silent and preoccupied when he lifted tennessee to his shoulder and trudged off homeward, with rufe at his heels, and the small boy's conscience following sturdily in the rear. that sternly accusing conscience! rufe was dismayed, when he sat with the other laughing children about the table, to know that his soul was not merry. sometimes a sombre shadow fell upon his face, and once birt asked him what was the matter. and though he laughed more than ever, he felt it was very hard to be gay without the subtle essence of mirth. that lie!--it seemed to grow; before supper was over it was as big as the warping-bars, and when they all sat in a semicircle in the open passage, rufe felt that his conscience was the most prominent member of the party. the young moon sank; the night waxed darker still; the woods murmured mysteriously. and he was glad enough at last to be sent to bed, where after so long a time sleep found him. the morrow came in a cloud. the light lacked the sunshine. the listless air lacked the wind. still and sombre, the woods touched the murky, motionless sky. all the universe seemed to hold a sullen pause. time was afoot--it always is--but birt might not know how it sped; no shadows on the spent tan this dark day! over his shoulder he was forever glancing, hoping that nate would presently appear from the woods. he saw only the mists lurking in the laurel; they had autumnal presage and a chill presence. he buttoned his coat about him, and the old mule sneezed as he jogged round the bark- mill. jubal perkins and a crony stood smoking much of the time to-day in the door of the house, looking idly out upon the brown stretch of spent bark, and the gray, weather-beaten sheds, and the dun sky, and the shadowy, mist-veiled woods. the tanner was a tall, muscular man, clad in brown jeans, and with boots of a fair grade of leather drawn high over his trousers. as he often remarked, "the tanyard owes me good foot-gear--ef the rest o' the mounting hev ter go barefoot." the expression of his face was somewhat masked by a heavy grizzled beard, but from beneath the wide brim of his hat his eyes peered out with a jocose twinkle. his mouth seemed chiefly useful as a receptacle for his pipe-stem, for he spoke through his nose. his voice was strident on the air, since he included in the conversation a workman in the shed, who was scraping with a two- handled knife a hide spread on a wooden horse. this man, whose name was andrew byers, glanced up now and then, elevating a pair of shaggy eyebrows, and settled the affairs of the nation with diligence and despatch, little hindered by his labors or the distance. birt took no heed of the loud drawling talk. in moody silence he drove the mule around and around the bark-mill. the patient old animal, being in no danger of losing his way, closed his eyes drowsily as he trudged, making the best of it. "i'll git ez mild-mannered an' meek-hearted ez this hyar old beastis, some day, ef things keep on ez disapp'intin' ez they hev been lately," thought birt, miserably. "they do say ez even he used ter be a turrible kicker." noon came and went, and still the mists hung in the forest closely engirdling the little clearing. the roofs glistened with moisture, and the eaves dripped. a crow was cawing somewhere. birt had paused to let the mule rest, and the raucous sound caused him to turn his head. his heart gave a bound when he saw that on the other side of the fence the underbrush was astir along the path which wound through the woods to the tanyard. somebody was coming; he hoped even yet that it might be nate. he eagerly watched the rustling boughs. the crow had flown, but he heard as he waited a faint "caw! caw!" in the misty distance. whoever the newcomer might be, he certainly loitered. at last the leaves parted, and revealed- -rufe. birt's first sensation was renewed disappointment. then he was disposed to investigate the mystery of nate's non-appearance. "hello, rufe!" he called out, as soon as the small boy was inside the tanyard, "be you-uns sure ez nate said he'd come over by sun- up?" rufe halted and gazed about him, endeavoring to conjure an expression of surprise into his freckled face. he even opened his mouth to exhibit astonishment--exhibiting chiefly that equivocal tongue, and a large assortment of jagged squirrel teeth. "hain't nate come yit?" he ventured. the tanner suddenly put into the conversation. "war it nate griggs ez ye war aimin' ter trade with ter take yer place wunst in a while in the tanyard?" birt assented. "an' he 'lowed he'd be hyar ter-day by sun-up. rufe brung that word from him yestiddy." rufe's conscience had given him a recess, during which he had consumed several horse-apples in considerable complacence and a total disregard of "yerb tea." he had climbed a tree, and sampled a green persimmon, and he endured with fortitude the pucker in his mouth, since it enabled him to make such faces at towse as caused the dog to snap and growl in a frenzy of surprised indignation. he had fashioned a corn-stalk fiddle--that instrument so dear to rural children!--and he had been sawing away on it to his own satisfaction and tennessee's unbounded admiration for the last half-hour. he had forgotten that pursuing conscience till it seized upon him again in the tanyard. "oh, birt," he quavered out, suddenly, "i hain't laid eyes on nate." birt exclaimed indignantly, and jubal perkins laughed. "i seen sech a cur'ous lookin' man, down in the ravine by the lick, ez it sot me all catawampus!" continued rufe. as he told of his defection, and the falsehood with which he had accounted for it, jubal perkins came to a sudden decision. "git on that thar mule, birt, an' ride over ter nate's, an' find out what ails him, ef so be ye hanker ter know. i don't want nobody workin' in this hyar tanyard ez looks ez mournful ez ye do--like ez ef ye hed been buried an' dug up. but hurry back, 'kase there ain't enough bark ground yit, an' i hev got other turns o' work i want ye ter do besides 'fore dark." "war that satan?" asked rufe abruptly. "whar?" exclaimed birt, startled, and glancing hastily over his shoulder. "down yander by the lick," plained rufe. "naw!" said birt, scornfully, "an' nuthin' like satan, i'll be bound!" he was, however, uneasy to hear of any man down the ravine in the neighborhood of his hidden treasure, but he could not now question rufe, for jube perkins, with mock severity, was taking the small boy to account. byers was looking on, the knife idle in his hands, and his lips distended with a wide grin in the anticipation of getting some fun out of rufe. "look-a-hyar, bub," said jubal perkins, with both hands in his pockets and glaring down solemnly at rufe; "ef ever i ketches ye goin' of yerrands no better'n that ag'in, i'm a-goin' ter--tan that thar hide o' yourn." rufe gazed up deprecatingly, his eyes widening at the prospect. byers broke into a horse laugh. "we've been wantin' some leetle varmints fur tanning ennyhow," he said. "ye'll feel mighty queer when ye stand out thar on the spent tan, with jes' yer meat on yer bones, an 'look up an' see yer skin a-hangin' alongside o' the t'other calves, an' sech--that ye will!" "an' all the mounting folks will be remarkin' on it, too," said perkins. which no doubt they would have done with a lively interest. "i reckon," said byers, looking speculatively at rufe, "ez't would take a right smart time fur ye ter git tough enough ter go 'bout in respect'ble society ag'in. 't would hurt ye mightily, i'm thinkin'. ef i war you-uns, i'd be powerful partic'lar ter keep inside o' sech an accommodatin'-lookin' little hide ez yourn be fur tanning." rufe's countenance was distorted. he seemed about to tune up and whimper. "an' ef i war you-uns, andy byers, i'd find su'thin' better ter do'n ter bait an' badger a critter the size o' rufe!" exclaimed birt angrily. "that thar boy's 'bout right, too!" said the man who had hitherto been standing silent in the door. "waal, leave rufe be, jubal!" said byers, laughing. "ye started the fun." "leave him be, yerself," retorted the tanner. when birt mounted the mule, and rode out of the yard, he glanced back and saw that rufe had approached the shed; judging by his gestures, he was asking a variety of questions touching the art of tanning, to which byers amicably responded. the mists were shifting as birt went on and on. he heard the acorns dropping from the chestnut-oaks--sign that the wind was awake in the woods. like a glittering, polished blade, at last a slanting sunbeam fell. it split the gloom, and a radiant afternoon seemed to emerge. the moist leaves shone; far down the aisles of the woods the fugitive mists, in elusive dryadic suggestions, chased each other into the distance. although the song-birds were all silent, there was a chirping somewhere--cheerful sound! he had almost reached his destination when a sudden rustling in the undergrowth by the roadside caused him to turn and glance back. two or three shoats lifted their heads and were gazing at him with surprise, and a certain disfavor, as if they did not quite like his looks. a bevy of barefooted, tow-headed children were making mud pies in a marshy dip close by. an ancient hound, that had renounced the chase and assumed in his old age the office of tutor, seemed to preside with dignity and judgment. he, too, had descried the approach of the stranger. he growled, but made no other demonstration. "whar's nate?" birt called out, for these were the children of nate's eldest brother. for a moment there was no reply. then the smallest of the small boys shrilly piped out, "he hev gone away!--him an' gran'dad's claybank mare." another unexpected development! "when will he come back?" "ain't goin' ter come back fur two weeks." "whar 'bouts hev he gone?" asked birt amazed. "dunno," responded the same little fellow. "when did he set out?" there was a meditative pause. then ensued a jumbled bickering. the small boys, the shoats, and the hound seemed to consult together in the endeavor to distinguish "day 'fore yestiddy" from "las' week." the united intellect of the party was inadequate. "dunno!" the mite of a spokesman at last admitted. birt rode on rapidly once more, leaving this choice syndicate settling down again to the mud pies. the woods gave way presently and revealed, close to a precipice, nate's home. the log house with its chimney of clay and sticks, the barn of ruder guise, the fodder-stack, the ash-hopper, and the rail fence were all imposed in high relief against the crimson west and the purpling ranges in the distance. the little cabin was quite alone in the world. no other house, no field, no clearing, was visible in all the vast expanse of mountains and valleys which it overlooked. the great panorama of nature seemed to be unrolled for it only. the seasons passed in review before it. the moon rose, waxing or waning, as if for its behoof. the sun conserved for it a splendid state. but the skies above it had sterner moods,--sometimes lightnings veined the familiar clouds; winds rioted about it; the thunder spoke close at hand. and then it was that mrs. griggs lamented her husband's course in "raisin' the house hyar so nigh the bluffs ez ef it war an' aigle's nest," and forgot that she had ever accounted herself "sifflicated" when distant from the airy cliffs. she stood in the doorway now, her arms akimbo--an attitude that makes a woman of a certain stamp seem more masterful than a man. her grizzled locks were ornamented by a cotton cap with a wide and impressive ruffle, which, swaying and nodding, served to emphasize her remarks. she was conferring in a loud drawl with her husband, who had let down the bars to admit his horse, laden with a newly killed deer. her manner would seem to imply that she, and not he, had slain the animal. "toler'ble fat," she commented with grave self-complacence. "he 'minds me sorter o' that thar tremenjious buck we hed las' september. he war the fattes' buck i ever see. take off his hide right straight." the big cap-ruffle flapped didactically. "lor'-a--massy, woman!" vociferated the testy old man; "ain't i a- goin' ter? ter hear ye a-jowin', a-body would think i had never shot nothin' likelier'n a yaller-hammer sence i been born. s'pos'n ye jes' takes ter goin' a-huntin', an' skinnin' deer, an' cuttin' wood, an' doin' my work ginerally. pears-like ye think ye knows mo' 'bout'n my work'n i does. an' i'll bide hyar at the house." mrs. griggs nodded her head capably, in nowise dismayed. "i dunno but that plan would work mighty well," she said. this conjugal colloquy terminated as she glanced up and saw birt. "why, thar's young dicey a-hint ye. howdy birt! 'light an' hitch!" "naw'm," rejoined birt, as he rode into the enclosure and close up to the doorstep. "i hain't got time ter 'light." then precipitately opening the subject of his mission. "i kem over hyar ter see nate. whar hev he disappeared ter?" "waal, now, that's jes' what i'd like ter know," she replied, her face eloquent with baffled curiosity. "he jes' borried his dad's claybank mare, an' sot out, an' never 'lowed whar he war bound fur. nate hev turned twenty-one year old," she continued, "an' he 'lows he air a man growed, an' obligated ter obey nobody but hisself. from the headin' way that he kerries on hyar, a-body would s'pose he air older 'n the cumberland mountings! but he hev turned twenty- one--that's a fac'--an' he voted at the las' election." (with how much discretion it need not now be inquired.) "i knows that air true," said birt, who had wistfully admired this feat of his senior. "waal--nate don't set much store by votin'," rejoined mrs. griggs. "nate, he say, the greatest privilege his kentry kin confer on him is ter make it capital punishment fur wimmen ter ax him questions!-- which i hev done," she admitted stoutly. and the ruffle on her cap did not deny it. "nate air twenty-one," she reiterated. "an' i s'pose he 'lows ez i hev no call nowadays ter be his mother." "hain't ye got no guess whar he be gone?" asked birt, dismayed by this strange new complication. "waal, i hev been studyin' it out ez nate mought hev rid ter parch corn, whar his great-uncle, joshua peters, lives--him that merried my aunt, melissy baker, ez war a widder then, though born a scruggs. an' then, ag'in, nate mought hev tuk it inter his head ter go ter the cross-roads, a-courtin' a gal thar ez he hev been talkin' about powerful, lately. but they tells me," mrs. griggs expostulated, as it were, "that them gals at the cross-roads is in no way desirable,- -specially this hyar elviry mills, ez mighty nigh all the boys on the mounting hev los' thar wits about,--what little wits ez they ever hed ter lose, i mean ter say. but nate thinks he hev got a right ter a ch'ice, bein' ez he air turned twenty-one." "did he say when he 'lowed ter come back?" birt asked. "'bout two or three weeks nate laid off ter be away; but whar he hev gone, an' what's his yerrand, he let no human know," returned mrs. griggs. "i hev been powerful aggervated 'bout this caper o' nate's. i ain't afeard he'll git hisself hurt no ways whilst he be gone, for nate is mighty apt ter take keer o' nate." she nodded her head convincingly, and the great ruffle on her cap shook in corroboration. "but i hain't never hed the right medjure o' respec' out'n nate, an' his dad hain't, nuther." birt listened vaguely to this account of his friend's filial shortcomings, his absent eyes fixed upon the wide landscape, and his mind busy with the anxious problems of nate's broken promises. and the big red ball of the setting sun seemed at last to roll off the plane of the horizon, and it disappeared amidst the fiery emblazonment of clouds with which it had enriched the west. but all the world was not so splendid; midway below the dark purple summits a dun, opaque vapor asserted itself in dreary, aerial suspension. beneath it he could see a file of cows, homeward bound, along the road that encircled the mountain's base. he heard them low, and this reminded him that night was near, for all that the zenith was azure, and for all that the west was aglow. and he remembered he had a good many odd jobs to do before dark. and so he turned his face homeward. chapter v. birt had always been held in high esteem by the men at the tanyard. suddenly, however, the feeling toward him cooled. he remembered afterward, although at the time he was too absorbed to fully appreciate it, that this change began one day shortly after he had learned of nate's departure. as he went mechanically about his work, he was pondering futilely upon his friend's mysterious journey, and his tantalizing hopes lying untried in the depths of the ravine. he hardly noticed the conversation of the men until something was said that touched upon the wish nearest his heart. "i war studyin' 'bout lettin' birt hev a day off," said the tanner. "an' ye'll bide hyar." "naw, jube--naw!" andy byers replied with stalwart independence to his employer. "i hev laid off ter attend. ef ye want ennybody ter bide with the tanyard, an' keer fur this hyar pit, ye kin do it yerse'f, or else birt kin. _i_ hev laid off ter attend." andy byers was a man of moods. his shaggy eyebrows to-day overshadowed eyes sombre and austere. he seemed, if possible, a little slower than was his wont. he bore himself with a sour solemnity, and he was at once irritable and dejected. "shucks, andy! ye knows ye ain't no kin sca'cely ter the old woman; ye couldn't count out how ye air kin ter her ter save yer life. now, i'm obleeged ter attend." it so happened that the tanner's great-aunt was distantly related to andy byers. being ill, and an extremely old woman, she was supposed to be lying at the point of death, and her kindred had been summoned to hear her last words. "i hed 'lowed ter gin birt a day off, 'kase i hev got ter hev the mule in the wagon, an' he can't grind bark. i promised birt a day off," the tanner continued. "that thar's twixt ye an' birt. i hain't got no call ter meddle," said the obdurate byers. "ye kin bide with the tanyard an' finish this job yerse'f, of so minded. i'm goin' ter attend." "i reckon half the kentry-side will be thar, an' _i_ wants ter see the folks," said jubal perkins, cheerfully. "then birt will hev ter bide with the tanyard, an' finish this job. it don't lie with me ter gin him a day off. i don't keer ef he never gits a day off," said byers. this was an unnecessarily unkind speech, and birt's anger flamed out. "ef we-uns war of a size, andy byers," he said, hotly, "i'd make ye divide work a leetle more ekal than ye does." andy byers dropped the hide in his hands, and looked steadily across the pit at birt, as if he were taking the boy's measure. "ye mean ter say ef ye hed the bone an' muscle ye'd knock me down, do ye?" he sneered. "waal, i'll take the will fur the deed. i'll hold the grudge agin ye, jes' the same." they were all three busied about the pit. the hides had been taken out, and stratified anew, with layers of fresh tan, reversing the original order,--those that had been at the bottom now being placed at the top. the operation was almost complete before jubal perkins received the news of his relative's precarious condition. he had no doubt that birt was able to finish it properly, and the boy's conscientious habit of doing his best served to make the tanner's mind quite easy. as to the day off, he was glad to have that question settled by a quarrel between his employees, thus relieving him of responsibility. birt's wrath was always evanescent, and he was sorry a moment afterward for what he had said. andy byers exchanged no more words with him, and skillfully combined a curt and crusty manner toward him with an aspect of contemplative dreariness. occasionally, as they paused to rest, byers would sigh deeply. "a mighty good old woman, mrs. price war." he spoke as if she were already dead. "a mighty good old woman, though small-sized." "a little of her went a long way. she war eighty-four year old, an' kep' a sharp tongue in her head ter the las'," rejoined the tanner, adopting in turn the past tense. rufe listened with startled interest. now and then he cocked up his speculative eyes, and gazed fixedly into the preternaturally solemn face of byers, who reiterated, "a good old woman, though small- sized." with this unaccustomed absorption rufe's accomplishment of getting under-foot became pronounced. the tanner jostled him more than once, birt stumbled against his toes, and byers, suddenly turning, ran quite over him. rufe had not far to fall, but byers was a tall man. his arms swayed like the sails of a windmill in the effort to recover his balance. he was in danger of toppling into the pit, and in fact only caught himself on his knees at its verge. "ye torment!" he roared angrily, as he struggled to his feet. "g'way from hyar, or i'll skeer ye out'n yer wits!" the small boy ruefully gathered his members together, and after the men had started on their journey he sat down on a pile of wood hard by to give birt his opinion of andy byers. "he air a toler'ble mean man, ain't he, birt?" but birt said he had no mind to talk about andy byers. "skeer me!" exclaimed rufe, doughtily. "it takes a heap ter skeer me!" he got up presently, and going into the shed began to examine the tools of the trade which were lying there. he had the two-handled knife, with which he was about to try his skill on a hide that was stretched over the beam of the wooden horse, when birt glanced up and came hastily to the rescue. rufe was disposed to further investigate the appliances of the tanyard left defenseless at his mercy, but at last birt prevailed on him to go home and play with tennessee, and was glad enough to see his tow-head, with his old hat perched precariously on it, bobbing up and down among the low bushes, as he wended his way along the path through the woods. the hides had all been replaced between layers of fresh tan before the men left, and birt had only to fill up the space above with a thicker layer, ten or fifteen inches deep, and put the boards securely across the top of the pit, with heavy stones upon them to weight them down. but this kept him busy all the rest of the afternoon. rufe was pretty busy too. when he came in sight of home tennessee was the first object visible in the open passage. the sunshine slanted through it under the dusky roof, and the shadows of the chestnut-oak, hard by, dappled the floor. lying there was an old mexican saddle, for which there was no use since the horse had died. tennessee was mounted upon it, the reins in her hands, the headstall and bit poised on the peaked pommel. she jounced back and forth, and the skirts of the saddle flapped and the stirrups clanked on the floor, and the absorbed eyes of the little mountaineer were fixed on space. away and away she cantered on some splendid imaginary palfrey, through scenes where conjecture fails to follow her: a land, doubtless, where all the winds blow fair, and sparkling waters run, and jeopardy delights, and fancy's license prevails--all very different, you may be sure, from the facts, an old saddle on a puncheon floor, and a little black-eyed mountaineer. how far tennessee journeyed, and how long she was gone, it is impossible to say. she halted suddenly when her attention was attracted to a phenomenon within one of the rooms. the door was ajar and the solitary rufe was visible in the dusky vista. he stood before a large wooden chest. he had lifted the lid, and kept it up by resting it upon his head, bent forward for the purpose, while he rummaged the contents with vandal hands. tennessee stared at him, with indignant surprise gathering in her widening eyes. now that chest contained, besides a meagre store of quilts and comforts, her own and her mother's clothes, the fewer garments of the boys of the family being alternately suspended on the clothes- line and their own frames. she resented the sacrilege of rufe's invasion of that chest. she turned on the saddle and looked around with an air of appeal. her mother, however, was down the hill beside the spring, busy boiling soap, and quite out of hearing. tennessee gazed vaguely for a moment at the great kettle with the red and yellow flames curling around it, and her mother's figure hovering over it. then she looked back at rufe. he continued industriously churning up the contents of the chest, the lid still poised upon that head that served so many other useful purposes--for the gymnastic exhibition involved in standing on it; for his extraordinary mental processes; for a lodgment for his old wool hat, and a field for his crop of flaxen hair. all the instinct of the proprietor was roused within tennessee. she found her voice, a hoarse, infantile wheeze. "tum out'n chist!" she exclaimed, gutturally. "tum out'n chist!" rufe turned his tow-head slowly, that he might not disturb the poise of the lid of the chest resting upon it. he fixed a solemn stare on tennessee, and drawing one hand from the depths of the chest, he silently shook his fist. and then he resumed his researches. tennessee, alarmed by this impressive demonstration, dismounted hastily from the saddle as soon as his threatening gaze was withdrawn. she tangled her feet in the stirrups and her hands in the reins, and lost more time in scrambling off the floor of the passage and down upon the ground; but at last she was fairly on her way to the spring to convey an account to her mother of the outlaw in the chest. in fact, she was not far from the scene of the soap- boiling when she heard her name shouted in stentorian tones, and pausing to look back, she saw rufe gleefully capering about in the passage, the headstall on his own head, the bit hanging on his breast, and the reins dangling at his heels. now this beguilement the little girl could never withstand, and indeed few people ever had the opportunity to drive so frisky and high-spirited a horse as rufe was when he consented to assume the bit and bridle. he was rarely so accommodating, as he preferred the role of driver, with what he called "a pop-lashee!" at command. she forgot her tell-tale mission. she turned with a gurgle of delight and began to toddle up the hill again. and presently mrs. dicey, glancing toward the house, saw them playing together in great amity, and rejoiced that they gave her so little trouble. they were still at it when birt came home, but then tennessee was tired of driving, and he let her go with him to the wood-pile and sit on a log while he swung the axe. no one took special notice of rufe's movements in the interval before supper. he disappeared for a time, but when the circle gathered around the table he was in his place and by no means a non-combatant in the general onslaught on the corn-dodgers. afterward he came out in the passage and sat quietly among the others. the freshened air was fragrant, and how the crickets were chirring in the grass! on every spear the dew was a-glimmer, for a lustrous moon shone from the sky. somehow, despite the long roads of light that this splendid pioneer blazed out in the wilderness, it seemed only to reveal the loneliness of the forests, and to give new meaning to the solemnity of the shadows. the heart was astir with some responsive thrill that jarred vaguely, and was pain. yet the night had its melancholy fascination, and they were all awake later than usual. when at last the doors were barred, and the house grew still, and even the vigilant towse had ceased to bay and had lodged himself under the floor of the passage, the moon still shone in isolated effulgence, for the faint stars faded before it. the knowledge that in all the vast stretch of mountain fastnesses he was the only human creature that beheld it, as it majestically crossed the meridian, gave andy byers a forlorn feeling, while tramping along homeward. he had made the journey afoot, some eight miles down the valley, and was later far in returning than others who had heeded the summons of the sick woman. for she still lay in the same critical condition, and his mind was full of dismal forebodings as he toiled along the road on the mountain's brow. the dark woods were veined with shimmering silver. the mists, hovering here and there, showed now a blue and now an amber gleam as the moon's rays conjured them. on one side of the road an oak tree had been uptorn in a wind-storm; the roots, carrying a great mass of earth with them, were thrust high in the air, while the bole and leafless branches lay prone along the ground. this served as a break in the density of the forest, and the white moonshine possessed the vacant space. as he glanced in that direction his heart gave a great bound, then seemed suddenly to stand still. there, close to the verge of the road, as if she had stepped aside to let him pass, was the figure of an old woman--a small-sized woman, tremulous and bent. it looked like old mrs. price! as he paused amazed, with starting eyes and failing limbs, the wind fluttered her shawl and her ample sunbonnet. this shielded her face and he could not see her features. her head seemed to turn toward him. the next instant it nodded at him familiarly. to the superstitions mountaineer this suggested that the old woman had died since he had left her house, and here was her ghost already vagrant in the woods! the foolish fellow did not wait to put this fancy to the test. with a piercing cry he sprang past, and fled like a frightened deer through the wilderness homeward. in his own house he hardly felt more secure. he could not rest--he could not sleep. he stirred the embers with a trembling hand, and sat shivering over them. his wife, willing enough to believe in "harnts"* as appearing to other people, was disposed to repudiate them when they presumed to offer their dubious association to members of her own family circle. * ghosts. "dell-law!" she exclaimed scornfully. "i say harnt! old mrs. price, though spry ter the las', war so proud o' her age an' her ailments that she wouldn't hev nobody see her walk a step, or stand on her feet, fur nuthin'. her darter-in-law tole me ez the only way ter find out how nimble she really be war ter box one o' her gran'chill'n, an' then she'd bounce out'n her cheer, an' jounce round the room after thar daddy or mammy, whichever hed boxed the chill'n. that fursaken couple always hed ter drag thar chill'n out in the woods, out'n earshot of the house, ter whip 'em, an' then threat 'em ef they dare let thar granny know they hed been struck. but elsewise she hed ter be lifted from her bed ter her cheer by the h'a'th. she wouldn't hev her sperit seen a-walkin' way up hyar a- top o' the mounting, like enny healthy harnt, fur nuthin' in this worl'. whatever 'twar, 'twarn't her. an' i reckon of the truth war knowed, 'twarn't nuthin' at all--forg, mebbe." this stalwart reasoning served to steady his nerves a little. and when the moon went down and the day was slowly breaking, he took his way, with a vacillating intention and many a chilling doubt, along the winding road to the scene of his fright. it was not yet time by a good hour or more to go to work, and nothing was stirring. a wan light was on the landscape when he came in sight of the great tree prone upon the ground. and there, close to the edge of the road, as if she had stepped aside to let him pass, was the figure of a little, bent old woman--nay, in the brightening dawn, a bush--a blackberry bush, clad in a blue-checked apron, a red plaid shawl, and with a neat sunbonnet nodding on its topmost spray. his first emotion was intense relief. then he stood staring at the bush in rising indignation. this sandy by-way of a road led only to his own house, and this image of a small and bent old woman had doubtless been devised, to terrify him, by some one who knew of his mission, and that he could not return except by this route. only for a moment did he feel uncertain as to the ghost-maker's identity. there was something singularly familiar to him in the plaid of the shawl--even in the appearance of the bonnet, although it was now limp and damp. he saw it at "meet'n" whenever the circuit rider preached, and he presently recognized it. this was mrs. dicey's bonnet! his face hardened. he set his teeth together. an angry flush flared to the roots of his hair. not that he suspected the widow of having set this trap to frighten him. he was not learned, nor versed in feminine idiosyncrasies, but it does not require much wisdom to know that on no account whatever does a woman's best bonnet stay out all night in the dew, intentionally. the presence of her bonnet proved the widow's alibi. like a flash he remembered birt's anger the previous day. "told me he'd make me divide work mo' ekal, an' ez good ez said he'd knock me down ef he could. an' i told him i'd hold the grudge agin him jes' the same--an' i will!" he felt sure that it was birt who had thus taken revenge, because he was kept at work while his fellow-laborer was free to go. byers thought the boy would presently come to take the garments home, and conceal his share in the matter, before any one else would be likely to stir abroad. "an' i'll hide close by with a good big hickory stick, an' i'll gin him a larrupin' ez he won't furgit in a month o' sundays," he resolved, angrily. he opened his clasp-knife, and walked slowly into the woods, looking about for a choice hickory sprout. he did not at once find one of a size that he considered appropriate to the magnitude of birt's wickedness, and he went further perhaps than he realized, and stayed longer. he had a smile of stern satisfaction on his face when he was lopping off the leaves and twigs of a specimen admirably adapted for vengeance. he was stealthy in returning, keeping behind the trees, and slipping softly from bole to bole. at last, as the winding road was once more in view, he crouched down behind the roots of the great fallen oak. "i don't want him ter git a glimge of me, an' skeer him off afore i kin lay a-holt on him," he said. he intended to keep the neighboring bush under close watch, and through the interlacing roots he peered out furtively at it. his eyes distended and he hastily rose from his hiding-place. the blackberry bush was swaying in the wind, clothed only in its own scant and rusty leaves. a wren perched on a spray, chirped cheerful matins. chapter vi. his scheme was thwarted. the boy had come and gone in his absence, all unaware of his proximity and the impending punishment so narrowly escaped. but when andy byers reached the tanyard and went to work, he said nothing to birt. he did not even allude to the counterfeit apparition in the woods, although mrs. price's probable recovery was more than once under discussion among the men who came and went,-- indeed, she lived many years thereafter, to defend her lucky grandchildren against every device of discipline. byers had given heed to more crafty counsels. on the whole he was now glad that he had not had the opportunity to make birt and the hickory sprout acquainted with each other. this would be an acknowledgment that he had been terrified by the manufactured ghost, and he preferred foregoing open revenge to encountering the jocose tanner's ridicule, and the gibes that would circulate at his expense throughout the country-side. but he cherished the grievance, and he resolved that birt should rue it. he had expected that birt would boast of having frightened him. he intended to admit that he had been a trifle startled, and in treating the matter thus lightly he hoped it would seem that the apparition was a failure. however, day by day passed and nothing was said. the ghost vanished as mysteriously as it had come. only mrs. dicey, taking her bonnet and apron and shawl from the chest, was amazed at the extraordinary manner in which they were folded and at their limp condition, and when she found a bunch of cockle-burs in the worsted fringes of the shawl she declared that witches must have had it, for she had not worn it since early in april when there were no cockle-burs. she forthwith nailed a horseshoe on the door to keep the witches out, and she never liked the shawl so well after she had projected a mental picture of a lady wearing it, riding on a broomstick, and sporting also a long peaked nose. birt hardly noticed the crusty and ungracious conduct of andy byers toward him. he worked on doggedly, scheming all the time to get off from the tanyard, and wondering again and again why nate had gone, and where, and when he would return. one day--a gray day it was and threatening rain--as he came suddenly out of the shed, he saw a boy at the bars. it was nate griggs! no; only for a moment he thought this was nate. but this fellow's eyes were not so close together; his hair was less sandy; there were no facial indications of extreme slyness. it was only nathan's humble likeness, his younger brother, timothy. he had nate's coat thrown over his arm, and he shouldered his brother's rifle. tim came slouching slowly into the tanyard, a good-natured grin on his face. he paused only to knock rufe's hat over his eyes, as the small boy stood in front of the low-spirited mule, both hands busy with the animal's mouth, striving to open his jaws to judge by his teeth how old he might be. "the critter'll bite ye, rufe!" birt exclaimed, for as rufe stooped to pick up his hat the mule showed some curiosity in his turn, and was snuffling at rufe's hay-colored hair. rufe readjusted his head-gear, and ceasing his impolite researches into the mule's age, came up to the other two boys. tim had paused by the shed, and leaning upon the rifle, began to talk. "i war a-passin' by, an' i thought i'd drap in on ye." "hev you-uns hearn from nate since he hev been gone away?" demanded birt anxiously. "he hev come home," responded tim. "when did he git home?" birt asked with increasing suspicion. "las' week," said tim carelessly. another problem! why had nate not communicated with his partner about their proposed work? it seemed a special avoidance. "i onderstood ez how he aimed ter bide away longer," birt remarked. "he did count on stayin' longer," said tim, "but he rid night an' day ter git hyar sooner. it 'pears like ter me he war in sech a hurry so ez ter start me ter work, and nuthin' else in this worl'. i owe nate a debt, ye see, an' i hev ter work it out. i hev been so onlucky ez i couldn't make out ter pay him nohow in the worl'. ye see, i traded with nate fur a shoat, an' the spiteful beastis sneaked out'n my pen, an' went rootin' round the aidge o' the clearin', an' war toted off bodaciously by a bar ez war a-prowlin' round thar. an' i got no good o' that thar shoat, 'kase the bar hed him, but i hed to pay fur him all the same. an' dad gin his cornsent ter nate ter let me work a month an' better fur him, ter pay out'n debt fur the shoat." "what work be you-uns goin' ter do?" birt had a strong impression, amounting to a conviction, that there was something behind all this, which he was slowly approaching. "why," said tim, in surprise, "hain't ye hearn bout'n nate's new land what he hev jes' got 'entered' ez he calls it? he hev got a grant fur it from the land-office down yander in sparty, whar he hev been." "new land--'entered!'" faltered birt. tim nodded. "nate fund a trac' o' land a-layin' ter suit his mind what b'longed ter nobody but the state--vacant land, ye see--an' so he went ter the 'entry-taker,' they calls him, an' gits it 'entered,' an' the surveyor kem an' medjured it, an' then nate got a grant fur it, an' now it air his'n. the gov'nor o' the state hev sot his name ter that thar grant--the gov'nor o' tennessee!" reiterated tim pridefully. "an' the great seal o' the state!" "whar be the land?" gasped birt, possessed by a dreadful fear. his face was white, its muscles rigid. its altered expression could not for an instant have escaped the notice of timothy's brother nathan. "why, it lays bout'n haffen mile off--all down the ravine nigh that thar salt-lick; but look-a-hyar, birt--what ails ye?" the stunned despair in the white face had at last arrested his careless attention. "don't ye be mindin' of me--i feel sorter porely an' sick all of a suddint; tell on 'bout the land an' sech," said birt. he sat down on the end of the wood-pile, and tim, still leaning on the rifle, recommenced. he was generally much cowed and kept down by nate, and was unaccustomed to respect and consideration. therefore he felt a certain gratification in having so attentive a listener. "waal, i never hearn o' this fashion o' enterin' land like nate done in all my life afore; though dad say that's the law in tennessee, ter git a title ter vacant land ez jes' b'longs ter the state. mebbe them air the ways ez nate l'arned whilst he war a-hangin' round the settlemint so constant, an' forever talkin' ter the men thar." birt's precocity had never let him feel at a disadvantage with nate, although his friend was five years older. now he began to appreciate that nate was indeed a man grown, and had become sophisticated in the ways of his primitive world by his association with the other men at the settlement. there was a pause. but the luxury of being allowed to talk without contradiction or rebuke presently induced tim to proceed. "he war hyar mighty nigh all day long," he said reflectively. "he eat his dinner along of we-uns." "who? the gov'nor o' the state?" exclaimed birt, astounded. "naw, 'twarn't him," tim admitted somewhat reluctantly, since birt seemed disposed to credit "we-uns" with a gubernatorial guest. "it's the surveyor i'm talkin' 'bout. nate hed ter pay him three dollars an' better fur medjurin' the land. he tole nate ez his land war ez steep an' rocky a spot ez thar war in tennessee from e-end ter e-end. he axed nate what ailed him ter hanker ter pay taxes on sech a pack o' bowlders an' bresh. he 'lowed the land warn't wuth a cent an acre." "what did nate say?" asked birt, who hung with feverish interest on every thoughtless word. "waal, nate 'lows ez he hev fund a cur'ous metal on his land; he say it air gold!" tim opened his eyes very wide, and smacked his lips, as if the word tasted good. "he 'lowed ez he needn't hev been in sech a hurry ter enter his land, 'kase the entry-taker told it ter him ez it air the law in tennessee ez ennybody ez finds a mine or val'able min'ral on vacant land hev got six months extry ter enter the land afore ennybody else kin, an' ef ennybody else wants ter enter it, they hev ter gin the finder o' the mine thirty days' notice." tim winked, an impressive demonstration but for the insufficiency of eyelashes: - "the surveyor he misdoubted, an' 'lowed ez gold hed never been fund in these parts. he said they fund gold in them mountings furder east 'bout twenty odd year ago--in , i believe he said. he 'lowed them mountings hain't got no coal like our'n hev, an' the cumberland mountings hain't got no gold. an' then in a minit he tuk ter misdoubtin' on the t'other side o' his mouth. he 'lowed ez nate's min'ral mought be gold, an' then ag'in it moughtn't." the essential difference between these two extremes has afforded scope for vacillation to more consistent men than the surveyor. "thar's the grant right now, in the pocket o' nate's coat," said tim, shifting the garment on his arm to show a stiff, white folded paper sticking out of the breast pocket. "i reckon when he tole me ter tote his gun an' coat home, he furgot the grant war in his pocket, 'kase he fairly dotes on it, an' won't trest it out'n his sight." nate was in the habit of exacting similar services from his acquiescent younger brother, and tim had his hands full, as he tried to hold the gun, and turn the coat on his arm. he finally hung the garment on a peg in the shed, and shouldered the weapon. suddenly he whirled around toward rufe, who was still standing by. "what in the nation air inside o' that thar boy?" he exclaimed. "a chicken, ain't it?" for a musical treble chirping was heard proceeding apparently from rufe's pocket. this chicken differed from others that rufe had put away, in being alive and hearty. the small boy entered into the conversation with great spirit, to tell that a certain hen which he owned had yesterday come off her nest with fourteen of the spryest deedies that ever stepped. one in especial had so won upon rufe by its beauty and grace of deportment that he was carrying it about with him, feeding it at close intervals, and housing it in the security of his pocket. the deedie hardly made a moan. there was no use in remonstrating with rufe,--everything that came within his eccentric orbit seemed to realize that,--and the deedie was contentedly nestling down in his pocket, apparently resigned to lead the life of a portemonnaie. rufe narrated with pardonable pride the fact that, some time before, his great-uncle, rufus dicey, had sent to him from the "valley kentry" a present of a pair of game chickens, and that this deedie was from the first egg hatched in the game hen's brood. but rufe was not selfish. he offered to give tim one of the chicks. now poultry was tim's weakness. he accepted with more haste than was seemly, and at once asked for the deedie in the small boy's pocket. rufe, however, refused to part from the chick of his adoption, and presently tim, with the gun on his shoulder, left the tanyard in company with rufe, to look over the brood of game chicks, and make a selection from among them. birt hardly noticed what they did or said. every faculty was absorbed in considering the wily game which his false friend had played so successfully. it was all plain enough now. the fruit of his discovery would be plucked by other hands. there was to be no division of the profits. nate griggs had coveted the whole. his craft had secured it for himself alone. he had the legal title to the land, the mine--all! there seemed absolutely no vulnerable point in his scheme. with suddenly sharpened perceptions, birt realized that if he should now claim the discovery and the consequent right of thirty days' notice of nate's intention, by virtue of the priority of entering land accorded by the statute to the finder of a mine or valuable mineral, it would be considered a groundless boast, actuated by envy and jealousy. he had told no one but nate of his discovery--and would not nate now deny it! however, one thing in the future was certain,--nathan griggs should not escape altogether scathless. for a long time birt sat motionless, revolving vengeful purposes in his mind. every moment he grew more bitter, as he reflected upon his wrecked scheme, his wonderful fatuity, and the double dealing of his chosen coadjutor. but he would get even with nate griggs yet; he promised himself that,--he would get even! at last the falling darkness warned him home. when he rose his limbs trembled, his head was in a whirl, and the familiar scene swayed, strange and distorted, before him. he steadied himself after a moment, finished the odd jobs he had left undone, and presently was trudging homeward. a heavy black cloud overhung the woods; an expectant stillness brooded upon the sultry world; an angry storm was in the air. the first vivid flash and simultaneous peal burst from the sky as he reached the passage between the two rooms. "ye air powerful perlite ter come a-steppin' home jes' at supper- time," said his mother advancing to meet him. "ye lef' no wood hyar, an' ye said ye would borry the mule, an' come home early a- purpose to haul some. an' me hyar with nuthin' to cook supper with but sech chips an' blocks an' bresh ez i could pick up off'n the groun'." birt's troubles had crowded out the recollection of this domestic duty. "i clean furgot," he admitted, penitently. then he asked suddenly, "an' whar war rufe, an' pete, an' joe, ez ye hed ter go ter pickin' up of chips an' sech off'n the groun'?" he turned toward the group of small boys. "air you-uns all disabled somehows, ez ye can't pick up chips an' bresh an' sech?" he said. "an' ef ye air, whyn't ye go ter the tanyard arter me?" "they war all off in the woods, a-lookin' arter rufe's trap ez ye sot fur squir'ls," mrs. dicey explained. "it hed one in it, an' i cooked it fur supper." birt said that he could go out early with his axe and cut enough wood for breakfast tomorrow, and then he fell silent. once or twice his preoccupied demeanor called forth comment. "whyn't ye eat some o' the squir'l, birt?" his mother asked at the supper table. "pears-like ter me ez it air cooked toler'ble tasty." birt could not eat. he soon rose from the table and resumed his chair by the window, and for half an hour no word passed between them. the thunder seemed to roll on the very roof of the cabin, and it trembled beneath the heavy fall of the rain. at short intervals a terrible blue light quivered through crevices in the "daubin'" between the logs of the wall, and about the rude shutter which closed the glassless window. now and then a crash from the forest told of a riven tree. but the storm had no terrors for the inmates of this humble dwelling. pete and joe had already gone to bed; tennessee had fallen asleep while playing on the floor, and rufe dozed peacefully in his chair. even mrs. dicey nodded as she knitted, the needles sometimes dropping from her nerveless hand. birt silently watched the group for a time in the red light of the smouldering fire and the blue flashes from without. at length he softly rose and crept noiselessly to the door; the fastening was the primitive latch with a string attached; it opened without a sound in his cautious handling, and he found himself in the pitchy darkness outside, the wild mountain wind whirling about him, and the rain descending in steady torrents. he had stumbled only a few steps from the house when he thought he indistinctly heard the door open again. he dreaded his mother's questions, but he stopped and looked back. he saw nothing. there was no sound save the roar of the wind, the dash of the rain, and the commotion among the branches of the trees. he went on once more, absorbed in his dreary reflections and the fierce anger that burned in his heart. "i'll git even with nate griggs," he said, over and again. "i'll git even with him yit." chapter vii. when birt reached the fence, he discovered that the bars were down. rufe had forgotten to replace them that afternoon when he drove in the cow to be milked. despite his absorption, birt paused to put them up, remembering the vagrant mountain cattle that might stray in upon the corn. he found the familiar little job difficult enough, for it seemed to him that there was never before so black a night. even looking upward, he could not see the great wind-tossed boughs of the chestnut-oak above his head. he only knew they were near, because acorns dropped upon the rail in his hands, and rebounded resonantly. but an owl, blown helplessly down the gale, was not much better off, for all its vaunted nocturnal vision. as it drifted by, on the currents of the wind, its noiseless, out- stretched wings, vainly flapping, struck birt suddenly in the face, and frightened by the collision, it gave an odd, peevish squeak. birt, too, was startled for a moment. then he exclaimed irritably, "oh, g'way owel"--realizing what had struck him. the next moment he paused abruptly. he thought he heard, close at hand, amongst the glooms, a faint chuckle. something--was it?-- somebody laughing in the darkness? he stood intently listening. but now he heard only the down-pour of the rain, the sonorous gusts of the wind, the multitudinous voices of the muttering leaves. he said to himself that it was fancy. "all this trouble ez i hev hed along o' nate griggs hev mighty nigh addled my brains." the name recalled his resolve. "i'll git even with him, though. i'll git even with him yit," he reiterated as he plodded on heavily down the path, his mind once more busy with all the details of his discovery, his misplaced confidence, and the wreck of his hopes. it seemed so hard that he should never before have heard of "entering land," and of that law of the state according priority to the finder of mineral. the mine was his, but he had hid the discovery from all but nate, who claimed it himself, and had secured the legal title. "but i'll git even with him," he said resolutely between his set teeth. he had thought it a lucky chance to remember, in his reverie before the fire-lit hearth, that peg in the shed at the tanyard on which tim had hung his brother's coat. somehow the episode of the afternoon had left so vivid an impression on birt's mind that hours afterward he seemed to see the dull, clouded sky, the sombre, encircling woods, the brown stretch of spent tan, the little gray shed, and within it, hanging upon a peg, the butternut jeans coat, a stiff white paper protruding from its pocket. that grant, he thought, had taken from him his rights. he would destroy it--he would tear it into bits, and cast it to the turbulent mountain winds. it was not his, to be sure. but was it justly nate's?--he had no right to enter the land down the ravine. and so birt argued with his conscience. now wherever conscience calls a halt, it is no place for reason to debate the question. the way ahead is no thoroughfare. birt did not recognize the tearing of the paper as stealing, but he knew that all this was morally wrong, although he would not admit it. he would not forego his revenge--it was too dear; he was too deeply injured. in the anger that possessed his every faculty, he did not appreciate its futility. there were other facts which he did not know. he was ignorant that the deed which he contemplated was a crime in the estimation of the law, a penitentiary offense. and toward this terrible pitfall he trudged in the darkness, saying over and again to himself, "i'll git even with nate griggs; he'll hev no grant, no land, no gold--no more 'n me. i'll git even with him." his progress seemed incredibly slow as he groped along the path. but the rain soon ceased; the wind began to scatter the clouds; through a rift he saw a great, glittering planet blazing high above their dark turmoils. how the drops pattered down as the wind tossed the laurel!--once they sounded like footfalls close behind him. he turned and looked back into the obscurities of the forest. nothing--a frog had begun to croak far away, and the vibrations of the katydid were strident on the damp air. and here was the tanyard, a denser area of gloom marking where the house and shed stood in the darkness. he did not hesitate. he stepped over the bars, which lay as usual on the ground, and walked across the yard to the shed. the eaves were dripping with moisture. but the coat, still hanging within on the peg, was dry. he had a thrill of repulsion when he touched it. his hand fell. "but look how nate hev treated me," he remonstrated with his conscience. the next moment he had drawn the grant half-way out of the pocket, and as he moved he almost stepped upon something close behind him. all at once he knew what it was, even before a flash of the distant lightning revealed a little tow-head down in the darkness, and a pair of black eyes raised to his in perfect confidence. it was the little sister who had followed him to-night, as she always did when she could. "stand back thar, tennessee!" he faltered. he was trembling from head to foot. and yet tennessee was far too young to tell that she had seen the grant in his hands, to understand, even to question. but had he been seized by the whole griggs tribe, he could not have been so panic-stricken as he was by the sight of that unknowing little head, the touch of the chubby little hand on his knee. he thrust the grant back into the pocket of nate's coat. his resolve was routed by the presence of love and innocence. not here- -not now could he be vindictive, malicious. with some urgent, inborn impulse strongly constraining him, he caught the little sister in his arms, and fled headlong through the darkness, homeward. as he went he was amazed that he should have contemplated this revenge. "why, i can't afford ter be a scoundrel an' sech, jes' 'kase nate griggs air a tricky feller an' hev fooled me. ef tennessee hedn't stepped up so powerful peart i moughtn't hev come ter my senses in time. i mought hev tore up nate's grant by now. but arter this i ain't never goin' ter set out ter act like a scamp jes' 'kase somebody else does." his conscience had prevailed, his better self returned. and when he reached home, and opening the door saw his mother still nodding over her knitting, and rufe asleep in his chair, and the fire smouldering on the hearth, all as he had left it, he might have thought that he had dreamed the temptation and his rescue, but for his dripping garments and tennessee in his arms all soaking with the rain. the noise of his entrance roused his mother, who stared in drowsy astonishment at the bedraggled apparition on the threshold. "tennie follered me ter the tanyard 'fore i fund her out," birt explained. "it 'pears ter hev rained on her, considerable," he added deprecatingly. tennie was looking eagerly over her shoulder to note the effect of this statement. her streaming hair flirted drops of water on the floor; her cheeks were ruddy; her black eyes brightened with apprehension. "waal, sir! that thar child beats all. never mind, tennie, ye'll meet up with a wild varmint some day when ye air follerin' birt off from the house, an' i ain't surprised none ef it eats ye! but shucks!" mrs. dicey continued impersonally, "i mought ez well save my breath; tennie ain't feared o' nuthin', ef birt air by." the word "varmint" seemed to recall something to tennessee. she began to chatter unintelligibly about an "owel," and to chuckle so, that birt had sudden light upon that mysterious laugh which he had heard behind him at the bars. in his pride in tennessee he related how the owl had startled him, and the little girl, invisible in the darkness, had laughed. "tennessee ain't pretty, i know, but she air powerful peart," he said, affectionately, as he placed her upon her feet on the floor. birt was out early with his axe the next day. the air was delightfully pure after the rain-storm; the sky, gradually becoming visible, wore the ideal azure; the freshened foliage seemed tinted anew. and the morning was pierced by the gilded, glittering javelins of the sunrise, flung from over the misty eastern mountains. as the day dawned all sylvan fascinations were alert in the woods. the fragrant winds were garrulous with wild legends of piney gorges; of tumultuous cascades fringed by thyme and mint and ferns. every humble weed lent odorous suggestions. the airy things all took to wing. and the spider was a-weaving. birt had felled a slender young ash, and was cutting it into lengths for the fireplace, when he noticed a squirrel, sleek woodland dandy, frisking about a rotten log at some little distance, by the roadside. suddenly the squirrel paused, then nimbly sped away. there was the sound of approaching hoofs along the road, and presently from around the curve a woman appeared mounted on a sorrel mare, and with a long-legged colt ambling in the rear. it was mrs. griggs, setting out on a journey of some ten miles to visit her married daughter who lived on a neighboring spur. she had taken an early start to "git rid o' the heat o' the noon," as she explained to mrs. dicey, who had run out to the rail fence when she reined up beside it. birt dropped his axe and joined them, expecting to hear more about nate's grant and the gold mine. rufe and tennessee added their company without any definite intention. pete and joe were hurrying out of the house toward the group. all the dogs congregated, some of them climbing over the fence to investigate the colt, which was skittish under the ordeal. even the turkey-gobbler, strutting on the outskirts of the assemblage, had an attentive aspect, as if he, too, relished the gossip. mrs. griggs's pink calico sunbonnet surmounted the cap with the explanatory ruffle. she carried a fan of turkey feathers, and with appropriate gesticulation, it aided in expounding to mrs. dicey the astonishing news that nate had found a gold mine on vacant land, and had entered the tract. they intended to send specimens to the state assayer, and they were all getting ready to begin work at once. another surprise to birt! the ignorant mountain boy had never heard of the assayer. but indeed nate had only learned of the existence of the office and its uses during that memorable trip to sparta. the prideful mrs. griggs from her elevation, literal and metaphorical, supplemented all this by the creditable statements that nate had turned twenty-one, had cast his vote, and had a right to a choice at the cross-roads. then she chirruped to the rawboned sorrel mare, and jogged off down the road, followed by the frisky colt, whose long, slender legs when in motion seemed so fragile that it was startling to witness the temerity with which he kicked up his frolicsome heels. the dogs, with that odd canine affectation of having just perceived the intruders, pursued them with sudden asperity, barking and snapping, and at last came trotting nimbly home, wagging their tails and with a dutiful mien. mrs. dicey went back into the house, and sat for a time in envious meditation, fairly silenced, and with her apron flung over her face. then she fell to lamenting that she had been working all her life for nothing, and it would take so little to make the family comfortable, and that her children seemed "disabled somehow in thar heads, an' though always rootin' around in the woods, hed never fund no gold mine nor nuthin' else out o' the common." birt kept silent, but the gloom and trouble in his face suddenly touched her heart. "thar now, birt!" she exclaimed, with a world of consolation in her tones, "i don't mean ter say that, nuther. ain't i a-thinkin' day an' night o' how smart ye be--stiddy an' sensible an' hard-workin' jes' like a man--an' what a good son ye hev been to me! an' the t'other chill'n air good too, an' holps me powerful, though rufe air hendered some, by the comical natur o' the critter." she broke out with a cheerful laugh, in which birt could not join. "an' i mus' be gittin' breakfus fur the chill'n," she said, kneeling down on the hearth, and uncovering the embers which had been kept all night under the ashes. "don't ye fret, sonny. i ain't goin' ter grudge nate his gold mine. i reckon sech a good son ez ye be, an' a gold mine too, would be too much luck fur one woman. don't ye fret, sonny." birt's self-control gave way abruptly. he rose in great agitation, and started toward the door. then he paused, and broke forth with passionate incoherence, telling amidst sobs and tears the story of the woodland's munificence to him, and how he had flung the gift away. in recounting the hopes that had deluded him, the fears that had gnawed, and the despair in which they were at last merged, he did not notice, for a time, her look as she still knelt motionless before the embers on the hearth. he faltered, and grew silent; then stared dumbly at her. she seemed as one petrified. her face had blanched; its lines were as sharp and distinct as if graven in stone; only her eyes spoke, an eloquent anguish. her faculties were numbed for a moment. but presently there was a quiver in her chin, and her voice rang out. and yet did she understand? did she realize the loss of the mine? for it was not this that she lamented "birt dicey!" she cried in an appalled tone. "did ye hide it from yer mother--an' tell nate griggs?" birt hung his head. the folly of it! "what ailed ye, ter hide it from me?" she asked deprecatingly, holding out her worn, hard-working hands. "hev i ever done ye harm?" "nuthin' but good." "don't everybody know a boy's mother air bound ter take his part agin all the worl'?" "everybody but me," said the penitent birt. "what ailed ye, ter hide it from me? what did ye 'low i'd do?" "i 'lowed ye wouldn't want me ter go pardners with nate," he said drearily. "i reckon i wouldn't!" she admitted. "ye always said he war a snake in the grass." "he hev proved that air a true word." "i wisht i hedn't tole him!" cried birt vainly. "i wisht i hedn't." he watched her with moody eyes as she rose at last with a sigh and went mechanically about her preparations for breakfast. there was a division between them. he felt the gulf widening. "i jes' wanted it fur you-uns, ennyhow," he said, defending his motives. "i 'lowed ez i mought make enough out'n it ter buy a horse." "i hain't got time ter sorrow 'bout'n no gold mine," she said loftily. "i used ter believe ye set a heap o' store by yer mother, an' war willin' ter trust her--ye an' me hevin' been through mighty hard times together. but ye don't--i reckon ye never did. i hev los' mo' than enny gold mine." and this sorrow for a vanished faith resolved itself into tears with which she salted her humble bread. chapter viii. if she had had any relish for triumph, she might have found it in birt's astonishment to learn that she understood all the details of entering land, which had been such a mystery to him. "'twar the commonest thing in the worl', whenst i war young, ter hear 'bout'n folks enterin' land," she said. "but nowadays thar ain't no talk 'bout'n it sca'cely, 'kase the best an' most o' the land in the state hev all been tuk up an' entered--'ceptin' mebbe a trac', hyar an' thar, full o' rock, an' so steep 't ain't wuth payin' the taxes on." simple as she was, she could have given him valuable counsel when it was sorely needed. he hung about the house later than was his wont, bringing in the store of wood for her work during the day, and "packing" the water from the spring, with the impulse in his attention to these little duties to make what amends he might. when at last he started for the tanyard, he knew by the sun that he was long over-due. he walked briskly along the path through the sassafras and sumach bushes, on which the rain-drops still clung. he was presently brushing them off in showers, for he had begun to run. it occurred to him that this was no time to seem even a trifle remiss in his work at the tanyard. since he had lost all his hopes down the ravine, the continuance of jube perkins's favor and the dreary routine with the mule and the bark-mill were his best prospects. it would never do to offend the tanner now. "with sech a pack o' chill'n ter vittle ez we-uns hev got at our house," he muttered. as he came crashing through the underbrush into view of the tanyard, he noticed instantly that it did not wear its usual simple, industrial aspect. a group of excited men were standing in front of the shed, one of them gesticulating wildly. and running toward the bars came tim griggs, panting and white- faced, and exclaiming incoherently at the sight of birt. "oh, birt," he cried, "i war jes' startin' to yer house arter you- uns; they tole me to go an' fetch ye. fur massy's sake, gimme nate's grant. i'm fairly afeared o' him. he'll break every bone i own." he held out his hand. "gimme the grant!" "nate's grant!" exclaimed birt aghast. "i hain't got it! i hain't" - he paused abruptly. he could not say that he had not touched it. tim's wits were sharpened by the keen anxiety of the crisis. he noticed the hesitation. "ye hev hed it," he cried wildly. "ye know ye hev been foolin' with it. ye know 'twar you-uns!" he changed to sudden appeal. "don't put the blame off on me, birt," he pleaded. "i'm fairly afeared o' nate." "ain't the grant in the pocket o' his coat--whar ye left it hangin' on a peg in the shed?" asked birt, dismayed. "naw--naw!" exclaimed tim, despairingly. "he missed his coat this mornin', bein' the weather war cooler, an' then the grant, an' he sent me arter it. an' i fund the coat a-hangin' thar on the peg, whar i hed lef' it, bein' ez i furgot it when i went off with rufe ter look at his chickens, an' the pocket war empty an' the paper gone! nate hev kem ter sarch, too!" once more he held out his hand. "gimme the grant. nate 'lows 'twar you-uns ez tuk it, bein' ez i lef' it hyar." birt flushed angrily. "i'll say a word ter nate griggs!" he declared. and he pushed past the trembling tim, and took his way briskly into the tanyard. there was a vague murmur in the group as he approached, and nate griggs came out from its midst, nodding his head threateningly. his hat, thrust far back on his sandy hair, left in bold relief his long, thin face with its small eyes, which seemed now so close together that his glance had the effect of a squint. he scanned birt narrowly. this was the first time the two had met since birt's ill-starred confidence there by the bark-mill. "what ails ye, ter 'low ez it air me ez hev got yer grant, nate griggs?" birt asked, steadily meeting the accusation. the excitement had impaired for the moment nate griggs's cunning. "'kase," he blurted out, "ye hev been a-tryin' ter purtend ez ye fund the mine fust, an' hev been a-tellin' folks 'bout'n it." "prove it," said birt, in sudden elation. "who war it i tole, an' when?" the sly nathan caught his breath with a gasp. his craft had returned. admit that to him birt had divulged the discovery of the mine! confess, when! this would invalidate the entry! "ye tole tim," nate said shamelessly, "an' ez ter when--'twar yestiddy evenin' at the tanyard. didn't he, tim?" and he whirled around to his younger brother for confirmation of this audacious and deliberate falsehood. the abject tim--poor tool!--frightened and cowering, nodded to admit it. "gimme the grant, birt," he faltered, helplessly. "i oughtn't ter hev furgot it." "look-a-hyar, birt," said the tanner with a solemnity which the boy did not altogether understand, "gin nate the grant." "i hain't got it," replied birt, badgered and growing nervous. "tell him, then, ye never teched it." birt's impulse was to adopt the word. but he had seen enough of falsehood. he had done with concealment. "i did tech it," he said boldly, "but i hain't got it. i put it back in the pocket o' the coat." jube perkins laid a sudden hand upon his collar. "'tain't no use denyin' it, birt," he said with the sharp cadence of dismay. "gin the grant back ter nate, an' mebbe he won't go no furder 'bout'n it. stealin' a paper like that air a pen'tiary crime!" birt reeled under the word. he thought of his mother, the children. he had a bitter foretaste of the suspense, the fear, the humiliation. and he was helpless. for no one would believe him! his head was in a whirl. he could not stand. he sank down upon the wood-pile, vaguely hearing a word here and there of what was said in the crowd. "his mother air a widder-woman," remarked one of the group. "an' she air mighty poor." andy byers was laughing cynically. absorbed though he was, birt experienced a subacute wonder that any one could feel so bitterly toward him as to laugh at a moment like this. how had he made andy byers his enemy! nobody noticed it, for nate was swaggering about in the crowd, enjoying this conspicuous opportunity to display all the sophistications he had acquired in his recent trip to sparta. he was calling upon them to witness that he did not care for the loss of the grant--the paper was nothing to him!--for it was on record in the land office, and he could get a certified copy from the register in no time at all. but his rights were his rights!--and ten thousand diceys should not trample on them. birt had doubtless thought, being ignorant, that he could destroy the title by making away with the paper; and if there was law in the state, he should suffer for it. and after this elaborate rodomontade, nate strode out of the tanyard, with the obsequious tim following humbly. birt told his story again and again, to satisfy curious questioners during the days that ensued. and when he had finished they would look significantly at one another, and chuckle incredulously. the tanner seemed to earnestly wish to befriend him, and urged him to confess. "the truth's the only thing ez kin save ye, birt." "i'm tellin' the truth," poor birt would declare. then jube perkins argued the question: "how kin ye expec' ennybody ter b'lieve ye when ye say tennessee purvented ye from takin' the grant--ennything the size o' leetle tennie, thar." and he pointed at the little sister, who was perched upon the wood- pile munching an indian peach. somehow birt did not accurately define the moral force which she had wielded, for he was untaught, and clumsy of speech, and could not translate his feelings. and jube perkins was hardly fitted to understand that subtle coercion of affection. when he found that birt would only reiterate that tennie "kem along unbeknown an' purvented" him, jube perkins gave up the effort at last, convinced of his guilt. and andy byers said that he was not surprised, for he had known for some little time that birt was a "most mischievious scamp." only his mother believed in him, requiting his lack of confidence in her with a fervor of faith in him that, while it consoled, nevertheless cut him to the heart. it has been many years since then, for all this happened along in the fifties, but birt has never forgotten how staunchly she upheld him in every thought when all the circumstances belied him. now that misfortune had touched him, every trace of her caustic moods had disappeared; she was all gentleness and tenderness toward him. and day by day as he went to his work, meeting everywhere a short word, or a slighting look, he felt that he could not have borne up, save for the knowledge of that loyal heart at home. he was momently in terror of arrest, and he often pondered on nate's uncharacteristic forbearance. perhaps nate was afraid that birt's story, told from the beginning in court, might constrain belief and affect the validity of the entry. birt vainly speculated, too, upon the strange disappearance of the grant. there it was in the pocket of the coat late that night, and the next morning early--gone! sometimes he suspected that nate had only made a pretense of losing the grant, in order to accuse him and prejudice public opinion against him, so that he might not be believed should he claim the discovery of the mineral down the ravine. his mother sought to keep him from dwelling upon his troubles. "we won't cross the bredge till we git thar," she said. "mebbe thar ain't none ahead." but her fears for his sake tortured her silent hours when he was away. when he came back from his work, there always awaited him a bright fire, a good supper, and cheerful words as well, although these were the most difficult to prepare. the dogs bounded about him, tennessee clung to his hand, the boys were hilarious and loud. by reason of their mother's silence on the subject, that birt might be better able to go, and work, and hold up his head among the men who suspected him, the children for a time knew nothing of what had happened. now rufe, although his faults were many and conspicuous, was not lacking in natural affection. had he understood that a cloud overhung birt, he could not have been so merry, so facetious, so queerly and quaintly bad as he was on his visits to the tanyard, which were peculiarly frequent just now. if birt had had the heart for it, he might have enjoyed some of rufe's pranks at the expense of andy byers. the man had once found a sort of entertainment in making fun of rufe, and this had encouraged the small boy to retaliate as best he could. at this time, however, byers suddenly became the gravest of men. he took little notice of the wiles of his elfish antagonist, and whenever he fell into a snare devised by rufe, he was irritable for a moment, and had forgotten it the next. he had never a word or glance for birt, who marveled at his conduct. he seemed perpetually brooding upon some perplexity. occasionally in the midst of his work he would stand motionless for five minutes, the two-handled knife poised in his grasp, his eyes fixed upon the ground, his shaggy brows heavily knitted, his expression doubting, anxious. the tanner commented upon this inactivity, one day. "hev ye tuk root thar, andy?" he asked. byers roused himself with a start. "naw," he replied reflectively, "but i hev been troubled in my mind some, lately, an' i gits ter studyin' powerful wunst in a while." as he bent to his work, scraping the two-handled knife up and down the hide stretched over the wooden horse, he added, "i hev got so ez i can't relish my vittles sca'cely, bein' so tormented in my mind, an' my sleep air plumb broke up; 'pears like ter me ez i hev got a reg'lar gift fur the nightmare." "been skeered by old mis' price's harnt lately?" rufe asked suddenly from his perch upon the wood-pile. byers whirled round abruptly, fixing an astonished gaze upon rufe, unmindful that the knife slipped from his grasp, and fell clanking upon the ground. chapter ix. this grave, eager gaze rufe returned with the gayest audacity. "been skeered by old mis' price's harnt lately?" he once more chirped out gleefully. he was comical enough, as he sat on the top of the wood-pile, hugging his knees with both arms, his old, bent, wool hat perched on the back of his tow head, and all his jagged squirrel teeth showing themselves, unabashed, in a wide grin. jubal perkins laughed lazily, as he looked at him. then, with that indulgence which rufe always met at the tanyard, and which served to make him so pert and forward, the tanner said, humoring the privileged character, "what be you-uns a-talkin' 'bout, boy? mrs. price ain't dead." "he hev viewed old mis' price's harnt," cried rufe, pointing at andy byers, with a jocosely crooked finger. "he air so peart an' forehanded a-viewin' harnts, he don't hev to wait till folkses be dead. he hev seen mis' price's harnt--an' it plumb skeered the wits out'n him." perkins did not understand this. his interest was suddenly alert. he took his pipe from his mouth, and glanced over his shoulder at byers. "what air rufe aimin' at, andy?" he asked, surprised. byers did not reply. he still gazed steadfastly at rufe; the knife lay unheeded on the ground at his feet, and the hide was slipping from the wooden horse. at last he said slowly, "birt tole ye 'bout'n it, eh?" "naw, sir! naw!" rufe rocked himself fantastically to and fro in imminent peril of toppling off the wood-pile. "'twar tom byers ez tole me." "tom!" exclaimed byers, with a galvanic start. for tom was his son, and he had not suspected filial treachery in the matter of the spectral blackberry bush. rufe stared in his turn, not comprehending byers's surprise. "tom," he reiterated presently, with mocking explicitness. "tom byers--i reckon ye knows him. that thar freckled-faced, snaggled- toothed, red-headed tom byers, ez lives at yer house. i reckon ye mus' know him." "tom tole ye--what?" asked the tanner, puzzled by byers's grave, anxious face, and rufe's mysterious sneers. rufe broke into the liveliest cackle. "tom, he 'lowed ter me ez he war tucked up in the trundle-bed, fast asleep, that night when his dad got home from old mis' price's house, whar he had been ter hear her las' words. tom, he 'lowed he war dreamin' ez his gran'dad hed gin him a calf--tom say the calf war spotted red an' white--an' jes' ez he war a-leadin' it home with him, his dad kem racin' inter the house with sech a rumpus ez woke him up, an' he never got the calf along no furder than the turn in the road. an' thar sot his dad in the cheer, declarin' fur true ez he hed seen old mis' price's harnt in the woods, an' b'lieved she mus' be dead afore now. an' though thar war a right smart fire on the h'a'th, he war shiverin' an' shakin' over it, jes' the same ez ef he war out at the wood-pile, pickin' up chips on a frosty mornin'." and rufe crouched over, shivering in every limb, in equally excellent mimicry of a ghost-seer, or an unwilling chip-picker under stress of weather. "my!" he exclaimed with a fresh burst of laughter; "whenst tom tole me 'bout'n it i war so tickled i war feared i'd fall. i los' the use o' my tongue. i couldn't stop laffin' long enough ter tell tom what i war laffin' at. an' ez tom knowed i war snake-bit las' june, he went home an' tole his mother ez the p'ison hed done teched me in the head, an' said he reckoned, ef the truth war knowed, i hed fits ez a constancy. i say--fits!" once more the bewildered tanner glanced from one to the other. "why, ye never tole me ez ye hed seen su'thin' strange in the woods, andy," he exclaimed, feeling aggrieved, thus balked of a sensation. "an' the old woman ain't dead, nohow," he continued reasonably, "but air strengthenin' up amazin' fast." "waal," put in rufe, hastening to explain this discrepancy in the spectre, "i hearn you-uns a-sayin' that mornin', fore ye set out from the tanyard, ez she war mighty nigh dead an' would be gone 'fore night. an' ez he hed tole me he'd skeer the wits out'n me, i 'lowed ez i could show him ez his wits warn't ez tough ez mine. though," added the roguish rufe, with a grin of enjoyment, "arter i hed dressed up the blackberry bush in mam's apron an' shawl, an' sot her bonnet a-top, it tuk ter noddin' and bowin' with the wind, an' looked so like folks, ez it gin me a skeer, an' i jes' run home ez hard ez i could travel. an towse, he barked at it!" andy byers spoke suddenly. "waal, birt holped ye, then." "he never!" cried rufe, emphatically, unwilling to share the credit, or perhaps discredit, of the enterprise. "birt dunno nuthin' 'bout it ter this good day." rufe winked slyly. "birt would tell mam ez i hed been a-foolin' with her shawl an' bonnet." andy byers still maintained a most incongruous gravity. "it warn't birt's doin', at all?" he said interrogatively, and with a pondering aspect. jubal perkins broke into a derisive guffaw. "what ails ye, andy?" he cried. "though ye never seen no harnt, ye 'pear ter be fairly witched by that thar tricked-out blackberry bush." rufe shrugged up his shoulders, and began to shiver in imaginary terror over a fancied fire. "old--mis'--price's--harnt!" he wheezed. the point of view makes an essential difference. jube perkins thought rufe's comicality most praiseworthy--his pipe went out while he laughed. byers flushed indignantly. "ye aggervatin' leetle varmint!" he cried suddenly, his patience giving way. he seized the crouching mimic by the collar, and although he did not literally knock him off the wood-pile, as rufe afterward declared, he assisted the small boy through the air with a celerity that caused rufe to wink very fast and catch his breath, when he was deposited, with a shake, on the soft pile of ground bark some yards away. rufe was altogether unhurt, but a trifle subdued by this sudden aerial excursion. the fun was over for the present. he gathered himself together, and went demurely and sat down on the lowest log of the wood-pile. after a little he produced a papaw from his pocket, and by the manner in which they went to work upon it, his jagged squirrel teeth showed that they were better than they looked. towse had followed his master to the tanyard, and was lying asleep beside the woodpile, with his muzzle on his forepaws. he roused himself suddenly at the sound of munching, and came and sat upright, facing rufe, and eyeing the papaw gloatingly. he wagged his tail in a beguiling fashion, and now and then turned his head blandishingly askew. of course he would not have relished the papaw, and only begged as a matter of habit or perhaps on principle; but he was given no opportunity to sample it, for rufe hardly noticed him, being absorbed in dubiously watching andy byers, who was once more at work, scraping the hide with the two-handled knife. jubal perkins had gone into the house for a coal to re-kindle his pipe, for there is always a smouldering fire in the "smoke-room" for the purpose of drying the hides suspended from the rafters. he came out with it freshly glowing, and sat down on the broad, high pile of wood. as the first whiff of smoke wreathed over his head, he said, "what air the differ ter ye, andy, whether 't war bub, hyar, or birt, ez dressed up the blackberry bush? ye 'pear ter make a differ a-twixt 'em." still byers was evasive. "whar's birt, ennyhow?" he demanded irrelevantly. "waal," drawled the tanner, with a certain constraint, "i hed been promisin' birt a day off fur a right smart while, an' i tole him ez he mought ez well hev the rest o' ter-day. he 'lowed ez he warn't partic'lar 'bout a day off, now. but i tole him ennyhow ter go along. i seen him a while ago passin' through the woods, with his rifle on his shoulder--gone huntin', i reckon." "gone huntin'!" ejaculated rufe in dudgeon, joining unceremoniously in the conversation of his elders. "now, birt mought hev let me know! i'd hev wanted ter go along too." "mebbe that air the reason he never tole ye, bub," said perkins dryly. for he could appreciate that rufe's society was not always a boon, although he took a lenient view of the little boy. any indulgence of birt was more unusual, and andy byers experienced some surprise to hear of the unwonted sylvan recreations of the young drudge. he noticed that the mule was off duty too, grazing among the bushes just beyond the fence, and hobbled so that he could not run away. this precaution might have seemed a practical joke on the mule, for the poor old animal was only too glad to stand stock still. rufe continued his exclamatory indignation. "jes' ter go lopin' off inter the woods huntin', 'thout lettin' me know! an' i never gits ter go huntin' nohow! an' mam won't let me tech birt's rifle, 'thout it air ez empty ez a gourd! she say she air feared i'll shoot my head off, an' she don't want no boys, 'thout heads, jouncin' round her house--shucks! which way did birt take, mister perkins?--'kase i be goin' ter ketch up." "he war headed fur that thar salt lick, whenst i las' seen him," replied the tanner; "ef ye stir yer stumps right lively, mebbe ye'll overhaul him yit." rufe rose precipitately. towse, believing his petition for the papaw was about to be rewarded, leaped up too, gamboling with a display of ecstasy that might have befitted a starving creature, and an elasticity to be expected only of a rubber dog. as he uttered a shrill yelp of delight, he sprang up against rufe, who, reeling under the shock, dropped the remnant of the papaw. towse darted upon it, sniffed disdainfully, and returned to his capers around rufe, evidently declining to believe that all that show of gustatory satisfaction had been elicited only by the papaw, and that rufe had nothing else to eat. thus the two took their way out of the tanyard; and even after they had disappeared, their progress through the underbrush was marked by an abnormal commotion among the leaves, as the saltatory skeptic of a dog insisted on more substantial favors than the succulent papaw. the tanner smoked for a time in silence. then, "birt ain't goin' ter be let ter work hyar ag'in," he said. byers elevated his shaggy eyebrows in surprise. "ye see," said the tanner in a confidential undertone, "sence birt hev stole that thar grant, i kin argufy ez he mought steal su'thin' else, an' i ain't ekal ter keepin' up a spry lookout on things, an' bein' partic'lar 'bout the count o' the hides an' sech. i can't feel easy with sech a mischeevious scamp around." byers made no rejoinder, and the tanner, puffing his pipe, vaguely watched the wreaths of smoke rise above his head, and whisk buoyantly about in the air, and finally skurry off into invisibility. a gentle breeze was astir in the woods, and it set the leaves to whispering. the treetoads and the locusts were trolling a chorus. so loudly vibrant, it was! so clamorously gay! some subtle intimation they surely had that summer was ephemeral and the season waning, for the burden of their song was, let us now be merry. the scarlet head of a woodpecker showed brilliantly from the bare dead boughs of a chestnut-oak, which, with its clinging lichens of green and gray, was boldly projected against the azure sky. and there, the filmy moon, most dimly visible in the afternoon sunshine, swung like some lunar hallucination among the cirrus clouds. "ye 'lows ez i ain't doin' right by birt?" the tanner suggested presently, with more conscience in the matter than one would have given him credit for possessing. "i knows ye air doin' right," said byers unexpectedly. all at once the woodpecker was solemnly tapping--tapping. byers glanced up, as if to discern whence the sudden sound came, and once more bent to his work. "ye b'lieves, then, ez he stole that thar grant from nate griggs?" asked perkins. "i be sure he done it," said byers, unequivocally. the tanner took his pipe from his lips. "what ails ye ter say that, andy?" he exclaimed excitedly. andy byers hesitated. he mechanically passed his fingers once or twice across the blunt, curved blade of the two-handled knife. "ye'll keep the secret?" "in the sole o' my boot," said the tanner. "waal, i knows ez birt stole the grant. i hev been powerful changeful, though, in my thoughts bout'n it. at fust i war glad when he war suspicioned 'bout'n it, an' i war minded to go an' inform on him an' sech, ter pay him back; 'kase i held a grudge ag'in him, believin' ez he hed dressed out that thar blackberry bush ez mrs. price's harnt. an' then i'd remember ez his mother war a widder-woman, an' he war nothin' but a boy, an' boys air bound ter be gamesome an' full o' jokes wunst in a while, an' i'd feel like i war bound ter furgive him 'bout the harnt. an' then ag'in i got toler'ble oneasy fur fear the law mought hold me 'sponsible fur knowin' 'bout birt's crime of stealin' the grant an' yit not tellin' on him. an' i'd take ter hopin' an' prayin' the boy would confess, so ez i wouldn't hev ter tell on him. i hev been mightily pestered in my mind lately with sech dilly-dallyin'." again the sudden tapping of the woodpecker filled the pause. "did ye see him steal the grant, andy?" asked the tanner, with bated breath. "ez good ez seen him. i seen him slyin' round, an' i hev fund the place whar he hev hid it." and the woodpecker still was solemnly tapping, high up in the chestnut-oak tree. chapter x. birt, meanwhile, was trudging along in the woods, hardly seeing where he went, hardly caring. he had not had even a vague premonition when the tanner told him that he might have the rest of the day off. he did not now want the holiday which would once have so rejoiced him, and he said as much. and then the tanner, making the disclosure by degrees, being truly sorry to part with the boy, intimated that he need come back no more. birt unharnessed the mule by the sense of touch and the force of habit, for blinding tears intervened between his vision and the rusty old buckles and worn straps of leather. the animal seemed to understand that something was amiss, and now and then turned his head interrogatively. somehow birt was glad to feel that he left at least one friend in the tanyard, albeit the humblest, for he had always treated the beast with kindness, and he was sure the mule would miss him. when he reached home he loitered for a time outside the fence, trying to nerve himself to witness his mother's distress. and at last his tears were dried, and he went in and told her the news. it was hard for him nowadays to understand that simple mother of his. she did nothing that he expected. to be sure her cheek paled, her eyes looked anxious for a moment, and her hands trembled so that she carefully put down upon the table a dish which she had been wiping. but she said quite calmly, "waal, sonny, i dunno but ye hed better take a day off from work, sure enough, an' go a-huntin'. thar's yer rifle, an' mebbe ye'll git a shot at a deer down yander by the lick. the chill'n haint hed no wild meat lately, 'ceptin' squir'ls out'n rufe's trap." and then he began to cry out bitterly that nobody would give him work, and they would all starve; that the tanner believed he had stolen the grant, and was afraid to have him about the hides. "'tain't no differ ez long ez 'tain't the truth," said his mother philosophically. "we-uns will jes' abide by the truth." he repeated this phrase over and over as he struggled through the tangled underbrush of the dense forest. it was all like some terrible dream; and but for tennessee, it would be the truth! how he blessed the little sister that her love for him and his love for her had come between him and crime at that moment of temptation. "so powerful peart!" he muttered with glistening eyes, as he thought of her. the grant was gone, to be sure; but he did not take it. they accused him--and falsely! it was something to be free and abroad in the woods. he heard the wind singing in the pines. their fine, penetrating aroma pervaded the air, and the rusty needles, covering the ground, muffled his tread. once he paused--was that the bleat of a fawn, away down on the mountain's slope? he heard no more, and he walked on, looking about with his old alert interest. he was refreshed, invigorated, somehow consoled, as he went. o wise mother! he wondered if she foresaw this when she sent him into the woods. he had not before noted how the season was advancing. here and there, in the midst of the dark green foliage, leaves shone so vividly yellow that it seemed as if upon them some fascinated sunbeam had expended all its glamours. in a dusky recess he saw the crimson sumach flaring. and the distant blue mountains, and the furthest reaches of the azure sky, and the sombre depths of the wooded valley, and the sheeny splendors of the afternoon sun, and every incident of crag or chasm--all appeared through a soft purple haze that possessed the air, and added an ideal embellishment to the scene. down the ravine the "lick" shone with the lustre of a silver lakelet. he saw the old oak-tree hard by, with the historic scaffold among its thinning leaves, and further along the slope were visible vague bobbing figures, which he recognized as the "griggs gang," seeking upon the mountain side the gold which he had discovered. suddenly he heard a light crackling in the brush,--a faint footfall. it reminded him of the deer-path close at hand. he crouched down noiselessly amongst the low growth and lifted his rifle, his eyes fixed on the point where the path disappeared in the bushes, and where he would first catch a glimpse of the approaching animal. he heard the step again. his finger was trembling on the trigger, when down the path leisurely walked an old gentleman attired in black, a hammer in his hand, and a pair of gleaming spectacles poised placidly upon the bridge of an intellectual roman nose. and this queer game halted in the middle of the deer-path, all unconscious of his deadly danger. it was a wonder that the rifle was not discharged, for the panic- stricken birt had lost control of his muscles, and his convulsive finger was still quivering on the trigger as he trembled from head to foot. he hardly dared to try to move the gun. for a moment he could not speak. he gazed in open-mouthed amazement at the unsuspecting old gentleman, who was also unaware of the far more formidable open mouth of the rifle. "now, ain't ye lackin' fur head-stuffin'?" suddenly yelled out birt, from his hiding-place. the startled old man jumped, with the most abrupt alacrity. in fact, despite his age and the lack of habit, he bounded as acrobatically from the ground as the expected deer could have done. he was, it is true, a learned man; but science has no specific for sudden fright, and he jumped as ignorantly as if he did not know the difficult name of any of the muscles that so alertly exercised themselves on this occasion. birt rose at last to his feet and looked with a pallid face over the underbrush. "now, ain't ye lackin' fur head-stuffin'," he faltered, "a-steppin' along a deer-path ez nat'ral ez ef ye war a big fat buck? i kem mighty nigh shootin' ye." the old gentleman recovered his equilibrium, mental and physical, with marvelous rapidity. "ah, my young friend,"--he motioned to birt to come nearer,--"i want to speak to you." birt stared. one might have inferred, from the tone, that the gentleman had expected to meet him here, whereas birt had just had the best evidence of his senses that the encounter was a great surprise. the boy observed his interlocutor more carefully than he had yet been able to do. he remembered all at once rufe's queer story of meeting, down the ravine, an eccentric old man whom he was disposed to identify as satan. as the stranger stood there in the deer-path, he looked precisely as rufe had described him, even to the baffling glitter of his spectacles, his gray whiskers, and the curiously shaped hammer in his hand. birt, although bewildered and still tremulous from the shock to his nerves, was not so superstitious as rufe, and he shouldered his gun, and, pushing out from the tangled underbrush, joined the old man in the path. "i want," said the gentleman, "to hire a boy for a few days--weeks, perhaps." he smiled with two whole rows of teeth that never grew where they stood. birt wished he could see the expression of the stranger's eyes, indistinguishable behind the spectacles that glimmered in the light. "what do you say to fifty cents a day?" he continued briskly. birt's heart sank suddenly. he had heard that satan traded in souls by working on the avarice of the victim. the price suggested seemed a great deal to birt, for in this region there is little cash in circulation, barter serving all the ordinary purposes of commerce. as he hesitated, the old man eyed him quizzically. "afraid of work, eh?" "naw, sir!" said birt, sturdily. ah, if the bark-mill, and the old mule, and the tan-pit, and the wood-pile, and the cornfield might testify! "fifty cents a day--eh?" said the stranger. at the repetition of the sum, it occurred to birt, growing more familiar with the eccentricity of his companion, that he ought not in sheer silliness to throw away a chance for employment. "kin i ask my mother?" he said dubiously. "by all means ask your mother," replied the stranger heartily. birt's last fantastic doubt vanished. oh no! this was not satan in disguise. when did the enemy ever counsel a boy to ask his mother! birt still stared gravely at him. all the details of his garb, manner, speech, even the hammer in his hand, were foreign to the boy's experience. presently he ventured a question. "do you-uns hail from hyar- abouts?" the stranger was frank and communicative. he told birt that he was a professor of natural science in a college in one of the "valley towns," and that he was sojourning, for his health's sake, at a little watering-place some twelve miles distant on the bench of the mountain. occasionally he made an excursion into the range, which was peculiarly interesting geologically. "but what i wish you to do is to dig for--bones." "bones?" faltered birt. "bones," reiterated the professor solemnly. did his spectacles twinkle? birt stood silent, vaguely wondering what his mother would think of "bones." presently the professor, seeing that the boy was not likely to ask amusing questions, explained. he informed birt that in the neighborhood of salt licks--"saline quagmires" he called them--were often found the remains of animals of an extinct species, which are of great value to science. he gave birt the extremely long name of these animals, and descanted upon such conditions of their existence as is known, much of which birt did not understand. although this fact was very apparent, it did not in the least affect the professor's ardor in the theme. he was in the habit of talking of these things to boys who did not understand, and alack! to boys who did not want to understand. one point, however, he made very clear. with the hope of some such "find," he was anxious to investigate this particular lick,--about which indeed he had heard a vague tradition of a "big bone" discovery, such as is common to similar localities in this region,-- and for this purpose he proposed to furnish the science and the fifty cents per diem, and earnestly desired that some one else should furnish the muscle. he was accustomed to think much more rapidly than the men with whom birt was associated, and his briskness in arranging the matter had an incongruous suggestion of the giddiness of youth. he said that he would go home with birt to fetch the spade, and while there he could settle the terms with the boy's mother, and then they could get to work. he started off at a dapper gait up the deer-path, while birt, with his rifle on his shoulder, followed. a sudden thought struck birt. he stopped short. "now _i_ dunno which side o' that thar lick nate griggs's line runs on," he remarked. "never mind," said the professor, waving away objections with airy efficiency; "i shall first secure the consent of the owner of the land." birt cogitated for a moment. "nate griggs ain't goin' ter gin his cornsent ter nobody ter dig ennywhar down the ravine, ef it air inside o' his lines," he said confidently, "'kase i--'kase he-- leastwise, 'kase gold hev been fund hyar lately, an' he hev entered the land." the professor stopped short in the path. "gold!" he ejaculated. "gold!" was there a vibration of incredulity in his voice? birt remembered all at once the specimens which he had picked up that memorable evening, down the ravine, when he shot the red fox. here they still were in his pocket. they showed lustrous, metallic, yellow gleams as he placed them carefully in the old man's outstretched hand, telling how he came by them, of his mistaken confidence, the betrayed trust, and ending by pointing at the group of gold-seekers, microscopic in the distance on the opposite slope. "i hev hearn tell," he added, "ez nate air countin' on goin' pardners with a man in sparty, who hev got money, to work the gold mine." now and then, as he talked, he glanced up at his companion's face, vaguely expecting to discover his opinion by its expression, but the light still played in a baffling glitter upon his spectacles. birt could only follow when the professor suddenly handed back the specimens with a peremptory "come--come! we must go for the spade. but when we reach your mother's house i will test this mineral, and you shall see for yourself what you have lost." mrs. dicey's first impression upon meeting the stranger and learning of his mission was not altogether surprise as birt had expected. her chief absorption was a deep thankfulness that the floors all preserved their freshly scoured appearance. "fur ef rufe hed been playin' round hyar ter-day, same ez common, the rubbish would have been a scandal ter the kentry," she reflected. in fact, all was so neat, albeit so poor, that the stranger felt as polite as he looked, while he talked to her about employing birt in his researches. birt, however, had little disposition to listen to this. he was excited by the prospect of testing the mineral, and he busied himself with great alacrity in preparing for it under the professor's directions. he suffered a qualm, it is true, as he pounded the shining fragments into a coarse powder, and then he drew out with the shovel a great glowing mass of live coals on the hearth. the dogs peered eagerly in at the door, having followed the stranger with the liveliest curiosity. towse, bolder than the rest, entered intrepidly with a nonchalant air and a wagging tail, for he and rufe, having failed to find birt, had just returned home. the small boy paused on the threshold in amazed recognition of the old gentleman who had occasioned him such a fright that day down the ravine. the professor gesticulated a great deal as he bent over the fire and gave birt directions, and, with his waving hands and the glow on his hoary hair and beard, he looked like some fantastic sorcerer. somehow rufe was glad to see the familiar countenances of pete and joe, and was still more reassured to note that his mother was quietly standing beside the table, as she stirred the batter for bread in a wooden bowl. tennessee had pressed close to birt, her chubby hand clutching his collar as he knelt on the hearth. he held above the glowing coals a long fire shovel, on which the pulverized mineral had been placed, and his eyes were very bright as he earnestly watched it. "if it is gold," said the old man, "a moderate heat will not affect it." the shovel was growing hot. the live coals glowed beneath it. the breath of the fire stirred tennessee's flaxen hair. and birt's dilated eyes saw the yellow particles still glistening unchanged in the centre of the shovel, which was beginning to redden. chapter xi. suddenly--was the glistening yellow mineral taking fire? it began to give off sulphurous fumes. and drifting away with them were all birt's golden visions and nate's ill-gotten wealth--ending in smoke! the sulphurous odor grew stronger. even towse stopped short, and gazed at the shovel with a reprehensive sniff. "ker-shoo!" he sneezed. and commenting thus, he turned abruptly and went hastily out, with a startled look and a downcast tail. his sneeze seemed to break the spell of silence that had fallen on the little group. "it be mighty nigh bodaciously changed ter cinders!" exclaimed birt, staring in amaze at the lustreless contents of the shovel from which every suggestion of golden glimmer had faded. "what do it be, ef 'tain't gold?" "iron pyrites," said the professor. "'fools' gold,' it is often called." he explained to birt that in certain formations, however, gold is associated with iron pyrites, and when the mineral is properly roasted, this process serving to expel the sulphur, the fine particles of gold are found held in the resulting oxide of iron. but the variety of the mineral discovered down the ravine he said was valueless, unless occurring in vast quantities, when it is sometimes utilized in the production of sulphur. "i wonder," birt broke out suddenly, "if the assayer won't find no gold in them samples ez nate sent him." the professor laughed. "the assayer will need the 'philosopher's stone' to find gold in any samples from this locality." "ye knowed then, all the time, ez this stuff warn't gold?" asked birt. "all the time," rejoined the elder. "an' nate hev got the steepest, rockiest spot in the kentry ter pay taxes on," resumed birt, reflectively. "an' he hev shelled out a power o' money ter the surveyor, an' sech, a'ready. i reckon he'll be mightily outed when he finds out ez the min'ral ain't gold." birt stopped short in renewed anxiety. that missing grant! somehow he felt sure that nate, balked of the great gains he had promised himself, would wreak his disappointment wherever he might; and since the land was of so little value, he would not continue to deny himself his revenge for fear that an investigation into the priority of the mineral's discovery might invalidate the entry. once more birt was tortured by the terror of arrest--he might yet suffer a prosecution from malignity, which had hitherto been withheld from policy. if only the mystery of the lost grant could be solved! the conversation of the elders had returned to the subject of the investigations around the "lick" and the terms for birt's services. as so much time had been consumed with the pyrites, the professor concluded with some vexation that they could hardly arrange all the preliminaries and get to work this afternoon. "i dare say we had best begin to-morrow morning," he said at last. "birt can't go a-diggin' no-ways, this evenin'," put in the officious rufe, who stood, according to his wont, listening with his mouth and eyes wide open, "'kase ez i kem home by the tanyard jube perkins hollered ter me ter tell birt ter come thar right quick. i furgot it till this minit," he added, with a shade of embarrassment that might pass for apology. birt felt a prophetic thrill. this summons promised developments of importance. only a few hours ago he was discharged under suspicion of dishonesty; why this sudden recall? he did not know whether hope or fear was paramount. he trembled with eager expectancy. he seized his hat, and strode out of the house without waiting to hear more of the professor's plans or the details of the wages. he had reached the fence before he discovered tennessee close at his heels. he cast his troubled eyes down upon her, and met her pleading, upturned gaze. he was about to charge her to go back. but then he remembered how she had followed him with blessings--how mercy had kept pace with her steps. he would not deny her the simple boon she craved, and if she were troublesome and in his way, surely he might be patient with her, since she loved him so! he lifted her over the fence, and then started briskly down the path, the sturdy, light-footed little mountain girl delightedly trudging along in the rear. when he entered the tanyard no one was there except jube perkins and andy byers the tanner, lounging as usual on the wood-pile, and the workman, with scarcely less the aspect of idleness, dawdlingly scraping a hide on the wooden horse. birt discerned a portent in the unwonted solemnity of their faces, and his heart sank. "waal, birt, we-uns hev been a-waitin' fur ye," said the tanner in a subdued, grave tone that somehow reminded birt of the bated voices in a house of death. "set down hyar on the wood-pile, fur andy an' me hev got a word ter say ter ye." birt's dilated black eyes turned in dumb appeal from one to the other as he sank down on the wood-pile. his suspense gnawed him like an actual grief while jubal perkins slowly shifted his position and looked vaguely at andy byers for a suggestion, being uncertain how to begin. "waal, birt," he drawled at last, "ez yer dad is dead an' ye hev got nobody ter see arter ye an' advise ye, andy an' me, we-uns agreed ez how we'd talk ter ye right plain, an' try ter git ye ter jedge o' this hyar matter like we-uns do. andy an' me know more 'bout the law, an' 'bout folks too, than ye does. these hyar griggs folks hev always been misdoubted ez a fractious an' contrary-wise fambly. ef enny griggs ain't aggervatin' an' captious, it air through bein' plumb terrified by the t'others. they air powerful hard folks--an' they'll land ye in the state prison yet, i'm thinkin'. i wonder they hain't started at ye a'ready. but thar's no countin' on 'em, 'ceptin' that they'll do all they kin that air ha'sh an' grindin'." "that air a true word, birt," said andy byers, speaking to the boy for the first time in many days. "ef they hev thar reason fur it, they mought hold thar hand fur a time, but fust or las' they'll hev all out'n ye ez the law will allow 'em." birt listened in desperation. all this was sharpened by the certainty that the mineral was only valueless pyrites, and the prescience of nate's anger when this fact should come to his knowledge, and prudence no longer restrain him. his rage would vent itself on his luckless victim for every cent, every mill, that the discovery of the "fools' gold" had cost him. "they'll be takin' ye away from the mountings ter jail ye an' try ye, an' mebbe ye'll go ter the pen'tiary arter that. an' how will yer mother, an' brothers, an' sister, git thar vittles, an' firewood, an' corn-crap an' clothes, an' sech--rufe bein' the oldest child, arter you-uns?" demanded the tanner. "an' even when ye git back--i hate ter tell ye this word--nobody will want ye round. they'll be feared ye'd be forever pickin' an' stealin'." "but we-uns will stand up fur ye, bein' ez ye air the widder's son," said byers eagerly. "we-uns will gin the griggs tribe ter onderstand that." "an' mebbe the griggses won't want ter do nuthin', ef they hain't got no furder cause fur holdin' a grudge," put in the tanner. "what be ye a-layin' off fur me ter do?" asked birt wonderingly. "ter gin nate's grant back ter him," they both replied in a breath. "i hev not got it!" cried poor birt tumultuously. "i never stole it! i dunno whar it be!" the tanner's expression changed from paternal kindliness to contemptuous anger. "air ye goin' ter keep on bein' a liar, birt, ez well ez a thief?" he said sternly. "i dunno whar it be," reiterated birt desperately. "_i_ know whar it be," said byers. birt gazed at him astounded. "whar?" he cried eagerly. "whar ye hid it," returned byers coolly. birt's lips moved with difficulty as he huskily ejaculated "i never hid it--i never!" "ye needn't deny it. i ez good ez seen ye hide it." birt looked dazed for a moment. then the blood rushed to his face and as suddenly receded, leaving it pale and rigid. he was cold and trembling. he could not speak. the tanner scrutinized him narrowly. then he said, "tell him 'bout it, andy. tell him jes' ez ye tole me. an' mebbe he'll hev sense enough ter gin it up when he sees he air fairly caught." "waal," said byers, leaning back against the wall of the smoke- house, and holding the knife idly poised in his hand, "i kem down ter the tanyard betimes that mornin' arter the storm. both ye an' birt war late. i noticed nate griggs's coat hangin' thar in the shed, with a paper stickin' out'n the pocket, ez i started inter the smoke-house ter tend ter the fire. i reckon i mus' hev made consider'ble racket in thar, 'kase i never hearn nuthin' till i sot down afore the fire on a log o' wood, an' lit my pipe. all of a suddenty thar kem a step outside, toler'ble light on the tan. i jes' 'lowed 't war ye or birt. but i happened ter look up, an' thar i see a couple o' big black eyes peepin' through that thar crack in the wall." he turned and pointed out a crevice where the "daubin'" had fallen from the "chinkin'" between the logs. "ye can see," he resumed, "ez this hyar crack air jes' the height o' birt. waal, them eyes lookin' in so onexpected didn't 'sturb me none. i hev knowed the dicey eye fur thirty year, an' thar ain't none like 'em nowhar round the mountings. but i 'lowed 't war toler'ble sassy in birt ter stand thar peerin' at me through the chinkin'. i never let on, though, ez i viewed him. an' then, them eyes jes' set up sech a outdacious winkin' an' wallin', an' squinchin', ez i knowed he war makin' faces at me. so i jes' riz up--an' the eyes slipped away from thar in a hurry. i war aimin' ter larrup birt fur his sass, but i stopped ter hang up a skin ez i hed knocked down. it never tuk me long, much, but when i went out, thar warn't nobody ter be seen in the tanyard." he paused to place one foot upon the wooden horse, and he leaned forward with a reflective expression, his elbow on his knee, and his hand holding his bearded chin. the afternoon was waning. the scarlet sun in magnified splendor was ablaze low down in the saffron west. the world seemed languorously afloat in the deep, serene flood of light. shadows were lengthening slowly. the clangor of a cow-bell vibrated in the distance. the drone of andy byers's voice overbore it as he recommenced. "waal, i was sorter conflusticated, an' i looked round powerful sharp ter see whar birt hed disappeared to. i happened ter cut my eye round at that thar pit ez he hed finished layin' the tan in, an' kivered with boards, an' weighted with rocks that day ez ye an' me hed ter go an' attend on old mrs. price. ye know we counted ez that thar pit wouldn't be opened ag'in fur a right smart time?" the tanner nodded assent. "waal, i noticed ez the aidge o' one o' them boards war sot sorter catawampus, an' i 'lowed ez 't war the wind ez hed 'sturbed it. ez i stooped down ter move it back in its place, i seen su'thin' white under it. so i lifted the board, an' thar i see, lyin' on the tan a-top o' the pit, a stiff white paper. i looked round toward the shed, an' thar hung the coat yit--with nuthin' in the pocket. i didn't know edzactly what ter make of it, an' i jes' shunted the plank back over the paper in the pit like i fund it, an' waited ter see what mought happen. an' all the time ez that thar racket war goin' on bout'n the grant, i knowed powerful well whar 't war, an' who stole it." birt looked from one to the other of the two men. both evidently believed every syllable of this story. it was so natural, so credible, that he had a curious sense of inclining toward it, too. had he indeed, in some aberration, taken the grant? was it some tricksy spirit in his likeness that had peered through the chinking at andy byers? he could find no words to contend further. he sat silent, numb, dumfounded. "birt," said the tanner coaxingly, "thar ain't no use in denyin' it enny mo'. let's go an' git that grant, an' take it ter nate an' tell the truth." the words roused birt. he clutched at the idea of getting possession of the paper that had so mysteriously disappeared and baffled and eluded him. he could at least return it. and even if this should fail to secure him lenient treatment, he would feel that he had done right. he rose suddenly in feverish anxiety. andy byers and perkins, exchanging a wink of congratulation, followed him to the pit. "it air under this hyar board," said byers, moving one of the heavy stones, and lifting a broad plank. perkins pressed forward with eager curiosity, never having seen this famous grant. the ground bark on the surface was pretty dry, the layer being ten or fifteen inches thick, and the tanning infusion had not yet risen through it. byers stared with a frown at the tan, and lifted another board. nothing appeared beneath it on the smooth surface of the bark. in sudden alarm they took away the boards, one after another, till all were removed, and the whole surface of the pit was exposed. then they looked at each other, bewildered. for once more the grant was gone. chapter xii. jubal perkins broke the silence. "andy byers," he exclaimed wrathfully, "what sort 'n tale is this ez ye air tryin' ter fool me with?" byers, perturbed and indignant, was instantly ready to accuse birt. "ye hev been hyar an' got the grant an' sneaked it off agin, hev ye!" he cried, scowling at the boy. then he turned to the tanner. "i hope i may drap dead, jube," he said earnestly, "ef that grant warn't right hyar"--he pointed at the spot--"las' night whenst i lef' the tanyard. i always looked late every evenin' ter be sure it hedn't been teched, thinkin' i'd make up my mind in the night whether i'd tell on birt, or no. but i never could git plumb sati'fied what to do." his tone carried conviction. the tanner looked at birt with disappointment in every line of his face. there was severity, too, in his expression. he was beginning to admit the fitness of harsh punishment in this case. "ye don't wuth all this gabblin' an' jawin' over ye, ye miser'ble leetle critter," he said. "an' i ain't goin' ter waste another breath on ye." birt stood vacantly staring at the tan. all the energy of the truth was nullified by the futility of protestation. the two men exchanged a glance of vague comment upon his silence, and then they too looked idly down at the pit. tennessee abruptly caught birt's listless hand as it hung at his side, for towse had suddenly entered the tanyard, and prancing up to her in joyous recognition, was trying to lick her face. "g'way, towse," she drawled gutturally. she struck vaguely at him with her chubby little fist, which he waggishly took between his teeth in a gingerly gentle grip. "stand back thar, tennessee," birt murmured mechanically. as usual, towse was the precursor of rufe, who presently dawdled out from the underbrush. he quickened his steps upon observing the intent attitude of the party, and as he came up he demanded vivaciously, "what ails that thar pit o' yourn, mister perkins?-- thought ye said 't warn't goin' ter be opened ag'in fore-shortly." for a moment the tanner made no reply. then he drawled absently, "nuthin' ails the pit, rufe--nuthin'." rufe sat down on the edge of it, and gazed speculatively at it. presently he began anew, unabashed by the silence of the grave and contemplative group. "this hyar tan hev got sorter moist atop now; i wonder ef that thar grant o' nate's got spi'led ennywise with the damp." birt winced. it had been a certain mitigation of his trouble that, thanks to his mother's caution, the children at home knew nothing of the disgrace that had fallen upon him, and that there, at least, the atmosphere was untainted with suspicion. the next moment he was impressed by the singularity of rufe's mention of the missing grant and its place of concealment. "look-a-hyar, rufe," he exclaimed, excitedly; "how d'ye know ennything 'bout nate's grant an' whar 't war hid?" rufe glanced up scornfully, insulted in some occult manner by the question. "how did i know, birt dicey? how d'ye know yerse'f?" he retorted. "i knows a heap, ginerally." perkins, catching the drift of birt's intention, came to the rescue. "say, bub, how d'ye know the grant war ever put hyar?" "kase," responded rufe, more amicably, "i seen it put hyar--right yander." he indicated the spot where the paper lay, according to byers, when it was discovered. birt could hardly breathe. his anxieties, his hopes, his fears, seemed a pursuing pack before which he was almost spent. he panted like a hunted creature. tennessee was swinging herself to and fro, holding by his hand. sometimes she caught at towse's unlovely ear, as he sat close by with his tongue lolled out and an attentive air, as if he were assisting at the discussion. "who put it thar, bub?" demanded perkins. it would not have surprised birt, so perverse had been the course of events, if rufe had accused him on the spot. "pig-wigs griggs," replied rufe, unexpectedly. a glance of intelligence passed between the men. "tell 'bout it, rufe," said the tanner, suppressing all appearance of excitement. "ye ain't goin' ter do nuthin' ter pig-wigs fur foolin' with yer pit, ef i tell ye?" asked rufe, quickly. "naw, bub, naw. which griggs do ye call 'pig-wigs?'" "why--pig-wigs," rufe reiterated obviously. then he explained. "he air nate's nevy. he air nate's oldest brother's biggest boy,--though he ain't sizable much. he air 'bout haffen ez big ez me--ef that," he added reflectively, thinking that even thus divided he had represented pig-wigs as more massive than the facts justified. "ye see," he continued, "one day when his uncle tim war over hyar ter the tanyard, i gin him one o' my game deedies; an' ez soon ez he got home he showed 'em all that thar deedie--powerful, spryest poultry ye ever see!" rufe smiled ecstatically as only a chicken fancier can. "an' pig-wigs war plumb de-stracted fur a deedie too. an' he run all the way over hyar ter git me ter gin him one. but the deedies hed all gone ter bed, an' the old hen war hoverin' of 'em, an' i didn't want ter 'sturb 'em," said rufe considerately. "so i tole pig-wigs ter meet me at the tanyard early, an' i'd fetch him one. an' ez his granny war goin' visitin' her merried daughter, she let him ride behind her on thar sorrel mare ez fur ez the tanyard. so he got hyar 'fore i did. an' i kem an' gin him the deedie." rufe paused abruptly, as if, having narrated this important transaction, he had exhausted the interest of the subject. byers was about to speak, but the tanner with a gesture repressed him. "ye hain't tole 'bout the pit an' the grant yit, bubby," he reminded the small boy. byers's display of impatience was not lost upon rufe, and it added to the general acrimony of their relations. "waal," the small boy began alertly, "we-uns hed the deedie behind the smoke-house thar, an' i seen him"--rufe pointed at byers with disfavor--"a-comin' powerful slow inter the tanyard, an' i whispered ter pig-wigs griggs ter be quiet, an' not let him know ez we-uns war thar, 'kase he war always a-jawin' at me, 'thout the tanner war by ter keep him off'n me. so we-uns bided thar till he went inter the smoke-house. an' then ez we-uns kem by the shed, pig-wigs seen his uncle nate's coat hangin' on a peg thar, 'kase that thar triflin' tim hed furgot, an' lef' it thar when he went ter see the deedies. an' pig-wigs griggs, he 'lowed he knowed the coat war his uncle nate's by the favior of it, an' he reckoned the paper stickin' out'n the pocket war the grant he hed hearn nate talkin' 'bout. an' i whispered ter him ez he hed better ondertake ter tote it home ter nate. an' pig-wigs said he couldn't tote the coat, bein' so lumbered up with the deedie. but he would tote the grant in one hand an' the deedie in t'other. he couldn't put the deedie in one o' his pockets, 'kase his mother sews 'em all up, bein' ez he would kerry sech a passel o' heavy truck in 'em,--rocks an' sech, reg'lar bowlders," added rufe, with a casual remembrance of the museum in his own pockets. "so pig-wigs's mother sewed 'em all up, 'kase she said they war tore out all the time, an' she seen no sense in a boy hevin' a lot o' slits in his clothes ter let in the air slanchwise on him. an' pig-wigs 'lowed he'd tote the grant ef i would git it fur him. an' i did." "how did you-uns reach up ter that thar peg?" demanded byers, pointing to the peg on which the coat had hung, far beyond rufe's reach. "clumb up on the wooden horse," said rufe promptly. "i peeked through the chinkin' an' seen ye thar a-smokin' yer pipe over the fire." rufe winked audaciously, suddenly convincing byers as to the possessor of the big black eyes, which he had recognized as characteristic of the dicey family, when they had peered through the chinking. "waal, how did the grant git inter the pit, rufe, an' what hev become of it?" asked byers, overlooking these personalities, for he felt a certain anxiety in the matter, being the last person known to have seen the grant, which, by reason of his delay and indecision, had again been spirited away. "pig-wigs put it thar, i tell ye," reiterated rufe. "ye see, i hed got outside o' the gate, an' pig-wigs war a good ways behind, walkin' toler'ble slow, bein' ez he hed ter kerry the grant in one hand an' the deedie in t'other. an' thar i see a-cropin' along on the ground a young rabbit--reg'lar baby rabbit. an' i motioned ter pig-wigs ter come quick--i hed fund suthin'. an' ez pig-wigs couldn't put the deedie down, he laid the grant on top o' the boards ez kivered the pit. but the wind war brief, an' kem mighty nigh blowin' that grant away. so pig-wigs jes' stuck it down 'twixt two planks, an' kem ter holp me ketch the rabbit. but pig-wigs warn't no 'count ter holp. an' the rabbit got away. an' whilst pig-wigs war foolin' round, he drapped his deedie, an' stepped on it--tromped the life out'n it." rufe's expression was of funereal gravity. "an' then he follered me every foot o' the way home, beggin' an' beggin' me ter gin him another. but i wouldn't. i won't gin no more o' my deedies ter be tromped on, all round the mounting." rufe evidently felt that the line must be drawn somewhere. "an' what hev gone with that thar grant? 't war hyar yestiddy." "i dunno," responded rufe, carelessly. "mebbe pig-wigs reminded hisself 'bout'n it arter awhile, an' kem an' got it." this proved to be the case. for andy byers concerned himself enough in the matter to ride the old mule over to nate's home, to push the inquiries. nate was just emerging from the door. the claybank mare, saddled and bridled, stood in front of the cabin. he was evidently about to mount. "look-a-hyar, ye scamp!" byers saluted him gruffly, "whyn't ye let we-uns know ez ye hed got back that thar grant o' yourn, ez hev sot the whole mounting catawampus? pig-wigs hearn ye talkin' 'bout it at las', and tole ye ez he hed it, i s'pose?" nate affected to examine the saddle-girth. he looked furtively over the mare's shoulder at andy byers. he could not guess how much of the facts had been developed. in sheer perversity he was tempted to deny that he had the grant. but byers was a heavy man of scant patience, and he wore a surly air that boded ill to a trifler. nate nodded admission. "pig-wigs fotched it home, eh?" demanded byers, leaning downward. once more nate lifted his long, thin questioning face. his craft had no encouragement. "ef ye be minded to call him 'pig-wigs'--his right name air benjymen--'t war him ez fotched it home." "now ye air a mighty cantankerous, quar'lsome, aggervatin' critter!" byers broke out irritably. "ain't ye 'shamed o' this hyar hurrah ye hev kicked up fur nuthin'? accusin' o' birt wrongful, an' sech?" "naw; i ain't 'shamed o' nuthin'!" said nate hardily, springing into the saddle. "i'm a-ridin' ter the settlemint ter git word from the assayer 'bout'n the gold ez i hev fund. an' when i rides back i'll be wuth more'n enny man in the mountings or sparty either!" and he gave the mare the whip, and left andy byers, with his mouth full of rebukes, sitting motionless on the dozing old mule. the mare came back from the settlement late that night under lash and spur, at a speed she had never before made. day was hardly astir when nate griggs, wild-eyed and haggard, appeared at the tanyard in search of birt. he was loud with reproaches, for the assayer had pronounced the "gold" only worthless iron pyrites. he had received, too, a jeering letter from his proposed partner in sparta, who had found sport in playing on his consequential ignorance and fancied sharpness. and now nate declared that birt, also, had known that the mineral was valueless, and had from the first befooled him. in some way he would compel birt to refund all the money that had been expended. how piteous was nate as he stood and checked off, on his trembling fingers, the surveyor's fee, the entry-taker's fee, the register's fee, the secretary of state's fee, the assayer's fee--oh, ruin, ruin! and what had he to show for it! a tract of crags and chasms and precipitous gravelly slopes and gullies worth not a mill an acre! and this was all--for the office of laughing-stock has no emoluments. where was birt? he would hold birt to account. andy byers, listening, thought how well it was for birt that nate no longer had the loss of the grant as a grievance. perkins mysteriously beckoned nate aside. "nate," he said in a low voice, "birt air powerful mad 'bout that thar accusin' him o' stealin' the grant, when 't war some o' yer own folks, 'pig-wigs,' ez hed it all the time. i seen him goin' 'long towards yer house a leetle while ago. i reckon he air lookin' fur you. he hed that big cowhide, ez i gin him t'other day, in one hand. ye jes' take the road home, an' ye'll ketch up with him sure." nate's wits were in disastrous eclipse. could he deduce nothing from the tanner's grin? he spent the day at the settlement without ostensible reason, and only at nightfall did he return home, and by a devious route, very different from that indicated by jubal perkins. inquiry developed the fact that the boundaries of nate's land did not include the salt lick, and his talents as an obstructer were not called into play. the professor was free to dig as he chose for the antique bones he sought, and many a long day did he and birt spend in this sequestered spot, with the great crags towering above and the darkling vistas of the ravine on either hand. there was a long stretch of sunny weather, and somehow that shifting purple haze accented all its languorous lustres. it seemed a vague sort of poetry a-loose in the air, and color had license. the law which decreed that a leaf should be green was a dead letter. how gallantly red and yellow they flared; and others, how tenderly pink, and gray, and purplish of hue! what poly-tinted fancies underfoot in the moss! strange visitants came from the north. flocks of birds, southward bound, skimmed these alien skies. sometimes they alighted on the tree-tops or along the banks of the torrent, chattering in great excitement, commenting mightily on the country. birt had never been so light-hearted as during these days. the cessation of anxiety was itself a sort of happiness. the long, hard ordeal to which the truth had subjected him had ended triumphantly. "mighty onexpected things happen in this worl'," he said, reflectively. "it 'pears powerful cur'ous to me, arter all ez hev come an' gone, ez _i_ ain't no loser by that thar gold mine down the ravine." he himself was surprised that he did not rejoice in nate's mortification and defeat. but somehow he had struck a moral equilibrium; in mastering his anger and thirst for revenge, he had gained a stronger control of all the more unworthy impulses of his nature. meantime there was woe at the tanyard. jube perkins had been anxious to have birt resume his old place on the old terms. the professor, however, would not release the boy from his engagement. it seemed that this man of science could deduce subtle distinctions of character in the mere wielding of a spade. he had never seen, he said, any one dig so conscientiously and so intelligently as birt. the tanner suddenly found that conscience might prove a factor even in so simple a matter as driving the old mule around the bark-mill. the boy who had taken birt's place was a sullen, intractable fellow, and brutal. when he yelled and swore and plied the lash, the old mule would occasionally back his ears. the climax came one day when the rash boy kicked the animal. now this reminded the mild-mannered old mule of his own youthful prowess as a kicker. he revived his reputation. he seemed to stand on his fore-legs and his muzzle, while his hind-legs played havoc behind him. the terrified boy dared not come near him. the bark-mill itself was endangered. jube perkins had not done so much work for a twelvemonth as in his efforts to keep the boy, the mule, and the bark-mill going together. there were no "finds" down by the lick to rejoice the professor, and he went away at last boneless, except in so far as nature had provided him. he left birt amply rewarded for his labor. so independent did mrs. dicey feel with this sum of money in reserve, that she would not agree that birt should work on the old terms with the tanner. birt was dismayed by this temerity. once more, however, he recognized her acumen, for jubal perkins, although he left the house in a huff, came back again and promised good wages. ignorant and simple as she was, her keen instinct for her son's best interest, his true welfare, endowed her words with wisdom. thenceforth he esteemed no friend, no ally, equal to his mother. it delighted him to witness her triumph in the proof of his innocence, and indeed she did not in this matter bear herself with meekness. it made him feel so prosperous to note her relapse into her old caustic habit of speech. ah, if he were hurt or sore beset, every word would be tenderness. birt shortly compassed a much desired object. the mule's revival of his ancient glories as a "turrible kicker" had injured his market value, and birt's earnings enabled him to purchase the animal at a low price. the mule lived to a great age, always with his master as "mild-mannered" as a lamb. for some time birt saw nothing of nate, but one day the quondam friends met face to face on a narrow, precipitous path on the mountain side. abject fear was expressed in nate's sharp features, for escape was impossible. there was no need of either fear or flight. "how air ye, i'on pyrite!" cried birt cheerfully. the martyr's countenance changed. "ye never done me right 'bout that thar mine, birt dicey," nate said reproachfully. "ye mus' hev knowed from the fust ez them thar rocks war good fur nuthin'." "ye air the deceivinest sandy-headed pyrite that ever war on the top o' this mounting, an' ye knows it," birt retorted in high good humor; "an' ef it war wuth my while i'd gin ye a old-fashion larrupin' jes' ter pay ye fur the trick ez ye played on me. but i ain't keerin' fur that, now. stan' back thar, tennessee!" since then, tennessee, always preserving the influence she wielded that memorable night, has grown to be a woman--never pretty, but, as her brother still stoutly avers, "powerful peart." the last stetson by john fox jr. i. a midsummer freshet was running over old gabe bunch's water-wheel into the cumberland. inside the mill steve marcum lay in one dark corner with a slouched hat over his face. the boy isom was emptying a sack of corn into the hopper. old gabe was speaking his mind. always the miller had been a man of peace; and there was one time when he thought the old stetson-lewallen feud was done. that was when rome stetson, the last but one of his name, and jasper lewallen, the last but one of his, put their guns down and fought with bare fists on a high ledge above old gabe's mill one morning at daybreak. the man who was beaten was to leave the mountains; the other was to stay at home and have peace. steve marcum, a stetson, heard the sworn terms and saw the fight. jasper was fairly whipped; and when rome let him up he proved treacherous and ran for his gun. rome ran too, but stumbled and fell. jasper whirled with his winchester and was about to kill rome where he lay, when a bullet came from somewhere and dropped him back to the ledge again. both steve marcum and rome stetson said they had not fired the shot; neither would say who had. some thought one man was lying, some thought the other was, and jasper's death lay between the two. state troops came then, under the governor's order, from the blue grass, and rome had to drift down the river one night in old gabe's canoe and on out of the mountains for good. martha lewallen, who, though jasper's sister, and the last of the name, loved and believed rome, went with him. marcums and braytons who had taken sides in the fight hid in the bushes around hazlan, or climbed over into virginia. a railroad started up the cumberland. "furriners came in to buy wild lands and get out timber." civilization began to press over the mountains and down on hazlan, as it had pressed in on breathitt, the seat of another feud, in another county. in breathitt the feud was long past, and with good reason old gabe thought that it was done in hazlan. but that autumn a panic started over from england. it stopped the railroad far down the cumberland; it sent the "furriners" home, and drove civilization back. marcums and braytons came in from hiding, and drifted one by one to the old fighting-ground. in time they took up the old quarrel, and with steve marcum and steve brayton as leaders, the old stetson-lewallen feud went on, though but one soul was left in the mountains of either name. that was isom, a pale little fellow whom rome had left in old gabe's care; and he, though a stetson and a half-brother to rome, was not counted, because he was only a boy and a foundling, and because his ways were queer. there was no open rupture, no organized division--that might happen no more. the mischief was individual now, and ambushing was more common. certain men were looking for each other, and it was a question of "draw-in' quick 'n' shootin' quick" when the two met by accident, or of getting the advantage "from the bresh." in time steve marcum had come face to face with old steve brayton in hazlan, and the two steves, as they were known, drew promptly. marcum was in the dust when the smoke cleared away; and now, after three months in bed, he was just out again. he had come down to the mill to see isom. this was the miller's first chance for remonstrance, and, as usual, he began to lay it down that every man who had taken a human life must sooner or later pay for it with his own. it was an old story to isom, and, with a shake of impatience, he turned out the door of the mill, and left old gabe droning on under his dusty hat to steve, who, being heavy with "moonshine," dropped asleep. outside the sun was warm, the flood was calling from the dam, and the boy's petulance was gone at once. for a moment he stood on the rude platform watching the tide; then he let one bare foot into the water, and, with a shiver of delight, dropped from the boards. in a moment his clothes were on the ground behind a laurel thicket, and his slim white body was flashing like a faun through the reeds and bushes up stream. a hundred yards away the creek made a great loop about a wet thicket of pine and rhododendron, and he turned across the bushy neck. creeping through the gnarled bodies of rhododendron, he dropped suddenly behind the pine, and lay flat in the black earth. ten yards through the dusk before him was the half-bent figure of a man letting an old army haversack slip from one shoulder; and isom watched him hide it with a rifle under a bush, and go noiselessly on towards the road. it was crump, eli crump, who had been a spy for the lewallens in the old feud and who was spying now for old steve brayton. it was the second time isom had seen him lurking about, and the boy's impulse was to hurry back to the mill. but it was still peace, and without his gun crump was not dangerous; so isom rose and ran on, and, splashing into the angry little stream, shot away like a roll of birch bark through the tawny crest of a big wave. he had done the feat a hundred times; he knew every rock and eddy in flood-time, and he floated through them and slipped like an eel into the mill-pond. old gabe was waiting for him. "whut ye mean, boy," he said, sharply, "reskin' the fever an' ager this way? no wonder folks thinks ye air half crazy. git inter them clothes now 'n' come in hyeh. you'll ketch yer death o' cold swimmin' this way atter a fresh." the boy was shivering when he took his seat at the funnel, but he did not mind that; some day he meant to swim over that dam. steve still lay motionless in the corner near him, and isom lifted the slouched hat and began tickling his lips with a straw. steve was beyond the point of tickling, and isom dropped the hat back and turned to tell the miller what he had seen in the thicket. the dim interior darkened just then, and crump stood in the door. old gabe stared hard at him without a word of welcome, but crump shuffled to a chair unasked, and sat like a toad astride it, with his knees close up under his arms, and his wizened face in his hands. meeting isom's angry glance, he shifted his own uneasily. "seed the new preacher comm' 'long today?" he asked. drawing one dirty finger across his forehead, "got a long scar 'cross hyeh." the miller shook his head. "well, he's a-comm'. i've been waitin' fer him up the road, but i reckon i got to git 'cross the river purty soon now." crump had been living over in breathitt since the old feud. he had been "convicted" over there by sherd raines, a preacher from the jellico hills, and he had grown pious. indeed, he had been trailing after raines from place to place, and he was following the circuit-rider now to the scene of his own deviltry--hazlan. "reckon you folks don't know i got the cirkit-rider to come over hyeh, do ye?" he went on. "ef he can't preach! well, i'd tell a man! he kin jus' draw the heart out'n a holler log! he 'convicted' me fust night, over thar in breathitt. he come up thar, ye know, to stop the feud, he said; 'n' thar was laughin' from one eendo' breathitt to t'other; but thar was the whoppinest crowd thar i ever see when he did come. the meetin'-house wasn't big enough to hold 'em, so he goes out on the aidge o' town, n' climbs on to a stump. he hed a woman with him from the settlemints--she's a-waitin' at hazlan fer him now-'n' she had a cur'us little box, 'n' he put her 'n' the box on a big rock, 'n' started in a callin' 'em his bretherin' 'n' sisteren, 'n' folks seed mighty soon thet he meant it, too. he's always mighty easylike, tell he gits to the blood-penalty." at the word, crump's listeners paid sudden heed. old gabe's knife stopped short in the heart of the stick he was whittling; the boy looked sharply up from the running meal into crump's face and sat still. well, he jes prayed to the almighty as though he was a-talkin' to him face to face, 'n' then the woman put her hands on that box, 'n' the sweetes' sound anybody thar ever heerd come outen it. then she got to singin'. hit wusn't nuthin' anybody thar'd ever heerd; but some o' the women folks was a snifflin' 'fore she got through. he pitched right into the feud, as he calls hit, 'n' the sin o' sheddin' human blood, i tell ye; 'n' 'twixt him and the soldiers i reckon thar won't be no more fightin' in breathitt. he says, 'n' he always says it mighty loud --crump raised his own voice--"thet the man as kills his feller-critter hev some day got ter give up his own blood, sartin 'n' shore." it was old gabe's pet theory, and he was nodding approval. the boy's parted lips shook with a spasm of fear, and were as quickly shut tight with suspicion. steve raised his head as though he too had heard the voice, and looked stupidly about him. "i tol' him," crump went on, "thet things was already a-gettin' kind o' frolicsome round hyeh agin; thet the marcums 'n' braytons was a-takin' up the ole war, 'n' would be a-plunkin' one 'nother every time they got together, 'n' a-gittin' the whole country in fear 'n' tremblin'--now thet steve marcum had come back." steve began to scowl and a vixenish smile hovered at isom's lips. "he knows mighty well--fer i tol' him--thet thar hain't a wuss man in all these mountains than thet very steve--" the name ended in a gasp, and the wizened gossip was caught by the throat and tossed, chair and all, into a corner of the mill. "none o' that, steve!" called the miller, sternly. "not hyeh. don't hurt him now!" crump's face stiffened with such terror that steve broke into a laugh. "well, ye air a skeery critter!" he said, contemptuously. "i hain't goin' to hurt him, uncl' gabe, but he must be a plumb idgit, a-talkin' 'bout folks to thar face, 'n' him so puny an' spindlin'! you git!" crump picked himself up trembling--"don't ye ever let me see ye on this side o' the river agin, now "--and shuffled out, giving marcum one look of fear and unearthly hate. "convicted!" snorted steve. "i heerd old steve brayton had hired him to waylay me, 'n' i swar i believe hit's so." "well, he won't hev to give him more'n a chaw o' tobaccer now," said gabe. "he'll come purty near doin' hit hisseif, i reckon, ef he gits the chance." "well, he kin git the chance ef i gits my leetle account settled with ole steve brayton fust. 'pears like that old hog ain't satisfied shootin' me hisself." stretching his arms with a yawn, steve winked at isom and moved to the door. the boy followed him outside. "we're goin' fer ole brayton about the dark o' the next moon, boy," he said. "he's sort o' s'picious now, 'n' we'll give him a leetle time to git tame. i'll have a bran'-new winchester fer ye, isom. hit ull be like ole times agin, when rome was hyeh. whut's the matter, boy?" he asked, suddenly. isom looked unresponsive, listless. "air ye gittin' sick agin?" "well, i hain't feelin' much peert, steve." "take keer o' yourself, boy. don't git sick now. we'll have to watch eli crump purty close. i don't know why i hain't killed thet spyin' skunk long ago, 'ceptin' i never had a shore an' sartin reason fer doin 'it." isom started to speak then and stopped. he would learn more first; and he let steve go on home unwarned. the two kept silence after marcum had gone. isom turned away from old gabe, and stretched himself out on the platform. he looked troubled. the miller, too, was worried. "jus' a hole in the groun'," he said, half to himself; "that's whut we're all comm' to! 'pears like we mought help one 'nother to keep out'n hit, 'stid o' holpin' 'em in." brown shadows were interlacing out in the mill-pond, where old gabe's eyes were intent. a current of cool air had started down the creek to the river. a katydid began to chant. twilight was coming, and the miller rose. "hit's a comfort to know you won't be mixed up in all this devilment," he said; and then, as though he had found more light in the gloom: "hit's a comfort to know the new rider air shorely a-preachin' the right doctrine, 'n' i want ye to go hear him. blood for blood-life fer a life! your grandad shot ole tom lewallen in hazlan. ole jack lewallen shot him from the bresh. tom stetson killed ole jack; ole jass killed tom, 'n' so hit comes down, fer back as i can ricollect. i hev nuver knowed hit to fail." the lad had risen on one elbow. his face was pale and uneasy, and he averted it when the miller turned in the door. "you'd better stay hyeh, son, 'n' finish up the grist. hit won't take long. hev ye got victuals fer yer supper?" isom nodded, without looking around, and when old gabe was gone he rose nervously and dropped helplessly back to the floor. "'pears like old gabe knows i killed jass," he breathed, sullenly. "'pears like all of 'em knows hit, 'n' air jus' a-tormentin' me." nobody dreamed that the boy and his old gun had ended that fight on the cliff; and without knowing it, old gabe kept the lad in constant torture with his talk of the blood-penalty. but isom got used to it in time, for he had shot to save his brother's life. steve marcum treated him thereafter as an equal. steve's friends, too, changed in manner towards him because steve had. and now, just when he had reached the point of wondering whether, after all, there might not be one thing that old gabe did not know, crump had come along with the miller's story, which he had got from still another, a circuit-rider, who must know the truth. the fact gave him trouble. "mebbe hit's goin' to happen when i goes with steve atter ole brayton," he mumbled, and he sat thinking the matter over, until a rattle and a whir inside the mill told him that the hopper was empty. he arose to fill it, and coming out again, he heard hoof-beats on the dirt road. a stranger rode around the rhododendrons and shouted to him, asking the distance to hazlan. he took off his hat when isom answered, to wipe the dust and perspiration from his face, and the boy saw a white scar across his forehead. a little awestricken, the lad walked towards him. "air you the new rider whut's goin' to preach up to hazlan?" he asked. raines smiled at the solemnity of the little fellow. "yes," he said, kindly. "won't you come up and hear me?" "yes, sir," he said, and his lips parted as though he wanted to say something else, but raines did not notice. "i wished i had axed him," he said, watching the preacher ride away. "uncle gabe knows might' nigh ever'thing, 'n' he says so. crump said the rider said so; but crump might 'a' been lyin'. he 'most al'ays is. i wished i had axed him." mechanically the lad walked along the millrace, which was made of hewn boards and hollow logs. in every crevice grass hung in thick bunches to the ground or tipped wiry blades over the running water. tightening a prop where some silvery jet was getting too large, he lifted the tail-gate a trifle and lay down again on the platform near the old wheel. out in the mill-pond the water would break now and then into ripples about some unwary moth, and the white belly of a fish would flash from the surface. it was the only sharp accent on the air. the chant of the katydids had become a chorus, and the hush of darkness was settling over the steady flow of water and the low drone of the millstones. "i hain't afeerd," he kept saying to himself. "i hain't afeerd o' nothin' nor nobody;" but he lay brooding until his head throbbed, until darkness filled the narrow gorge, and the strip of dark blue up through the trees was pointed with faint stars. he was troubled when he rose, and climbed on rome's horse and rode homeward--so troubled that he turned finally and started back in a gallop for hazlan. it was almost as crump had said. there was no church in hazlan, and, as in breathitt, the people had to follow raines outside the town, and he preached from the roadside. the rider's master never had a tabernacle more simple: overhead the stars and a low moon; close about, the trees still and heavy with summer; a pine torch over his head like a yellow plume; two tallow dips hung to a beech on one side, and flicking to the other the shadows of the people who sat under them. a few marcums and braytons were there, one faction shadowed on raines's right, one on his left. between them the rider stood straight, and prayed as though talking with some one among the stars. behind him the voice of the woman at her tiny organ rose among the leaves. and then he spoke as he had prayed; and from the first they listened like children, while in their own homely speech he went on to tell them, just as he would have told children, a story that some of them had never heard before. "forgive your enemies as he had forgiven his," that was his plea. marcums and braytons began to press in from the darkness on each side, forgetting each other as the rest of the people forgot them. and when the story was quite done, raines stood a full minute without a word. no one was prepared for what followed. abruptly his voice rose sternly--"thou shalt not kill"; and then satan took shape under the torch. the man was transformed, swaying half crouched before them. the long black hair fell across the white scar, and picture after picture leaped from his tongue with such vividness that a low wail started through the audience, and women sobbed in their bonnets. it was penalty for bloodshed--not in this world: penalty eternal in the next; and one slight figure under the dips staggered suddenly aside into the darkness. it was isom; and no soul possessed of devils was ever more torn than his, when he splashed through troubled fork and rode away that night. half a mile on he tried to keep his eyes on his horse's neck, anywhere except on one high gray rock to which they were raised against his will--the peak under which he had killed young jasper. there it was staring into the moon, but watching him as he fled through the woods, shuddering at shadows, dodging branches that caught at him as he passed, and on in a run, until he drew rein and slipped from his saddle at the friendly old mill. there was no terror for him there. there every bush was a friend; every beech trunk a sentinel on guard for him in shining armor. it was the old struggle that he was starting through that night--the old fight of humanity from savage to christian; and the lad fought it until, with the birth of his wavering soul, the premonitions of the first dawn came on. the patches of moonlight shifted, paling. the beech columns mottled slowly with gray and brown. a ruddy streak was cleaving the east like a slow sword of fire. the chill air began to pulse and the mists to stir. moisture had gathered on the boy's sleeve. his horse was stamping uneasily, and the lad rose stiffly, his face gray but calm, and started home. at old gabe's gate he turned in his saddle to look where, under the last sinking star, was once the home of his old enemies. farther down, under the crest, was old steve brayton, alive, and at that moment perhaps asleep. "forgive your enemies;" that was the rider's plea. forgive old steve, who had mocked him, and had driven rome from the mountains; who had threatened old gabe's life, and had shot steve marcum almost to death! the lad drew breath quickly, and standing in his stirrups, stretched out his fist, and let it drop, slowly. ii. old gabe was just starting out when isom' reached the cabin, and the old man thought the boy had been at the mill all night. isom slept through the day, and spoke hardly a word when the miller came home, though the latter had much to say of raines, the two steves, and of the trouble possible. he gave some excuse for not going with old gabe the next day, and instead went into the woods alone. late in the middle of the afternoon he reached the mill. old gabe sat smoking outside the door, and isom stretched himself out on the platform close to the water, shading his eyes from the rich sunlight with one ragged sleeve. "uncl' gabe," he said, suddenly, "s'posin' steve brayton was to step out'n the bushes thar some mawnin' 'n' pull down his winchester on ye, would ye say, 'lawd, fergive him, fer he don't know whut he do'?" old gabe had told him once about a stetson and a lewallen who were heard half a mile away praying while they fought each other to death with winchesters. "there was no use prayin' an' shootin'," the miller declared. there was but one way for them to escape damnation; that was to throw down their guns and make friends. but the miller had forgotten, and his mood that morning was whimsical. "well, i mought, isom," he said, "ef i didn't happen to have a gun handy." the humor was lost on isom. his chin was moving up and down, and his face was serious. that was just it. he could forgive jass--jass was dead; he could forgive crump, if he caught him in no devilment; old brayton even--after steve's revenge was done. but now--the boy rose, shaking his head. "uncl' gabe," he said with sudden passion, "whut ye reckon rome's a-doin'?" the miller looked a little petulant. "don't ye git tired axin' me thet question, isom? rome's a-scratchin' right peert fer a livin', i reckon, fer hisself 'n' marthy. yes, 'n' mebbe fer a young 'un too by this time. ef ye air honin' fer rome, why don't ye rack out 'n' go to him? lawd knows i'd hate ter see ye go, but i tol' rome i'd let ye whenever ye got ready, 'n' so i will." isom had no answer, and old gabe was puzzled. it was always this way. the boy longed for rome, the miller could see. he spoke of him sometimes with tears, and sometimes he seemed to be on the point of going to him, but he shrank inexplicably when the time for leaving came. isom started into the mill now without a word, as usual. old gabe noticed that his feet were unsteady, and with quick remorse began to question him. "kinder puny, hain't ye, isom?" "well, i hain't feelin' much peert." "hit was mighty keerless," old gabe said, with kindly reproach, "swimmin' the crick atter a fresh." "hit wasn't the swimmin'," he protested, dropping weakly at the threshold. "hit was settin' out 'n the woods. i was in hazlan t'other night, und' gabe, to hear the new rider." the miller looked around with quick interest. "i've been skeered afore by riders a-tellin' 'bout the torments o' hell, but i never heerd nothin' like his tellin' 'bout the lord. he said the lord was jes as pore as anybody thar, and lived jes as rough; thet he made fences and barns n' ox-yokes 'n' sech like, an' he couldn't write his own name when he started out to save the worl'; an' when he come to the p'int whar his enemies tuk hol' of him, the rider jes crossed his fingers up over his head 'n' axed us if we didn't know how it hurt to run a splinter into a feller's hand when he's loggin' or a thorn into yer foot when ye're goin' barefooted." "hit jes made me sick, uncl' gabe, hearin' him tell how they stretched him out on a cross o' wood, when he'd come down fer nothin' but to save 'em, 'n' stuck a spear big as a co'n-knife into his side, 'n' give him vinegar, 'n' let him hang thar 'n' die, with his own mammy a-stand-in' down on the groun' a-cryin' 'n' watchin' him. some folks thar never heerd sech afore. the women was a-rockin', 'n' ole granny day axed right out ef thet tuk place a long time ago; 'n' the rider said, 'yes, a long time ago, mos two thousand years.' granny was a-cryin', uncl' gabe, 'n' she said, sorter soft, 'stranger, let's hope that hit hain't so'; 'n' the rider says, but hit air so; n' he fergive em while they was doin' it.' thet's whut got me, uncl' gabe, 'n' when the woman got to singin', somethin' kinder broke loose hyeh"--isom passed his hand over his thin chest--"'n' i couldn't git breath. i was mos' afeerd to ride home. i jes layed at the mill studyin', till i thought my head would bust. i reckon hit was the spent a-work-in me. looks like i was mos' convicted, uncl' gabe." his voice trembled and he stopped. "crump was a-lyin'," he cried, suddenly. "but hit's wuss, und' gabe; hit's wuss! you say a life fer a life in this worl'; the rider says hit's in the next, 'n' i'm mis'ble, uncl' gabe. ef rome--i wish rome was hyeh," he cried, helplessly. "i don't know whut to do." the miller rose and limped within the mill, and ran one hand through the shifting corn. he stood in the doorway, looking long and perplexedly towards hazlan; he finally saw, he thought, just what the lad's trouble was. he could give him some comfort, and he got his chair and dragged it out to the door across the platform, and sat down in silence. "isom," he said at last, "the spent air shorely a-workin' ye, 'n' i'm glad of it. but ye mus 'n t worry about the penalty a-fallin' on rome. steve marcum killed jass--he can't fool me--'n' i've told steve he's got thet penalty to pay ef he gits up this trouble. i'm glad the spent's a-workin' ye, but ye mus'n' t worry 'bout rome." isom rose suddenly on one elbow, and with a moan lay back and crossed his arms over his face. old gabe turned and left him. "git up, isom." it was the miller's voice again, an hour later. "you better go home now. ride the hoss, boy," he and, kindly. isom rose, and old gabe helped him mount, and stood at the door. the horse started, but the boy pulled him to a standstill again. "i want to ax ye jes one thing more, uncl' gabe," he said, slowly. "s'posin' steve had a-killed jass to keep him from killin' rome, hev he got to be damned fer it jes the same? hev he got to give up eternal life anyways? hain't thar no way out'n it--no way?" there was need for close distinction now and the miller was deliberate. "ef steve shot jass," he said, "jes to save rome's life--he had the right to shoot him. thar hain't no doubt 'bout that. the law says so. but"--there was a judicial pause--"i've heerd steve say that he hated jass wuss' n anybody on earth, 'cept old brayton; 'n' ef he wus glad o' the chance o' killin' him, why--the lord air merciful, isom; the bible air true, 'n' hit says an 'eye fer an eye, a tooth fer a tooth,' 'n' i never knowed hit to fail--but the lord air merciful. ef steve would only jes repent, 'n' ef, 'stid o' fightin' the lord by takin' human life, he'd fight fer him by savin' it, i reckon the lord would fergive him. fer ef ye lose yer life fer him, he do say you'll find it agin somewhar--sometime." old gabe did not see the sullen despair that came into the boy's tense face. the subtlety of the answer had taken the old man back to the days when he was magistrate, and his eyes were half closed. isom rode away without a word. from the dark of the mill old gabe turned to look after him again. "i'm afeerd he's a-gittin' feverish agin. hit looks like he's convicted; but"--he knew the wavering nature of the boy--"i don't know--i don't know." going home an hour later, the old man saw several mountaineers climbing the path towards steve marcum's cabin; it meant the brewing of mischief; and when he stopped at his own gate, he saw at the bend of the road a figure creep from the bushes on one side into the bushes on the other. it looked like crump. iii. it was crump, and fifty yards behind him was isom, slipping through the brush after him--isom's evil spirit--old gabe, raines, "conviction," blood-penalty, forgotten, all lost in the passion of a chase which has no parallel when the game is man. straight up the ravine crump went along a path which led to steve marcum's cabin. there was a clump of rhododendron at the head of the ravine, and near steve's cabin. about this hour marcum would be chopping wood for supper, or sitting out in his porch in easy range from the thicket. crump's plan was plain: he was about his revenge early, and isom was exultant. "oh, no, eli, you won't git steve this time. oh, naw!" the bushes were soon so thick that he could no longer follow crump by sight, and every few yards he had to stop to listen, and then steal on like a mountain-cat towards the leaves rustling ahead of him. half-way up the ravine crump turned to the right and stopped. puzzled, isom pushed so close that the spy, standing irresolute on the edge of the path, whirled around. the boy sank to his face, and in a moment footsteps started and grew faint; crump had darted across the path, and was running through the undergrowth up the spur. isom rose and hurried after him; and when, panting hard, he reached the top, the spy's skulking figure was sliding from steve's house and towards the breathitt road; and with a hot, puzzled face, the boy went down after it. on a little knob just over a sudden turn in the road crump stopped, and looking sharply about him, laid his gun down. just in front of him were two rocks, waist-high, with a crevice between them. drawing a long knife from his pocket, he climbed upon them, and began to cut carefully away the spreading top of a bush that grew on the other side. isom crawled down towards him like a lizard, from tree to tree. a moment later the spy was filling up the crevice with stones, and isom knew what he was about; he was making a "blind" to waylay steve, who, the boy knew, was going to breathitt by that road the next sunday. how did crump know that--how did he know everything? the crevice filled, crump cut branches and stuck them between the rocks. then he pushed his rifle through the twigs, and taking aim several times, withdrew it. when he turned away at last and started down to the road, he looked back once more, and isom saw him grinning. almost chuckling in answer, the lad slipped around the knob to the road the other way, and crump threw up his gun with a gasp of fright when a figure rose out of the dusk before him. "hol' on, eli!" said isom, easily. "don't git skeered! hit's nobody but me. whar ye been?" crump laughed, so quick was he disarmed of suspicion. "jes up the river a piece to see aunt sally day. she's a fust cousin o' mine by marriage." jsom's right hand was slipping back as if to rest on his hip. "d'you say you'd been 'convicted,' eli?" crump's answer was chantlike. "yes, lawd reckon i have." "goin' to stop all o' yer lyin', air ye," isom went on, in the same tone, and crump twitched as though struck suddenly from behind, "an' stealin' 'n' lay-wayin'?" "look a-hyeh, boy--" he began, roughly, and mumbling a threat, started on. "uh, eli!" even then the easy voice fooled him again, and he turned. isom had a big revolver on a line with his breast. "drap yer gun!" he said, tremulously. crump tried to laugh, but his guilty face turned gray. "take keer, boy," he gasped; "yer gun's cocked. take keer, i tell ye!" "drap it, damn ye!" isom called in sudden fury, "'n' git clean away from it!" crump backed, and isom came forward and stood with one foot on the fallen winchester. "i seed ye, eli. been makin' a blind fer steve, hev ye? goin' to shoot him in the back, too, air ye? you're ketched at last, eli. you've done a heap o' devilment. you're gittin' wuss all the time. you oughter be dead, 'n' now--" crump found voice in a cry of terror and a whine for mercy. the boy looked at him, unable to speak his contempt. "git down thar!" he said, finally; and crump, knowing what was wanted, stretched himself in the road. isom sat down on a stone, the big pistol across one knee. "roll over!" crump rolled at full length. "git up!" isom laughed wickedly. "ye don't look purty, eli." he lifted the pistol and nipped a cake of dirt from the road between crump's feet. with another cry of fear, the spy began a vigorous dance. "hol' on, eli; i don't want ye to dance. ye belong to the chu'ch now, 'n' i wouldn't have ye go agin yer religion fer nothin'. stan' still!" another bullet and another cut between crump's feet. "'pears like ye don't think i kin shoot straight. eli," he went on, reloading the empty chambers, "some folks think i'm a idgit, 'n' i know 'em. do you think i'm a idgit, eli?" "actin' mighty nateral now." isom was raising the pistol again. "oh, lawdy! don't shoot, boy--don't shoot! "git down on yer knees! now i want ye to beg fer mercy thet ye never showed--thet ye wouldn't 'a' showed steve... purty good," he said, encouragingly. "mebbe ye kin pray a leetle, seem' ez ye air a chu'ch member. pray fer yer enemies, eli; uncl' gabe says ye must love yer enemies. i know how ye loves me, 'n' i want yer to pray fer me. the lawd mus' sot a powerful store by a good citizen like you. ax him to fergive me fer killin' ye." "have mercy, o lawd," prayed crump, to command--and the prayer was subtle--"on the murderer of this thy servant. a life fer a life, thou hev said, o lawd. fer killin' me he will foller me, 'n' ef ye hev not mussy he is boun' fer the lowes' pit o' hell, o lawd--" it was isom's time to wince now, and crump's pious groan was cut short. "shet up!" cried the boy, sharply, and he sat a moment silent. "you've been a-spyin' on us sence i was borned, eli," he said, reflectively. "i believe ye lay-wayed dad. y'u spied on rome. y'u told the soldiers whar he was a-hidin' y'u tried to shoot him from the bresh. y'u found out steve was goin' to breathitt on sunday, 'n' you've jes made a blind to shoot him in the back. i reckon thar's no meanness ye hain't done. dad's al'ays said ye sot a snare fer a woman once--a woman! y'u loaded a musket with slugs, 'n' tied a string to the trigger, 'n' stretched hit 'cross the path, 'n' y'u got up on a cliff 'n' whistled to make her slow up jes when she struck the string. i reckon thet's yer wust--but i don't know." several times crump raised his hands in protest while his arraignment was going on; several times he tried to speak, but his lips refused utterance. the boy's voice was getting thicker and thicker, and he was nervously working the cock of the big pistol up and down. "git up," he said; and crump rose with a spring. the lad's tone meant release. "you hain't wuth the risk. i hain't goin' ter kill ye. i jus' wanted ter banter ye 'n' make ye beg. you're a good beggar, eli, 'n' a powerful prayer. you'll be a shinin' light in the chu'ch, ef ye gits a chance ter shine long. fer lemme tell ye, nobody ever ketched ye afore. but you're ketched now, an' i'm goin' to tell steve. he'll be a-watchin' fer ye, 'n' so 'll i. i tell ye in time, ef ye ever come over hyeh agin as long as you live, you'll never git back alive. turn roun'! hev ye got any balls?" he asked, feeling in crump's pockets for cartridges. "no; well"--he picked up the winchester and pumped the magazine empty--"i'll keep these," he said, handing crump the empty rifle. "now git away--an' git away quick!" crump's slouching footsteps went out of hearing, and isom sat where he was. his elbows dropped to his knees. his face dropped slowly into his hands, and the nettles of remorse began to sting. he took the back of one tremulous hand presently to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, and he found it burning. a sharp pain shot through his eyes. he knew what that meant, and feeling dizzy, he rose and started a little blindly towards home. old gabe was waiting for him. he did not answer the old man's querulous inquiry, but stumbled towards a bed. an hour later, when the miller was rubbing his forehead, he opened his eyes, shut them, and began to talk. "i reckon i hain't much better 'n eli, und' gabe," he said, plaintively. "i've been abusin' him down thar in the woods. i come might' nigh killin' him onct." the old man stroked on, scarcely heeding the boy's words, so much nonsense would he talk when ill. "i've been lyin' to ye, uncl' gabe, 'n' a-deceivin' of ye right along. steve's a-goin' atter ole brayton--i'm goin' too--steve didn't kill jass--hit wusn't steve--hit wusn't rome--hit was--" the last word stopped behind his shaking lips; he rose suddenly in bed, looked wildly into the miller's startled face, and dropping with a sob to the bed, went sobbing to sleep. old gabe went back to his pipe, and while he smoked, his figure shrank slowly in his chair. he went to bed finally, but sleep would not come, and he rose again and built up the fire and sat by it, waiting for day. his own doctrine, sternly taught for many a year, had come home to him; and the miller's face when he opened his door was gray as the breaking light. iv. there was little peace for old gabe that day at the mill. and when he went home at night he found cause for the thousand premonitions that had haunted him. the lad was gone. a faint light in the east was heralding the moon when isom reached steve marcum's gate. there were several horses hitched to the fence, several dim forms seated in the porch, and the lad halloed for steve, whose shadow shot instantly from the door and came towards him. "glad ter see ye, isom," he called, jubilantly. "i was jus' about to sen' fer ye. how'd ye happen to come up?" isom answered in a low voice with the news of crump's "blind," and steve laughed and swore in the same breath. "come hyeh!" he said, leading the way back; and at the porch he had isom tell the story again. "whut d' i tell ye, boys?" he asked, triumphantly. "don't believe ye more 'n half believed me." three more horsemen rode up to the gate and came into the light. every man was armed, and at isom's puzzled look, steve caught the lad by the arm and led him around the chimney-corner. he was in high spirits. "'pears like ole times, isom. i'm a-goin' fer thet cussed ole steve brayton this very night. he's behind crump. i s'picioned it afore; now i know it for sartain. he's a-goin' to give eli a mule 'n' a winchester fer killin' me. we're goin' to s'prise him to-night. he won't be look-in' fer us--i've fixed that. i wus jus' about to sen' fer ye. i hain't fergot how ye kin handle a gun." steve laughed significantly. "ye're a good frien' o' mine, 'n' i'm goin' to show ye thet i'm a frien' o' yourn." isom's paleness was unnoticed in the dark. the old throbbing began to beat again at his temple; the old haze started from his eyes. "hyeh's yer gun, isom," he heard steve saying next. the fire was blazing into his face. at the chimney-corner was the bent figure of old daddy marcum, and across his lap shone a winchester. steve was pointing at it, his grim face radiant; the old man's toothless mouth was grinning, and his sharp black eyes were snapping up at him. "hit's yourn, i tell ye," said steve again. "i aimed jes to lend it to ye, but ye've saved me frum gittin' killed, mebbe, 'n' hit's yourn now--yourn, boy, fer keeps." steve was holding the gun out to him now. the smooth cold touch of the polished barrel thrilled him. it made everything for an instant clear again, and feeling weak, isom sat down on the bed, gripping the treasure in both trembling hands. on one side of him some one was repeating steve's plan of attack. old brayton's cabin was nearly opposite, but they would go up the river, cross above the mill, and ride back. the night was cloudy, but they would have the moonlight now and then for the climb up the mountain. they would creep close, and when the moon was hid they would run in and get old brayton alive, if possible. then--the rest was with steve. across the room he could hear steve telling the three new-comers, with an occasional curse, about crump's blind, and how he knew that old brayton was hiring crump. "old steve's meaner 'n eli," he said to himself, and a flame of the old hate surged up from the fire of temptation in his heart. steve marcum was his best friend; steve had shielded him. the boy had promised to join him against old brayton, and here was the winchester, brand-new, to bind his word. "git ready, boys; git ready." it was steve's voice, and in isom's ears the preacher's voice rang after it. again that blinding mist before his eyes, and the boy brushed at it irritably. he could see the men buckling cartridge-belts, but he sat still. two or three men were going out. daddy marcum was leaning on a chair at the door, looking eagerly at each man as he passed. "hain't ye goin', isom?" somebody was standing before him twirling a rifle on its butt, a boy near isom's age. the whirling gun made him dizzy. "stop it!" he cried, angrily. old daddy marcum was answering the boy's question from the door. "isom goin'?" he piped, proudly. "i reckon he air. whar's yer belt, boy? git ready. git ready." isom rose then--he could not answer sitting down--and caught at a bedpost with one hand, while he fumbled at his throat with the other. "i hain't goin'." steve heard at the door, and whirled around. daddy marcum was tottering across the floor, with one bony hand uplifted. "you're a coward!" the name stilled every sound. isom, with eyes afire, sprang at the old man to strike, but somebody caught his arm and forced him back to the bed. "shet up, dad," said steve, angrily, looking sharply into isom's face. "don't ye see the boy's sick? he needn't go ef he don't want to. time to start, boys." the tramp of heavy boots started across the puncheon floor and porch again. isom could hear steve's orders outside; the laughs and jeers and curses of the men as they mounted their horses; he heard the cavalcade pass through the gate, the old man's cackling good-by; then the horses' hoofs going down the mountain, and daddy marcum's hobbling step on the porch again. he was standing in the middle of the floor, full in the firelight, when the old man reached the threshold--standing in a trance, with a cartridge-belt in his hand. "good fer you, isom--" the cry was apologetic, and stopped short. "the critter's fersakcn," he quavered, and cowed by the boy's strange look, the old man shrank away from him along the wall. but isom seemed neither to see nor hear. he caught up his rifle, and, wavering an instant, tossed it with the belt on the bed and ran out the door. the old man followed, dumb with amazement. "isom!" he called, getting his wits and his tongue at last. "hyeh's yer gun! come back, i tell ye! you've fergot yer gun! isom! isom!" the voice piped shrilly out into the darkness, and piped back without answer. a steep path, dangerous even by day, ran snakelike from the cabin down to the water's edge. it was called isom's path after that tragic night. no mountaineer went down it thereafter without a firm faith that only by the direct help of heaven could the boy, in his flight down through the dark, have reached the river and the other side alive. the path dropped from ledge to ledge, and ran the brink of precipices and chasms. in a dozen places the boy crashed through the undergrowth from one slippery fold to the next below, catching at roots and stones, slipping past death a score of times, and dropping on till a flood of yellow light lashed the gloom before him. just there the river was most narrow; the nose of a cliff swerved the current sharply across, and on the other side an eddy ran from it up stream. these earthly helps he had, and he needed them. there had been a rain-storm, and the waves swept him away like thistle-down, and beat back at him as he fought through them and stood choked and panting on the other shore. he did not dare stop to rest. the marcums, too, had crossed the river up at the ford by this time, and were galloping towards him; and isom started on and up. when he reached the first bench of the spur the moon was swinging over thunderstruck knob. the clouds broke as he climbed; strips of radiant sky showed between the rolling masses, and the mountain above was light and dark in quick succession. he had no breath when he reached the ledge that ran below old steve's cabin, and flinging one arm above it, he fell through sheer exhaustion. the cabin was dark as the clump of firs behind it; the inmates were unsuspecting; and steve marcum and his men were not far below. a rumbling started under him, while he lay there and grew faint--the rumble of a stone knocked from the path by a horse's hoof. isom tried to halbo, but his voice stopped in a whisper, and he painfully drew himself upon the rock, upright under the bright moon. a quick oath of warning came then--it was crump's shrill voice in the brayton cabin--and isom stumbled forward with both hands thrown up and a gasping cry at his lips. one flash came through a port-hole of the cabin. a yell broke on the night--crump's cry again--and the boy swayed across the rock, and falling at the brink, dropped with a limp struggle out of sight. v. the news of isom's fate reached the miller by way of hazlan before the next noon. several men in the brayton cabin had recognized the boy in the moonlight. at daybreak they found bloodstains on the ledge and on a narrow shelf a few feet farther down. isom had slipped from one to the other, they said, and in his last struggle had rolled over into dead creek, and had been swept into the cumberland. it was crump who had warned the braytons. nobody ever knew how he had learned steve marcum's purpose. and old brayton on his guard and in his own cabin was impregnable. so the marcums, after a harmless fusillade, had turned back cursing. mocking shouts followed after them, pistol-shots, even the scraping of a fiddle and shuffling on the ledge. but they kept on, cursing across the river and back to daddy marcum, who was standing in the porch, peering for them through the dawn, with a story to tell about isom. "the critter was teched in the head," the old man said, and this was what the braytons, too, believed. but steve marcum, going to search for isom's body next day, gave old gabe another theory. he told the miller how daddy marcum had called isom a coward, and steve said the boy had gone ahead to prove he was no coward. "he had mighty leetle call to prove it to me. think o' his takin' ole brayton all by hisself!" he said, with a look at the yellow, heaving cumberland. "'n', lord! think o' his swimmin' that river in the dark!" old gabe asked a question fiercely then and demanded the truth, and steve told him about the hand-to-hand fight on the mountain-side, about young jasper's treachery, and how the boy, who was watching the fight, fired just in time to save rome. it made all plain at last--rome's and steve's denials, isom's dinning on that one theme,' and why the boy could not go to rome and face martha, with her own blood on his hands. isom's true motive, too, was plain, and the miller told it brokenly to steve, who rode away with a low whistle to tell it broadcast, and left the old man rocking his body like a woman. an hour later he rode back at a gallop to tell old gabe to search the river bank below the mill. he did not believe isom dead. it was just his feelin', he said, and one fact, that nobody else thought important--the brayton canoe was gone. "ef he was jus' scamped by a ball," said steve, "you kin bet he tuk the boat, 'n' he's down thar in the bushes somewhar now waitin' fer dark." and about dusk, sure enough, old gabe, wandering hopefully through the thicket below the mill, stumbled over the canoe stranded in the bushes. in the new mud were the tracks of a boy's bare feet leading into the thicket, and the miller made straight for home. when he opened his door he began to shake as if with palsy. a figure was seated on the hearth against the chimney, and the firelight was playing over the face and hair. the lips were parted, and the head hung limply to the breast. the clothes were torn to rags, and one shoulder was bare. through the upper flesh of it and close to the neck was an ugly burrow clotted with blood. the boy was asleep. three nights later, in hazlan, sherd raines told the people of isom's flight down the mountain, across the river, and up the steep to save his life by losing it. before he was done, one gray-headed figure pressed from the darkness on one side and stood trembling under the dips. it was old steve brayton, who had fired from the cabin at isom, and dropping his winchester, he stumbled forward with the butt of his pistol held out to raines. a marcum appeared on the other side with the muzzle of his winchester down. raines raised both hands then and imperiously called on every man who had a weapon to come forward and give it up. like children they came, marcums and braytons, piling their arms on the rock before him, shaking hands right and left, and sitting together on the mourner's bench. old brayton was humbled thereafter. he wanted to shake hands with steve marcum and make friends. but steve grinned, and said, "not yit," and went off into the bushes. a few days later he went to hazlan of his own accord and gave up his gun to raines. he wouldn't shake hands with old brayton, he said, nor with any other man who would hire another man to do his "killin';" but he promised to fight no more, and he kept his word. a flood followed on new year's day. old gabe's canoe--his second canoe--was gone, and a marcum and a brayton worked side by side at the mill hollowing out another. the miller sat at the door whittling. "'pears like folks is havin' bad luck with thar dugouts." said brayton. "some trifin' cuss took old steve brayton's jes to cross the river, without the grace to tie it to the bank, let 'lone takin' it back. i've heard ez how aunt sally day's boy ben, who was a-fishin' that evenin, says ez how he seed isom's harnt a-floatin' across the river in it, without techin' a paddle." the marcum laughed. "idgits is thick over hyeh," he said. "ben's a-gittin' wuss sence isom was killed. yes, i recollect gabe hyeh lost a canoe jus' atter a flood more'n a year ago, when rome stetson 'n' marthy lewallen went a-gallivantin' out' n the mountains together. hyeh's another flood, 'n' old gabe's dugout gone agin." the miller raised a covert glance of suspicion from under his hat, but the marcum was laughing. "ye oughter put a trace-chain on this un," he added. "a rope gits rotten in the water, 'n' a tide is mighty apt to break it." old gabe said that "mebbe that wus so," but he had no chain to waste; he reckoned a rope was strong enough, and he started home. "old gabe don't seem to keer much now 'bout isom," said the brayton. "folks say he tuk on so awful at fust that hit looked like he wus goin' crazy. he's gittin' downright peert again. hello!" bud vickers was carrying a piece of news down to hazlan, and he pulled up his horse to deliver it. aunt sally day's dog had been seen playing in the breathitt road with the frame of a human foot. some boys had found not far away, behind a withered "blind," a heap of rags and bones. eli crump had not been seen in hazlan since the night of the marcum raid. "well, ef hit was eli," said the brayton, waggishly, "we're all goin' to be saved. eli's case 'll come fust, an' ef thar's only one jedgment day, the lord 'll nuver git to us." the three chuckled, while old gabe sat dreaming at his gate. the boy had lain quiet during the weeks of his getting well, absorbed in one aim--to keep hidden until he was strong enough to get to rome. on the last night the miller had raised one of the old hearth-stones and had given him the hire of many years. at daybreak the lad drifted away. now old gabe was following him down the river and on to the dim mountain line, where the boy's figure was plain for a moment against the sky, and then was lost. the clouds in the west had turned gray and the crescent had broken the gloom of the woods into shadows when the miller rose. one star was coming over black mountain from the east. it was the star of bethlehem to old gabe; and, starlike on both sides of the cumberland, answering fires from cabin hearths were giving back its message at last. "thar hain't nothin' to hender rome 'n' marthy now. i nuver knowed anybody to stay 'way from these mount'ins ef he could git back; 'n' isom said he'd fetch 'em. thar hain't nothin' to hender--nothin' now." on the stoop of the cabin the miller turned to look again, and then on the last stetson the door was closed. the end the call of the cumberlands by charles neville buck chapter i close to the serried backbone of the cumberland ridge through a sky of mountain clarity, the sun seemed hesitating before its descent to the horizon. the sugar-loaf cone that towered above a creek called misery was pointed and edged with emerald tracery where the loftiest timber thrust up its crest plumes into the sun. on the hillsides it would be light for more than an hour yet, but below, where the waters tossed themselves along in a chorus of tiny cascades, the light was already thickening into a cathedral gloom. down there the "furriner" would have seen only the rough course of the creek between moss-velveted and shaded bowlders of titanic proportions. the native would have recognized the country road in these tortuous twistings. now there were no travelers, foreign or native, and no sounds from living throats except at intervals the clear "bob white" of a nesting partridge, and the silver confidence of the red cardinal flitting among the pines. occasionally, too, a stray whisper of breeze stole along the creek-bed and rustled the beeches, or stirred in the broad, fanlike leaves of the "cucumber trees." a great block of sandstone, to whose summit a man standing in his saddle could scarcely reach his fingertips, towered above the stream, with a gnarled scrub oak clinging tenaciously to its apex. loftily on both sides climbed the mountains cloaked in laurel and timber. suddenly the leafage was thrust aside from above by a cautious hand, and a shy, half-wild girl appeared in the opening. for an instant she halted, with her brown fingers holding back the brushwood, and raised her face as though listening. across the slope drifted the call of the partridge, and with perfect imitation she whistled back an answer. it would have seemed appropriate to anyone who had seen her that she should talk bird language to the birds. she was herself as much a wood creature as they, and very young. that she was beautiful was not strange. the women of the mountains have a morning-glory bloom--until hardship and drudgery have taken toll of their youth--and she could not have been more than sixteen. it was june, and the hills, which would be bleakly forbidding barriers in winter, were now as blithely young as though they had never known the scourging of sleet or the blight of wind. the world was abloom, and the girl, too, was in her early june, and sentiently alive with the strength of its full pulse-tide. she was slim and lithely resilient of step. her listening attitude was as eloquent of pausing elasticity as that of the gray squirrel. her breathing was soft, though she had come down a steep mountainside, and as fragrant as the breath of the elder bushes that dashed the banks with white sprays of blossom. she brought with her to the greens and grays and browns of the woodland's heart a new note of color, for her calico dress was like the red cornucopias of the trumpet-flower, and her eyes were blue like little scraps of sky. her heavy, brown-red hair fell down over her shoulders in loose profusion. the coarse dress was freshly briar-torn, and in many places patched; and it hung to the lithe curves of her body in a fashion which told that she wore little else. she had no hat, but the same spirit of childlike whimsey that caused her eyes to dance as she answered the partridge's call had led her to fashion for her own crowning a headgear of laurel leaves and wild roses. as she stood with the toes of one bare foot twisting in the gratefully cool moss, she laughed with the sheer exhilaration of life and youth, and started out on the table top of the huge rock. but there she halted suddenly with a startled exclamation, and drew instinctively back. what she saw might well have astonished her, for it was a thing she had never seen before and of which she had never heard. now she paused in indecision between going forward toward exploration and retreating from new and unexplained phenomena. in her quick instinctive movements was something like the irresolution of the fawn whose nostrils have dilated to a sense of possible danger. finally, reassured by the silence, she slipped across the broad face of the flat rock for a distance of twenty-five feet, and paused again to listen. at the far edge lay a pair of saddlebags, such as form the only practical equipment for mountain travelers. they were ordinary saddlebags, made from the undressed hide of a brindle cow, and they were fat with tight packing. a pair of saddlebags lying unclaimed at the roadside would in themselves challenge curiosity. but in this instance they gave only the prefatory note to a stranger story. near them lay a tin box, littered with small and unfamiliar-looking tubes of soft metal, all grotesquely twisted and stained, and beside the box was a strangely shaped plaque of wood, smeared with a dozen hues. that this plaque was a painter's sketching palette was a thing which she could not know, since the ways of artists had to do with a world as remote from her own as the life of the moon or stars. it was one of those vague mysteries that made up the wonderful life of "down below." even the names of such towns as louisville and lexington meant nothing definite to this girl who could barely spell out, "the cat caught the rat," in the primer. yet here beside the box and palette stood a strange jointed tripod, and upon it was some sort of sheet. what it all meant, and what was on the other side of the sheet became a matter of keenly alluring interest. why had these things been left here in such confusion? if there was a man about who owned them he would doubtless return to claim them. possibly he was wandering about the broken bed of the creek, searching for a spring, and that would not take long. no one drank creek water. at any moment he might return and discover her. such a contingency held untold terrors for her shyness, and yet to turn her back on so interesting a mystery would be insupportable. accordingly, she crept over, eyes and ears alert, and slipped around to the front of the queer tripod, with all her muscles poised in readiness for flight. a half-rapturous and utterly astonished cry broke from her lips. she stared a moment, then dropped to the moss-covered rock, leaning back on her brown hands and gazing intently. she sat there forgetful of everything except the sketch which stood on the collapsible easel. "hit's purty!" she approved, in a low, musical murmur. "hit's plumb dead _beautiful_!" her eyes were glowing with delighted approval. she had never before seen a picture more worthy than the chromos of advertising calendars and the few crude prints that find their way into the roughest places, and she was a passionate, though totally unconscious, devotée of beauty. now she was sitting before a sketch, its paint still moist, which more severe critics would have pronounced worthy of accolade. of course, it was not a finished picture--merely a study of what lay before her--but the hand that had placed these brushstrokes on the academy board was the sure, deft hand of a master of landscape, who had caught the splendid spirit of the thing, and fixed it immutably in true and glowing appreciation. who he was; where he had gone; why his work stood there unfinished and abandoned, were details which for the moment this half-savage child-woman forgot to question. she was conscious only of a sense of revelation and awe. then she saw other boards, like the one upon the easel, piled near the paint -box. these were dry, and represented the work of other days; but they were all pictures of her own mountains, and in each of them, as in this one, was something that made her heart leap. to her own people, these steep hillsides and "coves" and valleys were a matter of course. in their stony soil, they labored by day: and in their shadows slept when work was done. yet, someone had discovered that they held a picturesque and rugged beauty; that they were not merely steep fields where the plough was useless and the hoe must be used. she must tell samson: samson, whom she held in an artless exaltation of hero-worship; samson, who was so "smart" that he thought about things beyond her understanding; samson, who could not only read and write, but speculate on problematical matters. suddenly she came to her feet with a swift-darting impulse of alarm. her ear had caught a sound. she cast searching glances about her, but the tangle was empty of humanity. the water still murmured over the rocks undisturbed. there was no sign of human presence, other than herself, that her eyes could discover--and yet to her ears came the sound again, and this time more distinctly. it was the sound of a man's voice, and it was moaning as if in pain. she rose and searched vainly through the bushes of the hillside where the rock ran out from the woods. she lifted her skirts and splashed her bare feet in the shallow creek water, wading persistently up and down. her shyness was forgotten. the groan was a groan of a human creature in distress, and she must find and succor the person from whom it came. certain sounds are baffling as to direction. a voice from overhead or broken by echoing obstacles does not readily betray its source. finally she stood up and listened once more intently--her attitude full of tense earnestness. "i'm shore a fool," she announced, half-aloud. "i'm shore a plumb fool." then she turned and disappeared in the deep cleft between the gigantic bowlder upon which she had been sitting and another--small only by comparison. there, ten feet down, in a narrow alley littered with ragged stones, lay the crumpled body of a man. it lay with the left arm doubled under it, and from a gash in the forehead trickled a thin stream of blood. also, it was the body of such a man as she had not seen before. chapter ii although from the man in the gulch came a low groan mingled with his breathing, it was not such a sound as comes from fully conscious lips, but rather that of a brain dulled into coma. his lids drooped over his eyes, hiding the pupils; and his cheeks were pallid, with outstanding veins above the temples. freed from her fettering excess of shyness by his condition, the girl stepped surely from foothold to foothold until she reached his side. she stood for a moment with one hand on the dripping walls of rock, looking down while her hair fell about her face. then, dropping to her knees, she shifted the doubled body into a leaning posture, straightened the limbs, and began exploring with efficient fingers for broken bones. she was a slight girl, and not tall; but the curves of her young figure were slimly rounded, and her firm muscles were capably strong. this man was, in comparison with those rugged types she knew, effeminately delicate. his slim, long-fingered hands reminded her of a bird's claws. the up-rolled sleeves of a blue flannel shirt disclosed forearms well-enough sinewed, but instead of being browned to the hue of a saddle-skirt, they were white underneath and pinkly red above. moreover, they were scaling in the fashion of a skin not inured to weather beating. though the man had thought on setting out from civilization that he was suiting his appearance to the environment, the impression he made on this native girl was distinctly foreign. the flannel shirt might have passed, though hardly without question, as native wear, but the khaki riding-breeches and tan puttees were utterly out of the picture, and at the neck of his shirt was a soft-blue tie! --had he not been hurt, the girl must have laughed at that. a felt hat lay in a puddle of water, and, except for a blond mustache, the face was clean shaven and smooth of skin. long locks of brown hair fell away from the forehead. the helplessness and pallor gave an exaggerated seeming of frailty. despite an ingrained contempt for weaklings, the girl felt, as she raised the head and propped the shoulders, an intuitive friendliness for the mysterious stranger. she had found the left arm limp above the wrist, and her fingers had diagnosed a broken bone. but unconsciousness must have come from the blow on the head, where a bruise was already blackening, and a gash still trickled blood. she lifted her skirt, and tore a long strip of cotton from her single petticoat. then she picked her barefooted way swiftly to the creek-bed, where she drenched the cloth for bathing and bandaging the wound. it required several trips through the littered cleft, for the puddles between the rocks were stale and brackish; but these journeys she made with easy and untrammeled swiftness. when she had done what she could by way of first aid, she stood looking down at the man, and shook her head dubiously. "now ef i jest had a little licker," she mused. "thet air what he needs--a little licker!" a sudden inspiration turned her eyes to the crest of the rock. she did not go round by the path, but pulled herself up the sheer face by hanging roots and slippery projections, as easily as a young squirrel. on the flat surface, she began unstrapping the saddlebags, and, after a few moments of rummaging among their contents, she smiled with satisfaction. her hand brought out a leather-covered flask with a silver bottom. she held the thing up curiously, and looked at it. for a little time, the screw top puzzled her. so, she sat down cross-legged, and experimented until she had solved its method of opening. then, she slid over the side again, and at the bottom held the flask up to the light. through the side slits in the alligator-skin covering, she saw the deep color of the contents; and, as she lifted the nozzle, she sniffed contemptuously. then, she took a sample draught herself--to make certain that it was whiskey. she brushed her lips scornfully with the back of her hand. "huh!" she exclaimed. "hit hain't nothin' but red licker, but maybe hit mout be better'n nuthin'." she was accustomed to seeing whiskey freely drunk, but the whiskey she knew was colorless as water, and sweetish to the palate. she knew the "mountain dew" which paid no revenue tax, and which, as her people were fond of saying, "mout make a man drunk, but couldn't git him wrong." after tasting the "fotched-on" substitute, she gravely, in accordance with the fixed etiquette of the hills, wiped the mouth of the bottle on the palm of her hand, then, kneeling once more on the stones, she lifted the stranger's head in her supporting arm, and pressed the flask to his lips. after that, she chafed the wrist which was not hurt, and once more administered the tonic. finally, the man's lids fluttered, and his lips moved. then, he opened his eyes. he opened them waveringly, and seemed on the point of closing them again, when he became conscious of a curved cheek, suddenly coloring to a deep flush, a few inches from his own. he saw in the same glance a pair of wide blue eyes, a cloud of brown-red hair that fell down and brushed his face, and he felt a slender young arm about his neck and shoulders. "hello!" said the stranger, vaguely. "i seem to have----" he broke off, and his lips smiled. it was a friendly, understanding smile, and the girl, fighting hard the shy impulse to drop his shoulders, and flee into the kind masking of the bushes, was in a measure reassured. "you must hev fell offen the rock," she enlightened. "i think i might have fallen into worse circumstances," replied the unknown. "i reckon you kin set up after a little." "yes, of course." the man suddenly realized that although he was quite comfortable as he was, he could scarcely expect to remain permanently in the support of her bent arm. he attempted to prop himself on his hurt hand, and relaxed with a twinge of extreme pain. the color, which had begun to creep back into his cheeks, left them again, and his lips compressed themselves tightly to bite off an exclamation of suffering. "thet thar left arm air busted," announced the young woman, quietly. "ye've got ter be heedful." had one of her own men hurt himself, and behaved stoically, it would have been mere matter of course; but her eyes mirrored a pleased surprise at the stranger's good-natured nod and his quiet refusal to give expression to pain. it relieved her of the necessity for contempt. "i'm afraid," apologized the painter, "that i've been a great deal of trouble to you." her lips and eyes were sober as she replied. "i reckon thet's all right." "and what's worse, i've got to be more trouble. did you see anything of a brown mule?" she shook her head. "he must have wandered off. may i ask to whom i'm indebted for this first aid to the injured?" "i don't know what ye means." she had propped him against the rocks, and sat near-by, looking into his face with almost disconcerting steadiness; her solemn-pupiled eyes were unblinking, unsmiling. unaccustomed to the gravity of the mountaineer in the presence of strangers, he feared that he had offended her. perhaps his form of speech struck her as affected. "why, i mean who are you?" he laughed. "i hain't nobody much. i jest lives over yon." "but," insisted the man, "surely you have a name." she nodded. "hit's sally." "then, miss sally, i want to thank you." once more she nodded, and, for the first time, let her eyes drop, while she sat nursing her knees. finally, she glanced up, and asked with plucked-up courage: "stranger, what mout yore name be?" "lescott--george lescott." "how'd ye git hurt?" he shook his head. "i was painting--up there," he said; "and i guess i got too absorbed in the work. i stepped backward to look at the canvas, and forgot where the edge was. i stepped too far." "hit don't hardly pay a man ter walk backward in these hyar mountings," she told him. the painter looked covertly up to see if at last he had discovered a flash of humor. he had the idea that her lips would shape themselves rather fascinatingly in a smile, but her pupils mirrored no mirth. she had spoken in perfect seriousness. the man rose to his feet, but he tottered and reeled against the wall of ragged stone. the blow on his head had left him faint and dizzy. he sat down again. "i'm afraid," he ruefully admitted, "that i'm not quite ready for discharge from your hospital." "you jest set where yer at." the girl rose, and pointed up the mountainside. "i'll light out across the hill, and fotch samson an' his mule." "who and where is samson?" he inquired. he realized that the bottom of the valley would shortly thicken into darkness, and that the way out, unguided, would become impossible. "it sounds like the name of a strong man." "i means samson south," she enlightened, as though further description of one so celebrated would be redundant. "he's over thar 'bout three quarters." "three quarters of a mile?" she nodded. what else could three quarters mean? "how long will it take you?" he asked. she deliberated. "samson's hoein' corn in the fur-hill field. he'll hev ter cotch his mule. hit mout tek a half-hour." lescott had been riding the tortuous labyrinths that twisted through creek bottoms and over ridges for several days. in places two miles an hour had been his rate of speed, though mounted and following so-called roads. she must climb a mountain through the woods. he thought it "mout" take longer, and his scepticism found utterance. "you can't do it in a half-hour, can you?" "i'll jest take my foot in my hand, an' light out." she turned, and with a nod was gone. the man rose, and made his way carefully over to a mossy bank, where he sat down with his back against a century-old tree to wait. the beauty of this forest interior had first lured him to pause, and then to begin painting. the place had not treated him kindly, as the pain in his wrist reminded. no, but the beauty was undeniable. a clump of rhododendron, a little higher up, dashed its pale clusters against a background of evergreen thicket, and a catalpa tree loaned the perfume of its white blossoms with their wild little splashes of crimson and purple and orange to the incense which the elder bushes were contributing. climbing fleetly up through steep and tangled slopes, and running as fleetly down; crossing a brawling little stream on a slender trunk of fallen poplar; the girl hastened on her mission. her lungs drank the clear air in regular tireless draughts. once only, she stopped and drew back. there was a sinister rustle in the grass, and something glided into her path and lay coiled there, challenging her with an ominous rattle, and with wicked, beady eyes glittering out of a swaying, arrow -shaped head. her own eyes instinctively hardened, and she glanced quickly about for a heavy piece of loose timber. but that was only for an instant, then she took a circuitous course, and left her enemy in undisputed possession of the path. "i hain't got no time ter fool with ye now, old rattlesnake," she called back, as she went. "ef i wasn't in sech a hurry, i'd shore bust yer neck." at last, she came to a point where a clearing rose on the mountainside above her. the forest blanket was stripped off to make way for a fenced- in and crazily tilting field of young corn. high up and beyond, close to the bald shoulders of sandstone which threw themselves against the sky, was the figure of a man. as the girl halted at the foot of the field, at last panting from her exertions, he was sitting on the rail fence, looking absently down on the outstretched panorama below him. it is doubtful whether his dreaming eyes were as conscious of what he saw as of other things which his imagination saw beyond the haze of the last far rim. against the fence rested his abandoned hoe, and about him a number of lean hounds scratched and dozed in the sun. samson south had little need of hounds; but, in another century, his people, turning their backs on virginia affluence to invite the hardships of pioneer life, had brought with them certain of the cavaliers' instincts. a hundred years in the stagnant back-waters of the world had brought to their descendants a lapse into illiteracy and semi-squalor, but through it all had fought that thin, insistent flame of instinct. such a survival was the boy's clinging to his hounds. once, they had symbolized the spirit of the nobility; the gentleman's fondness for his sport with horse and dog and gun. samson south did not know the origin of his fondness for this remnant of a pack. he did not know that in the long ago his forefathers had fought on red fields with bruce and the stuarts. he only knew that through his crudities something indefinable, yet compelling, was at war with his life, filling him with great and shapeless longings. he at once loved and resented these ramparts of stone that hemmed in his hermit race and world. he was not, strictly speaking, a man. his age was perhaps twenty. he sat loose-jointed and indolent on the top rail of the fence, his hands hanging over his knees: his hoe forgotten. his feet were bare, and his jeans breeches were supported by a single suspender strap. pushed well to the back of his head was a battered straw hat, of the sort rurally known as the "ten-cent jimmy." under its broken brim, a long lock of black hair fell across his forehead. so much of his appearance was typical of the kentucky mountaineer. his face was strongly individual, and belonged to no type. black brows and lashes gave a distinctiveness to gray eyes so clear as to be luminous. a high and splendidly molded forehead and a squarely blocked chin were free of that degeneracy which marks the wasting of an in-bred people. the nose was straight, and the mouth firm yet mobile. it was the face of the instinctive philosopher, tanned to a hickory brown. in a stature of medium size, there was still a hint of power and catamount alertness. if his attitude was at the moment indolent, it was such indolence as drowses between bursts of white-hot activity; a fighting man's aversion to manual labor which, like the hounds, harked back to other generations. near-by, propped against the rails, rested a repeating rifle, though the people would have told you that the truce in the "south-hollman war" had been unbroken for two years, and that no clansman need in these halcyon days go armed afield. chapter iii sally clambered lightly over the fence, and started on the last stage of her journey, the climb across the young corn rows. it was a field stood on end, and the hoed ground was uneven; but with no seeming of weariness her red dress flashed steadfastly across the green spears, and her voice was raised to shout: "hello, samson!" the young man looked up and waved a languid greeting. he did not remove his hat or descend from his place of rest, and sally, who expected no such attention, came smilingly on. samson was her hero. it seemed quite appropriate that one should have to climb steep acclivities to reach him. her enamored eyes saw in the top rail of the fence a throne, which she was content to address from the ground level. that he was fond of her and meant some day to marry her she knew, and counted herself the most favored of women. the young men of the neighboring coves, too, knew it, and respected his proprietary rights. if he treated her with indulgent tolerance instead of chivalry, he was merely adopting the accepted attitude of the mountain man for the mountain woman, not unlike that of the red warrior for his squaw. besides, sally was still almost a child, and samson, with his twenty years, looked down from a rank of seniority. he was the legitimate head of the souths, and some day, when the present truce ended, would be their war-leader with certain blood debts to pay. since his father had been killed by a rifle shot from ambush, he had never been permitted to forget that, and, had he been left alone, he would still have needed no other mentor than the rankle in his heart. but, if samson sternly smothered the glint of tenderness which, at sight of her, rose to his eyes, and recognized her greeting only in casual fashion, it was because such was the requirement of his stoic code. and to the girl who had been so slow of utterance and diffident with the stranger, words now came fast and fluently as she told her story of the man who lay hurt at the foot of the rock. "hit hain't long now tell sundown," she urged. "hurry, samson, an' git yore mule. i've done give him my promise ter fotch ye right straight back." samson took off his hat, and tossed the heavy lock upward from his forehead. his brow wrinkled with doubts. "what sort of lookin' feller air he?" while sally sketched a description, the young man's doubt grew graver. "this hain't no fit time ter be takin' in folks what we hain't acquainted with," he objected. in the mountains, any time is the time to take in strangers unless there are secrets to be guarded from outside eyes. "why hain't it?" demanded the girl. "he's hurt. we kain't leave him layin' thar, kin we?" suddenly, her eyes caught sight of the rifle leaning near-by, and straightway they filled with apprehension. her militant love would have turned to hate for samson, should he have proved recreant to the mission of reprisal in which he was biding his time, yet the coming of the day when the truce must end haunted her thoughts. heretofore, that day had always been to her remotely vague--a thing belonging to the future. now, with a sudden and appalling menace, it seemed to loom across the present. she came close, and her voice sank with her sinking heart. "what air hit?" she tensely demanded. "what air hit, samson? what fer hev ye fetched yer gun ter the field?" the boy laughed. "oh, hit ain't nothin' pertic'ler," he reassured. "hit hain't nothin' fer a gal ter fret herself erbout, only i kinder suspicions strangers jest now." "air the truce busted?" she put the question in a tense, deep-breathed whisper, and the boy replied casually, almost indifferently. "no, sally, hit hain't jest ter say busted, but 'pears like hit's right smart cracked. i reckon, though," he added in half-disgust, "nothin' won't come of hit." somewhat reassured, she bethought herself again of her mission. "this here furriner hain't got no harm in him, samson," she pleaded. "he 'pears ter be more like a gal than a man. he's real puny. he's got white skin and a bow of ribbon on his neck--an' he paints pictchers." the boy's face had been hardening with contempt as the description advanced, but at the last words a glow came to his eyes, and he demanded almost breathlessly: "paints pictchers? how do ye know that?" "i seen 'em. he was paintin' one when he fell offen the rock and busted his arm. it's shore es beautiful es--" she broke off, then added with a sudden peal of laughter--"es er pictcher." the young man slipped down from the fence, and reached for the rifle. the hoe he left where it stood. "i'll git the nag," he announced briefly, and swung off without further parley toward the curling spiral of smoke that marked a cabin a quarter of a mile below. ten minutes later, his bare feet swung against the ribs of a gray mule, and his rifle lay balanced across the unsaddled withers. sally sat mountain fashion behind him, facing straight to the side. so they came along the creek bed and into the sight of the man who still sat propped against the mossy rock. as lescott looked up, he closed the case of his watch, and put it back into his pocket with a smile. "snappy work, that!" he called out. "just thirty-three minutes. i didn't believe it could be done." samson's face was mask-like, but, as he surveyed the foreigner, only the ingrained dictates of the country's hospitable code kept out of his eyes a gleam of scorn for this frail member of a sex which should be stalwart. "howdy?" he said. then he added suspiciously: "what mout yer business be in these parts, stranger?" lescott gave the odyssey of his wanderings, since he had rented a mule at hixon and ridden through the country, sketching where the mood prompted and sleeping wherever he found a hospitable roof at the coming of the evening. "ye come from over on crippleshin?" the boy flashed the question with a sudden hardening of the voice, and, when he was affirmatively answered, his eyes contracted and bored searchingly into the stranger's face. "where'd ye put up last night?" "red bill hollman's house, at the mouth of meeting house fork; do you know the place?" samson's reply was curt. "i knows hit all right." there was a moment's pause--rather an awkward pause. lescott's mind began piecing together fragments of conversation he had heard, until he had assembled a sort of mental jig-saw puzzle. the south-hollman feud had been mentioned by the more talkative of his informers, and carefully tabooed by others--notable among them his host of last night. it now dawned on him that he was crossing the boundary and coming as the late guest of a hollman to ask the hospitality of a south. "i didn't know whose house it was," he hastened to explain, "until i was benighted, and asked for lodging. they were very kind to me. i'd never seen them before. i'm a stranger hereabouts." samson only nodded. if the explanation failed to satisfy him, it at least seemed to do so. "i reckon ye'd better let me holp ye up on thet old mule," he said; "hit's a-comin' on ter be night." with the mountaineer's aid, lescott clambered astride the mount, then he turned dubiously. "i'm sorry to trouble you," he ventured, "but i have a paint box and some materials up there. if you'll bring them down here, i'll show you how to pack the easel, and, by the way," he anxiously added, "please handle that fresh canvas carefully--by the edge--it's not dry yet." he had anticipated impatient contempt for his artist's impedimenta, but to his surprise the mountain boy climbed the rock, and halted before the sketch with a face that slowly softened to an expression of amazed admiration. finally, he took up the square of academy board with a tender care of which his rough hands would have seemed incapable, and stood stock still, presenting an anomalous figure in his rough clothes as his eyes grew almost idolatrous. then, he brought the landscape over to its creator, and, though no word was spoken, there flashed between the eyes of the artist, whose signature gave to a canvas the value of a precious stone and the jeans-clad boy whose destiny was that of the vendetta, a subtle, wordless message. it was the countersign of brothers-in-blood who recognize in each other the bond of a mutual passion. the boy and the girl, under lescott's direction, packed the outfit, and stored the canvas in the protecting top of the box. then, while sally turned and strode down creek in search of lescott's lost mount, the two men rode up stream in silence. finally. samson spoke slowly and diffidently. "stranger," he ventured, "ef hit hain't askin' too much, will ye let me see ye paint one of them things?" "gladly," was the prompt reply. then, the boy added covertly: "don't say nothin' erbout hit ter none of these folks. they'd devil me." the dusk was falling now, and the hollows choking with murk. over the ridge, the evening star showed in a lonely point of pallor. the peaks, which in a broader light had held their majestic distances, seemed with the falling of night to draw in and huddle close in crowding herds of black masses. the distant tinkling of a cow-bell came drifting down the breeze with a weird and fanciful softness. "we're nigh home now," said samson at the end of some minutes' silent plodding. "hit's right beyond thet thar bend." then, they rounded a point of timber, and came upon a small party of men whose attitudes even in the dimming light conveyed a subtle suggestion of portent. some sat their horses, with one leg thrown across the pommel. others stood in the road, and a bottle of white liquor was passing in and out among them. at the distance they recognized the gray mule, though even the fact that it carried a double burden was not yet manifest. "thet you, samson?" called an old man's voice, which was still very deep and powerful. "hello, unc' spicer!" replied the boy. then, followed a silence unbroken until the mule reached the group, revealing that besides the boy another man--and a strange man--had joined their number. "evenin', stranger," they greeted him, gravely; then again they fell silent, and in their silence was evident constraint. "this hyar man's a furriner," announced samson, briefly. "he fell offen a rock, an' got hurt. i 'lowed i'd fotch him home ter stay all night." the elderly man who had hailed the boy nodded, but with an evident annoyance. it seemed that to him the others deferred as to a commanding officer. the cortege remounted and rode slowly toward the house. at last, the elderly man came alongside the mule, and inquired: "samson, where was ye last night?" "thet's my business." "mebbe hit hain't." the old mountaineer spoke with no resentment, but deep gravity. "we've been powerful oneasy erbout ye. hev ye heered the news?" "what news?" the boy put the question non-committally. "jesse purvy was shot soon this morning." the boy vouchsafed no reply. "the mail-rider done told hit.... somebody shot five shoots from the laurel.... purvy hain't died yit.... some says as how his folks has sent ter lexington fer bloodhounds." the boy's eyes began to smolder hatefully. "i reckon," he spoke slowly, "he didn't git shot none too soon." "samson!" the old man's voice had the ring of determined authority. "when i dies, ye'll be the head of the souths, but so long es i'm a-runnin' this hyar fam'ly, i keeps my word ter friend an' foe alike. i reckon jesse purvy knows who got yore pap, but up till now no south hain't never busted no truce." the boy's voice dropped its softness, and took on a shrill crescendo of excitement as he flashed out his retort. "who said a south has done busted the truce this time?" old spencer south gazed searchingly at his nephew. "i hain't a-wantin' ter suspicion ye, samson, but i know how ye feels about yore pap. i heered thet bud spicer come by hyar yistiddy plumb full of liquor, an' 'lowed he'd seed jesse an' jim asberry a-talkin' tergether jest afore yore pap was kilt." he broke off abruptly, then added: "ye went away from hyar last night, an' didn't git in twell atter sun-up--i just heered the news, an' come ter look fer ye." "air you-all 'lowin' thet i shot them shoots from the laurel?" inquired samson, quietly. "ef we-all hain't 'lowin' hit, samson, we're plumb shore thet jesse purvy's folks will 'low hit. they're jest a-holdin' yore life like a hostage fer purvy's, anyhow. ef he dies, they'll try ter git ye." the boy flashed a challenge about the group, which was now drawing rein at spicer south's yard fence. his eyes were sullen, but he made no answer. one of the men who had listened in silence now spoke: "in the fust place, samson, we hain't a-sayin' ye done hit. in the nex' place, ef ye did do hit, we hain't a-blamin' ye--much. but i reckon them dawgs don't lie, an', ef they trails in hyar, ye'll need us. thet's why we've done come." the boy slipped down from his mule, and helped lescott to dismount. he deliberately unloaded the saddlebags and kit, and laid them on the top step of the stile, and, while he held his peace, neither denying nor affirming, his kinsmen sat their horses and waited. even to lescott, it was palpable that some of them believed the young heir to clan leadership responsible for the shooting of jesse purvy, and that others believed him innocent, yet none the less in danger of the enemy's vengeance. but, regardless of divided opinion, all were alike ready to stand at his back, and all alike awaited his final utterance. then, in the thickening gloom, samson turned at the foot of the stile, and faced the gathering. he stood rigid, and his eyes flashed with deep passion. his hands, hanging at the seams of his jeans breeches, clenched, and his voice came in a slow utterance through which throbbed the tensity of a soul-absorbing bitterness. "i knowed all 'bout jesse purvy's bein' shot.... when my pap lay a-dyin' over thar at his house, i was a little shaver ten years old ... jesse purvy hired somebody ter kill him ... an' i promised my pap that i'd find out who thet man was, an' thet i'd git 'em both--some day. so help me, god almighty, i'm a-goin' ter git 'em both--some day!" the boy paused and lifted one hand as though taking an oath. "i'm a-tellin' you-all the truth.... but i didn't shoot them shoots this mornin'. i hain't no truce-buster. i gives ye my hand on hit.... ef them dawgs comes hyar, they'll find me hyar, an' ef they hain't liars, they'll go right on by hyar. i don't 'low ter run away, an' i don't 'low ter hide out. i'm agoin' ter stay right hyar. thet's all i've got ter say ter ye." for a moment, there was no reply. then, the older man nodded with a gesture of relieved anxiety. "thet's all we wants ter know, samson," he said, slowly. "light, men, an' come in." chapter iv in days when the indian held the dark and bloody grounds a pioneer, felling oak and poplar logs for the home he meant to establish on the banks of a purling water-course, let his axe slip, and the cutting edge gashed his ankle. since to the discoverer belongs the christening, that water-course became cripple-shin, and so it is to-day set down on atlas pages. a few miles away, as the crow flies, but many weary leagues as a man must travel, a brother settler, racked with rheumatism, gave to his creek the name of misery. the two pioneers had come together from virginia, as their ancestors had come before them from scotland. together, they had found one of the two gaps through the mountain wall, which for more than a hundred miles has no other passable rift. together, and as comrades, they had made their homes, and founded their race. what original grievance had sprung up between their descendants none of the present generation knew--perhaps it was a farm line or disputed title to a pig. the primary incident was lost in the limbo of the past; but for fifty years, with occasional intervals of truce, lives had been snuffed out in the fiercely burning hate of these men whose ancestors had been comrades. old spicer south and his nephew samson were the direct lineal descendants of the namer of misery. their kinsmen dwelt about them: the souths, the jaspers, the spicers, the wileys, the millers and mccagers. other families, related only by marriage and close association, were, in feud alignment, none the less "souths." and over beyond the ridge, where the springs and brooks flowed the other way to feed crippleshin, dwelt the hollmans, the purvies, the asberries, the hollises and the daltons--men equally strong in their vindictive fealty to the code of the vendetta. by mountain standards, old spicer south was rich. his lands had been claimed when tracts could be had for the taking, and, though he had to make his cross mark when there was a contract to be signed, his instinctive mind was shrewd and far seeing. the tinkle of his cow-bells was heard for a long distance along the creek bottoms. his hillside fields were the richest and his coves the most fertile in that country. his house had several rooms, and, except for those who hated him and whom he hated, he commanded the respect of his fellows. some day, when a railroad should burrow through his section, bringing the development of coal and timber at the head of the rails, a sleeping fortune would yawn and awake to enrich him. there were black outcrop-pings along the cliffs, which he knew ran deep in veins of bituminous wealth. but to that time he looked with foreboding, for he had been raised to the standards of his forefathers, and saw in the coming of a new régime a curtailment of personal liberty. for new-fangled ideas he held only the aversion of deep-rooted prejudice. he hoped that he might live out his days, and pass before the foreigner held his land, and the law became a power stronger than the individual or the clan. the law was his enemy, because it said to him, "thou shalt not," when he sought to take the yellow corn which bruising labor had coaxed from scattered rock-strewn fields to his own mash-vat and still. it meant, also, a tyrannous power usually seized and administered by enemies, which undertook to forbid the personal settlement of personal quarrels. but his eyes, which could not read print, could read the signs of the times he foresaw the inevitable coming of that day. already, he had given up the worm and mash-vat, and no longer sought to make or sell illicit liquor. that was a concession to the federal power, which could no longer be successfully fought. state power was still largely a weapon in factional hands, and in his country the hollmans were the officeholders. to the hollmans, he could make no concessions. in samson, born to be the fighting man, reared to be the fighting man, equipped by nature with deep hatreds and tigerish courage, there had cropped out from time to time the restless spirit of the philosopher and a hunger for knowledge. that was a matter in which the old man found his bitterest and most secret apprehension. it was at this house that george lescott, distinguished landscape painter of new york and the world-at-large, arrived in the twilight. his first impression was received in shadowy evening mists that gave a touch of the weird. the sweep of the stone-guarded well rose in a yard tramped bare of grass. the house itself, a rambling structure of logs, with additions of undressed lumber, was without lights. the cabin, which had been the pioneer nucleus, still stood windowless and with mud -daubed chimney at the center. about it rose a number of tall poles surmounted by bird-boxes, and at its back loomed the great hump of the mountain. whatever enemy might have to be met to-morrow, old spicer south recognized as a more immediate call upon his attention the wounded guest of to-day. one of the kinsmen proved to have a rude working knowledge of bone-setting, and before the half-hour had passed, lescott's wrist was in a splint, and his injuries as well tended as possible, which proved to be quite well enough. by that time, sally's voice was heard shouting from the stile, and sally herself appeared with the announcement that she had found and brought in the lost mule. as lescott looked at her, standing slight and willowy in the thickening darkness, among the big-boned and slouching figures of the clansmen, she seemed to shrink from the stature of a woman into that of a child, and, as she felt his eyes on her, she timidly slipped farther back into the shadowy door of the cabin, and dropped down on the sill, where, with her hands clasped about her knees, she gazed curiously at himself. she did not speak, but sat immovable with her thick hair falling over her shoulders. the painter recognized that even the interest in him as a new type could not for long keep her eyes from being drawn to the face of samson, where they lingered, and in that magnetism he read, not the child, but the woman. samson was plainly restive from the moment of her arrival, and, when a monosyllabic comment from the taciturn group threatened to reveal to the girl the threatened outbreak of the feud, he went over to her, and inquired: "sally, air ye skeered ter go home by yeself?" as she met the boy's eyes, it was clear that her own held neither nervousness nor fear, and yet there was something else in them--the glint of invitation. she rose from her seat. "i hain't ter say skeered," she told him, "but, ef ye wants ter walk as fur as the stile, i hain't a-keerin'." the youth rose, and, taking his hat and rifle, followed her. lescott was happily gifted with the power of facile adaptation, and he unobtrusively bent his efforts toward convincing his new acquaintances that, although he was alien to their ways, he was sympathetic and to be trusted. once that assurance was given, the family talk went on much as though he had been absent, and, as he sat with open ears, he learned the rudiments of the conditions that had brought the kinsmen together in samson's defense. at last, spicer south's sister, a woman who looked older than himself, though she was really younger, appeared, smoking a clay pipe, which she waved toward the kitchen. "you men kin come in an' eat," she announced; and the mountaineers, knocking the ashes from their pipes, trailed into the kitchen. the place was lit by the fire in a cavernous hearth where the cooking was still going forward with skillet and crane. the food, coarse and greasy, but not unwholesome, was set on a long table covered with oilcloth. the roughly clad men sat down with a scraping of chair legs, and attacked their provender in businesslike silence. the corners of the room fell into obscurity. shadows wavered against the sooty rafters, and, before the meal ended, samson returned and dropped without comment into his chair. afterward, the men trooped taciturnly out again, and resumed their pipes. a whippoorwill sent his mournful cry across the tree-tops, and was answered. frogs added the booming of their tireless throats. a young moon slipped across an eastern mountain, and livened the creek into a soft shimmer wherein long shadows quavered. the more distant line of mountains showed in a mist of silver, and the nearer heights in blue -gray silhouette. a wizardry of night and softness settled like a benediction, and from the dark door of the house stole the quaint folklore cadence of a rudely thrummed banjo. lescott strolled over to the stile with every artist instinct stirred. this nocturne of silver and gray and blue at once soothed and intoxicated his imagination. his fingers were itching for a brush. then, he heard a movement at his shoulder, and, turning, saw the boy samson with the moonlight in his eyes, and, besides the moonlight, that sparkle which is the essence of the dreamer's vision. once more, their glances met and flashed a countersign. "hit hain't got many colors in hit," said the boy, slowly, indicating with a sweep of his hand the symphony about them, "but somehow what there is is jest about the right ones. hit whispers ter a feller, the same as a mammy whispers ter her baby." he paused, then eagerly asked: "stranger, kin you look at the sky an' the mountings an' hear 'em singin'--with yore eyes?" the painter felt a thrill of astonishment. it seemed incredible that the boy, whose rude descriptives reflected such poetry of feeling, could be one with the savage young animal who had, two hours before, raised his hand heavenward, and reiterated his oath to do murder in payment of murder. "yes," was his slow reply, "every painter must do that. music and color are two expressions of the same thing--and the thing is beauty." the mountain boy made no reply, but his eyes dwelt on the quivering shadows in the water; and lescott asked cautiously, fearing to wake him from the dreamer to the savage: "so you are interested in skies and hills and their beauties, too, are you?" samson's laugh was half-ashamed, half-defiant. "sometimes, stranger," he said, "i 'lows that i hain't much interested in nothin' else." that there dwelt in the lad something which leaped in response to the clarion call of beauty, lescott had read in that momentary give and take of their eyes down there in the hollow earlier in the afternoon. but, since then, the painter had seen the other and sterner side, and once more he was puzzled and astonished. now, he stood anxiously hoping that the boy would permit himself further expression, yet afraid to prompt, lest direct questions bring a withdrawal again into the shell of taciturnity. after a few moments of silence, he slowly turned his head, and glanced at his companion, to find him standing rigidly with his elbows resting on the top palings of the fence. he had thrown his rough hat to the ground, and his face in the pale moonlight was raised. his eyes under the black mane of hair were glowing deeply with a fire of something like exaltation, as he gazed away. it was the expression of one who sees things hidden to the generality; such a light as burns in the eyes of artists and prophets and fanatics, which, to the uncomprehending, seems almost a fire of madness. samson must have felt lescott's scrutiny, for he turned with a half-passionate gesture and clenched fists. his face, as he met the glance of the foreigner was sullen, and then, as though in recognition of a brother-spirit, his expression softened, and slowly he began to speak. "these folks 'round hyar sometimes 'lows i hain't much better'n an idjit because--because i feels that-away. even sally"--he caught himself, then went on doggedly--"even sally kain't see how a man kin keer about things like skies and the color of the hills, ner the way ther sunset splashes the sky clean acrost its aidge, ner how the sunrise comes outen the dark like a gal a-blushin'. they 'lows thet a man had ought ter be studyin' 'bout other things." he paused, and folded his arms, and his strong fingers grasped his tensed biceps until the knuckles stood out, as he went on: "i reckon they hain't none of them thet kin hate harder'n me. i reckon they hain't none of 'em thet is more plumb willin' ter fight them thet's rightful enemies, an' yit hit 'pears ter me as thet hain't no reason why a man kain't feel somethin' singin' inside him when almighty god builds hills like them"--he swept both hands out in a wide circle-- "an' makes 'em green in summer, an' lets 'em blaze in red an' yaller in ther fall, an' hangs blue skies over 'em an' makes ther sun shine, an' at night sprinkles 'em with stars an' a moon like thet!" again, he paused, and his eyes seemed to ask the corroboration which they read in the expression and nod of the stranger from the mysterious outside world. then, samson south spread his hands in a swift gesture of protest, and his voice hardened in timbre as he went on: "but these folks hyarabouts kain't understand thet. all they sees in the laurel on the hillside, an' the big gray rocks an' the green trees, is breshwood an' timber thet may be hidin' their enemies, or places ter hide out an' lay-way some other feller. i hain't never seen no other country. i don't know whether all places is like these hyar mountings er not, but i knows thet the lord didn't 'low fer men ter live blind, not seein' no beauty in nothin'; ner not feelin' nothin' but hate an' meanness--ner studyin' 'bout nothin' but deviltry. there hain't no better folks nowhar then my folks, an' thar hain't no meaner folks nowhar then them damned hollmans, but thar's times when hit 'pears ter me thet the lord almighty hain't plumb tickled ter death with ther way things goes hyar along these creeks and coves." samson paused, and suddenly the glow died out of his eyes. his features instantly reshaped themselves into their customary mold of stoical hardness. it occurred to him that his outburst had been a long one and strangely out of keeping with his usual taciturnity, and he wondered what this stranger would think of him. the stranger was marveling. he was seeing in the crude lad at his side warring elements that might build into a unique and strangely interesting edifice of character, and his own speech as he talked there by the palings of the fence in the moonlight was swiftly establishing the foundations of a comradeship between the two. "thar's something mighty quare about ye, stranger," said the boy at last, half-shyly. "i been wonderin' why i've talked ter ye like this. i hain't never talked that-away with no other man. ye jest seemed ter kind of compel me ter do hit. when i says things like thet ter sally, she gits skeered of me like ef i was plumb crazy, an', ef i talked that- away to the menfolks 'round hyar they'd be sartain i was an idjit." "that," said lescott, gravely, "is because they don't understand. i do." "i kin lay awake nights," said samson, "an' see them hills and mists an' colors the same es ef they was thar in front of my eyes--an' i kin seem ter hear 'em as well as see 'em." the painter nodded, and his voice fell into low quotation: "'the scarlet of the maple can shake me like the cry "of bugles going by.'" the boy's eyes deepened. to lescott, the thought of bugles conjured up a dozen pictures of marching soldiery under a dozen flags. to samson south, it suggested only one: militia guarding a battered courthouse, but to both the simile brought a stirring of pulses. even in june, the night mists bring a touch of chill to the mountains, and the clansmen shortly carried their chairs indoors. the old woman fetched a pan of red coals from the kitchen, and kindled the logs on the deep hearth. there was no other light, and, until the flames climbed to roaring volume, spreading their zone of yellow brightness, only the circle about the fireplace emerged from the sooty shadows. in the four dark corners of the room were four large beds, vaguely seen, and from one of them still came the haunting monotony of the banjo. suddenly, out of the silence, rose samson's voice, keyed to a stubborn note, as though anticipating and challenging contradiction. "times is changin' mighty fast. a feller thet grows up plumb ign'rant ain't a-goin' ter have much show." old spicer south drew a contemplative puff at his pipe. "ye went ter school twell ye was ten year old, samson. thet's a heap more schoolin' then i ever had, an' i've done got along all right." "ef my pap had lived"--the boy's voice was almost accusing--"i'd hev lamed more then jest ter read an' write en figger a little." "i hain't got no use fer these newfangled notions." spicer spoke with careful curbing of his impatience. "yore pap stood out fer eddycation. he had ideas about law an' all that, an' he talked 'em. he got shot ter death. yore uncle john south went down below, an' got ter be a lawyer. he come home hyar, an' ondertook ter penitentiary jesse purvy, when jesse was high sheriff. i reckon ye knows what happened ter him." samson said nothing and the older man went on: "they aimed ter run him outen the mountings." "they didn't run him none," blazed the boy. "he didn't never leave the mountings." "no." the family head spoke with the force of a logical climax. "he'd done rented a house down below though, an' was a-fixin' ter move. he staid one day too late. jesse purvy hired him shot." "what of hit?" demanded samson. "yore cousin, bud spicer, was eddicated. he 'lowed in public thet micah hollman an' jesse purvy was runnin' a murder partnership. somebody called him ter the door of his house in the night-time ter borry a lantern--an' shot him ter death." "what of hit?" "thar's jist this much of hit. hit don't seem ter pay the south family ter go a-runnin' attar newfangled idees. they gets too much notion of goin' ter law--an' thet's plumb fatal. ye'd better stay where ye b'longs, samson, an' let good enough be." "why hain't ye done told about all the rest of the souths thet didn't hev no eddication," suggested the youngest south, "thet got killed off jest as quick as them as had hit?" chapter v while spicer south and his cousins had been sustaining themselves or building up competences by tilling their soil, the leaders of the other faction were basing larger fortunes on the profits of merchandise and trade. so, although spicer south could neither read nor write, his chief enemy, micah hollman, was to outward seeming an urbane and fairly equipped man of affairs. judged by their heads, the clansmen were rougher and more illiterate on misery, and in closer touch with civilization on crippleshin. a deeper scrutiny showed this seeming to be one of the strange anomalies of the mountains. micah hollman had established himself at hixon, that shack town which had passed of late years from feudal county seat to the section's one point of contact with the outside world; a town where the ancient and modern orders brushed shoulders; where the new was tolerated, but dared not become aggressive. directly across the street from the court-house stood an ample frame building, on whose side wall was emblazoned the legend: "hollman's mammoth department store." that was the secret stronghold of hollman power. he had always spoken deploringly of that spirit of lawlessness which had given the mountains a bad name. he himself, he declared, believed that the best assets of any community were tenets of peace and brotherhood. any mountain man or foreigner who came to town was sure of a welcome from judge micah hollman, who added to his title of storekeeper that of magistrate. as the years went on, the proprietor of the "mammoth department store" found that he had money to lend and, as a natural sequence, mortgages stored away in his strong box. to the cry of distress, he turned a sympathetic ear. his infectious smile and suave manner won him fame as "the best-hearted man in the mountains." steadily and unostentatiously, his fortune fattened. when the railroad came to hixon, it found in judge hollman a "public- spirited citizen." incidentally, the timber that it hauled and the coal that its flat cars carried down to the bluegrass went largely to his consignees. he had so astutely anticipated coming events that, when the first scouts of capital sought options, they found themselves constantly referred to judge hollman. no wheel, it seemed, could turn without his nod. it was natural that the genial storekeeper should become the big man of the community and inevitable that the one big man should become the dictator. his inherited place as leader of the hollmans in the feud he had seemingly passed on as an obsolete prerogative. yet, in business matters, he was found to drive a hard bargain, and men came to regard it the part of good policy to meet rather than combat his requirements. it was essential to his purposes that the officers of the law in his county should be in sympathy with him. sympathy soon became abject subservience. when a south had opposed jesse purvy in the primary as candidate for high sheriff, he was found one day lying on his face with a bullet-riddled body. it may have been a coincidence which pointed to jim asberry, the judge's nephew, as the assassin. at all events, the judge's nephew was a poor boy, and a charitable grand jury declined to indict him. in the course of five years, several south adherents, who had crossed hollman's path, became victims of the laurel ambuscade. the theory of coincidence was strained. slowly, the rumor grew and persistently spread, though no man would admit having fathered it, that before each of these executions star-chamber conferences had been held in the rooms above micah hollman's "mammoth department store." it was said that these exclusive sessions were attended by judge hollman, sheriff purvy and certain other gentlemen selected by reason of their marksmanship. when one of these victims fell, john south had just returned from a law school "down below," wearing "fotched-on" clothing and thinking "fotched-on" thoughts. he had amazed the community by demanding the right to assist in probing and prosecuting the affair. he had then shocked the community into complete paralysis by requesting the grand jury to indict not alone the alleged assassin, but also his employers, whom he named as judge hollman and sheriff purvy. then, he, too, fell under a bolt from the laurel. that was the first public accusation against the bland capitalist, and it carried its own prompt warning against repetition. the judge's high sheriff and chief ally retired from office, and went abroad only with a bodyguard. jesse purvy had built his store at a cross roads twenty-five miles from the railroad. like hollman, he had won a reputation for open -handed charity, and was liked--and hated. his friends were legion. his enemies were so numerous that he apprehended violence not only from the souths, but also from others who nursed grudges in no way related to the line of feud cleavage. the hollman-purvy combination had retained enough of its old power to escape the law's retribution and to hold its dictatorship, but the efforts of john south had not been altogether bootless. he had ripped away two masks, and their erstwhile wearers could no longer hold their old semblance of law-abiding philanthropists. jesse purvy's home was the show place of the country side. to the traveler's eye, which had grown accustomed to hovel life and squalor, it offered a reminder of the richer bluegrass. its walls were weather-boarded and painted, and its roof two stories high. commodious verandahs looked out over pleasant orchards, and in the same enclosure stood the two frame buildings of his store--for he, too, combined merchandise with baronial powers. but back of the place rose the mountainside, on which purvy never looked without dread. twice, its impenetrable thickets had spat at him. twice, he had recovered from wounds that would have taken a less-charmed life. and in grisly reminder of the terror which clouded the peace of his days stood the eight-foot log stockade at the rear of the place which the proprietor had built to shield his daily journeys between house and store. but jesse purvy was not deluded by his escapes. he knew that he was "marked down." for years, he had seen men die by his own plotting, and he himself must in the end follow by a similar road. rumor had it that he wore a shirt of mail, certain it is that he walked in the expectancy of death. "why don't you leave the mountains?" strangers had asked; and to each of them purvy had replied with a shrug of his shoulders and a short laugh: "this is where i belong." but the years of strain were telling on jesse purvy. the robust, full- blooded face was showing deep lines; his flesh was growing flaccid; his glance tinged with quick apprehension. he told his intimates that he realized "they'd get him," yet he sought to prolong his term of escape. the creek purled peacefully by the stile; the apple and peach trees blossomed and bore fruit at their appointed time, but the householder, when he walked between his back door and the back door of the store, hugged his stockade, and hurried his steps. yesterday morning, jesse purvy had risen early as usual, and, after a satisfying breakfast, had gone to his store to arrange for the day's business. one or two of his henchmen, seeming loafers, but in reality a bodyguard, were lounging within call. a married daughter was chatting with her father while her young baby played among the barrels and cracker boxes. the daughter went to a rear window, and gazed up at the mountain. the cloudless skies were still in hiding behind a curtain of mist. the woman was idly watching the vanishing fog wraiths, and her father came over to her side. then, the baby cried, and she stepped back. purvy himself remained at the window. it was a thing he did not often do. it left him exposed, but the most cautiously guarded life has its moments of relaxed vigilance. he stood there possibly thirty seconds, then a sharp fusillade of clear reports barked out and was shattered by the hills into a long reverberation. with a hand clasped to his chest, purvy turned, walked to the middle of the floor, and fell. the henchmen rushed to the open sash. they leaped out, and plunged up the mountain, tempting the assassin's fire, but the assassin was satisfied. the mountain was again as quiet as it had been at dawn. its impenetrable mask of green was blank and unresponsive. somewhere in the cool of the dewy treetops a squirrel barked. here and there, the birds saluted the sparkle and freshness of june. inside, at the middle of the store, jesse purvy shifted his head against his daughter's knee, and said, as one stating an expected event: "well, they've got me." an ordinary mountaineer would have been carried home to die in the darkness of a dirty and windowless shack. the long-suffering star of jesse purvy ordained otherwise. he might go under or he might once more beat his way back and out of the quicksands of death. at all events, he would fight for life to the last gasp. twenty miles away in the core of the wilderness, removed from a railroad by a score of semi-perpendicular miles, a fanatic had once decided to found a school. the fact that the establishment in this place of such a school as his mind pictured was sheer madness and impossibility did not in the least deter him. it was a thing that could not be done, and it was a thing that he had done none the less. now a faculty of ten men, like himself holding degrees of masters of dreams, taught such as cared to come such things as they cared to learn. substantial two-and three-storied buildings of square-hewn logs lay grouped in a sort of arts and crafts village around a clean-clipped campus. the stagbone college property stretched twenty acres square at the foot of a hill. the drone of its own saw-mill came across the valley. in a book-lined library, wainscoted in natural woods of three colors, the original fanatic often sat reflecting pleasurably on his folly. higher up the hillside stood a small, but model, hospital, with a modern operating table and a case of surgical instruments, which, it was said, the state could not surpass. these things had been the gifts of friends who liked such a type of god-inspired madness. a "fotched-on" trained nurse was in attendance. from time to time, eminent bluegrass surgeons came to hixon by rail, rode twenty miles on mules, and held clinics on the mountainside. to this haven, jesse purvy, the murder lord, was borne in a litter carried on the shoulders of his dependents. here, as his steadfast guardian star decreed, he found two prominent medical visitors, who hurried him to the operating table. later, he was removed to a white bed, with the june sparkle in his eyes, pleasantly modulated through drawn blinds, and the june rustle and bird chorus in his ears--and his own thoughts in his brain. conscious, but in great pain, purvy beckoned jim asberry and aaron hollis, his chiefs of bodyguard, to his bedside, and waved the nurse back out of hearing. "if i don't get well," he said, feebly, "there's a job for you two boys. i reckon you know what it is?" they nodded, and asberry whispered a name: "samson south?" "yes," purvy spoke in a weak whisper; but the old vindictiveness was not smothered. "you got the old man, i reckon you can manage the cub. if you don't, he'll get you both one day." the two henchmen scowled. "i'll git him to-morrer," growled asberry. "thar hain't no sort of use in a-waitin'." "no!" for an instant purvy's voice rose out of its weakness to its old staccato tone of command, a tone which brought obedience. "if i get well, i have other plans. never mind what they are. that's my business. if i don't die, leave him alone, until i give other orders." he lay back and fought for breath. the nurse came over with gentle insistence, ordering quiet, but the man, whose violent life might be closing, had business yet to discuss with his confidential vassals. again, he waved her back. "if i get well," he went on, "and samson south is killed meanwhile, i won't live long either. it would be my life for his. keep close to him. the minute you hear of my death--get him." he paused again, then supplemented, "you two will find something mighty interestin' in my will." it was afternoon when purvy reached the hospital, and, at nightfall of the same day, there arrived at his store's entrance, on stumbling, hard -ridden mules, several men, followed by two tawny hounds whose long ears flapped over their lean jaws, and whose eyes were listless and tired, but whose black muzzles wrinkled and sniffed with that sensitive instinct which follows the man-scent. the ex-sheriff's family were instituting proceedings independent of the chief's orders. the next morning, this party plunged into the mountain tangle, and beat the cover with the bloodhounds in leash. the two gentle-faced dogs picked their way between the flowering rhododendrons, the glistening laurels, the feathery pine sprouts and the moss-covered rocks. they went gingerly and alertly on ungainly, cushioned feet. just as their masters were despairing, they came to a place directly over the store, where a branch had been bent back and hitched to clear the outlook, and where a boot heel had crushed the moss. there one of them raised his nose high into the air, opened his mouth, and let out a long, deep-chested bay of discovery. chapter vi george lescott had known hospitality of many brands and degrees. he had been the lionized celebrity in places of fashion. he had been the guest of equally famous brother artists in the cities of two hemispheres, and, since sincere painting had been his pole-star, he had gone where his art's wanderlust beckoned. his most famous canvas, perhaps, was his "prayer toward mecca," which hangs in the metropolitan. it shows, with a power that holds the observer in a compelling grip, the wonderful colors of a sunset across the desert. one seems to feel the renewed life that comes to the caravan with the welcome of the oasis. one seems to hear the grunting of the kneeling camels and the stirring of the date palms. the bedouins have spread their prayer-rugs, and behind them burns the west. lescott caught in that, as he had caught in his mountain sketches, the broad spirit of the thing. to paint that canvas, he had endured days of racking camel -travel and burning heat and thirst. he had followed the lure of transitory beauty to remote sections of the world. the present trip was only one of many like it, which had brought him into touch with varying peoples and distinctive types of life. he told himself that never had he found men at once so crude and so courteous as these hosts, who, facing personal perils, had still time and willingness to regard his comfort. they could not speak grammatically; they could hardly offer him the necessities of life, yet they gave all they had, with a touch of courtliness. in a fabric soiled and threadbare, one may sometimes trace the tarnished design that erstwhile ran in gold through a rich pattern. lescott could not but think of some fine old growth gone to seed and decay, but still bearing at its crest a single beautiful blossom while it held in its veins a poison. such a blossom was sally. her scarlet lips and sweet, grave eyes might have been the inheritance gift of some remote ancestress whose feet, instead of being bare and brown, had trod in high-heeled, satin slippers. when lord fairfax governed the province of virginia, that first sally, in the stateliness of panniered brocades and powdered hair, may have tripped a measure to the harpsichord or spinet. certain it is she trod with no more untrammeled grace than her wild descendant. for the nation's most untamed and untaught fragment is, after all, an unamalgamated stock of british and scottish bronze, which now and then strikes back to its beginning and sends forth a pure peal from its corroded bell-metal. in all america is no other element whose blood is so purely what the nation's was at birth. the coming of the kinsmen, who would stay until the present danger passed, had filled the house. the four beds in the cabin proper were full, and some slept on floor mattresses. lescott, because a guest and wounded, was given a small room aside. samson, however, shared his quarters in order to perform any service that an injured man might require. it had been a full and unusual day for the painter, and its incidents crowded in on him in retrospect and drove off the possibility of sleep. samson, too, seemed wakeful, and in the isolation of the dark room the two men fell into conversation, which almost lasted out the night. samson went into the confessional. this was the first human being he had ever met to whom he could unburden his soul. the thirst to taste what knowledge lay beyond the hills; the unnamed wanderlust that had at times brought him a restiveness so poignant as to be agonizing; the undefined attuning of his heart to the beauty of sky and hill; these matters he had hitherto kept locked in guilty silence. to the men of his clan these were eccentricities bordering on the abnormal; frailties to be passed over with charity, as one would pass over the infirmities of an afflicted child. to samson they looked as to a sort of feud messiah. his destiny was stern, and held no place for dreams. for him, they could see only danger in an insatiable hunger for learning. in a weak man, a school-teacher or parson sort of a man, that might be natural, but this young cock of their walk was being reared for the pit--for conflict. what was important in him was stamina, and sharp strength of spur. these qualities he had proven from infancy. weakening proclivities must be eliminated. so, the boy had been forced to keep throttled impulses that, for being throttled, had smoldered and set on fire the inner depths of his soul. during long nights, he had secretly digested every available book. yet, in order to vindicate himself from the unspoken accusation of growing weak, of forgetting his destiny, he had courted trouble, and sought combat. he was too close to his people's point of view for perspective. he shared their idea that the thinking man weakens himself as a fighting man. he had never heard of a cyrano de bergerac, or an aramis. now had come some one with whom he could talk: a man who had traveled and followed, without shame, the beckoning of learning and beauty. at once, the silent boy found himself talking intimately, and the artist found himself studying one of the strangest human paradoxes he had yet seen. in a cove, or lowland pocket, stretching into the mountainside, lay the small and meager farm of the widow miller. the widow miller was a "south"; that is to say she fell, by tie of marriage, under the protection of the clan-head. she lived alone with her fourteen-year-old son and her sixteen-year-old daughter. the daughter was sally. at sixteen, the woman's figure had been as pliantly slim, her step as light as was her daughter's now. at forty, she was withered. her face was hard, and her lips had forgotten how to smile. her shoulders sagged, and she was an old woman, who smoked her pipe, and taught her children that rudimentary code of virtue to which the mountains subscribe. she believed in a brimstone hell and a personal devil. she believed that the whale had swallowed jonah, but she thought that "thou shalt not kill" was an edict enunciated by the almighty with mental reservations. the sun rose on the morning after lescott arrived, the mists lifted, and the cabin of the widow miller stood revealed. against its corners several hogs scraped their bristled backs with satisfied grunts. a noisy rooster cocked his head inquiringly sidewise before the open door, and, hopping up to the sill, invaded the main room. a towsled -headed boy made his way to the barn to feed the cattle, and a red patch of color, as bright and tuneful as a kentucky cardinal, appeared at the door between the morning-glory vines. the red patch of color was sally. she made her way, carrying a bucket, to the spring, where she knelt down and gazed at her own image in the water. her grave lips broke into a smile, as the reflected face, framed in its mass of reflected red hair, gazed back at her. then, the smile broke into a laugh. "hello, sally miller!" she gaily accosted her picture-self. "how air ye this mornin', sally miller?" she plunged her face deep in the cool spring, and raised it to shake back her hair, until the water flew from its masses. she laughed again, because it was another day, and because she was alive. she waded about for a while where the spring joined the creek, and delightedly watched the schools of tiny, almost transparent, minnows that darted away at her coming. then, standing on a rock, she paused with her head bent, and listened until her ears caught the faint tinkle of a cowbell, which she recognized. nodding her head joyously, she went off into the woods, to emerge at the end of a half-hour later, carrying a pail of milk, and smiling joyously again--because it was almost breakfast time. but, before going home, she set down her bucket by the stream, and, with a quick glance toward the house to make sure that she was not observed, climbed through the brush, and was lost to view. she followed a path that her own feet had made, and after a steep course upward, came upon a bald face of rock, which stood out storm-battered where a rift went through the backbone of the ridge. this point of vantage commanded the other valley. from its edge, a white oak, dwarfed, but patriarchal, leaned out over an abrupt drop. no more sweeping or splendid view could be had within miles, but it was not for any reason so general that sally had made her pilgrimage. down below, across the treetops, were a roof and a chimney from which a thread of smoke rose in an attenuated shaft. that was spicer south's house, and samson's home. the girl leaned against the gnarled bowl of the white oak, and waved toward the roof and chimney. she cupped her hands, and raised them to her lips like one who means to shout across a great distance, then she whispered so low that only she herself could hear: "hello, samson south!" she stood for a space looking down, and forgot to laugh, while her eyes grew religiously and softly deep, then, turning, she ran down the slope. she had performed her morning devotions. that day at the house of spicer south was an off day. the kinsmen who had stopped for the night stayed on through the morning. nothing was said of the possibility of trouble. the men talked crops, and tossed horseshoes in the yard; but no one went to work in the fields, and all remained within easy call. only young tamarack spicer, a raw-boned nephew, wore a sullen face, and made a great show of cleaning his rifle and pistol. he even went out in the morning, and practised at target -shooting, and lescott, who was still very pale and weak, but able to wander about at will, gained the impression that in young tamarack he was seeing the true type of the mountain "bad-man." tamarack seemed willing to feed that idea, and admitted apart to lescott that, while he obeyed the dictates of the truce, he found them galling, and was straining at his leash. "i don't take nothin' offen nobody," he sullenly confided. "the hollmans gives me my half the road." shortly after dinner, he disappeared, and, when the afternoon was well advanced, samson, too, with his rifle on his arm, strolled toward the stile. old spicer south glanced up, and removed his pipe from his mouth to inquire: "whar be ye a-goin'?" "i hain't a-goin' fur," was the non-committal response. "meybe hit mout be a good idea ter stay round clost fer a spell." the old man made the suggestion casually, and the boy replied in the same fashion. "i hain't a-goin' ter be outen sight." he sauntered down the road, but, when he had passed out of vision, he turned sharply into the woods, and began climbing. his steps carried him to the rift in the ridge where the white oak stood sentinel over the watch-tower of rock. as he came over the edge from one side, his bare feet making no sound, he saw sally sitting there, with her hands resting on the moss and her eyes deeply troubled. she was gazing fixedly ahead, and her lips were trembling. at once samson's face grew black. some one had been making sally unhappy. then, he saw beyond her a standing figure, which the tree trunk had hitherto concealed. it was the loose-knitted figure of young tamarack spicer. "in course," spicer was saying, "we don't 'low samson shot jesse purvy, but them hollmans'll 'spicion him, an' i heered just now, thet them dawgs was trackin' straight up hyar from the mouth of misery. they'll git hyar against sundown." samson leaped violently forward. with one hand, he roughly seized his cousin's shoulder, and wheeled him about. "shet up!" he commanded. "what damn fool stuff hev ye been tellin' sally?" for an instant, the two clansmen stood fronting each other. samson's face was set and wrathful. tamarack's was surly and snarling. "hain't i got a license ter tell sally the news?" he demanded. "nobody hain't got no license," retorted the younger man in the quiet of cold anger, "ter tell sally nothin' thet'll fret her." "she air bound ter know, hit all pretty soon. them dawgs----" "didn't i tell ye ter shet up?" samson clenched his fists, and took a step forward. "ef ye opens yore mouth again, i'm a-goin' ter smash hit. now, git!" tamarack spicer's face blackened, and his teeth showed. his right hand swept to his left arm-pit. outwardly he seemed weaponless, but samson knew that concealed beneath the hickory shirt was a holster, worn mountain fashion. "what air ye a-reachin' atter, tam'rack?" he inquired, his lips twisting in amusement. "thet's my business." "well, get hit out--or git out yeself, afore i throws ye offen the clift." sally showed no symptoms of alarm. her confidence in her hero was absolute. the boy lifted his hand, and pointed off down the path. slowly and with incoherent muttering, spicer took himself away. then only did sally rise. she came over, and laid a hand on samson's shoulder. in her blue eyes, the tears were welling. "samson," she whispered, "ef they're atter ye, come ter my house. i kin hide ye out. why didn't ye tell me jesse purvy'd done been shot?" "hit tain't nothin' ter fret about, sally," he assured her. he spoke awkwardly, for he had been trained to regard emotion as unmanly. "thar hain't no danger." she gazed searchingly into his eyes, and then, with a short sob, threw her arms around him, and buried her face on his shoulder. "ef anything happens ter ye, samson," she said, brokenly, "hit'll jest kill me. i couldn't live withouten ye, samson. i jest couldn't do hit!" the boy took her in his arms, and pressed her close. his eyes were gazing off over her bent head, and his lips twitched. he drew his features into a scowl, because that was the only expression with which he could safeguard his feelings. his voice was husky. "i reckon, sally," he said, "i couldn't live withouten you, neither." the party of men who had started at morning from jesse purvy's store had spent a hard day. the roads followed creek-beds, crossing and recrossing waterways in a fashion that gave the bloodhounds a hundred baffling difficulties. often, their noses lost the trail, which had at first been so surely taken. often, they circled and whined, and halted in perplexity, but each time they came to a point where, at the end, one of them again raised his muzzle skyward, and gave voice. toward evening, they were working up misery along a course less broken. the party halted for a moment's rest, and, as the bottle was passed, the man from lexington, who had brought the dogs and stayed to conduct the chase, put a question: "what do you call this creek?" "hit's misery." "does anybody live on misery that--er--that you might suspect?" the hollmans laughed. "this creek is settled with souths thicker'n hops." the lexington man looked up. he knew what the name of south meant to a hollman. "is there any special south, who might have a particular grudge?" "the souths don't need no partic'lar grudge, but thar's young samson south. he's a wildcat." "he lives this way?" "these dogs air a-makin' a bee-line fer his house." jim hollman was speaking. then he added: "i've done been told that samson denies doin' the shootin', an' claims he kin prove an alibi." the lexington man lighted his pipe, and poured a drink of red whiskey into a flask cup. "he'd be apt to say that," he commented, coolly. "these dogs haven't any prejudice in the matter. i'll stake my life on their telling the truth." an hour later, the group halted again. the master of hounds mopped his forehead. "are we still going toward samson south's house?" he inquired. "we're about a quarter from hit now, an' we hain't never varied from the straight road." "will they be apt to give us trouble?" jim hollman smiled. "i hain't never heered of no south submittin' ter arrest by a hollman." the trailers examined their firearms, and loosened their holster- flaps. the dogs went forward at a trot. chapter vii from time to time that day, neighbors had ridden up to spicer south's stile, and drawn rein for gossip. these men brought bulletins as to the progress of the hounds, and near sundown, as a postscript to their information, a volley of gunshot signals sounded from a mountain top. no word was spoken, but in common accord the kinsmen rose from their chairs, and drifted toward their leaning rifles. "they're a-comin' hyar," said the head of the house, curtly. "samson ought ter be home. whar's tam'-rack?" no one had noticed his absence until that moment, nor was he to be found. a few minutes later, samson's figure swung into sight, and his uncle met him at the fence. "samson, i've done asked ye all the questions i'm a-goin' ter ask ye," he said, "but them dawgs is makin' fer this house. they've jest been sighted a mile below." samson nodded. "now"--spicer south's face hardened--"i owns down thar ter the road. no man kin cross that fence withouten i choose ter give him leave. ef ye wants ter go indoors an' stay thar, ye kin do hit--an' no dawg ner no man hain't a-goin' ter ask ye no questions. but, ef ye sees fit ter face hit out, i'd love ter prove ter these hyar men thet us souths don't break our word. we done agreed ter this truce. i'd like ter invite 'em in, an' let them damn dawgs sniff round the feet of every man in my house--an' then, when they're plumb teetotally damn satisfied, i'd like ter tell 'em all ter go ter hell. thet's the way i feels, but i'm a-goin' ter do jest what ye says." lescott did not overhear the conversation in full, but he saw the old man's face work with suppressed passion, and he caught samson's louder reply. "when them folks gets hyar, uncle spicer, i'm a-goin' ter be a-settin' right out thar in front. i'm plumb willin' ter invite 'em in." then, the two men turned toward the house. already the other clansmen had disappeared noiselessly through the door or around the angles of the walls. the painter found himself alone in a scene of utter quiet, unmarred by any note that was not peaceful. he had seen many situations charged with suspense and danger, and he now realized how thoroughly freighted was the atmosphere about spicer south's cabin with the possibilities of bloodshed. the moments seemed to drag interminably. in the expressionless faces that so quietly vanished; in the absolutely calm and businesslike fashion in which, with no spoken order, every man fell immediately into his place of readiness and concealment, he read an ominous portent that sent a current of apprehension through his arteries. into his mind flashed all the historical stories he had heard of the vendetta life of these wooded slopes, and he wondered if he was to see another chapter enacted in the next few minutes, while the june sun and soft shadows drowsed so quietly across the valley. while he waited, spicer south's sister, the prematurely aged crone, appeared in the kitchen door with the clay pipe between her teeth, and raised a shading hand to gaze off up the road. she, too, understood the tenseness of the situation as her grim, but unflinching, features showed; yet even in her feminine eyes was no shrinking and on her face, inured to fear, was no tell-tale signal beyond a heightened pallor. spicer south looked up at her, and jerked his head toward the house. "git inside, m'lindy," he ordered, curtly, and without a word she, too, turned and disappeared. but there was another figure, unseen, its very presence unsuspected, watching from near by with a pounding heart and small fingers clutching in wild terror at a palpitant breast. in this country, where human creatures seemed to share with the "varmints" the faculty of moving unseen and unheard, the figure had come stealthily to watch--and pray. when samson had heard that signal of the gunshots from a distant peak, he had risen from the rock where he sat with sally. he had said nothing of the issue he must go to meet; nothing of the enemies who had brought dogs, confident that they would make their run straight to his lair. that subject had not been mentioned between them since he had driven tamarack away that afternoon, and reassured her. he had only risen casually, as though his action had no connection with the signal of the rifles, and said: "reckon i'll be a-goin'." and sally had said nothing either, except good-by, and had turned her face toward her own side of the ridge, but, as soon as he had passed out of sight, she had wheeled and followed noiselessly, slipping from rhododendron clump to laurel thicket as stealthily as though she were herself the object of an enemy's attack. she knew that samson would have sent her back, and she knew that a crisis was at hand, and that she could not support the suspense of awaiting the news. she must see for herself. and now, while the stage was setting itself, the girl crouched trembling a little way up the hillside, at the foot of a titanic poplar. about her rose gray, moss-covered rocks and the fronds of clinging ferns. at her feet bloomed wild flowers for which she knew no names except those with which she had herself christened them, "sunsetty flowers" whose yellow petals suggested to her imagination the western skies, and "fairy cups and saucers." she was not trembling for herself, though, if a fusillade broke out below, the masking screen of leafage would not protect her from the pelting of stray bullets. her small face was pallid, and her blue eyes wide-stretched and terrified. with a catch in her throat, she shifted from her crouching attitude to a kneeling posture, and clasped her hands desperately, and raised her face, while her lips moved in prayer. she did not pray aloud, for even in her torment of fear for the boy she loved, her mountain caution made her noiseless--and the god to whom she prayed could hear her equally well in silence. "oh, god," pleaded the girl, brokenly, "i reckon ye knows thet them hollmans is atter samson, an' i reckons ye knows he hain't committed no sin. i reckon ye knows, since ye knows all things, thet hit'll kill me ef i loses him, an' though i hain't nobody but jest sally miller, an' ye air almighty god, i wants ye ter hear my prayin', an' pertect him." fifteen minutes later, lescott, standing at the fence, saw a strange cavalcade round the bend of the road. several travel-stained men were leading mules, and holding two tawny and impatient dogs in leash. in their number, the artist recognized his host of two nights ago. they halted at a distance, and in their faces the artist read dismay, for, while the dogs were yelping confidently and tugging at their cords, young samson south--who should, by their prejudiced convictions, be hiding out in some secret stronghold--sat at the top step of the stile, smoking his pipe, and regarded them with a lack-luster absence of interest. such a calm reception was uncanny. the trailers felt sure that in a moment more the dogs would fall into accusing excitement. logically, these men should be waiting to receive them behind barricaded doors. there must be some hidden significance. possibly, it was an invitation to walk into ambuscade. no doubt, unseen rifles covered their approach, and the shooting of purvy was only the inaugural step to a bloody and open outbreak of the war. after a whispered conference, the lexington man came forward alone. old spicer south had been looking on from the door, and was now strolling out to meet the envoy, unarmed. and the envoy, as he came, held his hands unnecessarily far away from his sides, and walked with an ostentatious show of peace. "evenin', stranger," hailed the old man. "come right in." "mr. south," began the dog-owner, with some embarrassment, "i have been employed to furnish a pair of bloodhounds to the family of jesse purvy, who has been shot." "i heerd tell thet purvy was shot," said the head of the souths in an affable tone, which betrayed no deeper note of interest than neighborhood gossip might have elicited. "i have no personal interest in the matter," went on the stranger, hastily, as one bent on making his attitude clear, "except to supply the dogs and manage them. i do not in any way direct their course; i merely follow." "ye can't hardly fo'ce a dawg." old spicer sagely nodded his head as he made the remark. "a dawg jest natcher'ly follers his own nose." "exactly--and they have followed their noses here." the lexington man found the embarrassment of his position growing as the colloquy proceeded. "i want to ask you whether, if these dogs want to cross your fence, i have your permission to let them?" the cabin in the yard was utterly quiet. there was no hint of the seven or eight men who rested on their arms behind its half-open door. the master of the house crossed the stile, the low sun shining on his shock of gray hair, and stood before the man-hunter. he spoke so that his voice carried to the waiting group in the road. "ye're plumb welcome ter turn them dawgs loose, an' let 'em ramble, stranger. nobody hain't a-goin' ter hurt 'em. i sees some fellers out thar with ye thet mustn't cross my fence. ef they does"--the voice rang menacingly--"hit'll mean that they're a-bustin' the truce--an' they won't never go out ag'in. but you air safe in hyar. i gives yer my hand on thet. ye're welcome, an' yore dawgs is welcome. i hain't got nothin' 'gainst dawgs thet comes on four legs, but i shore bars the two-legged kind." there was a murmur of astonishment from the road. disregarding it, spicer south turned his face toward the house. "you boys kin come out," he shouted, "an' leave yore guns inside." the leashes were slipped from the dogs. they leaped forward, and made directly for samson, who sat as unmoving as a lifeless image on the top step of the stile. up on the hillside the fingernails of sally miller's clenched hands cut into the flesh, and the breath stopped between her parted and bloodless lips. there was a half-moment of terrific suspense, then the beasts clambered by the seated figure, passing on each side and circled aimlessly about the yard--their quest unended. they sniffed indifferently about the trouser legs of the men who sauntered indolently out of the door. they trotted into the house and out again, and mingled with the mongrel home pack that snarled and growled hostility for this invasion. then, they came once more to the stile. as they climbed out, samson south reached up and stroked a tawny head, and the bloodhound paused a moment to wag its tail in friendship, before it jumped down to the road, and trotted gingerly onward. "i'm obliged to you, sir," said the man from the bluegrass, with a voice of immense relief. the moment of suspense seemed past, and, in the relief of the averted clash, the master of hounds forgot that his dogs stood branded as false trailers. but, when he rejoined the group in the road, he found himself looking into surly visages, and the features of jim hollman in particular were black in their scowl of smoldering wrath. "why didn't ye axe him," growled the kinsman of the man who had been shot, "whar the other feller's at?" "what other fellow?" echoed the lexington man. jim hollman's voice rose truculently, and his words drifted, as he meant them to, across to the ears of the clansmen who stood in the yard of spicer south. "them dawgs of your'n come up misery a-hellin'. they hain't never turned aside, an', onless they're plumb ornery no-'count curs thet don't know their business, they come for some reason. they seemed mighty interested in gittin' hyar. axe them fellers in thar who's been hyar thet hain't hyar now? who is ther feller thet got out afore we come hyar." at this veiled charge of deceit, the faces of the souths again blackened, and the men near the door of the house drifted in to drift presently out again, swinging discarded winchesters at their sides. it seemed that, after all, the incident was not closed. the man from lexington, finding himself face to face with a new difficulty, turned and argued in a low voice with the hollman leader. but jim hollman, whose eyes were fixed on samson, refused to talk in a modulated tone, and he shouted his reply: "i hain't got nothin' ter whisper about," he proclaimed. "go axe 'em who hit war thet got away from hyar." old spicer south stood leaning on his fence, and his rugged countenance stiffened. he started to speak, but samson rose from the stile, and said, in a composed voice: "let me talk ter this feller, unc' spicer." the old man nodded, and samson beckoned to the owner of the dogs. "we hain't got nothin' ter say ter them fellers with ye," he announced, briefly. "we hain't axin' 'em no questions, an' we hain't answerin' none. ye done come hyar with dawgs, an' we hain't stopped ye. we've done answered all the questions them dawgs hes axed. we done treated you an' yore houn's plumb friendly. es fer them other men, we hain't got nothin' ter say ter 'em. they done come hyar because they hoped they could git me in trouble. they done failed. thet road belongs ter the county. they got a license ter travel hit, but this strip right hyar hain't ther healthiest section they kin find. i reckon ye'd better advise 'em ter move on." the lexington man went back. for a minute or two, jim hollman sat scowling down in indecision from his saddle. then, he admitted to himself that he had done all he could do without becoming the aggressor. for the moment, he was beaten. he looked up, and from the road one of the hounds raised its voice and gave cry. that baying afforded an excuse for leaving, and jim hollman seized upon it. "go on," he growled. "let's see what them damned curs hes ter say now." mounting, they kicked their mules into a jog. from the men inside the fence came no note of derision; no hint of triumph. they stood looking out with expressionless, mask-like faces until their enemies had passed out of sight around the shoulder of the mountain. the souths had met and fronted an accusation made after the enemy's own choice and method. a jury of two hounds had acquitted them. it was not only because the dogs had refused to recognize in samson a suspicious character that the enemy rode on grudgingly convinced, but, also, because the family, which had invariably met hostility with hostility, had so willingly courted the acid test of guilt or innocence. samson, passing around the corner of the house, caught a flash of red up among the green clumps of the mountainside, and, pausing to gaze at it, saw it disappear into the thicket of brush. he knew then that sally had followed him, and why she had done it, and, framing a stern rebuke for the foolhardiness of the venture, he plunged up the acclivity in pursuit. but, as he made his way cautiously, he heard around the shoulder of a mass of piled-up sandstone a shaken sobbing, and, slipping toward it, found the girl bent over with her face in her hands, her slander body convulsively heaving with the weeping of reaction, and murmuring half-incoherent prayers of thanksgiving for his deliverance. "sally!" he exclaimed, hurrying over and dropping to his knees beside her. "sally, thar hain't nothin' ter fret about, little gal. hit's all right." she started up at the sound of his voice, and then, pillowing her head on his shoulder, wept tears of happiness. he sought for words, but no words came, and his lips and eyes, unused to soft expressions, drew themselves once more into the hard mask with which he screened his heart's moods. days passed uneventfully after that. the kinsmen dispersed to their scattered coves and cabins. now and again came a rumor that jesse purvy was dying, but always hard on its heels came another to the effect that the obdurate fighter had rallied, though the doctors held out small encouragement of recovery. one day lescott, whose bandaged arm gave him much pain, but who was able to get about, was strolling not far from the house with samson. they were following a narrow trail along the mountainside, and, at a sound no louder than the falling of a walnut, the boy halted and laid a silencing hand on the painter's shoulder. then followed an unspoken command in his companion's eyes. lescott sank down behind a rock, cloaked with glistening rhododendron leafage, where samson had already crouched, and become immovable and noiseless. they had been there only a short time when they saw another figure slipping quietly from tree to tree below them. for a time, the mountain boy watched the figure, and the painter saw his lips draw into a straight line, and his eyes narrow with a glint of tense hate. yet, a moment later, with a nod to follow, the boy unexpectedly rose into view, and his features were absolutely expressionless. "mornin', jim," he called. the slinking stranger whirled with a start, and an instinctive motion as though to bring his rifle to his shoulder. but, seeing samson's peaceable manner, he smiled, and his own demeanor became friendly. "mornin', samson." "kinder stranger in this country, hain't ye, jim?" drawled the boy who lived there, and the question brought a sullen flush to the other's cheekbones. "jest a-passin' through," he vouchsafed. "i reckon ye'd find the wagon road more handy," suggested samson. "some folks might 'spicion ye fer stealin' long through the timber." the skulking traveler decided to lie plausibly. he laughed mendaciously. "that's the reason, samson. i was kinder skeered ter go through this country in the open." samson met his eye steadily, and said slowly: "i reckon, jim, hit moughtn't be half es risky fer ye ter walk upstandin' along misery, es ter go a-crouchin'. ye thinks ye've been a shadderin' me. i knows jest whar ye've been all the time. ye lies when ye talks 'bout passin' through. ye've done been spyin' hyar, ever since jesse purvy got shot, an' all thet time ye've done been watched yeself. i reckon hit'll be healthier fer ye ter do yore spyin' from t'other side of the ridge. i reckon yer allowin' ter git me ef purvy dies, but we're watchin' ye." jim asberry's face darkened, but he said nothing. there was nothing to say. he was discovered in the enemy's country, and must accept the enemy's terms. "this hyar time, i lets ye go back," said samson, "fer the reason thet i'm tryin' like all hell ter keep this truce. but ye must stay on yore side, or else ride the roads open. how is purvy terday?" "he's mighty porely," replied the other, in a sullen voice. "all right. thet's another reason why hit hain't healthy fer ye over hyar." the spy turned, and made his way over the mountain. "damn him!" muttered samson, his face twitching, as the other was lost in the undergrowth. "some day i'm a-goin' ter git him." tamarack spicer did not at once reappear, and, when one of the souths met another in the road, the customary dialogue would be: "heered anything of tamarack?" ... "no, hev you?" ... "no, nary a word." as lescott wandered through the hills, his unhurt right hand began crying out for action and a brush to nurse. as he watched, day after day, the unveiling of the monumental hills, and the transitions from hazy wraith-like whispers of hues, to strong, flaring riot of color, this fret of restlessness became actual pain. he was wasting wonderful opportunity and the creative instinct in him was clamoring. one morning, when he came out just after sunrise to the tin wash basin at the well, the desire to paint was on him with compelling force. the hills ended near their bases like things bitten off. beyond lay limitless streamers of mist, but, while he stood at gaze, the filmy veil began to lift and float higher. trees and mountains grew taller. the sun, which showed first as a ghost-like disc of polished aluminum, struggled through orange and vermilion into a sphere of living flame. it was as though the creator were breathing on a formless void to kindle it into a vital and splendid cosmos, and between the dawn's fog and the radiance of full day lay a dozen miracles. through rifts in the streamers, patches of hillside and sky showed for an ethereal moment or two in tender and transparent coloration, like spirit-reflections of emerald and sapphire.... lescott heard a voice at his side. "when does ye 'low ter commence paintin'?" it was samson. for answer, the artist, with his unhurt hand, impatiently tapped his bandaged wrist. "ye still got yore right hand, hain't ye?" demanded the boy. the other laughed. it was a typical question. so long as one had the trigger finger left, one should not admit disqualification. "you see, samson," he explained, "this isn't precisely like handling a gun. one must hold the palette; mix the colors; wipe the brushes and do half a dozen equally necessary things. it requires at least two perfectly good hands. many people don't find two enough." "but hit only takes one ter do the paintin', don't hit?" "yes." "well"--the boy spoke diffidently but with enthusiasm--"between the two of us, we've got three hands. i reckon ye kin larn me how ter do them other things fer ye." lescott's surprise showed in his face, and the lad swept eagerly on. "mebby hit hain't none of my business, but, all day yestiddy an' the day befo', i was a-studyin' 'bout this here thing, an' i hustled up an' got thet corn weeded, an' now i'm through. ef i kin help ye out, i thought mebby--" he paused, and looked appealingly at the artist. lescott whistled, and then his face lighted into contentment. "to-day, samson," he announced, "lescott, south and company get busy." it was the first time he had seen samson smile, and, although the expression was one of sheer delight, inherent somberness loaned it a touch of the wistful. when, an hour later, the two set out, the mountain boy carried the paraphernalia, and the old man standing at the door watched them off with a half-quizzical, half-disapproving glance. to interfere with any act of courtesy to a guest was not to be thought of, but already the influence on samson of this man from the other world was disquieting his uncle's thoughts. with his mother's milk, the boy had fed on hatred of his enemies. with his training, he had been reared to feudal animosities. disaffection might ruin his usefulness. besides the sketching outfit, samson carried his rifle. he led the painter by slow stages, since the climb proved hard for a man still somewhat enfeebled, to the high rock which sally visited each morning. as the boy, with remarkable aptitude, learned how to adjust the easel and arrange the paraphernalia, lescott sat drinking in through thirsty eyes the stretch of landscape he had determined to paint. it was his custom to look long and studiously through closed lashes before he took up his brush. after that he began laying in his key tones and his fundamental sketching with an incredible swiftness, having already solved his problems of composition and analysis. then, while he painted, the boy held the palette, his eyes riveted on the canvas, which was growing from a blank to a mirror of vistas--and the boy's pupils became deeply hungry. he was not only looking. he was seeing. his gaze took in the way the fingers held the brushes; the manner of mixing the pigments, the detail of method. sometimes, when he saw a brush dab into a color whose use he did not at once understand, he would catch his breath anxiously, then nod silently to himself as the blending vindicated the choice. he did not know it, but his eye for color was as instinctively true as that of the master. as the day wore on, they fell to talking, and the boy again found himself speaking of his fettered restiveness in the confinement of his life; of the wanderlust which stirred him, and of which he had been taught to feel ashamed. during one of their periods of rest, there was a rustle in the branches of a hickory, and a gray shape flirted a bushy tail. samson's hand slipped silently out, and the rifle came to his shoulder. in a moment it snapped, and a squirrel dropped through the leaves. "jove!" exclaimed lescott, admiringly. "that was neat work. he was partly behind the limb--at a hundred yards." "hit warn't nothin'," said samson, modestly. "hit's a good gun." he brought back his quarry, and affectionately picked up the rifle. it was a repeating winchester, carrying a long steel-jacketed bullet of special caliber, but it was of a pattern fifteen years old, and fitted with target sights. "that gun," samson explained, in a lowered and reverent voice, "was my pap's. i reckon there hain't enough money in the world ter buy hit off en me." slowly, in a matter-of-fact tone, he began a story without decoration of verbiage--straightforward and tense in its simplicity. as the painter listened, he began to understand; the gall that had crept into this lad's blood before his weaning became comprehensible.... killing hollmans was not murder.... it was duty. he seemed to see the smoke- blackened cabin and the mother of the boy sitting, with drawn face, in dread of the hours. he felt the racking nerve-tension of a life in which the father went forth each day leaving his family in fear that he would not return. then, under the spell of the unvarnished recital, he seemed to witness the crisis when the man, who had dared repudiate the lawless law of individual reprisal, paid the price of his insurgency. a solitary friend had come in advance to break the news. his face, when he awkwardly commenced to speak, made it unnecessary to put the story into words. samson told how his mother had turned pallid, and stretched out her arm gropingly for support against the door-jamb. then the man had found his voice with clumsy directness. "they've got him." the small boy had reached her in time to break her fall as she fainted, but, later, when they brought in the limp, unconscious man, she was awaiting them with regained composure. an expression came to her face at that moment, said the lad, which had never left it during the remaining two years of her life. for some hours, "old" henry south, who in a less-wasting life would hardly have been middle-aged, had lingered. they were hours of conscious suffering, with no power to speak, but before he died he had beckoned his ten-year-old son to his bedside, and laid a hand on the dark, rumpled hair. the boy bent forward, his eyes tortured and tearless, and his little lips tight pressed. the old man patted the head, and made a feeble gesture toward the mother who was to be widowed. samson had nodded. "i'll take keer of her, pap," he had fervently sworn. then, henry south had lifted a tremulous finger, and pointed to the wall above the hearth. there, upon a set of buck-antlers, hung the winchester rifle. and, again, samson had nodded, but this time he did not speak. that moment was to his mind the most sacred of his life; it had been a dedication to a purpose. the arms of the father had then and there been bequeathed to the son, and with the arms a mission for their use. after a brief pause, samson told of the funeral. he had a remarkable way of visualizing in rough speech the desolate picture; the wailing mourners on the bleak hillside, with the november clouds hanging low and trailing their wet streamers. a "jolt-wagon" had carried the coffin in lieu of a hearse. saddled mules stood tethered against the picket fence. the dogs that had followed their masters started a rabbit close by the open grave, and split the silence with their yelps as the first clod fell. he recalled, too, the bitter voice with which his mother had spoken to a kinsman as she turned from the ragged burying ground, where only the forlorn cedars were green. she was leaning on the boy's thin shoulders at the moment. he had felt her arm stiffen with her words, and, as her arm stiffened, his own positive nature stiffened with it. "henry believed in law and order. i did, too. but they wouldn't let us have it that way. from this day on, i'm a-goin' to raise my boy to kill hollmans." chapter viii with his father's death samson's schooling had ended. his responsibility now was farm work and the roughly tender solicitude of a young stoic for his mother. his evenings before the broad fireplace he gave up to a devouring sort of study, but his books were few. when, two years later, he laid the body of the widow south beside that of his father in the ragged hillside burying-ground, he turned his nag's head away from the cabin where he had been born, and rode over to make his home at his uncle spicer's place. he had, in mountain parlance, "heired" a farm of four hundred acres, but a boy of twelve can hardly operate a farm, even if he be so stalwart a boy as samson. his uncle spicer wanted him, and he went, and the head of the family took charge of his property as guardian; placed a kinsman there to till it, on shares, and faithfully set aside for the boy what revenue came from the stony acres. he knew that they would be rich acres when men began to dig deeper than the hoe could scratch, and opened the veins where the coal slept its unstirring sleep. the old man had not set such store by learning as had samson's father, and the little shaver's education ended, except for what he could wrest from stinted sources and without aid. his mission of "killing hollmans" was not forgotten. there had years ago been one general battle at a primary, when the two factions fought for the control that would insure the victors safety against "law trouble," and put into their hands the weapons of the courts. samson was far too young to vote, but he was old enough to fight, and the account he had given of himself, with the inherited rifle smoking, gave augury of fighting effectiveness. so sanguinary had been this fight, and so dangerously had it focused upon the warring clans the attention of the outside world, that after its indecisive termination, they made the compact of the present truce. by its terms, the hollmans held their civil authority, and the souths were to be undisturbed dictators beyond misery. for some years now, the peace had been unbroken save by sporadic assassinations, none of which could be specifically enough charged to the feud account to warrant either side in regarding the contract as broken. samson, being a child, had been forced to accept the terms of this peace bondage. the day would come when the souths could agree to no truce without his consent. such was, in brief, the story that the artist heard while he painted and rested that day on the rock. had he heard it in new york, he would have discounted it as improbable and melodramatic. now, he knew that it was only one of many such chapters in the history of the cumberlands. the native point of view even became in a degree acceptable. in a system of trial by juries from the vicinage, fair and bold prosecutions for crime were impossible, and such as pretended to be so were bitterly tragic farces. he understood why the families of murdered fathers and brothers preferred to leave the punishment to their kinsmen in the laurel, rather than to their enemies in the jury-box. the day of painting was followed by others like it. the disabling of lescott's left hand made the constant companionship of the boy a matter that needed no explanation or apology, though not a matter of approval to his uncle. another week had passed without the reappearance of tamarack spicer. one afternoon, lescott and samson were alone on a cliff-protected shelf, and the painter had just blocked in with umber and neutral tint the crude sketch of his next picture. in the foreground was a steep wall, rising palisade-like from the water below. a kingly spruce-pine gave the near note for a perspective which went away across a valley of cornfields to heaping and distant mountains. beyond that range, in a slender ribbon of pale purple, one saw the ridge of a more remote and mightier chain. the two men had lost an hour huddled under a canopy beneath the cannonading of a sudden storm. they had silently watched titanic battallions of thunder-clouds riding the skies in gusty puffs of gale, and raking the earth with lightning and hail and water. the crags had roared back echoing defiance, and the great trees had lashed and bent and tossed like weeds in the buffeting. every gully had become a stream, and every gulch-rock a waterfall. here and there had been a crashing of spent timber, and now the sun had burst through a rift in the west, and flooded a segment of the horizon with a strange, luminous field of lesson. about this zone of clarity were heaped masses of gold- rimmed and rose-edged clouds, still inky at their centers. "my god!" exclaimed the mountain boy abruptly. "i'd give 'most anything ef i could paint that." lescott rose smilingly from his seat before the easel, and surrendered his palette and sheaf of brushes. "try it," he invited. for a moment, samson stood hesitant and overcome with diffidence; then, with set lips, he took his place, and experimentally fitted his fingers about a brush, as he had seen lescott do. he asked no advice. he merely gazed for awhile, and then, dipping a brush and experimenting for his color, went to sweeping in his primary tones. the painter stood at his back, still smiling. of course, the brush- stroke was that of the novice. of course, the work was clumsy and heavy. but what lescott noticed was not so much the things that went on canvas as the mixing of colors on the palette, for he knew that the palette is the painter's heart, and its colors are the elements of his soul. what a man paints on canvas is the sum of his acquirement; but the colors he mixes are the declarations of what his soul can see, and no man can paint whose eyes are not touched with the sublime. at that moment, lescott knew that samson had such eyes. the splashes of lemon yellow that the boy daubed above the hills might have been painted with a brush dipped in the sunset. the heavy clouds with their gossamer edgings had truth of tone and color. then the experimenter came to the purple rim of mountain tops. there was no color for that on the palette, and he turned to the paint- box. "here," suggested lescott, handing him a tube of payne's gray: "is that what you're looking for?" samson read the label, and decisively shook his head. "i'm a-goin' atter them hills," he declared. "there hain't no gray in them thar mountings." "squeeze some out, anyway." the artist suited the action to the word, and soon samson was experimenting with a mixture. "why, that hain't no gray," he announced, with enthusiasm; "that thar's sort of ashy purple." still, he was not satisfied. his first brush-stroke showed a trifle dead and heavy. it lacked the soft lucid quality that the hills held, though it was close enough to truth to have satisfied any eye save one of uncompromising sincerity. samson, even though he was hopelessly daubing, and knew it, was sincere, and the painter at his elbow caught his breath, and looked on with the absorption of a prophet, who, listening to childish prattle, yet recognizes the gift of prophecy. the boy dabbled for a perplexed moment among the pigments, then lightened up his color with a trace of ultramarine. unconsciously, the master heaved a sigh of satisfaction. the boy "laid in" his far hills, and turned. "thet's the way hit looks ter me," he said, simply. "that's the way it is," commended his critic. for a while more, samson worked at the nearer hills, then he rose. "i'm done," he said. "i hain't a-goin' ter fool with them thar trees an' things. i don't know nothing erbout thet. i can't paint leaves an' twigs an' birdsnests. what i likes is mountings, an' skies, an' sech- like things." lescott looked at the daub before him. a less-trained eye would have seen only the daub, just as a poor judge of horse-flesh might see only awkward joints and long legs in a weanling colt, though it be bred in the purple. "samson," he said, earnestly, "that's all there is to art. it's the power to feel the poetry of color. the rest can be taught. the genius must work, of course--work, work, work, and still work, but the gift is the power of seeing true--and, by god, boy, you have it." his words rang exultantly. "anybody with eyes kin see," deprecated samson, wiping his fingers on his jeans trousers. "you think so? to the seer who reads the passing shapes in a globe of crystal, it's plain enough. to any other eye, there is nothing there but transparency." lescott halted, conscious that he was falling into metaphor which his companion could not understand, then more quietly he went on: "i don't know how you would progress, samson, in detail and technique, but i know you've got what many men have struggled a lifetime for, and failed. i'd like to have you study with me. i'd like to be your discoverer. look here." the painter sat down, and speedily went to work. he painted out nothing. he simply toned, and, with precisely the right touch here and there, softened the crudeness, laid stress on the contrast, melted the harshness, and, when he rose, he had built, upon the rough cornerstone of samson's laying, a picture. "that proves it," he said. "i had only to finish. i didn't have to undo. boy, you're wasting yourself. come with me, and let me make you. we all pretend there is no such thing, in these days, as sheer genius; but, deep down, we know that, unless there is, there can be no such thing as true art. there is genius and you have it." enthusiasm was again sweeping him into an unintended outburst. the boy stood silent. across his countenance swept a conflict of emotions. he looked away, as if taking counsel with the hills. "it's what i'm a-honin' fer," he admitted at last. "hit's what i'd give half my life fer.... i mout sell my land, an' raise the money.... i reckon hit would take passels of money, wouldn't hit?" he paused, and his eyes fell on the rifle leaning against the tree. his lips tightened in sudden remembrance. he went over and picked up the gun, and, as he did so, he shook his head. "no," he stolidly declared; "every man to his own tools. this here's mine." yet, when they were again out sketching, the temptation to play with brushes once more seized him, and he took his place before the easel. neither he nor lescott noticed a man who crept down through the timber, and for a time watched them. the man's face wore a surly, contemptuous grin, and shortly it withdrew. but, an hour later, while the boy was still working industriously and the artist was lying on his back, with a pipe between his teeth, and his half-closed eyes gazing up contentedly through the green of overhead branches, their peace was broken by a guffaw of derisive laughter. they looked up, to find at their backs a semi-circle of scoffing humanity. lescott's impulse was to laugh, for only the comedy of the situation at the moment struck him. a stage director, setting a comedy scene with that most ancient of jests, the gawking of boobs at some new sight, could hardly have improved on this tableau. at the front stood tamarack spicer, the returned wanderer. his lean wrist was stretched out of a ragged sleeve all too short, and his tattered "jimmy" was shoved back over a face all a-grin. his eyes were blood-shot with recent drinking, but his manner was in exaggerated and cumbersome imitation of a rural master of ceremonies. at his back were the raw-boned men and women and children of the hills, to the number of a dozen. to the front shuffled an old, half-witted hag, with thin gray hair and pendulous lower lip. her dress was patched and colorless. her back was bent with age and rheumatism. her feet were incased in a pair of man's brogans. she stared and snickered, and several children, taking the cue, giggled, but the men, save tamarack himself, wore troubled faces, as though recognizing that their future chieftain had been discovered in some secret shame. they were looking on their idol's feet of clay. "ladies and gentle-_men_," announced tamarack spicer, in a hiccoughy voice, "swing yo' partners an' sashay forward. see the only son of the late henry south engaged in his mar-ve-lous an' heretofore undiscovered occupation of doin' fancy work. ladies and gentle-_men_, after this here show is conclooded, keep your seats for the concert in the main tent. this here famous performer will favor ye with a little exhibition of plain an' fancy sock-darnin'." the children snickered again. the old woman shuffled forward. "samson," she quavered, "i didn't never low ter see ye doin' no sich woman's work as thet." after the first surprise, samson had turned his back on the group. he was mixing paint at the time and he proceeded to experiment with a fleeting cloud effect, which would not outlast the moment. he finished that, and, reaching for the palette-knife, scraped his fingers and wiped them on his trousers' legs. then, he deliberately rose. without a word he turned. tamarack had begun his harangue afresh. the boy tossed back the long lock from his forehead, and then, with an unexpectedly swift movement, crouched and leaped. his right fist shot forward to tamarack spicer's chattering lips, and they abruptly ceased to chatter as the teeth were driven into their flesh. spicer's head snapped back, and he staggered against the onlookers, where he stood rocking on his unsteady legs. his hand swept instinctively to the shirt -concealed holster, but, before it had connected, both of samson's fists were playing a terrific tattoo on his face. the inglorious master of the show dropped, and lay groggily trying to rise. the laughter died as suddenly as tamarack's speech. samson stepped back again, and searched the faces of the group for any lingering sign of mirth or criticism. there was none. every countenance was sober and expressionless, but the boy felt a weight of unuttered disapproval, and he glared defiance. one of the older onlookers spoke up reproachfully. "samson, ye hadn't hardly ought ter a-done that. he was jest a funnin' with ye." "git him up on his feet. i've got somethin' ter say ter him." the boy's voice was dangerously quiet. it was his first word. they lifted the fallen cousin, whose entertainment had gone astray, and led him forward grumbling, threatening and sputtering, but evincing no immediate desire to renew hostilities. "whar hev ye been?" demanded samson. "thet's my business," came the familiar mountain phrase. "why wasn't yer hyar when them dawgs come by? why was ye the only south thet runned away, when they was smellin' round fer jesse purvy's assassin?" "i didn't run away." tamarack's blood-shot eyes flared wickedly. "i knowed thet ef i stayed 'round hyar with them damned hollmans stickin' their noses inter our business, i'd hurt somebody. so, i went over inter the next county fer a spell. you fellers mout be able to take things offen the hollmans, but i hain't." "thet's a damned lie," said samson, quietly. "ye runned away, an' ye runned in the water so them dawgs couldn't trail ye--ye done hit because ye shot them shoots at jesse purvy from the laurel--because ye're a truce-bustin', murderin' bully thet shoots off his face, an' is skeered to fight." samson paused for breath, and went on with regained calmness. "i've knowed all along ye was the man, an' i've kept quiet because ye're 'my kin. if ye've got anything else ter say, say hit. but, ef i ever ketches yer talkin' about me, or talkin' ter sally, i'm a-goin' ter take ye by the scruff of the neck, an' drag ye plumb inter hixon, an' stick ye in the jail-house. an' i'm a-goin' ter tell the high sheriff that the souths spits ye outen their mouths. take him away." the crowd turned and left the place. when they were gone, samson seated himself at his easel again, and picked up his palette. chapter ix lescott had come to the mountains anticipating a visit of two weeks. his accident had resolved him to shorten it to the nearest day upon which he felt capable of making the trip out to the railroad. yet, june had ended; july had burned the slopes from emerald to russet-green; august had brought purple tops to the ironweed, and still he found himself lingering. and this was true although he recognized a growing sentiment of disapproval for himself. he knew indubitably that he stood charged with the offense for which socrates was invited to drink the hemlock: "corrupting the morals of the youth, and teaching strange gods." feeling the virtue of his teaching, he was unwilling as socrates to abandon the field. in samson he thought he recognized twin gifts: a spark of a genius too rare to be allowed to flicker out, and a potentiality for constructive work among his own people, which needed for its perfecting only education and experience. having aroused a soul's restiveness in the boy, he felt a direct responsibility for it and him, to which he added a deep personal regard. though the kinsmen looked upon him as an undesirable citizen, bringing teachings which they despised, the hospitality of old spicer south continued unbroken and a guarantee of security on misery. "samson," he suggested one day when they were alone, "i want you to come east. you say that gun is your tool, and that each man must stick to his own. you are in part right, in part wrong. a mail uses any tool better for understanding other tools. you have the right to use your brains and talents to the full." the boy's face was somber in the intensity of his mental struggle, and his answer had that sullen ring which was not really sullenness at all, but self-repression. "i reckon a feller's biggest right is to stand by his kinfolks. unc' spicer's gittin' old. he's done been good ter me. he needs me here." "i appreciate that. he will be older later. you can go now, and come back to him when he needs you more. if what i urged meant disloyalty to your people, i would cut out my tongue before i argued for it. you must believe me in that. i want you to be in the fullest sense your people's leader. i want you to be not only their samson--but their moses." the boy looked up and nodded. the mountaineer is not given to demonstration. he rarely shakes hands, and he does not indulge in superlatives of affection. he loved and admired this man from the outside world, who seemed to him to epitomize wisdom, but his code did not permit him to say so. "i reckon ye aims ter be friendly, all right," was his conservative response. the painter went on earnestly: "i realize that i am urging things of which your people disapprove, but it is only because they misunderstand that they do disapprove. they are too close, samson, to see the purple that mountains have when they are far away. i want you to go where you can see the purple. if you are the sort of man i think, you won't be beguiled. you won't lose your loyalty. you won't be ashamed of your people." "i reckon i wouldn't be ashamed," said the youth. "i reckon there hain't no better folks nowhar." "i'm sure of it. there are going to be sweeping changes in these mountains. conditions here have stood as immutably changeless as the hills themselves for a hundred years. that day is at its twilight. i tell you, i know what i'm talking about. the state of kentucky is looking this way. the state must develop, and it is here alone that it can develop. in the bluegrass, the possibilities for change are exhausted. their fields lie fallow, their woodlands are being stripped. tobacco has tainted the land. it has shouldered out the timber, and is turning forest to prairie. a land of fertile loam is vying with cheap soil that can send almost equal crops to market. there is no more timber to be cut, and when the timber goes the climate changes. in these hills lie the sleeping sources of wealth. here are virgin forests and almost inexhaustible coal veins. capital is turning from an orange squeezed dry, and casting about for fresher food. capital has seen your hills. capital is inevitable, relentless, omnipotent. where it comes, it makes its laws. conditions that have existed undisturbed will vanish. the law of the feud, which militia and courts have not been able to abate, will vanish before capital's breath like the mists when the sun strikes them. unless you learn to ride the waves which will presently sweep over your country, you and your people will go under. you may not realize it, but that is true. it is written." the boy had listened intently, but at the end he smiled, and in his expression was something of the soldier who scents battle, not without welcome. "i reckon if these here fellers air a-comin' up here ter run things, an' drownd out my folks, hit's a right good reason fer me ter stay here --an' holp my folks." "by staying here, you can't help them. it won't be work for guns, but for brains. by going away and coming back armed with knowledge, you can save them. you will know how to play the game." "i reckon they won't git our land, ner our timber, ner our coal, without we wants ter sell hit. i reckon ef they tries thet, guns will come in handy. things has stood here like they is now, fer a hundred years. i reckon we kin keep 'em that-away fer a spell longer." but it was evident that samson was arguing against his own belief; that he was trying to bolster up his resolution and impeached loyalty, and that at heart he was sick to be up and going to a world which did not despise "eddication." after a little, he waved his hand vaguely toward "down below." "ef i went down thar," he questioned suddenly and irrelevantly, "would i hev' ter cut my ha'r?" "my dear boy," laughed lescott, "i can introduce you in new york studios to many distinguished gentlemen who would feel that their heads had been shorn if they let their locks get as short as yours. in new york, you might stroll along broadway garbed in turban and a _burnouse_ without greatly exciting anybody. i think my own hair is as long as yours." "because," doggedly declared the mountaineer, "i wouldn't allow nobody ter make me cut my ha'r." "why?" questioned lescott, amused at the stubborn inflection. "i don't hardly know why--" he paused, then admitted with a glare as though defying criticism: "sally likes hit that-away--an' i won't let nobody dictate ter me, that's all." the leaven was working, and one night samson announced to his uncle from the doorstep that he was "studyin' erbout goin' away fer a spell, an' seein' the world." the old man laid down his pipe. he cast a reproachful glance at the painter, which said clearly, though without words: "i have opened my home to you and offered you what i had, yet in my old age you take away my mainstay." for a time, he sat silent, but his shoulders hunched forward with a sag which they had not held a moment before. his seamed face appeared to age visibly and in the moment. he ran one bony hand through his gray mane of hair. "i 'lowed you was a-studyin' erbout thet, samson," he said, at last. "i've done ther best fer ye i knowed. i kinder 'lowed thet from now on ye'd do the same fer me. i'm gittin' along in years right smart...." "uncle spicer," interrupted the boy, "i reckon ye knows thet any time ye needed me i'd come back." the old man's face hardened. "ef ye goes," he said, almost sharply, "i won't never send fer ye. any time ye ever wants ter come back, ye knows ther way. thar'll be room an' victuals fer ye hyar." "i reckon i mout be a heap more useful ef i knowed more." "i've heered fellers say that afore. hit hain't never turned out thet way with them what has left the mountings. mebby they gets more useful, but they don't git useful ter us. either they don't come back at all, or mebby they comes back full of newfangled notions--an' ashamed of their kinfoiks. thet's the way, i've noticed, hit gen'ally turns out." samson scorned to deny that such might be the case with him, and was silent. after a time, the old man went on again in a weary voice, as he bent down to loosen his brogans and kick them noisily off on to the floor: "the souths hev done looked to ye a good deal, samson. they 'lowed they could depend on ye. ye hain't quite twenty-one yet, an' i reckon i could refuse ter let ye sell yer prop'ty. but thar hain't no use tryin' ter hold a feller when he wants ter quit. ye don't 'low ter go right away, do ye?" "i hain't plumb made up my mind ter go at all," said the boy, shamefacedly. "but, ef i does go, i hain't a-goin' yit. i hain't spoke ter nobody but you about hit yit." lescott felt reluctant to meet his host's eyes at breakfast the next morning, dreading their reproach, but, if spicer south harbored resentment, he meant to conceal it, after the stoic's code. there was no hinted constraint of cordiality. lescott felt, however, that in samson's mind was working the leaven of that unspoken accusation of disloyalty. he resolved to make a final play, and seek to enlist sally in his cause. if sally's hero-worship could be made to take the form of ambition for samson, she might be brought to relinquish him for a time, and urge his going that he might return strengthened. yet, sally's devotion was so instinctive and so artless that it would take compelling argument to convince her of any need of change. it was samson as he was whom she adored. any alteration was to be distrusted. still, lescott set out one afternoon on his doubtful mission. he was more versed in mountain ways than he had been. his own ears could now distinguish between the bell that hung at the neck of sally's brindle heifer and those of old spicer's cows. he went down to the creek at the hour when he knew sally, also, would be making her way thither with her milk-pail, and intercepted her coming. as she approached, she was singing, and the man watched her from the distance. he was a landscape painter and not a master of _genre_ or portrait. yet, he wished that he might, before going, paint sally. she was really, after all, a part of the landscape, as much a thing of nature and the hills as the hollyhocks that had come along the picket-fences. she swayed as gracefully and thoughtlessly to her movements as do strong and pliant stems under the breeze's kiss. artfulness she had not; nor has the flower: only the joy and fragrance of a brief bloom. it was that thought which just now struck the painter most forcibly. it was shameful that this girl and boy should go on to the hard and unlighted life that inevitably awaited them, if neither had the opportunity of development. she would be at forty a later edition of the widow miller. he had seen the widow. sally's charm must be as ephemeral under the life of illiterate drudgery and perennial child-bearing as her mother's had been. her shoulders, now so gloriously straight and strong, would sag, and her bosom shrink, and her face harden and take on that drawn misery of constant anxiety. but, if samson went and came back with some conception of cherishing his wife--yes, the effort was worth making. yet, as the girl came down the slope, gaily singing a very melancholy song, the painter broke off in his reflections, and his thoughts veered. if samson left, would he ever return? might not the old man after all be right? when he had seen other women and tasted other allurements would he, like ulysses, still hold his barren ithaca above the gilded invitation of calypso? history has only one ulysses. sally's voice was lilting like a bird's as she walked happily. the song was one of those old ballads that have been held intact since the stock learned to sing them in the heather of the scotch highlands before there was an america. "'she's pizened me, mother, make my bed soon, fer i'm sick at my heart and i fain would lay doon.'" the man rose and went to meet her. "miss sally," he began, uncertainly, "i want to talk to you." she was always very grave and diffident with lescott. he was a strange new type to her, and, though she had begun with a predilection in his favor, she had since then come to hold him in adverse prejudice. before his arrival, samson had been all hers. she had not missed in her lover the gallantries that she and her women had never known. at evening, when the supper dishes were washed and she sat in the honeysuckle fragrance of the young night with the whippoorwills calling, she had been accustomed to hear a particular whippoorwill-note call, much like the real ones, yet distinct to her waiting ears. she was wont to rise and go to the stile to meet him. she had known that every day she would, seemingly by chance, meet samson somewhere along the creek, or on the big bowlder at the rift, or hoeing on the sloping cornfield. these things had been enough. but, of late, his interests had been divided. this painter had claimed many of his hours and many of his thoughts. there was in her heart an unconfessed jealousy of the foreigner. now, she scrutinized him solemnly, and nodded. "won't you sit down?" he invited, and the girl dropped cross-legged on a mossy rock, and waited. to-day, she wore a blue print dress, instead of the red one. it was always a matter of amazement to the man that in such an environment she was not only wildly beautiful, but invariably the pink of neatness. she could climb a tree or a mountain, or emerge from a sweltering blackberry patch, seemingly as fresh and unruffled as she had been at the start. the man stood uncomfortably looking at her, and was momentarily at a loss for words with which to commence. "what was ye a-goin' ter tell me?" she asked. "miss sally," he began, "i've discovered something about samson." her blue eyes flashed ominously. "ye can't tell me nothin' 'bout samson," she declared, "withouten hit's somethin' nice." "it's something very nice," the man reassured her. "then, ye needn't tell me, because i already knows hit," came her prompt and confident announcement. lescott shook his head, dubiously. "samson is a genius," he said. "what's thet?" "he has great gifts--great abilities to become a figure in the world." she nodded her head, in prompt and full corroboration. "i reckon samson'll be the biggest man in the mountings some day." "he ought to be more than that." suspicion at once cast a cloud across the violet serenity of her eyes. "what does ye mean?" she demanded. "i mean"--the painter paused a moment, and then said bluntly--"i mean that i want to take him back with me to new york." the girl sprang to her feet with her chin defiantly high and her brown hands clenched into tight little fists. her bosom heaved convulsively, and her eyes blazed through tears of anger. her face was pale. "ye hain't!" she cried, in a paroxysm of fear and wrath. "ye hain't a- goin' ter do no sich--no sich of a damn thing!" she stamped her foot, and her whole girlish body, drawn into rigid uprightness, was a-quiver with the incarnate spirit of the woman defending her home and institutions. for a moment after that, she could not speak, but her determined eyes blazed a declaration of war. it was as though he had posed her as the spirit of the cumberlands. he waited until she should be calmer. it was useless to attempt stemming her momentary torrent of rage. it was like one of the sudden and magnificent tempests that often swept these hills, a brief visit of the furies. one must seek shelter and wait. it would end as suddenly as it had come. at last, he spoke, very softly. "you don't understand me, miss sally. i'm not trying to take samson away from you. if a man should lose a girl like you, he couldn't gain enough in the world to make up for it. all i want is that he shall have the chance to make the best of his life." "i reckon samson don't need no fotched-on help ter make folks acknowledge him." "every man needs his chance. he can be a great painter--but that's the least part of it. he can come back equipped for anything that life offers. here, he is wasted." "ye mean"--she put the question with a hurt quaver in her voice--"ye mean we all hain't good enough fer samson?" "no. i only mean that samson wants to grow--and he needs space and new scenes in which to grow. i want to take him where he can see more of the world--not only a little section of the world. surely, you are not distrustful of samson's loyalty? i want him to go with me for a while, and see life." "don't ye say hit!" the defiance in her voice was being pathetically tangled up with the tears. she was speaking in a transport of grief. "don't ye say hit. take anybody else--take 'em all down thar, but leave us samson. we needs him hyar. we've jest got ter have samson hyar." she faced him still with quivering lips, but in another moment, with a sudden sob, she dropped to the rock, and buried her face in her crossed arms. her slender body shook under a harrowing convulsion of unhappiness. lescott felt as though he had struck her; as though he had ruthlessly blighted the irresponsible joyousness which had a few minutes before sung from her lips with the blitheness of a mocking- bird. he went over and softly laid a hand on her shoulder. "miss sally--" he began. she suddenly turned on him a tear-stained, infuriated face, stormy with blazing eyes and wet cheeks and trembling lips. "don't touch me," she cried; "don't ye dare ter touch me! i hain't nothin' but a gal--but i reckon i could 'most tear ye ter pieces. ye're jest a pizen snake, anyhow!" then, she pointed a tremulous finger off up the road. "git away from hyar," she commanded. "i don't never want ter see ye again. ye're tryin' ter steal everything i loves. git away, i tells ye!--git away--begone!" "think it over," urged lescott, quietly. "see if your heart doesn't say i am samson's friend--and yours." he turned, and began making his way over the rocks; but, before he had gone far, he sat down to reflect upon the situation. certainly, he was not augmenting his popularity. a half-hour later, he heard a rustle, and, turning, saw sally standing not far off. she was hesitating at the edge of the underbrush, and lescott read in her eyes the effort it was costing her to come forward and apologize. her cheeks were still pale and her eyes wet, but the tempest of her anger had spent itself, and in the girl who stood penitently, one hand nervously clutching a branch of rhododendron, one foot twisting in the moss, lescott was seeing an altogether new sally. there was a renunciation in her eyes that in contrast with the child- like curve of her lips, and slim girlishness of her figure, seemed entirely pathetic. as she stood there, trying to come forward with a pitiful effort at composure and a twisted smile, lescott wanted to go and meet her. but he knew her shyness, and realized that the kindest thing would be to pretend that he had not seen her at all. so, he covertly watched her, while he assumed to sit in moody unconsciousness of her nearness. little by little, and step by step, she edged over to him, halting often and looking about with the impulse to slip out of sight, but always bracing herself and drawing a little nearer. finally, he knew that she was standing almost directly over him, and yet it was a moment or two more before her voice, sweetly penitent, announced her arrival. "i reckon--i reckon i've got ter ask yore pardon," she said, slowly and with labored utterance. he looked up to see her standing with her head drooping and her fingers nervously pulling a flower to pieces. "i reckon i hain't a plumb fool. i knows thet samson's got a right ter eddication. anyhow, i knows he wants hit." "education," said the man, "isn't going to change samson, except to make him finer than he is--and more capable." she shook her head. "i hain't got no eddication," she answered. "hit's a-goin' ter make him too good fer me. i reckon hit's a-goin' ter jest about kill me.... ye hain't never seed these here mountings in the winter time, when thar hain't nothin' green, an' thar hain't no birds a-singin', an' thar hain't nothin' but rain an' snow an' fog an' misery. they're a-goin' ter be like thet all the time fer me, atter samson's gone away." she choked back something like a sob before she went on. "yes, stranger, hit's a-goin' ter pretty nigh kill me, but--" her lips twisted themselves into the pathetic smile again, and her chin came stiffly up. "but," she added, determinedly, "thet don't make no difference, nohow." chapter x yet, when samson that evening gave his whippoorwill call at the widow miller's cabin, he found a dejected and miserable girl sitting on the stile, with her chin propped in her two hands and her eyes full of somberness and foreboding. "what's the matter, sally?" questioned he, anxiously. "hes that low-down tamarack spicer been round here tellin' ye some more stories ter pester ye?" she shook her head in silence. usually, she bore the brunt of their conversations, samson merely agreeing with, or overruling, her in lordly brevities. the boy climbed up and sat beside her. "thar's a-goin' ter be a dancin' party over ter wile mccager's mill come saturday," he insinuatingly suggested. "i reckon ye'll go over thar with me, won't ye, sally?" he waited for her usual delighted assent, but sally only told him absently and without enthusiasm that she would "study about it." at last, however, her restraint broke, and, looking up, she abruptly demanded: "air ye a-goin' away, samson?" "who's been a-talkin' ter ye?" demanded the boy, angrily. for a moment, the girl sat silent. silver mists were softening under a rising moon. the katydids were prophesying with strident music the six weeks' warning of frost. myriads of stars were soft and low-hanging. finally, she spoke in a grave voice: "hit hain't nothin' ter git mad about, samson. the artist man 'lowed as how ye had a right ter go down thar, an' git an eddication." she made a weary gesture toward the great beyond. "he hadn't ought to of told ye, sally. if i'd been plumb sartin in my mind, i'd a-told ye myself--not but what i knows," he hastily amended, "thet he meant hit friendly." "air ye a-goin'?" "i'm studyin' about hit." he awaited objection, but none came. then, with a piquing of his masculine vanity, he demanded: "hain't ye a-keerin', sally, whether i goes, or not?" the girl grew rigid. her fingers on the crumbling plank of the stile's top tightened and gripped hard. the moonlit landscape seemed to whirl in a dizzy circle. her face did not betray her, nor her voice, though she had to gulp down a rising lump in her throat before she could answer calmly. "i thinks ye had ought ter go, samson." the boy was astonished. he had avoided the subject for fear of her opposition--and tears. then, slowly, she went on as though repeating a lesson painstakingly conned: "there hain't nothin' in these here hills fer ye, samson. down thar, ye'll see lots of things thet's new--an' civilized an' beautiful! ye'll see lots of gals thet kin read an' write, gals dressed up in all kinds of fancy fixin's." her glib words ran out and ended in a sort of inward gasp. compliment came hardly and awkwardly to samson's lips. he reached for the girl's hand, and whispered: "i reckon i won't see no gals thet's as purty as you be, sally. i reckon ye knows, whether i goes or stays, we're a-goin' ter git married." she drew her hand away, and laughed, a little bitterly. in the last day, she had ceased to be a child, and become a woman with all the soul-aching possibilities of a woman's intuitions. "samson," she said, "i hain't askin' ye ter make me no promises. when ye sees them other gals--gals thet kin read an' write--i reckon mebby ye'll think diff'rent. i can't hardly spell out printin' in the fust reader." her lover's voice was scornful of the imagined dangers, as a recruit may be of the battle terrors--before he has been under fire. he slipped his arm about her and drew her over to him. "honey," he said, "ye needn't fret about thet. readin' an' writin' can't make no difference fer a woman. hit's mighty important fer a man, but you're a gal." "you're a-goin' ter think diff'rent atter awhile," she insisted. "when ye goes, i hain't a-goin' ter be expectin' ye ter come back ... but" --the resolution in her voice for a moment quavered as she added--"but god knows i'm a-goin' ter be hopin'!" "sally!" the boy rose, and paced up and down in the road. "air ye goin' ter be ag'inst me, too? don't ye see that i wants ter have a chanst? can't ye trust me? i'm jest a-tryin' to amount to something. i'm plumb tired of bein' ornery an' no 'count." she nodded. "i've done told ye," she said, wearily, "thet i thinks ye ought ter do hit." he stood there in the road looking down at her and the twisted smile that lifted only one corner of her lips, while the other drooped. the moonlight caught her eyes; eyes that were trying, like the lips, to smile, but that were really looking away into the future, which she saw stripped of companionship and love, and gray with the ashiness of wretched desolation. and, while he was seeing the light of the simulated cheeriness die out in her face, she was seeing the strange, exalted glow, of which she was more than half-afraid, kindle in his pupils. it was as though she were giving up the living fire out of her own heart to set ablaze the ambition and anticipation in his own. that glow in samson's eyes she feared and shrank from, as she might have flinched before the blaze of insanity. it was a thing which her mountain superstition could not understand, a thing not wholly normal; a manifestation that came to the stoic face and transformed it, when the eyes of the brain and heart were seeing things which she herself could not see. it was the proclamation of the part of samson which she could not comprehend, as though he were looking into a spirit world of weird and abnormal things. it was the light of an enthusiasm such as his love for her could not bring to his eyes--and it told her that the strongest and deepest part of samson did not belong to her. now, as the young man stood there before her, and her little world of hope and happiness seemed crumbling into ruins, and she was steeling her soul to sacrifice herself and let him go, he was thinking, not of what it was costing her in heart-break, but seeing visions of all the great world held for him beyond the barriers of the mountains. the light in his eyes seemed to flaunt the victory of the enthusiasms that had nothing to do with her. samson came forward, and held out his arms. but sally drew away with a little shudder, and crouched at the end of the stile. "what's ther matter, sally?" he demanded in surprise, and, as he bent toward her, his eyes lost the strange light she feared, and she laughed a little nervous laugh, and rose from her seat. "nothin' hain't ther matter--now," she said, stanchly. lescott and samson discussed the matter frequently. at times, the boy was obstinate in his determination to remain; at other times, he gave way to the yearnings for change and opportunity. but the lure of the palette and brush possessed him beyond resistance and his taciturnity melted, when in the painter's company, to a roughly poetic form of expression. "thet sunrise," he announced one morning, setting down his milk-pail to gaze at the east, "is jest like the sparkle in a gal's eyes when she's tickled at somethin' ye've said about her. an,' when the sun sets, hit's like the whole world was a woman blushin'." the dance on saturday was to be something more portentous than a mere frolic. it would be a clan gathering to which the south adherents would come riding up and down misery and its tributaries from "nigh abouts" and "over yon." from forenoon until after midnight, shuffle, jig and fiddling would hold high, if rough, carnival. but, while the younger folk abandoned themselves to these diversions, the grayer heads would gather in more serious conclave. jesse purvy had once more beaten back death, and his mind had probably been devising, during those bed-ridden days and nights, plans of reprisal. according to current report, purvy had announced that his would-be assassin dwelt on misery, and was "marked down." so, there were obvious exigencies which the souths must prepare to meet. in particular, the clan must thrash out to definite understanding the demoralizing report that samson south, their logical leader, meant to abandon them, at a crisis when war-clouds were thickening. the painter had finally resolved to cut the gordian knot, and leave the mountains. he had trained on samson to the last piece all his artillery of argument. the case was now submitted with the suggestion that the boy take three months to consider, and that, if he decided affirmatively, he should notify lescott in advance of his coming. he proposed sending samson a small library of carefully picked books, which the mountaineer eagerly agreed to devour in the interval. lescott consented, however, to remain over saturday, and go to the dance, since he was curious to observe what pressure was brought to bear on the boy, and to have himself a final word of argument after the kinsmen had spoken. saturday morning came after a night of torrential rain, which had left the mountains steaming under a reek of fog and pitching clouds. hillside streams ran freshets, and creek-bed roads were foaming and boiling into waterfalls. sheep and cattle huddled forlornly under their shelters of shelving rock, and only the geese seemed happy. far down the dripping shoulders of the mountains trailed ragged streamers of vapor. here and there along the lower slopes hung puffs of smoky mist as though silent shells were bursting from unseen artillery over a vast theater of combat. but, as the morning wore on, the sun fought its way to view in a scrap of overhead blue. a freshening breeze plunged into the reek, and sent it scurrying in broken cloud ranks and shredded tatters. the steamy heat gave way under a dissipating sweep of coolness, until the skies smiled down on the hills and the hills smiled back. from log cabins and plank houses up and down misery and its tributaries, men and women began their hegira toward the mill. some came on foot, carrying their shoes in their hands, but those were only near-by dwellers. others made saddle journeys of ten or fifteen, or even twenty, miles, and the beasts that carried a single burden were few. lescott rode in the wake of samson, who had sally on a pillow at his back, and along the seven miles of journey he studied the strange procession. it was, for the most part, a solemn cavalcade, for these are folk who "take their pleasures sadly." possibly, some of the sun-bonneted, strangely-garbed women were reflecting on the possibilities which mountain-dances often develop into tragic actualities. possibly, others were having their enjoyment discounted by the necessity of "dressing up" and wearing shoes. sometimes, a slowly ambling mule bore an entire family; the father managing the reins with one hand and holding a baby with the other, while his rifle lay balanced across his pommel and his wife sat solemnly behind him on a sheepskin or pillion. many of the men rode side-saddles, and sacks bulky at each end hinted of such baggage as is carried in jugs. lescott realized from the frank curiosity with which he was regarded that he had been a topic of discussion, and that he was now being "sized up." he was the false prophet who was weaving a spell over samson! once, he heard a sneering voice from the wayside comment as he rode by. "he looks like a damned parson." glancing back, he saw a tow-headed youth glowering at him out of pinkish albino eyes. the way lay in part along the creek-bed, where wagons had ground the disintegrating rock into deep ruts as smooth as walls of concrete. then, it traversed a country of palisading cliffs and immensity of forest, park-like and splendid. strangely picturesque suspension bridges with rough stairways at their ends spanned waters too deep for fording. frame houses showed along the banks of the creek --grown here to a river--unplaned and unpainted of wall, but brightly touched with window-and door-frames of bright yellow or green or blue. this was the territory where the souths held dominance, and it was pouring out its people. they came before noon to the mouth of dryhole creek, and the house of wile mccager. already, the picket fence was lined with tethered horses and mules, and a canvas-covered wagon came creeping in behind its yoke of oxen. men stood clustered in the road, and at the entrance a woman, nursing her baby at her breast, welcomed and gossiped with the arrivals. the house of wile mccager loaned itself to entertainment. it was not of logs, but of undressed lumber, and boasted a front porch and two front rooms entered by twin doors facing on a triangular alcove. in the recess between these portals stood a washstand, surmounted by a china basin and pitcher--a declaration of affluence. from the interior of the house came the sounds of fiddling, though these strains of "turkey in the straw" were only by way of prelude. lescott felt, though he could not say just what concrete thing told him, that under the shallow note of merry-making brooded the major theme of a troublesome problem. the seriousness was below the surface, but insistently depressing. he saw, too, that he himself was mixed up with it in a fashion, which might become dangerous, when a few jugs of white liquor had been emptied. it would be some time yet before the crowd warmed up. now, they only stood about and talked, and to lescott they gave a gravely polite greeting, beneath which was discernible an undercurrent of hostility. as the day advanced, the painter began picking out the more influential clansmen, by the fashion in which they fell together into groups, and took themselves off to the mill by the racing creek for discussion. while the young persons danced and "sparked" within, and the more truculent lads escaped to the road to pass the jug, and forecast with youthful war-fever "cleanin' out the hollmans," the elders were deep in ways and means. if the truce could be preserved for its unexpired period of three years, it was, of course, best. in that event, crops could be cultivated, and lives saved. but, if jesse purvy chose to regard his shooting as a breach of terms, and struck, he would strike hard, and, in that event, best defense lay in striking first. samson would soon be twenty-one. that he would take his place as head of the clan had until now never been questioned--and he was talking of desertion. for that, a pink-skinned foreigner, who wore a woman's bow of ribbon at his collar, was to blame. the question of loyalty must be squarely put up to samson, and it must be done to-day. his answer must be definite and unequivocal. as a guest of spicer south, lescott was entitled to that consideration which is accorded ambassadors. none the less, the vital affairs of the clan could not be balked by consideration for a stranger, who, in the opinion of the majority, should be driven from the country as an insidious mischief-maker. ostensibly, the truce still held, but at no time since its signing had matters been so freighted with the menace of a gathering storm. the attitude of each faction was that of several men standing quiet with guns trained on one another's breasts. each hesitated to fire, knowing that to pull the trigger meant to die himself, yet fearing that another trigger might at any moment be drawn. purvy dared not have samson shot out of hand, because he feared that the souths would claim his life in return, yet he feared to let samson live. on the other hand, if purvy fell, no south could balance his death, except spicer or samson. any situation that might put conditions to a moment of issue would either prove that the truce was being observed, or open the war--and yet each faction was guarding against such an event as too fraught with danger. one thing was certain. by persuasion or force, lescott must leave, and samson must show himself to be the youth he had been thought, or the confessed and repudiated renegade. those questions, to-day must answer. it was a difficult situation, and promised an eventful entertainment. whatever conclusion was reached as to the artist's future, he was, until the verdict came in, a visitor, and, unless liquor inflamed some reckless trouble-hunter, that fact would not be forgotten. possibly, it was as well that tamarack spicer had not arrived. lescott himself realized the situation in part, as he stood at the door of the house watching the scene inside. there was, of course, no round dancing--only the shuffle and jig--with champions contending for the honor of their sections. a young woman from deer lick and a girl from the head of dryhill had been matched for the "hoe-down," and had the floor to themselves. the walls were crowded with partisan onlookers, who applauded and cheered their favorite. the bows scraped faster and louder; the clapping hands beat more tumultuously, until their mad _tempo_ was like the clatter of musketry; the dancers threw themselves deliriously into the madly quickening step. it was a riotous saturnalia of flying feet and twinkling ankles. onlookers shouted and screamed encouragement. it seemed that the girls must fall in exhaustion, yet each kept on, resolved to be still on the floor when the other had abandoned it in defeat--that being the test of victory. at last, the girl from dryhill reeled, and was caught by half-a-dozen arms. her adversary, holding the floor undisputed, slowed down, and someone stopped the fiddler. sally turned from the crowded wall, and began looking about for samson. he was not there. lescott had seen him leave the house a few moments before, and started over to intercept the girl, as she came out to the porch. in the group about the door, he passed a youth with tow-white hair and very pink cheeks. the boy was the earliest to succumb to the temptation of the moonshine jug, a temptation which would later claim others. he was reeling crazily, and his albino eyes were now red and inflamed. lescott remembered him. "thet's ther damned furriner thet's done turned samson inter a gal," proclaimed the youth, in a thick voice. the painter paused, and looked back. the boy was reaching under his coat with hands that had become clumsy and unresponsive. "let me git at him," he shouted, with a wild whoop and a dash toward the painter. lescott said nothing, but sally had heard, and stepped swiftly between. "you've got ter git past me fust, buddy," she said, quietly. "i reckon ye'd better run on home, an' git yore mammy ter put ye ter bed." chapter xi several soberer men closed around the boy, and, after disarming him, led him away grumbling and muttering, while wile mccager made apologies to the guest. "jimmy's jest a peevish child," he explained. "a drop or two of licker makes him skittish. i hopes ye'll look over hit." jimmy's outbreak was interesting to lescott chiefly as an indication of what might follow. he noted how the voices were growing louder and shriller, and how the jug was circulating faster. a boisterous note was making itself heard through the good humor and laughter, and the "furriner" remembered that these minds, when inflamed, are more prone to take the tangent of violence than that of mirth. unwilling to introduce discord by his presence, and involve samson in quarrels on his account, he suggested riding back to misery, but the boy's face clouded at the suggestion. "ef they kain't be civil ter my friends," he said, shortly, "they've got ter account ter me. you stay right hyar, and i'll stay clost to you. i done come hyar to-day ter tell 'em that they mustn't meddle in my business." a short while later, wile mccager invited samson to come out to the mill, and the boy nodded to lescott an invitation to accompany him. the host shook his head. "we kinder 'lowed ter talk over some fam'ly matters with ye, samson," he demurred. "i reckon mr. lescott'll excuse ye fer a spell." "anything ye've got ter talk ter me about, george lescott kin hear," said the youth, defiantly. "i hain't got no secrets." he was heir to his father's leadership, and his father had been unquestioned. he meant to stand uncompromisingly on his prerogatives. for an instant, the old miller's keen eyes hardened obstinately. after spicer and samson south, he was the most influential and trusted of the south leaders--and samson was still a boy. his ruggedly chiseled features were kindly, but robustly resolute, and, when he was angered, few men cared to face him. for an instant, a stinging rebuke seemed to hover on his lips, then he turned with a curt jerk of his large head. "all right. suit yourselves. i've done warned ye both. we 'lows ter talk plain." the mill, dating back to pioneer days, sat by its race with its shaft now idle. about it, the white-boled sycamores crowded among the huge rocks, and the water poured tumultuously over the dam. the walls of mortised logs were chinked with rock and clay. at its porch, two discarded millstones served in lieu of steps. over the door were fastened a spreading pair of stag-antlers. it looked to lescott, as he approached, like a scrap of landscape torn from some medieval picture, and the men about its door seemed medieval, too; bearded and gaunt, hard-thewed and sullen. all of them who stood waiting were men of middle age, or beyond. a number were gray-haired, but they were all of cadet branches. many of them, like wile mccager himself, did not bear the name of south, and samson was the eldest son of the eldest son. they sat on meal-whitened bins and dusty timbers and piled-up sacks. several crouched on the ground, squatting on their heels, and, as the conference proceeded, they drank moonshine whiskey, and spat solemnly at the floor cracks. "hevn't ye noticed a right-smart change in samson?" inquired old caleb wiley of a neighbor, in his octogenarian quaver. "the boy hes done got es quiet an' pious es a missionary." the other nodded under his battered black felt hat, and beat a tattoo with the end of his long hickory staff. "he hain't drunk a half-pint of licker to-day," he querulously replied. "why in heck don't we run this here pink-faced conjure-doctor outen the mountings?" demanded caleb, who had drunk more than a half-pint. "he's a-castin' spells over the boy. he's a-practisin' of deviltries." "we're a-goin' ter see about thet right now," was the response. "we don't 'low to let hit run on no further." "samson," began old wile mccager, clearing his throat and taking up his duty as spokesman, "we're all your kinfolks here, an' we aimed ter ask ye about this here report thet yer 'lowin' ter leave the mountings?" "what of hit?" countered the boy. "hit looks mighty like the war's a-goin' ter be on ag'in pretty soon. air ye a-goin' ter quit, or air ye a-goin' ter stick? thet's what we wants ter know." "i didn't make this here truce, an' i hain't a-goin' ter bust hit," said the boy, quietly. "when the war commences, i'll be hyar. ef i hain't hyar in the meantime, hit hain't nobody's business. i hain't accountable ter no man but my pap, an' i reckon, whar he is, he knows whether i'm a-goin' ter keep my word." there was a moment's silence, then wile mccager put another question: "ef ye're plumb sot on gittin' larnin' why don't ye git hit right hyar in these mountings?" samson laughed derisively. "who'll i git hit from?" he caustically inquired. "ef the mountain won't come ter mohamet, mohamet's got ter go ter the mountain, i reckon." the figure was one they did not understand. it was one samson himself had only acquired of late. he was quoting george lescott. but one thing there was which did not escape his hearers: the tone of contempt. eyes of smoldering hate turned on the visitor at whose door they laid the blame. caleb wiley rose unsteadily to his feet, his shaggy beard trembling with wrath and his voice quavering with senile indignation. "hev ye done got too damned good fer yore kin-folks, samson south?" he shrilly demanded. "hev ye done been follerin' atter this here puny witch-doctor twell ye can't keep a civil tongue in yer head fer yore elders? i'm in favor of runnin' this here furriner outen the country with tar an' feathers on him. furthermore, i'm in favor of cleanin' out the hollmans. i was jest a-sayin' ter bill----" "never mind what ye war jest a-sayin'," interrupted the boy, flushing redly to his cheekbones, but controlling his voice. "ye've done said enough a'ready. ye're a right old man, caleb, an' i reckon thet gives ye some license ter shoot off yore face, but ef any of them no-'count, shif'less boys of yores wants ter back up what ye says, i'm ready ter go out thar an' make 'em eat hit. i hain't a-goin' ter answer no more questions." there was a commotion of argument, until "black dave" jasper, a saturnine giant, whose hair was no blacker than his expression, rose, and a semblance of quiet greeted him as he spoke. "mebby, samson, ye've got a right ter take the studs this a-way, an' ter refuse ter answer our questions, but we've got a right ter say who kin stay in this hyar country. ef ye 'lows ter quit us, i reckon we kin quit you--and, if we quits ye, ye hain't nothin' more ter us then no other boy thet's gettin' too big fer his breeches. this furriner is a visitor here to-day, an' we don't 'low ter hurt him--but he's got ter go. we don't want him round hyar no longer." he turned to lescott. "we're a-givin' ye fair warnin', stranger. ye hain't our breed. atter this, ye stays on misery at yore own risk--an' hit's a-goin' ter be plumb risky. that thar's final." "this man," blazed the boy, before lescott could speak, "is a-visitin' me an' unc' spicer. when ye wants him ye kin come up thar an' git him. every damned man of ye kin come. i hain't a-sayin' how many of ye'll go back. he was 'lowin' that he'd leave hyar ter-morrer mornin', but atter this i'm a-tellin' ye he hain't a-goin' ter do hit. he's a-goin' ter stay es long es he likes, an' nobody hain't a-goin' ter run him off." samson took his stand before the painter, and swept the group with his eyes. "an' what's more," he added, "i'll tell ye another thing. i hadn't plumb made up my mind ter leave the mountings, but ye've done settled hit fer me. i'm a-goin'." there was a low murmur of anger, and a voice cried out from the rear: "let him go. we hain't got no use fer damn cowards." "whoever said thet's a liar!" shouted the boy. lescott, standing at his side, felt that the situation was more than parlous. but, before the storm could break, some one rushed in, and whispered to wile mccager a message that caused him to raise both hands above his head, and thunder for attention. "men," he roared, "listen ter me! this here hain't no time fer squabblin' amongst ourselves. we're all souths. tamarack spicer has done gone ter hixon, an' got inter trouble. he's locked up in the jail-house." "we're all hyar," screamed old caleb's high, broken voice. "let's go an' take him out." samson's anger had died. he turned, and held a whispered conversation with mccager, and, at its end, the host of the day announced briefly: "samson's got somethin' ter say ter ye. so long as he's willin' ter stand by us, i reckon we're willin' ter listen ter henry south's boy." "i hain't got no use for tam'rack spicer," said the boy, succinctly, "but i don't 'low ter let him lay in no jail-house, unlessen he's got a right ter be thar. what's he charged with?" but no one knew that. a man supposedly close to the hollmans, but in reality an informer for the souths, had seen him led into the jail-yard by a posse of a half-dozen men, and had seen the iron-barred doors close on him. that was all, except that the hollman forces were gathering in hixon, and, if the souths went there _en masse_, a pitched battle must be the inevitable result. the first step was to gain accurate information and an answer to one vital question. was tamarack held as a feud victim, or was his arrest legitimate? how to learn that was the problem. to send a body of men was to invite bloodshed. to send a single inquirer was to deliver him over to the enemy. "air you men willin' ter take my word about tamarack?" inquired samson. but for the scene of a few minutes ago, it would have been an unnecessary question. there was a clamorous assent, and the boy turned to lescott. "i wants ye ter take sally home with ye. ye'd better start right away, afore she heers any of this talk. hit would fret her. tell her i've had ter go 'cross ther country a piece, ter see a sick man. don't tell her whar i'm a-goin'." he turned to the others. "i reckon i've got yore promise thet mr. lescott hain't a-goin' ter be bothered afore i gits back?" wile mccager promptly gave the assurance. "i gives ye my hand on hit." "i seed jim asberry loafin' round jest beyond ther ridge, es i rid over hyar," volunteered the man who had brought the message. "go slow now, samson. don't be no blame fool," dissuaded wile mccager. "hixon's plumb full of them hollmans, an' they're likely ter be full of licker--hit's saturday. hit's apt ter be shore death fer ye ter try ter ride through main street--ef ye gits thet fur. ye dassent do hit." "i dast do anything!" asserted the boy, with a flash of sudden anger. "some liar 'lowed awhile ago thet i was a coward. all right, mebby i be. unc' wile, keep the boys hyar tell ye hears from me--an' keep 'em sober." he turned and made his way to the fence where his mule stood hitched. when samson crossed the ridge, and entered the hollman country, jim asberry, watching from a hilltop point of vantage, rose and mounted the horse that stood hitched behind a near-by screen of rhododendron bushes and young cedars. sometimes, he rode just one bend of the road in samson's rear. sometimes, he took short cuts, and watched his enemy pass. but always he held him under a vigilant eye. finally, he reached a wayside store where a local telephone gave communication with hollman's mammoth department store. "jedge," he informed, "samson south's done left the party et ther mill, an' he's a-ridin' towards town. shall i git him?" "is he comin' by hisself?" inquired the storekeeper. "yes." "well, jest let him come on. we can tend ter him hyar, ef necessary." so, jim withheld his hand, and merely shadowed, sending bulletins, from time to time. it was three o'clock when samson started. it was near six when he reached the ribbon of road that loops down into town over the mountain. his mule was in a lather of sweat. he knew that he was being spied upon, and that word of his coming was traveling ahead of him. what he did not know was whether or not it suited jesse purvy's purpose that he should slide from his mule, dead, before he turned homeward. if tamarack had been seized as a declaration of war, the chief south would certainly not be allowed to return. if the arrest had not been for feud reasons, he might escape. that was the question which would be answered with his life or death. the boy kept his eyes straight to the front, fixed on the philosophical wagging of his mule's brown ears. finally, he crossed the bridge that gave entrance to the town, as yet unharmed, and clattered at a trot between the shacks of the environs. he was entering the fortified stronghold of the enemy, and he was expected. as he rode along, doors closed to slits, and once or twice he caught the flash of sunlight on a steel barrel, but his eyes held to the front. several traveling men, sitting on the porch of the hotel opposite the court- house, rose when they saw his mule, and went inside, closing the door behind them. the "jail-house" was a small building of home-made brick, squatting at the rear of the court-house yard. its barred windows were narrow with sills breast-high. the court-house itself was shaded by large oaks and sycamores, and, as samson drew near, he saw that some ten or twelve men, armed with rifles, separated from groups and disposed themselves behind the tree trunks and the stone coping of the well. none of them spoke, and samson pretended that he had not seen them. he rode his mule at a walk, knowing that he was rifle-covered from a half-dozen windows. at the hitching rack directly beneath the county building, he flung his reins over a post, and, swinging his rifle at his side, passed casually along the brick walk to the jail. the men behind the trees edged around their covers as he went, keeping themselves protected, as squirrels creep around a trunk when a hunter is lurking below. samson halted at the jail wall, and called the prisoner's name. a towsled head and surly face appeared at the barred window, and the boy went over and held converse from the outside. "how in hell did ye git into town?" demanded the prisoner. "i rid in," was the short reply. "how'd ye git in the jail-house?" the captive was shamefaced. "i got a leetle too much licker, an' i was shootin' out the lights last night," he confessed. "what business did ye have hyar in hixon?" "i jest slipped in ter see a gal." samson leaned closer, and lowered his voice. "does they know thet ye shot them shoots at jesse purvy?" tamarack turned pale. "no," he stammered, "they believe you done hit." samson laughed. he was thinking of the rifles trained on him from a dozen invisible rests. "how long air they a-goin' ter keep ye hyar?" he demanded. "i kin git out to-morrer ef i pays the fine. hit's ten dollars." "an' ef ye don't pay the fine?" "hit's a dollar a day." "i reckon ye don't 'low ter pay hit, do ye?" "i 'lowed mebby ye mout pay hit fer me, samson." "ye done 'lowed plumb wrong. i come hyar ter see ef ye needed help, but hit 'pears ter me they're lettin' ye off easy." he turned on his heel, and went back to his mule. the men behind the trees began circling again. samson mounted, and, with his chin well up, trotted back along the main street. it was over. the question was answered. the hollmans regarded the truce as still effective. the fact that they were permitting him to ride out alive was a wordless assurance of that. incidentally, he stood vindicated in the eyes of his own people. when samson reached the mill it was ten o'clock. the men were soberer than they had been in the afternoon. mccager had seen to that. the boy replaced his exhausted mule with a borrowed mount. at midnight, as he drew near the cabin of the widow miller, he gave a long, low whippoorwill call, and promptly, from the shadow of the stile, a small tired figure rose up to greet him. for hours that little figure had been sitting there, silent, wide-eyed and terrified, nursing her knees in locked fingers that pressed tightly into the flesh. she had not spoken. she had hardly moved. she had only gazed out, keeping the vigil with a white face that was beginning to wear the drawn, heart-eating anxiety of the mountain woman; the woman whose code demands that she stand loyally to her clan's hatreds; the woman who has none of the man's excitement in stalking human game, which is also stalking him; the woman who must only stay at home and imagine a thousand terrors --and wait. a rooster was crowing, and the moon had set. only the stars were left. "sally," the boy reproved, "hit's most mornin', an' ye must be plumb fagged out. why hain't you in bed?" "i 'lowed ye'd come by hyar," she told him simply, "and i waited fer ye. i knowed whar ye had went," she added, "an' i was skeered." "how did ye know?" "i heered thet tam'rack was in the jail-house, an' somebody hed ter go ter hixon. so, of course, i knowed hit would be you." chapter xii lescott stayed on a week after that simply in deference to samson's insistence. to leave at once might savor of flight under fire, but when the week was out the painter turned his horse's head toward town, and his train swept him back to the bluegrass and the east. as he gazed out of his car windows at great shoulders of rock and giant trees, things he was leaving behind, he felt a sudden twinge of something akin to homesickness. he knew that he should miss these great humps of mountains and the ragged grandeur of the scenery. with the rich smoothness of the bluegrass, a sense of flatness and heaviness came to his lungs. level metal roads and loamy fields invited his eye. the tobacco stalks rose in profuse heaviness of sticky green; the hemp waved its feathery tops; and woodlands were clear of underbrush--the pauper counties were behind him. a quiet of unbroken and deadly routine settled down on misery. the conduct of the souths in keeping hands off, and acknowledging the justice of tamarack spicer's jail sentence, had been their answer to the declaration of the hollmans in letting samson ride into and out of hixon. the truce was established. when, a short time later, tamarack left the country to become a railroad brakeman, jesse purvy passed the word that his men must, until further orders, desist from violence. the word had crept about that samson, too, was going away, and, if this were true, jesse felt that his future would be more secure than his past. purvy believed samson guilty, despite the exoneration of the hounds. their use had been the idea of over-fervent relatives. he himself scoffed at their reliability. "i wouldn't believe no dog on oath," he declared. besides, he preferred to blame samson, since he was the head of the tribe and because he himself knew what cause samson had to hate him. perhaps, even now, samson meant to have vengeance before leaving. possibly, even, this ostentatious care to regard the truce was simply a shrewdly planned sham meant to disarm his suspicion. until samson went, if he did go, jesse purvy would redouble his caution. it would be a simple matter to have the boy shot to death, and end all question. samson took no precautions to safeguard his life, but he had a safeguard none the less. purvy felt sure that within a week after samson fell, despite every care he might take, he, too, would fall. he was tired of being shot down. purvy was growing old, and the fires of war were burning to embers in his veins. he was becoming more and more interested in other things. it dawned upon him that to be known as a friend of the poor held more allurement for gray-haired age than to be known as a master of assassins. it would be pleasant to sit undisturbed, and see his grandchildren grow up, and he recognized, with a sudden ferocity of repugnance, that he did not wish them to grow up as feud fighters. purvy had not reformed, but, other things being equal, he would prefer to live and let live. he had reached that stage to which all successful villains come at some time, when he envied the placid contentment of respected virtues. ordering samson shot down was a last resort--one to be held in reserve until the end. so, along misery and crippleshin, the men of the factions held their fire while the summer spent itself, and over the mountain slopes the leaves began to turn, and the mast to ripen. lescott had sent a box of books, and samson had taken a team over to hixon, and brought them back. it was a hard journey, attended with much plunging against the yokes and much straining of trace chains. sally had gone with him. samson was spending as much time as possible in her society now. the girl was saying little about his departure, but her eyes were reading, and without asking she knew that his going was inevitable. many nights she cried herself to sleep, but, when he saw her, she was always the same blithe, bird-like creature that she had been before. she was philosophically sipping her honey while the sun shone. samson read some of the books aloud to sally, who had a child's passion for stories, and who could not have spelled them out for herself. he read badly, but to her it was the flower of scholastic accomplishment, and her untrained brain, sponge-like in its acquisitiveness, soaked up many new words and phrases which fell again quaintly from her lips in talk. lescott had spent a week picking out those books. he had wanted them to argue for him; to feed the boy's hunger for education, and give him some forecast of the life that awaited him. his choice had been an effort to achieve _multum in parvo_, but samson devoured them all from title page to _finis_ line, and many of them he went back to, and digested again. he wrestled long and gently with his uncle, struggling to win the old man's consent to his departure. but spicer south's brain was no longer plastic. what had been good enough for the past was good enough for the future. he sought to take the most tolerant view, and to believe that samson was acting on conviction and not on an ingrate's impulse, but that was the best he could do, and he added to himself that samson's was an abnormal and perverted conviction. nevertheless, he arranged affairs so that his nephew should be able to meet financial needs, and to go where he chose in a fashion befitting a south. the old man was intensely proud, and, if the boy were bent on wasting himself, he should waste like a family head, and not appear a pauper among strangers. the autumn came, and the hills blazed out in their fanfare of splendid color. the broken skyline took on a wistful sweetness under the haze of "the great spirit's peace-pipe." the sugar trees flamed their fullest crimson that fall. the poplars were clear amber and the hickories russet and the oaks a deep burgundy. lean hogs began to fill and fatten with their banqueting on beechnuts and acorns. scattered quail came together in the conclave of the covey, and changed their summer call for the "hover" whistle. shortly, the rains would strip the trees, and leave them naked. then, misery would vindicate its christener. but, now, as if to compensate in a few carnival days of champagne sparkle and color, the mountain world was burning out its summer life on a pyre of transient splendor. november came in bleakly, with a raw and devastating breath of fatality. the smile died from horizon to horizon, and for days cold rains beat and lashed the forests. and, toward the end of that month, came the day which samson had set for his departure. he had harvested the corn, and put the farm in order. he had packed into his battered saddlebags what things were to go with him into his new life. the sun had set in a sickly bank of murky, red-lined clouds. his mule, which knew the road, and could make a night trip, stood saddled by the stile. a kinsman was to lead it back from hixon when samson had gone. the boy slowly put on his patched and mud-stained overcoat. his face was sullen and glowering. there was a lump in his throat, like the lump that had been there when he stood with his mother's arm about his shoulders, and watched the dogs chase a rabbit by his father's grave. supper had been eaten in silence. now that the hour of departure had come, he felt the guilt of the deserter. he realized how aged his uncle seemed, and how the old man hunched forward over the plate as they ate the last meal they should, for a long while, have together. it was only by sullen taciturnity that he could retain his composure. at the threshold, with the saddlebags over his left forearm and the rifle in his hand, he paused. his uncle stood at his elbow and the boy put out his hand. "good-by, unc' spicer," was all he said. the old man, who had been his second father, shook hands. his face, too, was expressionless, but he felt that he was saying farewell to a soldier of genius who was abandoning the field. and he loved the boy with all the centered power of an isolated heart. "hadn't ye better take a lantern?" he questioned. "no, i reckon i won't need none." and samson went out, and mounted his mule. a half-mile along the road, he halted and dismounted. there, in a small cove, surrounded by a tangle of briars and blackberry bushes, stood a small and dilapidated "meeting house" and churchyard, which he must visit. he made his way through the rough undergrowth to the unkempt half-acre, and halted before the leaning headstones which marked two graves. with a sudden emotion, he swept the back of his hand across his eyes. he did not remove his hat, but he stood in the drizzle of cold rain for a moment of silence, and then he said: "pap, i hain't fergot. i don't want ye ter think thet i've fergot." before he arrived at the widow miller's, the rain had stopped and the clouds had broken. back of them was a discouraged moon, which sometimes showed its face for a fitful moment, only to disappear. the wind was noisily floundering through the treetops. near the stile, samson gave his whippoorwill call. it was, perhaps, not quite so clear or true as usual, but that did not matter. there were no other whippoorwills calling at this season to confuse signals. he crossed the stile, and with a word quieted sally's dog as it rose to challenge him, and then went with him, licking his hand. sally opened the door, and smiled. she had spent the day nerving herself for this farewell, and at least until the moment of leave- taking she would be safe from tears. the widow miller and her son soon left them alone, and the boy and girl sat before the blazing logs. for a time, an awkward silence fell between them. sally had donned her best dress, and braided her red-brown hair. she sat with her chin in her palms, and the fire kissed her cheeks and temples into color. that picture and the look in her eyes remained with samson for a long while, and there were times of doubt and perplexity when he closed his eyes and steadied himself by visualizing it all again in his heart. at last, the boy rose, and went over to the corner where he had placed his gun. he took it up, and laid it on the hearth between them. "sally," he said, "i wants ter tell ye some things thet i hain't never said ter nobody else. in the fust place, i wants ye ter keep this hyar gun fer me." the girl's eyes widened with surprise. "hain't ye a-goin' ter take hit with ye, samson?" he shook his head. "i hain't a-goin' ter need hit down below. nobody don't use 'em down thar. i've got my pistol, an' i reckon thet will be enough." "i'll take good keer of hit," she promised. the boy took out of his pockets a box of cartridges and a small package tied in a greasy rag. "hit's loaded, sally, an' hit's cleaned an' hit's greased. hit's ready fer use." again, she nodded in silent assent, and the boy began speaking in a slow, careful voice, which gradually mounted into tense emotion. "sally, thet thar gun was my pap's. when he lay a-dyin', he gave hit ter me, an' he gave me a job ter do with hit. when i was a little feller, i used ter set up 'most all day, polishin' thet gun an' gittin' hit ready. i used ter go out in the woods, an' practise shootin' hit at things, tell i larned how ter handle hit. i reckon thar hain't many fellers round here thet kin beat me now." he paused, and the girl hastened to corroborate. "thar hain't none, samson." "there hain't nothin' in the world, sally, thet i prizes like i does thet gun. hit's got a job ter do ... thar hain't but one person in the world i'd trust hit with. thet's you.... i wants ye ter keep hit fer me, an' ter keep hit ready.... they thinks round hyar i'm quittin', but i hain't. i'm a-comin' back, an', when i comes, i'll need this hyar thing--an' i'll need hit bad." he took up the rifle, and ran his hand caressingly along its lock and barrel. "i don't know when i'm a-comin'," he said, slowly, "but, when i calls fer this, i'm shore a-goin' ter need hit quick. i wants hit ter be ready fer me, day er night. maybe, nobody won't know i'm hyar.... maybe, i won't want nobody ter know.... but, when i whistles out thar like a whippoorwill, i wants ye ter slip out--an' fotch me thet gun!" he stopped, and bent forward. his face was tense, and his eyes were glinting with purpose. his lips were tight set and fanatical. "samson," said the girl, reaching out and taking the weapon from his hands, "ef i'm alive when ye comes, i'll do hit. i promises ye. an'," she added, "ef i hain't alive, hit'll be standin' thar in thet corner. i'll grease hit, an' keep hit loaded, an' when ye calls, i'll fotch hit out thar to ye." the youth nodded. "i mout come anytime, but likely as not i'll hev ter come a-fightin' when i comes." next, he produced an envelope. "this here is a letter i've done writ ter myself," he explained. he drew out the sheet, and read: "samson, come back." then he handed the missive to the girl. "thet there is addressed ter me, in care of mr. lescott.... ef anything happens--ef unc' spicer needs me--i wants yer ter mail thet ter me quick. he says as how he won't never call me back, but, sally, i wants thet you shall send fer me, ef they needs me. i hain't a-goin' ter write no letters home. unc' spicer can't read, an' you can't read much either. but i'll plumb shore be thinkin' about ye day an' night." she gulped and nodded. "yes, samson," was all she said. the boy rose. "i reckon i'd better be gettin' along," he announced. the girl suddenly reached out both hands, and seized his coat. she held him tight, and rose, facing him. her upturned face grew very pallid, and her eyes widened. they were dry, and her lips were tightly closed, but, through the tearless pupils, in the firelight, the boy could read her soul, and her soul was sobbing. he drew her toward him, and held her very tight. "sally," he said, in a voice which threatened to choke, "i wants ye ter take keer of yeself. ye hain't like these other gals round here. ye hain't got big hands an' feet. ye kain't stand es much es they kin. don't stay out in the night air too much--an', sally--fer god's sake take keer of yeself!" he broke off, and picked up his hat. "an' that gun, sally," he repeated at the door, "that there's the most precious thing i've got. i loves hit better then anything--take keer of hit." again, she caught at his shoulders. "does ye love hit better'n ye do me, samson?" she demanded. he hesitated. "i reckon ye knows how much i loves ye, sally," he said, slowly, "but i've done made a promise, an' thet gun's a-goin' ter keep hit fer me." they went together out to the stile, he still carrying his rifle, as though loath to let it go, and she crossed with him to the road. as he untied his reins, she threw her arms about his neck, and for a long while they stood there under the clouds and stars, as he held her close. there was no eloquence of leave-taking, no professions of undying love, for these two hearts were inarticulate and dizzily clinging to a wilderness code of self-repression--and they had reached a point where speech would have swept them both away to a break-down. but as they stood, their arms gripping each other, each heart pounding on the other's breast, it was with a pulsing that spoke in the torrent their lips dammed, and between the two even in this farewell embrace was the rifle which stood emblematical of the man's life and mission and heredity. its cold metal lay in a line between their warm breasts, separating, yet uniting them, and they clung to each other across its rigid barrel, as a man and woman may cling with the child between them which belongs to both, and makes them one. as yet, she had shed no tears. then, he mounted and was swallowed in the dark. it was not until the thud of his mule's hoofs were lost in the distance that the girl climbed back to the top of the stile, and dropped down. then, she lifted the gun and pressed it close to her bosom, and sat silently sobbing for a long while. "he's done gone away," she moaned, "an' he won't never come back no more--but ef he does come"--she raised her eyes to the stars as though calling them to witness--"ef he does come, i'll shore be a-waitin'. lord god, make him come back!" chapter xiii the boy from misery rode slowly toward hixon. at times, the moon struggled out and made the shadows black along the way. at other times, it was like riding in a huge caldron of pitch. when he passed into that stretch of country at whose heart jesse purvy dwelt, he raised his voice in song. his singing was very bad, and the ballad lacked tune, but it served its purpose of saving him from the suspicion of furtiveness. though the front of the house was blank, behind its heavy shutters he knew that his coming might be noted, and night-riding at this particular spot might be misconstrued in the absence of frank warning. the correctness of his inference brought a brief smile to his lips when he crossed the creek that skirted the orchard, and heard a stable door creak softly behind him. he was to be followed again--and watched, but he did not look back or pause to listen for the hoofbeats of his unsolicited escort. on the soft mud of the road, he would hardly have heard them, had he bent his ear and drawn rein. he rode at a walk, for his train would not leave until five o'clock in the morning. there was time in plenty. it was cold and depressing as he trudged the empty streets from the livery stable to the railroad station, carrying his saddlebags over his arm. his last farewell had been taken when he left the old mule behind in the rickety livery stable. it had been unemotional, too, but the ragged creature had raised its stubborn head, and rubbed its soft nose against his shoulder as though in realization of the parting--and unwilling realization. he had roughly laid his hand for a moment on the muzzle, and turned on his heel. he was all unconscious that he presented a figure which would seem ludicrous in the great world to which he had looked with such eagerness. the lamps burned murkily about the railroad station, and a heavy fog cloaked the hills. at last he heard the whistle and saw the blazing headlight, and a minute later he had pushed his way into the smoking-car and dropped his saddlebags on the seat beside him. then, for the first time, he saw and recognized his watchers. purvy meant to have samson shadowed as far as lexington, and his movements from that point definitely reported. jim asberry and aaron hollis were the chosen spies. he did not speak to the two enemies who took seats across the car, but his face hardened, and his brows came together in a black scowl. "when i gits back," he promised himself, "you'll be one of the fust folks i'll look fer, jim asberry, damn ye! all i hopes is thet nobody else don't git ye fust. ye b'longs ter me." he was not quite certain yet that jim asberry had murdered his father, but he knew that asberry was one of the coterie of "killers" who took their blood hire from purvy, and he knew that asberry had sworn to "git" him. to sit in the same car with these men and to force himself to withhold his hand, was a hard bullet for samson south to chew, but he had bided his time thus far, and he would bide it to the end. when that end came, it would also be the end for purvy and asberry. he disliked hollis, too, but with a less definite and intense hatred. samson wished that one of the henchmen would make a move toward attack. he made no concealment of his own readiness. he removed both overcoat and coat, leaving exposed to view the heavy revolver which was strapped under his left arm. he even unbuttoned the leather flap of the holster, and then being cleared for action, sat glowering across the aisle, with his eyes not on the faces but upon the hands of the two purvy spies. the wrench of partings, the long raw ride and dis-spiriting gloom of the darkness before dawn had taken out of the boy's mind all the sparkle of anticipation and left only melancholy and hate. he felt for the moment that, had these men attacked him and thrown him back into the life he was leaving, back into the war without fault on his part, he would be glad. the fierce activity of fighting would be welcome to his mood. he longed for the appeasement of a thoroughly satisfied vengeance. but the two watchers across the car were not ordered to fight and so they made no move. they did not seem to see samson. they did not appear to have noticed his inviting readiness for combat. they did not remove their coats. at lexington, where he had several hours to wait, samson bought a "snack" at a restaurant near the station and then strolled about the adjacent streets, still carrying his saddlebags, for he knew nothing of the workings of check-rooms. when he returned to the depot with his open wallet in his hand, and asked for a ticket to new york, the agent looked up and his lips unguardedly broke into a smile of amusement. it was a good-humored smile, but samson saw that it was inspired by some sort of joke, and he divined that the joke was--himself! "what's the matter?" he inquired very quietly, though his chin stiffened. "don't ye sell tickets ter new york?" the man behind the grilled wicket read a spirit as swift to resent ridicule as that of d'artagnan had been when he rode his orange-colored nag into the streets of paris. his face sobered, and his manner became attentive. he was wondering what complications lay ahead of this raw creature whose crudity of appearance was so at odds with the compelling quality of his eyes. "do you want a pullman reservation?" he asked. "what's thet?" the boy put the question with a steadiness of gaze that seemed to defy the agent to entertain even a subconsciously critical thought as to his ignorance. the ticket man explained sleeping- and dining-cars. he had rather expected the boy to choose the day coach, but samson merely said: "i wants the best thar is." he counted out the additional money, and turned gravely from the window. the sleeping-car to which he was assigned was almost empty, but he felt upon him the interested gaze of those few eyes that were turned toward his entrance. he engaged every pair with a pair very clear and steady and undropping, until somehow each lip that had started to twist in amusement straightened, and the twinkle that rose at first glance sobered at second. he did not know why an old gentleman in a plaid traveling cap, who looked up from a magazine, turned his gaze out of the window with an expression of grave thoughtfulness. to himself, the old gentleman was irrelevantly quoting a line or two of verse: "' ... unmade, unhandled, unmeet-- ye pushed them raw to the battle, as ye picked them raw from the street--'" "only," added the old gentleman under his breath, "this one hasn't even the training of the streets--but with those eyes he'll get somewhere." the porter paused and asked to see samson's ticket. mentally, he observed: "po' white trash!" then, he looked again, for the boy's eyes were discomfortingly on his fat, black face, and the porter straightway decided to be polite. yet, for all his specious seeming of unconcern, samson was waking to the fact that he was a scarecrow, and his sensitive pride made him cut his meals short in the dining-car, where he was kept busy beating down inquisitive eyes with his defiant gaze. he resolved after some thought upon a definite policy. it was a very old policy, but to him new--and a discovery. he would change nothing in himself that involved a surrender of code or conviction. but, wherever it could be done with honor, he would concede to custom. he had come to learn, not to give an exhibition of stubbornness. whatever the outside world could offer with a recommendation to his good sense, that thing he would adopt and make his own. it was late in the second afternoon when he stepped from the train at jersey city, to be engulfed in an unimagined roar and congestion. here, it was impossible to hold his own against the unconcealed laughter of the many, and he stood for an instant glaring about like a caged tiger, while three currents of humanity separated and flowed toward the three ferry exits. it was a moment of longing for the quiet of his ancient hills, where nothing more formidable than blood enemies existed to disquiet and perplex a man's philosophy. those were things he understood--and even enemies at home did not laugh at a man's peculiarities. for the first time in his life, samson felt a tremor of something like terror, terror of a great, vague thing, too vast and intangible to combat, and possessed of the measureless power of many hurricanes. then, he saw the smiling face of lescott, and lescott's extended hand. even lescott, immaculately garbed and fur-coated, seemed almost a stranger, and the boy's feeling of intimacy froze to inward constraint and diffidence. but lescott knew nothing of that. the stoic in samson held true, masking his emotions. "so you came," said the new yorker, heartily, grasping the boy's hand. "where's your luggage? we'll just pick that up, and make a dash for the ferry." "hyar hit is," replied samson, who still carried his saddlebags. the painter's eyes twinkled, but the mirth was so frank and friendly that the boy, instead of glaring in defiance, grinned responsively. "right, oh!" laughed lescott. "i thought maybe you'd brought a trunk, but it's the wise man who travels light." "i reckon i'm pretty green," acknowledged the youth somewhat ruefully. "but i hain't been studyin' on what i looked like. i reckon thet don't make much difference." "not much," affirmed the other, with conviction. "let the men with little souls spend their thought on that." the artist watched his protégé narrowly as they took their places against the forward rail of the ferry-deck, and the boat stood out into the crashing water traffic of north river. what samson saw must be absolutely bewildering. ears attuned to hear a breaking twig must ache to this hoarse shrieking of whistles. to the west, in the evening's fading color, the sky-line of lower manhattan bit the sky with its serried line of fangs. yet, samson leaned on the rail without comment, and his face told nothing. lescott waited for some expression, and, when none came, he casually suggested: "samson, that is considered rather an impressive panorama over there. what do you think of it?" "ef somebody was ter ask ye ter describe the shape of a rainstorm, what would ye say?" countered the boy. lescott laughed. "i guess i wouldn't try to say." "i reckon," replied the mountaineer, "i won't try, neither." "do you find it anything like the thing expected?" no new yorker can allow a stranger to be unimpressed with that sky-line. "i didn't have no notion what to expect." samson's voice was matter-of- fact. "i 'lowed i'd jest wait and see." he followed lescott out to the foot of twenty-third street, and stepped with him into the tonneau of the painter's waiting car. lescott lived with his family up-town, for it happened that, had his canvases possessed no value whatever, he would still have been in a position to drive his motor, and follow his impulses about the world. lescott himself had found it necessary to overcome family opposition when he had determined to follow the career of painting. his people had been in finance, and they had expected him to take the position to which he logically fell heir in activities that center about wall street. he, too, had at first been regarded as recreant to traditions. for that reason, he felt a full sympathy with samson. the painter's place in the social world--although he preferred his other world of art--was so secure that he was free from any petty embarrassment in standing sponsor for a wild man from the hills. if he did not take the boy to his home, it was because he understood that a life which must be not only full of early embarrassment, but positively revolutionary, should be approached by easy stages. consequently, the car turned down fifth avenue, passed under the arch, and drew up before a door just off washington square, where the landscape painter had a studio suite. there were sleeping-rooms and such accessories as seemed to the boy unheard-of luxury, though lescott regarded the place as a makeshift annex to his home establishment. "you'd better take your time in selecting permanent quarters," was his careless fashion of explaining to samson. "it's just as well not to hurry. you are to stay here with me, as long as you will." "i'm obleeged ter ye," replied the boy, to whose training in open- doored hospitality the invitation seemed only natural. the evening meal was brought in from a neighboring hotel, and the two men dined before an open fire, samson eating in mountain silence, while his host chatted and asked questions. the place was quiet for new york, but to samson it seemed an insufferable pandemonium. he found himself longing for the velvet-soft quiet of the nightfalls he had known. "samson," suggested the painter, when the dinner things had been carried out and they were alone, "you are here for two purposes: first to study painting; second, to educate and equip yourself for coming conditions. it's going to take work, more work, and then some more work." "i hain't skeered of work." "i believe that. also, you must keep out of trouble. you've got to ride your fighting instinct with a strong curb." "i don't 'low to let nobody run over me." the statement was not argumentative; only an announcement of a principle which was not subject to modification. "all right, but until you learn the ropes, let me advise you." the boy gazed into the fire for a few moments of silence. "i gives ye my hand on thet," he promised. at eleven o'clock the painter, having shown his guest over the premises, said good-night, and went up-town to his own house. samson lay a long while awake, with many disquieting reflections. before his closed eyes rose insistently the picture of a smoky cabin with a puncheon floor and of a girl upon whose cheeks and temples flickered orange and vermilion lights. to his ears came the roar of elevated trains, and, since a fog had risen over the hudson, the endless night- splitting screams of brazen-throated ferry whistles. he tossed on a mattress which seemed hard and comfortless, and longed for a feather-bed. "good-night, sally," he almost groaned. "i wisht i was back thar whar i belongs." ... and sally, more than a thousand miles away, was shivering on the top of a stile with a white, grief-torn little face, wishing that, too. meanwhile lescott, letting himself into a house overlooking the park, was hailed by a chorus of voices from the dining-room. he turned and went in to join a gay group just back from the opera. as he thoughtfully mixed himself a highball, they bombarded him with questions. "why didn't you bring your barbarian with you?" demanded a dark-eyed girl, who looked very much as lescott himself might have looked had he been a girl--and very young and lovely. the painter always thought of his sister as the family's _edition de luxe_. now, she flashed on him an affectionate smile, and added: "we have been waiting to see him. must we go to bed disappointed?" george stood looking down on them, and tinkled the ice in his glass. "he wasn't brought on for purposes of exhibition, drennie," he smiled. "i was afraid, if he came in here in the fashion of his arrival--carrying his saddlebags--you ultra-civilized folk might have laughed." a roar of laughter at the picture vindicated lescott's assumption. "no! now, actually with saddlebags?" echoed a young fellow with a likeable face which was for the moment incredulously amused. "that goes dick whittington one better. you do make some rare discoveries, george. we celebrate you." "thanks, horton," commented the painter, dryly. "when you new yorkers have learned what these barbarians already know, the control of your over-sensitized risibles and a courtesy deeper than your shirt-fronts --maybe i'll let you have a look. meantime, i'm much too fond of all of you to risk letting you laugh at my barbarian." chapter xiv the first peep of daylight through the studio skylight found the mountain boy awake. before the daylight came he had seen the stars through its panes. lescott's servant, temporarily assigned to the studio, was still sleeping when samson dressed and went out. as he put on his clothes, he followed his custom of strapping the pistol-holster under his left armpit outside his shirt. he did it with no particular thought and from force of habit. his steps carried him first into washington square, at this cheerless hour empty except for a shivering and huddled figure on a bench and a rattling milk-cart. the boy wandered aimlessly until, an hour later, he found himself on bleecker street, as that thoroughfare began to awaken and take up its day's activity. the smaller shops that lie in the shadow of the elevated trestle were opening their doors. samson had been reflecting on the amused glances he had inspired yesterday and, when he came to a store with a tawdry window display of haberdashery and ready-made clothing, he decided to go in and investigate. evidently, the garments he now wore gave him an appearance of poverty and meanness, which did not comport with the dignity of a south. had any one else criticized his appearance his resentment would have blazed, but he could make voluntary admissions. the shopkeeper's curiosity was somewhat piqued by a manner of speech and appearance which, were, to him, new, and which he could not classify. his first impression of the boy in the stained suit, slouch hat, and patched overcoat, was much the same as that which the pullman porter had mentally summed up as, "po' white trash"; but the yiddish shopman could not place his prospective customer under any head or type with which he was familiar. he was neither "kike," "wop," "rough-neck," nor beggar, and, as the proprietor laid out his wares with unctuous solicitude, he was, also, studying his unresponsive and early visitor. when samson, for the purpose of trying on a coat and vest, took off his own outer garments, and displayed, without apology or explanation, a huge and murderous-looking revolver, the merchant became nervously excited. had samson made gratifying purchases, he might have seen nothing, but it occurred to the mountaineer, just as he was counting money from a stuffed purse, that it would perhaps be wiser to wait and consult lescott in matters of sartorial selection. so, with incisive bluntness, he countermanded his order--and made an enemy. the shopkeeper, standing at the door of his basement establishment, combed his beard with his fingers, and thought regretfully of the fat wallet; and, a minute after, when two policemen came by, walking together, he awoke suddenly to his responsibilities as a citizen. he pointed to the figure now half a block away. "dat feller," he said, "chust vent out off my blace. he's got a young cannon strapped to his vish-bone. i don't know if he's chust a rube, or if maybe he's bad. anyway, he's a gun-toter." the two patrolmen only nodded, and sauntered on. they did not hurry, but neither did samson. pausing to gaze into a window filled with italian sweetmeats, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to find himself looking into two pairs of accusing eyes. "what's your game?" shortly demanded one of the officers. "what's ther matter?" countered samson, as tartly as he had been questioned. "don't you know better than to tote a gun around this town?" "i reckon thet's my business, hain't hit?" the boy stepped back, and shook the offending hand from his shoulder. his gorge was rising, but he controlled it, and turned on his heel, with the manner of one saying the final word. "i reckon ye're a-barkin' up ther wrong tree." "not by a damned sight, we ain't!" one of the patrolmen seized and pinioned his arms, while the second threateningly lifted his club. "don't try to start anything, young feller," he warned. the street was awake now and the ever-curious crowd began to gather. the big officer at samson's back held his arms locked and gave curt directions to his partner. "go through him, quinn." samson recognized that he was in the hands of the law, and a different sort of law from that which he had known on misery. he made no effort to struggle, but looked very straight and unblinkingly into the eyes of the club-wielder. "don't ye hit me with thet thing," he said, quietly. "i warns ye." the officer laughed as he ran his left hand over samson's hips and chest, and brought out the offending weapon. "i guess that's about all. we'll let you explain the rest of it to the judge. it's a trick on the island for yours." the island meant nothing to samson south, but the derisive laughter of the crowd, and the roughness with which the two bluecoats swung him around, and ordered him to march, set on edge every defiant nerve. still, he gazed directly into the faces of his captors, and inquired with a cruelly forced calm: "does ye 'low ter take me ter the jail-house?" "can that rube stuff. get along, get along!" and the officers started him on his journey with a shove that sent him lurching and stumbling forward. then, the curb of control slipped. the prisoner wheeled, his face distorted with passion, and lashed out with his fist to the face of the biggest patrolman. it was a foolish and hopeless attack, as the boy realized, but in his code it was necessary. one must resent gratuitous insult whatever the odds, and he fought with such concentrated fury and swiftness, after his rude hill method of "fist and skull," driving in terrific blows with hands and head, that the crowd breathed deep with the delicious excitement of the combat--and regretted its brevity. the amazed officers, for an instant handicapped by their surprise, since they were expecting to monopolize the brutality of the occasion, came to their senses, and had instant recourse to the comforting reinforcement of their locust clubs. the boy went down under a rat-tat of night sticks, which left him as groggy and easy to handle as a fainting woman. "you got ter hand it ter dat guy," commented a sweater-clad onlooker, as they dragged samson into a doorway to await the wagon. "he was goin' some while he lasted." the boy was conscious again, though still faint, when the desk sergeant wrote on the station-house blotter: "carrying a deadly weapon, and resisting an officer." the lieutenant had strolled in, and was contemplatively turning over in his hand the heavy forty-five-calibre colt. "some rod that!" he announced. "we don't get many like it here. where did you breeze in from, young fellow?" "thet's my business," growled samson. then, he added: "i'll be obleeged if ye'll send word ter mr. george lescott ter come an' bail me out." "you seem to know the procedure," remarked the desk sergeant, with a smile. "who is mr. george lescott, and where's his hang-out?" one of the arresting officers looked up from wiping with his handkerchief the sweat-band of his helmet. "george lescott?" he repeated. "i know him. he's got one of them studios just off washington square. he drives down-town in a car the size of the olympic. i don't know how he'd get acquainted with a boob like this." "oh, well!" the desk sergeant yawned. "stick him in the cage. we'll call up this lescott party later on. i guess he's still in the hay, and it might make him peevish to wake him up." left alone in the police-station cell, the boy began to think. first of all, he was puzzled. he had fared forth peaceably, and spoken to no one except the storekeeper. to force a man into peace by denying him his gun, seemed as unreasonable as to prevent fisticuffs by cutting off hands. but, also, a deep sense of shame swept over him, and scalded him. getting into trouble here was, somehow, different from getting into trouble at home--and, in some strange way, bitterly humiliating. lescott had risen early, meaning to go down to the studio, and have breakfast with samson. his mother and sister were leaving for bermuda by a nine o'clock sailing. consequently, eight o'clock found the household gathered in the breakfast-room, supplemented by mr. wilfred horton, whose orchids adrienne lescott was wearing, and whose luggage was already at the wharf. "since wilfred is in the party to take care of things, and look after you," suggested lescott, as he came into the room a trifle late, "i think i'll say good-by here, and run along to the studio. samson is probably feeling like a new boy in school this morning. you'll find the usual litter of flowers and fiction in your staterooms to attest my filial and brotherly devotion." "was the brotherly sentiment addressed to me?" inquired wilfred, with an unsmiling and brazen gravity that brought to the girl's eyes and lips a half-mocking and wholly decorative twinkle of amusement. "just because i try to be a sister to you, wilfred," she calmly reproved, "i can't undertake to make my brother do it, too. besides, he couldn't be a sister to you." "but by dropping that attitude--which is entirely gratuitous--you will compel him to assume it. my sentiment as regards brotherly love is brief and terse, 'let george do it!'" mr. horton was complacently consuming his breakfast with an excellent appetite, to which the prospect of six weeks among bermuda lilies with adrienne lent a fillip. "so, brother-to-be," he continued, "you have my permission to run along down-town, and feed your savage." "beg pardon, sir!" the lescott butler leaned close to the painter's ear, and spoke with a note of apology as though deploring the necessity of broaching such a subject. "but will you kindly speak with the macdougal street police station?" "with the what?" lescott turned in surprise, while horton surrendered himself to unrestrained and boisterous laughter. "the barbarian!" he exclaimed. "i call that snappy work. twelve hours in new york, and a run-in with the police! i've noticed," he added, as the painter hurriedly quitted the room, "that, when you take the bad man out of his own cock-pit, he rarely lasts as far as the second round." "it occurs to me, wilfred," suggested adrienne, with the hint of warning in her voice, "that you may be just a trifle overdoing your attitude of amusement as to this barbarian. george is fond of him, and believes in him, and george is quite often right in his judgment." "george," added mrs. lescott, "had a broken arm down there in the mountains, and these people were kind to him in many ways. i wish i could see mr. south, and thank him." lescott's manner over the telephone was indicating to a surprised desk sergeant a decidedly greater interest than had been anticipated, and, after a brief and pointed conversation in that quarter, he called another number. it was a private number, not included in the telephone book and communicated with the residence of an attorney who would not have permitted the generality of clients to disturb him in advance of office hours. a realization that the "gun-lugger" had friends "higher up" percolated at the station-house in another hour, when a limousine halted at the door, and a legal celebrity, whose ways were not the ways of police stations or magistrates' courts, stepped to the curb. "i am waiting to meet mr. lescott," announced the honorable mr. wickliffe, curtly. when a continuance of the case had been secured, and bond given, the famous lawyer and samson lunched together at the studio as lescott's guests, and, after the legal luminary had thawed the boy's native reserve and wrung from him his story, he was interested enough to use all his eloquence and logic in his efforts to show the mountaineer what inherent necessities of justice lay back of seemingly restrictive laws. "you simply 'got in bad' through your failure to understand conditions here," laughed the lawyer. "i guess we can pull you through, but in future you'll have to submit to some guidance, my boy." and samson, rather to lescott's surprise, nodded his head with only a ghost of resentment. from friends, he was willing to learn. lescott had been afraid that this initial experience would have an extinguishing effect on samson's ambitions. he half-expected to hear the dogged announcement, "i reckon i'll go back home. i don't b'long hyar nohow." but no such remark came. one night, they sat in the cafe of an old french hostelry where, in the polyglot chatter of three languages, one hears much shop talk of art and literature. between the mirrored walls, samson was for the first time glimpsing the shallow sparkle of bohemia. the orchestra was playing an appealing waltz. among the diners were women gowned as he had never seen women gowned before. they sat with men, and met the challenge of ardent glances with dreamy eyes. they hummed an accompaniment to the air, and sometimes loudly and publicly quarreled. but samson looked on as taciturn and unmoved as though he had never dined elsewhere. and yet, his eyes were busy, for suddenly he laid down his knife, and picked up his fork. "hit 'pears like i've got a passel of things ter l'arn," he said, earnestly. "i reckon i mout as well begin by l'arnin' how ter eat." he had heretofore regarded a fork only as a skewer with which to hold meat in the cutting. lescott laughed. "most rules of social usage," he explained, "go back to the test of efficiency. it is considered good form to eat with the fork, principally because it is more efficient," the boy nodded. "all right," he acquiesced. "you l'arn me all them things, an' i'll be obleeged ter ye. things is diff'rent in diff'rent places. i reckon the souths hes a right ter behave es good es anybody." when a man, whose youth and courage are at their zenith, and whose brain is tuned to concert pitch, is thrown neck and crop out of squalid isolation into the melting pot of manhattan, puzzling problems of readjustment must follow. samson's half-starved mind was reaching out squid-like tentacles in every direction. he was saying little, seeing much, not yet coordinating or tabulating, but grimly bolting every morsel of enlightenment. later, he would digest; now, he only gorged. before he could hope to benefit by the advanced instruction of the life -classes, he must toil and sweat over the primer stages of drawing. several months were spent laboring with charcoal and paper over plaster casts in lescott's studio, and lescott himself played instructor. when the skylight darkened with the coming of evening, the boy whose mountain nature cried out for exercise went for long tramps that carried him over many miles of city pavements, and after that, when the gas was lit, he turned, still insatiably hungry, to volumes of history, and algebra, and facts. so gluttonous was his protégé's application that the painter felt called on to remonstrate against the danger of overwork. but samson only laughed; that was one of the things he had learned to do since he left the mountains. "i reckon," he drawled, "that as long as i'm at work, i kin keep out of trouble. seems like that's the only way i kin do it." * * * * * a sloop-rigged boat with a crew of two was dancing before a brisk breeze through blue bermuda waters. off to the right, hamilton rose sheer and colorful from the bay. at the tiller sat the white-clad figure of adrienne lescott. puffs of wind that whipped the tautly bellying sheets lashed her dark hair about her face. her lips, vividly red like poppy-petals, were just now curved into an amused smile, which made them even more than ordinarily kissable and tantalizing. her companion was neglecting his nominal duty of tending the sheet to watch her. "wilfred," she teased, "your contrast is quite startling--and, in a way, effective. from head to foot, you are spotless white--but your scowl is absolutely 'the blackest black that our eyes endure.' and," she added, in an injured voice, "i'm sure i've been very nice to you." "i have not yet begun to scowl," he assured her, and proceeded to show what superlatives of saturnine expression he held in reserve. "see here, drennie, i know perfectly well that i'm a sheer imbecile to reveal the fact that you've made me mad. it pleases you too perfectly. it makes you happier than is good for you, but----" "it's a terrible thing to make me happy, isn't it?" she inquired, sweetly. "unspeakably so, when you derive happiness from the torture of your fellow-man." "my brother-man," she amiably corrected him. "good lord!" he groaned in desperation. "i ought to turn cave man, and seize you by the hair--and drag you to the nearest minister--or prophet, or whoever could marry us. then, after the ceremony, i ought to drag you to my own grotto, and beat you." "would i have to wear my wedding ring in my nose?" she put the question with the manner of one much interested in acquiring useful information. "drennie, for the nine-hundred-thousandth time; simply, in the interests of harmony and to break the deadlock, will you marry me?" "not this afternoon," she smiled. "watch for the boom! i'm going to bring her round." the young man promptly ducked his head, and played out the line, as the boat dipped her masthead waterward, and came about on the other tack. when the sails were again drumming under the fingers of the wind, she added: "besides, i'm not sure that harmony is what i want." "you know you'll have to marry me in the end. why not now?" he persisted, doggedly. "we are simply wasting our youth, dear." his tone had become so calamitous that the girl could not restrain a peal of very musical laughter. "am i so very funny?" he inquired, with dignity. "you are, when you are so very tragic," she assured him. he realized that his temper was merely a challenge to her teasing, and he wisely fell back into his customary attitude of unruffled insouciance. "drennie, you have held me off since we were children. i believe i first announced my intention of marrying you when you were twelve. that intention remains unaltered. more: it is unalterable and inevitable. my reasons for wanting to needn't be rehearsed. it would take too long. i regard you as possessed of an alert and remarkable mind--one worthy of companionship with my own." despite the frivolous badinage of his words and the humorous smile of his lips, his eyes hinted at an underlying intensity. "with no desire to flatter or spoil you, i find your personal aspect pleasing enough to satisfy me. and then, while a man should avoid emotionalism, i am in love with you." he moved over to a place in the sternsheets, and his face became intensely earnest. he dropped his hand over hers as it lay on the tiller shaft. "god knows, dear," he exclaimed, "how much i love you!" her eyes, after holding his for a moment, fell to the hand which still imprisoned her own. she shook her head, not in anger, but with a manner of gentle denial, until he released her fingers and stepped back. "you are a dear, wilfred," she comforted, "and i couldn't manage to get on without you, but you aren't marriageable--at least, not yet." "why not?" he argued. "i've stood back and twirled my thumbs all through your _début_ winter. i've been patience without the comfort of a pedestal. now, will you give me three minutes to show you that you are not acting fairly, or nicely at all?" "duck!" warned the girl, and once more they fell silent in the sheer physical delight of two healthy young animals, clean-blooded and sport- loving, as the tall jib swept down; the "high side" swept up, and the boat hung for an exhilarating moment on the verge of capsizing. as it righted itself again, like the craft of a daring airman banking the pylons, the girl gave him a bright nod. "now, go ahead," she acceded, "you have three minutes to put yourself in nomination as the exemplar of your age and times." chapter xv the young man settled back, and stuffed tobacco into a battered pipe. then, with a lightness of tone which was assumed as a defense against her mischievous teasing, he began: "very well, drennie. when you were twelve, which is at best an unimpressive age for the female of the species, i was eighteen, and all the world knows that at eighteen a man is very mature and important. you wore pigtails then, and it took a prophet's eye to foresee how wonderfully you were going to emerge from your chrysalis." the idolatry of his eyes told how wonderful she seemed to him now. "yet, i fell in love with you, and i said to myself, 'i'll wait for her.' however, i didn't want to wait eternally. for eight years, i have danced willing attendance--following you through nursery, younger-set and _débutante_ stages. in short, with no wish to trumpet too loudly my own virtues, i've been your _fidus achates_." his voice dropped from its pitch of antic whimsey, and became for a moment grave, as he added: "and, because of my love for you, i've lived a life almost as clean as your own." "one's _fidus achates_, if i remember anything of my latin, which i don't"--the girl spoke in that voice which the man loved best, because it had left off bantering, and become grave with such softness and depth of timbre as might have trembled in the reed pipes of a sylvan pan--"is one's really-truly friend. everything that you claim for yourself is admitted--and many other things that you haven't claimed. now, suppose you give me three minutes to make an accusation on other charges. they're not very grave faults, perhaps, by the standards of your world and mine, but to me, personally, they seem important." wilfred nodded, and said, gravely: "i am waiting." "in the first place, you are one of those men whose fortunes are listed in the top schedule--the swollen fortunes. socialists would put you in the predatory class." "drennie," he groaned, "do you keep your heaven locked behind a gate of the needle's eye? it's not my fault that i'm rich. it was wished on me. if you are serious, i'm willing to become poor as job's turkey. show me the way to strip myself, and i'll stand shortly before you begging alms." "to what end?" she questioned. "poverty would be quite inconvenient. i shouldn't care for it. but hasn't it ever occurred to you that the man who wears the strongest and brightest mail, and who by his own confession is possessed of an alert brain, ought occasionally to be seen in the lists?" "in short, your charge is that i am a shirker--and, since it's the same thing, a coward?" adrienne did not at once answer him, but she straightened out for an uninterrupted run before the wind, and by the tiny moss-green flecks, which moments of great seriousness brought to the depths of her eyes, he knew that she meant to speak the unveiled truth. "besides your own holdings in a lot of railways and things, you handle your mother's and sisters' property, don't you?" he nodded. "in a fashion, i do. i sign the necessary papers when the lawyers call me up, and ask me to come down-town." "you are a director in the metropole trust company?" "guilty." "in the consolidated seacoast?" "i believe so." "in a half-dozen other things equally important?" "good lord, drennie, how can i answer all those questions off-hand? i don't carry a note-book in my yachting flannels." her voice was so serious that he wondered if it were not, also, a little contemptuous. "do you have to consult a note-book to answer those questions?" "those directorate jobs are purely honorary," he defended. "if i butted in with fool suggestions, they'd quite properly kick me out." "with your friends, who are also share-holders, you could assume control of the _morning intelligence_, couldn't you?" "i guess i could assume control, but what would i do with it?" "do you know the reputation of that newspaper?" "i guess it's all right. it's conservative and newsy. i read it every morning when i'm in town. it fits in very nicely between the grapefruit and the bacon-and-eggs." "it is, also, powerful," she added, "and is said to be absolutely servile to corporate interests." "drennie, you talk like an anarchist. you are rich yourself, you know." "and, against each of those other concerns, various charges have been made." "well, what do you want me to do?" "it's not what i want you to do," she informed him; "it's what i'd like to see you want to do." "name it! i'll want to do it forthwith." "i think, when you are one of a handful of the richest men in new york; when, for instance, you could dictate the policy of a great newspaper, yet know it only as the course that follows your grapefruit, you are a shirker and a drone, and are not playing the game." her hand tightened on the tiller. "i think, if i were a man riding on to the polo field, i'd either try like the devil to drive the ball down between the posts, or i'd come inside, and take off my boots and colors. i wouldn't hover in lady-like futility around the edge of the scrimmage." she knew that to horton, who played polo like a fiend incarnate, the figure would be effective, and she whipped out her words with something very close to scorn. "duck your head!" she commanded shortly. "i'm coming about." possibly, she had thrown more of herself into her philippic than she had realized. possibly, some of her emphasis imparted itself to her touch on the tiller, and jerked the sloop too violently into a sudden puff as it careened. at all events, the boat swung sidewise, trembled for an instant like a wounded gull, and then slapped its spread of canvas prone upon the water with a vicious report. "jump!" yelled the man, and, as he shouted, the girl disappeared over- side, perilously near the sheet. he knew the danger of coming up under a wet sail, and, diving from the high side, he swam with racing strokes toward the point where she had gone down. when adrienne's head did not reappear, his alarm grew, and he plunged under water where the shadow of the overturned boat made everything cloudy and obscure to his wide- open eyes. he stroked his way back and forth through the purple fog that he found down there, until his lungs seemed on the point of bursting. then, he paused at the surface, shaking the water from his face, and gazing anxiously about. the dark head was not visible, and once more, with a fury of growing terror, he plunged downward, and began searching the shadows. this time, he remained until his chest was aching with an absolute torture. if she had swallowed water under that canvas barrier this attempt would be the last that could avail. then, just as it seemed that he was spending the last fraction of the last ounce of endurance, his aching eyes made out a vague shape, also swimming, and his hand touched another hand. she was safe, and together they came out of the opaqueness into water as translucent as sapphires, and rose to the surface. "where were you?" she inquired. "i was looking for you--under the sail," he panted. adrienne laughed. "i'm quite all right," she assured him. "i came up under the boat at first, but i got out easily enough, and went back to look for you." they swam together to the capsized hull, and the girl thrust up one strong, slender hand to the stem, while with the other she wiped the water from her smiling eyes. the man also laid hold on the support, and hung there, filling his cramped lungs. then, for just an instant, his hand closed over hers. "there's my hand on it, drennie," he said. "we start back to new york to-morrow, don't we? well, when i get there, i put on overalls, and go to work. when i propose next, i'll have something to show." a motor-boat had seen their plight, and was racing madly to their rescue, with a yard-high swirl of water thrown up from its nose and a fusillade of explosions trailing in its wake. * * * * * christmas came to misery wrapped in a drab mantle of desolation. the mountains were like gigantic cones of raw and sticky chocolate, except where the snow lay patched upon their cheerless slopes. the skies were low and leaden, and across their gray stretches a spirit of squalid melancholy rode with the tarnished sun. windowless cabins, with tight- closed doors, became cavernous dens untouched by the cleansing power of daylight. in their vitiated atmosphere, their humanity grew stolidly sullen. nowhere was a hint of the season's cheer. the mountains knew only of such celebration as snuggling close to the jug of moonshine, and drinking out the day. mountain children, who had never heard of kris kingle, knew of an ancient tradition that at christmas midnight the cattle in the barns and fields knelt down, as they had knelt around the manger, and that along the ragged slopes of the hills the elder bushes ceased to rattle dead stalks, and burst into white sprays of momentary bloom. christmas itself was a week distant, and, at the cabin of the widow miller, sally was sitting alone before the logs. she laid down the slate and spelling-book, over which her forehead had been strenuously puckered, and gazed somewhat mournfully into the blaze. sally had a secret. it was a secret which she based on a faint hope. if samson should come back to misery, he would come back full of new notions. no man had ever yet returned from that outside world unaltered. no man ever would. a terrible premonition said he would not come at all, but, if he did--if he did--she must know how to read and write. maybe, when she had learned a little more, she might even go to school for a term or two. she had not confided her secret. the widow would not have understood. the book and slate came out of their dusty cranny in the logs beside the fireplace only when the widow had withdrawn to her bed, and the freckled boy was dreaming of being old enough to kill hollmans. the cramped and distorted chirography on the slate was discouraging. it was all proving very hard work. the girl gazed for a time at something she saw in the embers, and then a faint smile came to her lips. by next christmas, she would surprise samson with a letter. it should be well written, and every "hain't" should be an "isn't." of course, until then samson would not write to her, because he would not know that she could read the letter--indeed, as yet the deciphering of "hand-write" was beyond her abilities. she rose and replaced the slate and primer. then, she took tenderly from its corner the rifle, which the boy had confided to her keeping, and unwrapped its greasy covering. she drew the cartridges from chamber and magazine, oiled the rifling, polished the lock, and reloaded the piece. "thar now," she said, softly, "i reckon ther old rifle-gun's ready." as she sat there alone in the shuck-bottomed chair, the corners of the room wavered in huge shadows, and the smoke-blackened cavern of the fireplace, glaring like a volcano pit, threw her face into relief. she made a very lovely and pathetic picture. her slender knees were drawn close together, and from her slim waist she bent forward, nursing the inanimate thing which she valued and tended, because samson valued it. her violet eyes held the heart-touching wistfulness of utter loneliness, and her lips drooped. this small girl, dreaming her dreams of hope against hope, with the vast isolation of the hills about her, was a little monument of unflinching loyalty and simple courage, and, as she sat, she patted the rifle with as soft a touch as though she had been dandling samson's child--and her own--on her knee. there was no speck of rust in the unused muzzle, no hitch in the easily sliding mechanism of the breechblock. the hero's weapon was in readiness to his hand, as the bow of ulysses awaited the coming of the wanderer. then, with sudden interruption to her reflections, came a rattling on the cabin door. she sat up and listened. night visitors were rare at the widow miller's. sally waited, holding her breath, until the sound was repeated. "who is hit?" she demanded in a low voice. "hit's me--tam'rack!" came the reply, very low and cautious, and somewhat shamefaced. "what does ye want?" "let me in, sally," whined the kinsman, desperately. "they're atter me. they won't think to come hyar." sally had not seen her cousin since samson had forbidden his coming to the house. since samson's departure, the troublesome kinsman, too, had been somewhere "down below," holding his railroad job. but the call for protection was imperative. she set the gun out of sight against the mantle-shelf, and, walking over unwillingly, opened the door. the mud-spattered man came in, glancing about him half-furtively, and went to the fireplace. there, he held his hands to the blaze. "hit's cold outdoors," he said. "what manner of deviltry hev ye been into now, tam'rack?" inquired the girl. "kain't ye never keep outen trouble?" the self-confessed refugee did not at once reply. when he did, it was to ask: "is the widder asleep?" sally saw from his blood-shot eyes that he had been drinking heavily. she did not resume her seat, but stood holding him with her eyes. in them, the man read contempt, and an angry flush mounted to his sallow cheek-bones. "i reckon ye knows," went on the girl in the same steady voice, "thet samson meant what he said when he warned ye ter stay away from hyar. i reckon ye knows i wouldn't never hev opened thet door, ef hit wasn't fer ye bein' in trouble." the mountaineer straightened up, his eyes burning with the craftiness of drink, and the smoldering of resentment. "i reckon i knows thet. thet's why i said they was atter me. i hain't in no trouble, sally. i jest come hyar ter see ye, thet's all." now, it was the girl's eyes that flashed anger. with quick steps, she reached the door, and threw it open. her hand trembled as she pointed out into the night, and the gusty winter's breath caught and whipped her calico skirts about her ankles. "you kin go!" she ordered, passionately. "don't ye never cross this doorstep ag'in. begone quick!" but tamarack only laughed with easy insolence. "sally," he drawled. "thar's a-goin' ter be a dancin' party christmas night over ter the forks. i 'lowed i'd like ter hev ye go over thar with me." her voice was trembling with white-hot indignation. "didn't ye hear samson say ye wasn't never ter speak ter me?" "ter hell with samson!" he ripped out, furiously. "nobody hain't pesterin' 'bout him. i don't allow samson, ner no other man, ter dictate ter me who i keeps company with. i likes ye, sally. ye're the purtiest gal in the mountings, an'----" "will ye git out, or hev i got ter drive ye?" interrupted the girl. her face paled, and her lips drew themselves into a taut line. "will ye go ter the party with me, sally?" he came insolently over, and stood waiting, ignoring her dismissal with the ease of braggart effrontery. she, in turn, stood rigid, wordless, pointing his way across the doorstep. slowly, the drunken face lost its leering grin. the eyes blackened into a truculent and venomous scowl. he stepped over, and stood towering above the slight figure, which did not give back a step before his advance. with an oath, he caught her savagely in his arms, and crushed her to him, while his unshaven, whiskey-soaked lips were pressed clingingly against her own indignant ones. too astonished for struggle, the girl felt herself grow faint in his loathsome embrace, while to her ears came his panted words: "i'll show ye. i wants ye, an' i'll git ye." adroitly, with a regained power of resistance and a lithe twist, she slipped out of his grasp, hammering at his face futilely with her clenched fists. "i--i've got a notion ter kill ye!" she cried, brokenly. "ef samson was hyar, ye wouldn't dare--" what else she might have said was shut off in stormy, breathless gasps of humiliation and anger. "well," replied tamarack, with drawling confidence, "ef samson was hyar, i'd show him, too--damn him! but samson hain't hyar. he won't never be hyar no more." his voice became deeply scornful, as he added: "he's done cut an' run. he's down thar below, consortin' with furriners, an' he hain't thinkin' nothin' 'bout you. you hain't good enough fer samson, sally. i tells ye he's done left ye fer all time." sally had backed away from the man, until she stood trembling near the hearth. as he spoke, tamarack was slowly and step by step following her up. in his eyes glittered the same light that one sees in those of a cat which is watching a mouse already caught and crippled. she half-reeled, and stood leaning against the rough stones of the fireplace. her head was bowed, and her bosom heaving with emotion. she felt her knees weakening under her, and feared they would no longer support her. but, as her cousin ended, with a laugh, she turned her back to the wall, and stood with her downstretched hands groping against the logs. then, she saw the evil glint in tamarack's blood-shot eyes. he took one slow step forward, and held out his arms. "will ye come ter me?" he commanded, "or shall i come an' git ye?" the girl's fingers at that instant fell against something cooling and metallic. it was samson's rifle. with a sudden cry of restored confidence and a dangerous up-leaping of light in her eyes, she seized and cocked it. chapter xvi the girl stepped forward, and held the weapon finger on trigger, close to her cousin's chest. "ye lies, tam'rack," she said, in a very low and steady voice--a voice that could not be mistaken, a voice relentlessly resolute and purposeful. "ye lies like ye always lies. yore heart's black an' dirty. ye're a murderer an' a coward. samson's a-comin' back ter me.... i'm a-goin' ter be samson's wife." the tensity of her earnestness might have told a subtler psychologist than tamarack that she was endeavoring to convince herself. "he hain't never run away. he's hyar in this room right now." the mountaineer started, and cast an apprehensive glance about him. the girl laughed, with a deeply bitter note, then she went on: "oh, you can't see him, tam'rack. ye mout hunt all night, but wharever i be, samson's thar, too. i hain't nothin' but a part of samson--an' i'm mighty nigh ter killin' ye this minute--he'd do hit, i reckon." "come on now, sally," urged the man, ingratiatingly. he was thoroughly cowed, seeking compromise. a fool woman with a gun: every one knew it was a dangerous combination, and, except for himself, no south had ever been a coward. he knew a certain glitter in their eyes. he knew it was apt to presage death, and this girl, trembling in her knees but holding that muzzle against his chest so unwaveringly, as steady as granite, had it in her pupils. her voice held an inexorable monotony suggestive of tolling bells. she was not the sally he had known before, but a new sally, acting under a quiet sort of exaltation, capable of anything. he knew that, should she shoot him dead there in her house, no man who knew them both would blame her. his life depended on strategy. "come on, sally," he whined, as his face grew ashen. "i didn't aim ter make ye mad. i jest lost my head, an' made love ter ye. hit hain't no sin ter kiss a feller's own cousin." he was edging toward the door. "stand where ye're at," ordered sally, in a voice of utter loathing, and he halted. "hit wasn't jest kissin' me--" she broke off, and shuddered again. "i said thet samson was in this here room. ef ye moves twell i tells ye ye kin, ye'll hear him speak ter ye, an' ef he speaks ye won't never hear nothin' more. this here is samson's gun. i reckon he'll tell me ter pull the trigger terectly!" "fer god's sake, sally!" implored the braggart. "fer god's sake, look over what i done. i knows ye're samson's gal. i----" "shet up!" she said, quietly; and his voice died instantly. "yes, i'm samson's gal, an' i hain't a-goin' ter kill ye this time, tam'rack, unlessen ye makes me do hit. but, ef ever ye crosses that stile out thar ag'in, so help me god, this gun air goin' ter shoot." tamarack licked his lips. they had grown dry. he had groveled before a girl--but he was to be spared. that was the essential thing. "i promises," he said, and turned, much sobered, to the door. sally stood for a while, listening until she heard the slopping hoof- beats of his retreat, then she dropped limply into the shaky shuck- bottomed chair, and sat staring straight ahead, with a dazed and almost mortal hurt in her eyes. it was a trance-like attitude, and the gesture with which she several times wiped her calico sleeve across the lips his kisses had defiled, seemed subconscious. at last, she spoke aloud, but in a far-away voice, shaking her head miserably. "i reckon tam'rack's right," she said. "samson won't hardly come back. why would he come back?" * * * * * the normal human mind is a reservoir, which fills at a rate of speed regulated by the number and calibre of its feed pipes. samson's mind had long been almost empty, and now from so many sources the waters of new things were rushing in upon it that under their pressure it must fill fast, or give away. he was saved from hopeless complications of thought by a sanity which was willing to assimilate without too much effort to analyze. that belonged to the future. just now, all was marvelous. what miracles around him were wrought out of golden virtue, and what out of brazen vice, did not as yet concern him. new worlds are not long new worlds. the boy from misery was presently less bizarre to the eye than many of the unkempt bohemians he met in the life of the studios: men who quarreled garrulously over the end and aim of art, which they spelled with a capital a--and, for the most part, knew nothing of. he retained, except within a small circle of intimates, a silence that passed for taciturnity, and a solemnity of visage that was often construed into surly egotism. he still wore his hair long, and, though his conversation gradually sloughed off much of its idiom and vulgarism, enough of the mountaineer stood out to lend to his personality a savor of the crudely picturesque. meanwhile, he drew and read and studied and walked and every day's advancement was a forced march. the things that he drew began by degrees to resolve themselves into some faint similitude to the things from which he drew them. the stick of charcoal no longer insisted on leaving in the wake of its stroke smears like soot. it began to be governable. but it was the fact that samson saw things as they were and insisted on trying to draw them just as he saw them, which best pleased his sponsor. during those initial months, except for his long tramps, occupied with thoughts of the hills and the widow miller's cabin, his life lay between lescott's studio and the cheap lodgings which he had taken near by. sometimes while he was bending toward his easel there would rise before his imagination the dark unshaven countenance of jim asberry. at such moments, he would lay down the charcoal, and his eyes would cloud into implacable hatred. "i hain't fergot ye, pap," he would mutter, with the fervor of a renewed vow. with the speed of a clock's minute hand, too gradual to be seen by the eye, yet so fast that it soon circles the dial, changes were being wrought in the raw material called samson south. one thing did not change. in every crowd, he found himself searching hungrily for the face of sally, which he knew he could not find. always, there was the unadmitted, yet haunting, sense of his own rawness. for life was taking off his rough edges--and there were many--and life went about the process in workmanlike fashion, with sandpaper. the process was not enjoyable, and, though the man's soul was made fitter, it was also rubbed raw. lescott, tremendously interested in his experiment, began to fear that the boy's too great somberness of disposition would defeat the very earnestness from which it sprang. so, one morning, the landscape-maker went to the telephone, and called for the number of a friend whom he rightly believed to be the wisest man, and the greatest humorist, in new york. the call brought no response, and the painter dried his brushes, and turned up fifth avenue to an apartment hotel in a cross street, where on a certain door he rapped with all the elaborate formula of a secret code. very cautiously, the door opened, and revealed a stout man with a humorous, clean-shaven face. on a table lay a scattered sheaf of rough and yellow paper, penciled over in a cramped and interlined hand. the stout man's thinning hair was rumpled over a perspiring forehead. across the carpet was a worn stretch that bespoke much midnight pacing. the signs were those of authorship. "why didn't you answer your 'phone?" smiled lescott, though he knew. the stout man shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the wall, where the disconnected receiver was hanging down. "necessary precaution against creditors," he explained. "i am out--except to you." "busy?" interrogated lescott. "you seem to have a manuscript in the making." "no." the stout man's face clouded with black foreboding. "i shall never write another story. i'm played out." he turned, and restively paced the worn carpet, pausing at the window for a despondent glance across the roofs and chimney pots of the city. lescott, with the privilege of intimacy, filled his pipe from the writer's tobacco jar. "i want your help. i want you to meet a friend of mine, and take him under your wing in a fashion. he needs you." the stout man's face again clouded. a few years ago, he had been peddling his manuscripts with the heart-sickness of unsuccessful middle age. to-day, men coupled his name with those of kipling and de maupassant. one of his antipathies was meeting people who sought to lionize him. lescott read the expression, and, before his host had time to object, swept into his recital. at the end he summarized: "the artist is much like the setter-pup. if it's in him, it's as instinctive as a dog's nose. but to become efficient he must go a-field with a steady veteran of his own breed." "i know!" the great man, who was also the simple man, smiled reminiscently. "they tried to teach me to herd sheep when my nose was itching for bird country. bring on your man; i want to know him." samson was told nothing of the benevolent conspiracy, but one evening shortly later he found himself sitting at a café table with his sponsor and a stout man, almost as silent as himself. the stout man responded with something like churlish taciturnity to the half-dozen men and women who came over with flatteries. but later, when the trio was left alone, his face brightened, and he turned to the boy from misery. "does billy conrad still keep store at stagbone?" samson started, and his gaze fell in amazement. at the mention of the name, he saw a cross-roads store, with rough mules hitched to fence palings. it was a picture of home, and here was a man who had been there! with glowing eyes, the boy dropped unconsciously back into the vernacular of the hills. "hev ye been thar, stranger?" the writer nodded, and sipped his whiskey. "not for some years, though," he confessed, as he drifted into reminiscence, which to samson was like water to a parched throat. when they left the café, the boy felt as though he were taking leave of an old and tried friend. by homely methods, this unerring diagnostician of the human soul had been reading him, liking him, and making him feel a heart-warming sympathy. the man who shrunk from lion-hunters, and who could return the churl's answer to the advances of sycophant and flatterer, enthusiastically poured out for the ungainly mountain boy all the rare quality and bouquet of his seasoned personal charm. it was a vintage distilled from experience and humanity. it had met the ancient requirement for the mellowing and perfecting of good madeira, that it shall "voyage twice around the world's circumference," and it was a thing reserved for his friends. "it's funny," commented the boy, when he and lescott were alone, "that he's been to stagbone." "my dear samson," lescott assured him, "if you had spoken of tucson, arizona, or caracas or saskatchewan, it would have been the same. he knows them all." it was not until much later that samson realized how these two really great men had adopted him as their "little brother," that he might have their shoulder-touch to march by. and it was without his realization, too, that they laid upon him the imprint of their own characters and philosophy. one night at tonelli's table-d'hôte place, the latest diners were beginning to drift out into tenth street. the faded soprano, who had in better days sung before a king, was wearying as she reeled out ragtime with a strong neapolitan accent. samson had been talking to the short-story writer about his ambitions and his hatreds. he feared he was drifting away from his destiny--and that he would in the end become too softened. the writer leaned across the table, and smiled. "fighting is all right," he said; "but a man should not be just the fighter." he mused a moment in silence, then quoted a scrap of verse: "'test of the man, if his worth be, "'in accord with the ultimate plan, "'that he be not, to his marring, "'always and utterly man; "'that he bring out of the battle "'fitter and undefiled, "'to woman the heart of a woman, "'to children the heart of a child.'" samson south offered no criticism. he had known life from the stoic's view-point. he had heard the seductive call of artistic yearnings. now, it dawned on him in an intensely personal fashion, as it had begun already to dawn in theory, that the warrior and the artist may meet on common and compatible ground, where the fighting spirit is touched and knighted with the gentleness of chivalry. he seemed to be looking from a new and higher plane, from which he could see a mellow softness on angles that had hitherto been only stern and unrelieved. chapter xvii "i have come, not to quarrel with you, but to try to dissuade you." the honorable mr. wickliffe bit savagely at his cigar, and gave a despairing spread to his well-manicured hands. "you stand in danger of becoming the most cordially hated man in new york--hated by the most powerful combinations in new york." wilfred horton leaned back in a swivel chair, and put his feet up on his desk. for a while, he seemed interested in his own silk socks. "it's very kind of you to warn me," he said, quietly. the honorable mr. wickliffe rose in exasperation, and paced the floor. the smoke from his black cigar went before him in vicious puffs. finally, he stopped, and leaned glaring on the table. "your family has always been conservative. when you succeeded to the fortune, you showed no symptoms of this mania. in god's name, what has changed you?" "i hope i have grown up," explained the young man, with an unruffled smile. "one can't wear swaddling clothes forever, you know." the attorney for an instant softened his manner as he looked into the straight-gazing, unafraid eyes of his client. "i've known you from your babyhood. i advised your father before you were born. you have, by the chance of birth, come into the control of great wealth. the world of finance is of delicate balance. squabbles in certain directorates may throw the street into panic. suddenly, you emerge from decent quiet, and run amuck in the china-shop, bellowing and tossing your horns. you make war on those whose interests are your own. you seem bent on hari-kari. you have toys enough to amuse you. why couldn't you stay put?" "they weren't the right things. they were, as you say, toys." the smile faded and horton's chin set itself for a moment, as he added: "if you don't think i'm going to stay put--watch me." "why do you have to make war--to be chronically insurgent?" "because"--the young man, who had waked up, spoke slowly--"i am reading a certain writing on the wall. the time is not far off when, unless we regulate a number of matters from within, we shall be regulated from without. then, instead of giving the financial body a little griping in its gold-lined tummy, which is only the salutary effect of purging, a surgical operation will be required. it will be something like one they performed on the body politic of france not so long ago. old dr. guillotine officiated. it was quite a successful operation, though the patient failed to rally." "take for instance this newspaper war you've inaugurated on the police," grumbled the corporation lawyer. "it's less dangerous to the public than these financial crusades, but decidedly more so for yourself. you are regarded as a dangerous agitator, a marplot! i tell you, wilfred, aside from all other considerations the thing is perilous to yourself. you are riding for a fall. these men whom you are whipping out of public life will turn on you." "so i hear. here's a letter i got this morning--unsigned. that is, i thought it was here. well, no matter. it warns me that i have less than three months to live unless i call off my dogs." the honorable mr. wickliffe's face mirrored alarm. "let me have it," he demanded. "you shouldn't treat such matters lightly. men are assassinated in new york. i'll refer it to the police." horton laughed. "that would be in the nature of referring back, wouldn't it? i fancy it came from some one not so remote from police sympathy." "what are you going to do about it?" "i'm going to stay put. if i can convict certain corrupt members of the department, i'm going to nail brass-buttoned hides all over the front of the city hall." "have you had any other threats?" "no, not exactly, but i've had more touching recognition than that. i've been asked to resign from several very good clubs." the attorney groaned. "you will be a pariah. so will your allies." it is said that the new convert is ever the most extreme fanatic. wilfred horton had promised to put on his working clothes, and he had done it with reckless disregard for consequences. at first, he was simply obeying adrienne's orders; but soon he found himself playing the game for the game's sake. men at the clubs and women whom he took into dinner chaffed him over his sudden disposition to try his wings. he was a man riding a hobby, they said. in time, it began to dawn that he, with others, whom he had drawn to his standards, meant serious war on certain complacent evils in the world of finance and politics. sleeping dogs of custom began to stir and growl. political overlords, assailed as unfaithful servants, showed their teeth. from some hidden, but unfailing, source terribly sure and direct evidence of guilt was being gathered. for wilfred horton, who was demanding a day of reckoning and spending great sums of money to get it, there was a prospect of things doing. adrienne lescott was in europe. soon, she would return, and horton meant to show that he had not buried his talent. * * * * * for eight months samson's life had run in the steady ascent of gradual climbing, but, in the four months from the first of august to the first of december, the pace of his existence suddenly quickened. he left off drawing from plaster casts, and went into a life class. his shyness secretly haunted him. the nudity of the woman posing on the model throne, the sense of his own almost as naked ignorance, and the dread of the criticism to come, were all keen embarrassments upon him. in this period, samson had his first acquaintanceship with women, except those he had known from childhood--and his first acquaintanceship with the men who were not of his own art world. of the women, he saw several sorts. there were the aproned and frowsy students, of uncertain age, who seemed to have no life except that which existed under studio skylights. there were, also, a few younger girls, who took their art life with less painful solemnity; and, of course, the models in the "partially draped" and the "altogether." tony collasso was an italian illustrator, who lodged and painted in studio-apartments in washington square, south. he had studied in the julian school and the beaux arts, and wore a shock of dark curls, a satanic black mustache, and an expression of byronic melancholy. the melancholy, he explained to samson, sprang from the necessity of commercializing his divine gift. his companions were various, numbering among them a group of those pygmy celebrities of whom one has never heard until by chance he meets them, and of whom their intimates speak as of immortals. to collasso's studio, samson was called one night by telephone. he had sometimes gone there before to sit for an hour, chiefly as a listener, while the man from sorrento bewailed fate with his coterie, and denounced all forms of government, over insipid chianti. sometimes, an equally melancholy friend in soiled linen and frayed clothes took up his violin, and, as he improvised, the noisy group would fall silent. at such moments, samson would ride out on the waves of melody, and see again the velvet softness of the mountain night, with stars hanging intimately close, and hear the ripple of misery and a voice for which he longed. but, to-night, he entered the door to find himself in the midst of a gay and boisterous party. the room was already thickly fogged with smoke, and a dozen men and women, singing snatches of current airs, were interesting themselves over a chafing dish. the studio of tony collasso was of fair size, and adorned with many unframed paintings, chiefly his own, and a few good tapestries and bits of bric-à-brac variously jettisoned from the sea of life in which he had drifted. the crowd itself was typical. a few very minor writers and artists, a model or two, and several women who had thinking parts in current broadway productions. at eleven o'clock the guests of honor arrived in a taxicab. they were mr. william farbish and miss winifred starr. having come, as they explained, direct from the theater where miss starr danced in the first row, they were in evening dress. samson mentally acknowledged, though, with instinctive disfavor for the pair, that both were, in a way, handsome. collasso drew him aside to whisper importantly: "make yourself agreeable to farbish. he is received in the most exclusive society, and is a connoisseur of art. he is a connoisseur in all things," added the italian, with a meaning glance at the girl. "farbish has lived everywhere," he ran on, "and, if he takes a fancy to you, he will put you up at the best clubs. i think i shall sell him a landscape." the girl was talking rapidly and loudly. she had at once taken the center of the room, and her laughter rang in free and egotistical peals above the other voices. "come," said the host, "i shall present you." the boy shook hands, gazing with his usual directness into the show -girl's large and deeply-penciled eyes. farbish, standing at one side with his hands in his pockets, looked on with an air of slightly bored detachment. his dress, his mannerisms, his bearing, were all those of the man who has overstudied his part. they were too perfect, too obviously rehearsed through years of social climbing, but that was a defect samson was not yet prepared to recognize. some one had naïvely complimented miss starr on the leopard-skin cloak she had just thrown from her shapely shoulders, and she turned promptly and vivaciously to the flatterer. "it is nice, isn't it?" she prattled. "it may look a little up-stage for a girl who hasn't got a line to read in the piece, but these days one must get the spot-light, or be a dead one. it reminds me of a little run-in i had with graddy--he's our stage-director, you know." she paused, awaiting the invitation to proceed, and, having received it, went gaily forward. "i was ten minutes late, one day, for rehearsal, and graddy came up with that sarcastic manner of his, and said: 'miss starr, i don't doubt you are a perfectly nice girl, and all that, but it rather gets my goat to figure out how, on a salary of fifteen dollars a week, you come to rehearsals in a million dollars' worth of clothes, riding in a limousine--_and_ ten minutes late!'" she broke off with the eager little expression of awaiting applause, and, having been satisfied, she added: "i was afraid that wasn't going to get a laugh, after all." she glanced inquiringly at samson, who had not smiled, and who stood looking puzzled. "a penny for your thoughts, mr. south, from down south," she challenged. "i guess i'm sort of like mr. graddy," said the boy, slowly. "i was just wondering how you do do it." he spoke with perfect seriousness, and, after a moment, the girl broke into a prolonged peal of laughter. "oh, you are delicious!" she exclaimed. "if i could do the _ingénue_ like that, believe me, i'd make some hit." she came over, and, laying a hand on each of the boy's shoulders, kissed him lightly on the cheek. "that's for a droll boy!" she said. "that's the best line i've heard pulled lately." farbish was smiling in quiet amusement. he tapped the mountaineer on the shoulder. "i've heard george lescott speak of you," he said, genially. "i've rather a fancy for being among the discoverers of men of talent. we must see more of each other." samson left the party early, and with a sense of disgust. it was, at the time of his departure, waxing more furious in its merriment. it seemed to him that nowhere among these people was a note of sincerity, and his thoughts went back to the parting at the stile, and the girl whose artlessness and courage were honest. several days later, samson was alone in lescott's studio. it was nearing twilight, and he had laid aside a volume of de maupassant, whose simple power had beguiled him. the door opened, and he saw the figure of a woman on the threshold. the boy rose somewhat shyly from his seat, and stood looking at her. she was as richly dressed as miss starr had been, but there was the same difference as between the colors of the sunset sky and the exaggerated daubs of collasso's landscape. she stood lithely straight, and her furs fell back from a throat as smooth and slenderly rounded as sally's. her cheeks were bright with the soft glow of perfect health, and her lips parted over teeth that were as sound and strong as they were decorative. this girl did not have to speak to give the boy the conviction that she was some one whom he must like. she stood at the door a moment, and then came forward with her hand outstretched. "this is mr. south, isn't it?" she asked, with a frank friendliness in her voice. "yes, ma'am, that's my name." "i'm adrienne lescott," said the girl. "i thought i'd find my brother here. i stopped by to drive him up-town." samson had hesitatingly taken the gloved hand, and its grasp was firm and strong despite its ridiculous smallness. "i reckon he'll be back presently." the boy was in doubt as to the proper procedure. this was lescott's studio, and he was not certain whether or not it lay in his province to invite lescott's sister to take possession of it. possibly, he ought to withdraw. his ideas of social usages were very vague. "then, i think i'll wait," announced the girl. she threw off her fur coat, and took a seat before the open grate. the chair was large, and swallowed her up. samson wanted to look at her, and was afraid that this would be impolite. he realized that he had seen no real ladies, except on the street, and now he had the opportunity. she was beautiful, and there was something about her willowy grace of attitude that made the soft and clinging lines of her gown fall about her in charming drapery effects. her small pumps and silk-stockinged ankles as she held them out toward the fire made him say to himself: "i reckon she never went barefoot in her life." "i'm glad of this chance to meet you, mr. south," said the girl with a smile that found its way to the boy's heart. after all, there was sincerity in "foreign" women. "george talks of you so much that i feel as if i'd known you all the while. don't you think i might claim friendship with george's friends?" samson had no answer. he wished to say something equally cordial, but the old instinct against effusiveness tied his tongue. "i owe right smart to george lescott," he told her, gravely. "that's not answering my question," she laughed. "do you consent to being friends with me?" "miss--" began the boy. then, realizing that in new york this form of address is hardly complete, he hastened to add: "miss lescott, i've been here over nine months now, and i'm just beginning to realize what a rube i am. i haven't no--" again, he broke off, and laughed at himself. "i mean, i haven't any idea of proper manners, and so i'm, as we would say down home, 'plumb skeered' of ladies." as he accused himself, samson was looking at her with unblinking directness; and she met his glance with eyes that twinkled. "mr. south," she said, "i know all about manners, and you know all about a hundred real things that i want to know. suppose we begin teaching each other?" samson's face lighted with the revolutionizing effect that a smile can bring only to features customarily solemn. "miss lescott," he said, "let's call that a trade--but you're gettin' all the worst of it. to start with, you might give me a lesson right now in how a feller ought to act, when he's talkin' to a lady--how i ought to act with you!" her laugh made the situation as easy as an old shoe. ten minutes later, lescott entered. "well," he said, with a smile, "shall i introduce you people, or have you already done it for yourselves?" "oh," adrienne assured him, "mr. south and i are old friends." as she left the room, she turned and added: "the second lesson had better be at my house. if i telephone you some day when we can have the school-room to ourselves, will you come up?" samson grinned, and forgot to be bashful as he replied: "i'll come a-kitin'!" chapter xviii early that year, the touch of autumn came to the air. often, returning at sundown from the afternoon life class, samson felt the lure of its melancholy sweetness, and paused on one of the washington square benches, with many vague things stirring in his mind. some of these things were as subtly intangible as the lazy sweetness that melted the façades of the walls into the soft colors of a dream city. he found himself loving the palisades of jersey, seen through a powdery glow at evening, and the red-gold glare of the setting sun on high-swung gilt signs. he felt with a throb of his pulses that he was in the bagdad of the new world, and that every skyscraper was a minaret from which the muezzin rang toward the mecca of his art. he felt with a stronger throb the surety of young, but quickening, abilities within himself. partly, it was the charm of indian summer, partly a sense of growing with the days, but, also, though he had not as yet realized that, it was the new friendship into which adrienne had admitted him, and the new experience of frank _camaraderie_ with a woman not as a member of an inferior sex, but as an equal companion of brain and soul. he had seen her often, and usually alone, because he shunned meetings with strangers. until his education had advanced further, he wished to avoid social embarrassments. he knew that she liked him, and realized that it was because he was a new and virile type, and for that reason a diversion --a sort of human novelty. she liked him, too, because it was rare for a man to offer her friendship without making love, and she was certain he would not make love. he liked her for the same many reasons that every one else did--because she was herself. of late, too, he had met a number of men at lescott's clubs. he was modestly surprised to find that, though his attitude on these occasions was always that of one sitting in the background, the men seemed to like him, and, when they said, "see you again," at parting, it was with the convincing manner of real friendliness. sometimes, even now, his language was ungrammatical, but so, for the matter of that, was theirs.... the great writer smiled with his slow, humorous lighting of the eyes as he observed to lescott: "we are licking our cub into shape, george, and the best of it is that, when he learns to dance ragtime to the organ, he isn't going to stop being a bear. he's a grizzly!" one wonderful afternoon in october, when the distances were mist-hung, and the skies very clear, samson sat across the table from adrienne lescott at a road-house on the sound. the sun had set through great cloud battalions massed against the west, and the horizon was fading into darkness through a haze like ash of roses. she had picked him up on the avenue, and taken him into her car for a short spin, but the afternoon had beguiled them, luring them on a little further, and still a little further. when they were a score of miles from manhattan, the car had suddenly broken down. it would, the chauffeur told them, be the matter of an hour to effect repairs, so the girl, explaining to the boy that this event gave the affair the aspect of adventure, turned and led the way, on foot, to the nearest road-house. "we will telephone that we shall be late, and then have dinner," she laughed. "and for me to have dinner with you alone, unchaperoned at a country inn, is by new york standards delightfully unconventional. it borders on wickedness." then, since their attitude toward each other was so friendly and innocent, they both laughed. they had dined under the trees of an old manor house, built a century ago, and now converted into an inn, and they had enjoyed themselves because it seemed to them pleasingly paradoxical that they should find in a place seemingly so shabby-genteel a _cuisine_ and service of such excellence. neither of them had ever been there before, and neither of them knew that the reputation of this establishment was in its own way wide--and unsavory. they had no way of knowing that, because of several thoroughly bruited scandals which had had origin here, it was a tabooed spot, except for persons who preferred a semi-shady retreat; and they passed over without suspicion the palpable surprise of the head waiter when they elected to occupy a table on the terrace instead of a _cabinet particulier_. but the repairs did not go as smoothly as the chauffeur had expected, and, when he had finished, he was hungry. so, eleven o'clock found them still chatting at their table on the lighted lawn. after awhile, they fell silent, and adrienne noticed that her companion's face had become deeply, almost painfully set, and that his gaze was tensely focused on herself. "what is it, mr. south?" she demanded. the young man began to speak, in a steady, self-accusing voice. "i was sitting here, looking at you," he said, bluntly. "i was thinking how fine you are in every way; how there is as much difference in the texture of men and women as there is in the texture of their clothes. from that automobile cap you wear to your slippers and stockings, you are clad in silk. from your brain to the tone of your voice, you are woven of human silk. i've learned lately that silk isn't weak, but strong. they make the best balloons of it." he paused and laughed, but his face again became sober. "i was thinking, too, of your mother. she must be sixty, but she's a young woman. her face is smooth and unwrinkled, and her heart is still in bloom. at that same age, george won't be much older than he is now." the compliment was so obviously not intended as compliment at all that the girl flushed with pleasure. "then," went on samson, his face slowly drawing with pain, "i was thinking of my own people. my mother was about forty when she died. she was an old woman. my father was forty-three. he was an old man. i was thinking how they withered under their drudgery--and of the monstrous injustice of it all." adrienne lescott nodded. her eyes were sweetly sympathetic. "it's the hardship of the conditions," she said, softly. "those conditions will change." "but that's not all i was thinking," went on the boy. "i was watching you lift your coffee-cup awhile ago. you did it unconsciously, but your movement was dainty and graceful, as though an artist had posed you. that takes generations, and, in my imagination, i saw my people sitting around an oil-cloth on a kitchen table, pouring coffee into their saucers." "'there are five and twenty ways "'of writing tribal lays,'" quoted the girl, smilingly, "'and every single one of them is right.'" "and a horrible thought came to me," continued samson. he took out his handkerchief, and mopped his forehead, then tossed back the long lock that fell over it. "i wondered"--he paused, and then went on with a set face--"i wondered if i were growing ashamed of my people." "if i thought that," said miss lescott, quietly, "i wouldn't have much use for you. but i know there's no danger." "if i thought there was," samson assured her, "i would go back there to misery, and shoot myself to death.... and, yet, the thought came to me." "i'm not afraid of your being a cad," she repeated. "and yet," he smiled, "i was trying to imagine you among my people. what was that rhyme you used to quote to me when you began to teach me manners?" she laughed, and fell into nonsense quotation, as she thrummed lightly on the table-cloth with her slim fingers. "'the goops they lick their fingers, "'the goops eat with their knives, "'they spill their broth on the table-cloth, "'and lead disgusting lives.'" "my people do all those things," announced samson, though he said it rather in a manner of challenge than apology, "except spilling their broth on the table-cloth.... there are no table-cloths. what would you do in such company?" "i," announced miss lescott, promptly, "should also lick my fingers." samson laughed, and looked up. a man had come out onto the verandah from the inside, and was approaching the table. he was immaculately groomed, and came forward with the deference of approaching a throne, yet as one accustomed to approaching thrones. his smile was that of pleased surprise. the mountaineer recognized farbish, and, with a quick hardening of the face, he recalled their last meeting. if farbish should presume to renew the acquaintanceship under these circumstances, samson meant to rise from his chair, and strike him in the face. george lescott's sister could not be subjected to such meetings. yet, it was a tribute to his advancement in good manners that he dreaded making a scene in her presence, and, as a warning, he met farbish's pleasant smile with a look of blank and studied lack of recognition. the circumstances out of which farbish might weave unpleasant gossip did not occur to samson. that they were together late in the evening, unchaperoned, at a road-house whose reputation was socially dubious, was a thing he did not realize. but farbish was keenly alive to the possibilities of the situation. he chose to construe the kentuckian's blank expression as annoyance at being discovered, a sentiment he could readily understand. adrienne lescott, following her companion's eyes, looked up, and to the boy's astonishment nodded to the new-comer, and called him by name. "mr. farbish," she laughed, with mock confusion and total innocence of the fact that her words might have meaning, "don't tell on us." "i never tell things, my dear lady," said the newcomer. "i have dwelt too long in conservatories to toss pebbles. i'm afraid, mr. south, you have forgotten me. i'm farbish, and i had the pleasure of meeting you" --he paused a moment, then with a pointed glance added--"at the manhattan club, was it not?" "it was not," said samson, promptly. farbish looked his surprise, but was resolved to see no offense, and, after a few moments of affable and, it must be acknowledged, witty conversation, withdrew to his own table. "where did you meet that man?" demanded samson, fiercely, when he and the girl were alone again. "oh, at any number of dinners and dances. his sort is tolerated for some reason." she paused, then, looking very directly at the kentuckian, inquired, "and where did you meet him?" "didn't you hear him say the manhattan club?" "yes, and i knew that he was lying." "yes, he was!" samson spoke, contemptuously. "never mind where it was. it was a place i got out of when i found out who were there." the chauffeur came to announce that the car was ready, and they went out. farbish watched them with a smile that had in it a trace of the sardonic. the career of farbish had been an interesting one in its own peculiar and unadmirable fashion. with no advantages of upbringing, he had nevertheless so cultivated the niceties of social usage that his one flaw was a too great perfection. he was letter-perfect where one to the manor born might have slurred some detail. he was witty, handsome in his saturnine way, and had powerful friends in the world of fashion and finance. that he rendered services to his plutocratic patrons, other than the repartee of his dinner talk, was a thing vaguely hinted in club gossip, and that these services were not to his credit had more than once been conjectured. when horton had begun his crusade against various abuses, he had cast a suspicious eye on all matters through which he could trace the trail of william farbish, and now, when farbish saw horton, he eyed him with an enigmatical expression, half-quizzical and half-malevolent. after adrienne and samson had disappeared, he rejoined his companion, a stout, middle-aged gentleman of florid complexion, whose cheviot cutaway and reposeful waistcoat covered a liberal embonpoint. farbish took his cigar from his lips, and studied its ascending smoke through lids half-closed and thoughtful. "singular," he mused; "very singular!" "what's singular?" impatiently demanded his companion. "finish, or don't start." "that mountaineer came up here as george lescott's protégé," went on farbish, reflectively. "he came fresh from the feud belt, and landed promptly in the police court. now, in less than a year, he's pairing off with adrienne lescott--who, every one supposed, meant to marry wilfred horton. this little party to-night is, to put it quite mildly, a bit unconventional." the stout gentleman said nothing, and the other questioned, musingly: "by the way, bradburn, has the kenmore shooting club requested wilfred horton's resignation yet?" "not yet. we are going to. he's not congenial, since his hand is raised against every man who owns more than two dollars." the speaker owned several million times that sum. this meeting at an out-of-the-way place had been arranged for the purpose of discussing ways and means of curbing wilfred's crusades. "well, don't do it." "why the devil shouldn't we? we don't want anarchists in the kenmore." after awhile, they sat silent, farbish smiling over the plot he had just devised, and the other man puffing with a puzzled expression at his cigar. "that's all there is to it," summarized mr. farbish, succinctly. "if we can get these two men, south and horton, together down there at the shooting lodge, under the proper conditions, they'll do the rest themselves, i think. i'll take care of south. now, it's up to you to have horton there at the same time." "how do you know these two men have not already met--and amicably?" demanded mr. bradburn. "i happen to know it, quite by chance. it is my business to know things--quite by chance!" chapter xix indian summer came again to misery, flaunting woodland banners of crimson and scarlet and orange, but to sally the season brought only heart-achy remembrances of last autumn, when samson had softened his stoicism as the haze had softened the horizon. he had sent her a few brief letters--not written, but plainly printed. he selected short words--as much like the primer as possible, for no other messages could she read. there were times in plenty when he wished to pour out to her torrents of feeling, and it was such feeling as would have carried comfort to her lonely little heart. he wished to tell frankly of what a good friend he had made, and how this friendship made him more able to realize that other feeling--his love for sally. there was in his mind no suspicion--as yet--that these two girls might ever stand in conflict as to right-of-way. but the letters he wished to write were not the sort he cared to have read to the girl by the evangelist-doctor or the district-school teacher, and alone she could have made nothing of them. however, "i love you" are easy words--and those he always included. the widow miller had been ailing for months, and, though the local physician diagnosed the condition as being "right porely," he knew that the specter of tuberculosis which stalks through these badly lighted and ventilated houses was stretching out its fingers to touch her shrunken chest. this had meant that sally had to forego the evening hours of study, because of the weariness that followed the day of nursing and household drudgery. autumn seemed to bring to her mother a slight improvement, and sally could again sometimes steal away with her slate and book, to sit alone on the big bowlder, and study. but, oftentimes, the print on the page, or the scrawl on the slate, became blurred. nowadays, the tears came weakly to her eyes, and, instead of hating herself for them and dashing them fiercely away, as she would have done a year ago, she sat listlessly, and gazed across the flaring hills. even the tuneful glory of the burgundy and scarlet mountains hurt her into wincing--for was it not the clarion of beauty that samson had heard--and in answer to which he had left her? so, she would sit, and let her eyes wander, and try to imagine the sort of picture those same very hungry eyes would see, could she rip away the curtain of purple distance, and look in on him--wherever he was. and, in imagining such a picture, she was hampered by no actual knowledge of the world in which he lived--it was all a fairy-tale world, one which her imagination shaped and colored fantastically. then, she would take out one of his occasional letters, and her face would grow somewhat rapt, as she spelled out the familiar, "i love you," which was to her the soul of the message. the rest was unimportant. she would not be able to write that christmas. letter. there had been too many interruptions in the self-imparted education, but some day she would write. there would probably be time enough. it would take even samson a long while to become an artist. he had said so, and the morbid mountain pride forbade that she should write at all until she could do it well enough to give him a complete surprise. it must be a finished article, that letter--or nothing at all! one day, as she was walking homeward from her lonely trysting place, she met the battered-looking man who carried medicines in his saddlebags and the scriptures in his pocket, and who practised both forms of healing through the hills. the old man drew down his nag, and threw one leg over the pommel. "evenin', sally," he greeted. "evenin', brother spencer. how air ye?" "tol'able, thank ye, sally." the body-and-soul mender studied the girl awhile in silence, and then said bluntly: "ye've done broke right smart, in the last year. anything the matter with ye?" she shook her head, and laughed. it was an effort to laugh merrily, but only the ghost of the old instinctive blitheness rippled into it. "i've jest come from old spicer south's," volunteered the doctor. "he's ailin' pretty consid'able, these days." "what's the matter with unc' spicer?" demanded the girl, in genuine anxiety. every one along misery called the old man unc' spicer. "i can't jest make out." her informer spoke slowly, and his brow corrugated into something like sullenness. "he hain't jest to say sick. thet is, his organs seems all right, but he don't 'pear to have no heart fer nothin', and his victuals don't tempt him none. he's jest puny, thet's all." "i'll go over thar, an' see him," announced the girl. "i'll cook a chicken thet'll tempt him." the physician's mind was working along some line which did not seem to partake of cheerfulness. again, he studied the girl, still upright and high-chinned, but, somehow, no longer effervescent with wild, resilient strength. "hit sometimes 'pears to me," he said, gruffly, "thet this here thing of eddication costs a sight more than hit comes to." "what d'ye mean, brother spencer?" "i reckon if samson south hadn't a-took this hyar hankerin' atter larnin', an' had stayed home 'stid of rainbow chasin', the old man would still be able-bodied, 'stid of dyin' of a broken heart--an' you----" the girl's cheeks flushed. her violet eyes became deep with a loyal and defensive glow. "ye mustn't say things like them, brother spencer." her voice was very firm and soft. "unc' spicer's jest gettin' old, an' es fer me, i wasn't never better ner happier in my life." it was a lie, but a splendid lie, and she told herself as well as brother spencer that she believed it. "samson would come back in a minit ef we sent fer him. he's smart, an' he's got a right ter l'arnin'! he hain't like us folks; he's a--" she paused, and groped for the word that lescott had added to her vocabulary, which she had half-forgotten. "he's a genius!" there rose to the lips of the itinerant preacher a sentiment as to how much more loyalty availeth a man than genius, but, as he looked at the slender and valiant figure standing in the deep dust of the road, he left it unuttered. the girl spent much time after that at the house of old spicer south, and her coming seemed to waken him into a fitful return of spirits. his strength, which had been like the strength of an ox, had gone from him, and he spent his hours sitting listlessly in a split-bottomed rocker, which was moved from place to place, following the sunshine. "i reckon, unc' spicer," suggested the girl, on one of her first visits, "i'd better send fer samson. mebby hit mout do ye good ter see him." the old man was weakly leaning back in his chair, and his eyes were vacantly listless; but, at the suggestion, he straightened, and the ancient fire came again to his face. "don't ye do hit," he exclaimed, almost fiercely. "i knows ye means hit kindly, sally, but don't ye meddle in my business." "i--i didn't 'low ter meddle," faltered the girl. "no, little gal." his voice softened at once into gentleness. "i knows ye didn't. i didn't mean ter be short-answered with ye neither, but thar's jest one thing i won't 'low nobody ter do--an' thet's ter send fer samson. he knows the road home, an', when he wants ter come, he'll find the door open, but we hain't a-goin' ter send atter him." the girl said nothing, and, after awhile, the old man wait on: "i wants ye ter understand me, sally. hit hain't that i'm mad with samson. god knows, i loves the boy.... i hain't a-blamin' him, neither...." he was silent for awhile, and his words came with the weariness of dead hopes when he began again. "mebby, i oughtn't ter talk about sech things with a young gal, but i'm an old man, an' thar hain't no harm in hit.... from the time when i used ter watch you two children go a-trapsin' off in the woods together atter hickory nuts, thar's been jest one thing thet i've looked forward to and dreamed about: i wanted ter see ye married. i 'lowed--" a mistiness quenched the sternness of his gray eyes. "i 'lowed thet, ef i could see yore children playin' round this here yard, everything thet's ever gone wrong would be paid fer." sally stood silently at his side, and her cheeks flushed as the tears crept into her eyes; but her hand stole through the thick mane of hair, fast turning from iron-gray to snow-white. spicer south watched the fattening hog that rubbed its bristling side against the rails stacked outside the fence, and then said, with an imperious tone that did not admit of misconstruction: "but, sally, the boy's done started out on his own row. he's got ter hoe hit. mebby he'll come back--mebby not! thet's as the lord wills. hit wouldn't do us no good fer him to come withouten he come willin'ly. the meanest thing ye could do ter me--an' him--would be ter send fer him. ye mustn't do hit. ye mustn't!" "all right, unc' spicer. i hain't a-goin' ter do hit--leastways, not yit. but i'm a-goin' ter come over hyar every day ter see ye." "ye can't come too often, sally, gal," declared the old clansman, heartily. * * * * * wilfred horton found himself that fall in the position of a man whose course lies through rapids, and for the first time in his life his pleasures were giving precedence to business. he knew that his efficiency would depend on maintaining the physical balance of perfect health and fitness, and early each morning he went for his gallop in the park. at so early an hour, he had the bridle path for the most part to himself. this had its compensations, for, though wilfred horton continued to smile with his old-time good humor, he acknowledged to himself that it was not pleasant to have men who had previously sought him out with flatteries avert their faces, and pretend that they had not seen him. horton was the most-hated and most-admired man in new york, but the men who hated and snubbed him were his own sort, and the men who admired him were those whom he would never meet, and who knew him only through the columns of penny papers. their sympathy was too remote to bring him explicit pleasure. he was merely attempting, from within, reforms which the public and the courts had attempted from without. but, since he operated from within the walls, he was denounced as a judas. powerful enemies had ceased to laugh, and begun to conspire. he must be silenced! how, was a mooted question. but, in some fashion, he must be silenced. society had not cast him out, but society had shown him in many subtle ways that he was no longer her favorite. he had taken a plebeian stand with the masses. meanwhile, from various sources, horton had received warnings of actual personal danger. but at these he had laughed, and no hint of them had reached adrienne's ears. one evening, when business had forced the postponement of a dinner engagement with miss lescott, he begged her over the telephone to ride with him the following morning. "i know you are usually asleep when i'm out and galloping," he laughed, "but you pitched me neck and crop into this hurly-burly, and i shouldn't have to lose everything. don't have your horse brought. i want you to try out a new one of mine." "i think," she answered, "that early morning is the best time to ride. i'll meet you at seven at the plaza entrance." they had turned the upper end of the reservoir before horton drew his mount to a walk, and allowed the reins to hang. they had been galloping hard, and conversation had been impracticable. "i suppose experience should have taught me," began horton, slowly, "that the most asinine thing in the world is to try to lecture you, drennie. but there are times when one must even risk your delight at one's discomfiture." "i'm not going to tease you this morning," she answered, docilely. "i like the horse too well--and, to be frank, i like you too well!" "thank you," smiled horton. "as usual, you disarm me on the verge of combat. i had nerved myself for ridicule." "what have i done now?" inquired the girl, with an innocence which further disarmed him. "the queen can do no wrong. but even the queen, perhaps more particularly the queen, must give thought to what people are saying." "what are people saying?" "the usual unjust things that are said about women in society. you are being constantly seen with an uncouth freak who is scarcely a gentleman, however much he may be a man. and malicious tongues are wagging." the girl stiffened. "i won't spar with you. i know that you are alluding to samson south, though the description is a slander. i never thought it would be necessary to say such a thing to you, wilfred, but you are talking like a cad." the young man flushed. "i laid myself open to that," he said, slowly, "and i suppose i should have expected it." he knew her well enough to dread the calmness of her more serious anger, and just now the tilt of her chin, the ominous light of her deep eyes and the quality of her voice told him that he had incurred it. "may i ask," adrienne inquired, "what you fancy constitutes your right to assume this censorship of my conduct?" "i have no censorship, of course. i have only the interest of loving you, and meaning to marry you." "and i may remark in passing, that you are making no progress to that end by slandering my friends." "adrienne, i'm not slandering. god knows i hate cads and snobs. mr. south is simply, as yet, uncivilized. otherwise, he would hardly take you, unchaperoned, to--well, let us say to ultra-bohemian resorts, where you are seen by such gossip-mongers as william farbish." "so, that's the specific charge, is it?" "yes, that's the specific charge. mr. south may be a man of unusual talent and strength. but--he has done what no other man has done--with you. he has caused club gossip, which may easily be twisted and misconstrued." "do you fancy that samson south could have taken me to the wigwam road- house if i had not cared to go with him?" the man shook his head. "certainly not! but the fact that you did care to go with him indicates an influence over you which is new. you have not sought the bohemian and unconventional phases of life with your other friends." adrienne glanced at the athletic figure riding at her side, just now rather rigid with restraint and indignation, as though his vertebrae were threaded on a ramrod, and her eyes darkened a little. "now, let it be thoroughly understood between us, wilfred," she said very quietly, "that if you see any danger in my unconventionalities, i don't care to discuss this, or any other matter, with you now or at any time." she paused, then added in a more friendly voice: "it would be rather a pity for us to quarrel about a thing like this." the young man was still looking into her eyes, and he read there an ultimatum. "god knows i was not questioning you," he replied, slowly. "there is no price under heaven i would not pay for your regard. none the less, i repeat that, at the present moment, i can see only two definitions for this mountaineer. either he is a bounder, or else he is so densely ignorant and churlish that he is unfit to associate with you." "i make no apologies for mr. south," she said, "because none are needed. he is a stranger in new york, who knows nothing, and cares nothing about the conventionalities. if i chose to waive them, i think it was my right and my responsibility." horton said nothing, and, in a moment, adrienne lescott's manner changed. she spoke more gently: "wilfred, i'm sorry you choose to take this prejudice against the boy. you could have done a great deal to help him. i wanted you to be friends." "thank you!" his manner was stiff. "i hardly think we'd hit it off together." "i don't think you quite understand," she argued. "samson south is running a clean, creditable race, weighted down with a burdensome handicap. as a straight-thinking sportsman, if for no better reason, i should fancy you'd be glad to help him. he has the stamina and endurance." "those," said horton, who at heart was the fairest and most generous of men, "are very admirable qualities. perhaps, i should be more enthusiastic, drennie, if you were a little less so." for the first time since the talk had so narrowly skirted a quarrel, her eyes twinkled. "i believe you are jealous!" she announced. "of course, i'm jealous," he replied, without evasion. "possibly, i might have saved time in the first place by avowing my jealousy. i hasten now to make amends. i'm green-eyed." she laid her gloved fingers lightly on his bridle hand. "don't be," she advised; "i'm not in love with him. if i were, it wouldn't matter. he has, "'a neater, sweeter maiden, "'in a greener, cleaner land.' "he's told me all about her." horton shook his head, dubiously. "i wish to the good lord, he'd go back to her," he said. "this platonic proposition is the doormat over-which two persons walk to other things. they end by wiping their feet on the platonic doormat." "we'll cross that--that imaginary doormat, when we get to it," laughed the girl. "meantime, you ought to help me with samson." "thank you, no! i won't help educate my successor. and i won't abdicate"--his manner of speech grew suddenly tense--"while i can fight for my foothold." "i haven't asked you to abdicate. this boy has been here less than a year. he came absolutely raw--" "and lit all spraddled out in the police court!" wilfred prompted. "and, in less than a year, he has made wonderful advancement; such advancement as he could not have made but for one thing." "which was--that you took him in hand." "no--which is, that he springs from stock that, despite its hundred years of lapse into illiteracy, is good stock. samson south was a gentleman, wilfred, two hundred years before he was born." "that," observed her companion, curtly, "was some time ago." she tossed her head, impatiently. "come," she said, "let's gallop." "no," protested wilfred, his face becoming penitent. "just a moment! i retract. it is i who am the cad. please, tell mr. south just what we have both said, and make my apologies if he'll accept them. of course, if you insist, i'll meet him. i suppose i'll have to meet him some day, anyhow. but, frankly, drennie, i hate the man. it will take a herculean effort to be decent to him. still, if you say so--" "no, wilfred," she declined, "if you can't do it willingly, i don't want you to do it at all. it doesn't matter in the least. let's drop the subject." chapter xx one afternoon, swinging along fifth avenue in his down-town walk, samson met mr. farbish, who fell into step with him, and began to make conversation. "by the way, south," he suggested after the commonplaces had been disposed of, "you'll pardon my little prevarication the other evening about having met you at the manhattan club?" "why was it necessary?" inquired samson, with a glance of disquieting directness. "possibly, it was not necessary, merely politic. of course," he laughed, "every man knows two kinds of women. it's just as well not to discuss the nectarines with the orchids, or the orchids with the nectarines." samson made no response. but farbish, meeting his eyes, felt as though he had been contemptuously rebuked. his own eyes clouded with an impulse of resentment. but it passed, as he remembered that his plans involved the necessity of winning this boy's confidence. an assumption of superior virtue, he thought, came rather illogically from samson, who had brought to the inn a young woman whom he should not have exposed to comment. he, himself, could afford to be diplomatic. accordingly, he laughed. "you mustn't take me too literally, south," he explained. "the life here has a tendency to make us cynical in our speech, even though we may be quite the reverse in our practices. in point of fact, i fancy we were both rather out of our element at collasso's studio." at the steps of a fifth avenue club, farbish halted. "won't you turn in here," he suggested, "and assuage your thirst?" samson declined, and walked on. but when, a day or two later, he dropped into the same club with george lescott, farbish joined them in the grill--without invitation. "by the way, lescott," said the interloper, with an easy assurance upon which the coolness of his reception had no seeming effect, "it won't be long now until ducks are flying south. will you get off for your customary shooting?" "i'm afraid not." lescott's voice became more cordial, as a man's will whose hobby has been touched. "there are several canvases to be finished for approaching exhibitions. i wish i could go. when the first cold winds begin to sweep down, i get the fever. the prospects are good, too, i understand." "the best in years! protection in the canadian breeding fields is bearing fruit. do you shoot ducks, mr. south?" the speaker included samson as though merely out of deference to his physical presence. samson shook his head. but he was listening eagerly. he, too, knew that note of the migratory "honk" from high overhead. "samson," said lescott slowly, as he caught the gleam in his friend's eyes, "you've been working too hard. you'll have to take a week off, and try your hand. after you've changed your method from rifle to shotgun, you'll bag your share, and you'll come back fitter for work. i must arrange it." "as to that," suggested farbish, in the manner of one regarding the civilities, "mr. south can run down to the kenmore. i'll have a card made out for him." "don't trouble," demurred lescott, coolly, "i can fix that up." "it would be a pleasure," smiled the other. "i sincerely wish i could be there at the same time, but i'm afraid that, like you, lescott, i shall have to give business the right of way. however, when i hear that the flights are beginning, i'll call mr. south up, and pass the news to him." samson had thought it rather singular that he had never met horton at the lescott house, though adrienne spoke of him almost as of a member of the family. however, samson's visits were usually in his intervals between relays of work and horton was probably at such times in wall street. it did not occur to the mountaineer that the other was intentionally avoiding him. he knew of wilfred only through adrienne's eulogistic descriptions, and, from hearsay, liked him. the months of close application to easel and books had begun to tell on the outdoor man in a softening of muscles and a slight, though noticeable, pallor. the enthusiasm with which he attacked his daily schedule carried him far, and made his progress phenomenal, but he was spending capital of nerve and health, and george lescott began to fear a break-down for his protégé. lescott did not want to advise a visit to the mountains, because he had secured from the boy a promise that, unless he was called home, he would give the experiment an unbroken trial of eighteen months. if samson went back, he feared his return would reawaken the sleeping volcano of the feud--and he could not easily come away again. he discussed the matter with adrienne, and the girl began to promote in the boy an interest in the duck-shooting trip--an interest which had already awakened, despite the rifleman's inherent contempt for shotguns. "you will be in your blind," she enthusiastically told him, "before daybreak, and after a while the wedges will come flying into view, cutting the fog in hundreds and dropping into the decoys. you'll love it! i wish i were going myself." "do you shoot?" he asked, in some surprise. she nodded, and added modestly; "but i don't kill many ducks." "is there anything you can't do?" he questioned in admiration, then demanded, with the touch of homesickness in his voice, "are there any mountains down there?" "i'm afraid we can't provide any mountains," laughed adrienne. "just salt marshes--and beyond them, the sea. but there's moonshine--of the natural variety--and a tonic in the wind that buffets you." "i reckon i'd like it, all right," he said, "and i'll bring you back some ducks, if i'm lucky." so, lescott arranged the outfit, and samson awaited the news of the coming flights. that same evening, farbish dropped into the studio, explaining that he had been buying a picture at collasso's, and had taken the opportunity to stop by and hand samson a visitor's card to the kenmore club. he found the ground of interest fallow, and artfully sowed it with well-chosen anecdotes calculated to stimulate enthusiasm. on leaving the studio, he paused to say: "i'll let you know when conditions are just right." then, he added, as though in afterthought: "and i'll arrange so that you won't run up on wilfred horton." "what's the matter with wilfred horton?" demanded samson, a shade curtly. "nothing at all," replied farbish, with entire gravity. "personally, i like horton immensely. i simply thought you might find things more congenial when he wasn't among those present." samson was puzzled, but he did not fancy hearing from this man's lips criticisms upon friends of his friends. "well, i reckon," he said, coolly, "i'd like him, too." "i beg your pardon," said the other. "i supposed you knew, or i shouldn't have broached the topic." "knew what?" "you must excuse me," demurred the visitor with dignity. "i shouldn't have mentioned the subject. i seem to have said too much." "see here, mr. farbish," samson spoke quietly, but imperatively; "if you know any reason why i shouldn't meet mr. wilfred horton, i want you to tell me what it is. he is a friend of my friends. you say you've said too much. i reckon you've either said too much, or too little." then, very insidiously and artistically, seeming all the while reluctant and apologetic, the visitor proceeded to plant in samson's mind an exaggerated and untrue picture of horton's contempt for him and of horton's resentment at the favor shown him by the lescotts. samson heard him out with a face enigmatically set, and his voice was soft, as he said simply at the end: "i'm obliged to you." farbish had hoped for more stress of feeling, but, as he walked home, he told himself that the sphinx-like features had been a mask, and that, when these two met, their coming together held potentially for a clash. he was judge enough of character to know that samson's morbid pride would seal his lips as to the interview--until he met horton. in point of fact, samson was at first only deeply wounded. that through her kindness to him adrienne was having to fight his battles with a close friend he had never suspected. then, slowly, a bitterness began to rankle, quite distinct from the hurt to his sensitiveness. his birthright of suspicion and tendency to foster hatreds had gradually been falling asleep under the disarming kindness of these persons. now, they began to stir in him again vaguely, but forcibly, and to trouble him. samson did not appear at the lescott house for two weeks after that. he had begun to think that, if his going there gave embarrassment to the girl who had been kind to him, it were better to remain away. "i don't belong here," he told himself, bitterly. "i reckon everybody that knows me in new york, except the lescotts, is laughing at me behind my back." he worked fiercely, and threw into his work such fire and energy that it came out again converted into a boldness of stroke and an almost savage vigor of drawing. the instructor nodded his head over the easel, and passed on to the next student without having left the defacing mark of his relentless crayon. to the next pupil, he said: "watch the way that man south draws. he's not clever. he's elementally sincere, and, if he goes on, the first thing you know he will be a portrait painter. he won't merely draw eyes and lips and noses, but character and virtues and vices showing out through them." and samson met every gaze with smoldering savagery, searching for some one who might be laughing at him openly, or even covertly; instead of behind his back. the long-suffering fighting lust in him craved opportunity to break out and relieve the pressure on his soul. but no one laughed. one afternoon late in november, a hint of blizzards swept snarling down the atlantic seaboard from the polar floes, with wet flurries of snow and rain. off on the marshes where the kenmore club had its lodge, the live decoys stretched their clipped wings, and raised their green necks restively into the salt wind, and listened. with dawn, they had heard, faint and far away, the first notes of that wild chorus with which the skies would ring until the southerly migrations ended--the horizon-distant honking of high-flying water fowl. then it was that farbish dropped in with marching orders, and samson, yearning to be away where there were open skies, packed george lescott's borrowed paraphernalia, and prepared to leave that same night. while he was packing, the telephone rang, and samson heard adrienne's voice at the other end of the wire. "where have you been hiding?" she demanded. "i'll have to send a truant officer after you." "i've been very busy," said the man, "and i reckon, after all, you can't civilize a wolf. i'm afraid i've been wasting your time." possibly, the miserable tone of the voice told the girl more than the words. "you are having a season with the blue devils," she announced. "you've been cooped up too much. this wind ought to bring the ducks, and----" "i'm leaving to-night," samson told her. "it would have been very nice of you to have run up to say good-bye," she reproved. "but i'll forgive you, if you call me up by long distance. you will get there early in the morning. to-morrow, i'm going to philadelphia over night. the next night, i shall be at the theater. call me up after the theater, and tell me how you like it." it was the same old frankness and friendliness of voice, and the same old note like the music of a reed instrument. samson felt so comforted and reassured that he laughed through the telephone. "i've been keeping away from you," he volunteered, "because i've had a relapse into savagery, and haven't been fit to talk to you. when i get back, i'm coming up to explain. and, in the meantime, i'll telephone." on the train samson was surprised to discover that, after all, he had mr. william farbish for a traveling companion. that gentleman explained that he had found an opportunity to play truant from business for a day or two, and wished to see samson comfortably ensconced and introduced. the first day farbish and samson had the place to themselves, but the next morning would bring others. samson's ideas of a millionaires' shooting-box had been vague, but he had looked forward to getting into the wilds. the marshes were certainly desolate enough, and the pine woods through which the buckboard brought them. but, inside the club itself, the kentuckian found himself in such luxurious comfort as he could not, in his own mind, reconcile with the idea of "going hunting." he would be glad when the cushioned chairs of the raftered lounging- room and the tinkle of high-ball ice and gossip were exchanged for the salt air and the blinds. chapter xxi but, when he went out for his initiation, in the raw blackness before daybreak, and lay in the blind, with only his guide for a companion, he felt far away from artificial luxuries. the first pale streamers of dawn soon streaked the east, and the wind charged cuttingly like drawn sabers of galloping cavalry. the wooden decoys had been anchored with the live ducks swimming among them, and the world began to awake. he drew a long breath of contentment, and waited. then came the trailing of gray and blue and green mists, and, following the finger of the silent boatman, he made out in the northern sky a slender wedge of black dots, against the spreading rosiness of the horizon. soon after, he heard the clear clangor of throats high in the sky, answered by the nearer honking of the live decoys, and he felt a throbbing of his pulses as he huddled low against the damp bottom of the blind and waited. the lines and wedges grew until the sky was stippled with them, and their strong-throated cries were a strident music. for a time, they passed in seeming thousands, growing from scarcely visible dots into speeding shapes with slender outstretched necks and bills, pointed like reversed compass needles to the south. as yet, they were all flying high, ignoring with lordly indifference the clamor of their renegade brothers, who shrieked to them through the morning mists to drop down, and feed on death. but, as the day grew older, samson heard the popping of guns off to the side, where other gunners lay in other blinds, and presently a drake veered from his line of flight, far off to the right, harkened to the voice of temptation, and led his flock circling toward the blind. then, with a whir and drumming of dark-tipped wings, they came down, and struck the water, and the boy from misery rose up, shooting as he came. he heard the popping of his guide's gun at his side, and saw the dead and crippled birds falling about him, amid the noisy clamor of their started flight. that day, while the mountaineer was out on the flats, the party of men at the club had been swelled to a total of six, for in pursuance of the carefully arranged plans of mr. farbish, mr. bradburn had succeeded in inducing wilfred horton to run down for a day or two of the sport he loved. to outward seeming, the trip which the two men had made together had been quite casual, and the outgrowth of coincidence; yet, in point of fact, not only the drive from baltimore in horton's car, but the conversation by the way had been in pursuance of a plan, and the result was that, when horton arrived that afternoon, he found his usually even temper ruffled by bits of maliciously broached gossip, until his resentment against samson south had been fanned into danger heat. he did not know that south also was at the club, and he did not that afternoon go out to the blinds, but so far departed from his usual custom as to permit himself to sit for hours in the club grill. and yet, as is often the case in carefully designed affairs, the one element that made most powerfully for the success of farbish's scheme was pure accident. the carefully arranged meeting between the two men, the adroitly incited passions of each, would still have brought no clash, had not wilfred horton been affected by the flushing effect of alcohol. since his college days, he had been invariably abstemious. to-night marked an exception. he was rather surprised at the cordiality of the welcome accorded him, for, as chance would have it, except for samson south, whom he had not yet seen, all the other sportsmen were men closely allied to the political and financial elements upon which he had been making war. still, since they seemed willing to forget for the time that there had been a breach, he was equally so. just now, he was feeling such bitterness for the kentuckian that the foes of a less-personal sort seemed unimportant. in point of fact, wilfred horton had spent a very bad day. the final straw had broken the back of his usually unruffled temper, when he had found in his room on reaching the kenmore a copy of a certain new york weekly paper, and had read a page, which chanced to be lying face up (a chance carefully prearranged). it was an item of which farbish had known, in advance of publication, but wilfred would never have seen that sheet, had it not been so carefully brought to his attention. there were hints of the strange infatuation which a certain young woman seemed to entertain for a partially civilized stranger who had made his entrée to new york _via_ the police court, and who wore his hair long in imitation of a biblical character of the same name. the supper at the wigwam inn was mentioned, and the character of the place intimated. horton felt this objectionable innuendo was directly traceable to adrienne's ill-judged friendship for the mountaineer, and he bitterly blamed the mountaineer. and, while he had been brooding on these matters, a man acting as farbish's ambassador had dropped into his room, since farbish himself knew that horton would not listen to his confidences. the delegated spokesman warned wilfred that samson south had spoken pointedly of him, and advised cautious conduct, in a fashion calculated to inflame. samson, it was falsely alleged, had accused him of saying derogatory things in his absence, which he would hardly venture to repeat in his presence. in short, it was put up to horton to announce his opinion openly, or eat the crow of cowardice. that evening, when samson went to his room, farbish joined him. "i've been greatly annoyed to find," he said, seating himself on samson's bed, "that horton arrived to-day." "i reckon that's all right," said samson. "he's a member, isn't he?" farbish appeared dubious. "i don't want to appear in the guise of a prophet of trouble," he said, "but you are my guest here, and i must warn you. horton thinks of you as a 'gun-fighter' and a dangerous man. he won't take chances with you. if there is a clash, it will be serious. he doesn't often drink, but to-day he's doing it, and may be ugly. avoid an altercation if you can, but if it comes--" he broke off and added seriously: "you will have to get him, or he will get you. are you armed?" the kentuckian laughed. "i reckon i don't need to be armed amongst gentlemen." farbish drew from his pocket a magazine pistol. "it won't hurt you to slip that into your clothes," he insisted. for an instant, the mountaineer stood looking at his host and with eyes that bored deep, but whatever was in his mind as he made that scrutiny he kept to himself. at last, he took the magazine pistol, turned it over in his hand, and put it into his pocket. "mr. farbish," he said, "i've been in places before now where men were drinking who had made threats against me. i think you are excited about this thing. if anything starts, he will start it." at the dinner table, samson south and wilfred horton were introduced, and acknowledged their introductions with the briefest and most formal of nods. during the course of the meal, though seated side by side, each ignored the presence of the other. samson was, perhaps, no more silent than usual. always, he was the listener except when a question was put to him direct, but the silence which sat upon wilfred horton was a departure from his ordinary custom. he had discovered in his college days that liquor, instead of exhilarating him, was an influence under which he grew morose and sullen, and that discovery had made him almost a total abstainer. to-night, his glass was constantly filled and emptied, and, as he ate, he gazed ahead, and thought resentfully of the man at his side. when the coffee had been brought, and the cigars lighted, and the servants had withdrawn, horton, with the manner of one who had been awaiting an opportunity, turned slightly in his chair, and gazed insolently at the kentuckian. samson south still seemed entirely unconscious of the other's existence, though in reality no detail of the brewing storm had escaped him. he was studying the other faces around the table, and what he saw in them appeared to occupy him. wilfred horton's cheeks were burning with a dull flush, and his eyes were narrowing with an unveiled dislike. suddenly, a silence fell on the party, and, as the men sat puffing their cigars, horton turned toward the kentuckian. for a moment, he glared in silence, then with an impetuous exclamation of disgust he announced: "see here, south, i want you to know that if i'd understood you were to be here, i wouldn't have come. it has pleased me to express my opinion of you to a number of people, and now i mean to express it to you in person." samson looked around, and his features indicated neither surprise nor interest. he caught farbish's eye at the same instant, and, though the plotter said nothing, the glance was subtle and expressive. it seemed to prompt and goad him on, as though the man had said: "you mustn't stand that. go after him." "i reckon"--samson's voice was a pleasant drawl--"it doesn't make any particular difference, mr. horton." "even if what i said didn't happen to be particularly commendatory?" inquired horton, his eyes narrowing. "so long," replied the kentuckian, "as what you said was your own opinion, i don't reckon it would interest me much." "in point of fact"---horton was gazing with steady hostility into samson's eyes--"i prefer to tell you. i have rather generally expressed the belief that you are a damned savage, unfit for decent society." samson's face grew rigid and a trifle pale. his mouth set itself in a straight line, but, as wilfred horton came to his feet with the last words, the mountaineer remained seated. "and," went on the new yorker, flushing with suddenly augmenting passion, "what i said i still believe to be true, and repeat in your presence. at another time and place, i shall be even more explicit. i shall ask you to explain--certain things." "mr. horton," suggested samson in an ominously quiet voice, "i reckon you're a little drunk. if i were you, i'd sit down." wilfred's face went from red to white, and his shoulders stiffened. he leaned forward, and for the instant no one moved. the tick of a hall clock was plainly audible. "south," he said, his breath coming in labored excitement, "defend yourself!" samson still sat motionless. "against what?" he inquired. "against that!" horton struck the mountain man across the face with his open hand. instantly, there was a commotion of scraping chairs and shuffling feet, mingled with a chorus of inarticulate protest. samson had risen, and, for a second, his face had become a thing of unspeakable passion. his hand instinctively swept toward his pocket-- and stopped half-way. he stood by his overturned chair, gazing into the eyes of his assailant, with an effort at self-mastery which gave his chest and arms the appearance of a man writhing and stiffening under electrocution. then, he forced both hands to his back and gripped them there. for a moment, the tableau was held, then the man from the mountains began speaking, slowly and in a tone of dead-level monotony. each syllable was portentously distinct and clear clipped. "maybe you know why i don't kill you.... maybe you don't.... i don't give a damn whether you do or not.... that's the first blow i've ever passed.... i ain't going to hit back.... you need a friend pretty bad just now.... for certain reasons, i'm going to be that friend.... don't you see that this thing is a damned frame-up? ... don't you see that i was brought here to murder you?" he turned suddenly to farbish. "why did you insist on my putting that in my pocket"--samson took out the pistol, and threw it down on the table-cloth in front of wilfred, where it struck and shivered a half-filled wine-glass--"and why did you warn me that this man meant to kill me, unless i killed him first? i was meant to be your catspaw to put wilfred horton out of your way. i may be a barbarian and a savage, but i can smell a rat--if it's dead enough!" for an instant, there was absolute and hushed calm. wilfred horton picked up the discarded weapon and looked at it in bewildered stupefaction, then slowly his face flamed with distressing mortification. "any time you want to fight me"--samson had turned again to face him, and was still talking in his deadly quiet voice--"except to-night, you can find me. i've never been hit before without hitting back. that blow has got to be paid for--but the man that's really responsible has got to pay first. when i fight you, i'll fight for myself, not for a bunch of damned murderers.... just now, i've got other business. that man framed this up!" he pointed a lean finger across the table into the startled countenance of mr. farbish. "he knew! he has been working on this job for a month. i'm going to attend to his case now." as samson started toward farbish, the conspirator rose, and, with an excellent counterfeit of insulted virtue, pushed back his chair. "by god," he indignantly exclaimed, "you mustn't try to embroil me in your quarrels. you must apologize. you are talking wildly, south." "am i?" questioned the kentuckian, quietly; "i'm going to act wildly in a minute." he halted a short distance from farbish, and drew from his pocket a crumpled scrap of the offending magazine page: the item that had offended horton. "i may not have good manners, mister farbish, but where i come from we know how to handle varmints." he dropped his voice and added for the plotter's ear only: "here's a little matter on the side that concerns only us. it wouldn't interest these other gentlemen." he opened his hand, and added: "here, _eat_ that!" farbish, with a frightened glance at the set face of the man who was advancing upon him, leaped back, and drew from his pocket a pistol--it was an exact counterpart of the one with which he had supplied samson. with a panther-like swiftness, the kentuckian leaped forward, and struck up the weapon, which spat one ineffective bullet into the rafters. there was a momentary scuffle of swaying bodies and a crash under which the table groaned amid the shattering of glass and china. then, slowly, the conspirator's body bent back at the waist, until its shoulders were stretched on the disarranged cloth, and the white face, with purple veins swelling on the forehead, stared up between two brown hands that gripped its throat. "swallow that!" ordered the mountaineer. for just an instant, the company stood dumfounded, then a strained, unnatural voice broke the silence. "stop him, he's going to kill the man!" the odds were four to two, and with a sudden rally to the support of their chief plotter, the other conspirators rushed the figure that stood throttling his victim. but samson south was in his element. the dammed-up wrath that had been smoldering during these last days was having a tempestuous outlet. he had found men who, in a gentlemen's club to which he had come as a guest, sought to use him as a catspaw and murderer. they had planned to utilize the characteristics upon which they relied in himself. they had thought that, if once angered, he would relapse into the feudist, and forget that his surroundings were those of gentility and civilization. very well, he would oblige them, but not as a blind dupe. he would be as elementally primitive as they had pictured him, but the victims of his savagery should be of his own choosing. before his eyes swam a red mist of wrath. once before, as a boy, he had seen things as through a fog of blood. it was the day when the factions met at hixon, and he had carried the gun of his father for the first time into action. the only way his eyes could be cleared of that fiery haze was that they should first see men falling. as they assaulted him, _en masse_, he seized a chair, and swung it flail-like about his head. for a few moments, there was a crashing of glass and china, and a clatter of furniture and a chaos of struggle. at its center, he stood wielding his impromptu weapon, and, when two of his assailants had fallen under its sweeping blows, and farbish stood weakly supporting himself against the table and gasping for the breath which had been choked out of him, the mountaineer hurled aside his chair, and plunged for the sole remaining man. they closed in a clinch. the last antagonist was a boxer, and when he saw the kentuckian advance toward him empty-handed, he smiled and accepted the gauge of battle. in weight and reach and practice, he knew that he had the advantage, and, now that it was man to man, he realized that there was no danger of interference from horton. but samson knew nothing of boxing. he had learned his fighting tactics in the rough-and-tumble school of the mountains; the school of "fist and skull," of fighting with hands and head and teeth, and as the easterner squared off he found himself caught in a flying tackle and went to the floor locked in an embrace that carried down with it chairs and furniture. as he struggled and rolled, pitting his gymnasium training against the unaccustomed assault of cyclonic fury, he felt the strong fingers of two hands close about his throat and lost consciousness. samson south rose, and stood for a moment panting in a scene of wreckage and disorder. the table was littered with shivered glasses and decanters and chinaware. the furniture was scattered and overturned. farbish was weakly leaning to one side in the seat to which he had made his way. the men who had gone down under the heavy blows of the chair lay quietly where they had fallen. wilfred horton stood waiting. the whole affair had transpired with such celerity and speed that he had hardly understood it, and had taken no part. but, as he met the gaze of the disordered figure across the wreckage of a dinner-table, he realized that now, with the preliminaries settled, he who had struck samson in the face must give satisfaction for the blow. horton was sober, as cold sober as though he had jumped into ice-water, and though he was not in the least afraid, he was mortified, and, had apology at such a time been possible, would have made it. he knew that he had misjudged his man; he saw the outlines of the plot as plainly as samson had seen them, though more tardily. samson's toe touched the pistol which had dropped from farbish's hand and he contemptuously kicked it to one side. he came back to his place. "now, mr. horton," he said to the man who stood looking about with a dazed expression, "if you're still of the same mind, i can accommodate you. you lied when you said i was a savage--though just now it sort of looks like i was, and"--he paused, then added--"and i'm ready either to fight or shake hands. either way suits me." for the moment, horton did not speak, and samson slowly went on: "but, whether we fight or not, you've got to shake hands with me when we're finished. you and me ain't going to start a feud. this is the first time i've ever refused to let a man be my enemy if he wanted to. i've got my own reasons. i'm going to make you shake hands with me whether you like it or not, but if you want to fight first it's satisfactory. you said awhile ago you would be glad to be more explicit with me when we were alone--" he paused and looked about the room. "shall i throw these damned murderers out of here, or will you go into another room and talk?" "leave them where they are," said horton, quietly. "we'll go into the reading-room. have you killed any of them?" "i don't know," said the other, curtly, "and i don't care." when they were alone, samson went on: "i know what you want to ask me about, and i don't mean to answer you. you want to question me about miss lescott. whatever she and i have done doesn't concern you, i will say this much: if i've been ignorant of new york ways, and my ignorance has embarrassed her, i'm sorry. "i suppose you know that she's too damned good for you--just like she's too good for me. but she thinks more of you than she does of me--and she's yours. as for me, i have nothing to apologize to you for. maybe, i have something to ask her pardon about, but she hasn't asked it. "george lescott brought me up here, and befriended me. until a year ago, i had never known any life except that of the cumberland mountains. until i met miss lescott, i had never known a woman of your world. she was good to me. she saw that in spite of my roughness and ignorance i wanted to learn, and she taught me. you chose to misunderstand, and dislike me. these men saw that, and believed that, if they could make you insult me, they could make me kill you. as to your part, they succeeded. i didn't see fit to oblige them, but, now that i've settled with them, i'm willing to give you satisfaction. do we fight now, and shake hands afterward, or do we shake hands without fighting?" horton stood silently studying the mountaineer. "good god!" he exclaimed at last. "and you are the man i undertook to criticize!" "you ain't answered my question," suggested samson south. "south, if you are willing to shake hands with me, i shall be grateful. i may as well admit that, if you had thrashed me before that crowd, you could hardly have succeeded in making me feel smaller. i have played into their hands. i have been a damned fool. i have riddled my own self-respect--and, if you can afford to accept my apologies and my hand, i am offering you both." "i'm right glad to hear that," said the mountain boy, gravely. "i told you i'd just as lief shake hand as fight.... but just now i've got to go to the telephone." the booth was in the same room, and, as horton waited, he recognized the number for which samson was calling. wilfred's face once more flushed with the old prejudice. could it be that samson meant to tell adrienne lescott what had transpired? was he, after all, the braggart who boasted of his fights? and, if not, was it samson's custom to call her up every evening for a good-night message? he turned and went into the hall, but, after a few minutes, returned. "i'm glad you liked the show...." the mountaineer was saying. "no, nothing special is happening here--except that the ducks are plentiful.... yes, i like it fine.... mr. horton's here. wait a minute --i guess maybe he'd like to talk to you." the kentuckian beckoned to horton, and, as he surrendered the receiver, left the room. he was thinking with a smile of the unconscious humor with which the girl's voice had just come across the wire: "i knew that, if you two met each other, you would become friends." "i reckon," said samson, ruefully, when horton joined him, "we'd better look around, and see how bad those fellows are hurt in there. they may need a doctor." and the two went back to find several startled servants assisting to their beds the disabled combatants, and the next morning their inquiries elicited the information that the gentlemen were all "able to be about, but were breakfasting in their rooms." such as looked from their windows that morning saw an unexpected climax, when the car of mr. wilfred horton drove away from the club carrying the man whom they had hoped to see killed, and the man they had hoped to see kill him. the two appeared to be in excellent spirits and thoroughly congenial, as the car rolled out of sight, and the gentlemen who were left behind decided that, in view of the circumstances, the "extraordinary spree" of last night had best go unadvertised into ancient history. chapter xxii the second year of a new order brings fewer radical changes than the first. samson's work began to forge out of the ranks of the ordinary, and to show symptoms of a quality which would some day give it distinction. heretofore, his instructors had held him rigidly to the limitations of black and white, but now they took off the bonds, and permitted him the colorful delight of attempting to express himself from the palette. it was like permitting a natural poet to leave prose, and play with prosody. sometimes, when his thoughts went back to the life he had left, it seemed immensely far away, as though it were really the life of another incarnation, and old ideas that had seemed axiomatic to his boyhood stood before him in the guise of strangers: strangers tattered and vagabond. he wondered if, after all, the new gods were sapping his loyalty. at such times, he would for days keep morosely to himself, picturing the death-bed of his father, and seeming to hear a small boy's voice making a promise. sometimes, that promise seemed monstrous, in the light of his later experience. but it was a promise--and no man can rise in his own esteem by treading on his vows. in these somber moods, there would appear at the edges of his drawing-paper terrible, vividly graphic little heads, not drawn from any present model. they were sketched in a few ferociously powerful strokes, and always showed the same malevolent visage--a face black with murder and hate-endowed, the countenance of jim asberry. sometimes would come a wild, heart- tearing longing for the old places. he wanted to hear the frogs boom, and to see the moon spill a shower of silver over the ragged shoulder of the mountain. he wanted to cross a certain stile, and set out for a certain cabin where a certain girl would be. he told himself that he was still loyal, that above all else he loved his people. when he saw these women, whose youth and beauty lasted long into life, whose manners and clothes spoke of ease and wealth and refinement, he saw sally again as he had left her, hugging his "rifle-gun" to her breast, and he felt that the only thing he wanted utterly was to take her in his arms. yes, he would return to sally, and to his people--some day. the some day he did not fix. he told himself that the hills were only thirty hours away, and therefore he could go any time--which is the other name for no time. he had promised lescott to remain here for eighteen months, and, when that interval ended, he seemed just on the verge of grasping his work properly. he assured himself often and solemnly that his creed was unchanged; his loyalty untainted; and the fact that it was necessary to tell himself proved that he was being weaned from his traditions. and so, though he often longed for home, he did not return. and then reason would rise up and confound him. could he paint pictures in the mountains? if he did, what would he do with them? if he went back to that hermit life, would he not vindicate his uncle's prophecy that he had merely unplaced himself? and, if he went back and discharged his promise, and then returned again to the new fascination, could he bring sally with him into this life--sally, whom he had scornfully told that a "gal didn't need no l'arnin'?" and the answer to all these questions was only that there was no answer. one day, adrienne looked up from a sheaf of his very creditable landscape studies to inquire suddenly: "samson, are you a rich man, or a poor one?" he laughed. "so rich," he told her, "that unless i can turn some of this stuff into money within a year or two, i shall have to go back to hoeing corn." she nodded gravely. "hasn't it occurred to you," she demanded, "that in a way you are wasting your gifts? they were talking about you the other evening --several painters. they all said that you should be doing portraits." the kentuckian smiled. his masters had been telling him the same thing. he had fallen in love with art through the appeal of the skies and hills. he had followed its call at the proselyting of george lescott, who painted only landscape. portraiture seemed a less-artistic form of expression. he said so. "that may all be very true," she conceded, "but you can go on with your landscapes, and let your portraits pay the way. with your entrée, you could soon have a very enviable _clientèle_." "'so she showed me the way, to promotion and pay, and i learned about women from her,'" quoted samson with a laugh. "and," she added, "since i am very vain and moderately rich, i hereby commission you to paint me, just as soon as you learn how." farbish had simply dropped out. bit by bit, the truth of the conspiracy had leaked, and he knew that his usefulness was ended, and that well-lined pocketbooks would no longer open to his profligate demands. the bravo and plotter whose measure has been taken is a broken reed. farbish made no farewells. he had come from nowhere and his going was like his coming. * * * * * sally had started to school. she had not announced that she meant to do so, but each day the people of misery saw her old sorrel mare making its way to and from the general direction of stagbone college, and they smiled. no one knew how sally's cheeks flamed as she sat alone on saturdays and sundays on the rock at the backbone's rift. she was taking her place, morbidly sensitive and a woman of eighteen, among little spindle-shanked girls in short skirts, and the little girls were more advanced than she. but she, too, meant to have "l'arnin'"--as much of it as was necessary to satisfy the lover who might never come. it must be admitted that learning for its own sake did not make a clarion- tongued appeal to the girl's soul. had samson been satisfied with her untutored, she would have been content to remain untutored. he had said that these things were of no importance in her, but that was before he had gone forth into the world. if, she naïvely told herself, he should come back of that same opinion, she would never "let on" that she had learned things. she would toss overboard her acquirements as ruthlessly as useless ballast from an over-encumbered boat. but, if samson came demanding these attainments, he must find her possessed of them. so far, her idea of "l'arnin'" embraced the three r's only. and, yet, the "fotched-on" teachers at the "college" thought her the most voraciously ambitious pupil they had ever had, so unflaggingly did she toil, and the most remarkably acquisitive, so fast did she learn. but her studies had again been interrupted, and miss grover, her teacher, riding over one day to find out why her prize scholar had deserted, met in the road an empty "jolt-wagon," followed by a ragged cortège of mounted men and women, whose faces were still lugubrious with the effort of recent mourning. her questions elicited the information that they were returning from the "buryin'" of the widow miller. sally was not in the procession, and the teacher, riding on, found her lying face down among the briars of the desolate meeting-house yard, her small body convulsively heaving with her weeping, and her slim fingers grasping the thorny briar shoots as though she would still hold to the earth that lay in freshly broken clods over her mother's grave. miss grover lifted her gently, and at first the girl only stared at her out of wide, unseeing eyes. "you've nothing to keep you here now," said the older woman, gently. "you can come to us, and live at the college." she had learned from sally's lips that she lived alone with her mother and younger brother. "you can't go on living there now." but the girl drew away, and shook her head with a wild torrent of childish dissent. "no, i kain't, neither!" she declared, violently. "i kain't!" "why, dear?" the teacher took the palpitating little figure in her arms and kissed the wet face. she had learned something of this sweet wood-thrush girl, and had seen both sides of life's coin enough to be able to close her eyes and ears, and visualize the woman that this might be. "'cause i kain't!" was the obstinate reply. being wise, miss grover desisted from urging, and went with sally to the desolated cabin, which she straightway began to overhaul and put to rights. the widow had been dying for a week. it was when she lifted samson's gun with the purpose of sweeping the corner that the girl swooped down on her, and rescued the weapon from her grasp. "nobody but me mustn't tech thet rifle-gun," she exclaimed, and then, little by little, it came out that the reason sally could not leave this cabin, was because some time there might be a whippoorwill call out by the stile, and, when it came, she must be there to answer. and, when at the next vacation miss grover rode over, and announced that she meant to visit sally for a month or two, and when under her deft hands the cabin began to transform itself, and the girl to transform herself, she discovered that sally found in the graveyard another magnet. there, she seemed to share something with samson where their dead lay buried. while the "fotched-on" lady taught the girl, the girl taught the "fotched-on" lady, for the birds were her brothers, and the flowers her cousins, and in the poetry that existed before forms of meter came into being she was deeply versed. toward the end of that year, samson undertook his portrait of adrienne lescott. the work was nearing completion, but it had been agreed that the girl herself was not to have a peep at the canvas until the painter was ready to unveil it in a finished condition. often as she posed, wilfred horton idled in the studio with them, and often george lescott came to criticize, and left without criticizing. the girl was impatient for the day when she, too, was to see the picture, concerning which the three men maintained so profound a secrecy. she knew that samson was a painter who analyzed with his brush, and that his picture would show her not only features and expression, but the man's estimate of herself. "do you know," he said one day, coming out from behind his easel and studying her, through half-closed eyes, "i never really began to know you until now? analyzing you--studying you in this fashion, not by your words, but by your expression, your pose, the very unconscious essence of your personality--these things are illuminating." "can i smile," she queried obediently, "or do i have to keep my face straight?" "you may smile for two minutes," he generously conceded, "and i'm going to come over and sit on the floor at your feet, and watch you do it." "and under the x-ray scrutiny of this profound analysis," she laughed, "do you like me?" "wait and see," was his non-committal rejoinder. for a few moments, neither of them spoke. he sat there gazing up, and she gazing down. though neither of them said it, both were thinking of the changes that had taken place since, in this same room, they had first met. the man knew that many of the changes in himself were due to her, and she began to wonder vaguely if he had not also been responsible for certain differences in her. he felt for her, besides a deep friendship--such a deep friendship that it might perhaps be even more--a measureless gratitude. she had been loyal, and had turned and shaped with her deft hand and brain the rough clay of his crude personality into something that was beginning to show finish and design. perhaps, she liked him the better because of certain obstinate qualities which, even to her persuasive influence, remained unaltered. but, if she liked him the better for these things, she yet felt that her dominion over him was not complete. now, as they sat there alone in the studio, a shaft of sunlight from the skylight fell on his squarely blocked chin, and he tossed his head, throwing back the long lock from his forehead. it was as though he was emphasizing with that characteristic gesture one of the things in which he had not yielded to her modeling. the long hair still fell low around his head. just now, he was roughly dressed and paint-stained, but usually he presented the inconspicuous appearance of the well-groomed man--except for that long hair. it was not so much as a matter of personal appearance but as a reminder of the old roughness that she resented this. she had often suggested a visit to the barber, but to no avail. "although i am not painting you," she said with a smile, "i have been studying you, too. as you stand there before your canvas, your own personality is revealed--and i have not been entirely unobservant myself." "'and under the x-ray scrutiny of this profound analysis,'" he quoted with a laugh, "do you like me?" "wait and see," she retorted. "at all events"--he spoke gravely--"you must try to like me a little, because i am not what i was. the person that i am is largely the creature of your own fashioning. of course, you had very raw material to work with, and you can't make a silk purse of"--he broke off and smiled--"well, of me, but in time you may at least get me mercerized a little." for no visible reason, she flushed, and her next question came a trifle eagerly: "do you mean that i have influenced you?" "influenced me, drennie?" he repeated. "you have done more than that. you have painted me out, and painted me over." she shook her head, and in her eyes danced a light of subtle coquetry. "there are things i have tried to do, and failed," she told him. his eyes showed surprise. "perhaps," he apologized, "i am dense, and you may have to tell me bluntly what i am to do. but you know that you have only to tell me." for a moment, she said nothing, then she shook her head again. "issue your orders," he insisted. "i am waiting to obey." she hesitated again, then said, slowly: "have your hair cut. it's the one uncivilized thing about you." for an instant, samson's face hardened. "no," he said; "i don't care to do that." "oh, very well!" she laughed, lightly. "in that event, of course, you shouldn't do it." but her smile faded, and after a moment he explained: "you see, it wouldn't do." "what do you mean?" "i mean that i've got to keep something as it was to remind me of a prior claim on my life." for an instant the girl's face clouded, and grew deeply troubled. "you don't mean," she asked, with an outburst of interest more vehement than she had meant to show, or realized that she was showing--"you don't mean that you still adhere to ideas of the vendetta?" then she broke off with a laugh, a rather nervous laugh. "of course not," she answered herself. "that would be too absurd!" "would it?" asked samson, simply. he glanced at his watch. "two minutes up," he announced. "the model will please resume the pose. by the way, may i drive with you to-morrow afternoon?" * * * * * the next afternoon, samson ran up the street steps of the lescott house, and rang the bell, and a few moments later adrienne appeared. the car was waiting outside, and, as the girl came down the stairs in motor coat and veil, she paused and her fingers on the bannisters tightened in surprise as she looked at the man who stood below holding his hat in his hand, with his face upturned. the well-shaped head was no longer marred by the mane which it had formerly worn, but was close cropped, and under the transforming influence of the change the forehead seemed bolder and higher, and to her thinking the strength of the purposeful features was enhanced, and yet, had she known it, the man felt that he had for the first time surrendered a point which meant an abandonment of something akin to principle. she said nothing, but as she took his hand in greeting, her fingers pressed his own in handclasp more lingering than usual. late that evening, when samson returned to the studio, he found a missive in his letter-box, and, as he took it out, his eyes fell on the postmark. it was dated from hixon, kentucky, and, as the man slowly climbed the stairs, he turned the envelope over in his hand with a strange sense of misgiving and premonition. chapter xxiii the letter was written in the cramped hand of brother spencer. through its faulty diction ran a plainly discernible undernote of disapproval for samson, though there was no word of reproof or criticism. it was plain that it was sent as a matter of courtesy to one who, having proven an apostate, scarcely merited such consideration. it informed him that old spicer south had been "mighty porely," but was now better, barring the breaking of age. every one was "tolerable." then came the announcement which the letter had been written to convey. the term of the south-hollman truce had ended, and it had been renewed for an indefinite period. "some of your folks thought they ought to let you know because they promised to give you a say," wrote the informant. "but they decided that it couldn't hardly make no difference to you, since you have left the mountains, and if you cared anything about it, you knew the time, and could of been here. hoping this finds you well." samson's face clouded. he threw the soiled and scribbled missive down on the table and sat with unseeing eyes fixed on the studio wall. so, they had cast him out of their councils! they already thought of him as one who had been. in that passionate rush of feeling, everything that had happened since he had left misery seemed artificial and dream-like. he longed for the realities that were forfeited. he wanted to press himself close to the great, gray shoulders of rock that broke through the greenery like giants tearing off soft raiment. those were his people back there. he should be running with the wolf-pack, not coursing with beagles. he had been telling himself that he was loyal, and now he realized that he was drifting like the lotus-eaters. things that had gripped his soul were becoming myths. nothing in his life was honest--he had become as they had prophesied, a derelict. in that thorn-choked graveyard lay the crude man whose knotted hand had rested on his head just before death stiffened it bestowing a mission. "i hain't fergot ye, pap." the words rang in his ears with the agony of a repudiated vow. he rose and paced the floor, with teeth and hands clenched, and the sweat standing out on his forehead. his advisers had of late been urging him to go to paris he had refused, and his unconfessed reason had been that in paris he could not answer a sudden call. he would go back to them now, and compel them to admit his leadership. then, his eyes fell on the unfinished portrait of adrienne. the face gazed at him with its grave sweetness; its fragrant subtlety and its fine-grained delicacy. her pictured lips were silently arguing for the life he had found among strangers, and her victory would have been an easy one, but for the fact that just now his conscience seemed to be on the other side. samson's civilization was two years old--a thin veneer over a century of feudalism--and now the century was thundering its call of blood bondage. but, as the man struggled over the dilemma, the pendulum swung back. the hundred years had left, also, a heritage of quickness and bitterness to resent injury and injustice. his own people had cast him out. they had branded him as the deserter; they felt no need of him or his counsel. very well, let them have it so. his problem had been settled for him. his gordian knot was cut. sally and his uncle alone had his address. this letter, casting him out, must have been authorized by them, brother spencer acting merely as amanuensis. they, too, had repudiated him--and, if that were true, except for the graves of his parents the hills had no tie to hold him. "sally, sally!" he groaned, dropping his face on his crossed arms, while his shoulders heaved in an agony of heart-break, and his words came in the old crude syllables: "i 'lowed you'd believe in me ef hell froze!" he rose after that, and made a fierce gesture with his clenched fists. "all right," he said, bitterly, "i'm shet of the lot of ye. i'm done!" but it was easier to say the words of repudiation than to cut the ties that were knotted about his heart. again, he saw sally standing by the old stile in the starlight with sweet, loyal eyes lifted to his own, and again he heard her vow that, if he came back, she would be waiting. now, that picture lay beyond a sea which he could not recross. sally and his uncle had authorized his excommunication. there was, after all, in the entire world no faith which could stand unalterable, and in all the world no reward that could be a better thing than dead-sea fruit, without the love of that barefooted girl back there in the log cabin, whose sweet tongue could not fashion phrases except in illiteracy. he would have gambled his soul on her steadfastness without fear--and he bitterly told himself he would have lost. and yet--some voice sounded to him as he stood there alone in the studio with the arteries knotted on his temples and the blood running cold and bitter in his veins--and yet what right had he, the deserter, to demand faith? one hand went up and clasped his forehead--and the hand fell on the head that had been shorn because a foreign woman had asked it. what tradition had he kept inviolate? and, in his mood, that small matter of shortened hair meant as great and bitter surrender as it had meant to the samson before him, whose mighty strength had gone out under the snipping of shears. what course was open to him now, except that of following the precedent of the other samson, of pulling down the whole temple of his past? he was disowned, and could not return. he would go ahead with the other life, though at the moment he hated it. with a rankling soul, the mountaineer left new york. he wrote sally a brief note, telling her that he was going to cross the ocean, but his hurt pride forbade his pleading for her confidence, or adding, "i love you." he plunged into the art life of the "other side of the seine," and worked voraciously. he was trying to learn much--and to forget much. one sunny afternoon, when samson had been in the _quartier latin_ for eight or nine months, the _concièrge_ of his lodgings handed him, as he passed through the cour, an envelope addressed in the hand of adrienne lescott. he thrust it into his pocket for a later reading and hurried on to the _atelier_ where he was to have a criticism that day. when the day's work was over, he was leaning on the embankment wall at the _quai de grand st. augustin_, gazing idly at the fruit and flower stands that patched the pavement with color and at the gray walls of the louvre across the seine, his hand went into his pocket, and came out with the note. as he read it, he felt a glow of pleasurable surprise, and, wheeling, he retraced his steps briskly to his lodgings, where he began to pack. adrienne had written that she and her mother and wilfred horton were sailing for naples, and commanded him, unless he were too busy, to meet their steamer. within two hours, he was bound for lucerne to cross the italian frontier by the slate-blue waters of lake maggiore. a few weeks later samson and adrienne were standing together by moonlight in the ruins of the coliseum. the junketing about italy had been charming, and now, in that circle of sepia softness and broken columns, he looked at her, and suddenly asked himself: "just what does she mean to you?" if he had never asked himself that question before, he knew now that it must some day be answered. friendship had been a good and seemingly a sufficient definition. now, he was not so sure that it could remain so. then, his thoughts went back to a cabin in the hills and a girl in calico. he heard a voice like the voice of a song-bird saying through tears: "i couldn't live without ye, samson.... i jest couldn't do hit!" for a moment, he was sick of his life. it seemed that there stood before him, in that place of historic wraiths and memories, a girl, her eyes sad, but loyal and without reproof. for an instant, he could see a scene of centuries ago. a barbarian and captive girl stood in the arena, looking up with ignorant, but unflinching, eyes; and a man sat in the marble tiers looking down. the benches were draped with embroidered rugs and gold and scarlet hangings; the air was heavy with incense--and blood. about him sat men and women of rome's culture, freshly perfumed from the baths. the slender figure in the dust of the circus alone was a creature without artifice. and, as she looked up, she recognized the man in the box, the man who had once been a barbarian, too, and she turned her eyes to the iron gates of the cages whence came the roar of the beasts, and waited the ordeal. and the face was the face of sally. "you look," said adrienne, studying his countenance in the pallor of the moonlight, "as though you were seeing ghosts." "i am," said samson. "let's go." adrienne had not yet seen her portrait. samson had needed a few hours of finishing when he left new york, though it was work which could be done away from the model. so, it was natural that, when the party reached paris, adrienne should soon insist on crossing the _pont d' alexandre iii_. to his studio near the "_boule mich'_" for an inspection of her commissioned canvas. for a while, she wandered about the business-like place, littered with the gear of the painter's craft. it was, in a way, a form of mind-reading, for samson's brush was the tongue of his soul. the girl's eyes grew thoughtful, as she saw that he still drew the leering, saturnine face of jim asberry. he had not outgrown hate, then? but she said nothing, until he brought out and set on an easel her own portrait. for a moment, she gasped with sheer delight for the colorful mastery of the technique, and she would have been hard to please had she not been delighted with the conception of herself mirrored in the canvas. it was a face through which the soul showed, and the soul was strong and flawless. the girl's personality radiated from the canvas --and yet--a disappointed little look crossed and clouded her eyes. she was conscious of an indefinable catch of pain at her heart. samson stepped forward, and his waiting eyes, too, were disappointed. "you don't like it, drennie?" he anxiously questioned. but she smiled in answer, and declared: "i love it." he went out a few minutes later to telephone for her to mrs. lescott, and gave adrienne _carte blanche_ to browse among his portfolios and stacked canvases until his return. in a few minutes, she discovered one of those efforts which she called his "rebellious pictures." these were such things as he painted, using no model except memory perhaps, not for the making of finished pictures, but merely to give outlet to his feelings; an outlet which some men might have found in talk. this particular canvas was roughly blocked in, and it was elementally simple, but each brush stroke had been thrown against the surface with the concentrated fire and energy of a blow, except the strokes that had painted the face, and there the brush had seemed to kiss the canvas. the picture showed a barefooted girl, standing, in barbaric simplicity of dress, in the glare of the arena, while a gaunt lion crouched eying her. her head was lifted as though she were listening to faraway music. in the eyes was indomitable courage. that canvas was at once a declaration of love, and a _miserere_. adrienne set it up beside her own portrait, and, as she studied the two with her chin resting on her gloved hand, her eyes cleared of questioning. now, she knew what she missed in her own more beautiful likeness. it had been painted with all the admiration of the mind. this other had been dashed off straight from the heart--and this other was sally! she replaced the sketch where she had found it, and samson, returning, found her busy with little sketches of the seine. * * * * * "drennie," pleaded wilfred horton, as the two leaned on the deck rail of the _mauretania_, returning from europe, "are you going to hold me off indefinitely? i've served my seven years for rachel, and thrown in some extra time. am i no nearer the goal?" the girl looked at the oily heave of the leaden and cheerless atlantic, and its somber tones found reflection in her eyes. she shook her head. "i wish i knew," she said, wearily. then, she added, vehemently: "i'm not worth it, wilfred. let me go. chuck me out of your life as a little pig who can't read her own heart; who is too utterly selfish to decide upon her own life." "is it"--he put the question with foreboding--"that, after all, i was a prophet? have you--and south--wiped your feet on the doormat marked 'platonic friendship'? have you done that, drennie?" she looked up into his eyes. her own were wide and honest and very full of pain. "no," she said; "we haven't done that, yet. i guess we won't.... i think he'd rather stay outside, wilfred. if i was sure i loved him, and that he loved me, i'd feel like a cheat--there is the other girl to think of.... and, besides, i'm not sure what i want myself.... but i'm horribly afraid i'm going to end by losing you both." horton stood silent. it was tea-time, and from below came the strains of the ship's orchestra. a few ulster-muffled passengers gloomily paced the deck. "you won't lose us both, drennie," he said, steadily. "you may lose your choice--but, if you find yourself able to fall back on substitutes, i'll still be there, waiting." for once, he did not meet her scrutiny, or know of it. his own eyes were fixed on the slow swing of heavy, gray-green waters. he was smiling, but it is as a man smiles when he confronts despair, and pretends that everything is quite all right. the girl looked at him with a choke in her throat. "wilfred," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "i'm not worth worrying over. really, i'm not. if samson south proposed to me to-day, i know that i should refuse him. i am not at all sure that i am the least little bit in love with him. only, don't you see i can't be quite sure i'm not? it would be horrible if we all made a mistake. may i have till christmas to make up my mind for all time? i'll tell you then, dear, if you care to wait." * * * * * tamarack spicer sat on the top of a box car, swinging his legs over the side. he was clad in overalls, and in the pockets of his breeches reposed a bulging flask of red liquor, and an unbulging pay envelope. tamarack had been "railroading" for several months this time. he had made a new record for sustained effort and industry, but now june was beckoning him to the mountains with vagabond yearnings for freedom and leisure. many things invited his soul. almost four years had passed since samson had left the mountains, and in four years a woman can change her mind. sally might, when they met on the road, greet him once more as a kinsman, and agree to forget his faulty method of courtship. this time, he would be more diplomatic. yesterday, he had gone to the boss, and "called for his time." to-day, he was paid off, and a free lance. as he reflected on these matters, a fellow trainman came along the top of the car, and sat down at tamarack's side. this brakeman had also been recruited from the mountains, though from another section--over toward the virginia line. "so yer quittin'?" observed the new-comer. spicer nodded. "goin' back thar on misery?" again, tamarack answered with a jerk of his head. "i've been layin' off ter tell ye somethin', tam'rack." "cut her loose." "i laid over in hixon last week, an' some fellers that used ter know my mother's folks took me down in the cellar of hollman's store, an' give me some licker." "what of hit?" "they was talkin' 'bout you." "what did they say?" "i seen that they was enemies of yours, an' they wasn't in no good humor, so, when they axed me ef i knowed ye, i 'lowed i didn't know nothin' good about ye. i had ter cuss ye out, or git in trouble myself." tamarack cursed the whole hollman tribe, and his companion went on: "jim asberry was thar. he 'lowed they'd found out thet you'd done shot purvy thet time, an' he said"--the brakeman paused to add emphasis to his conclusion--"thet the next time ye come home, he 'lowed ter git ye plumb shore." tamarack scowled. "much obleeged," he replied. at hixon, tamarack spicer strolled along the street toward the court- house. he wished to be seen. so long as it was broad daylight, and he displayed no hostility, he knew he was safe--and he had plans. standing before the hollman store were jim asberry and several companions. they greeted tamarack affably, and he paused to talk. "ridin' over ter misery?" inquired asberry. "'lowed i mout as well." "mind ef i rides with ye es fur es jesse's place?" "plumb glad ter have company," drawled tamarack, they chatted of many things, and traveled slowly, but, when they came to those narrows where they could not ride stirrup to stirrup, each jockeyed for the rear position, and the man who found himself forced into the lead turned in his saddle and talked back over his shoulder, with wary, though seemingly careless, eyes. each knew the other was bent on his murder. at purvy's gate, asberry waved farewell, and turned in. tamarack rode on, but shortly he hitched his horse in the concealment of a hollow, walled with huge rocks, and disappeared into the laurel. he began climbing, in a crouched position, bringing each foot down noiselessly, and pausing often to listen. jim asberry had not been outwardly armed when he left spicer. but, soon, the brakeman's delicately attuned ears caught a sound that made him lie flat in the lee of a great log, where he was masked in clumps of flowering rhododendron. presently, asberry passed him, also walking cautiously, but hurriedly, and cradling a winchester rifle in the hollow of his arm. then, tamarack knew that asberry was taking this cut to head him off, and waylay him in the gorge a mile away by road but a short distance only over the hill. spicer held his heavy revolver cocked in his hand, but it was too near the purvy house to risk a shot. he waited a moment, and then, rising, went on noiselessly with a snarling grin, stalking the man who was stalking him. asberry found a place at the foot of a huge pine where the undergrowth would cloak him. twenty yards below ran the creek-bed road, returning from its long horseshoe deviation. when he had taken his position, his faded butternut clothing matched the earth as inconspicuously as a quail matches dead leaves, and he settled himself to wait. slowly and with infinite caution, his intended victim stole down, guarding each step, until he was in short and certain range, but, instead of being at the front, he came from the back. he, also, lay flat on his stomach, and raised the already cocked pistol. he steadied it in a two-handed grip against a tree trunk, and trained it with deliberate care on a point to the left of the other man's spine just below the shoulder blades. then, he pulled the trigger! he did not go down to inspect his work. it was not necessary. the instantaneous fashion with which the head of the ambuscader settled forward on its face told him all he wanted to know. he slipped back to his horse, mounted and rode fast to the house of spicer south, demanding asylum. the next day came word that, if tamarack spicer would surrender and stand trial, in a court dominated by the hollmans, the truce would continue. otherwise, the "war was on." the souths flung back this message: "come and git him." but hollman and purvy, hypocritically clamoring for the sanctity of the law, made no effort to come and "git him." they knew that spicer south's house was now a fortress, prepared for siege. they knew that every trail thither was picketed. also, they knew a better way. this time, they had the color of the law on their side. the circuit judge, through the sheriff, asked for troops, and troops came. their tents dotted the river bank below the hixon bridge. a detail under a white flag went out after tamarack spicer. the militia captain in command, who feared neither feudist nor death, was courteously received. he had brains, and he assured them that he acted under orders which could not be disobeyed. unless they surrendered the prisoner, gatling guns would follow. if necessary they would be dragged behind ox-teams. many militiamen might be killed, but for each of them the state had another. if spicer would surrender, the officer would guarantee him personal protection, and, if it seemed necessary, a change of venue would secure him trial in another circuit. for hours, the clan deliberated. for the soldiers they felt no enmity. for the young captain they felt an instinctive liking. he was a man. old spicer south, restored to an echo of his former robustness by the call of action, gave the clan's verdict. "hit hain't the co'te we're skeered of. ef this boy goes ter town, he won't never git inter no co'te. he'll be murdered." the officer held out his hand. "as man to man," he said, "i pledge you my word that no one shall take him except by process of law. i'm not working for the hollmans, or the purvys. i know their breed," for a space, old south looked into the soldier's eyes, and the soldier looked back. "i'll take yore handshake on thet bargain," said the mountaineer, gravely. "tam'rack," he added, in a voice of finality, "ye've got ter go." the officer had meant what he said. he marched his prisoner into hixon at the center of a hollow square, with muskets at the ready. and yet, as the boy passed into the court-house yard, with a soldier rubbing elbows on each side, a cleanly aimed shot sounded from somewhere. the smokeless powder told no tale and with blue shirts and army hats circling him, tamarack fell and died. that afternoon, one of hollman's henchmen was found lying in the road with his lifeless face in the water of the creek. the next day, as old spicer south stood at the door of his cabin, a rifle barked from the hillside, and he fell, shot through the left shoulder by a bullet intended for his heart. all this while, the troops were helplessly camped at hixon. they had power and inclination to go out and get men, but there was no man to get. the hollmans had used the soldiers as far as they wished; they had made them pull the chestnuts out of the fire and tamarack spicer out of his stronghold. they now refused to swear out additional warrants. a detail had rushed into hollman's store an instant after the shot which killed tamarack was fired. except for a woman buying a card of buttons, and a fair-haired clerk waiting on her, they found the building empty. back beyond, the hills were impenetrable, and answered no questions. chapter xxiv old spicer south would ten years ago have put a bandage on his wound and gone about his business, but now he tossed under his patchwork quilt, and brother spencer expressed grave doubts for his recovery. with his counsel unavailable wile mccager, by common consent, assumed something like the powers of a regent and took upon himself the duties to which samson should have succeeded. that a hollman should have been able to elude the pickets and penetrate the heart of south territory to spicer south's cabin, was both astounding and alarming. the war was on without question now, and there must be council. wile mccager had sent out a summons for the family heads to meet that afternoon at his mill. it was saturday--"mill day"--and in accordance with ancient custom the lanes would be more traveled than usual. those men who came by the wagon road afforded no unusual spectacle, for behind each saddle sagged a sack of grain. their faces bore no stamp of unwonted excitement, but every man balanced a rifle across his pommel. none the less, their purpose was grim, and their talk when they had gathered was to the point. old mccager, himself sorely perplexed, voiced the sentiment that the others had been too courteous to express. with spicer south bed-ridden and samson a renegade, they had no adequate leader. mccager was a solid man of intrepid courage and honesty, but grinding grist was his avocation, not strategy and tactics. the enemy had such masters of intrigue as purvy and judge hollman. then, a lean sorrel mare came jogging into view, switching her fly- bitten tail, and on the mare's back, urging him with a long, leafy switch, sat a woman. behind her sagged the two loaded ends of a corn- sack. she rode like the mountain women, facing much to the side, yet unlike them. her arms did not flap. she did not bump gawkily up and down in her saddle. her blue calico dress caught the sun at a distance, but her blue sunbonnet shaded and masked her face. she was lithe and slim, and her violet eyes were profoundly serious, and her lips were as resolutely set as joan of arc's might have been, for sally miller had come only ostensibly to have her corn ground to meal. she had really come to speak for the absent chief, and she knew that she would be met with derision. the years had sobered the girl, but her beauty had increased, though it was now of a chastened type, which gave her a strange and rather exalted refinement of expression. wile mccager came to the mill door, as she rode up, and lifted the sack from her horse. "howdy, sally?" he greeted. "tol'able, thank ye," said sally. "i'm goin' ter get off." as she entered the great half-lighted room, where the mill stones creaked on their cumbersome shafts, the hum of discussion sank to silence. the place was brown with age and dirt, and powdered with a coarse dusting of meal. the girl nodded to the mountaineers gathered in conclave, then, turning to the miller she announced: "i'm going to send for samson." the statement was at first met with dead silence, then came a rumble of indignant dissent, but for that the girl was prepared, as she was prepared for the contemptuous laughter which followed. "i reckon if samson was here," she said, dryly, "you all wouldn't think it was quite so funny." old caleb wiley spat through his bristling beard, and his voice was a quavering rumble. "what we wants is a man. we hain't got no use fer no traitors thet's too almighty damn busy doin' fancy work ter stand by their kith an' kin." "that's a lie!" said the girl, scornfully. "there's just one man living that's smart enough to match jesse purvy--an' that one man is samson. samson's got the right to lead the souths, and he's going to do it--ef he wants to." "sally," wile mccager spoke, soothingly, "don't go gittin' mad. caleb talks hasty. we knows ye used ter be samson's gal, an' we hain't aimin' ter hurt yore feelin's. but samson's done left the mountings. i reckon ef he wanted ter come back, he'd a-come afore now. let him stay whar he's at." "whar is he at?" demanded old caleb wiley, in a truculent voice. "that's his business," sally flashed back, "but i know. all i want to tell you is this. don't you make a move till i have time to get word to him. i tell you, he's got to have his say." "i reckon we hain't a-goin' ter wait," sneered caleb, "fer a feller thet won't let hit be known whar he's a-sojournin' at. ef ye air so shore of him, why won't ye tell us whar he is now?" "that's my business, too." sally's voice was resolute. "i've got a letter here--it'll take two days to get to samson. it'll take him two or three days more to get here. you've got to wait a week." "sally," the temporary chieftain spoke still in a patient, humoring sort of voice, as to a tempestuous child, "thar hain't no place ter mail a letter nigher then hixon. no south can't ride inter hixon, an' ride out again. the mail-carrier won't be down this way fer two days yit." "i'm not askin' any south to ride into hixon. i recollect another time when samson was the only one that would do that," she answered, still scornfully. "i didn't come here to ask favors. i came to give orders-- for him. a train leaves soon in the morning. my letter's goin' on that train." "who's goin' ter take hit ter town fer ye?" "i'm goin' to take it for myself." her reply was given as a matter of course. "that wouldn't hardly be safe, sally," the miller demurred; "this hain't no time fer a gal ter be galavantin' around by herself in the night time. hit's a-comin' up ter storm, an' ye've got thirty miles ter ride, an' thirty-five back ter yore house." "i'm not scared," she replied. "i'm goin' an' i'm warnin' you now, if you do anything that samson don't like, you'll have to answer to him, when he comes." she turned, walking very erect and dauntless to her sorrel mare, and disappeared at a gallop. "i reckon," said wile mccager, breaking the silence at last, "hit don't make no great dif'rence. he won't hardly come, nohow." then, he added: "but thet boy is smart." * * * * * samson's return from europe, after a year's study, was in the nature of a moderate triumph. with the art sponsorship of george lescott, and the social sponsorship of adrienne, he found that orders for portraits, from those who could pay munificently, seemed to seek him. he was tasting the novelty of being lionized. that summer, mrs. lescott opened her house on long island early, and the life there was full of the sort of gaiety that comes to pleasant places when young men in flannels and girls in soft summery gowns and tanned cheeks are playing wholesomely, and singing tunefully, and making love--not too seriously. samson, tremendously busy these days in a new studio of his own, had run over for a week. horton was, of course, of the party, and george lescott was doing the honors as host. besides these, all of whom regarded themselves as members of the family, there was a group of even younger folk, and the broad halls and terraces and tennis courts rang all day long with their laughter, and the floors trembled at night under the rhythmical tread of their dancing. off across the lawns and woodlands stretched the blue, sail-flecked waters of the sound, and on the next hill rose the tile roofs and cream -white walls of the country club. one evening, adrienne left the dancers for the pergola, where she took refuge under a mass of honeysuckle. samson south followed her. she saw him coming, and smiled. she was contrasting this samson, loosely clad in flannels, with the samson she had first seen rising awkwardly to greet her in the studio. "you should have stayed inside and made yourself agreeable to the girls," adrienne reproved him, as he came up. "what's the use of making a lion of you, if you won't roar for the visitors?" "i've been roaring," laughed the man. "i've just been explaining to miss willoughby that we only eat the people we kill in kentucky on certain days of solemn observance and sacrifice. i wanted to be agreeable to you, drennie, for a while." the girl shook her head sternly, but she smiled and made a place for him at her side. she wondered what form his being agreeable to her would take. "i wonder if the man or woman lives," mused samson, "to whom the fragrance of honeysuckle doesn't bring back some old memory that is as strong--and sweet--as itself." the girl did not at once answer him. the breeze was stirring the hair on her temples and neck. the moon was weaving a lace pattern on the ground, and filtering its silver light through the vines. at last, she asked: "do you ever find yourself homesick, samson, these days?" the man answered with a short laugh. then, his words came softly, and not his own words, but those of one more eloquent: "'who hath desired the sea? her excellent loneliness rather "'than the forecourts of kings, and her uttermost pits than the streets where men gather.... "'his sea that his being fulfills? "'so and no otherwise--"so and no otherwise hillmen desire their hills.'" "and yet," she said, and a trace of the argumentative stole into her voice, "you haven't gone back." "no." there was a note of self-reproach in his voice. "but soon i shall go. at least, for a time. i've been thinking a great deal lately about 'my fluttered folk and wild.' i'm just beginning to understand my relation to them, and my duty." "your duty is no more to go back there and throw away your life," she found herself instantly contending, "than it is the duty of the young eagle, who has learned to fly, to go back to the nest where he was hatched." "but, drennie," he said, gently, "suppose the young eagle is the only one that knows how to fly--and suppose he could teach the others? don't you see? i've only seen it myself for a little while." "what is it that--that you see now?" "i must go back, not to relapse, but to come to be a constructive force. i must carry some of the outside world to misery. i must take to them, because i am one of them, gifts that they would reject from other hands." "will they accept them even from you?" "drennie, you once said that, if i grew ashamed of my people, ashamed even of their boorish manners, their ignorance, their crudity, you would have no use for me." "i still say that," she answered. "well, i'm not ashamed of them. i went through that, but it's over." she sat silent for a while, then cried suddenly: "i don't want you to go!" the moment she had said it, she caught herself with a nervous little laugh, and added a postscript of whimsical nonsense to disarm her utterance of its telltale feeling. "why, i'm just getting you civilized, yourself. it took years to get your hair cut." he ran his palm over his smoothly trimmed head, and laughed. "delilah, oh, delilah!" he said. "i was resolute, but you have shorn me." "don't!" she exclaimed. "don't call me that!" "then, drennie, dear," he answered, lightly, "don't dissuade me from the most decent resolve i have lately made." from the house came the strains of an alluring waltz. for a little time, they listened without speech, then the girl said very gravely: "you won't--you won't still feel bound to kill your enemies, will you, samson?" the man's face hardened. "i believe i'd rather not talk about that. i shall have to win back the confidence i have lost. i shall have to take a place at the head of my clan by proving myself a man--and a man by their own standards. it is only at their head that i can lead them. if the lives of a few assassins have to be forfeited, i sha'n't hesitate at that. i shall stake my own against them fairly. the end is worth it." the girl breathed deeply, then she heard samson's voice again: "drennie, i want you to understand, that if i succeed it is your success. you took me raw and unfashioned, and you have made me. there is no way of thanking you." "there is a way," she contradicted. "you can thank me by feeling just that way about it." "then, i do thank you." she sat looking up at him, her eyes wide and questioning. "exactly what do you feel, samson," she asked. "i mean about me?" he leaned a little toward her, and the fragrance and subtle beauty of her stole into his veins and brain, in a sudden intoxication. his hand went out to seize hers. this beauty which would last and not wither into a hag's ugliness with the first breath of age--as mountain beauty does--was hypnotizing him. then, he straightened and stood looking down. "don't ask me that, please," he said, in a carefully controlled voice. "i don't even want to ask myself. my god, drennie, don't you see that i'm afraid to answer that?" she rose from her seat, and stood for just an instant rather unsteadily before him, then she laughed. "samson, samson!" she challenged. "the moon is making us as foolish as children. old friend, we are growing silly. let's go in, and be perfectly good hostesses and social lions." slowly, samson south came to his feet. his voice was in the dead-level pitch which wilfred had once before heard. his eyes were as clear and hard as transparent flint. "i'm sorry to be of trouble, george," he said, quietly. "but you must get me to new york at once--by motor. i must take a train south to- night." "no bad news, i hope," suggested lescott. for an instant, samson forgot his four years of veneer. the century of prenatal barbarism broke out fiercely. he was seeing things far away-- and forgetting things near by. his eyes blazed and his fingers twitched. "hell, no!" he exclaimed. "the war's on, and my hands are freed!" for an instant, as no one spoke, he stood breathing heavily, then, wheeling, rushed toward the house as though just across its threshold lay the fight into which lie was aching to hurl himself. the next afternoon, adrienne and samson were sitting with a gaily chattering group at the side lines of the tennis courts. "when you go back to the mountains, samson," wilfred was suggesting, "we might form a partnership. 'south, horton and co., development of coal and timber.' there are millions in it." "five years ago, i should have met you with a winchester rifle," laughed the kentuckian. "now i shall not." "i'll go with you, horton, and make a sketch or two," volunteered george lescott, who just then arrived from town. "and, by the way, samson, here's a letter that came for you just as i left the studio." the mountaineer took the envelope with a hixon postmark, and for an instant gazed at it with a puzzled expression. it was addressed in a feminine hand, which he did not recognize. it was careful, but perfect, writing, such as one sees in a school copybook. with an apology he tore the covering, and read the letter. adrienne, glancing at his face, saw it suddenly pale and grow as set and hard as marble. samson's eyes were dwelling with only partial comprehension on the script. this is what he read: "dear samson: the war is on again. tamarack spicer has killed jim asberry, and the hollmans have killed tamarack. uncle spicer is shot, but he may get well. there is nobody to lead the souths. i am trying to hold them down until i hear from you. don't come if you don't want to--but the gun is ready. with love, sally." chapter xxv samson, throwing things hurriedly into his bag, heard a knock on his door. he opened it, and outside in the hall stood adrienne. her face was pale, and she leaned a little on the hand which rested against the white jamb. "what does it mean?" she asked. he came over. "it means, drennie," he said, "that you may make a pet of a leopard cub, but there will come a day when something of the jungle comes out in him --and he must go. my uncle has been shot, and the feud is on--i've been sent for." he paused, and she half-whispered in an appealing voice: "don't go." "you don't mean that," he said, quietly. "if it were you, you would go. whether i get back here or not"--he hesitated--"my gratitude will be with you--always." he broke off, and said suddenly: "drennie, i don't want to say good-by to you. i can't." "it's not necessary yet," she answered. "i'm going to drive you to new york." "no!" he exclaimed. "it's too far, and i've got to go fast----" "that's why i'm going," she promptly assured him. "i'm the only fool on these premises that can get all the speed out of a car that's in her engine--and the constables are good to me. i just came up here to--" she hesitated, then added--"to see you alone for a moment, and to say that teacher has never had such a bright little pupil, in her life--and--" the flippancy with which she was masking her feeling broke and she added, in a shaken voice as she thrust out her hand, man-fashion--"and to say, god keep you, boy." he seized the hand in both his own, and gripped it hard. he tried to speak, but only shook his head with a rueful smile. "i'll be waiting at the door with the car," she told him, as she left. horton, too, came in to volunteer assistance. "wilfred," said samson, feelingly, 'there isn't any man i'd rather have at my back, in a stand-up fight. but this isn't exactly that sort. where i'm going, a fellow has got to be invisible. no, you can't help, now. come down later. we'll organize horton, south and co." "south, horton and co.," corrected wilfred; "native sons first." at that moment, adrienne believed she had decided the long-mooted question. of course, she had not. it was merely the stress of the moment; exaggerating the importance of one she was losing at the expense of the one who was left. still, as she sat in the car waiting, her world seemed slipping into chaos under her feet, and, when samson had taken his place at her side, the machine leaped forward into a reckless plunge of speed. samson stopped at his studio, and threw open an old closet where, from a littered pile of discarded background draperies, canvases and stretchers, he fished out a buried and dust-covered pair of saddlebags. they had long lain there forgotten, but they held the rusty clothes in which he had left misery. he threw them over his arm and dropped them at adrienne's feet, as he handed her the studio keys. "will you please have george look after things, and make the necessary excuses to my sitters? he'll find a list of posing appointments in the desk." the girl nodded. "what are those?" she asked, gazing at the great leather pockets as at some relic unearthed from pompeian excavations. "saddlebags, drennie," he said, "and in them are homespun and jeans. one can't lead his 'fluttered folk and wild' in a cutaway coat." shortly they were at the station, and the man, standing at the side of the machine, took her hand. "it's not good-by, you know," he said, smiling. "just _auf wiedersehen_." she nodded and smiled, too, but, as she smiled, she shivered, and turned the car slowly. there was no need to hurry, now. samson had caught the fastest west-bound express on the schedule. in thirty-six hours, he would be at hixon. there were many things which his brain must attack and digest in these hours. he must arrange his plan of action to its minutest detail, because he would have as little time for reflection, once he had reached his own country, as a wildcat flung into a pack of hounds. from the railroad station to his home, he must make his way--most probably fight his way--through thirty miles of hostile territory where all the trails were watched. and yet, for the time, all that seemed too remotely unreal to hold his thoughts. he was seeing the coolly waving curtains of flowered chintz that stirred in the windows of his room at the lescott house and the crimson ramblers that nodded against the sky. he was hearing a knock on the door, and seeing, as it opened, the figure of adrienne lescott and the look that had been in her eyes. he took out sally's letter, and read it once more. he read it mechanically and as a piece of news that had brought evil tidings. then, suddenly, another aspect of it struck him--an aspect to which the shock of its reception had until this tardy moment blinded him. the letter was perfectly grammatical and penned in a hand of copy-book roundness and evenness. the address, the body of the missive, and the signature, were all in one chirography. she would not have intrusted the writing of this letter to any one else. sally had learned to write! moreover, at the end were the words "with love." it was all plain now. sally had never repudiated him. she was declaring herself true to her mission and her love. all that heartbreak through which he had gone had been due to his own misconception, and in that misconception he had drawn into himself and had stopped writing to her. even his occasional letters had for two years ceased to brighten her heart-strangling isolation--and she was still waiting.... she had sent no word of appeal until the moment had come of which she had promised to inform him. sally, abandoned and alone, had been fighting her way up--that she might stand on his level. "good god!" groaned the man, in abjectly bitter self-contempt. his hand went involuntarily to his cropped head, and dropped with a gesture of self-doubting. he looked down at his tan shoes and silk socks. he rolled back his shirtsleeve and contemplated the forearm that had once been as brown and tough as leather. it was now the arm of a city man, except for the burning of one outdoor week. he was returning at the eleventh hour--stripped of the faith of his kinsmen, half-stripped of his faith in himself. if he were to realize the constructive dreams of which he had last night so confidently prattled to adrienne, he must lead his people from under the blighting shadow of the feud. yet, if he was to lead them at all, he must first regain their shaken confidence, and to do that he must go, at their head, through this mire of war to vindication. only a fighting south could hope to be heard in behalf of peace. his eventual regeneration belonged to some to-morrow. to-day held the need of such work as that of the first samson--to slay. he must reappear before his kinsmen as much as possible the boy who had left them--not the fop with newfangled affectations. his eyes fell upon the saddlebags on the floor of the pullman, and he smiled satirically. he would like to step from the train at hixon and walk brazenly through the town in those old clothes, challenging every hostile glance. if they shot him down on the streets, as they certainly would do, it would end his questioning and his anguish of dilemma. he would welcome that, but it would, after all, be shirking the issue. he must get out of hixon and into his own country unrecognized. the lean boy of four years ago was the somewhat filled out man now. the one concession that he had made to paris life was the wearing of a closely cropped mustache. that he still wore--had worn it chiefly because he liked to hear adrienne's humorous denunciation of it. he knew that, in his present guise and dress, he had an excellent chance of walking through the streets of hixon as a stranger. and, after leaving hixon, there was a mission to be performed at jesse purvy's store. as he thought of that mission a grim glint came to his pupils. all journeys end, and as samson passed through the tawdry cars of the local train near hixon he saw several faces which he recognized, but they either eyed him in inexpressive silence, or gave him the greeting of the "furriner." then the whistle shrieked for the trestle over the middle fork, and at only a short distance rose the cupola of the brick court-house and the scattered roofs of the town. scattered over the green slopes by the river bank lay the white spread of a tented company street, and, as he looked out, he saw uniformed figures moving to and fro, and caught the ring of a bugle call. so the militia was on deck; things must be bad, he reflected. he stood on the platform and looked down as the engine roared along the trestle. there were two gatling guns. one pointed its muzzle toward the town, and the other scowled up at the face of the mountain. sentries paced their beats. men in undershirts lay dozing outside tent flaps. it was all a picture of disciplined readiness, and yet samson knew that soldiers made of painted tin would be equally effective. these military forces must remain subservient to local civil authorities, and the local civil authorities obeyed the nod of judge hollman and jesse purvy. as samson crossed the toll-bridge to the town proper he passed two brown-shirted militiamen, lounging on the rail of the middle span. they grinned at him, and, recognizing the outsider from his clothes, one of them commented: "ain't this the hell of a town?" "it's going to be," replied samson, enigmatically, as he went on. still unrecognized, he hired a horse at the livery stable, and for two hours rode in silence, save for the easy creaking of his stirrup leathers and the soft thud of hoofs. the silence soothed him. the brooding hills lulled his spirit as a crooning song lulls a fretful child. mile after mile unrolled forgotten vistas. something deep in himself murmured: "home!" it was late afternoon when he saw ahead of him the orchard of purvy's place, and read on the store wall, a little more weather-stained, but otherwise unchanged: "jesse purvy, general merchandise." the porch of the store was empty, and as samson flung himself from his saddle there was no one to greet him. this was surprising, since, ordinarily, two or three of purvy's personal guardsmen loafed at the front to watch the road. just now the guard should logically be doubled. samson still wore his eastern clothes--for he wanted to go through that door unknown. as samson south he could not cross its threshold either way. but when he stepped up on to the rough porch flooring no one challenged his advance. the yard and orchard were quiet from their front fence to the grisly stockade at the rear, and, wondering at these things, the young man stood for a moment looking about at the afternoon peace before he announced himself. yet samson had not come to the stronghold of his enemy for the purpose of assassination. there had been another object in his mind--an utterly mad idea, it is true, yet so bold of conception that it held a ghost of promise. he had meant to go into jesse purvy's store and chat artlessly, like some inquisitive "furriner." he would ask questions which by their very impertinence might be forgiven on the score of a stranger's folly. but, most of all, he wanted to drop the casual information, which he should assume to have heard on the train, that samson south was returning, and to mark, on the assassin leader, the effect of the news. in his new code it was necessary to give at least the rattler's warning before he struck, and he meant to strike. if he were recognized, well--he shrugged his shoulders. but as he stood on the outside, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, for the ride had been warm, he heard voices within. they were loud and angry voices. it occurred to him that by remaining where he was he might gain more information than by hurrying in. "i've done been your executioner fer twenty years," complained a voice, which samson at once recognized as that of aaron hollis, the most trusted of purvy's personal guards. "i hain't never laid down on ye yet. me an' jim asberry killed old henry south. we laid fer his boy, an' would 'a' got him ef ye'd only said ther word. i went inter hixon, an' killed tam'rack spicer, with soldiers all round me. there hain't no other damn fool in these mountings would 'a' took such a long chance es thet. i'm tired of hit. they're a-goin' ter git me, an' i wants ter leave, an' you won't come clean with the price of a railroad ticket to oklahoma. now, damn yore stingy soul, i gits that ticket or i gits you!" "aaron, ye can't scare me into doin' nothin' i ain't aimin' to do." the old baron of the vendetta spoke in a cold, stoical voice. "i tell ye i ain't quite through with ye yet. in due an' proper time i'll see that ye get yer ticket." then he added, with conciliating softness: "we've been friends a long while. let's talk this thing over before we fall out." "thar hain't nothin' ter talk over," stormed aaron. "ye're jest tryin' ter kill time till the boys gits hyar, and then i reckon ye 'lows ter have me kilt like yer've had me kill them others. hit hain't no use. i've done sent 'em away. when they gits back hyar, either you'll be in hell, or i'll be on my way outen the mountings." samson stood rigid. here was the confession of one murderer, with no denial from the other. the truce was of. why should he wait? cataracts seemed to thunder in his brain, and yet he stood there, his hand in his coat-pocket, clutching the grip of a magazine pistol. samson south the old, and samson south the new, were writhing in the life-and-death grapple of two codes. then, before decision came, he heard a sharp report inside, and the heavy fall of a body to the floor. a wildly excited figure came plunging through the door, and samson's left hand swept out, and seized its shoulder in a sudden vise grip. "do you know me?" he inquired, as the mountaineer pulled away and crouched back with startled surprise and vicious frenzy. "no, damn ye! git outen my road!" aaron thrust his cocked rifle close against the stranger's face. from its muzzle came the acrid stench of freshly burned powder. "git outen my road afore i kills ye!" "my name is samson south." before the astounded finger on the rifle trigger could be crooked, samson's pistol spoke from the pocket, and, as though in echo, the rifle blazed, a little too late and a shade too high, over his head, as the dead man's arms went up. chapter xxvi except for those two reports there was no sound. samson stood still, anticipating an uproar of alarm. now, he should doubtless have to pay with his life for both the deaths which would inevitably and logically be attributed to his agency. but, strangely enough, no clamor arose. the shot inside had been muffled, and those outside, broken by the intervening store, did not arouse the house. purvy's bodyguard had been sent away by hollis on a false alarm. only the "womenfolks" and children remained indoors, and they were drowning with a piano any sounds that might have come from without. that piano was the chief emblem of purvy's wealth. it represented the acme of "having things hung up"; that ancient and expressive phrase, which had come down from days when the pioneers' worldly condition was gauged by the hams hanging in the smokehouse and the peppers, tobacco and herbs strung high against the rafters. now, samson south stood looking down, uninterrupted, on what had been aaron hollis as it lay motionless at his feet. there was a powder- burned hole in the butternut shirt, and only a slender thread of blood trickled into the dirt-grimed cracks between the planks. the body was twisted sidewise, in one of those grotesque attitudes with which a sudden summons so frequently robs the greatest phenomenon of all its rightful dignity. the sun was gilding the roadside clods, and burnishing the greens of the treetops. the breeze was harping sleepily among the branches, and several geese stalked pompously along the creek's edge. on the top of the stockade a gray squirrel, sole witness to the tragedy, rose on his haunches, flirted his brush, and then, in a sudden leap of alarm, disappeared. samson turned to the darkened doorway. inside was emptiness, except for the other body, which had crumpled forward and face down across the counter. a glance showed that jesse purvy would no more fight back the coming of death. he was quite unarmed. behind his spent body ranged shelves of general merchandise. boxes of sardines, and cans of peaches were lined in homely array above him. his lifeless hand rested as though flung out in an oratorical gesture on a bolt of blue calico. samson paused only for a momentary survey. his score was clean. he would not again have to agonize over the dilemma of old ethics and new. to-morrow, the word would spread like wildfire along misery and crippleshin, that samson south was back, and that his coming had been signalized by these two deaths. the fact that he was responsible for only one--and that in self-defense--would not matter. they would prefer to believe that he had invaded the store and killed purvy, and that hollis had fallen in his master's defense at the threshold. samson went out, still meeting no one, and continued his journey. dusk was falling, when he hitched his horse in a clump of timber, and, lifting his saddlebags, began climbing to a cabin that sat far back in a thicketed cove. he was now well within south territory, and the need of masquerade had ended. the cabin had not, for years, been occupied. its rooftree was leaning askew under rotting shingles. the doorstep was ivy-covered, and the stones of the hearth were broken. but it lay well hidden, and would serve his purposes. shortly, a candle flickered inside, before a small hand mirror. scissors and safety razor were for a while busy. the man who entered in impeccable clothes emerged fifteen minutes later--transformed. there appeared under the rising june crescent, a smooth-faced native, clad in stained store-clothes, with rough woolen socks showing at his brogan tops, and a battered felt hat drawn over his face. no one who had known the samson south of four years ago would fail to recognize him now. and the strangest part, he told himself, was that he felt the old samson. he no longer doubted his courage. he had come home, and his conscience was once more clear. the mountain roads and the mountain sides themselves were sweetly silent. moon mist engulfed the flats in a lake of dreams, and, as the livery-stable horse halted to pant at the top of the final ridge, he could see below him his destination. the smaller knobs rose like little islands out of the vapor, and yonder, catching the moonlight like scraps of gray paper, were two roofs: that of his uncle's house--and that of the widow miller. at a point where a hand-bridge crossed the skirting creek, the boy dismounted. ahead of him lay the stile where he had said good-by to sally. the place was dark, and the chimney smokeless, but, as he came nearer, holding the shadows of the trees, he saw one sliver of light at the bottom of a solid shutter; the shutter of sally's room. yet, for a while, samson stopped there, looking and making no sound. he stood at his rubicon--and behind him lay all the glitter and culture of that other world, a world that had been good to him. that was to samson south one of those pregnant and portentous moments with which life sometimes punctuates its turning points. at such times, all the set and solidified strata that go into the building of a man's nature may be uptossed and rearranged. so, the layers of a mountain chain and a continent that have for centuries remained steadfast may break and alter under the stirring of earthquake or volcano, dropping heights under water and throwing new ranges above the sea. there was passing before his eyes as he stood there, pausing, a panorama much vaster than any he had been able to conceive when last he stood there. he was seeing in review the old life and the new, lurid with contrasts, and, as the pictures of things thousands of miles away rose before his eyes as clearly as the serried backbone of the ridges, he was comparing and settling for all time the actual values and proportions of the things in his life. he saw the streets of paris and new york, brilliant under their strings of opalescent lights; the _champs elysées_ ran in its smooth, tree-trimmed parquetry from the _place de concorde_ to the _arc de triomphe_, and the chatter and music of its cafés rang in his ears. the ivory spaces of rome, from the pincian hill where his fancy saw almond trees in bloom to the _piazza venezia_, spread their eternal story before his imagination. he saw 'buses and hansoms slirring through the mud and fog of london and the endless _pot- pourri_ of manhattan. all the things that the outside world had to offer; all that had ever stirred his pulses to a worship of the beautiful, the harmonious, the excellent, rose in exact value. then, he saw again the sunrise as it would be to-morrow morning over these ragged hills. he saw the mists rise and grow wisp-like, and the disc of the sun gain color, and all the miracles of cannoning tempest and caressing calm--and, though he had come back to fight, a wonderful peace settled over him, for he knew that, if he must choose these, his native hills, or all the rest, he would forego all the rest. and sally--would she be changed? his heart was hammering wildly now. sally had remained loyal. it was a miracle, but it was the one thing that counted. he was going to her, and nothing else mattered. all the questions of dilemma were answered. he was samson south come back to his own--to sally, and the rifle. nothing had changed! the same trees raised the same crests against the same sky. for every one of them, he felt a throb of deep emotion. best of all, he himself had not changed in any cardinal respect, though he had come through changes and perplexities. he lifted his head, and sent out a long, clear whippoorwill call, which quavered on the night much like the other calls in the black hills around him. after a moment, he went nearer, in the shadow of a poplar, and repeated the call. then, the cabin-door opened. its jamb framed a patch of yellow candlelight, and, at the center, a slender silhouetted figure, in a fluttering, eager attitude of uncertainty. the figure turned slightly to one side, and, as it did so, the man saw clasped in her right hand the rifle, which had been his mission, bequeathed to her in trust. he saw, too, the delicate outline of her profile, with anxiously parted lips and a red halo about her soft hair. he watched the eager heave of her breast, and the spasmodic clutching of the gun to her heart. for four years, he had not given that familiar signal. possibly, it had lost some of its characteristic quality, for she still seemed in doubt. she hesitated, and the man, invisible in the shadow, once more imitated the bird-note, but this time it was so low and soft that it seemed the voice of a whispering whippoorwill. then, with a sudden glad little cry, she came running with her old fleet grace down to the road. samson had vaulted the stile, and stood in the full moonlight. as he saw her coming he stretched out his arms and his voice broke from his throat in a half-hoarse, passionate cry: "sally!" it was the only word he could have spoken just then, but it was all that was necessary. it told her everything. it was an outburst from a heart too full of emotion to grope after speech, the cry of a man for the one woman who alone can call forth an inflection more eloquent than phrases and poetry. and, as she came into his outstretched arms as straight and direct as a homing pigeon, they closed about her in a convulsive grip that held her straining to him, almost crushing her in the tempest of his emotion. for a time, there was no speech, but to each of them it seemed that their tumultuous heart-beating must sound above the night music, and the telegraphy of heart-beats tells enough. later, they would talk, but now, with a gloriously wild sense of being together, with a mutual intoxication of joy because all that they had dreamed was true, and all that they had feared was untrue, they stood there under the skies clasping each other--with the rifle between their breasts. then as he held her close, he wondered that a shadow of doubt could ever have existed. he wondered if, except in some nightmare of hallucination, it had ever existed. the flutter of her heart was like that of a rapturous bird, and the play of her breath on his face like the fragrance of the elder blossoms. these were their stars twinkling overhead. these were their hills, and their moon was smiling on their tryst. he had gone and seen the world that lured him: he had met its difficulties, and faced its puzzles. he had even felt his feet wandering at the last from the path that led back to her, and now, with her lithe figure close held in his embrace, and her red-brown hair brushing his temples, he marveled how such an instant of doubt could have existed. he knew only that the silver of the moon and the kiss of the breeze and the clasp of her soft arms about his neck were all parts of one great miracle. and she, who had waited and almost despaired, not taking count of what she had suffered, felt her knees grow weak, and her head grow dizzy with sheer happiness, and wondered if it were not too marvelous to be true. and, looking very steadfastly into his eyes, she saw there the gleam that once had frightened her; the gleam that spoke of something stronger and more compelling than his love. it no longer frightened her, but made her soul sing, though it was more intense than it had ever been before, for now she knew that it was she herself who brought it to his pupils--and that nothing would ever be stronger. but they had much to say to each other, and, finally, samson broke the silence: "did ye think i wasn't a-comin' back, sally?" he questioned, softly. at that moment, he had no realization that his tongue had ever fashioned smoother phrases. and she, too, who had been making war on crude idioms, forgot, as she answered: "ye done said ye was comin'." then, she added a happy lie: "i knowed plumb shore ye'd do hit." after a while, she drew away, and said, slowly: "samson, i've done kept the old rifle-gun ready fer ye. ye said ye'd need it bad when ye come back, an' i've took care of it." she stood there holding it, and her voice dropped almost to a whisper as she added: "it's been a lot of comfort to me sometimes, because it was your'n. i knew if ye stopped keerin' fer me, ye wouldn't let me keep it--an' as long as i had it, i--" she broke off, and the fingers of one hand touched the weapon caressingly. the man knew many things now that he had not known when he said good- by. he recognized in the very gesture with which she stroked the old walnut stock the pathetic heart-hunger of a nature which had been denied the fulfillment of its strength, and which had been bestowing on an inanimate object something that might almost have been the stirring of the mother instinct for a child. now, thank god, her life should never lack anything that a flood-tide of love could bring to it. he bent his head in a mute sort of reverence. after a long while, they found time for the less-wonderful things. "i got your letter," he said, seriously, "and i came at once." as he began to speak of concrete facts, he dropped again into ordinary english, and did not know that he had changed his manner of speech. for an instant, sally looked up into his face, then with a sudden laugh, she informed him: "i can say, 'isn't,' instead of, 'hain't,' too. how did you like my writing?" he held her off at arms' length, and looked at her pridefully, but under his gaze her eyes fell, and her face flushed with a sudden diffidence and a new shyness of realization. she wore a calico dress, but at her throat was a soft little bow of ribbon. she was no longer the totally unself-conscious wood-nymph, though as natural and instinctive as in the other days. suddenly, she drew away from him a little, and her hands went slowly to her breast, and rested there. she was fronting a great crisis, but, in the first flush of joy, she had forgotten it. she had spent lonely nights struggling for rudiments; she had sought and fought to refashion herself, so that, if he came, he need not be ashamed of her. and now he had come, and, with a terrible clarity and distinctness, she realized how pitifully little she had been able to accomplish. would she pass muster? she stood there before him, frightened, self-conscious and palpitating, then her voice came in a whisper: "samson, dear, i'm not holdin' you to any promise. those things we said were a long time back. maybe we'd better forget 'em now, and begin all over again." but, again, he crushed her in his arms, and his voice rose triumphantly: "sally, i have no promises to take back, and you have made none that i'm ever going to let you take back--not while life lasts!" her laugh was the delicious music of happiness. "i don't want to take them back," she said. then, suddenly, she added, importantly: "i wear shoes and stockings now, and i've been to school a little. i'm awfully-- awfully ignorant, samson, but i've started, and i reckon you can teach me." his voice choked. then, her hands strayed up, and clasped themselves about his head. "oh, samson," she cried, as though someone had struck her, "you've cut yore ha'r." "it will grow again," he laughed. but he wished that he had not had to make that excuse. then, being honest, he told her all about adrienne lescott--even about how, after he believed that he had been outcast by his uncle and herself, he had had his moments of doubt. now that it was all so clear, now that there could never be doubt, he wanted the woman who had been so true a friend to know the girl whom he loved. he loved them both, but was in love with only one. he wanted to present to sally the friend who had made him, and to the friend who had made him the sally of whom he was proud. he wanted to tell adrienne that now he could answer her question--that each of them meant to the other exactly the same thing: they were friends of the rarer sort, who had for a little time been in danger of mistaking their comradeship for passion. as they talked, sitting on the stile, sally held the rifle across her knees. except for their own voices and the soft chorus of night sounds, the hills were wrapped in silence--a silence as soft as velvet. suddenly, in a pause, there came to the girl's ears the cracking of a twig in the woods. with the old instinctive training of the mountains, she leaped noiselessly down, and for an instant stood listening with intent ears. then, in a low, tense whisper, as she thrust the gun into the man's hands, she cautioned: "git out of sight. maybe they've done found out ye've come back--maybe they're trailin' ye!" with an instant shock, she remembered what mission had brought him back, and what was his peril; and he, too, for whom the happiness of the moment had swallowed up other things, came back to a recognition of facts. dropping into the old woodcraft, he melted out of sight into the shadow, thrusting the girl behind him, and crouched against the fence, throwing the rifle forward, and peering into the shadows. as he stood there, balancing the gun once more in his hands, old instincts began to stir, old battle hunger to rise, and old realizations of primitive things to assault him. then, when they had waited with bated breath until they were both reassured, he rose and swung the stock to his shoulder several times. with something like a sigh of contentment, he said, half to himself: "hit feels mighty natural ter throw this old rifle-gun up. i reckon maybe i kin still shoot hit." "i learned some things down there at school, samson," said the girl, slowly, "and i wish--i wish you didn't have to use it." "jim asberry is dead," said the man, gravely. "yes," she echoed, "jim asberry's dead." she stopped there. yet, her sigh completed the sentence as though she had added, "but he was only one of several. your vow went farther." after a moment's pause, samson added: "jesse purvy's dead." the girl drew back, with a frightened gasp. she knew what this meant, or thought she did. "jesse purvy!" she repeated. "oh, samson, did ye--?" she broke off, and covered her face with her hands. "no, sally," he told her. "i didn't have to." he recited the day's occurrences, and they sat together on the stile, until the moon had sunk to the ridge top. * * * * * captain sidney callomb, who had been despatched in command of a militia company to quell the trouble in the mountains, should have been a soldier by profession. all his enthusiasms were martial. his precision was military. his cool eye held a note of command which made itself obeyed. he had a rare gift of handling men, which made them ready to execute the impossible. but the elder callomb had trained his son to succeed him at the head of a railroad system, and the young man had philosophically undertaken to satisfy his military ambitions with state guard shoulder-straps. the deepest sorrow and mortification he had ever known was that which came to him when tamarack spicer, his prisoner of war and a man who had been surrendered on the strength of his personal guarantee, had been assassinated before his eyes. that the manner of this killing had been so outrageously treacherous that it could hardly have been guarded against, failed to bring him solace. it had shown the inefficiency of his efforts, and had brought on a carnival of blood-letting, when he had come here to safeguard against that danger. in some fashion, he must make amends. he realized, too, and it rankled deeply, that his men were not being genuinely used to serve the state, but as instruments of the hollmans, and he had seen enough to distrust the hollmans. here, in hixon, he was seeing things from only one angle. he meant to learn something more impartial. besides being on duty as an officer of militia, callomb was a kentuckian, interested in the problems of his commonwealth, and, when he went back, he knew that his cousin, who occupied the executive mansion at frankfort, would be interested in his suggestions. the governor had asked him to report his impressions, and he meant to form them after analysis. so, smarting under his impotency, captain callomb came out of his tent one morning, and strolled across the curved bridge to the town proper. he knew that the grand jury was convening, and he meant to sit as a spectator in the court-house and study proceedings when they were instructed. but before he reached the court-house, where for a half-hour yet the cupola bell would not clang out its summons to veniremen and witnesses, he found fresh fuel for his wrath. he was not a popular man with these clansmen, though involuntarily he had been useful in leading their victims to the slaughter. there was a scowl in his eyes that they did not like, and an arrogant hint of iron laws in the livery he wore, which their instincts distrusted. callomb saw without being told that over the town lay a sense of portentous tidings. faces were more sullen than usual. men fell into scowling knots and groups. a clerk at a store where he stopped for tobacco inquired as he made change: "heered the news, stranger?" "what news?" "this here 'wildcat' samson south come back yis-tiddy, an' last evenin' towards sundown, jesse purvy an' aaron hollis was shot dead." for an instant, the soldier stood looking at the young clerk, his eyes kindling into a wrathful blaze. then, he cursed under his breath. at the door, he turned on his heel: "where can judge smithers be found at this time of day?" he demanded. chapter xxvii the honorable asa smithers was not the regular judge of the circuit which numbered hixon among its county-seats. the elected incumbent was ill, and smithers had been named as his pro-tem. successor. callomb climbed to the second story of the frame bank building, and pounded loudly on a door, which bore the boldly typed shingle: "asa smithers, attorney-at-law." the temporary judge admitted a visitor in uniform, whose countenance was stormy with indignant protest. the judge himself was placid and smiling. the lawyer, who was for the time being exalted to the bench, hoped to ascend it more permanently by the votes of the hollman faction, since only hollman votes were counted. he was a young man of powerful physique with a face ruggedly strong and honest. it was such an honest and fearless face that it was extremely valuable to its owner in concealing a crookedness as resourceful as that of a fox, and a moral cowardice which made him a spineless tool in evil hands. a shock of tumbled red hair over a fighting face added to the appearance of combative strength. the honorable asa was conventionally dressed, and his linen was white, but his collar was innocent of a necktie. callomb stood for a moment inside the door, and, when he spoke, it was to demand crisply: "well, what are you going to do about it?" "about what, captain?" inquired the other, mildly. "is it possible you haven't heard? since yesterday noon, two more murders have been added to the holocaust. you represent the courts of law. i represent the military arm of the state. are we going to stand by and see this go on?" the judge shook his head, and his visage was sternly thoughtful and hypocritical. he did not mention that he had just come from conference with the hollman leaders. he did not explain that the venire he had drawn from the jury drum had borne a singularly solid hollman compaction. "until the grand jury acts, i don't see that we can take any steps." "and," stormed captain callomb, "the grand jury will, like former grand juries, lie down in terror and inactivity. either there are no courageous men in your county, or these panels are selected to avoid including them." judge smithers' face darkened. if he was a moral coward, he was at least a coward crouching behind a seeming of fearlessness. "captain," he said, coolly, but with a dangerous hint of warning, "i don't see that your duties include contempt of court." "no!" callomb was now thoroughly angered, and his voice rose. "i am sent down here subject to your orders, and it seems you are also subject to orders. here are two murders in a day, capping a climax of twenty years of bloodshed. you have information as to the arrival of a man known as a desperado with a grudge against the two dead men, yet you know of no steps to take. give me the word, and i'll go out and bring that man, and any others you name, to your bar of justice--if it is a bar of justice! for god's sake, give me something else to do than to bring in prisoners to be shot down in cold blood." the judge sat balancing a pencil on his extended forefinger as though it were a scale of justice. "you have been heated in your language, sir," he said, sternly, "but it is a heat arising from an indignation which i share. consequently, i pass it over. i cannot instruct you to arrest samson south before the grand jury has accused him. the law does not contemplate hasty or unadvised action. all men are innocent until proven guilty. if the grand jury wants south, i'll instruct you to go and get him. until then, you may leave my part of the work to me." his honor rose from his chair. "you can at least give this grand jury such instructions on murder as will point out their duty. you can assure them that the militia will protect them. through your prosecutor, you can bring evidence to their attention, you----" "if you will excuse me," interrupted his honor, drily, "i'll judge of how i am to charge my grand jury. i have been in communication with the family of mr. purvy, and it is not their wish at the present time to bring this case before the panel." callomb laughed ironically. "no, i could have told you that before you conferred with them. i could have told you that they prefer to be their own courts and executioners, except where they need you. they also preferred to have me get a man they couldn't take themselves, and then to assassinate him in my hands. who in the hell do you work for, judge-for-the-moment smithers? are you holding a job under the state of kentucky, or under the hollman faction of this feud? i am instructed to take my orders from you. will you kindly tell me my master's real name?" smithers turned pale with anger, his fighting face grew as truculent as a bulldog's, while callomb stood glaring back at him like a second bulldog, but the judge knew that he was being honestly and fearlessly accused. he merely pointed to the door. the captain turned on his heel, and stalked out of the place, and the judge came down the steps, and crossed the street to the court-house. five minutes later, he turned to the shirt-sleeved man who was leaning on the bench, and said in his most judicial voice: "mr. sheriff, open court." the next day the mail-carrier brought in a note for the temporary judge. his honor read it at recess, and hastened across to hollman's mammoth department store. there, in council with his masters, he asked instructions. this was the note: "the hon. asa smithers. "sir: i arrived in this county yesterday, and am prepared, if called as a witness, to give to the grand jury full and true particulars of the murder of jesse purvy and the killing of aaron hollis. i am willing to come under escort of my own kinsmen, or of the militiamen, as the court may advise. "the requirement of any bodyguard, i deplore, but in meeting my legal obligations, i do not regard it as necessary or proper to walk into a trap. "respectfully, samson south." smithers looked perplexedly at judge hollman. "shall i have him come?" he inquired. hollman threw the letter down on his desk with a burst of blasphemy: "have him come?" he echoed. "hell and damnation, no! what do we want him to come here and spill the milk for? when we get ready, we'll indict him. then, let your damned soldiers go after him--as a criminal, not a witness. after that, we'll continue this case until these outsiders go away, and we can operate to suit ourselves. we don't fall for samson south's tricks. no, sir; you never got that letter! it miscarried. do you hear? you never got it." smithers nodded grudging acquiescence. most men would rather be independent officials than collar-wearers. out on misery samson south had gladdened the soul of his uncle with his return. the old man was mending, and, for a long time, the two had talked. the failing head of the clan looked vainly for signs of degeneration in his nephew, and, failing to find them, was happy. "hev ye decided, samson," he inquired, "thet ye was right in yer notion 'bout goin' away?" samson sat reflectively for a while, then replied: "we were both right, uncle spicer--and both wrong. this is my place, but if i'm to take up the leadership it must be in a different fashion. changes are coming. we can't any longer stand still." spicer south lighted his pipe. he, too, in these last years, had seen in the distance the crest of the oncoming wave. he, too, recognized that, from within or without, there must be a regeneration. he did not welcome it, but, if it must come, he preferred that it come not at the hands of conquerors, but under the leadership of his own blood. "i reckon there's right smart truth to that," he acknowledged. "i've been studyin' 'bout hit consid'able myself of late. thar's been sev'ral fellers through the country talkin' coal an' timber an' railroads--an' sich like." sally went to mill that saturday, and with her rode samson. there, besides wile mccager, he met caleb wiley and several others. at first, they received him sceptically, but they knew of the visit to purvy's store, and they were willing to admit that in part at least he had erased the blot from his escutcheon. then, too, except for cropped hair and a white skin, he had come back as he had gone, in homespun and hickory. there was nothing highfalutin in his manners. in short, the impression was good. "i reckon now that ye're back, samson," suggested mccager, "an' seein' how yore uncle spicer is gettin' along all right, i'll jest let the two of ye run things. i've done had enough." it was a simple fashion of resigning a regency, but effectual. old caleb, however, still insurgent and unconvinced, brought in a minority report. "we wants fightin' men," he grumbled, with the senile reiteration of his age, as he spat tobacco and beat a rat-tat on the mill floor with his long hickory staff. "we don't want no deserters." "samson ain't a deserter," defended sally. "there isn't one of you fit to tie his shoes." sally and old spicer south alone knew of her lover's letter to the circuit judge, and they were pledged to secrecy. "never mind, sally!" it was samson himself who answered her. "i didn't come back because i care what men like old caleb think. i came back because they needed me. the proof of a fighting man is his fighting, i reckon. i'm willing to let 'em judge me by what i'm going to do." so, samson slipped back, tentatively, at least, into his place as clan head, though for a time he found it a post without action. after the fierce outburst of bloodshed, quiet had settled, and it was tacitly understood that, unless the hollman forces had some coup in mind which they were secreting, this peace would last until the soldiers were withdrawn. "when the world's a-lookin'," commented judge hollman, "hit's a right good idea to crawl under a log--an' lay still." purvy had been too famous a feudist to pass unsung. reporters came as far as hixon, gathered there such news as the hollmans chose to give them, and went back to write lurid stories and description, from hearsay, of the stockaded seat of tragedy. nor did they overlook the dramatic coincidence of the return of "wildcat" samson south from civilization to savagery. they made no accusation, but they pointed an inference and a moral--as they thought. it was a sermon on the triumph of heredity over the advantages of environment. adrienne read some of these saffron misrepresentations, and they distressed her. * * * * * meanwhile, it came insistently to the ears of captain callomb that some plan was on foot, the intricacies of which he could not fathom, to manufacture a case against a number of the souths, quite apart from their actual guilt, or likelihood of guilt. once more, he would be called upon to go out and drag in men too well fortified to be taken by the posses and deputies of the hollman civil machinery. at this news, he chafed bitterly, and, still rankling with a sense of shame at the loss of his first prisoner, he formed a plan of his own, which he revealed over his pipe to his first lieutenant. "there's a nigger in the woodpile, merriwether," he said. "we are simply being used to do the dirty work up here, and i'm going to do a little probing of my own. i guess i'll turn the company over to you for a day or two." "what idiocy are you contemplating now?" inquired the second in command. "i'm going to ride over on misery, and hear what the other side has to say. i've usually noticed that one side of any story is pretty good until the other's told." "you mean you are going to go over there where the souths are intrenched, where every road is guarded?" the lieutenant spoke wrathfully and with violence. "don't be an ass, callomb. you went over there once before, and took a man away--and he's dead. you owe them a life, and they collect their dues. you will be supported by no warrant of arrest, and can't take a sufficient detail to protect you." "no," said callomb, quietly; "i go on my own responsibility and i go by myself." "and," stormed merriwether, "you'll never come back." "i think," smiled callomb, "i'll get back. i owe an old man over there an apology, and i want to see this desperado at first hand." "it's sheer madness. i ought to take you down to this infernal crook of a judge, and have you committed to a strait-jacket." "if," said callomb, "you are content to play the cats-paw to a bunch of assassins, i'm not. the mail-rider went out this morning, and he carried a letter to old spicer south. i told him that i was coming unescorted and unarmed, and that my object was to talk with him. i asked him to give me a safe-conduct, at least until i reached his house, and stated my case. i treated him like an officer and a gentleman, and, unless i'm a poor judge of men, he's going to treat me that way." the lieutenant sought vainly to dissuade callomb, but the next day the captain rode forth, unaccompanied. curious stares followed him, and judge smithers turned narrowing and unpleasant eyes after him, but at the point where the ridge separated the territory of the hollmans from that of the souths, he saw waiting in the road a mounted figure, sitting his horse straight, and clad in the rough habiliments of the mountaineer. as callomb rode up he saluted, and the mounted figure with perfect gravity and correctness returned that salute as one officer to another. the captain was surprised. where had this mountaineer with the steady eyes and the clean-cut jaw learned the niceties of military etiquette? "i am captain callomb of f company," said the officer. "i'm riding over to spicer south's house. did you come to meet me?" "to meet and guide you," replied a pleasant voice. "my name is samson south." the militiaman stared. this man whose countenance was calmly thoughtful scarcely comported with the descriptions he had heard of the "wildcat of the mountains"; the man who had come home straight as a storm-petrel at the first note of tempest, and marked his coming with double murder. callomb had been too busy to read newspapers of late. he had heard only that samson had "been away." while he wondered, samson went on: "i'm glad you came. if it had been possible i would have come to you." as he told of the letter he had written the judge, volunteering to present himself as a witness, the officer's wonder grew. "they said that you had been away," suggested callomb. "if it's not an impertinent question, what part of the mountains have you been visiting?" samson laughed. "not any part of the mountains," he said. "i've been living chiefly in new york--and for a time in paris." callomb drew his horse to a dead halt. "in the name of god," he incredulously asked, "what manner of man are you?" "i hope," came the instant reply, "it may be summed up by saying that i'm exactly the opposite of the man you've had described for you back there at hixon." "i knew it," exclaimed the soldier, "i knew that i was being fed on lies! that's why i came. i wanted to get the straight of it, and i felt that the solution lay over here." they rode the rest of the way in deep conversation. samson outlined his ambitions for his people. he told, too, of the scene that had been enacted at purvy's store. callomb listened with absorption, feeling that the narrative bore axiomatic truth on its face. at last he inquired: "did you succeed up there--as a painter?" "that's a long road," samson told him, "but i think i had a fair start. i was getting commissions when i left." "then, i am to understand"--the officer met the steady gray eyes and put the question like a cross-examiner bullying a witness--"i am to understand that you deliberately put behind you a career to come down here and herd these fence-jumping sheep?" "hardly that," deprecated the head of the souths. "they sent for me-- that's all. of course, i had to come." "why?" "because they had sent. they are my people." the officer leaned in his saddle. "south," he said, "would you mind shaking hands with me? some day, i want to brag about it to my grandchildren." chapter xxviii callomb spent the night at the house of spicer south. he met and talked with a number of the kinsmen, and, if he read in the eyes of some of them a smoldering and unforgiving remembrance of his unkept pledge, at least they repressed all expression of censure. with spicer south and samson, the captain talked long into the night. he made many jottings in a notebook. he, with samson abetting him, pointed out to the older and more stubborn man the necessity of a new regime in the mountains, under which the individual could walk in greater personal safety. as for the younger south, the officer felt, when he rode away the next morning, that he had discovered the one man who combined with the courage and honesty that many of his clansmen shared the mental equipment and local influence to prove a constructive leader. when he returned to the bluegrass, he meant to have a long and unofficial talk with his relative, the governor. he rode back to the ridge with a strong bodyguard. upon this samson had insisted. he had learned of callomb's hasty and unwise denunciation of smithers, and he knew that smithers had lost no time in relating it to his masters. callomb would be safe enough in hollman country, because the faction which had called for troops could not afford to let him be killed within their own precincts. but, if callomb could be shot down in his uniform, under circumstances which seemed to bear the earmarks of south authorship, it would arouse in the state at large a tidal wave of resentment against the souths, which they could never hope to stem. and so, lest one of hollman's hired assassins should succeed in slipping across the ridge and waylaying him, samson conducted him to the frontier of the ridge. on reaching hixon, callomb apologized to judge smithers for his recent outburst of temper. now that he understood the hand that gentleman was playing, he wished to be strategic and in a position of seeming accord. he must match craft against craft. he did not intimate that he knew of samson's letter, and rather encouraged the idea that he had been received on misery with surly and grudging hospitality. smithers, presuming that the souths still burned with anger over the shooting of tamarack, swallowed that bait, and was beguiled. the grand jury trooped each day to the court-house and transacted its business. the petty juries went and came, occupied with several minor homicide cases. the captain, from a chair, which judge smithers had ordered placed beside him on the bench, was looking on and intently studying. one morning, smithers confided to him that in a day or two more the grand jury would bring in a true bill against samson south, charging him with murder. the officer did not show surprise. he merely nodded. "i suppose i'll be called on to go and get him?" "i'm afraid we'll have to ask you to do that." "what caused the change of heart? i thought purvy's people didn't want it done." it was callomb's first allusion, except for his apology, to their former altercation. for an instant only, smithers was a little confused. "to be quite frank with you, callomb," he said, "i got to thinking over the matter in the light of your own viewpoint, and, after due deliberation, i came to see that to the state at large it might bear the same appearance. so, i had the grand jury take the matter up. we must stamp out such lawlessness as samson south stands for. he is the more dangerous because he has brains." callomb nodded, but, at noon, he slipped out on a pretense of sight- seeing, and rode by a somewhat circuitous route to the ridge. at nightfall, he came to the house of the clan head. "south," he said to samson, when he had led him aside, "they didn't want to hear what you had to tell the grand jury, but they are going ahead to indict you on manufactured evidence." samson was for a moment thoughtful, then he nodded. "that's about what i was expecting." "now," went on callomb, "we understand each other. we are working for the same end, and, by god! i've had one experience in making arrests at the order of that court. i don't want it to happen again." "i suppose," said samson, "you know that while i am entirely willing to face any fair court of justice, i don't propose to walk into a packed jury, whose only object is to get me where i can be made way with. callomb, i hope we won't have to fight each other. what do you suggest?" "if the court orders the militia to make an arrest, the militia has no option. in the long run, resistance would only alienate the sympathy of the world at large. there is just one thing to be done, south. it's a thing i don't like to suggest, and a thing which, if we were not fighting the devil with fire, it would be traitorous for me to suggest." he paused, then added emphatically: "when my detail arrives here, which will probably be in three or four days, you must not be here. you must not be in any place where we can find you." for a little while, samson looked at the other man with a slow smile of amusement, but soon it died, and his face grew hard and determined. "i'm obliged to you, callomb," he said, seriously. "it was more than i had the right to expect--this warning. i understand the cost of giving it. but it's no use. i can't cut and run. no, by god, you wouldn't do it! you can't ask me to do it." "by god, you can and will!" callomb spoke with determination. "this isn't a time for quibbling. you've got work to do. we both have work to do. we can't stand on a matter of vainglorious pride, and let big issues of humanity go to pot. we haven't the right to spend men's lives in fighting each other, when we are the only two men in this entanglement who are in perfect accord--and honest." the mountaineer spent some minutes in silent self-debate. the working of his face under the play of alternating doubt, resolution, hatred and insurgency, told the militiaman what a struggle was progressing. at last, samson's eyes cleared with an expression of discovered solution. "all right, callomb," he said, briefly, "you won't find me!" he smiled, as he added: "make as thorough a search as your duty demands. it needn't be perfunctory or superficial. every south cabin will stand open to you. i shall be extremely busy, to ends which you will approve. i can't tell you what i shall be doing, because to do that, i should have to tell where i mean to be." in two days, the grand jury, with much secrecy, returned a true bill, and a day later a considerable detachment of infantry started on a dusty hike up misery. furtive and inscrutable hollman eyes along the way watched them from cabin-doors, and counted them. they meant also to count them coming back, and they did not expect the totals to tally. * * * * * back of an iron spiked fence, and a dusty sunburned lawn, the barrack -like facades of the old administration building and kentucky state capitol frowned on the street and railroad track. about it, on two sides of the kentucky river, sprawled the town of frankfort; sleepy, more or less disheveled at the center, and stretching to shaded environs of colonial houses set in lawns of rich bluegrass, amid the shade of forest trees. circling the town in an embrace of quiet beauty rose the kentucky river hills. turning in to the gate of the state house enclosure, a man, who seemed to be an easterner by the cut of his clothes, walked slowly up the brick walk, and passed around the fountain at the front of the capitol. he smiled to himself as his wandering eyes caught the distant walls and roofs of the state prison on the hillside. his steps carried him direct to the main entrance of the administration building, and, having paused a moment in the rotunda, he entered the secretary's office of the executive suite, and asked for an interview with the governor. the secretary, whose duties were in part playing cerberus at that threshold, made his customary swift, though unobtrusive, survey of the applicant for audience, and saw nothing to excite suspicion. "have you an appointment?" he asked. the visitor shook his head. scribbling a brief note on a slip of paper, he enclosed it in an envelope and handed it to his questioner. "you must pardon my seeming mysteriousness," he said, "but, if you will let me send in that note, i think the governor will see me." once more the secretary studied his man with a slightly puzzled air, then nodded and went through the door that gave admission to the executive's office. his excellency opened the envelope, and his face showed an expression of surprise. he raised his brows questioningly. "rough-looking sort?" he inquired. "mountaineer?" "no, sir. new yorker would be my guess. is there anything suspicious?" "i guess not." the governor laughed. "rather extraordinary note, but send him in." through his eastern window, the governor gazed off across the hills of south frankfort, to the ribbon of river that came down from the troublesome hills. then, hearing a movement at his back, he turned, and his eyes took in a well-dressed figure with confidence-inspiring features. he picked up the slip from his desk, and, for a moment, stood comparing the name and the message with the man who had sent them in. there seemed to be in his mind some irreconcilable contradiction between the two. with a slightly frowning seriousness, the executive suggested: "this note says that you are samson south, and that you want to see me with reference to a pardon. whose pardon is it, mr. south?" "my own, sir." the governor raised his brows, slightly. "your pardon for what? the newspapers do not even report that you have yet been indicted." he shaded the word "yet" with a slight emphasis. "i think i have been indicted within the past day or two. i'm not sure myself." the governor continued to stare. the impression he had formed of the "wildcat" from press dispatches was warring with the pleasing personal presence of this visitor. then, his forehead wrinkled under his black hair, and his lips drew themselves sternly. "you have come to me too soon, sir," he said curtly. "the pardoning power is a thing to be most cautiously used at all times, and certainly never until the courts have acted. a case not yet adjudicated cannot address itself to executive clemency." samson nodded. "quite true," he admitted. "if i announced that i had come on the matter of a pardon, it was largely that i had to state some business and that seemed the briefest way of putting it." "then, there is something else?" "yes. if it were only a plea for clemency, i should expect the matter to be chiefly important to myself. in point of fact, i hope to make it equally interesting to you. whether you give me a pardon in a fashion which violates all precedent, or whether i surrender myself, and go back to a trial which will be merely a form of assassination, rests entirely with you, sir. you will not find me insistent." "if," said the governor, with a trace of warning in his voice, "your preamble is simply a device to pique my interest with its unheard-of novelty, i may as well confess that so far it has succeeded." "in that case, sir," responded samson, gravely, "i have scored a point. if, when i am through, you find that i have been employing a subterfuge, i, fancy a touch of that bell under your finger will give you the means of summoning an officer. i am ready to turn myself over." then, samson launched into the story of his desires and the details of conditions which outside influences had been powerless to remedy-- because they were outside influences. some man of sufficient vigor and comprehension, acting from the center of disturbance, must be armed with the power to undertake the housecleaning, and for a while must do work that would not be pretty. as far as he was personally concerned, a pardon after trial would be a matter of purely academic interest. he could not expect to survive a trial. he was at present able to hold the souths in leash. if the governor was not of that mind, he was now ready to surrender himself, and permit matters to take their course. "and now, mr. south?" suggested the governor, after a half-hour of absorbed listening. "there is one point you have overlooked. since in the end the whole thing comes back to the exercise of the pardoning power, it is after all the crux of the situation. you may be able to render such services as those for which you volunteer. let us for the moment assume that to be true. you have not yet told me a very important thing. did you or did you not kill purvy and hollis?" "i killed hollis," said samson, as though he were answering a question as to the time of day, "and i did not kill purvy." "kindly," suggested the governor, "give me the full particulars of that affair." the two were still closeted, when a second visitor called, and was told that his excellency could not be disturbed. the second visitor, however, was so insistent that the secretary finally consented to take in the card. after a glance at it, his chief ordered admission. the door opened, and captain callomb entered. he was now in civilian clothes, with portentous news written on his face. he paused in annoyance at the sight of a second figure standing with back turned at the window. then samson wheeled, and the two men recognized each other. they had met before only when one was in olive drab; the other in jeans and butternut. at recognition, callomb's face fell, and grew troubled. "you here, south!" he exclaimed. "i thought you promised me that i shouldn't find you. god knows i didn't want to meet you." "nor i you," samson spoke slowly. "i supposed you'd be raking the hills." neither of them was for the moment paying the least attention to the governor, who stood quietly looking on. "i sent merriwether out there," explained callomb, impatiently. "i wanted to come here before it was too late. god knows, south, i wouldn't have had this meeting occur for anything under heaven. it leaves me no choice. you are indicted on two counts, each charging you with murder." the officer took a step toward the center of the room. his face was weary, and his eyes wore the deep disgust and fatigue that come from the necessity of performing a hard duty. "you are under arrest," he added quietly, but his composure broke as he stormed. "now, by god, i've got to take you back and let them murder you, and you're the one man who might have been useful to the state." chapter xxix the governor had been more influenced by watching the two as they talked than by what he had heard. "it seems to me, gentlemen," he suggested quietly, "that you are both overlooking my presence." he turned to callomb. "your coming, sid, unless it was prearranged between the two of you (which, since i know you, i know was not the case) has shed more light on this matter than the testimony of a dozen witnesses. after all, i'm still the governor." the militiaman seemed to have forgotten the existence of his distinguished kinsman, and, at the voice, his eyes came away from the face of the man he had not wanted to capture, and he shook his head. "you are merely the head of the executive branch," he said. "you are as helpless here as i am. neither of us can interfere with the judicial gentry, though we may know that they stink to high heaven with the stench of blood. after a conviction, you can pardon, but a pardon won't help the dead. i don't see that you can do much of anything, crit." "i don't know yet what i can do, but i can tell you i'm going to do something," said the governor. "you can just begin watching me. in the meantime, i believe i am commander-in-chief of the state troops." "and i am captain of f company, but all i can do is to obey the orders of a bunch of borgias." "as your superior officer," smiled the governor, "i can give you orders. i'm going to give you one now. mr. south has applied to me for a pardon in advance of trial. technically, i have the power to grant that request. morally, i doubt my right. certainly, i shall not do it without a very thorough sifting of evidence and grave consideration of the necessities of the case--as well as the danger of the precedent. however, i am considering it, and for the present you will parole your prisoner in my custody. mr. south, you will not leave frankfort without my permission. you will take every precaution to conceal your actual identity. you will treat as utterly confidential all that has transpired here--and, above all, you will not let newspaper men discover you. those are my orders. report here tomorrow afternoon, and remember that you are my prisoner." samson bowed, and left the two cousins together, where shortly they were joined by the attorney general. that evening, the three dined at the executive mansion, and sat until midnight in the governor's private office, still deep in discussion. during the long session, callomb opened the bulky volume of the kentucky statutes, and laid his finger on section . "there's the rub," he protested, reading aloud: "'the military shall be at all times, and in all cases, in strict subordination to the civil power.'" the governor glanced down to the next paragraph, and read in part: "'the governor may direct the commanding officer of the military force to report to any one of the following-named officers of the district in which the said force is employed: mayor of a city, sheriff, jailer or marshal.'" "which list," stormed callomb, "is the honor roll of the assassins." "at all events"--the governor had derived from callomb much information as to samson south which the mountaineer himself had modestly withheld--"south gets his pardon. that is only a step. i wish i could make him satrap over his province, and provide him with troops to rule it. unfortunately, our form of government has its drawbacks." "it might be possible," ventured the attorney general, "to impeach the sheriff, and appoint this or some other suitable man to fill the vacancy until the next election." "the legislature doesn't meet until next winter," objected callomb. "there is one chance. the sheriff down there is a sick man. let us hope he may die." one day, the hixon conclave met in the room over hollman's mammoth department store, and with much profanity read a communication from frankfort, announcing the pardon of samson south. in that episode, they foresaw the beginning of the end for their dynasty. the outside world was looking on, and their regime could not survive the spotlight of law -loving scrutiny. "the fust thing," declared judge hollman, curtly, "is to get rid of these damned soldiers. we'll attend to our own business later, and we don't want them watchin' us. just now, we want to lie mighty quiet for a spell--teetotally quiet until i pass the word." samson had won back the confidence of his tribe, and enlisted the faith of the state administration. he had been authorized to organize a local militia company, and to drill them, provided he could stand answerable for their conduct. the younger souths took gleefully to that idea. the mountain boy makes a good soldier, once he has grasped the idea of discipline. for ten weeks, they drilled daily in squads and weekly in platoons. then, the fortuitous came to pass. sheriff forbin died, leaving behind him an unexpired term of two years, and samson was summoned hastily to frankfort. he returned, bearing his commission as high sheriff, though, when that news reached hixon, there were few men who envied him his post, and none who cared to bet that he would live to take his oath of office. that august court day was a memorable one in hixon. samson south was coming to town to take up his duties. every one recognized it as the day of final issue, and one that could hardly pass without bloodshed. the hollmans, standing in their last trench, saw only the blunt question of hollman-south supremacy. for years, the feud had flared and slept and broken again into eruption, but never before had a south sought to throw his outposts of power across the waters of crippleshin, and into the county seat. that the present south came bearing commission as an officer of the law only made his effrontery the more unendurable. samson had not called for outside troops. the drilling and disciplining of his own company had progressed in silence along the waters of misery. they were a slouching, unmilitary band of uniformed vagabonds, but they were longing to fight, and callomb had been with them, tirelessly whipping them into rudimentary shape. after all, they were as much partisans as they had been before they were issued state rifles. the battle, if it came, would be as factional as the fight of twenty-five years ago, when the hollmans held the store and the souths the court-house. but back of all that lay one essential difference, and it was this difference that had urged the governor to stretch the forms of law and put such dangerous power into the hands of one man. that difference was the man himself. he was to take drastic steps, but he was to take them under the forms of law, and the state executive believed that, having gone through worse to better, he would maintain the improved condition. early that morning, men began to assemble along the streets of hixon; and to congregate into sullen clumps with set faces that denoted a grim, unsmiling determination. not only the hollmans from the town and immediate neighborhood were there, but their shaggier, fiercer brethren from remote creeks and coves, who came only at urgent call, and did not come without intent of vindicating their presence. old jake hollman, from "over yon" on the headwaters of dryhole creek, brought his son and fourteen-year-old grandson, and all of them carried winchesters. long before the hour for the court-house bell to sound the call which would bring matters to a crisis, women disappeared from the streets, and front shutters and doors closed themselves. at last, the souths began to ride in by half-dozens, and to hitch their horses at the racks. they, also, fell into groups well apart. the two factions eyed each other somberly, sometimes nodding or exchanging greetings, for the time had not yet come to fight. slowly, however, the hollmans began centering about the court-house. they swarmed in the yard, and entered the empty jail, and overran the halls and offices of the building itself. they took their places massed at the windows. the souths, now coming in a solid stream, flowed with equal unanimity to mcewer's hotel, near the square, and disappeared inside. besides their rifles, they carried saddlebags, but not one of the uniforms which some of these bags contained, nor one of the cartridge belts, had yet been exposed to view. stores opened, but only for a desultory pretense of business. horsemen led their mounts away from the more public racks, and tethered them to back fences and willow branches in the shelter of the river banks, where stray bullets would not find them. the dawn that morning had still been gray when samson south and captain callomb had passed the miller cabin. callomb had ridden slowly on around the turn of the road, and waited a quarter of a mile away. he was to command the militia that day, if the high sheriff should call upon him. samson went in and knocked, and instantly to the cabin door came sally's slender, fluttering figure. she put both arms about him, and her eyes, as she looked into his face, were terrified, but tearless. "i'm frightened, samson," she whispered. "god knows i'm going to be praying all this day." "sally," he said, softly, "i'm coming back to you--but, if i don't"-- he held her very close--"uncle spicer has my will. the farm is full of coal, and days are coming when roads will take it out, and every ridge will glow with coke furnaces. that farm will make you rich, if we win to-day's fight." "don't!" she cried, with a sudden gasp. "don't talk like that." "i must," he said, gently. "i want you to make me a promise, sally." "it's made," she declared. "if, by any chance i should not come back, i want you to hold uncle spicer and old wile mccager to their pledge. they must not privately avenge me. they must still stand for the law. i want you, and this is most important of all, to leave these mountains----" her hands tightened on his shoulders. "not that, samson," she pleaded; "not these mountains where we've been together." "you promised. i want you to go to the lescotts in new york. in a year, you can come back--if you want to; but you must promise that." "i promise," she reluctantly yielded. it was half-past nine o'clock when samson south and sidney callomb rode side by side into hixon from the east. a dozen of the older souths, who had not become soldiers, met them there, and, with no word, separated to close about them in a circle of protection. as callomb's eyes swept the almost deserted streets, so silent that the strident switching of a freight train could be heard down at the edge of town, he shook his head. as he met the sullen glances of the gathering in the court-house yard, he turned to samson. "they'll fight," he said, briefly. samson nodded. "i don't understand the method," demurred the officer, with perplexity. "why don't they shoot you at once. what are they waiting for?" "they want to see," samson assured him, "what tack i mean to take. they want to let the thing play itself out, they're inquisitive--and they're cautious, because now they are bucking the state and the world." samson with his escort rode up to the court-house door, and dismounted. he was for the moment unarmed, and his men walked on each side of him, while the onlooking hollmans stood back in surly silence to let him pass. in the office of the county judge, samson said briefly: "i want to get my deputies sworn in." "we've got plenty deputy sheriffs," was the quietly insolent rejoinder. "not now--we haven't any." samson's voice was sharply incisive. "i'll name my own assistants." "what's the matter with these boys?" the county judge waved his hand toward two hold-over deputies. "they're fired." the county judge laughed. "well, i reckon i can't attend to that right now." "then, you refuse?" "mebby you might call it that." samson leaned on the judge's table, and rapped sharply with his knuckles. his handful of men stood close, and callomb caught his breath, in the heavy air of storm-freighted suspense. the hollman partisans filled the room, and others were crowding to the doors. "i'm high sheriff of this county now," said samson, sharply. "you are county judge. do we coöperate--or fight?" "i reckon," drawled the other, "that's a matter we'll work out as we goes along. depends on how obedient ye air." "i'm responsible for the peace and quiet of this county," continued samson. "we're going to have peace and quiet." the judge looked about him. the indications did not appear to him indicative of peace and quiet. "air we?" he inquired. "i'm coming back here in a half-hour," said the new sheriff. "this is an unlawful and armed assembly. when i get back, i want to find the court-house occupied only by unarmed citizens who have business here." "when ye comes back," suggested the county judge, "i'd advise that ye resigns yore job. a half-hour is about es long as ye ought ter try ter hold hit." samson turned and walked through the scowling crowd to the court-house steps. "gentlemen," he said, in a clear, far-carrying voice, "there is no need of an armed congregation at this court-house. i call on you in the name of the law to lay aside your arms or scatter." there was murmur which for an instant threatened to become a roar, but trailed into a chorus of derisive laughter. samson went to the hotel, accompanied by callomb. a half-hour later, the two were back at the court-house, with a half-dozen companions. the yard was empty. samson carried his father's rifle. in that half-hour a telegram, prepared in advance, had flashed to frankfort. "mob holds court-house--need troops." and a reply had flashed back: "use local company--callomb commanding." so that form of law was met. the court-house doors were closed, and its windows barricaded. the place was no longer a judicial building. it was a fortress. as samson's party paused at the gate, a warning voice called: "don't come no nigher!" the body-guard began dropping back to shelter. "i demand admission to the court-house to make arrests," shouted the new sheriff. in answer, a spattering of rifle reports came from the jail windows. two of the souths fell. at a nod from samson, callomb left on a run for the hotel. the sheriff himself took his position in a small store across the street, which he reached unhurt under a desultory fire. then, again, silence settled on the town, to remain for five minutes unbroken. the sun glared mercilessly on clay streets, now as empty as a cemetery. a single horse incautiously hitched at the side of the courthouse switched its tail against the assaults of the flies. otherwise, there was no outward sign of life. then, callomb's newly organized force of ragamuffin soldiers clattered down the street at double time. for a moment or two after they came into sight, only the massed uniforms caught the eyes of the intrenched hollmans, and an alarmed murmur broke from the court-house. they had seen no troops detrain, or pitch camp. these men had sprung from the earth as startlingly as jason's crop of dragon's teeth. but, when the command rounded the shoulder of a protecting wall to await further orders, the ragged stride of their marching, and the all-too-obvious bearing of the mountaineer proclaimed them native amateurs. the murmur turned to a howl of derision and challenge. they were nothing more nor less than south, masquerading in the uniforms of soldiers. "what orders?" inquired callomb briefly, joining samson in the store. "demand surrender once more--then take the courthouse and jail," was the short reply. there was little conversation in the ranks of the new company, but their faces grew black as they listened to the jeers and insults across the way, and they greedily fingered their freshly issued rifles. they would be ready when the command of execution came. callomb himself went forward with the flag of truce. he shouted his message, and a bearded man came to the court-house door. "tell 'em," he said without redundancy, "thet we're all here. come an' git us." the officer went back, and distributed his forces under such cover as offered itself, about the four walls. then, a volley was fired over the roof, and instantly the two buildings in the public square awoke to a volcanic response of rifle fire. all day, the duel between the streets and county buildings went on with desultory intervals of quiet and wild outbursts of musketry. the troops were firing as sharpshooters, and the court-house, too, had its sharpshooters. when a head showed itself at a barricaded window, a report from the outside greeted it. samson was everywhere, his rifle smoking and hot-barreled. his life seemed protected by a talisman. yet, most of the firing, after the first hour, was from within. the troops were, except for occasional pot shots, holding their fire. there was neither food nor water inside the building, and at last night closed and the cordon drew tighter to prevent escape. the hollmans, like rats in a trap, grimly held on, realizing that it was to be a siege. on the following morning, a detachment of f company arrived, dragging two gatling guns. the hollmans saw them detraining, from their lookout in the courthouse cupola, and, realizing that the end had come, resolved upon a desperate sortie. simultaneously, every door and lower window of the court-house burst open to discharge a frenzied rush of men, firing as they came. they meant to eat their way out and leave as many hostile dead as possible in their wake. their one chance now was to scatter before the machine-guns came into action. they came like a flood of human lava, and their guns were never silent, as they bore down on the barricades, where the single outnumbered company seemed insufficient to hold them. but the new militiamen, looking for reassurance not so much to callomb as to the granite-like face of samson south, rallied, and rose with a yell to meet them on bayonet and smoking muzzle. the rush wavered, fell back, desperately rallied, then broke in scattered remnants for the shelter of the building. old jake hollman fell near the door, and his grandson, rushing out, picked up his fallen rifle, and sent farewell defiance from it, as he, too, threw up both arms and dropped. then, a white flag wavered at a window, and, as the newly arrived troops halted in the street, the noise died suddenly to quiet. samson went out to meet a man who opened the door, and said shortly: "we lays down." judge hollman, who had not participated, turned from the slit in his shuttered window, through which he had since the beginning been watching the conflict. "that ends it!" he said, with a despairing shrug of his shoulders. he picked up a magazine pistol which lay on his table, and, carefully counting down his chest to the fifth rib, placed the muzzle against his breast. chapter xxx before the mountain roads were mired with the coming of the rains, and while the air held its sparkle of autumnal zestfulness, samson south wrote to wilfred horton that, if he still meant to come to the hills for his inspection of coal and timber, the time was ripe. soon, men would appear bearing transit and chain, drawing a line which a railroad was to follow to misery and across it to the heart of untouched forests and coal-fields. with that wave of innovation would come the speculators. besides, samson's fingers were itching to be out in the hills with a palette and a sheaf of brushes in the society of george lescott. for a while after the battle at hixon, the county had lain in a torpid paralysis of dread. many illiterate feudists on each side remembered the directing and exposed figure of samson south seen through eddies of gun smoke, and believed him immune from death. with purvy dead and hollman the victim of his own hand, the backbone of the murder syndicate was broken. its heart had ceased to beat. those hollman survivors who bore the potentialities for leadership had not only signed pledges of peace, but were afraid to break them; and the triumphant souths, instead of vaunting their victory, had subscribed to the doctrine of order, and declared the war over. souths who broke the law were as speedily arrested as hollmans. their boys were drilling as militiamen, and--wonder of wonders!--inviting the sons of the enemy to join them. of course, these things changed gradually, but the beginnings of them were most noticeable in the first few months, just as a newly painted and renovated house is more conspicuous than one that has been long respectable. hollman's mammoth department store passed into new hands, and trafficked only in merchandise, and the town was open to the men and women of misery as well as those of crippleshin. these things samson had explained in his letters to the lescotts and horton. men from down below could still find trouble in the wink of an eye, by seeking it, for under all transformation the nature of the individual remained much the same; but, without seeking to give offense, they could ride as securely through the hills as through the streets of a policed city--and meet a readier hospitality. and, when these things were discussed and the two men prepared to cross the mason-and-dixon line and visit the cumberlands, adrienne promptly and definitely announced that she would accompany her brother. no argument was effective to dissuade her, and after all lescott, who had been there, saw no good reason why she should not go with him. he had brought samson north. he had made a hazardous experiment which subsequent events had more than vindicated, and yet, in one respect, he feared that there had been failure. he had promised sally that her lover would return to her with undeflected loyalty. had he done so? lescott had been glad that his sister should have undertaken the part of samson's molding, which only a woman's hand could accomplish, and he had been glad of the strong friendship that had grown between them. but, if that friendship had come to mean something more sentimental, his experiment had been successful at the cost of unsuccess. he had said little, but watched much, and he had known that, after receiving a certain letter from samson south, his sister had seemed strangely quiet and distressed. these four young persons had snarled their lives in perplexity. they could definitely find themselves and permanently adjust themselves, only by meeting on common ground. perhaps, samson had shone in an exaggerated high-light of fascination by the strong contrast into which new york had thrown him. wilfred horton had the right to be seen also in contrast with mountain life, and then only could the girl decide for all time and irrevocably. the painter learns something of confused values. horton himself had seen small reason for a growth of hope in these months, but he, like lescott, felt that the matter must come to issue, and he was not of that type which shrinks from putting to the touch a question of vital consequence. he knew that her happiness as well as his own was in the balance. he was not embittered or deluded, as a narrower man might have been, into the fallacy that her treatment of him denoted fickleness. adrienne was merely running the boundary line that separates deep friendship from love, a boundary which is often confusing. when she had finally staked out the disputed frontier, it would never again be questioned. but on which side he would find himself, he did not know. at hixon, they found that deceptive air of serenity which made the history of less than three months ago seem paradoxical and fantastically unreal. only about the court-house square where numerous small holes in frame walls told of fusillades, and in the interior of the building itself where the woodwork was scarred and torn, and the plaster freshly patched, did they find grimly reminiscent evidence. samson had not met them at the town, because he wished their first impressions of his people to reach them uninfluenced by his escort. it was a form of the mountain pride--an honest resolve to soften nothing, and make no apologies. but they found arrangements made for horses and saddlebags, and the girl discovered that for her had been provided a mount as evenly gaited as any in her own stables. when she and her two companions came out to the hotel porch to start, they found a guide waiting, who said he was instructed to take them as far as the ridge, where the sheriff himself would be waiting, and the cavalcade struck into the hills. men at whose houses they paused to ask a dipper of water, or to make an inquiry, gravely advised that they "had better light, and stay all night." in the coloring forests, squirrels scampered and scurried out of sight, and here and there on the tall slopes they saw shy-looking children regarding them with inquisitive eyes. the guide led them silently, gazing in frank amazement, though deferential politeness, at this girl in corduroys, who rode cross- saddle, and rode so well. yet, it was evident that he would have preferred talking had not diffidence restrained him. he was a young man and rather handsome in a shaggy, unkempt way. across one cheek ran a long scar still red, and the girl, looking into his clear, intelligent eyes, wondered what that scar stood for. adrienne had the power of melting masculine diffidence, and her smile as she rode at his side, and asked, "what is your name?" brought an answering smile to his grim lips. "joe hollman, ma'am," he answered; and the girl gave an involuntary start. the two men who caught the name closed up the gap between the horses, with suddenly piqued interest. "hollman!" exclaimed the girl. "then, you--" she stopped and flushed. "i beg your pardon," she said, quickly. "that's all right," reassured the man. "i know what ye're a-thinkin', but i hain't takin' no offense. the high sheriff sent me over. i'm one of his deputies." "were you"--she paused, and added rather timidly--"were you in the court-house?" he nodded, and with a brown forefinger traced the scar on his cheek. "samson south done that thar with his rifle-gun," he enlightened. "he's a funny sort of feller, is samson south." "how?" she asked. "wall, he licked us, an' he licked us so plumb damn hard we was skeered ter fight ag'in, an' then, 'stid of tramplin' on us, he turned right 'round, an' made me a deputy. my brother's a corporal in this hyar newfangled milishy. i reckon this time the peace is goin' ter last. hit's a mighty funny way ter act, but 'pears like it works all right." then, at the ridge, the girl's heart gave a sudden bound, for there at the highest point, where the road went up and dipped again, waited the mounted figure of samson south, and, as they came into sight, he waved his felt hat, and rode down to meet them. "greetings!" he shouted. then, as he leaned over and took adrienne's hand, he added: "the goops send you their welcome." his smile was unchanged, but the girl noted that his hair had again grown long. finally, as the sun was setting, they reached a roadside cabin, and the mountaineer said briefly to the other men: "you fellows ride on. i want drennie to stop with me a moment. we'll join you later." lescott nodded. he remembered the cabin of the widow miller, and horton rode with him, albeit grudgingly. adrienne sprang lightly to the ground, laughingly rejecting samson's assistance, and came with him to the top of a stile, from which he pointed to the log cabin, set back in its small yard, wherein geese and chickens picked industriously about in the sandy earth. a huge poplar and a great oak nodded to each other at either side of the door, and over the walls a clambering profusion of honeysuckle vine contended with a mass of wild grape, in joint effort to hide the white chinking between the dark logs. from the crude milk-benches to the sweep of the well, every note was one of neatness and rustic charm. slowly, he said, looking straight into her eyes: "this is sally's cabin, drennie." he watched her expression, and her lips curved up in the same sweetness of smile that had first captivated and helped to mold him. "it's lovely!" she cried, with frank delight. "it's a picture." "wait!" he commanded. then, turning toward the house, he sent out the long, peculiarly mournful call of the whippoorwill, and, at the signal, the door opened, and on the threshold adrienne saw a slender figure. she had called the cabin with its shaded dooryard a picture, but now she knew she had been wrong. it was only a background. it was the girl herself who made and completed the picture. she stood there in the wild simplicity that artists seek vainly to reproduce in posed figures. her red calico dress was patched, but fell in graceful lines to her slim bare ankles, though the first faint frosts had already fallen. her red-brown hair hung loose and in masses about the oval of a face in which the half-parted lips were dashes of scarlet, and the eyes large violet pools. she stood with her little chin tilted in a half- wild attitude of reconnoiter, as a fawn might have stood. one brown arm and hand rested on the door frame, and, as she saw the other woman, she colored adorably. adrienne thought she had never seen so instinctively and unaffectedly lovely a face or figure. then the girl came down the steps and ran toward them. "drennie," said the man, "this is sally. i want you two to love each other." for an instant, adrienne lescott stood looking at the mountain girl, and then she opened both her arms. "sally," she cried, "you adorable child, i do love you!" the girl in the calico dress raised her face, and her eyes were glistening. "i'm obleeged ter ye," she faltered. then, with open and wondering admiration she stood gazing at the first "fine lady" upon whom her glance had ever fallen. samson went over and took sally's hand. "drennie," he said, softly, "is there anything the matter with her?" adrienne lescott shook her head. "i understand," she said. "i sent the others on," he went on quietly, "because i wanted that first we three should meet alone. george and wilfred are going to stop at my uncle's house, but, unless you'd rather have it otherwise, sally wants you here." "do i stop now?" the girl asked. but the man shook his head. "i want you to meet my other people first." as they rode at a walk along the little shred of road left to them, the man turned gravely. "drennie," he began, "she waited for me, all those years. what i was helped to do by such splendid friends as you and your brother and wilfred, she was back here trying to do for herself. i told you back there the night before i left that i was afraid to let myself question my feelings toward you. do you remember?" she met his eyes, and her own eyes were frankly smiling. "you were very complimentary, samson," she told him. "i warned you then that it was the moon talking." "no," he said firmly, "it was not the moon. i have since then met that fear, and analyzed it. my feeling for you is the best that a man can have, the honest worship of friendship. and," he added, "i have analyzed your feeling for me, too, and, thank god! i have that same friendship from you. haven't i?" for a moment, she only nodded; but her eyes were bent on the road ahead of her. the man waited in tense silence. then, she raised her face, and it was a face that smiled with the serenity of one who has wakened out of a troubled dream. "you will always have that, samson, dear," she assured him. "have i enough of it, to ask you to do for her what you did for me? to take her and teach her the things she has the right to know?" "i'd love it," she cried. and then she smiled, as she added: "she will be much easier to teach. she won't be so stupid, and one of the things i shall teach her"--she paused, and added whimsically--"will be to make you cut your hair again." but, just before they drew up at the house of old spicer south, she said: "i might as well make a clean breast of it, samson, and give my vanity the punishment it deserves. you had me in deep doubt." "about what?" "about--well, about us. i wasn't quite sure that i wanted sally to have you--that i didn't need you myself. i've been a shameful little cat to wilfred." "but now--?" the kentuckian broke off. "now, i know that my friendship for you and my love for him have both had their acid test--and i am happier than i've ever been before. i'm glad we've been through it. there are no doubts ahead. i've got you both." "about him," said samson, thoughtfully. "may i tell you something which, although it's a thing in your own heart, you have never quite known?" she nodded, and he went on. "the thing which you call fascination in me was really just a proxy, drennie. you were liking qualities in me that were really his qualities. just because you had known him only in gentle guise, his finish blinded you to his courage. because he could turn 'to woman the heart of a woman,' you failed to see that under it was the 'iron and fire.' you thought you saw those qualities in me, because i wore my bark as shaggy as that scaling hickory over there. when he was getting anonymous threats of death every morning, he didn't mention them to you. he talked of teas and dances. i know his danger was real, because they tried to have me kill him--and if i'd been the man they took me for, i reckon i'd have done it. i was mad to my marrow that night--for a minute. i don't hold a brief for wilfred, but i know that you liked me first for qualities which he has as strongly as i--and more strongly. he's a braver man than i, because, though raised to gentle things, when you ordered him into the fight, he was there. he never turned back, or flickered. i was raised on raw meat and gunpowder, but he went in without training." the girl's eyes grew grave and thoughtful, and for the rest of the way she rode in silence. there were transformations, too, in the house of spicer south. windows had been cut, and lamps adopted. it was no longer so crudely a pioneer abode. while they waited for dinner, a girl lightly crossed the stile, and came up to the house. adrienne met her at the door, while samson and horton stood back, waiting. suddenly, miss lescott halted and regarded the newcomer in surprise. it was the same girl she had seen, yet a different girl. her hair no longer fell in tangled masses. her feet were no longer bare. her dress, though simple, was charming, and, when she spoke, her english had dropped its half-illiterate peculiarities, though the voice still held its bird-like melody. "oh, samson," cried adrienne, "you two have been deceiving me! sally, you were making up, dressing the part back there, and letting me patronize you." sally's laughter broke from her throat in a musical peal, but it still held the note of shyness, and it was samson who spoke. "i made the others ride on, and i got sally to meet you just as she was when i left her to go east." he spoke with a touch of the mountaineer's over-sensitive pride. "i wanted you first to see my people, not as they are going to be, but as they were. i wanted you to know how proud i am of them--just that way." that evening, the four of them walked together over to the cabin of the widow miller. at the stile, adrienne lescott turned to the girl, and said: "i suppose this place is preempted. i'm going to take wilfred down there by the creek, and leave you two alone." sally protested with mountain hospitality, but even under the moon she once more colored adorably. adrienne turned up the collar of her sweater around her throat, and, when she and the man who had waited, stood leaning on the rail of the footbridge, she laid a hand on his arm. "has the water flowed by my mill, wilfred?" she asked. "what do you mean?" his voice trembled. "will you have anything to ask me when christmas comes?" "if i can wait that long, drennie," he told her. "don't wait, dear," she suddenly exclaimed, turning toward him, and raising eyes that held his answer. "ask me now!" but the question which he asked was one that his lips smothered as he pressed them against her own. back where the poplar threw its sooty shadow on the road, two figures sat close together on the top of a stile, talking happily in whispers. a girl raised her face, and the moon shone on the deepness of her eyes, as her lips curved in a trembling smile. "you've come back, samson," she said in a low voice, "but, if i'd known how lovely she was, i'd have given up hoping. i don't see what made you come." her voice dropped again into the tender cadence of dialect. "i couldn't live withouten ye, samson. i jest couldn't do hit." would he remember when she had said that before? "i reckon, sally," he promptly told her, "i couldn't live withouten _you,_ neither." then, he added, fervently, "i'm plumb dead shore i couldn't." the end christmas eve on lonesome and other stories by john fox, jr. illustrated by f. c. yohn, a.i. keller, w.a. rogers, and h. c. ransom contents christmas eve on lonesome the army of the callahan the pardon of becky day a crisis for the guard christmas night with satan illustrations captain wells descended with no little majesty and "biffed" him "speak up, nigger!" satan would drop the coin and get a ball for himself to thomas nelson page christmas eve on lonesome it was christmas eve on lonesome. but nobody on lonesome knew that it was christmas eve, although a child of the outer world could have guessed it, even out in those wilds where lonesome slipped from one lone log cabin high up the steeps, down through a stretch of jungled darkness to another lone cabin at the mouth of the stream. there was the holy hush in the gray twilight that comes only on christmas eve. there were the big flakes of snow that fell as they never fall except on christmas eve. there was a snowy man on horseback in a big coat, and with saddle-pockets that might have been bursting with toys for children in the little cabin at the head of the stream. but not even he knew that it was christmas eve. he was thinking of christmas eve, but it was of the christmas eve of the year before, when he sat in prison with a hundred other men in stripes, and listened to the chaplain talk of peace and good will to all men upon earth, when he had forgotten all men upon earth but one, and had only hatred in his heart for him. "vengeance is mine! saith the lord." that was what the chaplain had thundered at him. and then, as now, he thought of the enemy who had betrayed him to the law, and had sworn away his liberty, and had robbed him of everything in life except a fierce longing for the day when he could strike back and strike to kill. and then, while he looked back hard into the chaplain's eyes, and now, while he splashed through the yellow mud thinking of that christmas eve, buck shook his head; and then, as now, his sullen heart answered: "mine!" the big flakes drifted to crotch and twig and limb. they gathered on the brim of buck's slouch hat, filled out the wrinkles in his big coat, whitened his hair and his long mustache, and sifted into the yellow, twisting path that guided his horse's feet. high above he could see through the whirling snow now and then the gleam of a red star. he knew it was the light from his enemy's window; but somehow the chaplain's voice kept ringing in his ears, and every time he saw the light he couldn't help thinking of the story of the star that the chaplain told that christmas eve, and he dropped his eyes by and by, so as not to see it again, and rode on until the light shone in his face. then he led his horse up a little ravine and hitched it among the snowy holly and rhododendrons, and slipped toward the light. there was a dog somewhere, of course; and like a thief he climbed over the low rail-fence and stole through the tall snow-wet grass until he leaned against an apple-tree with the sill of the window two feet above the level of his eyes. reaching above him, he caught a stout limb and dragged himself up to a crotch of the tree. a mass of snow slipped softly to the earth. the branch creaked above the light wind; around the corner of the house a dog growled and he sat still. he had waited three long years and he had ridden two hard nights and lain out two cold days in the woods for this. and presently he reached out very carefully, and noiselessly broke leaf and branch and twig until a passage was cleared for his eye and for the point of the pistol that was gripped in his right hand. a woman was just disappearing through the kitchen door, and he peered cautiously and saw nothing but darting shadows. from one corner a shadow loomed suddenly out in human shape. buck saw the shadowed gesture of an arm, and he cocked his pistol. that shadow was his man, and in a moment he would be in a chair in the chimney corner to smoke his pipe, maybe--his last pipe. buck smiled--pure hatred made him smile--but it was mean, a mean and sorry thing to shoot this man in the back, dog though he was; and now that the moment had come a wave of sickening shame ran through buck. no one of his name had ever done that before; but this man and his people had, and with their own lips they had framed palliation for him. what was fair for one was fair for the other they always said. a poor man couldn't fight money in the courts; and so they had shot from the brush, and that was why they were rich now and buck was poor--why his enemy was safe at home, and he was out here, homeless, in the apple-tree. buck thought of all this, but it was no use. the shadow slouched suddenly and disappeared; and buck was glad. with a gritting oath between his chattering teeth he pulled his pistol in and thrust one leg down to swing from the tree--he would meet him face to face next day and kill him like a man--and there he hung as rigid as though the cold had suddenly turned him, blood, bones, and marrow, into ice. the door had opened, and full in the firelight stood the girl who he had heard was dead. he knew now how and why that word was sent him. and now she who had been his sweetheart stood before him--the wife of the man he meant to kill. her lips moved--he thought he could tell what she said: "git up, jim, git up!" then she went back. a flame flared up within him now that must have come straight from the devil's forge. again the shadows played over the ceiling. his teeth grated as he cocked his pistol, and pointed it down the beam of light that shot into the heart of the apple-tree, and waited. the shadow of a head shot along the rafters and over the fireplace. it was a madman clutching the butt of the pistol now, and as his eye caught the glinting sight and his heart thumped, there stepped into the square light of the window--a child! it was a boy with yellow tumbled hair, and he had a puppy in his arms. in front of the fire the little fellow dropped the dog, and they began to play. "yap! yap! yap!" buck could hear the shrill barking of the fat little dog, and the joyous shrieks of the child as he made his playfellow chase his tail round and round or tumbled him head over heels on the floor. it was the first child buck had seen for three years; it was _his_ child and _hers_; and, in the apple-tree, buck watched fixedly. they were down on the floor now, rolling over and over together; and he watched them until the child grew tired and turned his face to the fire and lay still--looking into it. buck could see his eyes close presently, and then the puppy crept closer, put his head on his playmate's chest, and the two lay thus asleep. and still buck looked--his clasp loosening on his pistol and his lips loosening under his stiff mustache--and kept looking until the door opened again and the woman crossed the floor. a flood of light flashed suddenly on the snow, barely touching the snow-hung tips of the apple-tree, and he saw her in the doorway--saw her look anxiously into the darkness--look and listen a long while. buck dropped noiselessly to the snow when she closed the door. he wondered what they would think when they saw his tracks in the snow next morning; and then he realized that they would be covered before morning. as he started up the ravine where his horse was he heard the clink of metal down the road and the splash of a horse's hoofs in the soft mud, and he sank down behind a holly-bush. again the light from the cabin flashed out on the snow. "that you, jim?" "yep!" and then the child's voice: "has oo dot thum tandy?" "yep!" the cheery answer rang out almost at buck's ear, and jim passed death waiting for him behind the bush which his left foot brushed, shaking the snow from the red berries down on the crouching figure beneath. once only, far down the dark jungled way, with the underlying streak of yellow that was leading him whither, god only knew--once only buck looked back. there was the red light gleaming faintly through the moonlit flakes of snow. once more he thought of the star, and once more the chaplain's voice came back to him. "mine!" saith the lord. just how, buck could not see with himself in the snow and _him_ back there for life with her and the child, but some strange impulse made him bare his head. "yourn," said buck grimly. but nobody on lonesome--not even buck--knew that it was christmas eve. the army of the callahan i the dreaded message had come. the lank messenger, who had brought it from over black mountain, dropped into a chair by the stove and sank his teeth into a great hunk of yellow cheese. "flitter bill" richmond waddled from behind his counter, and out on the little platform in front of his cross-roads store. out there was a group of earth-stained countrymen, lounging against the rickety fence or swinging on it, their heels clear of the ground, all whittling, chewing, and talking the matter over. all looked up at bill, and he looked down at them, running his eye keenly from one to another until he came to one powerful young fellow loosely bent over a wagon-tongue. even on him, bill's eyes stayed but a moment, and then were lifted higher in anxious thought. the message had come at last, and the man who brought it had heard it fall from black tom's own lips. the "wild jay-hawkers of kaintuck" were coming over into virginia to get flitter bill's store, for they were mountain unionists and bill was a valley rebel and lawful prey. it was past belief. so long had he prospered, and so well, that bill had come to feel that he sat safe in the hollow of god's hand. but he now must have protection--and at once--from the hand of man. roaring fork sang lustily through the rhododendrons. to the north yawned "the gap" through the cumberland mountains. "callahan's nose," a huge gray rock, showed plain in the clear air, high above the young foliage, and under it, and on up the rocky chasm, flashed flitter bill's keen mind, reaching out for help. now, from virginia to alabama the southern mountaineer was a yankee, because the national spirit of , getting fresh impetus in and new life from the mexican war, had never died out in the hills. most likely it would never have died out, anyway; for, the world over, any seed of character, individual or national, that is once dropped between lofty summits brings forth its kind, with deathless tenacity, year after year. only, in the kentucky mountains, there were more slaveholders than elsewhere in the mountains in the south. these, naturally, fought for their slaves, and the division thus made the war personal and terrible between the slaveholders who dared to stay at home, and the union, "home guards" who organized to drive them away. in bill's little virginia valley, of course, most of the sturdy farmers had shouldered confederate muskets and gone to the war. those who had stayed at home were, like bill, confederate in sympathy, but they lived in safety down the valley, while bill traded and fattened just opposite the gap, through which a wild road ran over into the wild kentucky hills. therein bill's danger lay; for, just at this time, the harlan home guard under black tom, having cleared those hills, were making ready, like the pict and scot of olden days, to descend on the virginia valley and smite the lowland rebels at the mouth of the gap. of the "stay-at-homes," and the deserters roundabout, there were many, very many, who would "stand in" with any man who would keep their bellies full, but they were well-nigh worthless even with a leader, and, without a leader, of no good at all. flitter bill must find a leader for them, and anywhere than in his own fat self, for a leader of men bill was not born to be, nor could he see a leader among the men before him. and so, standing there one early morning in the spring of , with uplifted gaze, it was no surprise to him--the coincidence, indeed, became at once one of the articles of perfect faith in his own star--that he should see afar off, a black slouch hat and a jogging gray horse rise above a little knoll that was in line with the mouth of the gap. at once he crossed his hands over his chubby stomach with a pious sigh, and at once a plan of action began to whirl in his little round head. before man and beast were in full view the work was done, the hands were unclasped, and flitter bill, with a chuckle, had slowly risen, and was waddling back to his desk in the store. it was a pompous old buck who was bearing down on the old gray horse, and under the slouch hat with its flapping brim--one mayhall wells, by name. there were but few strands of gray in his thick blue-black hair, though his years were rounding half a century, and he sat the old nag with erect dignity and perfect ease. his bearded mouth showed vanity immeasurable, and suggested a strength of will that his eyes--the real seat of power--denied, for, while shrewd and keen, they were unsteady. in reality, he was a great coward, though strong as an ox, and whipping with ease every man who could force him into a fight. so that, in the whole man, a sensitive observer would have felt a peculiar pathos, as though nature had given him a desire to be, and no power to become, and had then sent him on his zigzag way, never to dream wherein his trouble lay. "mornin', gentle_men_!" "mornin', mayhall!" all nodded and spoke except hence sturgill on the wagon-tongue, who stopped whittling, and merely looked at the big man with narrowing eyes. tallow dick, a yellow slave, appeared at the corner of the store, and the old buck beckoned him to come and hitch his horse. flitter bill had reappeared on the stoop with a piece of white paper in his hand. the lank messenger sagged in the doorway behind him, ready to start for home. "mornin' _captain_ wells," said bill, with great respect. every man heard the title, stopped his tongue and his knife-blade, and raised his eyes; a few smiled--hence sturgill grinned. mayhall stared, and bill's left eye closed and opened with lightning quickness in a most portentous wink. mayhall straightened his shoulders--seeing the game, as did the crowd at once: flitter bill was impressing that messenger in case he had some dangerous card up his sleeve. "_captain_ wells," bill repeated significantly, "i'm sorry to say yo' new uniform has not arrived yet. i am expecting it to-morrow." mayhall toed the line with soldierly promptness. "well, i'm sorry to hear that, suh--sorry to hear it, suh," he said, with slow, measured speech. "my men are comin' in fast, and you can hardly realize er--er what it means to an old soldier er--er not to have--er--" and mayhall's answering wink was portentous. "my friend here is from over in kaintucky, and the harlan home gyard over there, he says, is a-making some threats." mayhall laughed. "so i have heerd--so i have heerd." he turned to the messenger. "we shall be ready fer 'em, suh, ready fer 'em with a thousand men--one thousand men, suh, right hyeh in the gap--right hyeh in the gap. let 'em come on--let 'em come on!" mayhall began to rub his hands together as though the conflict were close at hand, and the mountaineer slapped one thigh heartily. "good for you! give 'em hell!" he was about to slap mayhall on the shoulder and call him "pardner," when flitter bill coughed, and mayhall lifted his chin. "captain wells?" said bill. "captain wells," repeated mayhall with a stiff salutation, and the messenger from over black mountain fell back with an apologetic laugh. a few minutes later both mayhall and flitter bill saw him shaking his head, as he started homeward toward the gap. bill laughed silently, but mayhall had grown grave. the fun was over and he beckoned bill inside the store. "misto richmond," he said, with hesitancy and an entire change of tone and manner, "i am afeerd i ain't goin' to be able to pay you that little amount i owe you, but if you can give me a little mo' time--" "captain wells," interrupted bill slowly, and again mayhall stared hard at him, "as betwixt friends, as have been pussonal friends fer nigh onto twenty year, i hope you won't mention that little matter to me ag'in--until i mentions it to you." "but, misto richmond, hence sturgill out thar says as how he heerd you say that if i didn't pay--" "_captain_ wells," interrupted bill again and again mayhall stared hard--it was strange that bill could have formed the habit of calling him "captain" in so short a time--"yestiddy is not to-day, is it? and to-day is not to-morrow? i axe you--have i said one word about that little matter _to-day?_ well, borrow not from yestiddy nor to-morrow, to make trouble fer to-day. there is other things fer to-day, captain wells." mayhall turned here. "misto richmond," he said, with great earnestness, "you may not know it, but three times since thet long-legged jay-hawker's been gone you hev plainly--and if my ears do not deceive me, an' they never hev--you have plainly called me '_captain_ wells.' i knowed yo' little trick whilst he was hyeh, fer i knowed whut the feller had come to tell ye; but since he's been gone, three times, misto richmond--" "yes," drawled bill, with an unction that was strangely sweet to mayhall's wondering ears, "an' i do it ag'in, _captain_ wells." "an' may i axe you," said mayhall, ruffling a little, "may i axe you--why you--" "certainly," said bill, and he handed over the paper that he held in his hand. mayhall took the paper and looked it up and down helplessly--flitter bill slyly watching him. mayhall handed it back. "if you please, misto richmond--i left my specs at home." without a smile, bill began. it was an order from the commandant at cumberland gap, sixty miles farther down powell's valley, authorizing mayhall wells to form a company to guard the gap and to protect the property of confederate citizens in the valley; and a commission of captaincy in the said company for the said mayhall wells. mayhall's mouth widened to the full stretch of his lean jaws, and, when bill was through reading, he silently reached for the paper and looked it up and down and over and over, muttering: "well--well--well!" and then he pointed silently to the name that was at the bottom of the paper. bill spelled out the name: "_jefferson davis_" and mayhall's big fingers trembled as he pulled them away, as though to avoid further desecration of that sacred name. then he rose, and a magical transformation began that can be likened--i speak with reverence--to the turning of water into wine. captain mayhall wells raised his head, set his chin well in, and kept it there. he straightened his shoulders, and kept them straight. he paced the floor with a tread that was martial, and once he stopped before the door with his right hand thrust under his breast-pocket, and with wrinkling brow studied the hills. it was a new man--with the water in his blood changed to wine--who turned suddenly on flitter bill richmond: "i can collect a vehy large force in a vehy few days." flitter bill knew that--that he could get together every loafer between the county-seat of wise and the county-seat of lee--but he only said encouragingly: "good!" "an' we air to pertect the property--_i_ am to pertect the property of the confederate citizens of the valley--that means _you_, misto richmond, and _this store_." bill nodded. mayhall coughed slightly. "there is one thing in the way, i opine. whar--i axe you--air we to git somethin' to eat fer my command?" bill had anticipated this. "i'll take keer o' that." captain wells rubbed his hands. "of co'se, of co'se--you are a soldier and a patriot--you can afford to feed 'em as a slight return fer the pertection i shall give you and yourn." "certainly," agreed bill dryly, and with a prophetic stir of uneasiness. "vehy--vehy well. i shall begin _now_, misto richmond." and, to flitter bill's wonder, the captain stalked out to the stoop, announced his purpose with the voice of an auctioneer, and called for volunteers then and there. there was dead silence for a moment. then there was a smile here, a chuckle there, an incredulous laugh, and hence sturgill, "bully of the pocket," rose from the wagon-tongue, closed his knife, came slowly forward, and cackled his scorn straight up into the teeth of captain mayhall wells. the captain looked down and began to shed his coat. "i take it, hence sturgill, that you air laughin' at me?" "i am a-laughin' at _you_, mayhall wells," he said, contemptuously, but he was surprised at the look on the good-natured giant's face. "_captain_ mayhall wells, ef you please." "plain ole mayhall wells," said hence, and captain wells descended with no little majesty and "biffed" him. the delighted crowd rose to its feet and gathered around. tallow dick came running from the barn. it was biff--biff, and biff again, but not nip and tuck for long. captain mayhall closed in. hence sturgill struck the earth like a homeric pine, and the captain's mighty arm played above him and fell, resounding. in three minutes hence, to the amazement of the crowd, roared: "'nough!" but mayhall breathed hard and said quietly: "_captain_ wells!": hence shouted, "plain ole--" but the captain's huge fist was poised in the air over his face. "captain wells," he growled, and the captain rose and calmly put on his coat, while the crowd looked respectful, and hence sturgill staggered to one side, as though beaten in spirit, strength, and wits as well. the captain beckoned flitter bill inside the store. his manner had a distinct savor of patronage. [illustration: captain wells descended with no little majesty and "biffed" him.] "misto richmond," he said, "i make you--i appoint you, by the authority of jefferson davis and the confederate states of ameriky, as commissary-gineral of the army of the callahan." "as _what_?" bill's eyes blinked at the astounding dignity of his commission. "gineral richmond, i shall not repeat them words." and he didn't, but rose and made his way toward his old gray mare. tallow dick held his bridle. "dick," he said jocosely, "goin' to run away ag'in?" the negro almost paled, and then, with a look at a blacksnake whip that hung on the barn door, grinned. "no, suh--no, suh--'deed i ain't, suh--no mo'." mounted, the captain dropped a three-cent silver piece in the startled negro's hand. then he vouchsafed the wondering flitter bill and the gaping crowd a military salute and started for the yawning mouth of the gap--riding with shoulders squared and chin well in--riding as should ride the commander of the army of the callahan. flitter bill dropped his blinking eyes to the paper in his hand that bore the commission of jefferson davis and the confederate states of america to mayhall wells of callahan, and went back into his store. he looked at it a long time and then he laughed, but without much mirth. ii grass had little chance to grow for three weeks thereafter under the cowhide boots of captain mayhall wells. when the twentieth morning came over the hills, the mist parted over the stars and bars floating from the top of a tall poplar up through the gap and flaunting brave defiance to black tom, his harlan home guard, and all other jay-hawking unionists of the kentucky hills. it parted over the army of the callahan asleep on its arms in the mouth of the chasm, over flitter bill sitting, sullen and dejected, on the stoop of his store; and over tallow dick stealing corn bread from the kitchen to make ready for flight that night through the gap, the mountains, and to the yellow river that was the mecca of the runaway slave. at the mouth of the gap a ragged private stood before a ragged tent, raised a long dinner horn to his lips, and a mighty blast rang through the hills, reveille! and out poured the army of the callahan from shack, rock-cave, and coverts of sticks and leaves, with squirrel rifles, revolutionary muskets, shotguns, clasp-knives, and horse pistols for the duties of the day under lieutenant skaggs, tactician, and lieutenant boggs, quondam terror of roaring fork. that blast rang down the valley into flitter bill's ears and startled him into action. it brought tallow dick's head out of the barn door and made him grin. "dick!" flitter bill's call was sharp and angry. "yes, suh!" "go tell ole mayhall wells that i ain't goin' to send him nary another pound o' bacon an' nary another tin cup o' meal--no, by ----, i ain't." half an hour later the negro stood before the ragged tent of the commander of the army of the callahan. "marse bill say he ain't gwine to sen' you no mo' rations--no mo'." "_what_!" tallow dick repeated his message and the captain scowled--mutiny! "fetch my hoss!" he thundered. very naturally and very swiftly had the trouble come, for straight after the captain's fight with hence sturgill there had been a mighty rally to the standard of mayhall wells. from pigeon's creek the loafers came--from roaring fork, cracker's neck, from the pocket down the valley, and from turkey cove. recruits came so fast, and to such proportions grew the army of the callahan, that flitter bill shrewdly suggested at once that captain wells divide it into three companies and put one up pigeon's creek under lieutenant jim skaggs and one on callahan under lieutenant tom boggs, while the captain, with a third, should guard the mouth of the gap. bill's idea was to share with those districts the honor of his commissary-generalship; but captain wells crushed the plan like a dried puffball. "yes," he said, with fine sarcasm. "what will them kanetuckians do then? don't you know, gineral richmond? why, i'll tell you what they'll do. they'll jest swoop down on lieutenant boggs and gobble him up. then they'll swoop down on lieutenant skaggs on pigeon and gobble him up. then they'll swoop down on me and gobble me up. no, they won't gobble _me_ up, but they'll come damn nigh it. an' what kind of a report will i make to jeff davis, gineral richmond? _captured in detail_, suh? no, suh. i'll jest keep lieutenant boggs and lieutenant skaggs close by me, and we'll pitch our camp right here in the gap whar we can pertect the property of confederate citizens and be close to our base o' supplies, suh. that's what i'll do!" "gineral richmond" groaned, and when in the next breath the mighty captain casually inquired if _that uniform of his_ had come yet, flitter bill's fat body nearly rolled off his chair. "you will please have it here next monday," said the captain, with great firmness. "it is necessary to the proper discipline of my troops." and it was there the following monday--a regimental coat, gray jeans trousers, and a forage cap that bill purchased from a passing morgan raider. daily orders would come from captain wells to general flitter bill richmond to send up more rations, and bill groaned afresh when a man from callahan told how the captain's family was sprucing up on meal and flour and bacon from the captain's camp. humiliation followed. it had never occurred to captain wells that being a captain made it incongruous for him to have a "general" under him, until lieutenant skaggs, who had picked up a manual of tactics somewhere, cautiously communicated his discovery. captain wells saw the point at once. there was but one thing to do--to reduce general richmond to the ranks--and it was done. technically, thereafter, the general was purveyor for the army of the callahan, but to the captain himself he was--gallingly to the purveyor--simple flitter bill. the strange thing was that, contrary to his usual shrewdness, it should have taken flitter bill so long to see that the difference between having his store robbed by the kentucky jay-hawkers and looted by captain wells was the difference between tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee, but, when he did see, he forged a plan of relief at once. when the captain sent down lieutenant boggs for a supply of rations, bill sent the saltiest, rankest bacon he could find, with a message that he wanted to see the great man. as before, when captain wells rode down to the store, bill handed out a piece of paper, and, as before, the captain had left his "specs" at home. the paper was an order that, whereas the distinguished services of captain wells to the confederacy were appreciated by jefferson davis, the said captain wells was, and is, hereby empowered to duly, and in accordance with the tactics of war, impress what live-stock he shall see fit and determine fit for the good of his command. the news was joy to the army of the callahan. before it had gone the rounds of the camp lieutenant boggs had spied a fat heifer browsing on the edge of the woods and ordered her surrounded and driven down. without another word, when she was close enough, he raised his gun and would have shot her dead in her tracks had he not been arrested by a yell of command and horror from his superior. "air you a-goin' to have me cashiered and shot, lieutenant boggs, fer violatin' the ticktacks of war?" roared the captain, indignantly. "don't you know that i've got to _impress_ that heifer accordin' to the rules an' regulations? git roun' that heifer." the men surrounded her. "take her by the horns. now! in the name of jefferson davis and the confederate states of ameriky, i hereby and hereon do duly impress this heifer for the purposes and use of the army of the callahan, so help me god! shoot her down, bill boggs, shoot her down!" now, naturally, the soldiers preferred fresh meat, and they got it--impressing cattle, sheep, and hogs, geese, chickens, and ducks, vegetables--nothing escaped the capacious maw of the army of the callahan. it was a beautiful idea, and the success of it pleased flitter bill mightily, but the relief did not last long. an indignant murmur rose up and down valley and creek bottom against the outrages, and one angry old farmer took a pot-shot at captain wells with a squirrel rifle, clipping the visor of his forage cap; and from that day the captain began to call with immutable regularity again on flitter bill for bacon and meal. that morning the last straw fell in a demand for a wagon-load of rations to be delivered before noon, and, worn to the edge of his patience, bill had sent a reckless refusal. and now he was waiting on the stoop of his store, looking at the mouth of the gap and waiting for it to give out into the valley captain wells and his old gray mare. and at last, late in the afternoon, there was the captain coming--coming at a swift gallop--and bill steeled himself for the onslaught like a knight in a joust against a charging antagonist. the captain saluted stiffly--pulling up sharply and making no move to dismount. "purveyor," he said, "black tom has just sent word that he's a-comin' over hyeh this week--have you heerd that, purveyor?" bill was silent. "black tom says you _air_ responsible for the army of the callahan. have you heerd that, purveyor?" still was there silence. "he says he's a-goin' to hang me to that poplar whar floats them stars and bars"--captain mayhall wells chuckled--"an' he says he's a-goin' to hang _you_ thar fust, though; have you heerd _that_, purveyor?" the captain dropped the titular address now, and threw one leg over the pommel of his saddle. "flitter bill richmond," he said, with great nonchalance, "i axe you--do you prefer that i should disband the army of the callahan, or do you not?" "no." the captain was silent a full minute, and his face grew stern. "flitter bill richmond, i had no idee o' disbandin' the army of the callahan, but do you know what i did aim to do?" again bill was silent. "well, suh, i'll tell you whut i aim to do. if you don't send them rations i'll have you cashiered for mutiny, an' if black tom don't hang you to that air poplar, i'll hang you thar myself, suh; yes, by ----! i will. dick!" he called sharply to the slave. "hitch up that air wagon, fill hit full o' bacon and meal, and drive it up thar to my tent. an' be mighty damn quick about it, or i'll hang you, too." the negro gave a swift glance to his master, and flitter bill feebly waved acquiescence. "purveyor, i wish you good-day." bill gazed after the great captain in dazed wonder (was this the man who had come cringing to him only a few short weeks ago?) and groaned aloud. but for lucky or unlucky coincidence, how could the prophet ever have gained name and fame on earth? captain wells rode back to camp chuckling--chuckling with satisfaction and pride; but the chuckle passed when he caught sight of his tent. in front of it were his lieutenants and some half a dozen privates, all plainly in great agitation, and in the midst of them stood the lank messenger who had brought the first message from black tom, delivering another from the same source. black tom _was_ coming, coming surer and unless that flag, that "rebel rag," were hauled down under twenty-four hours, black tom would come over and pull it down, and to that same poplar hang "captain mayhall an' his whole damn army." black tom might do it anyhow--just for fun. while the privates listened the captain strutted and swore; then he rested his hand on his hip and smiled with silent sarcasm, and then swore again--while the respectful lieutenants and the awed soldiery of the callahan looked on. finally he spoke. "ah--when did black tom say that?" he inquired casually. "yestiddy mornin'. he said he was goin' to start over hyeh early this mornin'." the captain whirled. "what? then why didn't you git over hyeh _this_ mornin'?" "couldn't git across the river last night." "then he's a-comin' to-day?" "i reckon black tom'll be hyeh in about two hours--mebbe he ain't fer away now." the captain was startled. "lieutenant skaggs," he called, sharply, "git yo' men out thar an' draw 'em up in two rows!" the face of the student of military tactics looked horrified. the captain in his excitement had relaxed into language that was distinctly agricultural, and, catching the look on his subordinate's face, and at the same time the reason for it, he roared, indignantly: "air you afeer'd, sir? git yo' men out, i said, an' march 'em up thar in front of the gap. lieutenant boggs, take ten men and march at double quick through the gap, an' defend that poplar with yo' life's blood. if you air overwhelmed by superior numbers, fall back, suh, step by step, until you air re-enforced by lieutenant skaggs. if you two air not able to hold the enemy in check, you may count on me an' the army of the callahan to grind _him_--" (how the captain, now thoroughly aroused to all the fine terms of war, did roll that technical "him" under his tongue)--"to grind him to pieces ag'in them towerin' rocks, and plunge him in the foilin' waters of roarin' fawk. forward, suh--double quick." lieutenant skaggs touched his cap. lieutenant boggs looked embarrassed and strode nearer. "captain, whar am i goin' to git ten men to face them kanetuckians?" "whar air they goin' to git a off'cer to lead 'em, you'd better say," said the captain, severely, fearing that some of the soldiers had heard the question. "if you air afeer'd, suh"--and then he saw that no one had heard, and he winked--winked with most unmilitary familiarity. "air you a good climber, lieutenant boggs?" lieutenant boggs looked mystified, but he said he was. "lieutenant boggs, i now give you the opportunity to show yo' profound knowledge of the ticktacks of war. you may now be guilty of disobedience of ordahs, and i will not have you court-martialled for the same. in other words, if, after a survey of the situation, you think best--why," the captain's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "pull that flag down, lieutenant boggs, pull her down." iii it was an hour by sun now. lieutenant boggs and his devoted band of ten were making their way slowly and watchfully up the mighty chasm--the lieutenant with his hand on his sword and his head bare, and bowed in thought. the kentuckians were on their way--at that moment they might be riding full speed toward the mouth of pigeon, where floated the flag. they might gobble him and his command up when they emerged from the gap. suppose they caught him up that tree. his command might escape, but _he_ would be up there, saving them the trouble of stringing him up. all they would have to do would be to send up after him a man with a rope, and let him drop. that was enough. lieutenant boggs called a halt and explained the real purpose of the expedition. "we will wait here till dark," he said, "so them kanetuckians can't ketch us, whilst we are climbing that tree." and so they waited opposite bee rock, which was making ready to blossom with purple rhododendrons. and the reserve back in the gap, under lieutenant skaggs, waited. waited, too, the army of the callahan at the mouth of the gap, and waited restlessly captain wells at the door of his tent, and flitter bill on the stoop of his store--waited everybody but tallow dick, who, in the general confusion, was slipping through the rhododendrons along the bank of roaring fork, until he could climb the mountain-side and slip through the gap high over the army's head. what could have happened? when dusk was falling, captain wells dispatched a messenger to lieutenant skaggs and his reserve, and got an answer; lieutenant skaggs feared that boggs had been captured without the firing of a single shot--but the flag was floating still. an hour later, lieutenant skaggs sent another message--he could not see the flag. captain wells answered, stoutly: "hold yo' own." and so, as darkness fell, the army of the callahan waited in the strain of mortal expectancy as one man; and flitter bill waited, with his horse standing saddled in the barn, ready for swift flight. and, as darkness fell, tallow dick was cautiously picking his way alongside the steep wall of the gap toward freedom, and picking it with stealthy caution, foot by foot; for up there, to this day, big loose rocks mount halfway to the jagged points of the black cliffs, and a careless step would have detached one and sent an avalanche of rumbling stones down to betray him. a single shot rang suddenly out far up through the gap, and the startled negro sprang forward, slipped, and, with a low, frightened oath, lay still. another shot followed, and another. then a hoarse murmur rose, loudened into thunder, and ended in a frightful--boom! one yell rang from the army's throat: "the kentuckians! the kentuckians! the wild, long-haired, terrible kentuckians!" captain wells sprang into the air. "my god, they've got a cannon!" then there was a martial chorus--the crack of rifle, the hoarse cough of horse-pistol, the roar of old muskets. "bing! bang! boom! bing--bing! bang--bang! boom--boom! bing--bang--boom!" lieutenant skaggs and his reserves heard the beat of running feet down the gap. "they've gobbled boggs," he said, and the reserve rushed after him as he fled. the army heard the beat of their coming feet. "they've gobbled skaggs," the army said. then was there bedlam as the army fled--a crashing through bushes--a splashing into the river, the rumble of mule wagons, yells of terror, swift flying shapes through the pale moonlight. flitter bill heard the din as he stood by his barn door. "they've gobbled the army," said flitter bill, and he, too, fled like a shadow down the valley. nature never explodes such wild and senseless energy as when she lets loose a mob in a panic. with the army, it was each man for himself and devil take the hindmost; and the flight of the army was like a flight from the very devil himself. lieutenant boggs, whose feet were the swiftest in the hills, outstripped his devoted band. lieutenant skaggs, being fat and slow, fell far behind his reserve, and dropped exhausted on a rock for a moment to get his breath. as he rose, panting, to resume flight, a figure bounded out of the darkness behind him, and he gathered it in silently and went with it to the ground, where both fought silently in the dust until they rolled into the moonlight and each looked the other in the face. "that you, jim skaggs?" "that you, tom boggs?" then the two lieutenants rose swiftly, but a third shape bounded into the road--a gigantic figure--black tom! with a startled yell they gathered him in--one by the waist, the other about the neck, and, for a moment, the terrible kentuckian--it could be none other--swung the two clear of the ground, but the doughty lieutenants hung to him. boggs trying to get his knife and skaggs his pistol, and all went down in a heap. "i surrender--i surrender!" it was the giant who spoke, and at the sound of his voice both men ceased to struggle, and, strange to say, no one of the three laughed. "lieutenant boggs," said captain wells, thickly, "take yo' thumb out o' my mouth. lieutenant skaggs, leggo my leg an' stop bitin' me." "sh--sh--sh--" said all three. the faint swish of bushes as lieutenant boggs's ten men scuttled into the brush behind them--the distant beat of the army's feet getting fainter ahead of them, and then silence--dead, dead silence. "sh--sh--sh!" with the red streaks of dawn captain mayhall wells was pacing up and down in front of flitter bill's store, a gaping crowd about him, and the shattered remnants of the army drawn up along roaring fork in the rear. an hour later flitter bill rode calmly in. "i stayed all night down the valley," said flitter bill. "uncle jim richmond was sick. i hear you had some trouble last night, captain wells." the captain expanded his chest. "trouble!" he repeated, sarcastically. and then he told how a charging horde of daredevils had driven him from camp with overwhelming numbers and one piece of artillery; how he had rallied the army and fought them back, foot by foot, and put them to fearful rout; how the army had fallen back again just when the kentuckians were running like sheep, and how he himself had stayed in the rear with lieutenant boggs and lieutenant skaggs, "to cover their retreat, suh," and how the purveyor, if he would just go up through the gap, would doubtless find the cannon that the enemy had left behind in their flight. it was just while he was thus telling the tale for the twentieth time that two figures appeared over the brow of the hill and drew near--hence sturgill on horseback and tallow dick on foot. "i ketched this nigger in my corn-fiel' this mornin'," said hence, simply, and flitter bill glared, and without a word went for the blacksnake ox-whip that hung by the barn door. for the twenty-first time captain wells started his tale again, and with every pause that he made for breath hence cackled scorn. "an', hence sturgill, ef you will jus' go up in the gap you'll find a cannon, captured, suh, by me an' the army of the callahan, an'--" "cannon!" hence broke in. "speak up, nigger!" and tallow dick spoke up--grinning: "i done it!" "what!" shouted flitter bill. "i kicked a rock loose climbin' over callahan's nose." bill dropped his whip with a chuckle of pure ecstasy. mayhall paled and stared. the crowd roared, the army of the callahan grinned, and hence climbed back on his horse. "mayhall wells," he said, "plain ole mayhall wells, i'll see you on couht day. i ain't got time now." and he rode away. [illustration: "speak up, nigger."] iv that day captain mayhall wells and the army of the callahan were in disrepute. next day the awful news of lee's surrender came. captain wells refused to believe it, and still made heroic effort to keep his shattered command together. looking for recruits on court day, he was twitted about the rout of the army by hence sturgill, whose long-coveted chance to redeem himself had come. again, as several times before, the captain declined to fight--his health was essential to the general well-being--but hence laughed in his face, and the captain had to face the music, though the heart of him was gone. he fought well, for he was fighting for his all, and he knew it. he could have whipped with ease, and he did whip, but the spirit of the thoroughbred was not in captain mayhall wells. he had sturgill down, but hence sank his teeth into mayhall's thigh while mayhall's hands grasped his opponent's throat. the captain had only to squeeze, as every rough-and-tumble fighter knew, and endure his pain until hence would have to give in. but mayhall was not built to endure. he roared like a bull as soon as the teeth met in his flesh, his fingers relaxed, and to the disgusted surprise of everybody he began to roar with great distinctness and agony: "'nough! 'nough!" the end was come, and nobody knew it better than mayhall wells. he rode home that night with hands folded on the pommel of his saddle and his beard crushed by his chin against his breast. for the last time, next morning he rode down to flitter bill's store. on the way he met parson kilburn and for the last time mayhall wells straightened his shoulders and for one moment more resumed his part: perhaps the parson had not heard of his fall. "good-mornin', parsing," he said, pleasantly. "ah--where have you been?" the parson was returning from cumberland gap, whither he had gone to take the oath of allegiance. "by the way, i have something here for you which flitter bill asked me to give you. he said it was from the commandant at cumberland gap." "fer me?" asked the captain--hope springing anew in his heart. the parson handed him a letter. mayhall looked at it upside down. "if you please, parsing," he said, handing it back, "i hev left my specs at home." the parson read that, whereas captain wells had been guilty of grave misdemeanors while in command of the army of the callahan, he should be arrested and court-martialled for the same, or be given the privilege of leaving the county in twenty-four hours. mayhall's face paled a little and he stroked his beard. "ah--does anybody but you know about this ordah, parsing?" "nobody." "well, if you will do me the great favor, parsing, of not mentioning it to nary a living soul--as fer me and my ole gray hoss and my household furniture--we'll be in kanetuck afore daybreak to-morrow mornin'!" and he was. but he rode on just then and presented himself for the last time at the store of flitter bill. bill was sitting on the stoop in his favorite posture. and in a moment there stood before him plain mayhall wells--holding out the order bill had given the parson that day. "misto richmond," he said, "i have come to tell you good-by." now just above the selfish layers of fat under flitter bill's chubby hands was a very kind heart. when he saw mayhall's old manner and heard the old respectful way of address, and felt the dazed helplessness of the big, beaten man, the heart thumped. "i am sorry about that little amount i owe you; i think i'll be able shortly--" but bill cut him short. mayhall wells, beaten, disgraced, driven from home on charge of petty crimes, of which he was undoubtedly guilty, but for which bill knew he himself was responsible--mayhall on his way into exile and still persuading himself and, at that moment, almost persuading him that he meant to pay that little debt of long ago--was too much for flitter bill, and he proceeded to lie--lying with deliberation and pleasure. "captain wells," he said--and the emphasis on the title was balm to mayhall's soul--"you have protected me in time of war, an' you air welcome to yo' uniform an' you air welcome to that little debt. yes," he went on, reaching down into his pocket and pulling out a roll of bills, "i tender you in payment for that same protection the regular pay of a officer in the confederate service"--and he handed out the army pay for three months in confederate greenbacks--"an' five dollars in money of the united states, of which i an', doubtless, you, suh, air true and loyal citizens. captain wells, i bid you good-by an' i wish ye well--i wish ye well." from the stoop of his store bill watched the captain ride away, drooping at the shoulders, and with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle--his dim blue eyes misty, the jaunty forage cap a mockery of his iron-gray hair, and the flaps of his coat fanning either side like mournful wings. and flitter bill muttered to himself: "atter he's gone long enough fer these things to blow over, i'm going to bring him back and give him another chance--yes, damme if i don't git him back." and bill dropped his remorseful eye to the order in his hand. like the handwriting of the order that lifted mayhall like magic into power, the handwriting of this order, that dropped him like a stone--was flitter bill's own. the pardon of becky day the missionary was young and she was from the north. her brows were straight, her nose was rather high, and her eyes were clear and gray. the upper lip of her little mouth was so short that the teeth just under it were never quite concealed. it was the mouth of a child and it gave the face, with all its strength and high purpose, a peculiar pathos that no soul in that little mountain town had the power to see or feel. a yellow mule was hitched to the rickety fence in front of her and she stood on the stoop of a little white frame-house with an elm switch between her teeth and gloves on her hands, which were white and looked strong. the mule wore a man's saddle, but no matter--the streets were full of yellow pools, the mud was ankle-deep, and she was on her way to the sick-bed of becky day. there was a flood that morning. all the preceding day the rains had drenched the high slopes unceasingly. that night, the rain-clear forks of the kentucky got yellow and rose high, and now they crashed together around the town and, after a heaving conflict, started the river on one quivering, majestic sweep to the sea. nobody gave heed that the girl rode a mule or that the saddle was not her own, and both facts she herself quickly forgot. this half log, half frame house on a corner had stood a siege once. she could yet see bullet holes about the door. through this window, a revenue officer from the blue grass had got a bullet in the shoulder from a garden in the rear. standing in the post-office door only just one month before, she herself had seen children scurrying like rabbits through the back-yard fences, men running silently here and there, men dodging into doorways, fire flashing in the street and from every house--and not a sound but the crack of pistol and winchester; for the mountain men deal death in all the terrible silence of death. and now a preacher with a long scar across his forehead had come to the one little church in the place and the fervor of religion was struggling with feudal hate for possession of the town. to the girl, who saw a symbol in every mood of the earth, the passions of these primitive people were like the treacherous streams of the uplands--now quiet as sunny skies and now clashing together with but little less fury and with much more noise. and the roar of the flood above the wind that late afternoon was the wrath of the father, that with the peace of the son so long on earth, such things still could be. once more trouble was threatening and that day even she knew that trouble might come, but she rode without fear, for she went when and where she pleased as any woman can, throughout the cumberland, without insult or harm. at the end of the street were two houses that seemed to front each other with unmistakable enmity. in them were two men who had wounded each other only the day before, and who that day would lead the factions, if the old feud broke loose again. one house was close to the frothing hem of the flood--a log-hut with a shed of rough boards for a kitchen--the home of becky day. the other was across the way and was framed and smartly painted. on the steps sat a woman with her head bare and her hands under her apron--widow of the marcum whose death from a bullet one month before had broken the long truce of the feud. a groaning curse was growled from the window as the girl drew near, and she knew it came from a wounded marcum who had lately come back from the west to avenge his brother's death. "why don't you go over to see your neighbor?" the girl's clear eyes gave no hint that she knew--as she well did--the trouble between the houses, and the widow stared in sheer amazement, for mountaineers do not talk with strangers of the quarrels between them. "i have nothin' to do with such as her," she said, sullenly; "she ain't the kind--" "don't!" said the girl, with a flush, "she's dying." "_dyin?_" "yes." with the word the girl sprang from the mule and threw the reins over the pale of the fence in front of the log-hut across the way. in the doorway she turned as though she would speak to the woman on the steps again, but a tall man with a black beard appeared in the low door of the kitchen-shed. "how is your--how is mrs. day?" "mighty puny this mornin'--becky is." the girl slipped into the dark room. on a disordered, pillowless bed lay a white face with eyes closed and mouth slightly open. near the bed was a low wood fire. on the hearth were several thick cups filled with herbs and heavy fluids and covered with tarpaulin, for becky's "man" was a teamster. with a few touches of the girl's quick hands, the covers of the bed were smooth, and the woman's eyes rested on the girl's own cloak. with her own handkerchief she brushed the death-damp from the forehead that already seemed growing cold. at her first touch, the woman's eyelids opened and dropped together again. her lips moved, but no sound came from them. in a moment the ashes disappeared, the hearth was clean and the fire was blazing. every time the girl passed the window she saw the widow across the way staring hard at the hut. when she took the ashes into the street, the woman spoke to her. "i can't go to see becky--she hates me." "with good reason." the answer came with a clear sharpness that made the widow start and redden angrily; but the girl walked straight to the gate, her eyes ablaze with all the courage that the mountain woman knew and yet with another courage to which the primitive creature was a stranger--a courage that made the widow lower her own eyes and twist her hands under her apron. "i want you to come and ask becky to forgive you." the woman stared and laughed. "forgive me? becky forgive me? she wouldn't--an' i don't want her--" she could not look up into the girl's eyes; but she pulled a pipe from under the apron, laid it down with a trembling hand and began to rock slightly. the girl leaned across the gate. "look at me!" she said, sharply. the woman raised her eyes, swerved them once, and then in spite of herself, held them steady. "listen! do you want a dying woman's curse?" it was a straight thrust to the core of a superstitious heart and a spasm of terror crossed the woman's face. she began to wring her hands. "come on!" said the girl, sternly, and turned, without looking back, until she reached the door of the hut, where she beckoned and stood waiting, while the woman started slowly and helplessly from the steps, still wringing her hands. inside, behind her, the wounded marcum, who had been listening, raised himself on one elbow and looked after her through the window. "she can't come in--not while i'm in here." the girl turned quickly. it was dave day, the teamster, in the kitchen door, and his face looked blacker than his beard. "oh!" she said, simply, as though hurt, and then with a dignity that surprised her, the teamster turned and strode towards the back door. "but i can git out, i reckon," he said, and he never looked at the widow who had stopped, frightened, at the gate. "oh, i can't--i _can't!_" she said, and her voice broke; but the girl gently pushed her to the door, where she stopped again, leaning against the lintel. across the way, the wounded marcum, with a scowl of wonder, crawled out of his bed and started painfully to the door. the girl saw him and her heart beat fast. inside, becky lay with closed eyes. she stirred uneasily, as though she felt some hated presence, but her eyes stayed fast, for the presence of death in the room was stronger still. "becky!" at the broken cry, becky's eyes flashed wide and fire broke through the haze that had gathered in them. "i want ye ter fergive me, becky." the eyes burned steadily for a long time. for two days she had not spoken, but her voice came now, as though from the grave. "you!" she said, and, again, with torturing scorn, "you!" and then she smiled, for she knew why her enemy was there, and her hour of triumph was come. the girl moved swiftly to the window--she could see the wounded marcum slowly crossing the street, pistol in hand. "what'd i ever do to you?" "nothin', becky, nothin'." becky laughed harshly. "you can tell the truth--can't ye--to a dyin' woman?" "fergive me, becky!" a scowling face, tortured with pain, was thrust into the window. "sh-h!" whispered the girl, imperiously, and the man lifted his heavy eyes, dropped one elbow on the window-sill and waited. "you tuk jim from me!" the widow covered her face with her hands, and the marcum at the window--brother to jim, who was dead--lowered at her, listening keenly. "an' you got him by lyin' 'bout me. you tuk him by lyin' 'bout me--didn't ye? didn't ye?" she repeated, fiercely, and her voice would have wrung the truth from a stone. "yes--becky--yes!" "you hear?" cried becky, turning her eyes to the girl. "you made him believe an' made ever'body, you could, believe that i was--was _bad_" her breath got short, but the terrible arraignment went on. "you started this war. my brother wouldn't 'a' shot jim marcum if it hadn't been fer you. you killed jim--your own husband--an' you killed _me_. an' now you want me to fergive you--you!" she raised her right hand as though with it she would hurl the curse behind her lips, and the widow, with a cry, sprang for the bony fingers, catching them in her own hand and falling over on her knees at the bedside. "don't, becky, don't--don't--_don't!_" there was a slight rustle at the back window. at the other, a pistol flashed into sight and dropped again below the sill. turning, the girl saw dave's bushy black head--he, too, with one elbow on the sill and the other hand out of sight. "shame!" she said, looking from one to the other of the two men, who had learned, at last, the bottom truth of the feud; and then she caught the sick woman's other hand and spoke quickly. "hush, becky," she said; and at the touch of her hand and the sound of her voice, becky looked confusedly at her and let her upraised hand sink back to the bed. the widow stared swiftly from jim's brother, at one window, to dave day at the other, and hid her face on her arms. "remember, becky--how can you expect forgiveness in another world, unless you forgive in this?" the woman's brow knitted and she lay quiet. like the widow who held her hand, the dying woman believed, with never the shadow of a doubt, that somewhere above the stars, a living god reigned in a heaven of never-ending happiness; that somewhere beneath the earth a personal devil gloated over souls in eternal torture; that whether she went above, or below, hung solely on her last hour of contrition; and that in heaven or hell she would know those whom she might meet as surely as she had known them on earth. by and by her face softened and she drew a long breath. "jim was a good man," she said. and then after a moment: "an' i was a good woman"--she turned her eyes towards the girl--"until jim married _her_. i didn't keer after that." then she got calm, and while she spoke to the widow, she looked at the girl. "will you git up in church an' say before everybody that you knew i was _good_ when you said i was bad--that you lied about me?" "yes--yes." still becky looked at the girl, who stooped again. "she will, becky, i know she will. won't you forgive her and leave peace behind you? dave and jim's brother are here--make them shake hands. won't you--won't you?" she asked, turning from one to the other. both men were silent. "won't you?" she repeated, looking at jim's brother. "i've got nothin' agin dave. i always thought that she"--he did not call his brother's wife by name--"caused all this trouble. i've nothin' agin dave." the girl turned. "won't you, dave?" "i'm waitin' to hear whut becky says." becky was listening, though her eyes were closed. her brows knitted painfully. it was a hard compromise that she was asked to make i between mortal hate and a love that was more than mortal, but the plea that has stood between them for nearly twenty centuries prevailed, and the girl knew that the end of the feud was nigh. becky nodded. "yes, i fergive her, an' i want 'em to shake hands." but not once did she turn her eyes to the woman whom she forgave, and the hand that the widow held gave back no answering pressure. the faces at the windows disappeared, and she motioned for the girl to take her weeping enemy away. she did not open her eyes when the girl came back, but her lips moved and the girl bent above her. "i know whar jim is." from somewhere outside came dave's cough, and the dying woman turned her head as though she were reminded of something she had quite forgotten. then, straightway, she forgot again. the voice of the flood had deepened. a smile came to becky's lips--a faint, terrible smile of triumph. the girl bent low and, with a startled face, shrank back. "_an' i'll--git--thar--first._" with that whisper went becky's last breath, but the smile was there, even when her lips were cold. a crisis for the guard the tutor was from new england, and he was precisely what passes, with southerners, as typical. he was thin, he wore spectacles, he talked dreamy abstractions, and he looked clerical. indeed, his ancestors had been clergymen for generations, and, by nature and principle, he was an apostle of peace and a non-combatant. he had just come to the gap--a cleft in the cumberland mountains--to prepare two young blue grass kentuckians for harvard. the railroad was still thirty miles away, and he had travelled mule-back through mudholes, on which, as the joke ran, a traveller was supposed to leave his card before he entered and disappeared--that his successor might not unknowingly press him too hard. i do know that, in those mudholes, mules were sometimes drowned. the tutor's gray mule fell over a bank with him, and he would have gone back had he not feared what was behind more than anything that was possible ahead. he was mud-bespattered, sore, tired and dispirited when he reached the gap, but still plucky and full of business. he wanted to see his pupils at once and arrange his schedule. they came in after supper, and i had to laugh when i saw his mild eyes open. the boys were only fifteen and seventeen, but each had around him a huge revolver and a belt of cartridges, which he unbuckled and laid on the table after shaking hands. the tutor's shining glasses were raised to me for light. i gave it: my brothers had just come in from a little police duty, i explained. everybody was a policeman at the gap, i added; and, naturally, he still looked puzzled; but he began at once to question the boys about their studies, and, in an hour, he had his daily schedule mapped out and submitted to me. i had to cover my mouth with my hand when i came to one item--"exercise: a walk of half an hour every wednesday afternoon between five and six"--for the younger, known since at harvard as the colonel, and known then at the gap as the infant of the guard, winked most irreverently. as he had just come back from a ten-mile chase down the valley on horseback after a bad butcher, and as either was apt to have a like experience any and every day, i was not afraid they would fail to get exercise enough; so i let that item of the tutor pass. the tutor slept in my room that night, and my four brothers, the eldest of whom was a lieutenant on the police guard, in a room across the hallway. i explained to the tutor that there was much lawlessness in the region; that we "foreigners" were trying to build a town, and that, to ensure law and order, we had all become volunteer policemen. he seemed to think it was most interesting. about three o'clock in the morning a shrill whistle blew, and, from habit, i sprang out of bed. i had hardly struck the floor when four pairs of heavy boots thundered down the stairs just outside the door, and i heard a gasp from the startled tutor. he was bolt upright in bed, and his face in the moonlight was white with fear. "wha--wha--what's that?" i told him it was a police whistle and that the boys were answering it. everybody jumped when he heard a whistle, i explained; for nobody in town was permitted to blow one except a policeman. i guessed there would be enough men answering that whistle without me, however, and i slipped back into bed. "well," he said; and when the boys lumbered upstairs again and one shouted through the door, "all right!" the tutor said again with emphasis: "well!" next day there was to be a political gathering at the gap. a senator was trying to lift himself by his own boot-straps into the governor's chair. he was going to make a speech, there would be a big and unruly crowd, and it would be a crucial day for the guard. so, next morning, i suggested to the tutor that it would be unwise for him to begin work with his pupils that day, for the reason that he was likely to be greatly interrupted and often. he thought, however, he would like to begin. he did begin, and within half an hour gordon, the town sergeant, thrust his head inside the door and called the colonel by name. "come on," he said; "they're going to try that d--n butcher." and seeing from the tutor's face that he had done something dreadful, he slammed the door in apologetic confusion. the tutor was law-abiding, and it was the law that called the colonel, and so the tutor let him go--nay, went with him and heard the case. the butcher had gone off on another man's horse--the man owed him money, he said, and the only way he could get his money was to take the horse as security. but the sergeant did not know this, and he and the colonel rode after him, and the colonel, having the swifter horse, but not having had time to get his own pistol, took the sergeant's and went ahead. he fired quite close to the running butcher twice, and the butcher thought it wise to halt. when he saw the child who had captured him he was speechless, and he got off his horse and cut a big switch to give the colonel a whipping, but the doughty infant drew down on him again and made him ride, foaming with rage, back to town. the butcher was good-natured at the trial, however, and the tutor heard him say, with a great guffaw: "an' i _do_ believe the d--n little fool would 'a' shot me." once more the tutor looked at the pupil whom he was to lead into the classic halls of harvard, and once more he said: "well!" people were streaming into town now, and i persuaded the tutor that there was no use for him to begin his studies again. he said he would go fishing down the river and take a swim. he would get back in time to hear the speaking in the afternoon. so i got him a horse, and he came out with a long cane fishing-pole and a pair of saddle-bags. i told him that he must watch the old nag or she would run away with him, particularly when he started homeward. the tutor was not much of a centaur. the horse started as he was throwing the wrong leg over his saddle, and the tutor clamped his rod under one arm, clutching for the reins with both hands and kicking for his stirrups with both feet. the tip of the limber pole beat the horse's flank gently as she struck a trot, and smartly as she struck into a lope, and so with arms, feet, saddle-pockets, and fishing-rod flapping towards different points of the compass, the tutor passed out of sight over poplar hill on a dead run. as soon as he could get over a fit of laughter and catch his breath, the colonel asked: "do you know what he had in those saddle-pockets?" "no." "a bathing suit," he shouted; and he went off again. not even in a primeval forest, it seemed, would the modest puritan bare his body to the mirror of limpid water and the caress of mountain air. * * * * * the trouble had begun early that morning, when gordon, the town sergeant, stepped from his door and started down the street with no little self-satisfaction. he had been arraying himself for a full hour, and after a tub-bath and a shave he stepped, spic and span, into the street with his head steadily held high, except when he bent it to look at the shine of his boots, which was the work of his own hands, and of which he was proud. as a matter of fact, the sergeant felt that he looked just as he particularly wanted to look on that day--his best. gordon was a native of wise, but that day a girl was coming from lee, and he was ready for her. opposite the intermont, a pistol-shot cracked from cherokee avenue, and from habit he started that way. logan, the captain of the guard--the leading lawyer in that part of the state--was ahead of him however, and he called to gordon to follow. gordon ran in the grass along the road to keep those boots out of the dust. somebody had fired off his pistol for fun and was making tracks for the river. as they pushed the miscreant close, he dashed into the river to wade across. it was a very cold morning, and gordon prayed that the captain was not going to be such a fool as to follow the fellow across the river. he should have known better, "in with you," said the captain quietly, and the mirror of the shining boots was dimmed, and the icy water chilled the sergeant to the knees and made him so mad that he flashed his pistol and told the runaway to halt, which he did in the middle of the stream. it was richards, the tough from "the pocket," and, as he paid his fine promptly, they had to let him go. gordon went back, put on his everyday clothes and got his billy and his whistle and prepared to see the maid from lee when his duty should let him. as a matter of fact, he saw her but once, and then he was not made happy. the people had come in rapidly--giants from the crab orchard, mountaineers from through the gap, and from cracker's neck and thunderstruck knob; valley people from little stone-gap, from the furnace site and bum hollow and wildcat, and people from lee, from turkey cove, and from the pocket--the much-dreaded pocket--far down in the river hills. they came on foot and on horseback, and left their horses in the bushes and crowded the streets and filled the saloon of one jack woods--who had the cackling laugh of satan and did not like the guard, for good reasons, and whose particular pleasure was to persuade some customer to stir up a hornet's nest of trouble. from the saloon the crowd moved up towards the big spring at the foot of imboden hill, where, under beautiful trunk-mottled beeches, was built the speakers' platform. precisely at three o'clock the local orator much flurried, rose, ran his hand through his long hair and looked in silence over the crowd. "fellow citizens! there's beauty in the stars, of night and in the glowin' orb of day. there's beauty in the rollin' meadow and in the quiet stream. there's beauty in the smilin' valley and in the everlastin' hills. therefore, fellow citizens--therefore, fellow citizens, allow me to introduce to you the future governor of these united states--senator william bayhone." and he sat down with such a beatific smile of self-satisfaction that a fiend would not have had the heart to say he had not won. now, there are wandering minstrels yet in the cumberland hills. they play fiddles and go about making up "ballets" that involve local history. sometimes they make a pretty good verse--this, for instance, about a feud: the death of these two men caused great trouble in our land. caused men to leave their families and take the parting hand. retaliation, still at war, may never, never cease. i would that i could only see our land once more at peace. there was a minstrel out in the crowd, and pretty soon he struck up his fiddle and his lay, and he did not exactly sing the virtues of billy bayhone. evidently some partisan thought he ought, for he smote him on the thigh with the toe of his boot and raised such a stir as a rude stranger might had he smitten a troubadour in arthur's court. the crowd thickened and surged, and four of the guard emerged with the fiddler and his assailant under arrest. it was as though the valley were a sheet of water straightway and the fiddler the dropping of a stone, for the ripple of mischief started in every direction. it caught two mountaineers on the edge of the crowd, who for no particular reason thumped each other with their huge fists, and were swiftly led away by that silent guard. the operation of a mysterious force was in the air and it puzzled the crowd. somewhere a whistle would blow, and, from this point and that, a quiet, well-dressed young man would start swiftly toward it. the crowd got restless and uneasy, and, by and by, experimental and defiant. for in that crowd was the spirit of bunker hill and king's mountain. it couldn't fiddle and sing; it couldn't settle its little troubles after the good old fashion of fist and skull; it couldn't charge up and down the streets on horseback if it pleased; it couldn't ride over those puncheon sidewalks; it couldn't drink openly and without shame; and, shades of the american eagle and the stars and stripes, it couldn't even yell. no wonder, like the heathen, it raged. what did these blanked "furriners" have against them anyhow? they couldn't run _their_ country--not much. pretty soon there came a shrill whistle far down-town--then another and another. it sounded ominous, indeed, and it was, being a signal of distress from the infant of the guard, who stood before the door of jack woods's saloon with his pistol levelled on richards, the tough from the pocket, the infant, standing there with blazing eyes, alone and in the heart of a gathering storm. now the chain of lawlessness that had tightened was curious and significant. there was the tough and his kind--lawless, irresponsible and possible in any community. there was the farm-hand who had come to town with the wild son of his employer--an honest, law-abiding farmer. came, too, a friend of the farmer who had not yet reaped the crop of wild oats sown in his youth. whiskey ran all into one mould. the farm-hand drank with the tough, the wild son with the farm-hand, and the three drank together, and got the farmer's unregenerate friend to drink with them; and he and the law-abiding farmer himself, by and by, took a drink for old time's sake. now the cardinal command of rural and municipal districts all through the south is, "forsake not your friend": and it does not take whiskey long to make friends. jack woods had given the tough from the pocket a whistle. "you dassen't blow it," said he. richards asked why, and jack told him. straightway the tough blew the whistle, and when the little colonel ran down to arrest him he laughed and resisted, and the wild son and the farm-hand and jack woods showed an inclination to take his part. so, holding his "drop" on the tough with one hand, the infant blew vigorously for help with the other. logan, the captain, arrived first--he usually arrived first--and gordon, the sergeant, was by his side--gordon was always by his side. he would have stormed a battery if the captain had led him, and the captain would have led him--alone--if he thought it was his duty. logan was as calm as a stage hero at the crisis of a play. the crowd had pressed close. "take that man," he said sharply, pointing to the tough whom the colonel held covered, and two men seized him from behind. the farm-hand drew his gun. "no, you don't!" he shouted. "take _him_," said the captain quietly; and he was seized by two more and disarmed. it was then that sturgeon, the wild son, ran up. "you can't take that man to jail," he shouted with an oath, pointing at the farm-hand. the captain waved his hand. "and _him_!" as two of the guard approached, sturgeon started for his gun. now, sturgeon was gordon's blood cousin, but gordon levelled his own pistol. sturgeon's weapon caught in his pocket, and he tried to pull it loose. the moment he succeeded gordon stood ready to fire. twice the hammer of the sergeant's pistol went back almost to the turning-point, and then, as he pulled the trigger again, macfarlan, first lieutenant, who once played lacrosse at yale, rushed, parting the crowd right and left, and dropped his billy lightly three times--right, left and right--on sturgeon's head. the blood spurted, the head fell back between the bully's shoulders, his grasp on his pistol loosened, and he sank to his knees. for a moment the crowd was stunned by the lightning quickness of it all. it was the first blow ever struck in that country with a piece of wood in the name of the law. "take 'em on, boys," called the captain, whose face had paled a little, though he seemed as cool as ever. and the boys started, dragging the three struggling prisoners, and the crowd, growing angrier and angrier, pressed close behind, a hundred of them, led by the farmer himself, a giant in size, and beside himself with rage and humiliation. once he broke through the guard line and was pushed back. knives and pistols began to flash now everywhere, and loud threats and curses rose on all sides--the men should not be taken to jail. the sergeant, dragging sturgeon, looked up into the blazing eyes of a girl on the sidewalk, sturgeon's sister--the maid from lee. the sergeant groaned. logan gave some order just then to the infant, who ran ahead, and by the time the guard with the prisoners had backed to a corner there were two lines of guards drawn across the street. the first line let the prisoners and their captors through, closed up behind, and backed slowly towards the corner, where it meant to stand. it was very exciting there. winchesters and shotguns protruded from the line threateningly, but the mob came on as though it were going to press through, and determined faces blenched with excitement, but not with fear. a moment later, the little colonel and the guards on either side of him were jabbing at men with cocked winchesters. at that moment it would have needed but one shot to ring out to have started an awful carnage; but not yet was there a man in the mob--and that is the trouble with mobs--who seemed willing to make a sacrifice of himself that the others might gain their end. for one moment they halted, cursing and waving; their pistols, preparing for a charge; and in that crucial moment the tutor from new england came like a thunderbolt to the rescue. shrieks of terror from children, shrieks of outraged modesty from women, rent the air down the street where the huddled crowd was rushing right and left in wild confusion, and, through the parting crowd, the tutor flew into sight on horseback, bareheaded, barefooted, clad in a gaudily striped bathing suit, with his saddle-pockets flapping behind him like wings. some mischievous mountaineers, seeing him in his bathing suit on the point of a rock up the river, had joyously taken a pot-shot or two at him, and the tutor had mounted his horse and fled. but he came as welcome and as effective as an emissary straight from the god of battles, though he came against his will, for his old nag was frantic and was running away. men, women and children parted before him, and gaping mouths widened as he passed. the impulse of the crowd ran faster than his horse, and even the enraged mountaineers in amazed wonder sprang out of his way, and, far in the rear, a few privileged ones saw the frantic horse plunge towards his stable, stop suddenly, and pitch his mottled rider through the door and mercifully out of sight. human purpose must give way when a pure miracle comes to earth to baffle it. it gave way now long enough to let the oaken doors of the calaboose close behind tough, farm-hand, and the farmer's wild son. the line of winchesters at the corner quietly gave way. the power of the guard was established, the backbone of the opposition broken; henceforth, the work for law and order was to be easy compared with what it had been. up at the big spring under the beeches sat the disgusted orator of the day and the disgusted senator, who, seriously, was quite sure that the guard, being composed of democrats, had taken this way to shatter his campaign. * * * * * next morning, in court, the members of the guard acted as witnesses against the culprits. macfarlan stated that he had struck sturgeon over the head to save his life, and sturgeon, after he had paid his fine, said he would prefer being shot to being clubbed to death, and he bore dangerous malice for a long time, until he learned what everybody else knew, that macfarlan always did what he thought he ought, and never spoke anything but the literal truth, whether it hurt friend, foe or himself. after court, richards, the tough, met gordon, the sergeant, in the road. "gordon," he said, "you swore to a ---- lie about me a while ago." "how do you want to fight?" asked gordon. "fair!" "come on"; and gordon started for the town limits across the river, richards following on horseback. at a store, gordon unbuckled his belt and tossed his pistol and his police badge inside. jack woods, seeing this, followed, and the infant, seeing woods, followed too. the law was law, but this affair was personal, and would be settled without the limits of law and local obligation. richards tried to talk to gordon, but the sergeant walked with his head down, as though he could not hear--he was too enraged to talk. while richards was hitching his horse in the bushes the sergeant stood on the bank of the river with his arms folded and his chin swinging from side to side. when he saw richards in the open he rushed for him like a young bull that feels the first swelling of his horns. it was not a fair, stand-up, knock-down english fight, but a scotch tussle, in which either could strike, kick, bite or gouge. after a few blows they clinched and whirled and fell, gordon on top--with which advantage he began to pound the tough from the pocket savagely. woods made as if to pull him off, but the infant drew his pistol. "keep off!" "he's killing him!" shouted woods, halting. "let him holler 'enough,' then," said the infant. "he's killing him!" shouted woods. "let gordon's friends take him off, then," said the infant. "don't _you_ touch him." and it was done. richards was senseless and speechless--he really couldn't shout "enough." but he was content, and the day left a very satisfactory impression on him and on his friends. if they misbehaved in town they would be arrested: that was plain. but it was also plain that if anybody had a personal grievance against one of the guard he could call him out of the town limits and get satisfaction, after the way of his fathers. there was nothing personal at all in the attitude of the guard towards the outsiders; which recognition was a great stride toward mutual understanding and final high regard. all that day i saw that something was troubling the tutor from new england. it was the moral sense of the puritan at work, i supposed, and, that night, when i came in with a new supply of "billies" and gave one to each of my brothers, the tutor looked up over his glasses and cleared his throat. "now," said i to myself, "we shall catch it hot on the savagery of the south and the barbarous method of keeping it down"; but before he had said three words the colonel looked as though he were going to get up and slap the little dignitary on the back--which would have created a sensation indeed. "have you an extra one of those--those--" "billies?" i said, wonderingly. "yes. i--i believe i shall join the guard myself," said the tutor from new england. christmas night with satan no night was this in hades with solemn-eyed dante, for satan was only a woolly little black dog, and surely no dog was ever more absurdly misnamed. when uncle carey first heard that name, he asked gravely: "why, dinnie, where in h----," uncle carey gulped slightly, "did you get him?" and dinnie laughed merrily, for she saw the fun of the question, and shook her black curls. "he didn't come f'um _that place_." distinctly satan had not come from that place. on the contrary, he might by a miracle have dropped straight from some happy hunting-ground, for all the signs he gave of having touched pitch in this or another sphere. nothing human was ever born that was gentler, merrier, more trusting or more lovable than satan. that was why uncle carey said again gravelyt hat he could hardly tell satan and his little mistress apart. he rarely saw them apart, and as both had black tangled hair and bright black eyes; as one awoke every morning with a happy smile and the other with a jolly bark; as they played all day like wind-shaken shadows and each won every heart at first sight--the likeness was really rather curious. i have always believed that satan made the spirit of dinnie's house, orthodox and severe though it was, almost kindly toward his great namesake. i know i have never been able, since i knew little satan, to think old satan as bad as i once painted him, though i am sure the little dog had many pretty tricks that the "old boy" doubtless has never used in order to amuse his friends. "shut the door, saty, please." dinnie would say, precisely as she would say it to uncle billy, the butler, and straightway satan would launch himself at it--bang! he never would learn to close it softly, for satan liked that--bang! if you kept tossing a coin or marble in the air, satan would keep catching it and putting it back in your hand for another throw, till you got tired. then he would drop it on a piece of rag carpet, snatch the carpet with his teeth, throw the coin across the room and rush for it like mad, until he got tired. if you put a penny on his nose, he would wait until you counted, one--two--_three_! then he would toss it up himself and catch it. thus, perhaps, satan grew to love mammon right well, but for another and better reason than that he liked simply to throw it around--as shall now be made plain. a rubber ball with a hole in it was his favorite plaything, and he would take it in his mouth and rush around the house like a child, squeezing it to make it whistle. when he got a new ball, he would hide his old one away until the new one was the worse worn of the two, and then he would bring out the old one again. if dinnie gave him a nickel or a dime, when they went down-town, satan would rush into a store, rear up on the counter where the rubber balls were kept, drop the coin, and get a ball for himself. thus, satan learned finance. he began to hoard, his pennies, and one day uncle carey found a pile of seventeen under a corner of the carpet. usually he carried to dinnie all coins that he found in the street, but he showed one day that he was going into the ball-business for himself. uncle carey had given dinnie a nickel for some candy, and, as usual, satan trotted down the street behind her. as usual, satan stopped before the knick-knack shop. "tum on, saty," said dinnie. satan reared against the door as he always did, and dinnie said again: "tum on, saty." as usual, satan dropped to his haunches, but what was unusual, he failed to bark. now dinnie had got a new ball for satan only that morning, so dinnie stamped her foot. [illustration: satan would drop the coin and get a ball for himself.] "i tell you to turn on, saty." satan never moved. he looked at dinnie as much as to say: "i have never disobeyed you before, little mistress, but this time i have an excellent reason for what must seem to you very bad manners--" and being a gentleman withal, satan rose on his haunches and begged. "you're des a pig, saty," said dinnie, but with a sigh for the candy that was not to be, dinnie opened the door, and satan, to her wonder, rushed to the counter, put his forepaws on it, and dropped from his mouth a dime. satan had found that coin on the street. he didn't bark for change, nor beg for two balls, but he had got it in his woolly little head, somehow, that in that store a coin meant a ball, though never before nor afterward did he try to get a ball for a penny. satan slept in uncle carey's room, for of all people, after dinnie, satan loved uncle carey best. every day at noon he would go to an upstairs window and watch the cars come around the corner, until a very tall, square-shouldered young man swung to the ground, and down satan would scamper--yelping--to meet him at the gate. if uncle carey, after supper and when dinnie was in bed, started out of the house, still in his business clothes, satan would leap out before him, knowing that he too might be allowed to go; but if uncle carey had put on black clothes that showed a big, dazzling shirt-front, and picked up his high hat, satan would sit perfectly still and look disconsolate; for as there were no parties or theatres for dinnie, so there were none for him. but no matter how late it was when uncle carey came home, he always saw satan's little black nose against the window-pane and heard his bark of welcome. after intelligence, satan's chief trait was lovableness--nobody ever knew him to fight, to snap at anything, or to get angry; after lovableness, it was politeness. if he wanted something to eat, if he wanted dinnie to go to bed, if he wanted to get out of the door, he would beg--beg prettily on his haunches, his little red tongue out and his funny little paws hanging loosely. indeed, it was just because satan was so little less than human, i suppose, that old satan began to be afraid he might have a soul. so the wicked old namesake with the hoofs and horns laid a trap for little satan, and, as he is apt to do, he began laying it early--long, indeed, before christmas. when dinnie started to kindergarten that autumn, satan found that there was one place where he could never go. like the lamb, he could not go to school; so while dinnie was away, satan began to make friends. he would bark, "howdy-do?" to every dog that passed his gate. many stopped to rub noses with him through the fence--even hugo the mastiff, and nearly all, indeed, except one strange-looking dog that appeared every morning at precisely nine o'clock and took his stand on the corner. there he would lie patiently until a funeral came along, and then satan would see him take his place at the head of the procession; and then he would march out to the cemetery and back again. nobody knew where he came from nor where he went, and uncle carey called him the "funeral dog" and said he was doubtless looking for his dead master. satan even made friends with a scrawny little yellow dog that followed an old drunkard around--a dog that, when his master fell in the gutter, would go and catch a policeman by the coat-tail, lead the officer to his helpless master, and spend the night with him in jail. by and by satan began to slip out of the house at night, and uncle billy said he reckoned satan had "jined de club"; and late one night, when he had not come in, uncle billy told uncle carey that it was "powerful slippery and he reckoned they'd better send de kerridge after him"--an innocent remark that made uncle carey send a boot after the old butler, who fled chuckling down the stairs, and left uncle carey chuckling in his room. satan had "jined de club"--the big club--and no dog was too lowly in satan's eyes for admission; for no priest ever preached the brotherhood of man better than satan lived it--both with man and dog. and thus he lived it that christmas night--to his sorrow. christmas eve had been gloomy--the gloomiest of satan's life. uncle carey had gone to a neighboring town at noon. satan had followed him down to the station, and when the train departed, uncle carey had ordered him to go home. satan took his time about going home, not knowing it was christmas eve. he found strange things happening to dogs that day. the truth was, that policemen were shooting all dogs found that were without a collar and a license, and every now and then a bang and a howl somewhere would stop satan in his tracks. at a little yellow house on the edge of town he saw half a dozen strange dogs in a kennel, and every now and then a negro would lead a new one up to the house and deliver him to a big man at the door, who, in return, would drop something into the negro's hand. while satan waited, the old drunkard came along with his little dog at his heels, paused before the door, looked a moment at his faithful follower, and went slowly on. satan little knew the old drunkard's temptation, for in that yellow house kind-hearted people had offered fifteen cents for each dog brought to them, without a license, that they might mercifully put it to death, and fifteen cents was the precise price for a drink of good whiskey. just then there was another bang and another howl somewhere, and satan trotted home to meet a calamity. dinnie was gone. her mother had taken her out in the country to grandmother dean's to spend christmas, as was the family custom, and mrs. dean would not wait any longer for satan; so she told uncle billy to bring him out after supper. "ain't you 'shamed o' yo'self--suh--?" said the old butler, "keepin' me from ketchin' christmas gifts dis day?" uncle billy was indignant, for the negroes begin at four o'clock in the afternoon of christmas eve to slip around corners and jump from hiding places to shout "christmas gif--christmas gif'"; and the one who shouts first gets a gift. no wonder it was gloomy for satan--uncle carey, dinnie, and all gone, and not a soul but uncle billy in the big house. every few minutes he would trot on his little black legs upstairs and downstairs, looking for his mistress. as dusk came on, he would every now and then howl plaintively. after begging his supper, and while uncle billy was hitching up a horse in the stable, satan went out in the yard and lay with his nose between the close panels of the fence--quite heart-broken. when he saw his old friend, hugo, the mastiff, trotting into the gaslight, he began to bark his delight frantically. the big mastiff stopped and nosed his sympathy through the fence for a moment and walked slowly on, satan frisking and barking along inside. at the gate hugo stopped, and raising one huge paw, playfully struck it. the gate flew open, and with a happy yelp satan leaped into the street. the noble mastiff hesitated as though this were not quite regular. he did not belong to the club, and he didn't know that satan had ever been away from home after dark in his life. for a moment he seemed to wait for dinnie to call him back as she always did, but this time there was no sound, and hugo walked majestically on, with absurd little satan running in a circle about him. on the way they met the "funeral dog," who glanced inquiringly at satan, shied from the mastiff, and trotted on. on the next block the old drunkard's yellow cur ran across the street, and after interchanging the compliments of the season, ran back after his staggering master. as they approached the railroad track a strange dog joined them, to whom hugo paid no attention. at the crossing another new acquaintance bounded toward them. this one--a half-breed shepherd--was quite friendly, and he received satan's advances with affable condescension. then another came and another, and little satan's head got quite confused. they were a queer-looking lot of curs and half-breeds from the negro settlement at the edge of the woods, and though satan had little experience, his instincts told him that all was not as it should be, and had he been human he would have wondered very much how they had escaped the carnage that day. uneasy, he looked around for hugo; but hugo had disappeared. once or twice hugo had looked around for satan, and satan paying no attention, the mastiff trotted on home in disgust. just then a powerful yellow cur sprang out of the darkness over the railroad track, and satan sprang to meet him, and so nearly had the life scared out of him by the snarl and flashing fangs of the new-comer that he hardly had the strength to shrink back behind his new friend, the half-breed shepherd. a strange thing then happened. the other dogs became suddenly quiet, and every eye was on the yellow cur. he sniffed the air once or twice, gave two or three peculiar low growls, and all those dogs except satan lost the civilization of centuries and went back suddenly to the time when they were wolves and were looking for a leader. the cur was lobo for that little pack, and after a short parley, he lifted his nose high and started away without looking back, while the other dogs silently trotted after him. with a mystified yelp, satan ran after them. the cur did not take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field, making his way by the rear of houses, from which now and then another dog would slink out and silently join the band. every one of them satan nosed most friendlily, and to his great joy the funeral dog, on the edge of the town, leaped into their midst. ten minutes later the cur stopped in the midst of some woods, as though he would inspect his followers. plainly, he disapproved of satan, and satan kept out of his way. then he sprang into the turnpike and the band trotted down it, under flying black clouds and shifting bands of brilliant moonlight. once, a buggy swept past them. a familiar odor struck satan's nose, and he stopped for a moment to smell the horse's tracks; and right he was, too, for out at her grandmother's dinnie refused to be comforted, and in that buggy was uncle billy going back to town after him. snow was falling. it was a great lark for satan. once or twice, as he trotted along, he had to bark his joy aloud, and each time the big cur gave him such a fierce growl that he feared thereafter to open his jaws. but he was happy for all that, to be running out into the night with such a lot of funny friends and not to know or care where he was going. he got pretty tired presently, for over hill and down hill they went, at that unceasing trot, trot, trot! satan's tongue began to hang out. once he stopped to rest, but the loneliness frightened him and he ran on after them with his heart almost bursting. he was about to lie right down and die, when the cur stopped, sniffed the air once or twice, and with those same low growls, led the marauders through a rail fence into the woods, and lay quietly down. how satan loved that soft, thick grass, all snowy that it was! it was almost as good as his own bed at home. and there they lay--how long, satan never knew, for he went to sleep and dreamed that he was after a rat in the barn at home; and he yelped in his sleep, which made the cur lift his big yellow head and show his fangs. the moving of the half-breed shepherd and the funeral dog waked him at last, and satan got up. half crouching, the cur was leading the way toward the dark, still woods on top of the hill, over which the star of bethlehem was lowly sinking, and under which lay a flock of the gentle creatures that seemed to have been almost sacred to the lord of that star. they were in sore need of a watchful shepherd now. satan was stiff and chilled, but he was rested and had had his sleep, and he was just as ready for fun as he always was. he didn't understand that sneaking. why they didn't all jump and race and bark as he wanted to, he couldn't see; but he was too polite to do otherwise than as they did, and so he sneaked after them; and one would have thought he knew, as well as the rest, the hellish mission on which they were bent. out of the woods they went, across a little branch, and there the big cur lay flat again in the grass. a faint bleat came from the hill-side beyond, where satan could see another woods--and then another bleat, and another. and the cur began to creep again, like a snake in the grass; and the others crept too, and little satan crept, though it was all a sad mystery to him. again the cur lay still, but only long enough for satan to see curious, fat, white shapes above him--and then, with a blood-curdling growl, the big brute dashed forward. oh, there was fun in them after all! satan barked joyfully. those were some new playmates--those fat, white, hairy things up there; and satan was amazed when, with frightened snorts, they fled in every direction. but this was a new game, perhaps, of which he knew nothing, and as did the rest, so did satan. he picked out one of the white things and fled barking after it. it was a little fellow that he was after, but little as he was, satan might never have caught up, had not the sheep got tangled in some brush. satan danced about him in mad glee, giving him a playful nip at his wool and springing back to give him another nip, and then away again. plainly, he was not going to bite back, and when the sheep struggled itself tired and sank down in a heap, satan came close and licked him, and as he was very warm and woolly, he lay down and snuggled up against him for awhile, listening to the turmoil that was going on around him. and as he listened, he got frightened. if this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar one--the wild rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of agony, and the fiendish growls of attack and the sounds of ravenous gluttony. with every hair bristling, satan rose and sprang from the woods--and stopped with a fierce tingling of the nerves that brought him horror and fascination. one of the white shapes lay still before him. there was a great steaming red splotch on the snow, and a strange odor in the air that made him dizzy; but only for a moment. another white shape rushed by. a tawny streak followed, and then, in a patch of moonlight, satan saw the yellow cur with his teeth fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate. like lightning satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him ten feet away and went back to his awful work. again satan leaped, but just then a shout rose behind him, and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of lightning had crashed over him, and, no longer noticing satan or sheep, began to quiver with fright and slink away. another shout rose from another direction--another from another. "drive 'em into the barn-yard!" was the cry. now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl of death-agony, as some dog tried to break through the encircling men, who yelled and cursed as they closed in on the trembling brutes that slunk together and crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his fate if caught, and will make little effort to escape. with them went satan, through the barn-yard gate, where they huddled in a corner--a shamed and terrified group. a tall overseer stood at the gate. "ten of 'em!" he said grimly. he had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, for there had recently been a sheep-killing raid on several farms in that neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out on the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand had neglected his duty that christmas eve. "yassuh, an' dey's jus' sebenteen dead sheep out dar," said a negro. "look at the little one," said a tall boy who looked like the overseer; and satan knew that he spoke of him. "go back to the house, son," said the overseer, "and tell your mother to give you a christmas present i got for you yesterday." with a glad whoop the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new . winchester in his hand. the dark hour before dawn was just breaking on christmas day. it was the hour when satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his little mistress was asleep. if he were only at home now, and if he only had known how his little mistress was weeping for him amid her playthings and his--two new balls and a brass-studded collar with a silver plate on which was his name, satan dean; and if dinnie could have seen him now, her heart would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun. there was a jet of smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the funeral dog started on the right way at last toward his dead master. another crack, and the yellow cur leaped from the ground and fell kicking. another crack and another, and with each crack a dog tumbled, until little satan sat on his haunches amid the writhing pack, alone. his time was now come. as the rifle was raised, he heard up at the big house the cries of children; the popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and whistles and loud shouts of "christmas gif', christmas gif'!" his little heart beat furiously. perhaps he knew just what he was doing; perhaps it was the accident of habit; most likely satan simply wanted to go home--but when that gun rose, satan rose too, on his haunches, his tongue out, his black eyes steady and his funny little paws hanging loosely--and begged! the boy lowered the gun. "down, sir!" satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted again, satan rose again, and again he begged. "down, i tell you!" this time satan would not down, but sat begging for his life. the boy turned. "papa, i can't shoot that dog." perhaps satan had reached the stern old overseer's heart. perhaps he remembered suddenly that it was christmas. at any rate, he said gruffly: "well, let him go." "come here, sir!" satan bounded toward the tall boy, frisking and trustful and begged again. "go home, sir!" satan needed no second command. without a sound he fled out the barn-yard, and, as he swept under the front gate, a little girl ran out of the front door of the big house and dashed down the steps, shrieking: "saty! saty! oh, saty!" but satan never heard. on he fled, across the crisp fields, leaped the fence and struck the road, lickety-split! for home, while dinnie dropped sobbing in the snow. "hitch up a horse, quick," said uncle carey, rushing after dinnie and taking her up in his arms. ten minutes later, uncle carey and dinnie, both warmly bundled up, were after flying satan. they never caught him until they reached the hill on the outskirts of town, where was the kennel of the kind-hearted people who were giving painless death to satan's four-footed kind, and where they saw him stop and turn from the road. there was divine providence in satan's flight for one little dog that christmas morning; for uncle carey saw the old drunkard staggering down the road without his little companion, and a moment later, both he and dinnie saw satan nosing a little yellow cur between the palings. uncle carey knew the little cur, and while dinnie was shrieking for satan, he was saying under his breath: "well, i swear!--i swear!--i swear!" and while the big man who came to the door was putting satan into dinnie's arms, he said, sharply: "who brought that yellow dog here?" the man pointed to the old drunkard's figure turning a corner at the foot of the hill. "i thought so; i thought so. he sold him to you for--for a drink of whiskey." the man whistled. "bring him out. i'll pay his license." so back went satan and the little cur to grandmother dean's--and dinnie cried when uncle carey told her why he was taking the little cur along. with her own hands she put satan's old collar on the little brute, took him to the kitchen, and fed him first of all. then she went into the breakfast-room. "uncle billy," she said severely, "didn't i tell you not to let saty out?" "yes, miss dinnie," said the old butler. "didn't i tell you i was goin' to whoop you if you let saty out?" "yes, miss dinnie." miss dinnie pulled forth from her christmas treasures a toy riding-whip and the old darky's eyes began to roll in mock terror. "i'm sorry, uncle billy, but i des got to whoop you a little." "let uncle billy off, dinnie," said uncle carey, "this is christmas." "all wite," said dinnie, and she turned to satan. in his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub, satan sat on the hearth begging for his breakfast. the wiving of lance cleaverage by alice macgowan author of "judith of the cumberlands," "the last word," "huldah," "return," etc. with illustrations in colour by robert edwards g. p. putnam's sons new york and london the knickerbocker press copyright, alice macgowan the knickerbocker press, new york to emma bell miles who could without doubt have written much better this story of her own home country the book is affectionately inscribed by the author contents i. a pair of haggards ii. the up-sitting iii. the burying iv. a dance and a serenade v. the asking vi. the wedding vii. lance's laurel viii. the infare ix. the interloper x. poverty pride xi. "long sweetenin'" xii. "what shall he have who killed the deer?" xiii. broken chords xiv. roxy griever's guest xv. a stubborn heart xvi. lance cleaverage's son xvii. the coasts of the island xviii. the hegira xix. callista cleaverage goes home xx. drawn blank xxi. flenton hands xxii. the speech of people xxiii. buck fuson's idea xxiv. silenced xxv. the flight xxvi. roxy griever xxvii. in hiding xxviii. the sheriff scores xxix. the island at last illustrations "i was just a-studyin' on the matter." frontispiece "a face, passion-pale, was raised to him, and eager, tremulous lips met his." "you'll marry us now--or not at all." "he placed the instrument in ola's grasp." "he gazed long at callista's face on the pillow." "he broke off, staring with open mouth." the wiving of lance cleaverage chapter i. a pair of haggards. noon of summer in the highlands of tennessee; the cumberlands, robed in the mid-season's green, flashed here and there with banding and gemming of waters. the two turkey track mountains, big and little, lying side by side and one running so evenly from the other that only the dweller upon them knew where to differentiate, basked in the full glow of a sabbath morning radiance. a young fellow of twenty-three, crossing the crown of a higher hill, tonsured years ago by the axe of some settler, but offering half way up its side resistance of undergrowth and saplings, paused a moment in the open to look down. below him the first church bell had just rung in the little gray structure across the creek. shining above the ocean of woods and the cabin homes that, like islets, dotted the forest at wide intervals, the sabbath sun caught and lightened upon something [ ] bright, swung upon the newcomer's back. himself as yet unseen, he gazed down upon this his world, spread map-like below him. he could pick out everybody's home. each one of those cabins wore to-day, from porch floors hollowed with much scouring to inner cupboard niche, an air of sunday expectancy that lacked little of being sanctimonious. only the house-mother remained in charge of each, preparing the sunday company dinner with even more outlay of energy than the preceding six had required. the men had, by common consent, adjourned to spring, barn, the shelter of big trees in the yard; he caught glimpses of the young folks below him on the woods-paths, attired in their brightest frocks and shirts, and whatever finery they could command, sauntering by twos and threes toward preaching. his smiling, impersonal gaze was aware of callista gentry sitting on a rock above the spring, holding a sort of woodland state like a rustic queen. the time of roses was past in this southern land, but every dooryard in the turkey tracks was painted gay with hollyhocks, while in ravine and thicket flamed the late azaleas, ranging from clear pale yellow, through buff and orange, to crimson. these lay piled in a sheaf beside the big gray rock, and the girl who sat there was showing her mates how to trim their hats with them, while several boys looked on and presumably admired. [ ] the curious feature of callista gentry's following was, that it included as many young women as young men, and the chariot wheels of her mates looked robbed always, because, inferentially, the man who courted any other would rather have callista gentry if he might. coached and forwarded, exploited and made the most of ever since she could remember; a bright, pretty child, and a dutiful student, during her brief days of country schooling; her mother had from infancy enforced all the rural arts of beauty culture to make her what she was. long home-knitted yarn gloves were worn to protect the shapely hands and whiten them. the grand big mane of ashen-blond hair was washed in fresh-caught rainwater, clipped in the dark of the moon, combed and tended and kept as no one else's hair was. her sunbonnets were never the long-caped ungainly affairs commonly seen; they took on, whether by accident or design one could hardly say, the coquetry of a wood violet half-blown; and when these were not in use, a broad hat shaded the exquisite fairness of the oval cheek. callista had grown up a delicate court lady, smooth and fine to look upon, pink and white and golden, like one of those rare orchids, marvelously veined and featured, known only to the bees of the wood, whose loveliness is always ashiver with peculiar vitality. this sunday morning the lepidopteral flutter of gay calicoes, and the bee-like murmur [ ] of young male voices in her court of youths and maidens, carried out well the figure of the rare, moth-bewitching blossom. "i wish't lance cleaverage'd come--then we'd see fun!" cried buck fuson, rising to his knees and gazing across the slope. "i'd ruther hear him and callista fuss as to eat my dinner. them two has the masterest arguments i ever heared outside of a law-court." brown little ola derf, sitting slightly apart from the others braiding pine needles into a ring, looked up suddenly. a woman at the spring below scooping a drink for a fat child, lifted a long drab face and sighted in the same direction. this was the widow griever, elder sister of lance cleaverage. sour censor of public morals that she was, roxy griever considered eighteen-year-old callista the young woman perfect, and found her own brother quite unworthy of the paragon. only the central figure of the group appeared to take no notice, while the girls about her, at the mere mention of lance, all fluttered and resettled themselves with a certain vague air of expectancy. "you boys ought to be ashamed of yo'se'fs," roxy griever reproved. then apart to young fuson, "callista's got more sense than to pay any attention to such a light-headed somebody as that fool brother o' mine. let me tell you, callista gentry has more sense than any of you [ ] men persons give her credit for. she's a serious-minded gal. you mary ann marthy, you quit treadin' over yo' sunday shoes." and she raised her small daughter a bit from the pathway and set her down sharply, as though to indicate the correct manner of walking in sunday foot-gear. the infant of the triple name--her uncle lance said she sounded like twins if she didn't look it--put up a mutinous red mouth and lowered from under flaxen brows. "me wants to hear 'em fuss," she muttered as she progressed reluctantly toward the little church on the hill-side. "well, you ain't goin' to hear 'em fuss, and they ain't goin' to fuss, and you couldn't hear 'em if they did," admonished her mother lucidly, accelerating the infant's pace from the rear. "the big spring ain't no place for chillen like you, and old women like me. let the light-minded and the ungodly do about in such ef they will. you and me is goin' into the church house and set thar till preachin'." fathers and mothers were herding their broods of lesser children in, but boys and girls of older growth, young men and women of an age to be thinking of mating, strolled by twos or sat on the bank above the big spring that supplied the baptismal pool of brush arbor church. callista gentry was wearing a new print frock--and looking quite unconscious of the fact. [ ] "that ain't no five cent lawn," whispered ola derf enviously, as she eyed it from afar. the derf girl was an outsider at most gatherings, and particularly so at church affairs. everybody knew she came to brush arbor only on a chance of seeing lance cleaverage. "thar comes lance now!" announced fuson, and then winked at his companions. callista never raised her glance, nor did the even tenor of her speech falter, though something told the onlooker that she was aware. a swift slight contraction of plumage like that of a hawk suddenly on the alert, a richer glow on the softly oval cheek, a light in the down-dropped eyes which she jealously hid, a rearrangement, subtle and minute, of her attitude toward the world, showed that she needed no sight nor hearing to advise her of the coming of the lithe young fellow who approached from the ragged second growth of the abandoned hillside clearing. he came straight through, paying no attention to paths--that was lance cleaverage. his step was light and sure, yet it rent and crushed what was in his way. on his back swung the banjo; his soft felt hat was off in his hand; as he moved, the sleeves of his blue hickory shirt fluttered in the breeze that stirred his hair, and he sang to himself as he came. what he sang was not a hymn. his hazel eyes were almost as golden as the tan of his cheek, and there was a spark [ ] in the depths of them that matched the audacious carriage of his head. at his advent the widow griever turned and let the fat child find her way alone. "you lance," she began in a scandalized tone, "don't you bring that sinful and ungodly thing into the house of the lord. you know mighty well and good the preacher is about to name you out in meetin'; and here you go on seekin' the ways of the evil one. pack that banjo straight back home this minute." she evidently had as little expectation of lance obeying her as he had of doing so. her words were plainly intended merely to set forth her own position--to clear her skirts of reproach. the young folks about her giggled and looked with open admiration at the youth who dared to bring such a worldly object to sunday preaching. "banjo'll let the preacher alone, if the preacher'll let it alone," smiled lance, unconcernedly pulling the instrument around to get at the strings, and touching them lightly. "you go 'long into the church and get your soul saved for heaven, sis' roxy. i reckon they need representatives of the cleaverage family in both places." "well, that's whar you're a-goin'--er more so," asserted the widow with dignity, as she turned her back once more on the young folks and moved away. [ ] lance took the ribbon of his banjo from his neck and flung it over a blossoming azalea bush. "i'll hang my harp on a willer tree, and away to the wars again," he hummed softly just above his breath. "i don't aim to hurt the preacher's feelings. i won't take my banjo into his church--sech doctrine as drumright's is apt to be mighty hard on banjo strings. don't you-all want to have a little dance after the meeting's out--on the threshin'-floor rock up the branch?" the girls looked duly horrified, all but ola derf, who spoke up promptly, "yes--or come a-past our house. pap don't mind a sunday dance. you will come, won't you, lance?" pleadingly. callista gentry did not dance. she had always, in the nature of things, belonged to the class of young people in the mountains who might be expected at any time to "profess" and join the church. the musician laughed teasingly. "i reckon we'd better not," he said finally. "callista's scared. she begged me into bringing my banjo to-day (you don't any of you know the gal like i do), and now she's scared to listen to it." callista barely raised her eyes at this speech, and spared to make any denial. "you-all that wants to dance on a sunday [ ] better go 'long there," she said indifferently. "it's mighty near time for preaching to begin, and you've got a right smart walk over to the derf place." dismissing them thus coolly from her world, she addressed herself once more to pinning a bunch of ochre and crimson azaleas into the trimming of her broad hat. "lance," drawled buck fuson, "i hear you' cuttin' timber on yo' land. aimin' to put up a cabin--fixin' to wed?" the newcomer shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply. "when i heared it, i 'lowed callista had named the day," persisted fuson. "have ye, callista?" rilly trigg put in daringly, as neither of the principals seemed disposed to speak. "the names that the days have already got suits me well enough," callista observed drily. "i don't know why i should go namin' ary one of 'em over again." there was a great laugh at this, of which cleaverage appeared entirely oblivious. "yes," he began quietly, when it had subsided, "i'm about to put me up a house--i like to be a-buildin'--a man might as well improve his property. there's one gal that wants me mighty bad, and has wanted me for a long while; sometimes i'm scared she'll get me. reckon i might as well be ready." [ ] "ye hear that, callisty?" crowed little rilly trigg. "ye hear that! have ye told him adzackly the kind of house ye want? i 'low ye ort." "put a little yellow side o' that red," advised callista composedly, busying herself wholly with the hat rilly was trimming. "there--don't you think that looks better?" rilly made a face at fuson and cleaverage, and laughed. "no need to ask her which nor whether," said lance nonchalantly. "any place i am is bound to suit callista. i intend that my house shall be the best in the turkey tracks; but if it wasn't she'd never find it out, long as _i_ was there." again there was a chorus of appreciative laughter. "how's that, callista--is it so for a fact?" inquired fuson, eager to see the game go on. callista opened her beautiful eyes wide, and smiled with lazy scorn. "truly, i'm suited with whatever lance cleaverage builds, and wherever and whenever he builds. let it be what it may, it's nothing to me." "you rilly!" called a shrill feminine voice from the direction of the church. "bring the basket." "help me with it, buck," said aurilla, and the two started down the slope together. "now," suggested lance, with an affectation of reluctance, "if the rest of you-all don't mind giving us the place here, i reckon callista's got [ ] a heap that she wants to say to me, and she's ashamed to speak out before folks." the mad project of a sunday dance, which nobody but ola derf had entertained for a moment, was thus tacitly dropped. there was a general snickering at lance's impudent assumption. again callista seemed too placidly contemptuous to care to make denial. boys got up from their lounging positions on the grass, girls shook out their skirts, and two and two the young folks began to straggle toward the gray little church. "you're a mighty accommodatin' somebody," observed lance, dropping lightly on the grass at callista's feet. "i have been told by some that you'd make a contentious wife; but looks to me like you're settin' out to be powerful easy goin'. ain't got a word to say about how many rooms in the house, nor whar the shelves is to be, nor nothin'--eh?" reckless of time or place he reached up, put a finger under her chin, and turned her face toward him, puckering his lips meditatively as though he meant to kiss her--or to whistle. he got a swift, stinging slap for his pains, and callista faced around on the rock where she sat to put herself as far from him as might be. "who said anything about wives and husbands?" she demanded. "i was talking about you building on yo' land. hit's nothin' to me. i never expect to live in the houses you build, [ ] nor so much as set foot in 'em. when you named that girl that was tryin' to wed you, i shorely thought you must have been meanin' ola derf. as for me, if you heard me talkin' of the house i expected to _live_ in, you'd hear a plenty--because i'm particular. i ain't a-going to put up with no puncheon floor in my best room. hit's got to be boards, and planed at that. i ain't a-goin' to break my back scouring puncheons for no man." lance nodded, with half closed eyes. it was plain he got her message. one guessed that the house would be made to please her, and, too, that he liked her the better for being fastidious. the two were apparently alone together; but neither ola derf nor flenton hands was among the young people moving away down the further slope. lance gazed after their retreating friends and heaved a lugubrious sigh. "well, looks like they've all started off and left me for you and you for me," he commented sadly. "have they?" inquired callista without interest. "they show mighty poor judgment." "same sort of judgment i'm showing, settin' here talking to you, when i might as well spend my time with a good-lookin' gal," retorted lance promptly. "the lord knows you waste yo' time talking to me," callista sent back to him with a musing, [ ] unruffled smile on her finely cut lips. "your settin' up to me would sure be foolishness." "settin' up to you?"--lance took his knees into an embrace and looked quizzically at her as she reclined above him, milk-white and pink, blue-eyed and flaxen-haired, a creature to cuddle and kiss one would have said, yet with a gall-bag under her tongue for him always. "me settin' up to you?" he repeated the words with a bubble of apparently unsubduable amusement in his tone. "i reckon you're a-doin' the settin' up; everybody seems to understand it so. i just mentioned that the rest of the folks had left you and me alone together, and i was goin' on to say that i began to suffer in the prospect of offerin' you my company up to the church-house. lord, some gals will make courtin' out of anything!" a subdued snicker sounded from the screen of leafage behind the spring. several young people lingered there for the fun of hearing lance cleaverage and callista gentry fuss. the red began to show itself in the girl's smooth, fair cheeks. she caught her wide hat by its strings and got suddenly to her feet. "well, to tell you the truth, mr. lance cleaverage," she said coldly, "i never took enough notice of you to see was you courtin' me or some other girl; and i'll thank you now to step yourself out of my way and let me get on to the church-house. i've got to lead the tribble, come service time. i [ ] can't stand fooling here with you, nor werry my-self to notice are you courting me or somebody else." she held her graceful head very high. if she swung the hat by its strings a thought too rapidly, it was the only sign she gave of any excitement as she gained the path. cleaverage ranged himself beside her, leaving the banjo in the bushes. "all right--all right," he remarked in a pacifying tone. "i'm willin' to walk up to the door with you, if that's what's troublin' you so greatly; but i don't want to go in and sit alongside of you on the middle seats. you take your place on the women's side, like a good gal, and let me have some peace, settin' over with the men." for a moment she was dumb. half a dozen had pushed into view, and were listening to them now. they all understood that lance knew well enough she must sit with the singers, yet his open refusal to accompany her to the middle seats, where the courting couples generally found place, was not the less galling. "tell him you won't never step yo' foot in church beside him, callista," prompted a man's voice, and flenton hands stepped out on the path, twisting a bit of sassafras in his fingers and looking from one to the other with quick shiftings of his gray eyes. lance laughed radiantly but soundlessly, his [ ] face and eyes shining with mirthful defiance. the girl looked down and trifled with her hat ribbons. "why don't you say it?" inquired cleaverage at length. hands leaned forward and stared eagerly at her, his mouth a little open and his breath coming quick. he had always been the most pertinacious of callista's followers; an older man than any of the others, he brought to bear on his wooing the persistence and determination of his years. callista just glanced at the younger man, and let her gaze rest on hands. "what's the use of telling him what he already knows mighty well and good?" she said finally. "give me the pleasure of walking up with you this morning, then," hands encroached eagerly. with negligent composure callista looked about her. she was not willing to walk with lance--she doubted if he would ask her again. she was not willing to discredit him and go with hands. she was determined that cleaverage should not walk with another girl. "come on, ola," she coolly addressed the figure plainly to be seen behind hands. "let's you and me hurry over and see what hymns brother drumright is going to use. you sing mighty good counter, and i'd like to have you next to me." ola derf could not refuse. it was almost equal to social rehabilitation to be allowed to walk with callista gentry from the spring to the church, to [ ] sit beside her in the singing seats; yet the brown girl cast uneasy glances backward till she saw lance, whistling melodiously, turn to the blooming azalea bush and catch up his banjo from it. she stopped in her tracks, holding callista back. "whar--whar ye gwine, lance?" she inquired anxiously. if cleaverage was not coming to church it would scarcely be worth while for her to torture herself with an hour of old preacher drumright's holding forth. "whar ye gwine?" she reiterated, as the other girl pulled her sleeve and attempted to hurry on. "whar you and callista ca'n't come," returned lance, speaking over his shoulder unceremoniously. "ain't ye gwine to stay to preachin'?" persisted the brown girl. "i--i thought ye was, or i--ain't ye gwine to stay?" "no," drawled cleaverage. "i just brought the banjo to please callista--because i promised her i would, when she begged me to. i had no notion of staying to listen to drumright." "come on--if you're a-coming," callista admonished the derf girl with a little flash of temper which lance did not fail to observe, any more than she missed the chuckle with which he received it. "well, i'm a-goin' with ye," announced ola. she let go callista's arm, and turned back to where lance was taking a shadowy path into the forest. "i told you, gals couldn't come," cleaverage bantered her. but ola persisted. [ ] "i can go wherever you can go. lance--wait! wait for me--i'm a-comin'." "callista'll be mad," objected cleaverage. "she begged and begged me, and i wouldn't leave her come along of me; now if i take you, she'll be mad." "like i cared where you went or who went with you!" callista retorted, eyes shining blue fire, head crested. "come on, mr. hands, it's time we were stepping, if we want to get in to go through the hymns." "and you will sit alongside of me?" hands's voice pleaded close to her ear. ola and lance were of the same age; the blond girl, lingering half indignant, could remember how hardy, free little ola derf used to play with the boys, always singling lance cleaverage out as the companion for her truant expeditions. now in mute denial of hands's petition, callista shook her head, and in doing so managed to glance round and get a tormenting glimpse of ola and lance disappearing together between the trees. under the green domes of oak and liriodendron, the latter starred all over now with orange-tawny tulips, she saw them pass. wine of summer was in the veins of the forest. even the sober oaks, wreathed like bacchanals, overflowed with sweetness from their wrappings of wild grape. the two with the banjo took their way down a steep path toward a jade-green pool, a still reach [ ] of water arched over by fantastic tangles of laurel and rhododendron, black as the tents of kedar, lighted only by the flash of a water-fall that caught the sun. this was the baptismal place. the daughter of the house of gentry turned her face resolutely toward respectability and the church, albeit there was no joy in the countenance. strung out over a quarter of a mile were courting couples bent toward the same destination. to these young hearts it seemed well worth while to have lain under the heel of winter to attain this marvelous summer morning with its green-clothed forest, its wreathing of blossoms where they passed. clean and cool as a bell's note, the song of a thrush deep in the wood spilled jeweled drops of sound through the trembling branches overhead. a catbird's sonata rippled boldly out upon the very path. a canopy of bloom was woven and flung over the spring by the black, knotty fingers of the laurel. bees tumbled happily in the bosom of the fairest drooping clusters, their hum nearly drowned by the heavy gurgle of the creek water. callista drew in her breath sharply. summer and sun and light and love everywhere--and she was walking up to the church-house with flenton hands, while back on some forest by-path, with music at his finger ends and ola derf beside him, lance cleaverage forgot her with a laugh. chapter ii. the up-sitting. granny yearwood--the grandmother of flenton hands and his sisters--was dead. the work-hardened old body had parted with its flame of life reluctantly; for nearly a year she had been declining toward the end; and during the last months the family had cared for her almost day and night. they were worn out with the toil of it before she herself wore out. but now it was all over. the first outburst of noisy lamentation, which is fairly conventional in the southern mountains, was past. the corpse had been decently composed on a rude plank scaffold, while octavia gentry and roxy griever took charge of the household and began to order things in that curious half-ecclesiastical fashion which follows the footsteps of death. it was near noon, and octavia dished up the dinner, while roxy paid more attention to the impending funeral arrangements. before the meal was over, young people began to come in, though none could quite say how they had received word. the girls made proffer of assistance, and swiftly the table was cleared away, the dishes washed, and the house and surroundings put in immaculate [ ] order. work in the fields was stopped, that messengers might be sent, one on horseback to notify distant-dwelling kin, another with a wagon to buy the coffin down in hepzibah, a third afoot to arrange with the strong young men of the family connection about helping to dig the grave. all the flowers in the dooryard were gathered and laid round the corpse. the withered old face was covered with a damp cloth, and then a borrowed sheet was drawn smoothly over the whole mound. the widow griever was so deeply versed in the etiquette of such occasions, and so satisfyingly exacting on all points, as to make an undertaker even more highly superfluous than he would usually have been among those simple folk. what with garments and accessories she had brought from her own scant widow's wardrobe, and articles hastily borrowed from the nearer neighbors, she managed inside of two hours to have little liza and her two sisters--the mother of the family was dead some years ago--clad in black and seated in state inferior only to that of the dead. more flowers were brought by girls and small boys from the neighbors' yards--yellow and purple and red were the colors mostly in bloom now, and those which would have been favored for this occasion. roxy gravely arranged them and set them in place. she had veiled the looking-glass and stopped the clock as soon as she came into the house. [ ] "a body cain't be too careful about all these here things," she said with a solemn sniff. "hit's easy at a time like this for something to be did that crosses the luck." women came and went through the open doors, silent almost as the little breeze that played between. everybody wore the same expression of mournful acquiescence in the natural order of things. greetings were exchanged in low tones. callista, carrying a basket of garden asters, came up the front walk, looking openly for her mother, guarding a little warily against flenton hands's approach. some girls hurrying out to seek ferns in the low places of the wood met her, and she turned back with them, joining her activities to theirs and making a wreath of the flowers she had brought. flenton hands was thirty years old. to have arrived at this age unmarried is, in the mountains, in some measure a reproach. true, he aligned himself sharply with the religious element of the community, and this, when youthful masculinity is ever apt to choose the broad way where there is more company, bespoke for him a certain indulgence or toleration that would have been denied a typical old bachelor. he was cantankerous old preacher drumright's right hand at all times, and drumright was safe always to approve him. he was the kind of man who seeks the acquaintance and company of those [ ] well-to-do and older than himself, paying a sober court to respectability and money, and thus coming eventually to be rated as one of the elders, while he yet held the dubious position of an unmarried male who shilly-shallied in the matter of wedding. no actual scandal ever attached to flenton hands. if there were improprieties to be debited against him, he kept such matters out of the sight of turkey track people, and only a vague rumor of something discreditable associated itself with his valley connections to warrant young girls in pouting their lips and referring to him as "that old flenton hands"; while their mothers reproved and told them that he was one of the best young men, as well as one of the best matches, in the neighborhood. so far as personal appearance went, he was well enough, yet with a curious suggestion of solidity as though his flesh might have been of oak or iron. the countenance, too, with its round, high cheek-bones, had an unpleasing immobility, resting always in a somewhat slyish cast of expression which the odd slant of the light gray eyes gave to it. for the rest, he was thin-lipped, with thick, straight, dark hair, and an almost urban air of gentlemanliness, an effort at gentility which, in a shorter and more cheerful individual, would have been smug. "flenton's gone for the coffin," sallie blevins [ ] said. "he always tends to it when there's anything to do that calls for money to be spent." "i reckon he's got a plenty," supplied little rilly trigg; "but someway i never could like his looks greatly. there, i oughtn't to have said that--and his granny laying dead in the house that-a-way." callista did not add her opinion to this discussion, but finding that she was in no danger of meeting flenton, hurried the others promptly up to the house. as soon as she came in sight, little liza, six feet tall, with a jimber-jaw and bass voice, came and fell upon her neck and wept. little liza hands got her descriptive adjective from being the third of the name. to-day she was especially prominent, because granny yearwood, the first eliza, ninety pounds of fiery energy and ambition, had at last laid down the burden of her days. her daughter, eliza the second, had lain beside her husband, eliphalet hands, in churchyard mold these twenty years; and _her_ big daughter, with the bovine profile, the great voice, and the timid, fluttered soul of a small child, remained in the world, the only eliza hands--yet still little liza to those about her. and for her name's sake, little liza was chief mourner. the hands girls all had a sort of adoring attitude toward callista gentry. flenton wanted her, and they had been trying to get flenton everything he wanted since he was small enough to [ ] cry for the moon, and strike at the hand which failed to pluck it down for him. callista had not intended to stay. she was to be over later in the day--or the same night, rather--with the young people who sat up. but little liza managed to detain her on one pretext or another until the coffin arrived and granny was finally placed therein. "just look at them thar shiny trimmin's on that thar coffin," admired little liza, jogging callista's elbow. "that's flent. that's my brother flent. they ain't a thing he grudges to them he loves." callista uttered a soothing and satisfactory reply, and was making her escape, when hands himself overtook her at the door. his features were drawn to an expression of great solemnity, one which suited them ill, for he had the upslanting brow, the pointed face and the narrow eye that, lightened by mirth, may be antic, but without the touch of humor is forbidding and even sinister. "you're not going to leave us, air you?" he inquired in a carefully muffled tone, as though indeed granny was sleeping lightly and might be easily wakened. "mother's going to stay now, and i'm coming back to-night," callista hastened to say. "i'm mighty glad you air," returned flenton, with a heavy sigh. "in these times of affliction, [ ] hit's a powerful comfort to me to have you in sight." callista edged closer to the others. she was not unwilling to be seen standing whispering with flenton. he was a good match, a creditable captive of any girl's bow and spear; yet she did not enjoy his love-making, least of all now that it was mingled with this ill-sorted solemnity. "flenton, have they sent word to your uncle billy's folks?" asked octavia gentry, making her appearance in the doorway behind the two. "yes'm," returned flenton, not pleased to be interrupted, yet necessarily civil to the woman whom he hoped to have for a mother-in-law. "and does the bushareses and adam venable and his wife know hit? is mary a-comin'?" she pursued the catalog. "what about the aspel yearwoods out in big buck gap--has anyone went out there? and faithful yearwood, that married preacher crowley--ain't they livin' down in the tatum neighborhood?" "yes'm, they air," confirmed flenton. "cousin ladd 'lowed to send one o' his chaps on a nag to faithful crowley's folks; and ab straley was to let them at big buck gap know." though impatient, he made a decent end. when he looked around, callista had quietly moved away. the day's work was over; men and boys began to arrive at the hands place, some carrying lanterns. [ ] from early candle lighting till near the turn of the night the house would be full; then the elders, men and women on whose day labor a family must depend, would begin to slip away, except a few old widowers and bachelors who might remain smoking on the steps outside; and a circle of young folks who would be left sitting in the lamplight and fireshine of the main room. flenton knew of old experience just how the night would go. he longed inexpressibly to be one of those up-sitting young people that he might push his chair close to callista gentry's and whisper to her in the privilege of the hour. yet he was held back by a consideration for his dignity as one of the bereaved. "miz. gentry," said roxy griever, "will you stay and he'p with the supper--they aim to have a reg'lar meal put on the table at about midnight--settin' up with the dead is mighty wearin'." "i 'low the gals would rather tend to that theirselves," deprecated octavia, mildly. "i mind how it was when i was a gal. i never did want some old women pesterin' around at sech a time." she cast a swift glance to where callista sat, her fair head bent, the lamplight upon its bright burden of corn-colored braids, lance cleaverage, his hands in his pockets, standing before the girl regarding her, and evidently about to say something. [ ] the widow griever's look followed octavia's to the front room in which half-a-dozen couples had paired off, whispering, giggling a bit if the truth must be told, with an occasional undernote of hysteria in the giggles. "that's jest the reason," she announced, straightening up from the hearth where she had been stirring a vast boiler full of very strong coffee. "the gals that lets tham men have their way is foolish. they'll rue the day they done so. men persons would always have the old folks leave, and the young folks run things to suit theirselves; but i don't believe in sech." on the mental horizon of the widow griever there hovered ever a vast, dun, evil-promising cloud known as "tham men." she never alluded to the opposite sex in any way other than collectively, and named them in this manner, which held in it all of reproach. her father--gentle soul--presented himself to her under the name of poppy, as somewhat set apart from the raging mass of predatory males addressed more or less openly and directly to destruction. poppy and a young brother, sylvanus, though belonging to the vicious sex and thereby under suspicion, were possible; but lance, the lawless and debonair, was not only one of the enemy--he was roxy griever's horrible example. the church-house where "tham men" were kept on the one side so that the gentler half of creation might sit peacefully [ ] on the other, was to her thinking the only safe and proper place of public gathering. "i tell you, miz. gentry," she now pursued, her reprehending eye going past the person she answered to fasten itself on lance's lounging figure and note the careless, upward fling of his head, "i tell you that i ain't never been back to the settlement sence i left it a widder. what would i be doin' down thar amongst all tham men? but lance, he goes down, and every time he goes, i think he gits more of the old boy in him, 'caze evil is a-walkin' around at noonday down in tham settlements, and you cain't be safe anywhars." "might just as well quit being scared then," drawled lance's soft voice. he had stepped noiselessly to the door, at callista's suggestion to see if the coffee were ready. "you lance cleaverage!" returned his sister in a carefully suppressed tone that was sufficiently acid to make up for its lack of volume, "i ain't a-goin' to quit bein' scared for yo' say-so. you ought to be ashamed to name such--in the house with the dead this a-way. no, the coffee'll not be ready for somewhile yet. when hit is, you'ns can fetch cheers and he'p yourselves to it. i'm a-goin' to show miz. gentry my gospel quilt that i brung with me to lay over granny." roxanna cleaverage had married rather late in life. girlhood had been but an unsatisfactory season to her; young women in a primitive society [ ] are not given much prominence, and roxy had neither beauty nor charm to command what was to be had. lacking these, she made a great point of religion, which led incidentally to her marriage with john griever, an itinerant preacher, and brought her two blissful years and mary ann martha. as the wife of a preacher she had been able to assume some dignity, to instruct, to lay down the law, to keep herself measurably in the public eye. when she was widowed, it was bitter to her to go back to kimbro cleaverage's poor home and drop once more into obscurity. she yearned desperately to wear some mark of distinction, to have at least some semblance of social power. and in direct response to this longing, there came a vision in the night, and roxy rose up and took her bits of quilt pieces and began to fashion a new thing. other women might have the rising sun, the log cabin, the piney-blow, the basket of posies; she had conceived and would execute a master work in the way of quilts, quite outside the line of these. roxy lacked entirely that crude art sense which finds its expression in the mountain woman's beautifully pieced quilt; she only burned to startle admiration, to command respectful attention by some means. the big square of muslin was bought at the expense of considerable pinching and saving, and she began to set upon it those figures which had occupied her [ ] mind, her time and her fingers through the years since. clumsily done, with no feeling whatever for form, proportion, or color, she poured into it a passion of desirous energy which yet produced its effect. the quilt was always at hand for such occasions as this, or when the presiding elder came on one of his rare visits. and it was useful to bring out if there were trouble, if someone needed to be overawed or to be threeped down. but that member of the cleaverage clan who in her eyes most needed threeping was proof against the gospel quilt. she had never put it forth for lance's confusion since the day he took such an expressive interest in the undertaking, and advised--in the presence of preacher drumright--the adding of a sightly little border of devils around the semi-sacred square. "a fine row o' davils would help the looks of it mightily, sis' roxy," he had argued. "they're named frequent in the bible, and i'd cut 'em out for you. i would sure enough," he laughed, as she looked heavy reproach at him. "you give me a sharp pair o' shears and i can cut out as fine a lookin' davil as you or anybody need wish for!" after that she let him alone, aware that his more gifted eye criticized her failures, even when he did not seek the circle about the exhibited quilt and wilfully mistake her angels for turkey buzzards. the two older women now passed into that [ ] cool, shaded little chamber where lay the dead. the windows were open, and the white curtains blew gustily in the night breeze, making the candle roxy carried flicker. she set it on a high shelf, and got out a thick roll of stuff, unwrapping and spreading forth her contribution to the solemnity of the occasion. "hit's jest the top on it," she communicated in a hoarse whisper. "i hain't got the heart to put it in frames and quilt it, 'caze i keep thinkin' of something else that ort to go on it, time i say i'm done. cur'us that i ain't never showed it to you before." (this was a common formula with the widow, and nobody ever disputed it). "see, that's adam and eve, to begin on," and she indicated a pair of small, archaic figures cut from blue checked gingham, their edges turned neatly in and whipped to the white domestic background--when one thinks of it, a domestic background is fairly proper for adam and eve. "that ginghams they' cut out'n was a piece o' john's shirt--the last one i made him." "tut, tut," responded octavia, making that little clicking sound with the tongue which does duty variously to express sympathy, reprehension, surprise, or deprecation. she regarded the artistic achievement before her with attention and respect. one could readily distinguish eve from adam, because eve was endowed with petticoats, while adam rejoiced in legs. of course eve had [ ] feet; but it would have taken someone less well acquainted with the moral character of the widow griever than was octavia gentry to deduce legs from those feet. "what's that thar?" she made the customary inquiry, putting her finger on a twisty bit of polka-dotted calico. "that must be the sarpent." "hit air." roxy returned the expected answer solemnly. the ancient evil was represented as standing sociably on his tail, facing the tempted pair. "my! don't he look feisty?" commented octavia, with courteous admiration. "watch him jest a-lickin' out his tongue in eve's face. lord," she sighed conventionally, "how prone women air to sin!" "women? huh!" snorted mrs. griever. "not nigh so prone as tham men. look-a-here," turning the quilt to get at the tree of good and evil; "look at them thar apples. now i made some of 'em out of red calico, and some out of yellow. do you think i ort to have a few green, miz. gentry? look like green apples is mighty sinful and trouble makin'." "i don't know," octavia debated, as she ran her fingers over a brave attempt at one of the beasts of revelation. "you might add a few green ones. hit does stand to reason that the old boy is in green apples more than in ripe ones; but ef them that eve tempted adam [ ] with had been green--do you reckon he'd 'a' bit?" the scandal was such an old one, that roxy was evidently a little irritated at its revival. "well, o' course," she said with some asperity, "a body cain't gainsay what's in the bible; but i have my doubts about that thar apple fuss. hit's men that prints the good book, and does about with it--not women; an' i've always had a feelin' that mo' likely hit was adam got into that apple business first." "well, i don't know," repeated octavia doubtfully. "i always 'lowed the bible was the bible. but what's a-goin' to be here?" pointing to a sizable blank space. "why, that's a part that i ain't got to finish yet," explained roxy. "miz. abner dowst given me the prettiest piece o' goods last time i was at her house, and i been studyin' whether to use hit a-depicturin' the queen of sheba or phar'oh's daughter; and then i thought i'd do better to show up joseph a-dreamin', and the sun and the moon and eleven stars jist over his head--see, they'd set around sorter biassin' this-a-way, betwixt adam-an'-eve and this golden harp. hit's a piece of that dress her gals all had on a-sunday--you know dows the always gits a bolt, and time her and the gals all has a dress out of hit, and him a shirt and the boys a shirt apiece, why the bolt's about gone. well, this time that [ ] the'dory may, she axed for something bright, and he was bent on pleasin' her, so he picked for the brightest thing in the store. hit looked sort o' gay a-comin' into church, one behind another; but now hit'll do fine for joseph's coat. ah, law, miz. gentry, hit'll be right here in my quilt long after their dresses is wore out and forgot about." "yes, indeed, hit will that, sister griever," her listener assented, a good deal impressed. "is these sorter round things---" "them's the loaves an' fishes," roxy hastened to elucidate. "they ain't so very well done, ye see. i was a-workin' on them when i hearn that granny yearwood was about to go, an' i hurried 'em up, 'caze i'd promised her that i'd spread the quilt over her when she was laid out. you he'p me with it now, miz. gentry, and we'll fold it back this-a-way so as not to show the part that ain't done." "laws, miz. griever," said octavia, as the great square, with its many small, gaily colored figures, whipped laboriously into place, was spread out between their hands, "i don't see how you ever did think of all them things." "i reckon it comes from havin' a preacher for a mate," returned roxy. "mr. griever, he was always a cotin' scriptur' round the house, and now he's gone i remember his words--and put 'em down on the quilt, as a body may say. i love to have it by me to work on in time of trouble, [ ] an' i love to put it on the bed if a preacher sleeps the night at our house. looks like a body ought to have good dreams un'neath the gospel that-a-way. thar, ain't that fixed all right now? cain't we leave here? i 'low them young folks out in the other room might need attention." octavia glanced through the slightly open door and saw that lance and callista had gone into the kitchen alone to look after the supper. they were talking together, and the mother noted hopefully that neither of them was laughing, and that the girl's color had risen, while her eyes looked troubled. "law honey," she said smiling, "sho'ly they can manage for theirselves one while. i'm plumb tired, an' i know good an' well you air. le's sit here a spell whar it's cool an' quiet, an' have a little visit." this was a sort of invitation which roxy griever could not refuse, and the courting couples were spared her surveillance for a little longer. "callista," lance began abruptly, when they were out of earshot of those in the front room, "i raised the roof-beams of my cabin to-day--two big rooms and a porch between, with a cooking place for summer. ain't that about right?" callista looked toward the other room uneasily. she had no audience now--how should she act, how demean herself so as to seem indifferent? lance's undecipherable, clear hazel eyes were on [ ] her; they rested carelessly in what seemed a passing glance; yet at the back of that regard looked out a demand which she could scarcely comprehend. "i--i don't know," she faltered. "lance, won't you please lift that there coffee off o' the fire? it's boiled enough." lance bent lithely to the hearth and did her bidding. "i've got me two horses now," he said in the same even undertone. "i matched satan with a little black filly that derf brought over from the far cove neighborhood. they're jest of a size, and they step together like a couple of gals with their arms around each other's waists. derf said the filly was named cindy; but i call her sin--how do you like that?--satan and sin?" "well, i think it sounds right wicked, if you ask me," callista plucked up courage to say. "but i don't reckon you care whether i like it or not." lance shook his head and smiled. "nope," he agreed easily. then he added, "havin' two horses helps out a good deal. i've been doing haulin' on derf's contract. i'll have a right smart of money left, even after my house is all done. there'll be a-plenty laid up by next spring; and i'm goin' to put in the winter clearing land. i reckon we'll be good ready by april." by april! a sweet perturbation took possession [ ] of callista's breast. she dared not raise her eyes lest he should read in them what she yet jealously sought to conceal. he was not like the other boys; with all the raillery and badinage that went on between them--famous in their circle; with all the unusual parade, in the open play of courtship, he had never really approached her as a lover, never laid his hand on her in tenderness, nor offered her a caress, save as a public, saucy threat. nor had he asked for her, as the mountain phrase goes; but surely now he meant her to understand that he expected to be married in the spring. if only he would ask her--if only! she had always meant--if she dared--to refuse him--at least the first time; to reluctantly give in under repeated importunities--but that was past. with her heart beating in her throat, she made shift to say, "i hope you'll be better to your horses than most of the men that hauls. i do love a good horse." "you goin' to ride with me to the buryin' tomorrow?" lance inquired casually. "if you want to, we could leave the buryin' ground after the funeral's over and go up lance's laurel, to my place, and on round to your home the long way. i could show you whether i was good to my horses or not." the color glowed softly in callista's cheeks and her veiled eyes were bright. but before she could say yes or no, the widow griever came in. [ ] "good land, lance cleaverage!" she began on her usual formula. "why hain't you bidden out all them folks in thar? this here coffee's done, an' a-gittin' cold. the biscuits ain't no better. they got to eat now, 'caze i want 'em to sing a good wake of hymns--i promised granny i'd tend to pickin' 'em out." with a grimace of good-natured acquiescence, lance went to execute his sister's orders. out on the porch a half-dozen young boys had succumbed to drowsiness, one by one, stretched on the boards, taking elbow or saddle for a pillow. the crickets and katydids were loud in the grove. lance passed through the front rooms, speaking to the couples there, and called in those outside. the supper of good warm food, and hot, strong coffee was eaten gratefully. then all went into the front room and the hymns were sung. finally the up-sitting was over, and callista had made no opportunity for further speech with lance. he had not sought one, and chance had not offered it. she regretted a little that she really wanted so much to ride at his side to-morrow. if she did not, she would quite enjoy treating that cavalier invitation as though she had never heard it. but the very thought brought a quick apprehension of failure, and she resolved to be ready and waiting, so that she might seem to be carelessly picked up at the last moment, lest lance himself anticipate her in this game of indifference. [ ] chapter iii. the burying. dawn was gray in the sky, a livid light beginning to make itself felt rather than seen above the mountains, while vast gulfs of shadows lingered in their folds, when callista climbed the stairs to a loft room, set apart for the hands girls, and, partially undressing, lay down for a few hours of sleep. her mother and roxy griever had gone home shortly after midnight. coming and going increased with the rising day. roxy griever had now returned, bringing with her a hastily ruffled cap of cheap lace. "sylvane," she called, coming out to the porch where the men were standing about conversing in undertones, "you got to ride over to miz. gentry's and git a black veil and a belt for jane. little liza ain't a-goin' to be able to go to the buryin' at all, and jane has obliged to have a veil and belt, her bein' a mourner that-a-way." already, along the fence there was a string of dingy, unkempt teams and wagons; while in the horse lot were more, those who had come earlier having unhitched. granny yearwood was near ninety--eliza hands had been her youngest--and she was known to the whole region around. [ ] roxy stood in the door shading her eyes, picking out this one and that among those in attendance. the gathering looked much like any other, except that one missed the shouts of hail and farewell, the effusive welcoming and hearty speeding of guests. the stir outside waxed. by some subjective movement, callista, sleeping in the loft room, was aware of it, wakened, rose, dressed and made ready herself. "i don't know what we-all ever would a' done without you, honey," little liza told her, gazing across from the bed on which she lay. "looks like to me some folks is born comforters." the pale eyes of the big woman took in callista's sweet, significant beauty, with an appreciation that was hardly vicarious. she did love callista for her brother's sake; and much, too, for her own. "you come up and tell me jest how granny looked before you-all go, won't you?" she urged. "i want to see you before you start, anyhow." callista promised and hurried downstairs. those who had remained over night were standing about a table, eating a hasty breakfast. by eight o'clock the gathering was ready, and the hitching up began. after a great deal of consultation and argument as to where each one should ride, the procession began to arrange itself. there were to be no services at the house, but it was hoped that preacher drumright would be able to [ ] meet the funeral party at the burying ground and conduct the ceremonies there--the funeral sermon would be at the church on some later sunday. "who you goin' to ride with, callista?" inquired the widow griever, a weighty frown on her brow. "we got to git this thing all straightenened out so the family an' friends won't be scrouged from they' places, like is mighty apt to happen at a funeral. there is them that's bound to have a ride, whoever gits to go." roxy's quilt had been removed from the coffin and draped over a near-by stand. six bronzed, heavy-breathing, embarrassed looking men were marshalled in by the widow, and instructed how to lift the black-painted pine box, carry it to the waiting buckboard, and place it safely there with one end wedged under the seat. then roxy turned to flenton. "go git ellen and jane," she prompted. he hastened to the house and up stairs, and soon returned with a sister on each arm, black-draped and wailing, clinging to him. he helped them into their seats in his own vehicle. but when ellen made room for him, he drew back and motioned kimbro cleaverage forward. "couldn't you drive, mr. cleaverage?" he said in an undertone. "sylvane can take yo' team, with miz. griever and the chillen; and i've got to go in--" he reddened with embarrassment--"in another place." [ ] the crowd was pretty much all in the yard now, clambering into ox-carts and board-seated wagons. roxy griever, with mary ann martha and sylvane, were waiting in kimbro cleaverage's small wagon drawn by an old mule, while half-a-dozen undesired additions were offered to their party. callista looked about her vainly for lance. she had already defended herself two or three times from being thrust into some vehicle and carried away from the possibility of riding with him, when she finally saw him approaching down the road. he was on one black horse and leading another. she could not know that he had been over to derf's that morning to get the filly. "callista," said flenton hands's voice at her shoulder, "little liza sent me down to see would you come up to her right quick. she's mighty bad off." with one last, furtive glance toward the black horse and his rider, callista turned and hurried up to liza. "air they gittin' off," inquired the ailing woman, eagerly lifting her head with its camphor-drenched cloths. "did ellen and jane cry much? looks to me like they wasn't much takin' on--i never heared much. there wasn't nigh the fuss that they was at old enoch dease's buryin'. i wish't to the land i could have been down there--the lord knows i'd 'a' cried. granny ought to be [ ] wept for. think o' livin' to be ninety years old--and then havin' to die at last! oh, ain't it awful, callista? how did she look, honey? was vander blackshears here? set right down there on my bed and tell me." one might almost have guessed that the lengthened inquiries were dictated by someone who wanted callista detained. the girl answered them hastily, with her heart galloping, her ears alert for sounds from below. "don't you be uneasy," little liza soothed her. "flenton said he'd wait and take you in his new buggy that he bought when he got the coffin a-yesterday. you'll be the first one to ride in it--ain't that fine? flent's jest that-a-way. he don't grudge anything to them he loves. you hadn't promised somebody else to ride with 'em, had ye, callisty?" she brought the point-blank question out after a little halt, reddening a bit at the boldness of it. plainly this was at another's dictation. callista shook her head. words were beyond her at the moment; for, looking down from the tiny window of the loft room, she saw the procession getting underway, one clumsy vehicle after another falling into line behind the buckboard that was now slowly disappearing beyond the bend of the road. and at the fence. lance cleaverage was helping awkward little ola derf to mount the black filly! [ ] "i said granny deserved to be wept for," little liza intoned, as she saw the tears that slipped down callista's pink cheeks. "i didn't know you cared so much about her, honey, but i know you've got a mighty tender heart." "is that all, now, liza? are you all right till the folks get back?" questioned callista. "well, then i'll leave you--they're a-going," and with an effort for composure, she turned and made her way down to flenton hands and the new buggy. her mother was staying to get dinner for everybody--a piece of genuine self-sacrifice, this--and as callista passed her in the kitchen, she made a half-hearted offer to change places. "no, honey," said octavia, resolutely. "you go right along. i don't mind this. i"--she lowered her tone to a whisper of furtive pleasure--"i seen lance bringing up the prettiest little black mare for you to ride." with unwonted demonstrativeness she bent forward and kissed the young, smooth, oval cheek. "we ain't got each other for always," she said gently. "let's be kind and lovin' while we have. go 'long, honey, an' ride with lance. granny yearwood wouldn't begrudge it to ye." flenton met the girl at the door, and walked with her down to the gate. it was an almost shocking breach of etiquette for him to let the entire procession get away without him, yet neither mentioned it. callista's eyes were on two [ ] mounted figures that closed the train, and she scarcely spoke as she seated herself in the new vehicle. the graveyard was a stony, briery patch of ground, as desolate a spot as could well be found. in a country where the houses were so scattered that the word "neighborhood" had scarcely any meaning, there was no public sentiment concerning the care of the abandoned god's acre; but each, when a grave was dug in it for one of his clan, resolved on making some effort toward its improvement, and, in the struggle for existence, promptly forgot. it was guarded partly by a rail fence that derf's old piedy, a notorious rogue, could lay down with practised horns any time she liked; and partly by a crooked, crumbling wall of stones, picked up off the land itself and laid there by hands which had long been dust. a wide place it was, for its scanty tenantry, with hollows hidden in liana-woven thickets and straggling knolls yellowed with sedge-grass. as is usual where a hard-wood forest has been cleared, young pines were springing up all over the waste; one could see, between their dark points, the blue rim of the world; for this land lay high, on a sort of divide or shed, where nothing would grow. the unmended road was full of vehicles, the graveyard filling with people, as callista and flenton came up. the ride had been one of [ ] discomfort to the girl. she liked to have her conquests to display before others; but she always shrank from being alone with flenton hands, and to-day his insistent love-making had filled her with cold distaste. "and you are certainly the sweetest comforter ever a man had in time of affliction," he told her over and over again, with sanctimonious inflections. "if i had you always by my side, looks like to me the world's sorrows wouldn't have no power on me." it was a relief to her when they reached the fence, and he stepped out to help her down and tie his horse. there had been some uncertainty up to the last as to whether preacher drumright could be got for the occasion, but the sound of his voice from the press of calico-clad and jeans-covered shoulders and backs, reassured flenton. "i'm mighty glad drumright's thar," he said to callista, as he lifted her down. "he'll preach granny's funeral come sunday, he said; but thar ain't anyone can pray like he can. i do love a good servigorous prayer." callista's anxious eyes were searching the animals tethered about for sight of the two black horses that stepped together "like a couple of gals with their arms around each other's waists." at last she found them in the grove, and hastily turned with her escort to go through the gap in the fence to where the preacher was, where yawned [ ] the open grave, and stood the coffin. a tangle of dewberry vines, with withering fruit on them, here and there, and beginning even in their mid-summer greenness to show russet and reddened leaves, scrambled all over the poor soil. most of the graves were unmarked, some had a slab or block of wood; only here and there gleamed a small stone. callista passed that of her father, good-looking, ne'er-do-well race gentry, whom the romantic young octavia luster had run away to marry. a honeysuckle vine covered it with a tangle of green, offering now its bunches of fawn and white, heavy-scented blossoms from a closely compacted mound. "i'm a-goin' to have a real monument put up for granny," flenton whispered to her as they went forward together. "i wish't she'd lived to be a hundred, so i could have put that on the stone; but we're mighty proud of her holdin' out to ninety." quite against her will, callista found herself taken up to the front of the gathering, placed between ellen and flenton hands beside the coffin. preacher drumright was speaking with closed eyes; he had embarked on one of those servigorous prayers which hands admired. the two girls, ellen and jane, were sobbing in long, dry gasps. after the prayer came a hymn, the lulls in the service being filled in by the sobs of the hands [ ] girls, little responsive moans from some woman in the assembly, and the purr of the wind in the young pines, where scared rabbits were hiding; and by the far, melodious jangle of old piedy's bell--old piedy, dispossessed and driven away. with the appearance of callista and her escort on the scene, a young fellow who had been lying full length on the top of the ruining stone wall tilted his hat quite over his eyes and relaxed a certain watchfulness of demeanor which had till then been apparent in him. when the girl was finally ensconced in the middle of the lamenting hands family, this person leaned down and whispered to ola derf, whose square little back was resting against the wall close beside him, "come on, let's go. haven't you had about enough of this?" "uh-huh," agreed ola in a whisper, "but we mustn't git our horses till the preacher quits prayin'. hit'll make too much noise." again lance relaxed into his quiescent attitude, and had to be roused when the hymn began, with, "he's done finished, lance. do you want to go now?" the wind soothed its world-old, sighing monody in the young pines overhead; beneath the waxing warmth of the morning sun faint whiffs, resinous, pungent, came down from their boughs, to mingle with the perfume from the vagrant honeysuckle that flung a long green arm toward [ ] the trunk of one of them. suddenly a woman's tenor, wild and sweet, rose like a winged thing and led all the other voices. "huh-uh," grunted lance, from his sun-warmed couch. "let's wait awhile now." after the hymn, drumright read from the scripture. even his rasping voice could not disguise the immemorial beauty of the sombre hebrew imagery, "or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken." lance drew a long quivering breath. something in the sounds, the hour and the occasion, had appealed to that real lance cleaverage, of which the man ola derf knew was only custodian, to whose imperious needs the obvious lance must always bend. yet, long before poor callista could be released and allowed to ride home, by her own earnest petition, in the buckboard with jane and ellen, the two by the stone wall had found their way across to the black horses in the grove, and were scurrying down the dusty summer road, racing as soon as they were out of sight of the graveyard. [ ] chapter iv. a dance and a serenade. the derfs occupied a peculiar position among their turkey track neighbors. they had a considerable tincture of cherokee indian blood, no discredit in the tennessee mountains, or elsewhere for that matter. one branch of the family had received money compensation for their holdings from the government. leola's father had at that time taken possession of an allotment of land in the indian territory. the eldest daughter, iley, married out there, and brought back her indian husband when granny derf, pining for her native mountains, had to be carried home to big turkey track. it was not the blood of another race that set the derfs apart; but it may have been traits which came with the wild strain. there was a good deal of money going among the clan. old man derf was a general trader; also he engaged in tanbark hauling in the season, and some other contracting enterprises such as required the use of ready cash. in the back room of the main house there was quite a miscellaneous stock of provisions, goods, and oddments for sale. derf was more than suspected of being a moonshiner or [ ] of dealing with moonshiners. he gave dances or frolics of some sort at his house very frequently, and there was always plenty of whisky. at one time or another the family had lived in the settlement a good deal, and come off rather smudged from their residence in that place. indeed, your true mountaineer believes that sin is of the valley, and looks for no good thing to come out of the low ground. in a simple society, like that of the mountains, the line is drawn with such savage sharpness that the censors hesitate to draw it at all. yet a palpable cloud hung over the derfs. while not completely outcast, they were of so little standing that their house was scarcely a respectable place for a young, unmarried woman to be seen frequently. ola, garrett derf's second daughter, a girl of twenty, and a homely, high-couraged, hard muscled little creature, was permitted in the neighborhood circle of young girls rather on sufferance; but she did not trouble them greatly with her presence, preferring as a rule her own enterprises. lance cleaverage, a free, unfettered spirit, trammeled by no social prejudices, came often to the frolics at derf's. he seldom danced himself, whisky he never touched; but he loved to play for the others, and he got all the stimulation which his temperament and his mood asked out of the crowd, the lights, the music, and some indefinable element into which these fused for him. [ ] it was nearly two months after the incident at the church and the funeral of granny yearwood, that ola was redding up and putting to rights for a dance. she had hurried through an early supper; the house was cleared, like the deck of a ship for action, of all furniture that could not be sat upon. what remained--a few chairs and boxes, and the long benches on which, between table and wall, the small fry of the family crowded at meal time--were arranged along the sides of the room out of the way. the girl herself was wearing a deep pink calico dress and a string of imitation coral beads. generally, she gave little thought to her appearance; but everybody believed now that the time was set for the marriage of lance cleaverage and callista gentry; neither of the young people denied it, callista only laughing scornfully, and lance lightly admitting that there was a mighty poor chance for a fellow to get away when a girl like callista made up her mind to wed him. in the face of these things, the little brown girl clad her carefully, laboring with the conscienceless assiduity of nature's self to do her utmost to get her chosen man away from the other woman--to get him for herself. she went out past the wood-pile to view the evening sky anxiously, and seeing only a few cloud-roses blooming in the late light over the hills, came back with satisfaction to attempt once more putting her small brothers and sisters out of the way. [ ] a little after dark her guests began to arrive, coming in by ones and twos and threes, some of the boys in mud-splashed working clothes, some in more holiday attire. about moonrise lance strolled down the road, and by way of defending himself from the importunities of ola's conversation, if one might guess, kept his banjo twanging persistently. there was a certain solemnity over the early comers, although derf roared a hearty greeting from his door of the cabin, and occasionally some of the men adjourned to his special room and came out wiping their mouths. "ain't nobody never goin' to dance?" inquired ola impatiently. "here's lance a-playin' and a-playin', and nobody makin' any manner of use of the music." there was nearly ten minutes of hitching and halting, proposals and counter propositions, before a quadrille was started. it was gone through rather perfunctorily, then they all sat down on the boxes and benches and stared into the empty middle of the room. "good land!" cried ola, coming from the other side of the house, "play 'greenbacks', lance--let's dance 'stealing partners'." the new amusement--half dance, half play--proved, as she had guessed, a leaven to the heaviness of the occasion. people began to laugh a little, and speak above their breath. two awkward boys, trying to "shoot dominickers" [ ] at the same moment, collided under the arch and went sprawling to the floor. the mishap was greeted with a roar of mirth in which all chill and diffidence were drowned. and now the arrivals from the far cabins were on hand. small children who had been allowed to sit up and look on nodded in corners, or stretched themselves across their fathers' knees and were tumbled just as they were upon a pallet in the loft. the usual contingent of bad little boys collected outside the door and began to shout at the dancers by name, calling out comments on personal peculiarities, or throwing small chips and stones under foot to trip up the unwary. these were finally put down by the strong hand. clapping and stamping increased as the dancers moved more rapidly; calls were shouted; the laughter was continuous. lance cleaverage leaned forward in his place, striking the humming strings with sure, tense fingers, his eyes aglow, and on his mouth a half smile. the fun waxed furious; the figures whirled faster and faster, gathering, disparting, interweaving, swinging and eddying before his eyes. coats were thrown off, the feet thudded out the measure heavily. this was his dissipation, the draught that the mirth of others brewed for him. its fumes were beginning to mount to his brain, when ola's hard brown little hand came down across his strings and stopped [ ] the music. there was an instant and indignant outcry and protest. "consarn yo' time, ola! what did you want to do that for?" demanded a tall young fellow who had broken down in the midst of a pigeon wing, as though he drew his inspiration from the banjo and could not move without its sound. "i want to hear buck play on his accordion--and i want lance to dance with me," ola said petulantly. "what's the use of him settin' here all the time playin' for you-all to have fun, and him never gettin' any? come on, lance." ola derf was not used to the consideration generally accorded young women. when she made a request, she deemed it well to see that her requirements were complied with. deftly she lifted the banjo from lance's lap and passed it to someone behind her, who put it on the fireboard. then laying hold of the young man himself, she pulled him out into the middle of the room. "play, buck, play," she admonished fuson, who had his accordion. "you made yo' brags about what fine music you could get out of that thar box,--now give us a sample." buck played. when a dance has swung so far as this one had, nothing can check its rhythmic movement. the notes dragged wheezily from the old accordion answered as well to the gathering's warm, free, fluent mood as the truer harmonies of [ ] lance's banjo. hand clasping hand, ola and lance whirled among the others, essaying a simple sort of polka. she was a tireless dancer, and he as light footed as a panther. the two of them began to feel that intoxication of swift movement timed to music which nothing else in life can quite furnish, intensified in the girl by a gripping conviction that this was her hour, and she must make the most of it. she was aflame with it. when buck broke down she instantly proposed a game of thimble. boldly, almost openly, she let herself forfeit a kiss to lance. there was a babble of tongues and laughter, a hubbub of mirth, a crossfiring and confusion of sound and movement which wrought upon the nerves like broken chords, subtle dissonances, in music. buck was trying to play again, some of the boys were patting and stamping, others remonstrating, jeering, making ironic suggestions, when lance, a bit flushed and bright of eye, dropped his arm around the brown girl's waist to take his forfeit. as in duty bound she pulled away from him. he sprang after, caught her by the shoulders, turned her broad little face up to his and kissed her full on the laughing, red mouth. then a miracle! kissing ola derf was not a serious matter; indeed common gossip hinted that it was a thing all too easily accomplished. but tonight the girl was wrought beyond herself--a [ ] magnet. and lance's sleeping spirit felt the shock of that kiss. but alas for ola, it was for her rival's behoof the miracle was worked; it was in her rival's cause she had labored, enlisting all her primitive arts, all her ingenuity and resolution! the lights, the music, the movement, the gayety of others, these had, so far, pleased and stimulated lance as they always did. but the unaccustomed warmth and contact of the dance; the daring and abandon of the kissing game afterward; finally the sudden ravisher's clasp and snatched kiss--these set free in him an impulse which had slumbered till now. to this bold, aggressive, wilful nature it was always the high mountain, the long dubious road, the deep waters--never the easy way, the thing at hand; it was ever his own trail--not the path suggested to his feet. and so, in this sudden awakening, he took no account of ola derf, and his whole soul turned toward callista--callista the scornful, whose profile, or the side of whose cheek, he was always seeing; callista who refused to lift her lashes to look at him, and who was ever saying coolly exasperating things in a tone of gentle weariness. if callista would look at him as ola derf had done--if he might catch her thus in his arms--if those lips of hers were offered to his kiss--! without a word of excuse or explanation he dropped the girl's hand as he stood in the ring of [ ] players, caught his banjo down from the shelf, and leaving open mouths and staring eyes behind him, strode through the door. a moment later he was footing it out in the moonlight road, walking straight and fast toward the church where protracted meeting was going on, and where he guessed callista would be with her family. a javelin, flame-tipped, had touched him. something new and fiery danced in his veins. he would see her home. they would walk together, far behind the family group, in this wonderful white moonlight. when he reached brush arbor church he avoided the young fellows lounging about the entrance waiting to beau the girls. he moved lightly to a window at the back of the building and looked in. there sat octavia gentry on the women's side, and old ajax, her father-in-law, on the men's. callista he could not find from his coign of vantage. an itinerant exhorter was on his feet, preaching loud, pounding the pulpit, addressing himself now and again to the mourners who knelt about the front bench. lance cautiously put his head in and looked further. somehow he knew, all in a moment, that this was what he had expected--what he had hoped for; callista was at home waiting for him. yet none the less he carefully examined the middle seats where might be found the courting couples. he would not put it beyond his callista to go to church with some [ ] other swain and sit there publicly advertising her favor to the interloper. when he was at last satisfied that she was not in the building, he turned as he had turned from ola derf, and made a straight path for himself from brush arbor to the gentry place. scorning the beaten highway of other men's feet, he struck directly into the forest, and through a little grove of second-growth chestnut, with its bunches of silver-gray stems rising slim and white in the light of the moon. moonshine sifting through the leaves changed his work-a-day clothing to the garb of a troubadour. the banjo hung within easy reach of his fingers; he took off his old hat and tucked it under his arm, striking now and again as he went a twanging chord. it was an old story to him, this walking the moonlit wild with his banjo for company. many a time in the year's release, the cool, fragrant, summer-deep forest had called him by its delicate silver nocturnes, its caverns of shadow and milky pools of light, bidden him to a wild spring-running. on such nights his heart could not sleep for song. sometimes, intoxicated with the rhythm, he had swung on and on, crashing through the dew-drenched huckleberry tangles, rocking a little, with eyes half closed, and interspersing the barbaric jangle of his banjo with quaint jodeling and long, falsetto-broken whoops, the heritage that the cherokee left behind him in this land. but [ ] now it was no mere physical elation of youth and summer and moonlight. it was the supreme urge of his nature that sent his feet forward steadily, swiftly, as toward a purpose that might not be let or stayed. speed--to callista--that was all. he fell into silence, even the banjo's thrumming hushed to an intense quivering call of broken chords, hardly to be distinguished from the insect cries of love that filled the summer wood about him. all the fathomless gulf of the sky was poured full of the blue-green splendors that flooded the night world of the mountains. drops of dew spilled from leaf to leaf; down in the spring hollow he was spattered to the knees by the thousand soft, reaching fronds of cinnamon fern. wild fragrances splashed him with great waves of sweetness. so the lords of the wild, under pelt and antler, have ever been wont to rove to their wooing; so restless are the wings that flutter among summer branches and under summer moons. between the banjo's murmuring chords, as he neared the gentry clearing, once more a melody began to stray, like smoke which smoulders fitfully and must presently burst into flame.--thrum-dum, thrum-dum, and then the tune's low call. it was a gypsy music, that lured with vistas of unknown road, the glint of water, and the sparkle of the hunter's fire; a wildly sweet note that asked, "how many miles?"--and [ ] again, out of colorless drumming, "how many years? . . . how many miles?" . . . a song shadow-like in its come-and-go, rising at intervals to the cry of a passion no mortality has power to tame, and then, ere the ear had fairly caught its message, falling again into dim harmonies as of rain blown through the dark;--a question, and the wordless, haunting refrain for all answer. just above his breath lance voiced the words: "how many years, how many miles, far from the door where my darling smiles? how many miles, how many years. divide our hearts by pain and fears?" the melody sank and trailed, drowned in a cadence of minors that sobbed like the rush of storm. out of this, wild, as the wind's pleading, it rose again; "it may be far, it may be near, the water's wide and the forest drear, but somewhere awaiting, surely i shall find my true love by and bye." the lithe limbs threshed through the dew-drenched, scented undergrowth. the trees grew more openly now; clearing was at hand. "--my true love--by and bye," hummed the light, sweet baritone. callista had petulantly refused to go to church with her mother and grandfather. for no reason which she could assign, she wanted to be alone. [ ] then when they were all gone, she wished she had accompanied them. an indefinable disquiet possessed her. she could not stay in the house. candle in hand she sought an outside cabin where stood the loom. climbing to the loft room of this she set her light down and began to search out some quilt pieces, which she figured to herself as the object of her present excursion. though she would have denied it with scorn, the idea of lance cleaverage filled her completely; lance, the man who was preparing to marry her, yet upon whom--of all those who had come near her, in the free, fortuitous commerce of marriageable youth in the mountains--she had, it seemed to her, been able to lay no charm, to exert no influence. he met her; he exchanged cut and thrust with her, and he went his ways after their encounters, neither more nor less than he had been before. he came back seemingly at the dictates of time and chance only, and never hotter nor colder, never hastening to nor avoiding her. a bitterness tinged all her thought... she wondered if she would have seen him had she gone to meeting . . . she reflected jealously that he was much more likely to be at the frolic at derf's. . . . she wished she knew how to dance. all at once, on the vague introspection of her mood, she became aware of the recurrent stroke of a soft musical note--the humming of lance's banjo. crouching rigidly by the little chest that [ ] held her quilt scraps, she listened. it was a trick of the imagination--she had thought so much about him that she fancied him near. then, with a sudden heavy beating of the heart, she realized that if he had been at the dance and gone home early he might be passing now on the big road. she smiled at her own folly; this tremulous low call could never be heard across two fields and the door-yard. and it was a banjo . . . it was lance's banjo . . . he was playing whisperingly, too, as he loved to do. then the strings ceased to whisper. clearer came their voice and louder. without thinking to extinguish her candle, she ran to the window and knelt hearkening. she looked down on the moonlit yard. all was silent and homely . . . but that was lance's banjo. even as she came to this decision. lance himself broke through the greenery at the edge of the near field, vaulted a low fence, and emerged into the open. he came on in the soft light, singing a little, apparently to himself. spellbound she listened, gripping the window ledge hard, holding her breath, choking, wondering what this new thing was that had come to her. above him she was set like a saint enshrined, with the moonlight to silver her rapt, shining face, and the glow of the candle behind making a nimbus of her fair hair. yet never at all (or she [ ] thought so) did lance look up. light footed, careless of mien, he circled the house once, still humming under his breath, and striking those odd, tentative chords on the banjo. then, abruptly, when she had realized her position and would have hidden herself, or put out the candle which betrayed her, he stopped under her window and with upflung head was smiling straight into her eyes. she rallied her forces and prepared for the duel which always ensued when she and lance met. she would give him as good as he sent. she would tell him that she had stayed away from church for fear she should see him. if he hinted that she had expected this visit, she would--she would say-- but this was a new lance cleaverage looking into her eyes--a man callista had never seen before. subtly she knew it, yet scarcely dared trust the knowledge. the young fellow below in the moonlight sent up no challenge to a trial of wits; he offered her no opportunity for sarcastic retort. tossing aside his hat, making ready his banjo, he lifted his head so that the lean, dark young face with its luminous eyes was raised fully to her in the soft radiance, and struck some chords--strange, thrilling, importunate chords--then began to sing. the serenade is a cherished courtship custom of primitive societies. lance cleaverage, the best banjo player in the turkey tracks, with a flexible, [ ] vibrant, colorful baritone voice, had often gone serenading with the other boys; but this--tonight--was different. he felt like singing, and singing to callista; for the moment it was his form of expression. what he sang was his own version of an old-world ballad, with his love's name in place of the scottish girl's to whom it was addressed three hundred years ago in the highlands of another hemisphere. unashamed, unafraid--would anything ever make lance either ashamed or afraid?--he stood in the white moonlight and sent forth his passionate, masterful call of love on the wings of song. callista's heart beat wildly against her arms where she rested on the window sill. her lips were apart, and the breath came through them quick and uneven. despite herself, she leaned forward and looked back into the eyes that gazed up at her. was this lance, the indifferent, taunting, insouciant, here under her window alone, looking up so at her--playing, singing, to her? oh, yes, it was lance. he wanted her, said the swift importunate notes of the banjo, the pleading tones of his voice, the bold yet loverlike attitude of the man. he wanted her. well--a flood of tender warmth rose in her--she wanted him! for the first time probably in her life--misshapen, twisted to the expression of the coquette, the high and mighty, scornful miss who finds no lover to her taste--callista was all a woman. the fires [ ] of her nature flamed to answer the kindred fire of his. the last, teasing note of the banjo quavered into silence. lance pulled the ribbon over his head, laid the instrument by--without ever taking his eyes from her face--and said, hardly above a whisper, "callista, honey, come down." no retort was ready for him. "i--oh, i can't, lance," was all callista could utter. with a "well, i'm a-comin' up there, then," he sprang into the muscadine vine whose rope-like trunks ran up around the doorway below her. she only caught her breath and watched in desperate anxiety the reckless venture. and when he reached the level of her window, when, swinging insecurely in a loop of the vine, he stretched his arms to her, ready arms answered him and went round his neck. a face passion pale was raised to him, and eager, tremulous lips met his. they drew apart an instant, then callista--overwhelmed, frightened at herself--with a swift movement hid her face on his breast. he bent over her, and laid his dark cheek against hers, that was like a pearl. his arms drew her closer, closer; the two young hearts beat plungingly against each other. the arms that strained callista so hard to lance's breast trembled, and her slender body trembled within them. lance's shining eyes closed. [ ] [illustration: "a face passion-pale was raised to him and eager tremulous lips met his."] "callista--honey--darlin'," he whispered brokenly, "you do love me." "oh, lance--oh, lance!" she breathed back. and then his lips went seeking hers once more. she lifted them to him, and the lovers clung long so. the world swung meaninglessly on in space. the two clasped close in each other's arms were so newly, so intensely, blindingly, electrically awake to themselves and to each other, that they were utterly insensible to all else. finally lance raised his head a bit. he drew a long, sobbing breath, and laying his face once more against the girl's murmured with tender fierceness, "an' we ain't going to wait for no spring, neither. you'll wed me to-morrow--well, next week, anyway"--as he felt her start and struggle feebly. "oh, lance--honey--no," she began. but he cut her short with vehement protestations and demands. he covered her face, her hair, her neck with kisses, and then declared again and again, in a voice broken with feeling, that they would be wedded the next week--they wouldn't wait--they wouldn't wait. shaken, amazed by her own emotions, terrified at the rush of his, callista began to plead with him; and when that availed nothing, save to inflame his ardor, her cry was, "yes, lance. yes--all right--we [ ] will. we will, lance--whenever you say. but go now, honey, won't you--please? oh, lance! they'll be coming home any minute now. if they was to find you here. lance--won't you go now, please, honey? lance, darlin', please. i'll do just like you say--next week--any time, lance. only go now." there was no sense of denying, or drawing herself back, in callista's utterance. it was only the pleading of maiden terror. when lance acquiesced, when he crushed her to him in farewell, her arms went round him once more, almost convulsively; with an equal ardor, her lips met the fierce, dominating kiss of his. he got down from the window, his head whirling. mechanically he found his banjo, flung the ribbon over his neck and turned the instrument around so that it hung across his shoulders. thus, and with his hat again tucked under his arm, without ever looking back toward the house, he walked swiftly and unsteadily away, once more through the young chestnut wood, with its dapplings of shadow and moonlight. he dipped into the hollow where the spring branch talked to itself all night long in the silence and the darkness under the twisted laurel and rhododendrons; once more he stood on the little tonsured hill above the church. the lights were out; they had all gone home. below him was spread his world; the practised [ ] eye of this free night rover could have located every farm and cabin, as it all lay swimming in this wonderful, bewitched half-light. those were his kindred and his people; but he had always been a lonely soul among them. the outposts of levity which he had set about the citadel of his heart had never been passed by any. tonight, with an upheaval like birth or death, he had broken down the barriers and swept another soul in beside him; close--close. he would never be alone again--never again. there would always be callista. in the intoxication, the ravishment of the moment, he made no reckoning with the callista he had heretofore known, the lance that had been; they should be always as now on this night of magic. [ ] chapter v. the asking. on the comb of a tall ridge back of the cleaverage place, ola derf caught up with lance at last. "i got to set down awhile till i can ketch my breath," the girl said jerkily. "i reckon i run half a mile hollerin' yo' name every step. lance cleaverage--and you never turned yo' head. i believe in my soul you heared me the first time i called." cleaverage did not take the trouble to affirm or deny. he flung himself back on the fern and pine needles with his hat over his face, and remarking, "wake me up when you get your breath," affected to go to sleep. ola derf was as comfortable a companion as a dog, in that you could talk to her or let her alone, as the humor ran. a cicada's whir overhead swelled to a pulsating screech and died away. the woods here opened into calm and lofty spaces which at a little distance began to be dimmed as with vaporized sapphire--the blue that melted the hills into the sky. his eyes were caught by an indigo-bird in the branches--a [ ] drop of color apparently precipitated by this marvel of azure held in solution by the summer air. it was the morning after lance had sung to callista under her window, and his mind was yet swimming in dreams of her. he was roused from these by ola's voice. "lance," she began and broke off. "oh, lance, i want to talk to you about--about--" again her voice lapsed. she could see nothing of his face. his chest rose and fell rhythmically. "lance--air you asleep?" "huh-uh. but if you keep on talkin' right good maybe i'll get to sleep." she paid no attention to the snub, but addressed herself once more to what seemed a difficult bit of conversational tactics. "lance," came the plaint for the third time, "i wanted to name callista gentry to you. i--i--that thar gal don't care the rappin' o' her finger about you, nor any man." cleaverage, with the memory of last night warm at his heart, smiled under his hat brim and made no answer, save a little derisive sound which might have meant denial, indifference, or mere good-humored contempt of ola herself. "oh, yes, i know," ola nodded to her own thought, "they's a heap of 'em lets on not to like the boys; but with callista gentry hit goes to the bone. she don't care for nary soul in this round world but her own pretty self. she 'minds me [ ] of a snake--a white snake, if ever there was such a thing. you look at her. you ain't never seen her change color, whatever came or went." the picture evoked of callista's flushed, tender face lying upon his breast made the pulses of the man on the warm pine needles leap. "well," he prompted finally, "what's the trouble? are you a true friend, that doesn't want me to get snake bit?" ola laughed out a short laugh. "no," she said, drearily, "i'm just a fool that's got yo' good at heart, and don't like to see you get a wife that cares nothin' for you. thar--i've said my say. thar's no love in her, and thar's no heart in her. but if a pretty face and high and mighty ways is what takes you, of course you can follow yo' ruthers." "uh-huh," agreed lance, pushing his hat back and sitting up. he cast a laughing, sidelong glance in her direction. "ola," he said softly, "i'm a goin' to let you into a secret. the gals has pestered me all my life long with too much lovin', and my great reason for bein' willin' to have callista gentry is that she seems like you say, sorter offish." to his intense surprise (he had been wont to jest much more hardily with her than this), ola's face flushed suddenly a dark, burning red. she jumped to her feet like a boy. "all right," she said in a throaty tone, her [ ] countenance turned away from him. "if that's so, i'm sorry i spoke. tell miz. cleaverage all about it--and all about me and the other gals that run after you so turrible. i don't care." but half way down the ridge her swift, angry, steps began to lag, and a little further on lance overtook her. "they's a-goin' to be a dance at our house a-wednesday," she said in a penitent voice. "you're a-comin', ain't you, lance?" "nope," returned the invited guest briefly. he volunteered no excuse or explanation; and so, when the parting of their ways was reached, she demanded with imploring eyes on his face, "ye ain't mad with me, air ye. lance? why won't you come to my party?" "got somethin' else to do," cleaverage returned nonchalantly. "callista and me is goin' to be married a-wednesday night." ola fell back a step, and clutched the sunbonnet which she carried rolled in her hands. "you're a--w'y, lance--you're jest a foolin'," she faltered. lance shook his head lightly, without a word. "but--why, i was over at gentry's this morning," she exclaimed finally. "nobody thar said anything about it." she still watched his face incredulously. "they shorely would have said somethin', if callista had named the day." [ ] "she never named it," said lance easily. "i named it myself, back there on the ridge whilst you was catchin' your breath--or wastin' it. we had allowed that a week from yesterday would do us, but it sort of come over me that wednesday was the right time, and i'm goin' along by there right now to settle it all. reckon if you folks are givin' a dance you won't heed a invite? good-bye," and he turned away on his own trail. swift, unsmiling, preoccupied as a wild thing on its foreordained errand--the hart to the spring, the homing bird--cleaverage made his way to the gentry place. callista felt him coming before he turned into the big road; she saw him while yet the leafage of the door maples would have confused any view less keen. she longed to flee. then in a blissful tremor she could do nothing but remain. octavia gentry, carrying hanks of carpet chain to the dye-pot in the yard, caught sight of him and called out a greeting. "is mr. gentry about the place?" lance asked her, as he lingered a moment with callista's eyes on him from the doorway. "yes, pappy's makin' ready to go down to the settlement, and he ain't been to the field to-day. he's in the house somewhar's. did you want to see him special, lance?" cleaverage made no direct reply; and the widow added, "thar he is, right now," as ajax gentry stepped [ ] out into the open passage with a bit of harness in his hand which he was mending. a certain gravity fell on her manner as the two walked toward the house. it went through her mind that cleaverage had never formally asked for callista, and that now he was about to do so. she lifted her head proudly and glanced round at him. lance cleaverage was not only the best match in the whole turkey track region, but he had been the least oncoming of all "sis's love-yers." you never could be sure whether lance wanted the girl or was merely amusing himself; and octavia had always been strongly set upon the match. when they came to the porch edge, lance seated himself upon it and looked past the old man to where callista's flower face was dimly discernible in the entry beyond. "good morning," he said impersonally. "i'm glad to find you at home, mr. gentry. i stopped a-past to name it to you-all that callista and me has made up our minds to be wed a-wednesday evening." there was a soft exclamation from within; but mother and grandfather remained dumb with astonishment. cleaverage glanced round at them with a slight impatience in his hazel eyes that held always the fiery, tawny glint in their depths. he detested having people receive his announcements as though they were astonishing--that is, unless it was his humor to astonish. [ ] "well," grandfather gentry began after a time, "ain't this ruther sudden?" "marryin' has to be done all of a sudden," lance remarked without rancor. "i never yet have heard of gettin' married gradual." "why, lance, honey," said the widow in a coaxing tone, "you ain't rightly ready for a wife, air ye? ef you two young folks had named this to me--well, six months ago--i'd 'a' had callista's settin' out in good order. looks like pappy's right, and it is sorter suddent." "what do you say, callista?" inquired the postulant bridegroom without looking up. in the soft dusk of the interior the girl's face was crimson. here came the time when she could no longer pretend to be urged into the marriage by her mother, her grandfather, the course of events; but must say "yes" or "no" openly of her own motion. last night's startling accost yet shook her young heart; the glamour of that hour came back upon her senses. "i say whatever you say, lance," she uttered, scarcely above a whisper. ajax gentry laughed out. "well--i reckon that settles it," he said, jingling his harness and turning to leave. "no--it don't settle nothin'," broke in octavia anxiously. "lance ain't got any land cleared to speak of over on his place, and he ain't put in any crop; how air the both of 'em to live? [ ] they'll just about have obliged to stay here with us. you can find work for lance on the farm, cain't ye, pappy?" old ajax measured his prospective grand-son-in-law with a steady eye, and assured himself that there was not room on the farm nor in the house for two masters. he read mastery in every line of face and figure. lance got to his feet so suddenly that he might have been said to leap up. "i've built me a good cabin, and it's all ready. callista and me are goin' into no house but our own," he said brusquely. "ain't that so, callista?" again the girl within the doorway answered in that hushed, almost reluctant voice, "just as you say. lance." and though grandfather laughed, and mother gentry objected and even scolded, that ended the argument. "i'll stop a-past and leave the word at hands's," lance told them as he turned to go. "is there anyone else you'd wish me to bid, mother?" that "mother," uttered in lance's golden tones, went right to the widow's sentimental heart. she would have acceded to anything he had proposed in such a way. old ajax smiled, realizing that lance meant to triumph once for all over flenton hands. as cleaverage walked away, the mother prompted, almost indignantly, [ ] "why didn't ye go down to the draw-bars with him, callista? i don't think that's no way to say farewell to a young man when you've just been promised." gentry looked at his daughter-in-law through narrowed eyes, then at callista; his glance followed lance cleaverage's light-footed departure a moment, and then he delivered himself. "i ain't got nothing agin your marryin' lance cleaverage wednesday evening," he said concisely to callista. "i ain't been axed; but ef i had been, my say would still be the same. all i've got to tell you is that thar was never yet a house built of logs or boards or stones that was big enough to hold two families." "why, pap gentry!" exclaimed octavia in a scandalized tone. "this house is certainly callista's home, and i'm sure i love lance as well as i ever could a own son. if they thought well to live here along of us this winter, i know you wouldn't hold to that talk." "i reckon you don't know me so well as ye 'lowed ye did," observed gentry; "for i would--and do. lance cleaverage has took up with the crazy notion of marryin' all in haste. he ain't got no provision for livin' on that place of his. well, i tell you right now, he cain't come and live in my house. no, nor you cain't pack victuals over to 'em to keep 'em up." a coquette according to mountain ideals, carrying [ ] her head high with the boys, famous for her bickerings with lance, callista gentry had always been a model at home, quiet, tractable, obedient. but the face she now turned upon her grandfather was that of a young fury. all her cold pride was up in arms. that secret, still spirit of hers, haughty, unbent, unbroken, reared itself to give the old man to understand that she wanted nothing of him from this on. she--lance's wife--the idea of her begging food from grandfather gentry! "if you two'll hush and let me speak," she said in an even tone, "i reckon i'll be able to set grandpappy's mind at rest. you can give me the wedding--i reckon you want to do so much as that for your own good name. but bite or sup i'll never take afterwards in this house. no, i won't. so far from carryin' victuals out of it, you'll see when i come in i'll have somethin' in my hand, grandpap. i invite you and mother right now to take yo' sunday dinners with me when you want to ride as far as the blue spring church. but,"--she went back to it bitterly--"bite or sup in this house neither me nor lance will ever take." then, her eyes bright, her usually pale cheeks flaming, she turned and ran up the steep little stairs to her own room. octavia looked reproach at her father-in-law; but ajax gentry spat scornfully toward the vacant fireplace, and demanded, [ ] "now she's a pretty somebody for a man to wed and carry to his home, ain't she? i say, sunday dinners with her! can she mix a decent pone o' corn bread, and bake it without burnin' half her fingers off? she cain't. can she cut out a hickory shirt and make it? she cain't. could she kill a chicken and pick and clean it and cook it--could she do it ef she was a starvin'? she could not. she cain't so much as bile water without burnin' it. she don't know nothin'--nothin' but the road. she's shore a fine bargain for a man to git. to have a passel o' fool boys follerin' after her and co'tin' her, that's all callisty's ever studied about, or all you ever studied about for her." "well, pappy," octavia bridled, considerably stung, "i don't think you' got much room to talk. in yo' young days, from all i ever heared--either from you or from others--you was about as flighty with the gals, and had about as many of 'em follerin' after you, as sis is with the boys." she looked up at her father-in-law where he lounged against the fire-board. grandly tall was old ajax gentry, carrying his seventy years and his crown of silver like an added grace. his blue eye had the cold fire of callista's, and his lean sinewy body, like hers, showed the long, flowing curves of running water. "o-o-o-oh!" he rejoined, with an indescribable lengthened circumflex on the vowel that lent it [ ] a world of meaning. "o-o-o-oh! . . . a man! well--that's mighty different. if a feller's got the looks--and the ways--he can fly 'round amongst the gals for a spell whilst he's young and gaily, and it don't do him no harm. there's some that the women still foller after, even when he's wedded and settled down" (ajax smiled reminiscently). "but when a man marries a gal, he wants a _womern_--a womern that'll keep his house, and cook his meals, and raise his chillen right. the kind o' tricks callisty's always pinned her faith to ain't worth shucks in wedded life. ef i was a young feller to-morrow, i wouldn't give a chaw o' tobaccer for a whole church-house full o' gals like callisty, an' i've told you so a-many's the time. yo' maw gentry wasn't none o' that sort--yo' mighty right she wasn't! she could cook and weave and tend a truck patch and raise chickens to beat any womern in the turkey tracks, big _and_ little. i say, sunday dinner with callisty!" he repeated. "them that goes to her for a dinner had better pack their victuals with 'em." octavia gathered up her hanks of carpet-warp and started for the door. "all right, pappy," she said angrily. "all right. i raised the gal best i knowed how. i reckon _you_ think the fault--sence you see so much fault in her--comes from my raisin'; but i know mighty well an' good that the only trouble _i_ ever had with sis, was 'count o' her gentry blood. [ ] how you can expect the cookin' o' corn pones and makin' o' hickory shirts from a gal that's always got every man in reach plumb distracted over her, is more'n i can see." octavia went out hastily before her father-in-law could make the ironic reply which she knew to expect; and after a moment or two, ajax himself moved away toward the log stable to begin his harnessing. callista had hurried to her bedroom, slammed the door, and was alone with her own heart. as for lance, walking beneath the chestnuts, he had no wish to have her beside him under the old man's humorous, semi-sarcastic gaze and his prospective mother-in-law's sentimental, examining eye. he wanted her to himself. he thought with a mighty surge of rapture of the approaching time when they could shut out all the world and find once more that island of delight where they should dwell the only created beings. he, to share his honeymoon with the gentry family! he laughed shortly at the thought. it was little liza that opened the hands door to him, and her light eyes softened unwillingly as they beheld his alert figure on the step. little liza was tormented with an incongruously soft heart, painfully accessible to the demands of beauty and charm. "howdy," she said. she had not seen lance cleaverage since the day of the funeral; but she had heard from her brother and her sisters that [ ] his behavior on that occasion was unseemly, if not positively disrespectful. lance barely returned her greeting, then he broached his errand. "jane! ellen! oh, flent!" she called distressfully, when she had his news, "come on out. lance cleaverage is here, waitin' to invite you to his weddin'." the two sisters came out on the porch, but flenton did not make his appearance. "howdy, lance. who is it?" inquired ellen hands. "callista gentry hasn't took you, has she?" "well," drawled lance, lifting a laughing eye to the line of big, gray-faced women on the rude, puncheon-floored gallery, "you can make it out best way you find. the weddin' is to be held at the gentry place. if it ain't callista, it's somebody mighty like her." little liza's lip trembled. "you lance cleaverage," she said huskily, "you're a-gettin' the sweetest prettiest thing that ever walked this earth. i do know that there ain't the man livin' that's fit for callisty. i hope to the lord you'll be good to her." again lance regarded the doleful visages before him and laughed. "you-all look like i'd bid you to a funeral rather than to a weddin'," he said, lingering a bit to see if flenton would show himself. [ ] hands was just inside the window. he knew well what had been said. nothing could have been less to his taste than the going out to receive such an invitation. "thar--you see now, flent," said little liza tragically, as she encountered her brother when they turned from watching lance away. "you've lost her. oh, law! i always thought if i could call callisty gentry sister, it would make me the happiest critter in the world." "you may have a chance so to call her yet," said hands, who showed any emotion the announcement may have roused in him only by an added tightening of lip and eye. "wednesday ain't come yet--and hit ain't gone." "well, hit'll come and hit'll go," said ellen heavily. "lance cleaverage gits what he starts after, and that's the fact." "yes," agreed little liza, "he shore does. i don't reckon i could have said no to him myself." "lance cleaverage!" echoed her brother. "well, he's born--but he ain't buried. i never did yet give up a thing that i'd set my mind on. i ain't said i've given up callista gentry." the three looked at him rather wildly. talk of this sort is unknown among the mountain people. yet they could but feel the woman's admiration for his masculine high-handedness of speech. at the cleaverage place they were making ready for the noonday meal when lance brought [ ] his news home. the table, with its cloth of six flour-sacks sewed end to end, was set in the cool entry. the dutch oven, half buried in ashes, was full of buttermilk-dodgers, keeping hot. at the other side of the broad hearthstone, roxy griever bent above a dinner-pot dishing up white beans and dumplings. beside her mary ann martha held a small yellow bowl and made futile dabs with a spoon she had herself whittled from a bit of shingle, trying to get beans into it. her mother's reproofs dropped upon her tousled and incorrigible head with the regularity of clockwork. "you, mary ann marthy, i do know in my soul you' the worst child the lord ever made: where do you expect to go to when you die? look at that thar good victuals all splattered out in the ashes. that's yo' doin'. you' jest adzackly like yo' uncle lance." then sylvane, who was shaping an axe-helve in the doorway, looked up and said, "here comes lance himself." and kimbro cleaverage pushed another chair towards the table. "well," said the bridegroom expectant, looking about on the shadowed interior of the cabin, dim to his eyes after the glare outside, "i've got a invite for you-all to a weddin'." "not you and callista?" exclaimed sylvane, his boyish face glowing. "oh, lance--she ain't said yes, has she?" [ ] "no, buddy," lance flung over his shoulder, and you saw by his smile the strong affection there was between them, "she ain't said yes--but i have. i've set the time for wednesday, and the gentry place is all uptore right now getting ready for it. i reckon"--his eye gleamed with the mischievous afterthought--"i reckon they'll clear the big barn for dancing." as though the word had been a catch released in her mechanism, roxy griever straightened up, spoon in hand, with a snort. "you lance cleaverage--you sinful soul!" she began, pointing her bean spoon at him and thus shedding delightful dribblings of the stew which mary ann martha instantly scraped up, "you air a-gettin' the best girl in the two turkey tracks--and here you take the name of dancin' on yo' sinful lips at the same time!" "i reckon you'll not come if there's goin' to be dancin'," remarked lance, hanging up his hat and seating himself at the table. "i hadn't thought of that. well--we'll have to get along without you." roxy snorted inarticulate reprobation. suddenly she demanded. "sylvane, whar's that branch of leaves i sent you after?" with the words, mary ann martha, unnoticed by her mother, abruptly dropped her shingle spoon, scrambled across sylvane's long legs, and [ ] galloped wildly out into the bit of orchard beside the house, her mass of almost white curling hair flying comically about her bobbing head, a picture of energetic terror. her young uncle looked after her, smiling tolerantly, and said nothing. "the flies'll git more of this dinner than we'uns, if we don't have something. why'n't you git me that branch o' leaves, sylvane?" persisted his sister. "well, sis' roxy, i wanted to finish my axe-helve, so i sub-contracted that order o' yourn," answered sylvane, deprecatingly. "sent ma'-an'-marth' out to git a small limb." "for the land's sake! an' her not taller than--" began roxy querulously. but her father put in, with pacific intention, "here's the chap now with her peach-tree branch. come on, pretty; let gran'pappy put it up 'side o' him at the table. now sons, now daughter, air ye ready? this is a bountiful meal; and roxy's cooked it fine as the best; we're mightily favored. we'll ax god's blessing on the food." [ ] chapter vi. the wedding. wednesday came, a glamorous day in early september. a breath of autumn had blown upon the mountains in the night, leaving the air inspiring--tingling cool in the shade, tingling hot in the sun. the white clouds were vagabonds of may time, though the birds were already getting together in flocks, chattering, restless for migration. now at night instead of the bright come-and-go of fireflies there was a mild and steady lamping of glowworms in the evening grass. the katydids' chorus had dwindled, giving place to the soft chirr of ground and tree-crickets. there was a pleasant, high-pitched rustle in the stiffening leaves; the dew was heavy in the hollows, gray under the moon. all day the woods were silent, except for the mocking whirr of grasshoppers rising into the sunshine, and an occasional squabble of crows in pursuit of a hawk. wild grapes were ripe--delicious, tart, keen-flavored things. in the pasture hollow a fleece of goldenrod, painted on the purple distance along with the scarlet globes of orchard fruit, was stripped by laughing girls for callista's wedding [ ] decorations. yes, summer was definitely departed; a new presence was here, an autumn wind in the treetops, an autumn light on the meadow, an autumn haze on the hills--a fine luminous purple, flecked with lights of rose and gold. the gentry place, with its central house of some pretensions and its numerous outlying cabins, presented on wednesday afternoon something the appearance of a village undergoing sack. open doors and windows, heaps of stuff, or bundles of household gear, or sheaves of garments being carried from place to place, suggested this impression, which seemed further warranted by the female figures emerging suddenly now and again from one cabin or another and fleeing with disheveled hair, wild gestures and incoherent babblings as of terror, to some other refuge. the girls had not come in yet from the pasture with their armloads of goldenrod and wild aster; but all three of the hands sisters--good, faithful souls, neighborhood dependences for extra help at weddings and funerals--were hard at work in the very heart of the turmoil. "liza, have you seed callista anywhar's?" panted octavia gentry, appearing in the main house, laden with a promiscuous assortment of clothing. "yes, i did," rumbled little liza from the chair on which she stood adjusting the top of a window curtain. [ ] "i thought i heared lance's banjo awhile ago," added the widow as she folded and disposed of the garments she had brought in, "and then i didn't hear it any more. i have obliged to get hold of callista to tell me whar she wants these things put at." "yes, and you did hear lance cleaverage's banjo," confirmed little liza sadly. "callisty heared it, too. she come a-steppin' down from her room like as if he'd called her, and she's walked herself out of the front door and up the road alongside o' him, and that's why you don't hear the banjo no more." "good land!" cried the mother-in-law that was to be. "i don't know what young folks is thinkin' of--no, i don't. it ain't respectable for a bride and groom to walk side by side on their weddin' day. everybody knows that much. and i've got to have callista here. roxy griever's sent word that she cain't come to the weddin' because its been given out to each and every that they'd be dancin'. i want callista to see lance and have that stopped. hit's jest some o' lance's foolishness. you know in reason its got to be stopped. oh, sylvane!" as a boyish figure appeared in the doorway. "won't you go hunt up callista and tell her i want her? and you tell yo' sister roxy when you go home that there ain't goin' to be any dancin' here tonight. and just carry these here pans out to the springhouse [ ] whilst you're about it, sylvane. and if you find ellen hands there tell her to come on in to me, please. i vow, nobody's been for the cows! sylvane, whilst you're out you go up to the milk gap and see are they waitin' thar. let down the draw-bars for 'em if they are." fifteen-year-old sylvalnus cleaverage laughed and turned quickly, lest further directions be given him. "all right," he called back. "i'll 'tend to most of those things--as many of 'em as i can remember." a privileged character, especially among the women, sylvane made willing haste to do octavia's errands. the boy was like his brother lance with the wild tang left out, and feminine eyes followed his young figure as he hurried from spring-house to pasture lot. when he found lance and callista walking hand in hand at the meadow's edge he gave them warning, so that the girl might slip in through the back door, innocently unconscious of any offence against the etiquette of the occasion, and the bridegroom pass on down the big road, undiscovered. "i reckon it's jest as well as 'tis," commented old ajax from the security of the front door-yard, to which he had been swept out and cleaned out in the course of the preparations. "ef octavy had been give a year's warnin', she would have [ ] been jest about tearin' up jack this-a-way for the whole time." as evening fell, teams began to arrive, and the nearer neighbors came in on foot, with a bustle of talk and a settling of the children. old kimbro cleaverage brought his daughter, roxy griever, with little polly griever, a relative of roxy's deceased husband, and mary ann martha. "i knowed in reason you wouldn't have dancin' on yo' place," the widow shrilled, as she approached. then as she climbed out over the wheel, she added in a lower tone to little liza hands, who had come out to help her down, "but that thar sinful lance is so pestered by the davil that you never know whar he'll come up next, and i sont miz. gentry the word i did as a warnin'. tham men has to be watched." callista was ready, dressed in a certain white lawn frock--not for worlds would she have admitted that she had made it with secret hopes of this occasion. the helpers were still rushing to and fro, getting the wedding supper on the long tables, contrived by boards over trestles, on the porch and in the big kitchen, when preacher drumright rode sourly up. it was octavia gentry who had been instrumental in bespeaking drumright's services for the marriage, and indeed he was the only preacher in the turkey track neighborhoods at the moment or anywhere nearer than the settlement itself. [ ] the church-going element of the region stood before this somewhat cantankerous old man in the attitude of confessed offenders. he was famous for raking the young people over the coals, and he arrogated to himself always the patriarch's privilege of scolding, admonishing, or denouncing, whenever the occasion might seem to him fit. for ten years drumright had longed to get a fair chance at lance cleaverage. ever since the boy--and he was the youngest in the crowd--joined with a half dozen others to break up a brush meeting which drumright was holding, the preacher's grudge had grown. and it did not thrive without food; lance was active in the matter of providing sustenance for the ill opinion of the church party, and he had capped his iniquities by taking his banjo as near the church as the big spring on that sunday in mid-july. drumright had prepared the castigating he meant to administer to lance almost as carefully as he would have gotten ready a sermon. with the advent of the preacher the last frantic preparations were dropped, and it was suddenly discovered that they were not absolutely necessary for the occasion. the guests gathered into the big front room, where the marriage was to be. drumright took his stand behind a small table at its further end; callista came down the stairs, joined lance in the entry, and the two stepped into the room hand in hand. [ ] that was a daunting front to address with reproof. people said that they were the handsomest couple that ever stood up together in the two turkey tracks. but after all, it was something more than physical beauty that arrested the eye in that countenance. lance's face was lifted, and his eyes apparently saw not the room, the preacher, nor even the girl whose hand he held. he moved a thing apart, his light, swift step timed to unheard rhythms, a creature swayed by springs which those about him knew not of, addressed to some end which they could not understand. and callista seemed to look only to him, to live only in him. her fair face reflected the strange radiance that was on his dark, intense young visage. it was drumright's custom to make a little talk when about to perform the marriage ceremony, so there was neither surprise nor apprehension as he began to speak. "befo' i can say the words that shall make this here man and this here woman one flesh, i've got a matter to bring up that i think needs namin'." the old voice rasped aggressively, and a little flutter of concern passed over drumright's hearers. "the gentry family air religious, church-goin' people. why callista gentry ain't a perfessin' member in the church this day is more than i can tell you-all here and now. like enough some will say hit is the influence of the man a-standin' [ ] beside her; and supposin' this to be so, hit cain't be too soon named out to 'em." if lance heard any word of drumright's harangue, he gave no sign; but callista stirred uneasily, her nostrils flickered, and she glanced from the preacher to her bridegroom. "i wonder in my soul," drumright went on, "that any god-fearin' family would give they' child to a man that has been from his cradle up, as a body may say, the scoffer that you air, lance cleaverage." thus pointedly addressed, a slight start passed through the bridegroom's taut body, and cleaverage turned a half-awakened eye upon the preacher. "are you aimin' to get 'em to stop the marriage?" he inquired bluntly. as he spoke, he dropped callista's hand, caught it once more in the grasp of his other, and put his freed arm strongly about her waist. thus holding her, he turned a little to face her mother and grandfather as well as the preacher. a shock went through, the crowded room; pious horror and amaze on the part of the older people; among the younger folk a twittering tremor not unmixed with delight at the spirit of the bridegroom. you might wince beneath the preacher's castigations; you might privately grumble about them, and even refuse to pay anything toward his up-keep, thereby helping to starve [ ] his wife and children; but that you should presume to answer a preacher in the pulpit or elsewhere in the performance of his special office, was a thing inconceivable. the bridegroom's family drew together at one side of the room, kimbro cleaverage, in his decent best, looking half affrightedly at the man who was miscalling his son; roxy griever, divided between her allegiance to the caste of preachers, all and singular, and tribal pride; sylvane clutching his hands into fists, and hoping that buddy would get the better of the argument; while mary ann martha, in the grasp of polly griever, glowered and wondered. "lance cleaverage," returned drumright ponderously, "i respect yo' father, for he's a good man. i respect yo' sister--she's one too; for their sake i come here to perform this marriage, greatly agin my grain." he was taking a long breath, having barely got under way, when lance stopped him with a curt, "well,--are you goin' to do it--or are you not?" people gazed with open mouths and protruding eyes. where were the lightnings of heaven, set apart for the destruction of the impious? drumright himself was momentarily staggered. "er, yes--i am," he said finally, wagging his head in an obstinate, bovine shake. "after i've said my say, i aim to marry ye." [ ] the little points of light that always danced deep down in lance cleaverage's eyes, flamed up like clear lamps at this statement. "no, you'll not," he said promptly. "you'll marry us now--or not at all. if i wanted any of your talk, i'd come to your church and get it. i don't want any." all this time his arm had been round callista, the hand closed on her slim waist gently, but with a grip of steel. had she wished to stir from his side, she could scarcely have done so. now he turned toward the door and moved quietly away from the astonished preacher, taking her with him. "whar--whar you goin'?" faltered drumright, dumbfounded. "down to sourwood gap to be wedded," the bridegroom flung back in his face. "squire ashe is up there from hepzibah--he'll marry us without haulin' us over the coals first." and he made his way through the roomful of mute, dazed, unprotesting people. at the door he paused, and, with the air of a man alone with his beloved in desert spaces, bent and murmured something in the ear of his bride, then ran lightly down the steps and out into the dark to where the horses were tethered. he returned quickly, leading his two black ponies. he found that in the few moments of his absence the company had awakened to the enormity [ ] of what was going on. there were a half-dozen people round callista, most of them talking. little liza, who evidently believed that the finger of the lord was in it, and that her brother flenton was at last going to get the girl of his choice, clung to callista's hand and wept. flenton himself stood squarely in the bride's path, speaking low and eagerly. at the upper end of the room octavia gentry was almost in hysterics as she labored with the preacher, trying to get him to say that he would marry the pair at once if they would come back. old ajax had retired to his corner by the big fireplace, where he stood smiling furtively, and slowly rubbing a lean, shaven jaw, as he glanced from his daughter-in-law to his granddaughter in leisurely enjoyment. after all, there was much he liked well in callista's chosen. roxana griever had flown to supplement octavia's entreaties with the preacher. kimbro made his way toward the door, evidently with some half-hearted intention of remonstrating with his son. sylvane had slipped out to help lance with the horses--he guessed that his brother never meant to ride away from the gentry place alone. "he ain't fitten for you, callisty," hands was whispering over and over. "he ain't fitten for you. a man that will do you this-a-way on yo' wedding day, what sort o' husband is he goin' to make? here's me, honey, that's loved you all your life, an' been a member o' the church in [ ] good standin' sence i was twelve years old. callisty, i'd be plumb proud to lay down for you to walk over. you take me, and we'll have a weddin' here sure enough." [illustration: "you'll marry us now--or not at all."] the words were breathed low into the bride's ear; yet attitude and air were eloquent, and hands's position and intentions were so notorious, that the proposition might as well have been shouted aloud. "lance--you lance! callista, honey!" implored the mother's voice distressfully above the moving heads of the crowd. "you chillen wait till i can get thar. preacher says he'll wed you now. come on back in here." "yes, and when you git that feller back in here a-standin' before preacher drumright to be wedded, you'll toll a wild buck up to a tainted spring," chuckled old ajax gentry. lance only smiled. the lover, all aglow, rejected with contempt this maimed thing they would thrust upon him for a marriage. he was leading callista's horse to the porch edge that she might mount, when he glanced up and found how strongly the pressure was being put upon his girl. the sight arrested his hurrying steps, and turned him instantly into the semblance of an indifferent bystander. "honey, they say a good brother makes a good husband," little liza was booming on in what she fondly believed was a tone audible only to callista. [ ] "i tell you flenton is the best brother any gals ever had." cleaverage stood gazing at them with eyes indecipherable, then--turned his back. "and look at lance cleaverage," exhorted little liza, "a drinkin', coon-huntin', banjo playin' feller that don't darken the doors of a church--his own sister cain't never name him without tellin' how wicked he is. let him go, honey--you let him go, an' take flent." lance, standing with his back to them, holding his horses, had begun to whistle. at first the sound was scarcely to be heard above the babel of voices in the lighted room--but it came clearly to callista's ears. flenton's hand reached hers; ellen joined her entreaties to those of little liza. callista, while not a church member, had always aligned herself with the ultra-religious element; she had been the companion and peer of those eminently fitted and ever ready to sit in judgment on the unworthy. now she heard all these joining to condemn lance. the tune outside went seeking softly among the turns and roulades with which lance always embellished a melody. it was the song he had sung under her window. her heart remembered the words. "how many years, how many miles, far from the door where my darling smiles? how many miles, how many years . . . ?" his musing, eyes were on the far line of mountains, velvety black against the luminous blackness of the sky; his gaze rested thoughtfully on a great star that hung shining in the dusk over the horizon's edge. he seemed deaf to the clatter and squabble, blind to the movement in the room behind him. softly he whistled, like a man wandering pensive beside a lonely sea, or in some remote, solitary forest, a man untouched by the more immediate and human things of life. the two horses after snorting and pulling back at first sight of the unaccustomed lights and the noisy voices, put down their noses toward the long, lush dooryard grass. "he ain't lookin' at you. he ain't a-carin'," flenton whispered to her. for the first time callista glanced directly to where her bridegroom stood. his back was to her--yes, his back was to her. and though the little whistle went questing on with its "how many miles--how many years?" even as her eye rested on him he made a leisurely movement toward one of the horses, like a man who might be about to mount. swift as a shadow she slipped through the hands of those around her and down the steps. "lance," she breathed. "lance." then she was in his arms. he had lifted her to the saddle. "good land!" wailed octavia gentry, "if you've [ ] got to go, sis, they's no use ruinin' yo' frock. here's your ridin' skirt," and she flourished the long calico garment and struggled to get down to the mounted pair. lance was on the other horse now. he paid no attention to any of them, but let his smiling gaze rove for the last time over the lighted windows, the noisy people, the long tables. "what time will you-all be back?" called the still secretly chuckling old ajax from the doorway, as he saw them depart. "never," answered lance's clear hail. "oh, lance--ain't you a-goin' to come back and have the weddin'?" began octavia. at this the bridegroom turned in his saddle, reining in thoughtfully. he would not accept this mutilated ceremony, yet the wedding of lance cleaverage should not be shorn in the eyes of his neighbors. slowly he wheeled his horse and faced them all once more. "callista and me ain't coming back here," he assured them, without heat, yet with decision. "but i bid you-all to an infare at my house tomorrow night." then once more he wheeled his pony, caught at callista's bridle, and sweeping into the big road, started the two forward at a gallop. his arm was round callista's waist. her head drooped in the relief of a decision arrived at, and a final abandonment to her real feeling that was almost [ ] swoon-like, on the conqueror's shoulder. the horses sprang forward as one. "callista--sweetheart," he whispered with his lips against her hair, "we don't want nothin' of them folks back there, do we? we don't want nothin' of anybody in the world. just you and me--you and me." [ ] chapter vii. lance's laurel. the inheritance of lance cleaverage came to him from his maternal grandfather. jesse lance had felt it bitterly when his handsome high-spirited youngest daughter ran away with kimbro cleaverage, teacher of a little mountain school, a gentle, unworldly soul who would never get on in life. his small namesake was four years old when grandfather lance, himself a hawkfaced, up-headed man, undisputed master of his own household, keen on the hunting trail, and ready as ever for a fight or a frolic, came past and stopped at the cleaverage farm on the way from his home in the far cove neighborhood down to the settlement to buy mules, and, incidentally, to arrange about his will. he was not advanced in years, and he was in excellent health; but there were a number of married sons and daughters to portion, he had a considerable amount of property, and his wife was ailing. it had been suggested that both should make their wills; so the documents, duly written out, signed and attested, were being carried down to jesse lance's lawyer in hepzibah. [ ] he had seen almost nothing of his one-time favorite, melissa, since the marriage twelve years before with cleaverage that so disappointed him; and he had not now expected to remain the night in her house. but the little lance, a small splinter of manhood, at once caught his grandfather's eye. the child stirred jesse lance's curiosity perhaps--or it may have been some deeper feeling. the first collision between these two occurred as the visitor, having dismounted, approached the cleaverage gate. he had his favorite hound with him, and four-year-old lance, leading forth old speaker, his chosen comrade, observed the hair rise on the neck of grandfather's follower, and listened with delight to the rumble of growls the dogs exchanged. "ye better look out. if speaker jumps on yo' dog he'll thest about eat him up," the child warned. the tall man swept his grandson with a dominating gaze that was used to see the people about jesse lance obey. but things that scared other children were apt to evoke little lance's scornful laughter or stir up fight in him. "you call off yo' hound," the newcomer said imperiously. "i don't let my dog fight with every cur he meets." the small boy wheeled--hands in trouser pockets--and gazed with disappointed eyes to where the two canines were making friends. "i wish they would jump on each other; i thest [ ] wish't they would," he muttered. "i know speaker could whip." grandfather lance looked with interest at the child. such a boy had he been. this was the spirit he had bequeathed to lance's mother, and which she had wasted when she married a schoolteacher. melissa cleaverage, come down in the world now, paid timid court to her father without much success; but in the middle of the afternoon, her four-year-old son settled the question of the visitor remaining for the night. jesse lance had been across the gulch to look at some wild land which belonged to him, up on the head waters of the creek called lance's laurel, a haggard, noble domain, its lawless acres still tossing an unbroken sea of green tree-tops towards the sky. as he returned to the cleaverage place, he traversed a little woods-path without noticing the small jeans-clad boy who dragged a number of linked objects across the way. "you gran'pap!" came the shrill challenge after him. "you quit a-breakin' up my train." jesse glanced toward the ground and saw a great oak chip dangling by a string against his boot. he turned an impassive countenance, and thrust with his foot to free it from its entanglement. "watch out--you'll break it!" cried the child, running up. then, as a second jerk shook and rattled the dangling bit of wood, "ain't you got [ ] no sense?" he roared. "that's the injine to my train that you done stepped on and broke all up, and it cain't go a lick with you, big, lazy loafer, standin' right in the middle of it!" for a moment the fierce baby eyes looked up into eyes as fierce above them. such a glance should have sent any youngster weeping to its mother's skirts; but the tiny man on the woods-path stood his ground, ruffling like a game cock. "uh-huh!" jeered the grandfather, "and who might you be, young feller?" "i'm cap'n of this train," lance flung back at him, scarlet of face, his form rigid, his feet planted wide on the mold of the path. grim amusement showed itself in the elder countenance. yet jesse lance was not used to permitting himself to be defied. not since melissa had run rough-shod over him and held his heart in her little grubby hands, had another been allowed such liberties. "oh, ye air, air ye? well, that's mighty big talk for little breeches," he taunted, to see whether the spirit that looked out at him from his grandson's eyes went deep, or was mere surface bravado. he got his answer. with a roar the baby charged him, gripped the big man around the knees and swung. "git off'n my injine!" he bellowed, contorting his small body to hammer with his toes the offending legs he clung to. "i told you once civil, and [ ] you didn't go. i'm cap'n of this train, and i can throw rowdies off when they won't go." the lines of the man's face puckered curiously as he looked down at the small assailant. without another word he freed his foot from the chip-and-string "train," moving circumspectly and with due regard to flimsy couplings. without another word he stepped slowly on, looking across his shoulder once, to note that lance instantly joined his train into shape and, turning his back on his big adversary, promptly forgot all about him. where the woods-path struck the big road, the grandfather stood a long moment and studied his grandson; then he made his way to the house where eleven year-old roxy sat sorting wild greens on the porch edge. "how old is that chap back thar?" he inquired of her brusquely. "brother lance? w'y, he ain't but fo' year old," roxana returned sanctimoniously. "gran'pap, you mustn't hold it agin' him that he's so mean--he's but fo' year old. an' poppy won't never whip him like he ort. if poppy would jest give him a good dosin' of hickory tea, i 'low he'd come of his meanness mighty quick." jesse lance merely grunted in reply to these pious observations, and in his mind there framed itself a codicil to be added to that will. melissa--melissa who married kimbro cleaverage--had been left out of both testaments so far; but she [ ] was his favorite child, and it had been in her father's mind to bequeath to her the wild land up in the gap. yet of what use would such a piece of timber be to a woman? and it would be of less account to a man like kimbro cleaverage. they would but sell it for the meagre price someone might offer their necessities now. no, the dauntless captain of the train back there on the path was the one to own the gap hundred. such a man as he promised to become, would subdue that bit of savage nature, and live with and upon it. the lawyer in hepzibah should fix the will that way. susan lance died in her husband's absence; and the pair of mules jesse had bought in the settlement ran away with him on his journey home, pitching themselves, the wagon and driver, all over a cliff and breaking his neck. so it was that the codicil to the will left "to my namesake lance cleaverage, the gap hundred on lance's laurel," not then of as much value as it had now become. high on the side of the slope it lay, as befitted the heritage of a free hunter. the timber on it was straight, tall and clean, mostly good hardwood. here was the head of lance's laurel, a bold spring of pure freestone water bursting out from under a bluff--a naked mass of sandstone which fronted the sky near his boundary-line--in sufficient volume to form with its own waters the upper creek. a mile down, this [ ] stream joined itself to burnt cabin laurel, and the two formed big laurel. this water supply, unusually fine even in that well-watered country, added greatly to the value of the tract as a homestead. coal had been found on the other side of the ridge, and lance, who believed in his star, thought it reasonable to expect that coal would be discovered on his own land. meantime, though he had cleared none of it for crops--not even the necessary truck-patch--he made a little opening on a fine, sightly rise, with a more lofty eminence behind it, and set to work building his cabin. scorning the boards from the portable sawmill which would have offered him a flimsy shanty at best, hot in the brief, vivid summer and cold in winter, he marked the best timber for the purpose, and planned a big, two-penned log house, with an open porch between. lance, his father and sylvane, spent more than ten days getting out the trees. it took forty boles to build a single pen ten logs high; and as lance had decided to have the rooms measure fourteen feet inside, each must be cut to fifteen foot length. then, since he was fastidious in the matter of a straight wall, lance himself measured and lined each one and scored it to line, his father coming behind him with a broad-axe and hewing it flat on the two sides, leaving the log perhaps about five inches through, whatever its height might be, and thus securing a flat [ ] wall of even thickness. for the kitchen at the back, it was thought good enough to snake the logs up in the round, with the bark all on, and merely skelp them roughly as they were put up one by one. it took only a day to raise the walls of the cabin on lance's laurel, for the owner was tremendously popular, and there was help enough offered in friendly country fashion that day to have raised another pen, had the logs been ready. roxy griever and little polly came across the gulch with dinner for the men; but the best things the laughing jovial party had, lance cooked for them on an open camp-fire. the roof was of hand-rived clapboards which lance and sylvane got out; but all the flooring was of tongued and grooved boards, brought from the hepzibah planing mill, narrow, smooth, well-fitted, well-laid. there were not in all the turkey track neighborhoods such door-and window-frames, nor doors of such quality, all hauled up from the planing mill. when it came to the chimney, lance was the master hand, a mason by trade, and sent for far and near to build chimneys or doctor one which refused to draw. he had chosen the stones from the creek-bed, water-washed, clean, offering traceries of white here and there on their steely, blue-gray surfaces. he debated long over the question of a rounded arch with keystone for the front of [ ] his fireplace, as is the manner of all the older chimneys in the mountains; but finally he and sylvane found one day a single straight arch rock so long that it could be laid across the jambs, and this he shaped a bit and hauled up for the purpose. the day he set in the chimney-throat the iron bar from which to hang the kettles, sylvane lay watching him. "now, that's what sis' roxy's been a-wantin' ever sence i can remember," the younger brother commented, as lance manipulated the mortar and set stone upon stone with nice skill. "uh-huh," assented the proprieter of lance's laurel lightly. "she wants it too bad. if she'd just want it easier, maybe she'd get it, one of these days." he laughed drolly down at the boy lying on the grass, and both remembered the long dreary tirades by which poor roxy had tried to get her brother to so amend the home hearth that cooking should be rendered less laborious for her. and it was to this home that lance cleaverage brought his bride. here it was that he hoped to build that true abiding place which such spirits as lance seek, and crave, and seldom find. the hearthstone he had himself laid, the skilfully built chimney, with its dream of callista sitting on one side of the hearth and himself on the other--these were gropings after the answers such as he always asked of life. [ ] "this ain't what pap calls a sojourning place--this here's going to be a real home, callista," he said eagerly, as the two young creatures went about it examining their new habitation the next morning. "it'll be cool in the summer, and good and warm in the winter. that chimney'll draw--just look at the fire. i never have built a chimney that smoked." "did you build the chimney, lance?" callista asked him, leaning on his arm. "i did that," he told her. "they're always after me to build other folks' chimneys and lay other people's hearthstones, and i ain't so very keen to do it--and it don't pay much--up here. but my own--one for you and me to sit by--" he broke off and stared down at her, his eyes suddenly full of dreams. oh, the long winter evenings; they two together beside the leaping hearth-fire. they would be as one. surely into this citadel he had builded for his life, the enemy--the olden lonesomeness--could never come. they had their bit of breakfast, and lance was about to go down to the settlement to purchase the wherewithal for the impromptu infare. it was hard to leave her. he went out and fed the black horses and came back to say good-bye once more. his team was his hope of a subsistence, seeing that there was no cleared land to farm. he and they together could earn a living for two or three months yet. after that, there would [ ] be small opportunity throughout the winter for teaming. through the summer he had been hauling tan-bark on the contract for old man derf. nearly all of this money he had spent upon the house; and he felt he had now to draw upon what remained--though it was not yet quite due--for the expenses of the infare. callista was down at the hearth as he entered, the tiny blaze in its center warming the whiteness of her throat and chin where she bent to hang a pot on the bar his skill and forethought had placed there for her. something mighty and primal and terribly sweet shook the soul of lance cleaverage as he looked at her kneeling there. she was his--his mate. he would never be alone again. he ran to her and dropped his arm about her. she turned up to him that flushing, tender, responsive countenance which was new to both of them. "hadn't i better buy you a pair of slippers?" he asked her, just for the pleasure of having her answer. "i reckon i don't need 'em, lance," she said soberly, getting to her feet and moving with him toward the door. "if i could dance--or if i ever did dance--i might have need of such." "dance!" echoed her husband with quick tenderness, looking down at her as they paused on the doorstone. "if you was to dance, callista, there wouldn't any of the other gals want to stand up on the floor beside you. i'm goin' to get the slippers." [ ] he rode away on his black horse, her fond eyes following him; and the sight of her standing in the door waving her hand was his last vision of home. at the gate, far down the slope, he stopped for some imaginary investigation of his accoutrements, but really to have an excuse to turn and wave to callista, cupping his hands and calling back, "i'm going to bring you the finest pair of slippers i can buy." for in his pocket was one of her shoes, and in his mind the firm intention of getting so light and flexible a pair of slippers that his girl should be coaxed into learning to dance. callista not dance--it was unthinkable! of course she would dance. vaguely his mind formed the picture of her swaying to the rhythm of music. his eyes half closed, he let black satan choose his own gait, as his arms felt somehow the light pressure of her form within them, and he was dancing with callista. on--on--on through the years with callista. she should not grow old and faded and workworn, nor he hardened, commonplace, indifferent. there should be love and tenderness--beauty and music and movement--in their lives. and she should dance for him--with him--callista, who had never yet danced with anyone. early morning shadows lay cool across the road; ground-squirrels frisked among the boulders by [ ] the way. the far mountains were of a wonderful morning color, not blue, but a blend of the tint of the golden sun-warmed slopes with that of the air; a color of dream, of high romance--a color of ideals. at one time he was roused from his thoughts by a bee-like drone of voices, accompanied by jangling cowbells. around the turn ahead of him came a herd of spotted yearlings, their shaggy hides clustered with the valley's wayside burrs. they took the road, crowding stupidly against his horse, and shuffled by; then followed two riders, driving the bunch to mountain pastures to find their own living until winter should set in--an old man in a faded hat and shawl, gaunt, humped over his saddle-bow; and his son beside him on a better horse, but colorless of feature as himself. "howdy," said lance, smiling, and they answered him, "howdy." but he was moved to a new pity for these men, whom he did not know, and for all their kind who are born and live, god knew why, without the eagle power of soaring into blue gulfs of dream. he rode with his head high, eye bright, his cheek glowing, his whole body tingling in the exquisite flow of the frost-sweetened morning air upon it. the horse, too, felt the touch of last night's frost, and fretted against the bit until lance, with a shout, let him go. then the road underfoot rushed past with the wind as the two splendid, [ ] exultant creatures flew over it, for the moment so far in sympathy that they seemed one. they found themselves reluctantly slowing down at the front fence of the derf place. the pack of hounds burst from under the porch, and ran baying out to meet lance. iley derf's indian husband crouched at the corner of the cabin picking up something, and moved noiselessly away with an armful of wood. the clamor of the hounds brought derf himself out, and lance had a glimpse of women moving about at household work in the cabin. "light--light and come in," garrett derf greeted him. "i hear you and old jeff drumright had it up an' down last night, and that you beat the old hypocrite out." "much obliged, i ain't got time to get down," lance answered, ignoring the rest of derf's speech. "i just stopped as i was passing to get some money." derf's eyes narrowed to slits. he lounged forward, bent and secured a bit of wood from the chip pile and commenced to whittle. such rapid and abrupt negotiations are quite foreign to mountain business ethics, where it takes a half a day to collect a day's wages. "want some money," derf repeated contemplatively. "you mean that thar money for the haulin', i reckon." "yes," returned lance impatiently, "i couldn't very well mean any other." [ ] "well, lance, you shorely ain't forgettin' that that thar money ain't due till next month," derf said, setting a foot on the chopping block and proceeding to pick his teeth with the toothpick he had shaped. "the haulin' ain't all done yet." "no, i ain't forgot that; but i knew you had money by you, and i didn't reckon you'd object to paying some of it ahead of time." cleaverage forced himself to speak civilly, though his temper was rising. derf chuckled. "now see here," he shifted the raised foot, and set forth evidently on a long argument. "thar ain't no man livin' that likes to pay money afore hit's due. ef i've got the cash by me, that's my good fortune. ef you want payment ahead of time, it's worth somethin'. what do you aim to take for the debt as it stands, me to pay you today? of course i'm good for it; but this here business is the same as discountin' a note, and that calls for money. what'll you take, lance?" "whatever you'll give me, i reckon," lance came back quickly, with light scorn. "looks like you've got it your own way. what are you offering?" "oh, i ain't offerin' nothin'," derf receded from his proposition. a shrewd enjoyment was evident beneath the surface stupidity and reluctance. "it's you that wants the money. looks like you must want it pretty bad." nothing but the fact that he conceived it [ ] necessary to have the funds, kept lance from breaking out wrathfully and leaving his tormentor. "see here, garrett derf," he said at last, divided between scorn and angry dignity, "i made you one offer--and i'd think the meanest man would call it good enough--i'll take what money you choose to give me. now you can say the rest." "see here, lance," echoed derf, grinning, and glancing toward the cabin, "you ort not to trade so careless these days and times. yo're a married man now; you've got to look out for yo' spare cash, or yo' ol' woman'll be in yo' hair. what you needin' all this here money for, anyway?" the day before, derf durst not for his life inquire so closely into lance cleaverage's affairs. now he felt that he held the boy in a cleft stick. something of this lance understood; also, the allusion to callista's right to vise his bargains stung him beyond reason. no doubt he knew at bottom that what he was now engaged on was unfair to her. "if you're going to pay, you'd better be about it," he said to derf. "i've got some buying to do when i get my money, and frazee's store is a right smart ways from here." derf came through the fence and laid a detaining hand on satan's mane, getting nipped at for his pains. "you ain't got the time to go down to the store and buy, and git back home by night," he argued. [ ] "better trade with me, lance. i brung up a wagon load of goods last time i was down. i aim to put in shelving and set up regular next month." a quick change went over lance's face. "have you got any women's slippers--that size?" the bridegroom asked eagerly, drawing callista's shoe from his pocket. derf took the shoe in his hand and fingered it, bending so his countenance was concealed. lance became aware of a heaving of the man's shoulders, a gurgling, choking sound that at length resolved itself into a fierily offensive chuckle. "buyin' shoes for her the fust day!" snickered garrett derf. the young fellow bent from his saddle and swooped the bit of foot-gear out of the other's fingers--it looked so much as though he would clout garrett derf on the side of the head with it that the latter dodged hastily. "are you going to trade, or are you not?" he asked with blazing eyes. "i got something else to do besides stand here talking." "i'll give you half," bantered derf, still holding discreetly out of range, but wiping the tears of delicious mirth from the corners of his eyes. "i'll take it," returned lance sharply, thrusting forth his hand. "have you got it with you?" the chance was too good to lose. derf [ ] instantly ceased chuckling, reached down in a capacious pocket and hauled up a great wallet, out of which he began to count the money, looking up furtively every moment to see if lance had been only jesting, or if his temper and that reckless spirit of his were sufficiently roused to carry through the outrageous trade. but when the few bills and the bit of silver were ready, lance took them, put them carelessly into his pocket without the usual careful fingering and counting, and wheeled satan toward the road. "ain't you goin' to tell a body 'howdy'?" came a treble hail from the cabin as he did so, and ola derf's small face, still disfigured from her tears of last night, presented itself at the doorway. "lance, wait a minute--i want to speak with you," the girl called; and then she came running down to the fence and out into the road. "was you and pap a-fussin'? ye ain't goin' to be mad with us becaze callista and her folks never was friendly with us, air ye?" she inquired doubtfully, looking up at him with drowned eyes. pity stirred lance's heart. poor little thing, she had always been a friendly soul, since the two were tow-headed tykes of six playing hookey together from the bit of summer school, as devoted as a dog, observant of his mood and careful of all his preferences. it was rare for her to thrust upon him her own distress, or to let him see her other than cheerful, eagerly willing to [ ] forward his plans. and he remembered with resentment that both at his own home and callista's after some heated discussion of his proposition to invite the derfs, he had said they could have it their own way, and no invitation had been given. "well, you and me ain't going to fuss, anyhow, are we, ola?" he said heartily. "i bid you to the infare at my house to-night. i was just gettin' the money from your father to buy some things that callista'll need for it." square, stubbed, the little brown girl stood at the roadside shading her gaze with one small, rough hand, looking up at the mounted man with open, unchanged adoration. her eyes--the eyes of an ignorant little half savage--enlightened by love, valued accurately the perfect carriage of his shapely head on the brown throat, the long, tapering line from waist to toe, as he sat at ease in the saddle. who of them all was the least bit like lance, her man of men, with his quizzical smile, his blithe, easy mastery of any situation? "hit's too late now for you to go away down yon to the store, ain't it. lance?" the girl asked him timidly. "don't you want to come in and see the new things pappy brung up from the settlement? i believe in my soul he's got the prettiest dancin' shoes i ever laid my eyes on--but callista don't dance," she amended. [ ] lance sighted at the sun. he was entirely too late for a trip to hepzibah--he knew that. the shoe in his pocket nudged him in the side and suggested that this was the place for buying callista's slippers. without more ado he sprang from satan's back, flung the reins over a fence post, and followed ola into the big shed where the goods for the new store were piled heterogeneously on the floor. [ ] chapter viii. the infare. when callista's gaze could no longer distinguish lance on satan, when the thick woods had swallowed up his moving figure at last, she turned to make ready the house for the evening. he had lived in the place, off and on, for several weeks, during the long period of finishing up work. every evidence of his occupancy showed him a clever, neat-handed creature. callista was continually finding proof of his daintiness and tidiness. she admired the bits of extra shelving--a little cupboard here or there--a tiny table that let down from the wall by means of a leathern hinge, to rest on its one stout leg--all sorts of receptacles contrived from most unlikely material. throughout the forenoon, the girl worked, using the implements and utensils that his hands had made ready for her, drawing upon the store of girlish possessions which had come over in her trunk the day before, for wherewithal to grace and beautify the place for the evening's festivities. early in the afternoon lance himself came riding slowly in. she had not expected him much before dark, and she ran to meet him with eager welcome. she watched him while he [ ] unsaddled and fed his horse, and then the two went gaily into their new home, their arms full of the carefully wrapped purchases he had bought. the pretty slippers were got out, displayed and tried on; the curtains for the front windows were spread forth, and the bright table cover for the little stand; the lamp with its wonderful gay shade was cautiously unpacked and set up, the silverplated spoons counted, almost awesomely. lance had had no dinner, and callista had been so engrossed in her work about the cabin that she had cooked none for herself, stopping only to snatch a bite of the cold food left from breakfast. so now when all had been gone over again and again, admired and delighted in, he put her in a chair and peremptorily bade her, "rest right there whilst i make you some coffee and cook some dinner for the both of us." lance cooked just as he played the banjo, or danced, or hunted possums. callista watched him with joy in the sure lightness of his movements, the satisfactoriness and precision of his results. it was after three o'clock, and they were just finishing their coffee and cornbread, when little polly griever came running in at the door and announced, "cousin lance, a' roxy says tell you ef they's a-goin' to be dancin' here to-night, ne'er a one of us shain't step foot in the house." [ ] "you go tell yo' aunt roxy that they's sure goin' to be dancin' in my place this night," lance instructed her, throwing his head back to laugh. "say polly, you tell her i aim to have her do the callin' off--you hear? don't you forget, now. tell her i'm dependin' on her to do the callin' off, and--" "now, lance!" remonstrated callista. her face relaxed into lines of amusement in spite of herself. yet she resolutely assumed a wifely air of reproof that lance found irresistible. "you ought to be ashamed of yourse'f. if you ain't, why, i'm ashamed _for_ you. polly, you go tell miz. griever that they won't be a thing in the world here in my house that she'd object to." "huh! _yo_' house!" interpolated lance, and he made as though he would have kissed her right before polly, whereat her color flamed beautifully and she hastily moved back a bit, in alarm. "you tell yo' aunt roxy, please come on, polly, and to come early," she continued with native tact. "tell her i'll expect her to help me out. why, i don't know how i'd get along without sis' roxy and pappy cleaverage and brother sylvane." polly stood near the door, like a little hardy woods-creature, and rolled her gaze slowly about the interior, noting all the preparations that were on foot. she observed lance shove back a little from the table and reach for his banjo. while [ ] callista lingered over her cup of coffee, polly saw, with the tail of her eye, that lance drew a little parcel from his pocket and began to put a new string on the instrument. that settled it; he had spoken the truth: he was going to have dancing there that night. the thin-shanked wiry little thing watched him continually till she caught his eye. then with the freemasonry there always was between lance and youngsters, she raised her brows in an interrogatory grimace while callista's eyes were in her cup. lance grinned and nodded his head vigorously. still polly looked doubtful. lance moved his foot wickedly to emphasize his meaning. polly was convinced. there would be no legitimate coming to the infare--not if she took that word home to aunt roxy. but instead of turning to leave with her message, polly slowly edged into the room. presently lance and callista together cleared the table, making play of it like a pair of children. together they set out the provisions that lance had brought, and began to prepare the supper for the infare. and all the time polly's eyes were upon the good things to eat, the marvelous lamp with its gay shade, the new curtains which they tacked up at the windows, all the wonders and delights that were to be exploited that evening. she had enjoyed herself hugely at the wedding, in spite of the fact that the bridegroom, whom she [ ] especially delighted in and admired, left in so unceremonious and theatric a manner early in the evening. if a wedding without lance was like that, what would the infare be in lance's own house? she grappled with the problem of how to escape aunt roxy and get to this festivity. she could only think of one possible method--that was to stay at lance's now she was there. she looked down covertly at her old homespun dress, soiled and torn, her whole person unkempt and untidy. well--she gulped a bit--better this than nothing at all. she would rather appear thus among the guests of the infare than not to be able to appear in any guise; but when she considered her bare feet, she gave up in despair. if she only had her shoes and stockings out of aunt roxy's house, the joys of the infare were as good as hers--let come after what must. gaily lance and callista went forward with their preparations. to their minds, they were the first who had ever felt that pristine rapture of anticipation when two make ready a home. dear children! did not adam, when eve called him to help her with fresh roses for the bower she was decking, know the same? it is as old as paradise, that joy, and as legitimate an asset of happiness to humanity as any left us. suddenly, upon the quiet murmur of their talk, came the sharp slam of the door, and they heard [ ] little polly's bare feet go spatting down the trail. "well, hit's time she left," commented callista gently, "if she's goin' to take word to sister roxy." but polly had been stricken with an inspiration. down the steep cut-off which crossed the ravine with lance's laurel brawling in its depth, and led to the cleaverage place, she ran full pelt. it was two miles by the wagon road around the bend; but it was little over a mile down across the gulch, and polly made quick work of the descent, scarcely slacking on the steep climb up again. she galloped like a frightened filly over that bit of path on which the original owner of the gap hundred had met young lance with his chip train nineteen years ago, and burst headlong in upon roxy griever. "a' roxy!" she gasped, "callisty's a-goin' to have preachers at the infare--an'--an'--she wants yo' gospel quilt. pleas'm git it for me quick--callisty's in a bi-i-g hurry." polly's instinct carried true; and the widow griever was borne by the mere wind of her fictitious haste. before she had stopped to consider, roxy found herself taking the gospel quilt out of the chest where it was kept. back in the room where she had been sitting, little polly dived under the bed and secured her shoes, a convenient stocking thrust in the throat of each. with [ ] the swiftness and deftness of a squirrel or a possum, she concealed these in her scanty skirts and stood apparently waiting when the widow returned, bundle in hand. but now roxy griever's slow wits had begun to stir. "what preachers is a-comin'?" she inquired sharply. "brother drumright, he's out preachin' on the white oak circuit--an' he wouldn't be thar nohow--a body knows in reason. young shalliday, he--what preachers did callisty say was a-comin'?" "i never hearn rightly jest what ones," stammered polly, making a grab for the quilt and missing it. "but thar's more'n a dozen comin'," she gulped, as she saw her aunt's face darken with incredulity. "you polly griever," began the widow sternly, "you know mighty well-an'-good thar ain't no twelve preachers in this whole deestrick. i'll vow, i cain't think of a single one this side of hepzibah. i believe you're a-lyin' to me. preachers at lance cleaverage's house, and him apt to break out and dance anytime! what did he say--you ain't never told me that yit--what did lance say 'bout the dancin' anyhow?" keen-visaged, alert polly had possessed herself of the precious bundle, and now she hopped discreetly backward, shaking the ragged mane out of her eyes like a wild colt. [ ] "w'y, lance, he says he's a-goin' to have dancin', and a plenty of it," she announced with impish gusto--there would never be any hanging for a lamb with polly; she was somewhat of lance's kidney. she backed a pace or two outside the door, stepping as warily as a wildcat might, before she concluded, "an' he 'lowed to have you do the callin' off, a' roxy! he said be shore an' come--that he was a-dependin' on you to call off for 'em to dance!" the widow griever made a dive for the bundle gripped in polly's stringy little arm. but the girl, far too quick for her, backed half way to the gate. she must make a virtue of necessity. "well, you can take that thar quilt over to callisty," she harangued. "i won't deny it to her, and i hope it may do good. if tham men is a-goin' to git up a dance, you tell her she needn't expect to see me nor mine; but the quilt i'll send. you give it to her, and come right straight back to this house. you hear me, you polly griever?--straight back!" the last adjuration was shouted after polly's thudding bare feet as they went flying once more down the short cut into the gulch. "yes'm," came back the faint hail. "i will, a' roxy." deep in the hollow where the waters of laurel gurgled about the roots of the black twisted bushes that gave it its name, where ordinarily a body [ ] would be fearfully afraid at such a time--blind man's holiday, and neither dark nor light in the open, while here the shadows lay like pools of ink--polly griever sat herself down in great content to put on her shoes and stockings. she was puffing a little, but the success of her enterprise had so fired her that all thoughts of ha'nts and such-like were banished. she hauled up the home-knit hose over her slim shanks and knobby knees, girding them in place with a gingham string, and hastily laced on her cowhide shoes. being then in full evening dress, she made a more leisurely way up the steep to lance's cabin, prepared to take in and enjoy all the festivities of the occasion. she found the house alight and humming. octavia gentry and old ajax had arrived, and the latter was throned in state as usual by the chimney-side--the evening was cool for september, and the flickering blaze that danced up the broad throat was welcome for its heat as well as for light. the mother-in-law was everywhere, looking at the contrivances for housekeeping, full of fond pride in what she saw, anxious to convince the young people that she did not resent their unceremonious behavior of the night before. she pinched the new window curtains between her fingers, and advised callista to pin newspapers behind them in ordinary times lest the sun fade their colors. she helped at the lighting of the [ ] new lamp, and finally settled down in the kitchen among the supper preparations. "looks right funny to be here to an infare this night, when we-all helt the weddin' without you last night," octavia commented amiably. "i did wish the both o' you could have been thar to see the fun. the gals and boys got to playin' games, and sorter turned it into a play-party. look like they hardly could stop theirselves for supper. big as our house is, hit ain't so suited to sech as yourn." again she looked commendingly about her. "i tell you, callista," she said over and over again, "i think yo' lance has showed the most good sense in his building and fixing up of any young man i ever knew." but she need not have troubled greatly; lance had no consciousness of offense in him; and he was busy welcoming guests, going out to help the men unhitch, showing those who had ridden where they might tether their horses; or, if they liked, unsaddle and turn them loose in his brush-fenced horse lot, which was later to be a truck-patch; greeting his father and sylvane, and grinning over the fact that roxy was not with them, while mary ann martha was. "roxana had got it into her head someway that you-all aimed to dance, and come she would not," kimbro said plaintively. "she was bound an' determined that ma'-ann-marth' shouldn't neither," sylvane took up the [ ] story. "but the chap helt her breath--didn't ye, pretty?--an' looked like she'd never ketch it again; so sis' roxy give in." "hey, unc' lance's gal!" the bridegroom hailed her, as the fat little bundle was passed down to him from the old buckboard, and instantly caught around his neck, hugging hard, and rooting a delighted face against his cheek. it was nearly eight o'clock when ola derf rode up alone and came in. mountain people are so courteous to each other as to make those who do not understand call them deceitful. ola was received as amiably as such an invader might have been in the best of urban society. she looked with round, avid eyes at everything about her, and finally at the bride, her hostess. "an' you a-wearin' them slippers," she commented. "i told lance i knowed in reason you would." the remark was made in the further room, where the girls were laying off their things and putting them down on that bed where callista, a little bewildered by the unsolicited loan, had spread forth the wonderful gospel quilt. "did you he'p lance to choose callisty's slippers?" asked ellen hands. rilly trigg and little liza stopped in the door to listen. octavia gentry turned from the shelves she was examining. even polly ceased to stare across the open entry into the other room where most of the men were. [ ] "yes," said ola, composedly, seating herself on the floor to adjust her own footwear. "he was at our house a-wantin' to buy dancin' slippers for callisty, and 'course he knowed i would understand what was needed. i reckon callisty couldn't tell him, so he brought one of her shoes in his pocket, and axed me. do they fit ye, callisty?" a curious change had come over the bride's face, yet it was calm and even fairly smiling, as she answered indifferently, "no. i wasn't aimin' to wear 'em. i just tried them on. they' too big for me." and she closed the door and went resolutely to a chest in the corner, from which she took her heavy, country-made shoes to replace the slippers lance's love had provided. the derf girl regarded her askance. "ain't you afeared you'll make him mad ef you take 'em off?" she asked finally. "i know he aims to have you dance befo' he's done with it, and you cain't noways dance in them thar things," looking with disfavor at the clumsy shoes. "callista doesn't dance, and she ain't a-goin' to," octavia gentry was beginning with some heat, when her daughter interrupted. "never mind, mother," she said with dignity. "i ain't aimin' to dance, and i reckon you're not. maybe ola's mistaken in regards to lance." [ ] the derf girl laughed shortly, deep in her throat. before she could speak, the closed door jarred open, revealing roxy griever, with a stout switch in her hand. "whar's polly," the newcomer inquired wrathfully. "mighty glad to see you, sis' roxy," cried callista, welcoming the diversion, but looking with surprise at her sister-in-law's draggled gingham on which the night dews of laurel gulch lay thick, her grim visage, and her switch. "polly--she was here a minute ago." but polly, wise with the wisdom of her sex, had flown to lance, and now she hid behind him, clinging like a limpet. "come in, sis' roxy. we're proud to see you here," shouted lance, with an impudent disregard of anything amiss, and a new householder's enthusiastic hospitality. "did you send me word that you was a-goin' to have me call off the dances?" the widow demanded in an awful voice. her scrapegrace brother laughed in her face. "that was jest a mighty pore joke, sis' roxy," he explained. "we-all was goin' to play some games, and i know you' a powerful good hand to get us started. come on; fix the boys and gals like they ought to be for that"--he hesitated a little, frowning--"that play we used to have sometimes where they all stand up in couples, and--wait, [ ] i'll get my banjo and play a tune and you'll see what i mean." lance had not lived his twenty-three years with his sister roxy to fail now in finding her weak side. she loved lights, a crowd, as he did. true, she wished to harangue the crowd, and the lights must be to reveal her, playing the pictorially pious part; yet a virginia reel, disguised as a game, answered well to give her executive powers scope and swing, and they were in the thick of the fun when the women came from the other room. in the moments of her detention in that room, ola had begun to find whether being bidden to a festivity really made one a guest. rilly trigg whispered apart to callista, and looked out of the corners of her eyes at the newcomer. lance's wife evidently reproved her for doing so, but a smile went with the words. octavia gentry spoke solemnly to the derf girl, asking after the health of her parents in a tone so chilly that the outsider felt herself indefinitely accused. "i don't keer," she muttered to herself rebelliously, "hit's lance's house. lance ain't a-goin to th'ow off on old friends just becaze he's wedded." on the instant she entered the other room, and had sight of her host, flushed, laughing-eyed, his brown curls rumpled, the banjo in his lap, swaying to the rhythm of "greenbacks," as roxy griever struggled to keep the boys and girls in an orderly [ ] line while she showed them how to "shake hands acrost-like." the dull little face lighted up. here was something at which ola felt she could help, a ground upon which she was equal to the best of them. "hit's a reel!" she exclaimed joyously. "i'll call off for ye, lance." as though her words had been some sort of evil incantation, the pretty group dissolved instantly. the girls fled giggling and exclaiming; the boys shouldered sheepishly away; only the widow griever remained to confront the spoil-sport with acid visage and swift reproof. roxy wound up the hostilities that ensued by declaring, "you can dance, and brother lance kin, ef them's yo' ruthers; but ye cain't mix me in. that thar was a game i played when i went to the old field hollerin' school. call hit a reel ef ye want to--oh, call hit a reel--shore! but ye cain't put yo' wickedness on me." "yes," returned ola hardily, "i played it at school, too. but it's the virginia reel, and lance said he was goin' to have dancin' here to-night. ain't ye. lance? i brung my slippers." roxy griever turned and flounced out. lance smiled indulgently at ola. his sister's warlike demonstrations amused him mightily and put him in a good humor. "sure," he agreed largely. "you and me will have 'em all dancin' before we're done. i [ ] wish't we had preacher drumright here to pat for us." the sedate guests, though they laughed a little, fell away from these two, leaving them standing alone in the centre of the floor, while some of the boys and girls lingered, staring and giggling, wondering what they would do or say next. "'pears like they ain't nobody but you and me to do the dancin'," ola began doubtfully, "an' if you have to play--" she broke off. in the doorway that led to the little back room appeared the solemn countenance of the widow griever. this worthy woman fixed a cold eye upon her brother and beckoned him silently with ghostly finger. "i'll be back in a minute, ola," he told his unwelcome addition to the company, the wedge he had driven into their ranks, and which seemed about to split them asunder. [ ] chapter ix. the interloper. lance found his father and octavia gentry awaiting him in the lean-to kitchen, kimbro cleaverage anxious and deprecating. old ajax had dodged the issue, and sylvane was out in the other room trying to get the boys and girls to playing again. but callista was there--not beside her mother--she stood near the door, a little pale and looking anywhere but at her bridegroom. lance cleaverage's eye, half scornful, swept the scattered group and read their attitude aright. "anything the matter with you-all?" he inquired suavely. "yes, they's a-plenty the matter with us, and with all decent and respectable persons here in this house gathered this night," the widow griever began in a high, shaking, unnatural voice. "i reckon all that means ola derf, for short," cut in lance, not choosing to be bored with a lengthy harangue. "yes, it does," roxy told him. "that thar gal would never have been bidden to miz. gentry's house. callisty would never have been called on to even herself with sech, long as she staid [ ] under her gran'pappy's roof. and when it comes to what it did out in 'tother room, it's more than callisty that suffers." "suffers!" echoed her brother with a contemptuous grin. "well, if that don't beat my time! i reckon ola derf cain't eat any of you-all. she's just a little old gal, and you're a good-sized crowd of able-bodied folks--what harm can she do you?" "well, lance," began his mother-in-law, with studied moderation, though she was plainly incensed, "i do not think, hit's any way for you to do--evening callista with such folks. she ain't used to it." lance looked to where callista yet held aloof near the door, pale and silent, avoiding his eye. "a man and his wife are one," he said, with less confidence than would have been his earlier in the day. "what's good enough for me is good enough for callista." he got no sign of agreement from his bride--and he had expected it. "son, i think you made a mistake to bid that derf gal here," spoke old kimbro mildly. "but don't you let her start up any foolishness, and we'll all get through without further trouble." "yes," broke in the widow griever's most rasping tones. "she called the game i was a-showin' the boys and gals a virginia reel, an' 'lowed she'd call off for us. call off!" roxy snorted. [ ] "a lot of perfessin' christians to dance--dance to ola derf's callin' off!" once more lance's eye swept the circle of hostile, alien faces. his sense of fair play was touched. also, he felt himself pushed outside and set to defending his solitary camp, with the whole front of respectability arrayed against him. this, so far as the others were concerned, was the usual thing; it daunted him not at all. but when he looked to callista, and saw that at the first call she had left him--left him alone--arrayed herself with the enemy--a new, strange, stinging pain went through his spirit. he smiled, while odd lights began to bicker in his eyes. "o-oo-oh," he said in a soft, careless voice, "didn't you-all know that i aim to have dancin'? why, of course i do." and he walked away with head aslant, leaving them dumb. it was but a retort, the usual quick defiance from the lance cleaverage who would not be catechized, reproved; yet when he entered the outer room and found ola drawn over at one side, unfriended, while a knot of whispering girls, quite across the floor from her, cast glances athwart shoulders in her direction, the good will of old comradeship, the anger of the host who sees his guest mistreated, pushed forward his resolution. "i reckon i'd better be goin' home," ola said to the pale callista, who followed her husband [ ] from the back room. "looks like i'm in the way here; and mebbe lance ort not to have bid me--hit's yo' house." the bride looked from her bridegroom to the brown girl strangely. in her own fashion, she was as unwilling to be outdone as lance himself. "this here is lance's house," she said coldly. "he bids them that he chooses to it. but i reckon he don't aim to have any dancin'." roxy griever paused in the doorway and peered in. "i reckon the trouble is that none of the folks here know how to dance," ola was saying doubtfully. "let's you and me show 'em, lance. come on." wildly, the sister cast about her for aid. old ajax regarded the scene with the same covert enjoyment he had given another domestic embroglio. her father had slipped through a back door under pretense of seeing to the horse. her glance fell on flenton hands. this was the man for her need. earlier in the evening, when flenton made his appearance in lance cleaverage's house, accompanying his sisters, octavia had murmured, "well, i vow! ef i'd 'a' been him, ox chains and plow lines couldn't have drug me here, after what was said an' done last night." even roxana had wondered at the cold obtuseness that could prompt the acceptance on flent's part of that general [ ] invitation lance had flung back over his shoulder to the deserted wedding guests, and looked in vain to see what it was that hands expected to gain by his attitude. there was some whispering and staring among the other guests, but flenton hands was admitted to be "quare," and his connection with the settlement offered a ready means of accounting for his not doing things like other people. now the widow griever felt that providence--it is wonderful how people of her sort find providence ever retained on their own side of the case--had dictated the attendance of this exemplary and godly person, second only in authority concerning church matters to brother drumright. she hastily dragged him aside, pouring out the whole matter, in voluble, hissing whispers, with many backward jerks of the head or thumb toward where ola and lance, in the midst of a group of boys and girls, still laughed and joked. "i don't know as i ort to mix into this here business," hands began cautiously--the man was not altogether a fool. "the way things has turned out, looks like i ain't got no call to interfere." "'course you have," roxy griever told him. "preacher drumright ain't here--ef he was, i'd not even have to name it to him; he'd walk right up to lance cleaverage in a minute--spite o' the way lance done him last night--an' tell [ ] him what he ort an' ort not to do. an' yo' the next after preacher drumright. go 'long, flenton. speak to him. mr. gentry won't, an' poppy's done left to git out of hit. poppy never would do what he ort where lance was consarned. he wouldn't give that boy discipline when he could have kivvered him with one hand--an' now look at the fruits of it!" thus urged, flenton made a somewhat laborious progress toward the middle of the room. deep in that curious, indirect, unsound nature of his was the hankering to brave lance cleaverage in his own house, to insult and overcome him there before callista; but the pluck required to undertake the enterprise was not altogether moral courage; in spite of the laws of hospitality, there might be some physical demand in the matter, and this flenton was scarcely prepared to answer. he halted long at his host's shoulder, seeking an opportunity to enter the conversation. ola paid no attention to him; callista stood a little apart from the two, looking down, playing with a fold of her skirt. finally, most of the people in the room noted something strained and peculiar in the situation of affairs, and began to stare and listen. flenton cleared his throat. "brother cleaverage," he essayed in a rather husky voice. lance wheeled upon him with eyes alight. [ ] thrusting his hands far down in his pockets, he stared at flenton hands from head to foot. then his glance traveled to the widow behind flenton's shoulder. "we-e-ell, well," he drawled, with a lazy laugh in his voice, "have you and sis' roxy made a match of it? that's the only way you'll ever get to be kin to me, and name me brother, flenton hands." roxy's long drab face crimsoned darkly, and she fluttered in wild embarrassment. hands laughed gratingly, but there was no amusement in the sound. "no," he returned in his best pulpit manner--he was sometimes called upon to officiate at small gatherings when the preacher could not be present--"no, yo' worthy sister an' me hain't had our minds on any such. but we have been talking of a ser'ous matter, brother cleaverage." the form of address slipped out inadvertently, and hands looked uncomfortable. lance shook his head. "i ain't yo' brother," he demurred, with exaggerated patience. "you' gettin' the families all mixed up. hit was callista i married." the boys and girls listening were convulsed with silent mirth. rilly trigg snickered aloud, and little polly ventured to follow along the same line. flenton's pale face reddened faintly. "i know mighty well-an'-good you ain't brother of mine, [ ] lance cleaverage," he said doggedly. "ef you was, i'd--i'd--" "say it," prompted lance, standing at ease and surveying his adversary with amusement. "speak out what's in you. you got me right here in my own house where i'd be ashamed to give you yo' dues. now's the time to free yo' mind. i ain't fit to have callista, is that it? she could a' done better--that's what you want to tell me, ain't it?" there was a perfect chorus of approving giggles at this, extending even to the male portion of the company. the tinge of color left flenton's sallow cheeks, and they were paler than usual; but he hung to his purpose. "i've been axed by them that thinks you ought to be dealt with, to reason with you." he finally got well under way. "callista gentry belongs to a perfessin' family--she's all but a church member. you fussed with the preacher last night and tuck her away from in front of him, an' married her before a ongodly justice of the peace, an' now you air makin' motions like you was a-goin' to dance here in her house. yo' sister said that yo' father wouldn't do nothin', and she axed me would i name these things out to you; and i said i would. thar. i've spoke as i was axed. looks like the man that's got callista gentry could afford to behave hisself." [ ] with each new accusation, lance's lids had dropped a bit lower over the bright eyes, till now a mere line of fire showed between the lashes, and followed the movement of flenton's heavily-swung shoulders, as he emphasized his words with uncouth shruggings. yet when all was said, only the conclusion seemed to stay in lance's mind. he was asked to do and be much because he had callista. but what of the bride? was not something due from callista because she had him? "'pears to me like you're in a mighty curious place, flenton hands," he began in a silky, musing voice. "ef you was wedded to anybody--jest anybody--i'd shorely keep out o' your way and let you alone. is this yo' business? have i asked yo' ruthers? has callista? i got just the one word to say to you--an' it can't be said here in my house. but it shall be spoken when and where we meet next--you mind that!" a sudden, tense hush fell on the room. did this mean the declaration of war which amounts to a one-man feud in the mountains, and which finally reaches the point where it is kill or be killed on sight? flenton dropped back with a blanched, twisted countenance. he had not bargained for so much. the young host looked around. his company had separated itself swiftly into sheep and goats, the elders and the primmer portion of the young [ ] people whispering together apart, while the bolder youthful spirits gathered in a ring about himself and ola derf. one of these, rilly trigg perhaps, took up the banjo and commenced laboriously to pick chords on it. "now, if callisty could only dance, we'd shore see fun," ola derf suggested. lance looked to where his bride stood, aloof, mute, with bitten lip, listening to what her mother whispered in her ear. yes, he was alone once more; she was with the enemy. his glance took the girl in from head to foot. he saw that she had removed his first gift, the slippers. "callista can dance about as much as you can play, rill," he said mockingly. the bride lowered white lids over scornful eyes and turned her back. rilly laid down the banjo. a couple of the boys began to pat. "come on, lance," whispered ola defiantly. "i dare ye to dance. i bet yo' scared to." a dare--it was lance cleaverage's boast that he would never take a dare from the lord almighty. he flung himself lightly into position. "pat for us. buck, cain't you?" he suggested half derisively. then, with a swift, graceful bending of the lithe body, he saluted his partner and began. the derf girl was a muscular little creature; she moved with the tirelessness of a swaying branch in the wind; and lance himself was a [ ] wonder, when he felt like dancing. the circle of young people mended itself and grew closer. the two in the middle of the floor advanced toward each other, caught hands, whirled, retreated, and improvised steps to the time of fuson's spatting palms. it was a pretty enough sight, and innocent, except for what had gone before. roxy griever had retired in some disarray, upon lance's sarcastic coupling of her name with that of flenton hands. now, coming into the room with the supposition in her mind that everything was settled in a proper way, she caught sight of the two and stiffened into rigidity. for a moment she stared; then, as the full meaning of the scene burst upon her, she made three long steps to where the youthful polly stood, taking in everything with big, enjoying eyes, seized her by the scant, soiled homespun frock, and hauled her backward from the room, polly clawing, scrabbling, hanging to the door frame as she was snatched through. "poppy," shrilled the widow, in the direction of peaceful old kimbro, using the tone of one who cries fire, "you kin stay ef yo're a mind--an' sylvane can do the same. the best men i ever knowed--'ceptin' preachers--has a hankerin' for sin. ma'y-ann-marth', she's asleep, an' what she don't see cain't hurt her. but as for me, i'm a-goin' to take this here child home [ ] where she won't have the likes of that to look at. i feel jest as if it was some ketchin' disease, and the fu'ther you git away from it, the safer you air." the last of these words trailed back from the dark, into which the widow griever and her small, reluctant charge were rapidly receding. kimbro and his son remained, intending to remonstrate with lance when he should have finished his dancing. octavia gentry came and made hasty farewells, hoping thus to stop the performance. callista stood looking quietly past the dancers to some air-drawn point on the wall, and her expression of quiet composure was held by all observers to be remarkable. "oh, no, mother," she said quietly. "you and gran'pappy are never goin' out of my house before you have eat. come taste the coffee for me and see have i got it about right. when i was gettin' my supper for to-night, i found out that there was many a thing you hadn't learned me at home; so you'll have to show me now." with a dignity irreproachable, apparently quite oblivious to the dancers, the patting, the laughing, shouting onlookers, callista smilingly marshalled her forces and put forward her really excellent supper. here her pride matched lance's--and overmatched it. he might dance, he might fling the doing of it in her face and the faces of her kindred; she would show herself [ ] unmoved, and mistress of any situation which he could contrive. and the supper was a strong argument. people in all walks of life love to eat; those who danced and those who held dancing sinful, were alike in their appreciation of good victual. it was only a few moments before this counter movement broke up the saltations in the front room and the infare appeared, from an observer's point of view, a great success, as the happy, laughing crowd circled about the long tables, those who had joined to forward the dance coming out looking half sheepish, altogether apologetic and conciliatory. "i'm mighty sorry sis' roxy had to go home," callista said composedly, as she served her father-in-law with a steaming cup of coffee. "i'm goin' to make a little packet of this here cake and the preserves mammy brought over, and send them by you. i want her to taste them." the host was the gayest of the gay. but unobserved, his eye often followed the movements of the bride, and dwelt with a warm glow upon the graceful form in its womanly attitude of serving her guests. she had fairly beaten him on his own ground. a secret pride in her, that she could do it, swelled his breast and ran tingling along his veins. so much for the company at large, for what callista would have called "the speech of people." when the last guest was gone the bride faced the [ ] bridegroom alone in the house which had seemed to her so fine. cold, expectant of some apology, offended, bewildered, yet ready to be placated. lance offered no excuses, but plenty of kisses, praise, and an ardor that, while it did not convince, melted and subdued her. the breach was covered temporarily, rather than healed. [ ] chapter x. poverty pride. it was inevitable that callista should find promptly how impossible is the attitude of scornful miss to the married wife, particularly when her husband's daily labor must provide the house whose keeping depends upon herself. lance, too, though he continued to give no evidence whatever of penitence, was full of the masterful tenderness whose touch had brought his bride to his arms. the girl was not of a jealous temper; she was not deeply offended at the reckless behavior which had disturbed the infare, any more than she had been at his conduct on the wedding evening. indeed, there was that in callista cleaverage which could take pride in being wife to the man who, challenged, would fling a laughing defiance in the face of all his world. it remained for a very practical question--what might almost be termed an economic one--to wear hard on the bond between them. they had married all in haste while september was still green over the land. the commodious new cabin at the head of lance's laurel was well plenished and its food supplies sufficient during the first few weeks of life there; in fact, lance [ ] gave without question whatever callista asked of him--a thing unheard of in their world--and callista's ideas of asking were not small nor was she timid about putting them into practice. the pair of haggards might have seemed, to the casual onlooker, safely settled to calm domestic happiness. day by day the gold and blue of september inclined toward the october purple and scarlet. the air was invigorated by frost. the forest green, reflected in creek-pools, was full of russet and olive, against whose shadowy background here and there a gum or sourwood, earliest to turn of all the trees, blazed like a deep red plume. occasional banners of crimson began to show in the maples and plum colored boughs in sweet-gums. the perfect days of all the year were come. mid-october was wonderfully clear arid sweet up at the head of lance's laurel; the color key became richer, more royal; the sunset rays along the hill-tops a more opulent yellow. it was not till the leaves were sifting down red and yellow over her dooryard, that callista got from lance the full story concerning their resources, and the havoc he had made of them to get ready money from derf. he had been hauling tanbark all this time to pay the unjust debt. when she knew, even her inexperience was staggered--dismayed. so far, she had not gone home, and she shut her lips tight over the [ ] resolution not now to do so with a request for that aid which her grandfather had refused in advance. "we'll make out, i reckon," she said to her husband dubiously. "oh, we'll get along all right," returned that hardy adventurer, easily. "we'll scrabble through the winter somehow. in the summer i can always make a-plenty at haulin' or at my trade. i'm goin' to put in the prettiest truck-patch anybody ever saw for you; and then we'll live fat, callista." he added suddenly, "come summer we'll go camping over on the east fork of caney. there's a place over on that east fork that i believe in my soul nobody's been since the indians, till i found it. there's a little rock house and a spring--i'm not going to tell you too much about it till you see it." callista hearkened with vague alarm, and a sort of impatience. "but you'll clear enough ground for a good truck-patch before we go," she put in jealously. "uh-huh," agreed lance without apparently noting what her words were. "i never in my life did see as fine huckleberries as grows down in that little holler," he pursued. "we'll go in huckleberry time." "and maybe i can put some up," said callista, the practical, beginning to take interest in the scheme. [ ] "shore," was lance's prompt assent. "i can put up fruit myself--i'll help you." he laughed as he said it; those changeful hazel eyes of his glowed, and he dropped an arm around her in that caressing fashion not common in the mountains, and which ever touched callista's cooler nature like a finger of fire, so that now, almost against her will, she smiled back at him, and returned his kiss fondly. yet she thought he took the situation too lightly. it was not he that would suffer. he was used to living hard and going without. she would be willing to do the same for his sake; but she wanted to have him know it--to have him speak of it and praise her for it. the season wore on with thinning boughs and a thickening carpet beneath. the grass was gone. men riding after valley stock, sent up to fatten on the highlands, searched the mountains all day with dogs and resonant calls. they stopped outside callista's fence to make careful inquiries concerning the welfare or whereabouts of shoats and heifers. "yes, and they've run so much stock up here this year," lance said resentfully when she mentioned it to him, "that there ain't scarcely an acorn or a blade of grass left to help out our'n through the winter. i'm afraid i'm goin' to have to let dan bayliss down in the settlement take sate and sin in his livery stable for their [ ] keep. the time's about over for haulin'. i can't afford to have them come up to spring all ga'nted and poorly." days born in rose drifts, buried themselves in gold; groundhogs and all wild creatures of the woods were happy with a plentitude of fare; partridges were calling, "wifey--wifey!" under wayside bushes; the last leaves had their own song of renunuciation as they let go the boughs and floated softly down to join their companions on the earth. one evening, gray and white cirri swirled as if dashed in by a great, careless brush, and the next morning, a dawn strewn with flamingo feathers foretold a rainy time. all that day the weather thickened slowly, the sky became deeply overspread. at first this minor-color key was a relief, a rest, after the blaze of foliage and sun. a rain set in at nightfall, and a wind sprang up in whooping gusts; and on every hearth in the turkey tracks a blaze leaped gloriously, roaring in the chimney's throat, licking lovingly around the kettle. these fires are the courage of the mountain soldier and hunter. only callista, warming her feet by the blaze in the chimney lance had built, thought apprehensively of the time when she should have no horse to ride, so that when she went to meeting, or to her own home, she must foot it through the mud. it was an austere region's brief season of plenty. not yet cold enough to kill hogs, all crops were [ ] garnered and stored; there was new sorghum, there were new sweet potatoes, plenty of whippoor-will peas--but callista's cupboard was getting very bare indeed. she looked with dismay toward the months ahead of her. it was in this mood that she welcomed one morning the sight of ellen hands and little liza going past on the road below. "howdy," called ellen, as the bride showed a disposition to come down and talk to them. each woman carried a big, heavy basket woven of white oak splints. little liza held up hers and shook it. "we're on our way to pick peas," she shouted. "don't you want to come and go 'long? bring yo' basket. they' mighty good eating when they' fresh this-a-way." callista would have said no, but she remembered the empty cupboard, and turned back seeking a proper receptacle. at home, they considered field-peas poor food, but beggars must not be choosers. she joined the two at the gate in a moment with a sack tucked under her arm. it was a delightful morning after the rain. she was glad she could come. the peas were better than nothing, and she would get one of the girls to show her about cooking them. "whose field are you going to?" she asked them, carelessly. "why, yo' gran'-pappy's. didn't you know it, callisty?" asked little liza in surprise. "he [ ] said he was going to plow under next week, and we was welcome to pick what we could." callista drew back with a burning face. "i--i cain't--" she began faintly. "you-all girls go on. i cain't leave this morning. they's something back home that i have obliged to tend to." she turned and fairly ran from the astonished women. but when her own door was shut behind her, she broke down in tears. a vast, unformulated resentment surged in her heart against her young husband. she would not have forgone anything of that charm in lance which had tamed her proud heart and fired her cold fancy; but she bitterly resented the lack of any practical virtue a more phlegmatic man might have possessed. she shut herself in her own house, half sullenly. not from her should anyone know the poor provider her man was. she had said that she would not go home without a gift in her hand, she had bidden mother and grandfather to take dinner with her--and it appeared horrifyingly likely that there might hardly be dinner for themselves, much less that to offer a guest. well, lance was to blame; let him look to it. it was a man's place to provide; a woman could only serve what was provided. with that she would set to work and clean all the cabin over in furious zeal--forgetting to cook the scanty supper [ ] till it was so late that lance, coming home, had to help her with it. things looked their worst when, one morning, little polly griever came running up from the gulch, panting out her good news. "oh, callisty, don't you-all want to come over to our house? the sawgrum-makers is thar, an' poppy cleaverage has got the furnace all finished up, and sylvane and him was a-haulin' in sawgrum from the field yiste'dy all day." sorghum-making is a frolic in the southern mountains, somewhat as the making of cider is further north. "sure we'll come, polly," callista agreed promptly, with visions of the jug of "long sweetening" which she should bring home with her from father cleaverage's and the good dinner they should get that day. "whose outfit did pappy hire?" asked lance from the doorstep where he was working over a bit of rude carpentry. "flenton hands's," returned the child. "a' roxy says flenton drove a awful hard bargain with poppy cleaverage. she says flenton hands is a hard man if he is a perfesser." callista laid down the sunbonnet she had taken up. "i reckon we cain't go," she said in a voice of keen disappointment. anger swelled within, her at kimbro for having dealings with the man against whom lance's challenge was out. [ ] "i couldn't 'a' gone anyhow, callista," lance told her. "i have obliged to take sate and sin down to the settlement and see what kind of a trade i can make to winter 'em; but there's no need of your staying home on my accounts." callista looked down at his tousled head and intent face as he worked skilfully. was he so willing to send her where she would meet flenton hands? for a moment she was hurt--then angry. "come on, polly," she said, catching up sunbonnet and basket, and stepping past lance, sweeping his tools all into a heap with her skirts. "i don't know what father cleaverage was thinking of to have flenton on the place after all that's been," callista said more to herself than the child, when they had passed through the gate. her breakfast had been a failure, and she was reflecting with great satisfaction on how good a cook roxy griever was; yet she would have been glad to forbear going to any place where the man her husband had threatened was to be met. polly came close and thrust a brown claw into callista's hand, galloping unevenly and making rather a difficult walking partner, but showing her good will. "hit don't make no differ so long as cousin lance won't be thar," she announced wisely. "cousin lance always did make game of flent. he said that when flent took up a collection in [ ] church, he hollered 'amen' awful loud to keep folks from noticin' that he didn't put nothin' in the hat hisse'f. i wish't lance was comin' 'long of us." with this the two of them dipped into the gay, rustling gloom of the autumn-tinted gulch, with lance's laurel reduced to a tiny trickle between clear little pools, gurgling faintly in the bottom. before they came to the cleaverage place they heard the noise of the sorghum making. a team was coming in from the field with a belated load of the stalks, which should have been piled in place yesterday; ellen hands and little liza appeared down the lane carrying between them a jug swung from a stick--everybody that comes to help takes toll. when callista arrived, half-a-dozen were busy over the work; hands feeding the crusher, sylvane waiting on him with bundles of the heavy, rich green stalks, and buck fuson driving the solemn old horse his jogging round, followed by fat little mary ann martha, capering along with a stick in her hand, imitating his every movement and shout. the rollers set on end which crushed the jade-green stalks were simply two peeled hardwood logs. flenton had threatened for years to bring in a steel crusher; but, up to the present, the machine his grandfather made had been found profitable. the absinthe-colored juice ran down its little trough into a barrel, whence it was dipped [ ] to the evaporating pan, about which centered the hottest of the fray. in the stone furnace under this great, shallow pan--as long and broad, almost, as a wagon-bed--old kimbro himself was keeping a judgmatic fire going. roxy griever, qualified by experience with soap and apple-butter, circled the fire and kept up a continual skimming of froth from the bubbling juice, while she did not lack for advice to her father concerning his management of the fire. flenton handed over to fuson his work at the crusher, calling polly to mind the horse, and came straight to callista. "i'm mighty proud to see that you don't feel obliged to stay away from a place becaze i'm thar," he said in a lowered tone, and she fancied a flicker of fear in his eyes, as though he questioned whether her husband might be expected to follow. "lance was a-goin' down to the settlement to-day," she said bluntly, "and i'd have been all alone anyhow; so i 'lowed i might as well come over." hands looked relieved. "i hope you ain't a-goin' to hold it against me, callisty," he went on in a hurried half whisper, "that lance is namin' it all around that this here scope o' country ain't big enough to hold him and me." callista shook her fair head in a proud negative. "i've got my doubts of lance ever having said [ ] any such," she returned quietly. "yo' name has never been mentioned between us, flent; but if lance has a quarrel, he's mighty apt to go to the person he quarrels with, and not make threats behind they' back. i think little of them that brought you such word as that." "that's just what i say," hands pursued eagerly. "why can't we-all be friends, like we used to be. here's mr. cleaverage that don't hold with no sech," and he turned to include kimbro, who now came up to greet his daughter-in-law. again callista shook her head. "you men'll have to settle them things betwixt yourselves," she said, sure of her ground as a mountain woman. "but, flent, i reckon you'll have to keep in mind that a man and his wife are one." "oh," said hands dropping back a step, "so if lance won't be friendly with me, you won't neither--is that it?" "i should think yo' good sense would show you that that would have to be it," said callista doggedly. she had no wish to appear as one submitting to authority, and yet flenton's evident intention of seeking to find some breach between herself and lance was too offensive to be borne with. "now then, why need we talk of such this morning?" pacified kimbro. "my son lance is a good boy when you take him right. he's got a [ ] tender heart. if he ever quarrels too easy, he gets over it easy, as well. flenton, you'll have to tend to the crusher; i got to keep the fire goin' for roxy. "hit 'minds me of that thar lake that it names in the bible, callisty," the widow griever said meditatively, looking at the seething surface as she wielded her long-handled spoon. "and then sometimes i study about that thar fiery furnace and ham, sham _and_ abednego. poppy, looks like to me you ain't got fire enough under this eend." "i've just made it up there," said kimbro mildly. "i go from one end to the other, steady, and that keeps it as near even as human hands air able to." "flenton, he was mighty overreachin' with poppy," the widow lamented. "he's a mighty hard-hearted somebody to deal with, if he is a perfesser, and one that walks the straight an' narrer way. poppy has to furnish all the labor, 'ceptin' flent and buck fuson, and we've got to feed them men and their team, and then they git one third of the molasses. with three meals a day, an' snacks between times to keep up they' stren'th, looks like i never see nobody eat what them two can." the gray little cabin crouched in a corner of the big yard; a shed roof, running down at one side of it, looking comically like a hand raised to shut out [ ] the clamor. everybody shouted his opinion at the top of his voice. nobody thought anybody else was doing just what he ought. roxana hurried from group to group of the workers, advising, admonishing, trying to bring some order out of the confusion. and in the midst of it, callista watched the bubbling juice enviously. it seemed everybody had something to harvest, care for and put away, except herself. [ ] chapter xi. long sweetenin'. mary ann martha griever was notorious all over the big and little turkey track neighborhoods, as "the worst chap the lord a'mighty ever made and the old davil himself wouldn't have." the mildest dictum pronounced upon her was "spiled rotten." her energy, her unsleeping industry, would have been things to admire and wonder at, had they not been always applied to the futherance of iniquitous ends. to-day she pervaded the sorghum-making, not like a gnat, but like a whole swarm of gnats. providing herself with a weak-backed switch, she followed the movements of fuson, or polly, or sylvane, whichever chanced to be told off to tend the old horse. she pursued the beast with a falsetto screech of peculiar malignance, and tickled his heels with her switch whenever the exigencies of the work forced his stoppage. to the infinite surprise of everybody, notably his owner, the gaunt sorrel, after looking around and twitching his ears and hide as though a particularly troublesome flock of flies were on him, finally heaved up the whole after portion of his anatomy in one elephantine kick, which very [ ] nearly cost his small tormentor the entire top of her head. chased away from the horse and the crusher, mary ann martha turned her attention to the furnace, with its more seductive and saccharine activities. the skimming hole on this occasion was not the small, ordinary excavation made for the purpose, but a sizable pit, dug at some previous time for a forgotten use. brush had been thrown into it, vines had grown and tangled over the brush, till it was a miniature jungle or bear-pit. tin cans hid among the leafage, and the steady drip-drip of the skimmings pattered on one of these hollowly. this spot had a peculiar fascination for the child. perched on its edge she thrust forward her face and attempted to lick a branch over which the skimmings had trickled deliciously. the distance was considerable. mary ann martha's tongue was limber and amazingly extensible; her balance excellent; but also she was in unseemly haste for the syrup that stood in great drops just beyond reach. in her contortions, she overbalanced herself and fell shrieking in, going promptly to the bottom, where quite a pool of sticky sour-sweetness had already collected. "the good land!" shouted roxy, passing the ladle of office to callista and reaching down to grab for her offspring. "if they's anything you ort not to be in, of course you're in it. now look at you!" she ejaculated, as she hauled the squalling [ ] child out dripping. "you ain't got another frock to yo' name', an' what am i a-goin' to do with you?" mary ann martha showed a blissful indifference to what might be done with her. her howls ceased abruptly. she found her state that agreeable one wherein she was able to lick almost any portion of her anatomy or her costume with satisfaction. "don't want no other frock," she announced briefly, as she sat down in the dust to begin clearing her hands of skimmings, very like a puppy or a kitten. "well, i'm a-goin' to put boy clothes on you," declared the mother. "you act as bad as a boy." and she hustled the protesting delinquent away to execute her threat. five minutes after, burning with wrongs, mary ann martha came stormily forth to rejoin her kind, pent in a tight little jeans suit which had belonged to the babyhood of sylvane, and from which her solid limbs and fat, tubby body seemed fairly exploding. humiliated, alienated, and with her hand against every man, she lowered upon them all from under flaxen brows, with lance's own hazel eyes, darkened almost to black. "you ma'y-ann-marth'," admonished fuson, as the small marauder raided the cooling pans and licked the spoons and testing sticks so soon as they were laid down, "you got to walk mighty keerful [ ] around where i'm at, at least in sawgrum-makin' time." mary ann martha held down her head, and muttered. she was ashamed of her trousers as only a mountain-born girl child could be ashamed. "you let them spoons alone, or i'll fling you plumb into the bilin'-pan, whar you'll git a-plenty o' sawgrum," fuson threatened. "you hear now? the last man i he'ped hands make sawgrum for had ten chillen when we begun. they set in to pester me an' old baldy jest like yo' adoin', and when we got done thar was ten kaigs of sawgrum and nary chap on the place. yes, that's right. ef thar wasn't a chap bar'lled up in every kaig we turned out, i don't know sawgrum from good red liquor." inside the house, ellen hands and little liza were delaying over an errand. they had brought a piece of turkey red calico as an offering for the gospel quilt. "don't you trouble to git it out," little liza said, rather wistfully. "i know in reason you've got all on yo' hands you want this mornin'; but when you come to workin' it in, ellen an' me we talked considerable consarning of it, and mebbe we could he'p ye." "callisty's a-skimmin'," announced the widow, running for a hasty glance toward the sorghum-making activities. "hit won't take me mo'n a minute to spread the thing here on the bed, and [ ] try this agin it. land! ain't that pretty? red--i always did love red." the cherished square was lifted from its chest, unrolled, and spread upon the four-poster bed in the corner of the living room. "you been a-workin' on it some sence last i seed it," ellen hands remarked with interest. "this here thing with birds a-roostin' on it--i ain't never seed this before." "that thar's jacob's ladder, ellen--don't you see the postes, and the pieces a-goin' acrost?" roxy explained rather hastily. "lord, the trouble i had with them angels. i don't wonder you took 'em for birds. time and again i had a mind to turn 'em into birds. i done fine with noey's dove; see, here 'tis; an' a ark--well, hit ain't no more than a house with a boat un'neath." she pulled the folds about, to get at the period of the deluge. "'course i see now jest what it was intentioned for," ellen professed eagerly. "if i'd looked right good i could 'a' made out the angels goin' up an' down. how"--she hesitated, but the resolve to retrieve herself overcame all timidity--"how nateral them loaves an' fishes does look!" "that thar's the ark," explained the widow, putting her finger on the supposed loaf. there was a moment of depressed silence; then roxy, willing to let bygones be bygones, observed, "over here is the whale and joney." these [ ] twin objects were undoubtedly what ellen had taken for the fishes. "ye see i had to make the whale some littler than life," the artist deprecated. "i sort o' drawed him in, as a body may say, 'caze 'course i couldn't git him all on my quilt without. i didn't aim to git joney quite so big, but that thar sprigged percale that he's made outen was so pretty, and the piece i had was just that length, an' i hated to throw away what wouldn't be good for anything, an' i'd already got my whale, so i sort o' len'thened the beast's tail with a few stitches. would you call a whale a beast or a fish?" "well, i should sure call anything that could swaller a man a beast," opined little liza. "an' yit he's sorter built like a fish," suggested ellen. "that's true; an' he lives in the water," admitted her sister. "here's a right good big open place," observed ellen. "ef you was a-goin' to make--whatever--out of that turkey red, hit could come in here." "it could that," said the widow thoughtfully. "did you-all have any idee as to what it would suit best for?" the two looked at each other in embarrassment. as unmarried women, the subject that they had discussed was in some degree questionable. [ ] "well, hit's in the bible," ellen began defensively. "an' yit--sis' an' me didn't know whether you'd care to--to give room to sech as the scarlet woman." it was out. the idea evidently fascinated roxy. "that turkey red shore fits the case," she agreed with gusto. "as you say, hit's in the bible. an' yit, anything that's what a body might call ondecent that-a-way--don't ye reckon a person'd be sort o' 'shamed to--i vow! i'll do it." "oh, miz. griever!" exclaimed little liza of comical dismay at the prompt acceptance in their idea. "i believe i wouldn't. there's the crossin' o' the red sea; you could use the turkey red for that jest as easy." but the widow shook her head. "good lands!" she cried, "what you studyin' about, liza? i say, the crossin' o' the red sea! i ain't a-goin' to do no sech a thing. hit'd take me forever to cut out all them chillen of is'rul. and i never in the world would git done makin' egyptians! no, that turkey red goes into a scarlet woman--to reprove sin." "laws, miz. griever," began ellen hands, solemnly, "looks like yo' family ort to be perfectly happy with that thar quilt in the house. i'm mighty shore i would be. i tell you, sech a work as that is worth a woman's while." "there's them that thinks different," responded [ ] roxy, with a sort of gloomy yet relishing resentment. "there has been folks lived in this house from the time i started work on it, an' made game of my gospel quilt--made game of it!" "i reckon i know who you mean," nodded ellen. and little liza added, "_she's_ here to-day, ain't she?--god love her sweet soul! but yo' pappy wouldn't bid lance, with buddy here an' all--we know that. they'd be shore to fuss. man persons is that-a-way." "well," ellen hands summed the case up, "ef anybody made game o' that quilt to my face, i'd never forgive 'em." "i never will," agreed roxy. "them that would make game of sech is blasphemious. mebbe hit ain't adzactly the bible, but hit's--" "hit's mo' so," put in ellen swiftly. "the bible is pertected like, but yo' gospel quilt is standin' up alone, as a body may say, and you've got to speak for it. no, ef i was you, and anybody made game of that thar quilt, i never would forgive 'em." outside, callista stood and skimmed and skimmed, from time to time emptying her pan into the skimming-hole, the bland october breeze lifting her fair hair. everything was sour-sweet and sticky from the juice. heaps of pomace were already beginning to pile tall beside the crusher, reeking, odorous, tempting to the old cow, who went protestingly past, and had the bars put up [ ] after her. kimbro looked up from his task and spoke to his daughter-in-law. "you look sort o' peaked, callista," he said gently. "air you right well?" "oh yes, father cleaverage," she returned, absently, her eyes on mrs. griever and the hands girls approaching from the house. the unsexed and hostile mary ann martha turned upon the world at large a look of mute defiance, and completed an enterprise which she had set up of laying fresh sorghum stalks side-by-side, pavement-wise, over the skimming-hole. women and children were settling like flies about the pan and its attendant bowls, ladles and testing plates, hoping for a taste of the finished product. the hands girls greeted callista and joined the others. fuson's poor little seventeen-year-old sister-in-law was there with her six months baby, and a child of two. roxy took the skimmer from callista and set to work. sylvane relieved his father at the firing. mary ann martha sidled into the house, whence, a moment later, came a shrill cry in polly's thin little pipe. "aunt roxy! mary ann marthy's in here puttin' molasses all _over_ yo' gospel quilt!" "good land!" snorted roxy, straightening up from her task of skimming. "take the spoon, sylvane." she cast the ladle toward him without much care as to whether the handle or the bowl [ ] went first. "looks like i do have the hardest time o' anybody i know," she ejaculated. "you better git here quick, a' roxy," polly urged. "she's just a _wipin_' her spoon on em'." "ain't," protested the infant, appearing suddenly in the doorway, a "trying spoon" in her hand, over which she was running her tongue with gusto. "i thest give a lick o' long-sweetnin' to eads," thus she named the first of womankind. "po' old eads looked so-o-o hongry." "she's done a heap more'n that," polly maintained. mary ann martha's mouth began to work piteously. "give eads some," she pursued in a husky, explanatory voice. "an'--th'--ol' snake licked out his tongue, and i must put a teenchy-weenchy bit on it. 'nen adams, he's mad 'caze he don't git none; an'--mammy," with a burst of tears, "is i thest like my uncle lance?" she had heard this formula of reproof so often; she knew so well that it befitted the gravest crimes. "you air that!" said roxy wrathfully. "you little dickens! i don't know of anybody in this world that would have done sech a trick--but you or lance cleaverage." she wheeled from the furnace toward the house, and set a swift foot in the middle of the sorghum-stalk pavement mary ann martha had laid over the skimming pit. the stalks gave. [ ] she attempted to recover herself and have back the foot, but her momentum was too great. on she plunged, pitching and rolling, descending by degrees and with ejaculatory whoops among the sticky sweetness, part of which was still uncomfortably warm. there was a treble chorus of dismay from the women. sylvane leaped to his feet, and ran to the pit's edge. buck fuson held his sides and roared with mirth, and flenton hands stopped the crusher by tying up his horse so that he too, might go to their assistance. "oh land!" gasped the widow, coming to the surface, yellow and gummy of countenance, smudged and smeared, crowned with a tipsy wreath of greenery, like a sorghumnal bacchante. "i believe in my soul that little sinner aimed to do this. she's jest adzactly like her uncle lance--that's what she is! i mind--ow!" the rotten branch under her foot had snapped, letting her down into a squelching pool of skimmings. "take hold of my hand, sis' roxy," cried sylvane. "no, i don't reckon the baby aimed to make trouble; chaps is always doin' things like this, an' meanin' no harm. there--now i've got you." but roxy was a big woman, and the first pull nearly dragged him in. "let me ketch ye round the waist, sylvane!" roared little liza in her fog-horn bass. "ellen, [ ] you hold to my coats, and let the others hang on to you, if they have to. thar, now, pull, sylvane; try it agin--now, all of you--pull!" and with a tremendous scrabbling and scrambling, the widow griever "came," hurtling up from her sweet retreat and spattering molasses on her rescuers. over went sylvane and little liza; ellen and slim lula fuson were nearly dragged down by their fall. roxy griever landed on top of the first two, and liberally besmeared them all with sorghum juice before they could be got to their feet. "you let me lay hand on that young 'un," she panted, "and i'll not leave her fitten to do such as this." "never mind, ma'y-ann-marth'," little liza admonished. "you git in and git yo'se'f washed up. for the good land's sake--ef thar don't come miz. gentry an' her pa down the road! mak' 'as'e!" and the sorghum bespattered women hurried toward the house, the widow still fulminating threats, the hands girls giggling a bit. callista, trying to carry forward their part of the work, saw that a team stopped out in front. she was aware of her grandfather on the driver's seat, and her mother climbing down over the wheel. "well, callista," complained the matron, making straight for the side yard and her daughter, "i reckon if i want to see my own child, i can go to [ ] the neighbors and see her there. why ain't you been home, honey? pappy axes every morning air you comin', and every night i have to tell him, 'well, mebbe to-morrow.'" callista looked over her mother's shoulder, and fancied that she caught a gleam of grim amusement in old ajax's eye. "i've been mighty busy," she said evasively. "looks like i don't finish one thing before another needs doing. i'm a-comin' one of these days." "so's christmas," jeered her grandfather from the wagon. callista remembered the last time her homecoming had been discussed with him. her color deepened and her eye brightened. "yes, and i'm comin' same as christmas with both hands full of gifts," she called out to him gaily. how dared he look like that--as though he knew all her straits--the shifts to which she was now reduced? there had sounded from the house, on roxy's arrival there, wails of lamentation in mary ann martha's voice--wails so strident and so offensively prolonged as to convince the least discriminating hearer that their author was not being hurt, but was only incensed. now, roxy griever, hastily washed, made her appearance. "i'm mighty proud to have you here to-day, miz. gentry," she said hospitably. "won't you come into the house? have you-all fixed for pumpkin [ ] cutting? i just as soon as not come over and he'p you, oncet i git this mis'able sawgrum out of the way." "thank you, miz. griever, i won't go in for a spell yet," octavia said, seating herself on a bench. "no, we ain't had a chance to think o' pumpkin cuttin'. i been dryin' fruit. and pappy 's had everybody on the place busy pickin' field peas." callista harkened restively to this talk of the harvest activities, the season's plenty--she who had nothing to garner, nothing to prepare and put away. she heard her mother's voice running plaintively on. "looks like i got to have somebody with me, since sis is gone. i've been aimin' to git over to the far cove neighborhood where my cousin filson luster lives. i know in reason fil could spare one of his gals, an' i'd do well by her." the words were softly, drawlingly, spoken, yet callista, mechanically working still about the furnace, heard in them the slam of a door. her girlhood home was closed to her. the daughter's place there, which she had held so lightly, would be filled. [ ] chapter xii. what shall he have who killed the deer? winter was upon the cabin in the gap. through the long months much bitter knowledge had come to callista. she found that she knew nothing a mountain wife ought to know. finically clean about her housekeeping, she spent days scouring, rubbing, putting to rights and rearranging that which none used, nobody came to see; but she could not cook acceptably, and their scant fare suffered in her inept hands till she nearly starved them both. here, with some show of reason, she blamed her mother. having never seen the time when she could go back to the gentry place with a gift in her hand, she had not been there at all since her marriage. and here she blamed lance. between her incapacity and his earlier recklessness, they were desperately pinched. the season for hauling closed even sooner than he had feared. after it was past, he got a bit of work now and again, often walking long distances to it, since he had been obliged, as he had foreseen, to leave satan and cindy in the settlement; and when the black horses came no more to the log stable behind the [ ] cabin, callista accepted it as the first open confession of defeat. lance was one who sought a medicine for his spiritual hurts with as sure an instinct as that by which the animals medicate their bodies, creeping away like them to have the pain and wounding out alone. with the first cold weather he was afoot, his long brown rifle in the hollow of his arm, tramping the ridges for game. the wide, silent spaces spoke restfully to his spirit. half the time he left the cabin ill provided with firewood and other necessities, but he brought back rabbits, quail, an occasional possum--which latter callista despised and refused to cook, even when lance had carefully prepared it, so that the dogs got it for their share. the undercurrent of the material struggle to make a living was always the pitiful duel between these two, who really loved well, and who were striving as much each for the mastery of self, as for the mastery of the other, could they but have realized it. in late november, the days began to break with a thin, piercing sleet in the air, under an even gray sky. on the brown sedge, dry as paper, it whispered, whispered through the clinging white-oak leaves, with a sharp sibilance, as of one who draws breath at the end of a pageant; for the last flickerings of the gold and glory of autumn were gone; the radiance and warmth and beauty of life all circled now around a hearth-stone. [ ] "if we get much more weather like this, i'll go out and bring ye in a deer," lance told his callista; "then we'll have fresh meat a-plenty." "well, see that there's firewood enough to cook your deer after you've killed it," callista retorted, resentfully mindful of lance's having forgotten to provide her with sufficient fuel the last time he went on an unsuccessful hunting trip. "you don't roast a deer whole," lance told her tolerantly. "we'll dry some of the meat, and some we'll salt." to callista's exacting, practical nature, this figuring on the disposal of a deer one had not yet killed was exasperating. she wanted lance to know that she lacked many things which she should have had. she wished him plainly to admit that he ought to furnish those things, and that he was sorry he could not. she had a blind feeling that, if he did so, it would in a measure atone. "well, it wouldn't take much wood to cook all the deer you brought home last time," she said with a little bitter half-smile. taunt of taunts--to reproach the unsuccessful hunter with his empty bag! lance was not one to give reasons for his failure, to tell of the long, hard miles he had tramped on an unsuccessful quest. he merely picked up his gun and walked out of the house without looking to right or left, leaving his young wife breathing a little short, but sure of herself. [ ] so far as he was concerned, he could find good counsel in the wild to which, he fled. this morning there was come over everything a blind fog, which was gradually thinning a little with the dawn, showing to his eyes, where it lifted, hundreds of little ripples fleeing across the pond from icy verge to verge, with a mist smoking to leeward. the forest swam about him in a milky haze; the trees stood, huge silver feathers, soft gray against the paler sky, their coating not glassy, like real sleet, but a white fringe, a narrow strip of wool, composed of the finest pointed crystals, along every twig. the yard grass, as he crossed it, was a fleece; the weeds by the garden fence, where he vaulted over, a cloud. dulling one sense, the obscuring fog seemed to muffle all others. lance was shut in a little white world of his own, that moved and shifted about him as he went forward. in his heart was the beginning of self-distrust; a very small beginning, which he cried down and would none of; yet the mood sent him seeking a spot he had not seen for months. straight as an arrow he went through the forest, guiding himself by his sense of direction alone, since he could neither see far nor recognize any familiar landmark in its changed guise. an hour after he and callista had parted in the kitchen of his own home, he was before that outside cabin of the gentry place, at whose casement he had first held her in his arms, looking up at the [ ] blank square of closed panes. it was so early that none of the household was yet astir. the dogs knew him, and made no clamorous outcry. shut in by the wavering walls of mist which clung and chilled, he stood long beneath her window, staring fixedly up at it. something ominous and symbolic in the change which had come upon the spot since he last stood there, checked the beating of his heart, strive as he might to reject its message. the yard grass, green and lush on that september night, stood stark, dry, white wool; the bullace vine, whose trunk had borne his eager love up to her kiss, gleamed steel-like along its twisted stems; the sill itself was a bar of humid ice. all looked bleak, inhospitable, forbidding; the place was winter-smitten, like--like-- some blind rage at the power which makes us other than we would be, which gives us stones for bread, stirred within him. he shivered. she was not there now--she was at home in his house--his wife. what had he come here for? this was a gun in the hollow of his arm--not a banjo; he was out trying to find some wild meat to keep them alive. she was waiting at home to--no, not in the gropings of his own mind, would he complain too bitterly of his bride. heaven knows what the disillusioning was when lance found for the first time that he and callista could seriously quarrel--their old days of what might be termed histrionic bickerings for the amusement of an audience, he had put aside, as of no portent. when he discovered that callista could look at him with actually alien eyes, and say stinging things in an even tone, the boundaries of his island drew in till there was barely room for his own feet amid the wash of estranging waters. but he turned resolutely from the thought. his concern should be all with his own conduct, his own failings. callista must do what she would do--and he would play up to the situation as best he might. somebody moved in the house and called one of the hounds. he laughed at himself a bit drearily, and struck off across the hill, assured in his own mind that he had merely taken this as a short cut to the glen at the head of the gulch, where he hoped to find his deer. the clean winds of heaven soothed the pain that throbbed under his careless bearing. he had not been five hours afoot, he was but just preparing to make his noon halt and eat the bit of cold pone in his pocket, when he was ready to smile whimsically at the ill-made, ill-flavored thing and decide that it would be "just as fillin'," even though callista had not yet learned the bread-maker's art. he must needs consider it rare good luck that he found a deer at all; but it was five miles from home, in the breaks of chestnut creek, that he finally made his kill. he had no horse to carry the bulk of wild meat; and, in his pride refusing to leave a [ ] part swung up out of harm's way, he undertook to pack the whole deer home on his shoulder--a piece of exhausting, heart-breaking toil, though the buck was but a half-grown one. he was not willing to risk the loss of a pound. there were no antlers; but he would make callista a pair of moccasins out of the soft-tanned skin. sunday he was due at old man fuson's for a couple of days, to repair a chimney; but, come tuesday or wednesday, he would return and be ready to look after the venison. it ought to keep so long in this cold. callista, pent indoors all day, chained to distasteful tasks for which she was incompetent, had not won to as serene a temper as her mate. she saw him approaching, laden, through the grove, and hurried into the cold, closed far room to be busy about some task so that she need not meet him as he entered. when she emerged, he had skinned the deer and hung up the meat safely between two trees, and was already washed and sitting in the chimney-corner. his clear eyes went swiftly to her face with its coldly down-dropped lids. the man who can bring home a deer and not boast of it has self-control; but when lance noted the line of his wife's lips, he reached for his banjo without a word, and began to hold his communications with it. she knelt at the hearth to continue her supper preparations. for the first time since they had [ ] quarreled, she wished that she could make some advance toward a reconciliation. yet there was lance; look at him! head thrown back a little, chin atilt, his eyes almost closed, showing a bright line under the shadowing lash, the firelight played on her husband's face and painted the ghost of a flickering smile about his mouth as he strummed lightly on the strings. was that a countenance asking sympathy, begging for quarter? and listen to the banjo; it was no wistful, questing melody of "how many miles, how many years?" now; a light, jigging dance-tune rippled under his finger ends. callista wondered angrily if he wished he were at derf's. no doubt they would be dancing there to-night, as commonly on saturday. lance, the man who wouldn't take a dare from the lord a'mighty himself, answered her silence with silence, and her unconcern with a forgetfulness so vast as to make her attitude seem actually resentful. by and by she called him to supper, and when he came she refused to eat, dwelling angrily on the thought that he should have regarded her bidding as an overture to peace, and have made some answering movement himself. in short, she was not yet done interrogating this nature, fascinating, complex, inscrutable, to know what was the ultimate point, the place where he would cry "enough!" the next morning saw him leaving early for [ ] fuson's, and he went before callista was out of bed. when she rose, she looked remorsefully at the tidy, small preparations for breakfast which he had made. it suddenly came home to her that, for a man in lance's situation, the marrying of a wholly inept wife was daily tragedy. she decided that she would learn, that she would try to do better; and, as a first peace-offering, she hurried out to the grove and possessed herself of lance's venison, that she might cure and prepare it. after she had dragged the big, raw, bloody thing into her immaculate kitchen, she felt a little sense of repulsion at it, yet her good intentions held while she hacked and hewed and salted and pickled, on some vague remembrance of what she had heard her grandfather say concerning the curing of wild meat. it was noon when she went into the other room, leaving the outer door open so that the hound carried away the only portion of the meat which she had left fresh for immediate use. tired, ready to cry, she consoled herself with the reflection that there was plenty remaining; she could freshen a piece of that which she had salted, for lance's supper when he should return. for herself, she felt that she should never want to taste venison again. under her handling the meat deteriorated rapidly, and was in danger of becoming an uneatable mess. at last she turned a weary and disgusted back upon it, and left it soaking in weak [ ] brine. ever since saturday night the weather had been softening; it was almost warm when lance came hurrying home tuesday evening, meaning to take care of his prize at once. he arrived at supper time, ate some of callista's bread and drank his coffee eagerly, turning in mute distaste from the hunk of ill-prepared meat upon the table. supper over he hastened out to where he had hung the deer. his wife had a wild impulse to stop him; he might have guessed from the venison she had cooked that the meat was attended to. she resented the dismay in his face when he came back asking: "do you know what's come of that deer? i got jasper fuson to let me off sooner, so's i could make haste and tend to it." the sense of failure closed in on callista intolerably. "i fixed it," she returned without looking up. "all of it?" inquired lance sharply. "fixed it like that, do you mean?" indicating the untouched piece on the platter. "yes," returned callista with secret despair; "all but what the dogs got." "the dogs!" echoed lance. "yes," repeated callista with a sort of stubborn composure. "i [ ] left about a third of it fresh whilst i was putting the rest in the brine, and that old hound of yours came in and stole the fresh piece." she looked at his face and then at the meat. "i reckon you think that even a dog wouldn't eat this--the way i've got it." the two young people confronted each other across the ruined food which his skill and labor had provided, her bungling destroyed. the subject for quarrel was a very real one, terrifyingly concrete and pressing. they were afraid of it; nor did they at that moment fail to realize the mighty bond of love which still was strong between them. both would have been glad to make some advance toward peace, some movement of reconciliation; neither knew how to do it. in lance, the torture of the thing expressed itself only in a fiery glance turned upon his wife's handiwork. to callista, this was so intolerable that she laid about her for an adequate retort. "well," she said, affecting a judicial coolness, "it's true i don't know much about taking care of wild meat. we never had such in my home. there was always plenty of chickens and turkeys; and if we put up meat, it was our own shoats and beef." deer are growing scarce in the cumberlands; not in half a dozen cabins throughout the turkey tracks would venison be eaten that season. but lance adduced nothing of this. "i think you might as well let the dogs have the rest of it," he said finally, with a singular gentleness in his tone. then he added with a sudden upswelling of resentment, "give it to 'em if they'll eat it--which i misdoubt they'll never do." [ ] chapter xiii. broken chords. after the episode of the ruined venison, callista tried sulking--refusing to speak. but she found in lance a power of silence that so far overmatched her own as to leave her daunted. he returned now from his long expeditions, to hang up his wild meat in the grove, and thereafter to sit bright-eyed and silent across the hearth from her, whistling, under his breath, or strumming lightly on his banjo. callista was a concrete, objective individual, yet she grew to recognize the resources of one who had for his familiars dreams that he could bid to stand at his knee and beguile his leisure or his loneliness. but dreams, so treated, have a trick of strengthening themselves against times of depression, changing their nature, and wringing with cruel fingers the heart which entertains them; so that those who feed the imagination must be willing to endure the strength of its chastisements. yet if lance cleaverage suffered, he kept always a brave front, and took his suffering away from under the eye of his young wife. to do him justice, he had little understanding of his own offences. an ardent huntsman, he had by choice [ ] lived hard much of his life, sleeping in the open in all weathers, eating what came to hand. callista's needs he was unfitted to gauge, and she maintained a haughty silence concerning them. since she would not inquire, he told her nothing of having been offered money to play at dances, but began to be sometimes from home at nights, taking his banjo, leaving her alone. an equable tempered, practical woman might have trained him readily to the duties of masculine provider in the primitive household. but beautiful, spoiled callista, burning with wrongs which she was too proud and too angry to voice, eaten with jealousy of those thoughts which comforted him when she refused to speak, always in terror that people would find out how at hap-hazard they lived, how poor and ill-provided they were, and laugh at her choice--callista had her own ideas of discipline. if lance went away and left no firewood cut, she considered it proper to retort by getting no supper and letting him come into a house stone cold. this was a serious matter where a chunk of fire may be sent from neighbor to neighbor to take the place of matches. in this sort the winter wore away. in april there came one of the spring storms that southern mountaineers call "blackberry winter." all the little growing things were checked or killed. a fine, cold rain beat throughout the day around [ ] the eaves of the cabin. the wind laid wet, sobbing lips to chink and cranny, and cried to her that she was alone--alone--alone; she, callista, was neglected, deserted, shunned! for lance had a day's work at re-lining fireplaces at squire ashe's place. busy with the truck-patch he had at this late day set about, and which he must both clear and fence, he had somewhat overlooked the wood-pile; and before noon the fuel was exhausted. instead of gathering chips and trash, or raiding the dry spaces under the great pines for cones and crackling twigs,--as any one of her hardy mountain sisters would have done, and then greeted her man at night with a laugh, and a hot supper--callista let the fire go out, and sat brooding. without fire she could cook herself no dinner, and she ate a bit of cold corn-pone, fancying lance at somebody's table--he never told her now where he was going, nor for how long--eating the warm, appetizing food that would be provided. as evening drew on the rain slacked, and a cloud drove down on the mountain-top, forcing an icy, penetrating chill through the very substance of the walls, sending callista to bed to get warm. she wrapped herself in quilts and shivered. it was dark when she heard lance come stumbling in, cross the room, and, without a word, search on the fire-board for matches. "there ain't any," she told him, not moving [ ] to get up. "it wouldn't do you any good if there was--there's no wood." he did not answer, but, feeling his way, passed on into the little lean-to kitchen, and callista harkened eagerly, believing that sight of the bowl of meal and the pan of uncooked turnips on the table by the window would bring home to her husband the enormity of her wrongs and his offences. leaning forward she could discern a vaguely illuminated silhouette of him against this window. he appeared to be eating. she guessed that he had peeled a turnip and was making a lunch of that. "would you rather have your victuals raw?" she demanded finally, desperate at his silence. "i reckon i'd better learn your ruthers in the matter." "i'd rather have 'em raw as to have 'em cooked the way you mostly get 'em," came the swift reply in a perfectly colorless tone. "i ain't particularly petted on having my victuals burnt on one side and raw on the other, and i'd rather do my own seasoning--some folks salt things till the devil himself couldn't eat 'em, or leave the salt out, and then wonder that there's complaints." her day of brooding had come to a crisis of choking rage. callista sat up on the edge of the bed and put her thick hair back from her face. "i cook what i'm provided," she said in a cold, [ ] even voice. "that is, i cook it when i'm supplied with wood. and i fix your meals the best i know how; but it would take one of the sort you named just then to cook without fire." she had expected that he would go out in the dark and cut firewood for her. as for the matches, starting a flame without them was an easy trick for a hunter like lance. she remembered with a sudden strange pang his once showing her how he could prepare his pile of shredded tinder, fire a blank charge into it, and have a blaze promptly. she heard him fumbling for something on the wall--his gun, of course. but the next instant there came the whine of the banjo; it hummed softly as it struck against the lintel. that was what he was getting--not the gun to light a fire--he was leaving her alone in the cabin! she guessed that he was going over to derf's to play for a dance; and for a strenuous moment she was near to springing after him and begging him to stay with her. but habit prevailed. she huddled, shivering, under her covers and went back to the sullen canker of her own wrongs. she might have had the pick of the countryside, and she had taken up with lance cleaverage. she had married him when and how he said--that was where she made her mistake. she should have told him then--she should have--but, in the midst of all this rush of accusation, she knew well that she [ ] took lance when and how she could get him, and at this moment her heart was clamoring to know where he was and what doing. so she lay shivering, cold to the knees, her hands like ice, her teeth locked in a rigor that was as much spiritual as physical, till she could bear it no longer. then she got hesitatingly up from the bed and stood long in the middle of the darkened room, turning her head about as though she could see. she knew where each article of furniture stood. it was her room, her home, hers and lance's. lance had built it; she had somehow failed pitiably, utterly, to make it hers; and she was well aware that she had failed to make it home for him--yet it was all either of them had. back over her mind came memory of their wedding morning, when, his arm about her waist, her head half the time on his shoulder, they had visited every nook of the place and discussed between tender words and kisses all its scant furnishings. then suddenly, without having come to any decision whatever, she found herself out in the cold rain, running through the woods toward the big road and the derf place. down the long slope from the gap she fled, then past the old quarry, past spellman's clearing, and around the spring hollow. she had never set foot on derf land before. through the fine rain callista--spent, gasping, wet and disheveled--at last saw the windows, a luminous haze; [ ] caught the sound of stamping, thudding feet, and heard the twang of lance's banjo. she had approached through the grove, and stood at the side fence. the place was so public that its dogs paid little attention to comers and goers. when callista came to herself fully, she realized that it was the bars of the milking place she leaned upon. slowly she withdrew the upper one from its socket, stepped over, then turned and replaced it. with ever-increasing hesitation she faltered toward the house, avoiding the front and approaching the light at the side, where she hoped to be unobserved. shivering, shrinking, her loosened wet hair dragging in against her neck, she stared through the window into the lighted room. they were dancing in there. the sounds she had heard were from lance's banjo indeed, but held in other hands, while lance himself sat at a little table near the hearth, a steaming supper before him, ola derf waiting on him hand and foot, stooping to the coals for fresh supplies of good hot coffee, or smoking, crisp pones. "now you just hush!" she shrilled in response to somebody's importunities, as callista hung listening. "lance cain't play for no dancin' till he gits through his supper. and he's a-goin' to have time to eat, too. you jim, put that banjo down--you cain't play hit. pat for 'em if they're in such a hurry to dance." the aleshine girls from big buck gap, a young [ ] widow who lived half way down the side, two cousins of the derf's themselves--these were the women in the room. callista was desperately afraid lest one of the loud-talking, half-intoxicated men in there should come out and discover her; yet she could not drag herself away from sight of lance sitting housed, warm, comforted and fed--a home made for him. something knocked at the door of her heart with a message that this scene carried; but fiercely she barred that door, and set herself to defend her own position. grasping a trunk of muscadine vine, which, when she shivered, shook down icy drops upon her, callista rested long, regarding the scene before her. what should she do? to return to her home and leave her husband there seemed a physical impossibility. to go in and play the high-and-mighty, as she had been wont to do in her free girlhood, to glance over her shoulder with dropped eyelids and inform lance cleaverage that she cared not at all what he did or where he went--this were mere farce; her time for that sort of mumming was past. lance had finished his supper now, and turned from the board. it seemed to callista that he looked well pleased with himself, satisfied, even gay. the sight set her teeth rattling in fresh shivers. still he did not play for the dancers, who continued to make what headway they might to the time of jim's patting. [ ] callista saw ola bring the banjo and lay it in lance's lap. then the little brown girl seated herself close beside him. he bent and placed the instrument properly in ola's grasp, disposing the short, stubbed fingers on the strings. in the positive throe of jealousy that this sight brought, callista must needs, for her own self-respect, recall that lance had offered more than once to teach her to play, and that she had refused--and pretty shortly, too--to learn, or to touch the banjo, which she had come to hate with an unreasoning hatred. now the dancers grew tired of jim and his patting, and the call was for music. "see here, lance cleaverage," said buck fuson, "we-all throwed in to get you to play; but we ain't a-goin' to pay the money and have you fool away yo' time with ola." this was the first that callista knew of lance earning money by his banjo-playing. "all right," said cleaverage laconically, not looking up from his instructions. "i've had me a good supper, and i've got a warm place to stay, and that's all i want. go on and dance." he addressed himself singly to ola and her chords, moving her fingers patiently, taking the banjo himself to show her just how the thing was done. she was a dull pupil, but a humbly grateful one; and after a while it seemed to callista that she could no longer bear the sight. she was debating starkly between the desperate course of [ ] returning home alone and the yet more desperate enterprise of going in, when a deeper shadow crossed the darkness behind her, and she turned with a smothered scream to find iley derf's indian husband moving impassively through the glow from the window and making his way to the back door. at the sight she wheeled and fled across the yard toward the front gate and the road. she gained that doubtful refuge just as a man on a horse came splattering up out of the muddy little hollow below the derf place. with another cry she flung about and ran from him, stepped on a round stone, and fell. for a moment she crouched, shivering, wet, bruised, trying to get to her feet, the breath sobbing through her parted lips; then somebody set a not-too-gentle grasp on her shoulder, and she looked up to divine in the dimness flenton hands's face above her. there was sufficient light from the noisy cabin behind to allow him to recognize her. "lord god--callista!" he whispered, lifting her to her feet and supporting her with an arm under hers. "what in the world--" "i--i--something scared me," she faltered. "it was that old indian that iley derf married. he came right a-past where i was and, and--he scared me." "whar was you at?" inquired hands blankly. [ ] [illustration: "he placed the instrument in ola's grasp."] "in there," returned callista, pointing toward the derf yard, beginning to cry like a child. "i was looking through the window at them dance, and--and that old indian scared me." twang--twang--twang, across the gusty blackness of the night came the jeer of lance's banjo. there was no whisper now of "how many miles--how many years?" but the sharp staccato of "cripple creek," punctuated by the thudding of dancers' feet as they pounded out the time. callista felt her face grow hot in the darkness. she knew that flenton was listening, and that he must guess why she should hang outside the window looking in. "come on," said hands suddenly, almost roughly. "this ain't no fit place for you,--a woman like you,--my god! callista, i'll put you on my horse and take you home." there was a new note in his voice, a new authority in his movements, as he lifted her to the saddle and, plodding beside her in the dark, wet road, made no further offer of question or conversation. in spite of herself, callista felt comforted. she reached up and gathered her hair together, wringing the rain from it and redding it with the great shell comb which always held its abundant coils in place. she could not in reason tell flenton to leave her--she needed him too much. when they turned in at the ill-kept lane which led to lance's cabin. lance's wife caught her breath [ ] a little, but said nothing. flenton lifted her gently down at her own door-stone, and, opening the door for her, followed her in and, with a match from his pocket, lit a candle. he looked at the cold ash-heap on the fireless hearth, whistled a bit, and went out. she heard him striking matches somewhere about the wood-pile, and directly after came the sound of an axe. it was not long before he returned, his arms piled high with such bits of dry wood as he could find, split to kindling size. "it looks like it's a shame for me to have you waitin' on me this-a-way," callista began half-heartedly. she had taken counsel with herself, during his absence, and resolved to make some effort to keep up appearances. "hit don't look like anything of the sort," protested flenton hands. "you needed me, and that's all i want to know." he had laid his fire skilfully, and now the blaze began to roar up the big chimney. "my feet ain't been warm this whole blessed day," callista said, almost involuntarily, as she drew nearer the fascinating source of both warmth and light. "my, but that does feel good!" "you pore child!" flent muttered huskily, turning toward her from the hearth where he knelt. "you're e'en about perished." he went out then, only to come hurriedly back, reporting, [ ] "i cain't find any wood--whar does lance keep it?" lance's wife hung her head, lips pressed tight together, striving for resolution to answer this with a smooth lie. "he don't go off and leave you in this kind of weather without any wood?" inquired hands hoarsely. "yes--he does," callista choked. and, having opened the bottle a bit, out poured the hot wine of her wrath. all the things that she might have said to her mother had she been on good terms with that lady; the taunts that occurred to her in lance's absence and which she failed to utter to him when he came; these rushed pell-mell into speech. she was white and shaking when she made an end. "there," she said tragically, getting to her feet. "i reckon i had no business to name one word of this to you, flenton; but i'm the most miserable creature that ever lived, i do think; and i ain't got a soul on this earth that cares whether or not about me. and--and--" she broke off, locking her hands tightly and staring down at them. flenton had the sense and the self-control not to approach her, not to introduce too promptly the personal note. "callista," he began cautiously, assuming as nearly as possible the tone of an unbiased friend to [ ] both parties, "you ort to quit lance. he ain't doin' you right. there's more than you know of in this business; and whether you stay thar or not, you ort to quit him oncet and go home to yo' folks." callista made an inarticulate sound of denial. "i never will--never in this world!" she burst out. "i might quit lance, but home i'll never go." flenton's pale gray eyes lit up at the suggestion of her words, but she put aside the hand he stretched out toward her. "i've been studying about it all day, and for a good many days before this one," she said with slow bitterness. "lance cleaverage gives me plenty of time to study. if i leave this house, i'm goin' straight to father cleaverage." hands looked disappointed, but he did not fail to press the minor advantage. "if you want to go to-night, callista," he suggested, "i'd be proud to carry you right along on my horse. lance needs a lesson powerful bad. you go with me--" "hush," callista warned him. "i thought i heard somebody coming. thank you, flent. you've been mighty good to me this night. i'll never forget you for it--but i reckon you better go now. when a woman's wedded, she has to be careful about the speech of people; and--i reckon you better go now, flent." [ ] the rain had ceased. a wan moon looked out in the western sky and made the wet branches shine with a dim luster. callista stood in the doorway against the broken leap and shine of the firelight. hands went to his horse, and then turned back to look at her. "and you won't go with me?" he repeated once more. "callista, you'd be as safe with me as with your own brother. i've got that respect for you that it don't seem like you're the same as other women. i wish't you'd go, if for nothin' but to learn lance a lesson." the girl in the doorway knew that there was no wood for any more fire than that which now blazed on the hearth behind her; she was aware that there was scarcely food in the house for three days' eating; yet she found courage to shake her head. "thank you kindly, flent," she said with a note of finality in her tone. "i know you mean well, but i cain't go." then she closed the door as though to shut out the temptation, and, dressed as she was, lay down upon the bed and pulled the quilts over her. she listened to the retreating hoofs of flenton's horse, dreading always to hear lance's voice hailing him, telling herself that his presence there at that hour alone with her was all lance's fault, and she had no reason for the shame and fear which possessed her at thought of it. but the [ ] hoofs passed quite away, and still lance did not make his appearance. she could not sleep. she judged it was near midnight. pictures of lance teaching ola derf her chords on the banjo flickered before her eyes. pictures of lance dancing with ola as he had at the infare followed. she had a kind of wonder at herself that she was not angrier, that she was only spent and numbed and cowed. then all at once came a light step she knew well, the sudden little harmonious outcry of the banjo as lance set it down to open the door, and lance himself was in the room. she thought she would have spoken to him. she did not know that the indian had gone in and announced her presence outside the window at the derfs. as she raised her head she got his haughty, lifted profile between herself and the light of the now dying fire. she knew that he was aware of her presence; but he looked neither to the right nor to the left; he made no comment on her fire, but strode swiftly through the room, across the open passage, and into the far room. she heard him moving about for a few moments, then everything was silent. all that numbing inertia fell away from her. she sat up on the edge of the bed as she had once before that evening, and her eyes went from side to side of the room, picking out what she wanted to take with her. a few swift movements secured her shawl and sunbonnet. without stealth, yet [ ] without noise, she opened the door and stepped forth. she stood in the open threshing-floor porch between the two rooms, a very gulf of shadow, into which watery moonlight struggled from the world outside. a long while she stood so, looking toward the far room, her hands clenched and pressed hard against her breast. those hands were empty. she had shut the door of her girlhood home against herself unless she returned, a gift in them. no--she would not go back there. all at once she became aware of a rhythmic sound, which made itself heard in the utter stillness of the forest night--lance's deep breathing. he slept then; he could go to sleep like that, when she--. callista faltered forward toward the front step; and as she did so, another sound overbore the slighter noise; it was the hoofs of an approaching horse. she checked, turned, flung the sunbonnet from her and dropped the shawl upon it, then, with a quick, light step, crossed the porch and noiselessly pushed open the door of the room in which lance lay. the little pale moon made faint radiance in the room, and by its light she saw her husband lying on that monster spare bed which is the pride of every country housewife. he had folded and put aside the ruffled covers of her contriving, and lay dressed as he was, with only his shoes removed. on tiptoe she drew near and [ ] stood looking down at him. they said if you held a looking-glass over a sleeping person's face and asked him a question, he'd tell you the truth. what was it she wanted to know of lance? not whether he loved her or no, though she said to herself a dozen times a day that he cared nothing about her, and had never really cared. the sleeper stirred and turned on his pillow, offering her a broader view of that strangely disconcerting countenance of slumber, as ambiguous well-nigh as the face of death itself. she wheeled and fled noiselessly, as she had come in. the light, approaching horse's hoofs had ceased to sound some moments now. at the gate a mounted figure stood motionless within the shadow of the big pine. she ran down the path to find flenton hands. "i--callista," he faltered in a low voice, "don't be mad. i--looks like i couldn't leave you this-a-way. i was plumb to the corner of our big field, and--i come back." he glanced with uncertainty and apprehension toward the house; then, as he noted her shawl and bonnet, got quickly from the saddle, saying hurriedly, eagerly, "i 'lowed maybe you might change your mind--and i--i come back." "yes," said callista, not looking at him. "i'm ready to go now, flent." [ ] chapter xiv. roxy griever's guest. it was a strange day whose gray dawn brought callista to her father-in-law's door. where she had wandered, questioning, debating, agonizing, since she dismissed flenton hands at the corner of old kimbro's lean home pasture, only callista knew. the judas tree down by the spring branch might have told a tale of clutching fingers that reached up to its low boughs, while somebody stood shaking and listening to the sound of the creek that came down the gorge past that home callista was leaving. the mosses between there and the big road could have whispered of swift-passing feet that went restlessly as though driven to and fro over their sodden carpet for hours. the bluff where a trail precariously rounds old flat top kept its secret of a crouching figure that looked out over the gulf, black in the now moonless night, of a sobbing voice that prayed, and accused and questioned incoherently. the household at kimbro cleaverage's rose by candle-light. sylvane, strolling out to the water bucket, barely well awake, caught sight of his sister-in-law at the gate, gave one swift glance at her face as it showed gray through the dim light, [ ] wheeled silently and hurried ahead of her into the kitchen to warn his sister not to betray surprise. so she was received with that marvelous, fine courtesy of the mountaineer, which proffers only an unquestioning welcome, demanding no explanations of the strangest coming or of the most unexpected comer. she answered their greeting in a curious, lifeless tone, said only that she was tired, not sick at all, and would like to lie down; and when roxy hastened with her to the bed in the far room and saw her safely bestowed there, the girl sank into almost instant slumber so soon as she had stretched herself out. "she's went to sleep already," whispered roxy to sylvane, stepping back into the kitchen, and, while she quietly carried forward the breakfast preparations, the boy crept up to the loft where mary ann martha and polly slept and whence the little one's boisterous tones began to be heard. later he came down with the two, holding the five-year-old by the hand, imposing quiet upon them both by look and word; maintaining it by constant watchfulness. they ate their breakfast, speaking in subdued voices, mostly of indifferent matters. roxy, who, woman fashion, would have made some comment, inquiry or suggestion, was checked whenever she looked at the faces of her men folk. the meal over, sylvane and her father went out to the day's work. roxy cleared away the dishes and [ ] set the house in order, returning every little while to hover doubtfully above that slim form lying so silent and motionless in the bed. she was frightened at the way the girl slept, unaware that callista had not closed her eyes the night before, and that she was worn out, mind and body, with weeks of fretting emotions. the morning came on still, warm and cloudy. there was silence in the forest, the softened loam making no sound under any foot, last year's old leaves too damp to rustle on the oak boughs. it was a day so soundless, stirless, colorless, as to seem unreal, with a haunting sadness in the air like an undefined memory of past existences, a drowsiness of forgotten lands. even the hearth fire faded faint in that toneless day, which had neither sun nor moon nor wind, neither heat nor cold indoors or out. again and again, as the hours wore on, the widow griever stole in and looked upon her sleeping guest with a sort of terror. she sent polly away with mary ann martha to look for posies in the far woods that the house might be quiet. quiet--it was as if the vast emptiness which surrounds the universe had penetrated into the heart of that day, making all objects transparent, weightless, meaningless, without power of motion. she would stand beside the bed, noting the even breathing of the sleeper, then go softly to the door and look out. the trees rose into the stillness and emptiness and [ ] spread their branches there, themselves thin shadows of a one-time growth and life. the water of the pond below lay wan and glassy, unstirred by any ripple. the very rocks on its edges appeared devoid of substance. from ten o'clock on seemed one standstill afternoon, lacking sign of life or the passage of time, until the imperceptible approach of dusk and the slow deepening of a night which might to all appearances be the shadow of eternal sleep. kimbro and his son had taken their bit of dinner with them to their work of clearing and brush-burning in a distant field. at dusk they came quietly in to find the supper ready, polly still herding mary ann martha to keep her quiet, roxy griever putting the meal on the table, worried, but saying nothing. on their part, they asked no questions, but each stole an anxious glance at the shut door behind which was the spare bed. as they sat down to eat, roxy said to her father: "i don't hardly know, poppy--she's a-sleepin' yit--been a-sleepin' like that ever sence she laid down thar. do you reckon i ort--" "i'd jest let her sleep, daughter," put in the old man gently. "i reckon hit's the best medicine she can get. the pore child must be sort of wore out." after supper, while roxy, with polly's help, was washing the dishes, kimbro and his younger son held a brief consultation out by the gate, [ ] following which the boy moved swiftly off, going up lance's laurel. a little later callista waked briefly. she sat listlessly upon the side of the bed, declining roxy's eager proffer of good warm supper at the table, and took--almost perforce--from the elder woman's hand the cup of coffee and bit of food which roxy brought her. "no, no, nothing more, thank you, sister roxy!" she said hastily, almost recoiling. "that's a-plenty. i ain't hungry--just sort o' tired." and she turned round, stretched herself on the bed once more, and sank back into sleep. the next morning, when the breakfast was ready, although roxy had listened in vain for sounds from the small far room, callista came unexpectedly out, fully dressed. she sat with them at the table, pale, downcast, staring at her plate and crumbling a bit of corn pone, unable to do more than drink a few swallows of coffee. she did not note that sylvane was missing. later the boy came back from lance's laurel, to tell his father and sister that he had spent the night with his brother, that the cabin in the gap was now closed and empty, and lance gone to work at thatcher daggett's sawmill, some twelve miles through the woods, out on north caney creek, where several men of the neighborhood were employed. "that's the reason callista come over here," [ ] old kimbro said mildly. "she and lance have had a difference of opinion, hit's likely, about whether or no he should go there. well, i'm sure glad to have her with us. she'd 'a' been right lonesome all to herself." "would you name it to her?" asked the widow anxiously. kimbro shook his head. "don't you name nothin' to the girl, except that she's welcome in this house as long as she cares to stay--and don't say too much about that--she knows it." "lance has fixed it up with old man daggett so that callista can get what she wants from the store--derf's place," put in sylvane. an expression of relief dawned upon roxy's thin, anxious face. the kimbro cleaverages were very poor. truly, callista, the admired, was welcome, yet the seams of their narrow resources would fairly gape with the strain to cover the entertainment of such a guest. if she could get what she wanted from derf's, it would simplify matters greatly. "well, you'll tell her that, won't ye, buddy?" his sister prompted sylvane. he nodded. "i've got some other things to tell her from lance," he said, boyishly secretive. "i'm goin' over to see him at the mill come, sunday, and she can send word by me. i'll be passin' back and forth all the time whilst he's workin' there." [ ] but when this easy method of communication was brought to the notice of callista, she made no offer toward using it. it was mid-afternoon of the day following her arrival. the rain was intermitted, not definitely ceased; there would be more of it; but just now the air was warm and the sun brilliant. mountain fashion, the door of the cabin stood wide. mary ann martha had a corn pone, and she took occasional bites from it as she circled the visitor, staring at her with avid, hazel eyes, that troubled callista's calm whenever she caught the fire of them, so like lance's. marauding chickens came across the door-stone and ventured far on the child's trail of crumbs; the light cackle of their whispered duckings, the scratch of their claws on the puncheons, alone broke the stillness. callista sat by the doorway, a dead weight at her heart. the pallor, the weariness of it, were plain in her face. "good land, polly--cain't you take this chap over yon in the woods and lose her?" demanded the widow in final exasperation, as mary ann martha turned suddenly on the chicken that was stalking her, and shooed it, squalling, from the door. "i want to get out my quilt and work on it." all unconscious that these things were done on her behalf, callista saw the unwilling mary ann martha marched away. she beheld the gospel quilt brought out and spread on the widow's knees [ ] quite as some chatelaine of old might have produced her tapestry for the diversion of the guest. over the gulf of pain and regret and apprehension--this well of struggling, seething emotion--lightly rippled the surface sounds of life, material talk, bits of gossip, that callista roused herself to harken to and answer. roxy spoke in a solemn, muffled tone, something the voice she would have used if her father or sylvane were dead in the house. she would have been more than human, and less than woman, had she not to some degree relished the situation. she remembered with deep satisfaction that, though she was his own sister, she had always reprehended lance publicly and privately, holding him unfit to mate with this paragon. callista had the sensation of being at her own funeral. she drooped, colorless and inert, in her chair, and stared past everything the room contained, out through the open door and across the far blue rim of hills. "i believe in my soul these here needles sylvane got me is too fine for my cotton," roxy murmured, by way of attracting attention. "i wonder could you thread one for me, callisty? your eyes is younger than mine." callista took the needle and threaded it, handing it back with a sigh. as she did so, her glance encountered roxy's solicitous gaze, then fell to the quilt. "you--you've done a sight of work on that, haven't you, sis' roxy?" she asked gently. [ ] the widow nodded. "an' there's a sight more to do," she added. "this is a pretty figure," callista said, pointing at random, but producing a kindly show of interest. roxy brightened. "can you make out what it's meant for?" she inquired eagerly. then, for fear callista should attempt and fail, "i aimed it for a tree of life, with a angel sorter peerched on it, an' one standin' un'neath. but," deprecatingly, "hit looks mo' like a jimpson weed to me. an' pears like i 'don't never have no luck with angels." callista's absent gaze rested upon the unsatisfactory sprigged calico and striped seersucker version of members of the heavenly host. "them jacob's-ladder angels--you hain't never seen them, callisty, sence i sorter tinkered they' wings. look! 'pears to me like it's he'ped 'em powerful. but these--i vow, i don't know what is the matter of 'em, without it's the goods. that thar stuff, is 'most too coarse for angels, i reckon. or it might be the color. 'warshed whiter'n snow--without spot or, stain--' that's what the good book says, whilst all these is spotted and figured. but ye see white on white wouldn't never show. i might 'a' used blue-and-white stripe. and then again, the sayin' is, 'chastised with many stripes'--that'd never be angels, no how." [ ] once more callista made an effort to bring her mind to the problem in hand. "the sky is blue," roxy adduced somewhat lamely. "do you reckon blue angels would be more better?" "maybe purple," hesitated the visitor. "the bible names purple a heap in regards to heaven--purple and gold. i've got a piece of purple calico at--at home." her voice trailed and faltered huskily over the words. then she set her lips hard, crested her head in the old fashion, and went on evenly. "i've got a piece of mighty pretty purple, and one as near gold as ever goods was, that you're welcome to, sis' roxy, if--if you or polly would go over and get 'em." again thought of where those treasured rolls of calico were to be found lowered the clear, calm, defiant voice. roxy noted it; but the magnum opus, brought out to cheer and divert callista, had laid its unfailing spell upon the widow; the lust for quilt pieces, rampant in all mountain women, wakened in her, aggravated in her case by the peculiar needs, the more exacting demands of her own superior artistry. "yes--shore, honey; i'll be glad to go any time," she said, "ef you'll jest tell me where to look." so life went on at the kimbro cleaverage place, a curious interlude, and still no word was said to [ ] callista of the strangeness of her advent, and no explanation vouchsafed, till on the evening of the third day the girl herself sought her father-in-law and opened the matter haltingly, timidly. they were out at the chip-pile where kimbro was cutting the next day's wood for roxy's use. he dropped his axe to the chopping log and stood leaning on it, peering at her with mild, faded, near-sighted eyes. "well now, callisty," he began gently, "i'm glad you named this to me, becaze i've got a message for you from lance, and i didn't want to speak of it for fear it would seem like hurrying you away, or criticising any of your actions. i want you to know, daughter, that i don't do that. lance is a wild boy, and he's got wild ways. but he has a true heart, honey, and one of these days you'll find it. now, i reckon, you might be having some trouble with him." "a message," repeated callista in a low tone. "is he gone away?" "well, he's out on north caney," old kimbro told her, "a-workin' at thatch daggett's sawmill. lance can make good money whenever he'll work at his own trade, and i doubt not he'll do right well at this sawmill business, too. he hain't got the land cleared over where you-all was livin' that he ought to have, an' i think it's better for you to stay on with us a while--we're sure proud to have you." callista's eyes filled with a sudden rush of tears. [ ] kimbro did not explain to her that sylvane had gone to see his brother. he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a little roll of money. "lance sent you this," he said. "he never had time to write any letter. my son lance is a mighty poor correspondent at the best; but he sent you this, and he bade sylvane to tell you that you was to buy what you needed at derf's store, an' that he'd hope to send you money from time to time as you should have use for it." callista looked on the ground and said nothing. and so it was settled. the comfortable, new, well-fitted home at the head of lance's laurel was closed, and callista lived in the shabby, ruinous dwelling of her father-in-law. the help that she could offer in the way of provisions was welcome. to roxy griever, she had always been an ideal, a pattern of perfection, and now they made a sort of queen of her. the widow begrudged her nothing and waited on her hand and foot. polly followed her around and served her eagerly, admiringly; but most astonishing of all, mary ann martha would be good for her, and was ready to do anything to attract her notice. sometimes callista seemed to want the child with her; and sometimes when the little girl looked at her with lance's eyes, and spoke out suddenly in his defiant fashion, callista would wince as though she had been struck at, and send mary ann martha away almost harshly. [ ] chapter xv. the stubborn heart. callista never referred to what kimbro cleaverage had told her; but she presently began, of necessity, to buy some things at the store for her own use, where she had formerly purchased only that which would make good her stay with her father-in-law. the wild, cool, shower-dashed, sun-dappled, sweet-scented, growing days of spring followed each other, passing into weeks, months, until midsummer, with its pause in rural life, was come. octavia gentry, who was a little out of health, had sent word again and again that she wanted callista to come home. it was a sunday morning in the deep calm of july when she finally came over herself to the cleaverage place to try to fetch her daughter. the thrush's song that waked callista that morning at sunrise, rang as keenly cool as ever; but the frogs were silenced, and the whirr of the "dry-fly" was heard everywhere instead. gloss of honey-dew was on the oak and hickory leaves, and the blue air veiling the forest shadows spoke of late summer. the morning was languid with heat; the breakfast smoke had risen straight into [ ] the dawn, and the day burnt its way forward without dew or breeze; hills velvet-blue, clouds motionless over the motionless tree-tops, toned with mellow atmospheric tints that were yet not the haze that would follow in autumn. one or two neighbors had strolled in, and about mid-forenoon ajax gentry and his daughter-in-law drove up in the buckboard and old kimbro and sylvane went out trying to pretend surprise, yet callista knew all the time that the meeting had been arranged--that her people were expected. "honey!" her mother took her into a reproachful embrace, and then held her back and looked at her, tears streaming down her face, "honey--i've come for you. me and gran'pappy is a-goin' to take you right home with us when we go this evenin'. git your things a-ready. me with but one child on this earth, and her a-lookin' forward to what you air, and to stay with--well, of course, not strangers--but with other folks!" but octavia gentry's pleadings were hushed in her throat--the preacher's tall old gray mule and dilapidated wagon was seen stopping at the gate. he had not been expected, and his arrival brought a sense of apprehension--almost of dismay. every one dreaded lest the dour old man comment openly and bitterly upon the pitiful state of callista's affairs. not often had he been known to spare the "i told you so." drumright had brought his wife and brood of younger children, and from [ ] the moment of their advent the house was vocal with them from end to end. elvira drumright inevitably reminded one of a small clucking hen with a train of piping chickens after her. the deep male note was missing in the whiffle of sound that fretted callista's ear; after unhitching the preacher's mule and turning him in the lot, the men had loitered--no doubt because of a lingering dread of the women's activities in the house--to lean against trees and the fences, talking of neighborhood matters. some of the elders sauntered over to inspect a wrongly dished wheel on a new wagon, and talked for twenty minutes of this phenomenon alone. they were joined here by flenton hands, who came riding down the road, and went so wistfully slow as he passed the place that kimbro could not forbear to hail him and bid him light and come in. it was a typical summer sunday at kimbro cleaverage's, and did its part at explaining the always cruelly straitened means of the household. boys were pitching horseshoes in the open space beyond the barn, uncertain whether or not to quit on account of the preacher. the hot, white dust lay in the road; the hot, clear air brooded above the tree-tops. inside the house, the women in the kitchen compared quilt patterns and talked chickens, combining much gossip with the dinner getting. finally it became unbearable to callista to feel that her affairs were being more or less covertly [ ] inspected from all the different angles and points of view possible to the visitors. passing through the kitchen, she possessed herself of the water bucket and slipped off down to the far spring. people did not often bring water from this place. its clear, cool trickle had a medicinal tang, and there was red iron-rust around the edges of its basin. she sat down in the spring hollow on the cool moss with big ferns coming up about her. remembrance was strong within her of that black, raw morning in april when she had lingered desperately here, and she looked long at the judas tree beneath which she had stood. the alders raised a tent over the basin, a tenderly shadowed dome, through the midst of which the little-used spring-path made a bright green vista like a pleached alley. and down this way she was presently aware of sylvane walking, his head thrown back, his clear whistle coming to her before she got the sound of his feet. she shivered a little. the tune he whistled had in it reminiscences of lance's "how many years, how many miles?" "you here, callisty?" asked the boy, parting the branches, and finally coming shyly closer to seat himself on the bank below her. "i wanted to get shut of all the folks," she said, her brooding eyes on the ground at her feet. "oh, not you, sylvane--the rest of them talk so much." the boy smiled uncertainly. [ ] "well, i--reckon i was aimin' to sorter talk, too, callisty," he began timidly. "i 'lowed to tell you about that place where lance is a-workin'. hit's been some time now, an' i ain't never said nothin' to ye--i didn't want to pester ye." poor sylvane was trying, in the mountain phrase, "to make fine weather, an' hit a-rainin'." she made no movement to hush him, and he even thought she listened with some eagerness. "they," he began with hesitation, watching her face, "they're a-gettin' out railroad ties now. that makes the work mighty heavy. it takes lance and bob and andy to run the mill--and sometimes they have to have help. they've got generally as many as eight or ten loggers and woodsmen. they just get the logs up any way they can. last week lance got his foot hurt in a log bunk that he fixed up on the running gears of two wagons. they wanted me to come and drive. they do a lot of snaking out the logs without any wagon at all. reelfoot dawson is the best teamster they've got. that yoke of steers he has can snake logs out of places where a team of mules or horses couldn't so much as get in." callista sighed and turned impatiently towards her young brother-in-law. "where do the men live?" she asked finally, very low, as though half-unwilling to do so. "well, daggett ain't makin' what he expected to, and first they had to camp and cook and do for [ ] theirselves. now they've built shacks--out'n the flawed boards, you know--and all of 'em fetched a quilt or a blanket or such from home, so they can roll up at night on the floor. fletch daggett's wife is cooking for 'em. the day i was there they had white beans and corn bread--and a little coffee. she's a mighty pore cook, and she's got three mighty small chaps under foot." callista's mind went to the new, clean, well-arranged little home on lance's laurel. did old fletch daggett's slovenly, overworked young wife cook any worse than she, callista, had been able to? "it's hot in them board shacks," sylvane went on reflectively; "the hottest place i ever was in. somebody stole lance's comb. there ain't but one wash pan--he goes down to the branch--and he hid his comb. it's a rough place. they fight a good deal." and this was what lance had preferred to her and to the home he had built for her. she fell into such a study over it that sylvane's voice quite startled her when he said, "i--i aimed to ask ye, callisty--did you want me to take word for lance to come home?" "no," she answered him very low. "it ain't my business to bid lance cleaverage come to his own home. don't name it to me again, sylvane, please." the lad regarded her anxiously. more than once [ ] he opened his lips to speak, only to close them, again. slowly the red surged up over his tanned young face, until it burned dark crimson to the roots of his brown hair. "i--you--w'y, callisty," he faltered in a choked, husky whisper, his eyes beseeching forgiveness for such an offense against mountaineer reserve and delicacy. her own pale cheeks flushed faintly as she began to see what was in the poor boy's mind; but her eyes did not flinch, while in an agony of sympathy and burning embarrassment he whispered, "after a while--sis' callie--you'll have obliged--after a while you'll surely send such word." there was silence between them for a long minute, then, "i never will," said callista, in a low, dreary, implacable voice. "you can fill my bucket and carry it up for me if you're a mind, sylvane, i'll set here a spell." callista appeared only briefly at the dinner table, where she said little and ate less, soon slipping away again to her retreat by the far spring. after the meal, the dark court-like vista of the entry invited the guests; from thence a murmur of conversation sounded through all the drowsy afternoon,--the slow desultory conversation of mountaineers. even the play of the children was hushed. [ ] it was one of the few hot days of the mountain season. all the forest drowsed in a vast sun-dream. the cleaverage place itself, for all its swarming life, seemed asleep too. chickens picked and wallowed in the dust; there were no birds, except a cardinal whistling from the hill. the loosed plow-horses drooped in the stable shadow, listless and _ennuye_, looking as if they would rather be at work. only wandering shotes seemed undisturbed by the broad white glare of the sunlight. octavia gentry went home that day from the cleaverage cabin in tears. she waited long and patiently an opportunity to speak alone with her daughter; but when, toward evening, enormous flowers of cumuli blossomed slowly, augustly, in the west, flushed petal on petal opening, to be pushed back by the next above it, and rolling gently away into shadows delicately gray, she went uneasily out into the yard and called to old ajax. while they were talking a heavier cloud, crowding darkly against the western sun, began to send forth long diapason tones of thunder. drumright got suddenly to his feet and hurried to "ketch out" his mule, while his wife rounded up the children. at noon the heat had been palpitant. now a shadow bore relief over all the land; a breeze flew across the wood, turning up the whitish under sides of the leaves; and before they could get started there was a quick thrill of [ ] rain--tepid, perpendicular--and then the sun looking out again within twenty minutes. the shower brought them all indoors. callista came reluctantly from the thicket by the far spring-branch where she had been lingering. octavia made her last appeal publicly, since it might not otherwise be spoken--and was denied. as old ajax helped her into the buckboard, something in her tear-disfigured face seemed to anger him. "well, ye spiled the gal rotten!" he said testily, without introduction or preface, climbing meanwhile to his seat beside her. "ye spiled callisty rotten, that's what ye did! and then ye give her to one of the cussedest highheaded fellers i ever seen--a man that'd as soon take a charge o' buckshot as a dare--a man that'd die before he'd own he's beat. lance cleaverage ain't the meanest man in the world, and callisty would do very well if she could be made to behave; but the two of 'em--" he sighed impatiently, shook his head, and flogged the old horse gently and steadily without in the least affecting its gait. suddenly he spoke out again with a curious air of unwillingness and at much more length than grandfather gentry usually did. "them two was borned and made for each other. ef they can ever fight it out and git to agree, hit'll be one o' the finest matches anybody ever seed. but [ ] _whilst_ they're a fightin' it out--huh-uh,"--his face drew into a look of wincing sympathy--"i don't know as i want ary one of 'em under my roof. i used to raise a good deal of cain o' my own--yes, i played the davil a-plenty. i got through with that as best i might. i'm a old man now. i like to see some peace. i did tell you that you could bid callisty come home with us; but she's done told you no--an' i ain't sorry. she's the onliest gran'child i've got left, an'--i think a heap of her. if she was to come on her own motions--that would be different. but having spiled her as you have did, octavy, best is that you should let her and lance alone for a spell." his daughter-in-law looked at him mutely out of her reddened eyes, and the balance of the drive was made in silence. and so the slow summer drew forward, callista in her father-in-law's house, never going back to the cabin at the head of lance's laurel, sending polly or the widow griever to get things which she now and again needed from the place; lance over in the sawmill camp, working brutally hard, faring wretchedly, and eating his heart out with what he hoped was a brave face. sylvane brought him almost weekly news. he understood that callista's foot never crossed the threshold of the home he had built for her. ola derf hinted that the young wife bought recklessly at the store--and got snubbed for her pains. [ ] she rode out once or twice to try to get him to come and play for a dance; but he shunned the neighborhood as though pestilence were in it, and gave her short answers. no one else importuned him. lance, the loath, the desired and always invited, found that in his present mood people fell away from him. he was good company for nobody, not even for the rough and ready crowd amongst which he found himself. true, he had lived hard, and been a famous hunter, able to care for himself in any environment; but the squalid surroundings of the sawmill camp were almost as foreign to his fastidious man's way of doing things, as they would have been to a neat woman. so he grew to avoid and to be avoided; to sit at a little distance from his mates in the evening; to drop out of their crude attempts at merrymaking, to hold aloof even from the fighting. he was neither quarrelsome nor gay, but sat brooding, inert yet restless, interrogating the future with an ever sinking heart. here was come a thing into his life at which he could not shrug the shoulder. he could not fling this off lightly with a toss of the head or a defiant, "have it as you please." what was he to do? was he not man enough to rule his domestic affairs? could he not command the events and individuals of his own household by simply being himself? to go to callista and exert authority in words, by overt actions, by use [ ] of force--this was not his ideal. it was impossible to him. well, what then? must his child be born under the roof of another? summer wore to autumn with all its solemn grandeur of coloring, all its majestic hush and blue silences over great slopes of tapestried mountains, and still the question was unanswered. callista herself was in the mood when she found it hard to think of anything beyond her own body, the little garment she was fashioning, the day which rounded itself from morning into night again. and now came a new complication. daggett asserted that he had no money to pay. "i'm a-dickerin' with the company," he told his men. "i've got good hopes of sellin' out to 'em. them that stays by me, will get all that's due an' comin'; but i hain't got a cent now; an' a feller that quits me when i cain't he'p myse'f--i'll never trouble to try to pay him." now what to do. credit at the store was all very well for callista's present needs; but lance cleaverage's wife must have a sum of money put at her disposal for the time which was approaching. lance walked from north caney to hepzibah one saturday night to offer satan for sale, and found the black horse lame. the man who had agreed to buy him expressed a willingness to take cindy in his place--the black filly which he had, in the first days of their marriage, given to callista for her own use--presented with sweet [ ] words of praise of his bride's beauty and her charming appearance on the horse--a lover's gift, a bridegroom's. yet the money must be had, and the next time sylvane came across to the lumber camp, he carried back with him and put into his young sister-in-law's listless hand the poor price of the little filly. nothing roused callista these days, not even when flenton hands went down to the settlement and bought cindy from the man who had purchased her. that was his account of the transaction, but sylvane said indignantly to his father that he believed flenton hands got that feller to buy lance's filly. flenton rode up on his own rawboned sorrel, leading the little black mare who whinnied and put forward her ears to callista's caresses. "yes, i did--i bought her," he repeated. "i hadn't nary bit of use for such a animal, but i couldn't see yo' horse--yo's, callista--in the hands of a man like snavely." callista held a late apple to the velvety, nuzzling mouth that came searching in her palms for largess. she made no inquiry, and flenton hands went on. "snavely's the meanest man to stock that i ever did see. he overworks and he underfeeds, and he makes up the lack of oats with a hickory--that's what he does. he'd nigh about 'a' killed this little critter, come spring." [ ] and still callista had nothing to offer. "how's all your folks, flent?" she said finally. "tol'able--jest tol'able," hands repeated the formula absently. "callisty, ef you'll take the little mare from me as a gift, she's yourn." lance's wife drew back with a burning blush. "take cindy--from you?" she echoed sharply. there rushed over her heart, like an air from a kinder world, memory of that exquisite hour when lance had given cindy to her--lance whose words of tenderness and praise, his kiss, the kindling look of his eye, could so crown and sceptre her he loved. her lips set hard. "i'd be proud to have ye take her," flenton repeated. "thank you--no," returned callista, briefly, haughtily. her small head was crested with the movement that always fascinated the man before her. that unbending pride of hers, to him who had in fact no real self-respect, was inordinately compelling. he had felt sure she would not take the horse, and he was the freer in offering the gift. "well, ef ye won't, ye won't" he said resignedly. "but ef you ever change yo' mind, callisty--remember that cindy and me is both a-waitin' for ye." and with this daring and enigmatic speech, he wheeled the sorrel and rode away, the little black's light feet pattering after the clumsier animal. [ ] chapter xvi. lance cleaverage's son. summer lasted far into fall that year, its procession of long, fair, dreamful days like a strand of sumptuous beads. at the last of november came a dash of rain, frost, and again long, warm days, with the mist hanging blue in the valleys as though the camp-fires of autumn smoked in their blaze of scarlet and gold, their shadows of ochre and umber. "but we're goin' to ketch it for this here," roxy griever kept saying pessimistically. "bound to git about so much cold in every year, and ef you have summer time mighty nigh on up to christmas, hit'll freeze yo' toes when it does come." callista held to her resolution to send no message to the sawmill on north caney. but the family had debated the matter, consulting with lance himself, and agreeing to summon him home, if possible, in ample season. at his sister's gloomy weather predictions, sylvane grew uneasy lest the time arrive and lance be storm-stayed in dagget's camp. he almost resolved to go and fetch him at once, and run the chance of good coming from it. but the spell of pleasant weather and a press of work put it out of his mind. then came a [ ] day when the sun rose over low-lying clouds into a fleece of cirri that caught aflame with his mounting. the atmosphere thickened slowly hour by hour into a chill mist that, toward evening, became a drizzle. "this here's only the beginning of worse," said kimbro at the supper table. "looks to me like we're done with fall. to-morrow is the first day o' winter--and you'll see it will be winter sure enough." at dawn next morning the wind rose, threshing the woods with whips of stringing rain. stock about the lean little farms began to huddle into shelter. belated workers at tasks which should have been laid by, found it hard to make head against the wild weather. the men at the sawmill kindled a wonderful radiance of hickory fire in the great chimney which lance had built more to relieve his own restlessness than with any thought of their comfort. "why, consarn yo' time!" blev straley deprecated as he edged toward it. "a man cain't set clost enough to that thar fire to spit in hit!" sylvane knew when this day came, that he must go for his brother. about noon the rain ceased, and, with its passing, the wind began to blow harder. at first it leaped in over the hills like a freed spirit, glad and wild, tossing the wet leaves to the flying clouds, laughing in the round face of the hunter's moon which rose that evening full and red. but it grew and grew like the bottle genii drunken [ ] with strength; its laughter became a rudeness, its pranks malicious; it was a dancing satyr, roughly-riotous, but still full of living warmth and glee. it shouted down the chimney; it clattered the dry vines by the porch, and wrenched at everything left loose-ended about the place; it whooped and swung through the straining forest. but by night it sank to a whisper, as sylvane finally made his way into the camp. the next morning dawn walked in peace like a conquering spirit across the whiteness of snow, wind-woven overnight into great laps and folds of sculpture. as the day lengthened the cold strengthened. again the wind wakened and now it was a wild sword song in the tree tops. ice glittered under the rays of a sun which warmed nothing. it was a day of silver and steel. the frost bit deep; under the crisping snow the ground rang hard as iron. wagons on the big road could be heard for a mile. as the two brothers passed daggett's cow lot on setting forth, with its one lean heifer standing humped and shivering in the angle of the wall, sylvane spoke. "reckon we'll have pretty hard work gettin' crost the gulch." he glanced at lance's shoes. "this here snow is right wet, too--but hit's a freezin'. maybe we'd better go back an' wait till to-morrow--hit'll be solid by then." "i aimed to go to-day," said lance, quite as if sylvane had not come for him. "i'll stop a-past derf's and get me a pair of shoes, buddy." [ ] no more was said, and they fared on. there was no cheerful sound of baying dogs as they passed the wayside cabins. the woods were ghostly still. the birds, the small furry wild creatures crept into burrow and inner fastness, under the impish architecture of the ice and snow. going up past taylor peavey's board shanty, they found that feckless householder outside, grabbling about in the snow for firewood. "my wife, she's down sick in the bed," he told them; "an' i never 'lowed it would come on to be as chilly as what it is; an' her a-lyin' there like she is, she's got both her feet froze tol'able bad." the cleaverage brothers paused in their desperate climb to help haul down a leaning pine tree near the flimsy shack. they left the slack peavy making headway with a dull axe whose strokes followed them hollowly as they once more entered the white mystery and wonder of the forest. arrival at derf's place was almost like finding warmer weather. the half dozen buildings were thick and well tightened, and the piles of firewood heaped handy were like structures themselves. "it's sin that prospers in this world," jeered the gentle sylvane, blue with cold, heartsick as he looked at his brother's set face, poor clothing and broken shoes. lance stepped ahead of the boy, silent but unsubdued, bankrupt of all but the audacious spirit within him. garrett derf admitted them to the store, which [ ] was closed on account of the bitter weather that kept everybody housed. but there was a roaring fire in the barrel stove in its midst, and after a time the silent lance approached it warily, putting out first one foot and then the other. derf, in an overcoat, stood across by the rude desk, fiddling somewhat uneasily. "i hain't figured out your account, cleaverage," he observed at last; "but i reckon you hain't much overdrawn. likely you'll be able to even it up befo' spring--ef miz. cleaverage don't buy quite so free as what she has been a-doin'." there was a long, significant silence, the wind crying at the eaves, and bringing down a fine rattle of dry snow to drum on the hollow roof above their heads. at first, neither of the half-perished men looked up, but sylvane instinctively drew a little nearer to his brother. "w'y--w'y, mr. derf," he began, with an indignant tremble in his boyish voice, "i've fetched every order for sis' callie, and packed home every dollar's worth she bought. hit don't look to me like they could amount to as much as lance's wages. lance is obliged to have a pair of shoes." lance cast a fiery, silencing glance at his brother. "i ain't obliged to have anything that ain't comin' to me," he said sharply. "callisty's bought nothin' that wasn't proper. ef she needed what was here--that's all right with me," and he turned and walked steadily from the room. [ ] "hey--hold on, you lance cleaverage!" derf called after him. "thar you go--like somebody wasn't a-doin' ye right. i'll trust you for a pair of shoes." in the wide-flung doorway, lance wheeled and looked back at him, a gallant figure against the flash of snow outside--gallant in spite of his broken shoes and the tattered coat on his back. "go on. buddy," he said gently, pointing sylvane past him. then he turned to derf. "you will?" he inquired of the man who, he knew, was trying to rob him. "you'll trust me? well, garrett derf, it'll be a colder day than this when i come to you and ask for trust." and without another word he stepped out into the snow and set his face toward his father's house. he even passed the boy with a kind of smile, and something of the old light squaring of the shoulder. "it ain't so very far now. buddy," he said. sylvane followed doggedly. the last few miles were merely a matter of endurance, the rapid motion serving to keep the warmth of life in their two bodies. octavia gentry, coming to the back door of the cleaverage home, found lance sitting on a little platform there, rubbing his feet with snow, while sylvane crouched on the steps, getting off his own shoes. "i thought i'd be on the safe side," lance said in an unshaken voice. "they might be frost-bit [ ] and then they might not. no need to go to the fire with 'em till i can get some feeling in 'em. how"--and now the tones faltered a little--"how is she?" octavia's horrified eyes went from the feet his busy hands were chafing with snow, to his lean, brown, young face, where the skin seemed to cling to the bone, and the eyes were quite too large. "she's doin' well," choked the mother. "the doctor's been gone five hours past. it's a boy, honey. they're both asleep now. oh, my poor lance--my poor lance!" a sudden glow shone in the hazel eyes. lance turned and smiled at her so that the tears ran over her face. he set down the lump of snow he had just taken up in his hand, and rising began to stamp softly. "it's all right, mother," he said, in a tone that was almost gay. "i'm 'feared sylvane's worse off." but it appeared on inquiry that sylvane's shoes had proved almost water tight, and that a brief run in the snow was all he wanted to send him in the house tingling with warmth. roxy griever, hearing the voices, had hurried out. her troubled gaze went over lance's half perished face and body, the whole worn, poor, indomitable aspect of him, even while she greeted him. with an almost frightened look, she turned and ran into the house, crying hastily, [ ] "i'll have some hot coffee for you-all boys mighty quick." and when he came limping in, a few minutes later, there was an appetizing steam from the hearth where polly crouched beside mary ann martha, whispering over a tale. dry foot-wear was found for the newcomers, and when they were finally seated in comfort at their food, both women gazed furtively at lance's thin cheeks, the long unshorn curls of his hair, and octavia wept quietly. when he had eaten and sat for a little time by the fire, he caught at his mother-in-law's dress as she went past, and asked with an upward glance that melted her heart, "how soon may i go in thar?" they both glanced toward the door of the spare room. "i reckon you could go in right now, ef you'd be mighty quiet," octavia debated, full of sympathy. "what do you say, miz. griever?" "well, we might take him in for a spell, i reckon," roxy allowed dubiously, more sensible to the importance of the occasion, when men are apt to be hustled about and treated with a lack of consideration they endure at no other time. lance rose instantly; his hand was on the knob of the door before roxy and octavia reached him. when they did so, he turned sharply and cast one swift look across his shoulder. without a word his mother-in-law drew the widow griever back. [ ] lance cleaverage entered alone the chamber that contained his wife and son. closing the door softly behind him, he came across the floor, stepping very gently, lest he waken the sleepers in the big four-poster bed. when he stood at last beside the couch and looked down at them, something that had lived strong in him up to this moment died out, and its place was taken by something else, which he had never till then known. he gazed long at callista's face on the pillow. she was very thin, his poor callista; her temples showed the blue veins, the long oval of her cheek was without any bloom. beside her, in the curve of her arm, lay the little bundle of new life. by bending forward, he could get a glimpse of the tiny face, and a sort of shock went through him at the sight. this was his son--lance cleaverage's son! with deft fingers he rolled the sheet away from the baby's countenance, so that he had a view of both, then sinking quietly to his knees, he studied them. here was wife and child. confronting him whose boyish folly had broken up the home on lance's laurel, was the immortal problem of the race. a son--and lance had it in him, when life had sufficiently disciplined that wayward pride of his, to make a good father for a son. long and silently he knelt there, communing with himself concerning this new element thrust into his plan, this candidate for citizenship on that island where [ ] he had once figured the bliss of dwelling alone with callista. gropingly he searched for the clue to what his own attitude should now be. he had lived hard and gone footsore for the two of them. that was right, wasn't it? a man must do his part in the world. his own ruthers came after that. he recognized this as the test. before, it had been the girl to be won; the bride, still to be wooed. in outward form these two were already his; could he make and hold them truly his own? could he take them with him to that remote place where his spirit abode so often in loneliness? callista's eyes, wide and clear, opened and fixed themselves on his. for some time she lay looking. she seemed to be adjusting the present situation. then with a little whispered, childish cry, "lance--oh, lance!" she put out feeble arms to him, and he bent his face, tear-wet, to hers. [ ] [illustration: "he gazed long at callista's face on the pillow."] chapter xvii. the coasts of the island. lance cleaverage remained at his father's house for a week, saying little, assisting deftly and adequately in the care of callista, wondering always at the marvelous newcomer, and so rulable, so helpful and void of offense, that roxy had her rod broken in her hand, and was forced to an unwilling admiration of him. "looks like sis' callie is about to be the makin' o' lance," she told her father. "i believe in my soul if she was a church member she'd have him convicted of sin at the next quarterly." conviction of sin was always sadly lacking in lance; he was aware that the cards sometimes went against him in the game of life, but to hint that he could himself be blamed with it was to instantly rouse the defiant devil that counseled his soul ill. at the end of the week, there was a little family conference, very sweet and harmonious, with callista lying propped in her bed, the baby beside her, and old kimbro sitting by the fire, while octavia and roxy worked at a little garment which the former had made and brought over, and which did not quite fit the boy. mary ann martha, absolutely good because absolutely [ ] happy, lolled luxuriously in her uncle lance's lap, and took the warmth of the fire on her fat legs, while she occasionally rolled a blissful eye toward the face above her, or suddenly shot up a chubby hand to flap against his cheek or chin in a random caress. uncle lance had in her eyes no flaw. others might criticise him, to mary ann martha it was given to see only his perfections. "yes, son," old kimbro concluded what he had been saying, "i surely would go back to daggett's and work out my time. derf can't hold to what he said. i had sylvane bring me every one of those orders before he carried them to the store, and i copied them off in a book. garrett derf will have obliged to back down from that talk he had the day you was there--likely he'll say he was jest a-funnin'. as for thatch daggett, the company is behind him now, and he'll have obliged to pay, come spring. you need the money. you can't do nothin' on your place now. i'd go back and work it out at daggett's." like many another man with the reputation of being impractical, old kimbro's advice on financial matters was always particularly sound. from his warm place by the fire. lance flashed a swift glance across at his wife and child. callista was so absorbed in the baby that she had paid small attention to what her father-in-law was saying. well--and the color deepened on lance's brown cheek--if it was a matter of indifference to her, he [ ] would not urge it upon her attention. but sylvane, watching, came to the rescue. "what do you think about it, sis' callie?" he suggested gently. "about what?" inquired callista; and then when she was enlightened, "oh, i reckon father cleaverage knows best. i shouldn't want to move the baby in cold weather. if you're a mind to go over and finish out, lance, i'll be in the house and ready for you, come spring," and she looked kindly at her husband. and so it was settled. lance went back to the gross hardships of the sawmill camp, the ill-cooked food, the overworked little woman in the dingy cabin with the fretting children under foot, the uncongenial companionship of the quarreling men. in early spring he came home, still thin and worn, and even more silent than was his wont. callista had kept her word; she was domiciled in the cabin on lance's laurel, and she had sylvane get her truck patch almost ready. in the well nigh feverish activity of first motherhood, she had learned in these few months to be a really superior housewife, and a master hand at all that a mountain housekeeper should know. roxy griever was but too willing to teach, and callista had needed only to have her energies and attention enlisted. she had a sound, noble physique; maternity had but developed her; and she was very obviously mistress of herself as well as of the [ ] house when lance came over from the sawmill cabin to find her there with his son, awaiting him. he stopped a moment on the threshold. his appreciative glance traveled over the neat interior, and he sniffed the odors of a supper preparing. this was a homecoming indeed. here, surely, were the coasts of his island; and callista, bending over his child, drawing the cover around the baby before she turned to greet lance, a figure to comfort a man's heart. "you look fine here," he told her, entering, hanging up his hat, and disposing of the bundles he had been carrying. callista advanced smiling to him and lifted her face to be kissed. self-absorbed, wholly pleased with her house and her baby, and her newly discovered gift for work, and for administration, she never noted the quick, wild question of his eyes, which was as swiftly veiled. "the baby's asleep already," she announced softly. "we got to be right quiet." nodding silently. lance picked up some of the things he had brought, and carried them out to the shed, whence callista, later, summoned him to supper. old kimbro proved to be right. lance, having held by his contract till spring, was able to collect the poor little balance of his wages, and on this they proposed to live while he got the place in the gap in some shape to support them. satan [ ] was well now, but it fretted lance unreasonably that he could not buy cindy back from flenton hands. with characteristic insouciance and unusual energy, he set to work on the gigantic task of subduing his large tract of steep, wild, mountain land. no doubt he worked too hard that summer; people of lance's temperament are always working too hard--or not working at all. as for callista, the first eagerness of her mere passion for lance was satisfied. she was no more the warm, tender, young girl, almost pathetically in love,--even though proud and wilful and somewhat spoiled--but the composed, dignified mother of a son and mistress of a home. she had once been too little of a house-mother for her man, and now she was rather too much. yet lance went no more abroad for consolation. after his settlement with derf, he had refused to put foot on their place again. this was not the season for hunting. he comforted himself with his banjo, and enjoyed too, in its own measure, the well-kept home, the excellently prepared food, the placid, calm, good-will of his mate. and the child was callista over again; big blue eyes, a fuzz of pale gold down, and an air of great wisdom and dignity. as he grew able to sit up alone on the floor and manage his own playthings, one saw laughably enough his mother's slant glance of scorn, that which had been considered her affectation of indifference, reproduced in the [ ] baby's manner. between mother and son, lance sometimes felt himself reduced to his lowest terms. yet they thrived, for the welfare of a primitive; household still depends more upon the woman than on the man. if lance's restless fancy--that questioning, eager heart of his--lacked something of full satisfaction, his body was well fed, his household comfort was complete, and his material work laid out plainly before him. and lance could work so well and to such good purpose that at midsummer his clearing had assumed very respectable size, and the small crop he had made was laid by. even callista agreed that they might now make the trip lance had proposed more than a year ago, over to the east fork of caney. that camping trip was well thought of. it instantly reversed the family balance, and sent lance's end swinging higher. if callista dominated the house, and her spirit was coming to pervade the farm as well. lance was supreme in this matter of the gipsying excursion. "you needn't bother your head about what to pack," he told her. "i reckon i'll know better than you do what we'll need, exceptin' the things for that young man you make so much of." so callista concerned herself with the baby's outfit and her own, with assurance that her jars were in order, and that she had enough sugar to put up jam. the other berries could be [ ] canned without sugar, and sweetened when they came to use them. a joyous bustle of preparation pervaded the place; that play spirit which was necessary to lance cleaverage, and which callista would quite innocently and unconsciously have crushed out of him if she could, was all alert and dancing at the prospect. he came into his wife's kitchen and packed flour and meal, frying pan and dutch oven, with various other small matters necessary, observing as the bacon went in, "we won't need much of that, excepting to fry fish and help out with wild meat. the law's off of pa'tridges in the valley next month, and it's sure off of 'em up here now." callista, sitting on the table, swinging a foot to keep the baby trotted on her knee, looked on smilingly. "when blev straley and his wife camped out and canned blackberries, they hadn't any nag," she commented. "he had to take the things in a wheelbarrow, and it looked like some places he couldn't hardly get acrost; but miranda said she had the best time she ever had in her life." kimbro cleaverage was teaching school over in the far cove. for fifteen years he had taught this little summer school; his pupils now were the children of the first boys and girls who came under his rule. his neighbors held toward the gentle soul a patronizing, almost tolerant attitude. true, he managed the winter school nearer home, having [ ] little trouble with the big boys, the bullies, the incorrigibles; while it was well understood that the peaceful, who wanted to learn, could get on powerful fast under his tuition. yet there were those who deprecated the mildness of his sway, and allowed that he was really better suited to the small children, the anxious-faced little boys, too young yet to follow the plow, the small girls who had just finished dropping corn or "suckering the crop." that these dearly loved the master was held to be an unimportant detail, and his aversion to plying the hickory was always cited in regard to lance's misdoings. when his father was away teaching, the management, and all the labor of the wornout little farm fell on sylvane's young shoulders. lance had promised his brother the use of satan for the week when they should be in camp. the boy came over to help them pack. it was a july morning without flaw, blue and green and golden, and brooded upon by the full-hearted peace of ripe summer. bedding and kitchen supplies were put in two big bundles arranged pannier fashion on the black horse, and firmly lashed in place by a pair of plow lines. "why don't you put it up on his back?" callista asked them, coming out with her eight month's old baby, all in order for the journey. "that's to leave place for you to ride part of the time," lance told her. "it's a right smart ways [ ] we're going, and that son of yours is tol'able heavy, and half the time you won't let me tote him." so they set off, sylvane walking ahead at satan's bridle, whistling and singing by turns, lance with his banjo on his back, callista at first carrying the boy because he wanted her to, and afterward relinquishing him to lance or sylvane. the route lay over springy leaf-mold, under great trees for the most part, leaving the main road, and taking merely an occasional cattle-path, while always it wound upward. after a time, the timber became more scattered, and from going forward under a leafage that shut out the rising sun, there were patches of open, meadow-like grasses, called by the mountain dweller, balds, interspersed with groups of cedars and oaks. the last mile was up the dry bed of caney, and it consisted of a scramble over great boulders, where only a mountain-bred horse might keep his footing. turning suddenly and scaling a bank that was like a precipice, one came on lance's find, a cup-like hollow between the cleft portions of a mountain peak, where the great gray rocks lay strewn thick, the ferns grew waist high, and the trickling spring-branch was so blue-cold that it made your teeth ache to drink of it even on a summer's day. the three stood for a moment silent, on the edge of the miniature valley, studying its perfections with loving eyes; the mountaineer leads all others [ ] in passionate admiration for the beauty of his native highlands. "oh, lance!" callista said at length, very softly. "you never told me it was as sightly as all this." "couldn't," murmured lance, pleased to the soul. "i ain't got the words by me." sylvane helped them unpack, waited for a hasty dinner for himself and satan; then having agreed to return for them at the end of a week, he went back, leading his black horse, looking with boyish envy over his shoulder at the happy little group in the hidden pocket of the hills. when he was out of sight of them, he could still see the blue smoke of their camp fire rising clear and high, and stopping to mount satan, when the trail became fit for it, he hearkened a moment, and thought he heard the sound of the banjo. it was lance who made the camp, deftly, swiftly; callista looked after her baby and explored their new domain, moving about, girlish, light-footed, singing to herself, so that the eyes of the man bending over his task followed her eagerly. two great boulders leaning together made them a rock house. lance soon had a chimney up, of loose stones to be sure, but drawing sufficiently to keep the smoke out of your eyes unless the wind was more perverse than a summer breeze is apt to be. that evening they ate a supper of the cooked food they had brought and rested as the first pair [ ] might have done in eden, sleeping soundly on their light, springy couch of tender hemlock tips. but next day lance fished in the little stream and came up with a wonderful catch of tiny silver-sided, rainbow trout, cleaned and laid in a great leaf-cup ready for the frying pan. "lance, oh lance!--ain't it too bad?" callista greeted him from the fire where she had her cornbread nearly ready to accompany his fish. "i believe in my soul we've come clean over here and forgot the salt--the salt! i put some in my meal, or the bread wouldn't be fit to eat. do you reckon the meat fryings will make your fish taste all right? no--of course it won't. i'm mighty sorry. looks like that is certainly the prettiest fish i ever saw in my life, and they're so good right fresh from the water." "it is too bad," agreed lance, with a very sober countenance, going ahead however with his preparations. "'pears as if somebody in this crowd is a pore manager." "it's me. lance," callista hastened to avow, kneeling by their primitive hearthstone to tend her bread. "it was my business to see that the salt was in; but i got so took up with the baby that i left everything to you; and a body can't expect a man--" she broke off; lance, kneeling beside her, engaged in his own enterprise of fish-frying had suddenly turned and kissed her flushed [ ] cheek. there was always a sort of embarrassment in this unusual demonstrativeness of her husband's; and yet it subdued her heart as nothing else could, as nothing had ever done. that heart beat swiftly and the long fair lashes lay almost on the glowing cheek above where lance had kissed. a few moments later, when the primitive meal was spread under the open sky, callista tasted her fish. "lance!" she looked at him reproachfully. "you rogue! you had salt along with you all the time! why didn't you tell me, and put my mind at rest?" "i'm not so terrible sure that a restful mind is what's needed in your case," lance teased her. "i thought you looked mighty sweet and sounded mighty sweet, too, when you was a blamin' yourse'f." lance had spoken truly when he praised the huckleberries that grew in the little valley where nobody came to pick them. they stood thick all over its steep, shelving sides, taller bushes than those of the lowland, with great blue berries, tender of skin, sun sweetened, bursting with juice. callista was almost wearisome in her triumph over the fruit. forest fires and drought had made the berry crop nearer home a failure this year; she would be the only woman in the neighborhood with such canned huckleberries to boast of. she picked them tirelessly, making work of her play, callista [ ] fashion, spreading her apron under the bush and raking down green ones, leaves and all, into it, then afterward harrying lance into helping her look them over while the baby played near by or slept. this gipsying was not her plan; she had come along in mere complaisance; yet in the simple outdoor life she throve beautifully; her cheeks rounded out, and her temples lost their bleached look; she was the old delicious callista, with an added glow and bloom and softness. it was in the early days of their stay, that lance, with the air of a boy disclosing to some chosen companion a long-cherished treasure, took her by a circuitous way up the steep wall of their little valley, and helping her around a big boulder and through a thicket of laurel, showed her the opening of a cave. man-high the entrance was, with a tiny cup of a spring in its lap; but six or eight feet in there was an abrupt turning so that the cave's extent was entirely hidden. he stood smilingly by, enjoying her astonishment. "why, lance!" she cried. "well, i vow! why, no one in the world would ever suspicion there was a cave here!" the two turned to look back at their camp, only to find themselves wholly screened by the oblique side of the great boulder and the laurel bushes, cut off from sight and sound of all that went on in the little valley. "they sure never would," lance assented. [ ] "and i've never told a soul--_but_ sylvane--about the place. i was even kind o' duberous about showing you," and he laughed teasingly. "might need a hide-out some time, that nobody didn't know where to find." there was a phoebe-bird's nest just at the opening of the cave. lance drew callista back, both of them standing half crouched, while the mother, returning home, flitted past them and fed her babies. "mighty late for that business," whispered lance. "second brood, i reckon," callista murmured back. "or maybe got broke up with the first brood," lance added. the little dell was so remote that the birds were less shy than where they have been intruded upon by man and civilization, and the mother betrayed little uneasiness when the two visitors crept closer. "my, ain't it scairy!" callista said, peering beyond into the cave. then, as they descended the bank once more, "hit looked like there might be wildcats in it." "i aimed to explore it this time and get to the end if i could," lance replied. "i was fifteen year old when i found that place, and i used to scheme it out, like a boy will, that if i'd ever go with the jesse james gang, or kill a man, or anything [ ] to get the law out after me, i'd hide there; and then, oncet caney was up, all the world couldn't find me." "what'd you eat?" objected practical callista. lance smiled. "i could take care of myself in the woods about as well as any of the critters," he told her. "i reckon i'd have to come and bring you a pone," bantered callista. and they turned and smiled happily into each other's eyes, all in the blue, unclouded summer, with the baby asleep back in the rock house, and the two of them climbing down to him and their gipsy home hand in hand. and now perfect day followed perfect day. the work of the camp was frolic to lance; he did it laughing, as he would have gone through a game, and then tolerantly helped callista with the play of which she made work. the high noon of summer brooded over the mountains, with a wonderful blue haze and a silence that was almost palpable. in their little cup of the hills, there was a hoarded wine of coolness. the drowsy tinkle of the tiny branch that ran from their spring backgrounded the rare sound of their voices. and lance would lie full length on the earth as he loved to do, strumming sometimes on his banjo, drowsing a little, amusing and being amused by the baby. callista, her head bent, her face intent above the work, would be picking over her [ ] berries. the boy was intensely, solemnly interested in the banjo; but when its music ceased, he would roll away from his father's arm and creep to his mother's skirts, there to cuddle down and sleep, a dimpled picture of infantile perfection. lance would regard them both from under his lashes. beauty-worshipper that he was, they satisfied every whim and caprice of longing, so far as the eyes spoke. and they were his. callista was his own, she had come with him to the place he found for her; she was an amiable, complying companion. and yet--and yet-- the birds were all silent now, except for an occasional chirp or twitter in among the leafage. the little breeze that seemed to live only in their high eyrie went by softly, making its own music. "how many miles, how many years?" but there were no longer miles and years between him and his beloved. no, she was within hand-reach. he could stretch forth his fingers and touch the hem of her skirts. with an impatient sigh he would turn over and take up his banjo. "don't play now, lance--you'll wake the baby," callista would murmur half mechanically, in that hushed tone mothers learn so soon. one day lance snared a couple of partridges, and, cleaning and salting them, roasted them with the feathers on, by daubing each with the stiff, tough blue clay of the region, and burying the balls in the embers. they came out delicious. when [ ] the clay coating was broken off, feathers and skin went with it, leaving all the delicate juices of the meat steaming, his helpmate praised his skill generously. "ola derf showed me that trick," lance said, in fairness, clearing a dainty little drumstick with his teeth. "we was fishing over on laurel one day, and we didn't get no fish. so she caught a couple of chickens, and cooked them that-a-way. good, ain't they?" callista nodded. "whose chickens were they--them you and ola derf caught?" she asked, after a moment's silence. lance laughed long and uproariously. "whose chickens?" he repeated. "our'n, i reckon, oncet we'd cooked 'em and et 'em. i never axed 'em their names. they tasted all right. i ain't got no objections to strangers--in chickens that-a-way." "i don't think that was right," callista-told him with great finality. "it's likely some poor old woman had her mouth all fixed for chicken dinner, or was going to have the preacher at her house, and then you and ola stole her chickens and she never knew what became of them. i think it was right mean." "so do i," agreed lance lightly. "that's the reason i enjoyed it. i get mighty tired of bein' good." [ ] "you do?" inquired his wife with gay scorn. "i didn't know you'd ever had the chance." yet of this conversation remained the knowledge that such gipsying meals as this had been eaten with ola derf before she and lance cooked for each other. had he found ola an entirely satisfactory companion? evidently not, for he could have had her for the asking. did she, callista, compare in any way unfavorably with the derf girl? such questionings were new to callista, and they were decidedly uncomfortable. she resented them; yet she could not quite put them by. lance was used to sleeping the deep and dreamless slumber of those who labor much in the open air; but on the last night of their stay in the little hollow by the spring, he lay long awake. "callista, air you asleep?" he inquired with caution. "n--no," murmured callista drowsily. "well, somehow i cain't git to sleep," said lance. "i feel like this rock house was goin' to fall down on me. i believe i'd like to take my blanket out there on the grass if you won't be scared to be alone. you could call to me." callista assented, only half awake. once sprawled at ease under the stars, sleep seemed definitely to have forsaken him. he lay and stared up into the velvety blue-black spaces above him. his mind went dreamily over the past few days. how good it had been. and yet--he [ ] broke off and ruminated for awhile on whether or no a body should ever cherish a plan for years as he had cherished this plan of camping out some time in the rock house with callista. it seemed to him that if a man had planned a thing for so long, it was better not to bring it to pass, for the reality could never compare favorably with the dream. he sighed impatiently, and turned his face resolutely down against the grass, dew-wet and cool. but there was no sleep for him in the earth, as there had been none in the heavens. before his eyes, quite as real as daylight seeing, came the vision of callista and his boy. there was not such a woman nor such a child in all his knowledge. he had chosen well. idle dreams of callista as a girl among her mates; of callista lying spent and white in her bed with his child, new born, on her arm; of callista kneeling flushed and housewifely by this outdoor hearth to prepare his meal--these strung themselves into an endless, tantalizing line, a shadowy gallery of pictures, a visioned processional, each face in some sort a stranger's. what was it he had thought to compass by coming here with her? why was the realization not enough? through dreams and waking this question followed him, giving him no deep rest; and dawn found him already afoot and busy with the preparations for their return home. [ ] chapter xviii. the hegira. callista roused that morning, to see lance moving, light-footed, a shadow between her and the first struggling blaze of the fire he had kindled. with sleepy surprise she noted his activities. when she observed that he was packing her canned fruit, with quick, deft fingers, she inquired, "what you doin' there. lance? no use fixin' them up now. sylvane won't be here till in the morning." lance broke off the low whistling which had wakened her, and turned to regard his wife for a moment before he spoke. "i thought i'd get this packing done," he said non-committally. "if we was to go home to-day i could tote whatever we needed, and buddy could fetch over the heaviest stuff to-morrow." callista dozed a little luxuriously, and woke to a smell of boiling coffee and frying pork. "you've got breakfast enough there for three people," she commented, when she finally drew near the fire. "uh-huh," assented lance. "i 'lowed sylvane might come to-day, place of saturday. anyhow, [ ] we'll need something for a bite on the way." and callista realized that her husband was indeed making the final preparations for their return. as they sat down either side the frying pan, and callista lifted the lid from the dutch oven to take the bread out, they became aware of the sound of scrambling hoofs and parting branches. whenever there was high water in caney, this little valley was cut off, it was a retreat unknown, unvisited; the newcomer could be nobody but sylvane. a moment later the boy made his appearance, clambering over the rocks, leading satan by a long line. "i 'lowed you-all wouldn't mind coming back a day sooner," he apologized, as he gratefully seated himself for an addition to his hastily snatched breakfast eaten by candle-light. "they's a feller that the company has sent up to look over lands, and he's a-buyin' mineral rights--or ruther, gettin' options--on everybody's farms. they'll pay big prices, and sis' roxy said i ought to come and tell lance of it." the man listened indifferently, but the woman was all aglow. the touch of practical life had dissolved whatever of the gipsy mood lance's nature had been able to lend hers. she questioned the boy minutely. lance listening with ill-concealed impatience; and when the subject was exhausted, began to ask him with great particularity concerning her truck patch at home and [ ] whether spotty, the young cow lance had traded with squire ashe for, was doing well in her milk. in spite of lance's packing, there was much to do before camp could be struck, and on account of the canned fruit they moved so slowly that noon saw them still in the wilderness, dropping down by the stream's side to eat the snack they had brought with them. they went around by father cleaverage's this time, and stopped there, since callista intended to present a few of her cherished huckleberries to roxy, and they reached the cabin at the head of lance's laurel late in the afternoon. for some reason which he could not himself have told you, lance felt strangely wearied and dissatisfied. he looked back to the week past, and admitted that all had gone well; days of fishing and dreaming, evenings under the open sky with the banjo humming, the not unwelcome fire leaping up, and the baby asleep on callista's lap. could a man have asked more? the son of the house had thriven amazingly on it, and this evening he was assuming airs so domineering that his father professed fear of him. "look a here, young feller," lance said, as the big eight-months-old came creeping across the floor and hammered on his knee to be taken up, "you're about to run me out o' the house." he lifted his son on his arm, and, carrying the banjo in the other hand, beyond reach of the clutching, [ ] fat fingers, went to the doorstone with them. "oh, you're your mammy over again," he admonished the baby. "you don't own up to me at all. i wisht i had me a nice gal o' your size, that would admit i was her daddy." callista had her supper nearly ready. growing now, with motherhood, intensely material,--or, as lance had more than once jokingly declared, a trifle grasping,--the selling of the land to the company for a big price occupied all her thoughts. "you'll go over to squire ashe's soon in the morning, won't you lance and see about the land?" she questioned. "sylvane said the man was stayin' at ashe's." "i don't know as i want to sell," the owner of jesse lance's gap hundred observed indifferently, running random little chords on his banjo. "i ain't rightly studied about it." "well, i wish you would study about it," urged callista. "i think it's your duty to." "i think it's your duty to, duty to, dute," hummed lance to a twanging accompaniment from the strings. "looks like i've heard them words before somewheres. i'll be blessed if that ain't sis' roxy's tune you've took up, callista!" "your sister does her duty in this world," asserted callista tartly. "it's nothing but the mineral rights, they'll want. all that talk you had this mornin' about the land coming from your [ ] gran'pappy, and your not wanting to leave it, is just to--to have your own way." lance raised his eyebrows. "would you say so?" he debated, his voice quiet, but the spark shining deep in his hazel eye. "well now, i'd have said--if you'd axed me--that i've had my own way most generally without resorting to such. i'm ruther expectin' to have my own way from this time out, and take no curious methods of gettin' it." "well, what are you going to do about selling the land?" she persisted. lance lifted the baby's fat hand and pretended to pick the banjo strings with the pointed, inadequate fingers, to the young man's serious enjoyment. callista waited for what she considered a reasonable time, and then prompted. "lance. lance, did you hear me?" "oh, yes, i heared you well enough," lance told her composedly. "i was just a-studyin' on the matter." again silence, punctuated by the aimless twanging of the banjo strings, the little sounds from the summer world without, the quick, light tapping of callista's feet and the little whisper of her skirts as she moved about her task. "well--have you studied?" she inquired abruptly at length. "uh-huh," agreed lance negligently, curling himself down on the doorstone a little further, [ ] "an' i'm studyin' yet. ye see that there feller they sent out for an agent met me on the big road one day about a month ago and bantered me to trade. i told him i'd let him know, time i got back." "and you never named it to me!" callista said sharply, pausing, dish in hand by the table side, and staring at her husband with reprehending eyes. "you never said a word to me about it; and you went off on that foolish camping trip! for the good gracious, i don't know what men are made of!" "some are made of one thing, and some of another," allowed lance easily, leaning his head back against the door jamb and half closing his eyes. "before we went away," repeated callista reproachfully. "maybe you've lost your chance." the spur to lance cleaverage, the goad, was ever the hint to go slower; applied recklessly, it was quite sufficient to make him dig heels and toes into the track and refuse to go at all. at callista's suggestion that he had missed his chance, he balked entirely. "well, i don't know as i want to sell," he reiterated. "that's what i told the man--and that's the truth." "of course you want to sell," asserted callista in exasperation, "and you want to sell terrible bad--we all do. nobody in the turkey tracks [ ] has got any money. we just live from hand to mouth, and dig what we get out of the ground mighty hard. oh, i wish't i was a man. i'd go straight down to the settlement and sell this land before i came back." a faint color showed itself in her husband's brown cheeks. his lips parted slightly and remained so for a moment before he spoke. "not unless the man you was chanced to be me, you wouldn't sell my land," he said at length, speaking softly, almost dreamily. callista's temper was slow, but it was implacable. she eyed her husband for a moment and turned to begin dishing up her supper. lance lifted his son back once more out of reach of the instrument, set him comfortably against the propped open door, took up the banjo and commenced to play a lively air for the boy's diversion. "flenton hands has sold," callista flung out the words as she bent over the hearth to a pot that stood there. she had the news from roxy griever. "uh-huh," agreed lance indefinitely, and offered no question as to what the lands had brought or whether the deal was actually closed. "sylvane said gran'pappy met him in the big road, and he said that them that didn't sell now, or that just give options, would be sorry afterwards. he thinks the company's mistaken [ ] about the coal being on this side o' the ridge, and that they'll soon find it out and quit buying." "that so?" laughed lance. "well, in that case, i sha'n't make no efforts. i'd hate to get anything off the company that wasn't coming to me, and i reckon--" he broke off suddenly. callista had turned to face him, white, angry as he had never seen her before. her blue eyes rounded meaningly to the downy poll of the baby sitting on the floor between them. this was how much he cared for the up-bringing and the future of the child. "lance cleaverage," she said in a low, even tone, "a woman that's married to a man, and lived with him for two years, and got his child to raise, ought to quit him for such a speech as that." this was the ultimate challenge. here was the gage thrown down. she dared him. he leaned forward to lift back the boy, who was clambering once more for the banjo. then he straightened up and looked his callista full in the eye, breathing light and evenly, half smiling, his face strangely luminous. "all right," he said, and his voice rang keen-edged and vibrant. "if them's your ruthers--walk out. what's a'keepin' you? shain't be said i ever hendered a woman that wanted to quit me." very softly, callista set down the plate of bread she held. gazing straight ahead of her, she stood a [ ] moment rigid, in a waiting, listening attitude. out of her mood of cold displeasure, of nagging resentment, flamed, at her husband's words, that sudden fire of relentless rage of which callista was capable. her sight cleared, and she became aware of what she was staring at--the wall, with its well-planned shelves of lance's contriving; the beautifully whittled utensils and small, dainty implements of cedar which he had made for her use. slowly her glance swept the circle of the room. evidences of lance's skill and cleverness were everywhere; proofs that he had persistently tamed both to the service of wife and home. yet, at this moment, these things made no appeal. mechanically she inspected her supper table, then turned and moved swiftly across the open passage to the room beyond. promptly, unerringly, she gathered together a bundle of needments for herself and the child, thrust them in a clean flour sack, and swung it across her arm. going back, she found her husband still sprawled in the doorway, his side face held to the darkening interior of the room behind him. banjo on knee, he leaned against the lintel, whistling beneath his breath, his eyes on the far primrose band of light dying down in the west. callista gave no further glance at the home which had been much to her. she averted her gaze stonily from the husband who had once been all. bending, with a single motion she swept [ ] the baby up in her arm, raised him to her shoulder and stepped to the open doorway. lance never turned his head or seemed to note her. he made room for her passage without appearing to move a muscle. out she went and down to the gate--a real gate, that swung true and did not drag; lance's planning and handiwork. she unlatched it, passed through, and drew it shut behind her, never looking back. and with scarcely a change of attitude and expression, except that his fingers twitched a bit and the smile on his lean, brown, young face became set and unnatural, he watched her evenly swaying figure pass on down the road. head defiantly erect, eyes strangely bright. lance stared meaninglessly, like a man shot through but not yet crumpling to his fall. the baby fluttered a fat, white, little starfish of a hand over his mother's shoulder and called "bye-by," the sum of all his attainments in the matter of language. the man did not look up. his head was bent now, his gaze had forsaken the slender new moon swinging like a boat in the greenish haze of the western sky, where some smoldering coals of sunset yet sent up gray twilight smoke. callista vanished between the trees. it was dusk, and deeply still. down in the alders, beside the spring branch, the whippoorwills were calling. in the intervals of their far, plaintive importunity, the silence was punctuated lightly [ ] by the tiny, summer-evening chirpings in the grass. the moon sank lower, the sunset coals burned into swart cinders; the hosts of the dark marched in upon the still figure on the doorstone where lance crouched motionless, his face drooped almost to the threshold, his arms flung forward till they touched the nodding weeds by the path. so an hour counted itself out, and there was no change in his posture, no lifting of the head. the little moon finally dropped down behind the hills; dew lay thick on the curls beside the great limestone slab. about ten o'clock a cloud blew in through the gap, bearing a tiny shower of summer rain. under the cool pattering that drenched his hair and garments. lance stirred not at all; but all the noises of the july night were hushed by it, and in the chill which followed, he shivered. deep in the night's silent heart, a bird cried out; lance started and raised his face to the darkness with a sort of groan. "and this time she won't come back," he whispered. [ ] chapter xix. callista cleaverage goes home. callista reached her grandfather's gate when the old man was just finishing that last pipe he loved to smoke in his big hickory arm chair on the porch before he lay down for his night's rest. in the soft, summer night, beginning to be thick with stars, he was aware that whoever the newcomer was, it was someone well known to the dogs, for the chorus of greetings was distinctly friendly. yet his keen old hunter's ears noticed the surprised yap of a younger hound born since callista left the farm; and when his granddaughter emerged into the light of the doorway, he was scarcely surprised. "good evenin', gran'pappy. where's mother?" callista greeted him. before ajax could answer her, his daughter-in-law came hurrying out crying, "lord love yo' soul, honey! did you git home at last to see yo' mammy that's--" callista silenced her with a raised hand. "w'y, callisty honey," ejaculated mrs. gentry, examining her anxiously, "is anything the matter with lance?" a slight contraction passed across the visitor's [ ] face, as they watched it, but she answered coldly, evenly, "i reckon there's nothing more the matter of lance cleaverage than there always has been. i've come home." dead silence followed this statement. then old ajax knocked the ashes out of his pipe and slowly put it in his pocket. "uh-huh," he agreed, "you've come home--and i always knowed you would." octavia turned on him crying in a voice more tremulous with tears than anger, "now, pap gentry--" but callista interposed, with the faintest flicker of her old fire, "let him have his say. i told you-all once, standin' right here on this porch, that i'd never come home to this house with empty hands--that i'd bring something. well, i have. i've brought this child." octavia was striving to take the baby from his mother's arms, to draw callista into the house. at this she began to cry, "make her hush, pap gentry," she pleaded. "don't set there and let my gal talk that-a-way!" but old ajax, remembering the turbulent days of his youth, knowing from his own wild heart in those long past days the anger that burned in callista, and must have way, wisely offered no interference. [ ] "i've come home to stay," callista pursued bitterly, "and i've brought my boy. but ye needn't be afraid of seein' us come. sence i lived here i've learned how to work. i can earn my way, and his, too." "callista," sobbed the mother, clinging to her daughter, still seeking to draw her forward, "you're welcome here; and, if anything, the boy is welcomer. we ain't got nobody but you. pappy, make her welcome; tell her that we're proud to have her as long as she's willin' to stay, and--and--" she hesitated desperately--"we'd be proud to have lance, too." she instantly saw her mistake. callista drew herself sharply from her mother's detaining arms and sat down on the porch edge, hushing the child whom their talk had disturbed. presently she said--and her voice sounded low, and cold, and clear, "i have quit lance cleaverage. you needn't name his being anywhere that i'm at." gentry snorted, and heaved himself up in his chair as though to go into the house. "i consider that i had good cause to quit him," callista went on; "but i'm not a-goin' to--" "i don't want to know yo' reasons!" broke in old ajax fiercely. "i say, reason! reason and you ort not to be named in the same day. yo' mammy spiled you rotten--i told her so, a-many's the time--and now them that wishes [ ] you well has to look on and see you hit out and smash things." the deep, rumbling old voice sank and quavered toward the end. "i wasn't going to give you any reasons," returned callista contemptuously. "them that i've got are betwixt me and lance--and there they'll always be. i would rather live at home; but i can earn my keep and the chap's anywhere. shall i go--or stay?" the old man put down a shaking hand and laid it on her shoulder--a tremendous demonstration for ajax gentry. "you'll stay, gal," he said in a broken tone. "you'll stay, and welcome. but i want you to know right here and now that i think lance cleaverage is a mighty fine man. you' my gran'child--my onliest one--i set some considerable store by ye myse'f. but there's nothing you've said or done that gives me cause to change my mind about lance." callista rose, still hushing her boy in her arms. "if i'm to live with you-all," she said in a tone of authority which had never been hers in the days of her petted, spoiled girlhood, "i may as well speak out plain and say that i never want to hear the name of cleaverage if i can help it. if you don't agree to that--without any why or wherefore--i'd rather not stay." "oh, honey--oh, honey!" protested octavia [ ] tearfully. "gran'pappy and me will do just whatever you say. fetch the baby in the house. god love his little soul, hit's the first time he's ever been inside of these doors--and to think he should come this-a-way!" callista drew back and eyed her mother. "if you're going to go on like that," she said, "i reckon it would be just as well for me to live somewheres else. you won't see me shed a tear. i don't know what there is to cry for. gran'pappy is an old man--he ought to have some peace about him. i won't come in unless you hush." and having laid her will upon them both, callista cleaverage re-entered the dwelling of her girlhood and disposed her sleeping boy on the bed in the fore room. to the mind of man, which looks always to find noise and displacement commensurate with size, there is something appalling about the way in which the great events of life slip smoothly into position, fitting themselves between our days with such nicety as to seem always to have been there. little calamities jar and fret and refuse to be adjusted, but matters of life and death and eternity flow as smoothly as water. callista might have dropped easily into her old place in the home, but the woman who had returned to the gentry roof could never have contented herself in that narrow sphere. strong, [ ] efficient, driven to tireless activity by memories which one might guess stung and hurt the mind at leisure, she cleared out the long unused weaving room and set the loom to work. "aunt faithful bushares learned me to weave whilst i was stayin' at miz. griever's, after the baby was born," she told her mother. "i'll finish this rag carpet you've got in the loom, and then i'll be able to earn some ready money. i can weave mighty pretty carpet, and a body can get a plenty of it to do from down in the settlement. they's things i need from the store now and agin, and this boy's got to have something laid by for him, to take care of him as he grows." thus boldly, at the outset--though without mentioning the forbidden name--she made it known to them that she would accept nothing from her husband. octavia gentry was always on the edge of tears when she talked to callista about her plans; at other times, the daughter's presence in the house was cheerful and sustaining. if callista brooded on the shipwreck of her affairs, she asked no sympathy from anyone. indeed, so far from seeking it, she resented bitterly any suggestion of the sort. lance's own family blamed him more than did callista's people. roxy griever, of course, was loud in her denunciations. "hit's jest the trick a body might expect from one of tham men," she commented. "he never [ ] was fitten for callisty; and when a feller plumb outmarries hisself, looks like hit makes a fool of him, and he cain't noways behave." old kimbro gazed upon the floor. "i reckon it's my fault, roxana," he said gently. "lance has a strong nature, and he needed better discipline than what i was able to give him. i had my hopes that he'd get it in his marriage, for daughter callista is sure a fine woman; but--well, maybe time'll mend it. i don't give up all hope yet." "miz. gentry sent word that she wanted me to help them through fodder-pullin'," sylvane announced. "if i do, i'm a-goin' to watch my chance to talk to sis' callie. she's always the sweetest thing to me. i'll bet i can get in a good word for buddy." but it was roxy griever who saw callista before sylvane did. octavia, desperately anxious and perturbed, sent word to the widow to drop in as though by accident and spend the day. callista came into the room without knowing who was present. the two women were fluttering about over her baby, exclaiming and admiring. the young mother greeted the visitor with an ordinary manner, which yet was a trifle cold. "the boy's mighty peart," the widow griever said eagerly. "but," examining callista with a somewhat timid eye, "you' lookin' a little puny yo'self. sis' callie." [ ] "oh, i'm perfectly well," returned callista sharply. there fell a silence, upon which roxy's voice broke, husky and uncertain. "well, i hope you won't harbor no hard feelin's toward any of lance's kin-folks, for we don't none of us uphold him." at the name a quiver went through callista's frame, the blue eyes fixed on roxy's face flickered a bit in their steady, almost fierce regard. then she bent and picked up her child. "i reckon mother hasn't said anything to you," she explained evenly; "but i have asked each and every in this house not to say--you spoke a name that i won't hear from anybody if i can help it. if you and me are to sit down at the same table, you'll have to promise not to mention that--that person again." then she walked out, leaving the two older women staring at each other, aghast, both of them with tears in their eyes. "but i cain't blame her," roxana hastened to declare. "i know in my soul that everything that's chanced is lance's fault. he always was the meanest little boy, and the worst big boy, and the sinfulest young man, that ever a god-fearin' father had! he never was half way fitten for callista--and i always said so." "oh, miz. griever--hush!" protested octavia. [ ] "she'll hear you--sis' ain't but gone in the next room." "well, i hope she may," the widow pursued piously, in a slightly raised tone. "i'd hate mightily to have my sweet sis' callie think that i held with any sech; or that i didn't know what her troubles had been, or didn't feel that she was plumb jestified and adzactly right in all points and in all ways whatever." "m--maybe she is," sniffed soft-hearted octavia; "but i love lance mighty well. right now i could jest break down and bawl when i think o' him there in the cabin all alone by himself, and--" the closing words were lost in the apron she raised to her eyes. if callista heard the controversy, it had an odd effect; for she treated the widow griever with considerable resentment, and, laying a gentle hand on her mother's shoulder, said to her apart: "i don't want to be a torment to you, mammy; but i believe when any of those folks are about i'd better just take the baby and stay in my own house." "but, honey," her mother remonstrated, "pappy gentry's aimin' to have sylvanus here all through fodder-pullin' time. is that a-goin' to trouble you? do you just despise all them that's kin to--would you ruther we didn't have the boy?" callista shook her head. [ ] "it ain't for me to say," she repeated stubbornly then, with a sudden rush of tears in her hard eyes, "i do love sylvane. i always did. i couldn't have an own brother i'd think more of. but--well, let him come over here if you want him. i can keep out of his way." the "house" to which callista proposed to retire was the outside cabin, where the loom stood. this she had fitted up for the use of herself and child, as well as a weaving room, saying that the noise might disturb gran'pappy if the baby were in the house all the time. and it was at the threshold of that outside cabin that, only a few days later, sylvane caught his sister-in-law and detained her, the baby on her arm. little ajax reared himself in his mother's hold and plunged at his youthful uncle, so that she had no choice but to turn and speak. "how you come on, sis' callie?" sylvane inquired, after he had tossed the heavy boy up a time or two and finally set him on his shoulder. "tol'able," callista returned briefly. "i've got a lot of weavin' to do and it keeps me in the house pretty steady." "i--was you leavin' in thar becaze i come?" inquired sylvane with a boy's directness. callista shook her head. "didn't i tell you i was mighty busy?" she asked evasively. "you an' me always have been [ ] good friends, sylvane, and i aim that we always shall be, if it lies in my power." the young fellow looked up at her where she stood above him in the doorway. "you ain't never a-goin' to fuss with me," he told her bluntly. "besides, me and this chap is so petted on each other that you couldn't keep us apart," and he turned to root a laughing face into the baby's side, greatly to that serious-minded young man's enjoyment. callista smiled down at both of them, and sylvane found something wintry and desolate in the smile. "weavin' is mighty hard work," he broke out impatiently. "even sis' roxy says that, and the lord knows she's ready to kill herself and everybody else around her with workin'. what makes you do so much of it, sis' callie?" callista looked past the two and answered: "sylvane, a woman with a child to support has to work hard here in the turkey tracks. if it wasn't for mommie and gran'pappy i'd go down in the settlement, where i could earn more and earn it easier." "callista--honey," sylvane bent forward and caught her arm. "you ain't got no call to talk that-a-way. lance shore has a right to support his own son--even if you won't take nothin' from him for yo'self." callista removed her gaze from the far sky line [ ] and brought it down to her young brother-in-law. now indeed her smile was wintry, even bitter. "the man you named, sylvane," she said explicitly, "has no notion of carin' what becomes of this child. now that you've brought this up, i'll say to you what i haven't said to any other: it was this that caused me to quit lance. you' right, i did leave the house in there for fear you should speak to me--and speak of him. if i could be sure that i'd never hear his name again, i'd be better suited. i reckon you'll have to promise not to bring this up again, or they'll sure get to be hard feelings between you and me." sylvane dropped back with a face of consternation, his hand fell away from her arm. he reached up and drew the boy down, so that the small, fair face was against his breast. "sis' callie," he began incredulously, "i cain't believe it. buddy's got quare ways, but them that loves him can understand. his own son--! why, ef the chap was mine--" he broke off, and stood a moment in silence. "the meanest man there is, looks like to me, ort to be glad to do for his own child." the words were not so strange on the lips of the tall seventeen-year-old boy with the child's eyes, since in mountain communities youths little older are often husbands and fathers. "well, air you going to promise me never to name it again?" demanded callista, an almost [ ] querulous edge to her voice. sylvane's resemblance to his brother, some gnawing knowledge of injustice toward the absent lance, wrought upon her mood intolerably. "no, i'll never name buddy to you again," said sylvane soberly. "if you and me ever talks of him, you'll have to mention it first. but if there is anything i can do for you, sis' callie, you know you have but to ask." "i know that, sylvane," callista assured him, with a certain eagerness in her tone. "and they is something--something that i reckon nobody could do as well as you could. i need--i just have obliged to get my things from--from up yon in the gap. would you go fetch 'em for me, brother?" sylvane, after all, was kin to lance. he could not keep down a little thrill of pride, that his brother had thus far forced callista's hand. but he answered gravely--almost sadly, "i'll go this day, if you say so." securing permission from ajax to absent himself, the boy hitched his old mule to the buckboard and hurried off to the home at the head of lance's laurel. whether or not he found all of callista's belongings packed and ready, what was said between the two men, no one knew. he returned near nightfall with callista's trunk and one or two sizable bundles, while spotty meekly led roped to the rear axle of the buckboard. callista [ ] helped him into her cabin with the bundles; but when he would have untied spotty she remonstrated. "i surely thought you were fixing to take the cow over to yo' house," she said shortly. "it doesn't belong here." "it was said to be yours," sylvane told her, true to his promise not to mention his brother's name, even inferentially. "i 'lowed that the baby and--and all--would need the milk. reckon you best leave her stay." "no," said callista positively. "the cow's nothing i have any concerns with. maybe sis' roxy could make use of the milk. take her along home, sylvane, or drive her back where she came from--or turn her loose, for all of me." and then sylvane knew whether his brother had failed in care for the child. when callista came in from disposing of this question of the cow, she found her mother standing, inclined, as usual, to be tearful, over the boxes and bundles. coming on one of these latter with a peculiar knot which lance always used, and which he had once taught her the secret of, callista experienced a sick revulsion of feeling. "i wish you'd undo 'em and put 'em away for me. mammy," she said with unusual gentleness. "i think i hear the baby." "all right, honey, go 'long and 'tend to him. i'll see to these," agreed octavia patiently. callista hurried over to the big house where [ ] young ajax lay asleep, and, as chance would have it, found indeed that he had wakened. she was hushing him on her knee a few minutes later, when her mother appeared in the doorway, a little money held in her trembling hands, and her eyes now openly overflowing. "that pore boy!" octavia burst out. "look what he sent you. sis! now, he hain't sold anything of his crop--not yet. the good lord only knows whar he come by this; but what he could get his hands on, he's sent you." callista leaped to her feet and ran to the door, pushing her mother aside none too gently, offending ajax greatly by her rough handling of him. "sylvane!" she cried in the direction of the horse lot where sylvane had gone to exchange the harness for a saddle on the mule. "whoo-ee--sylvane!" "i'm a-comin'," sylvane's voice answered, and she turned swiftly to the bed and laid the baby down. "give me that money!" she demanded. "what for?" asked octavia with unexpected spirit, tucking the bills in against her arm and refusing them. "i want to send it back by sylvane." "you ain't a-goin' to do any such thing," octavia declared. "the good lord! to think that i ever raised such a gal as you air!" "give it to me!" callista laid hands upon her [ ] mother's arm, wrenching at it. "here's sylvane. give it to me now!" the thud of the mule's hoofs approaching the door came clearly to both of them. callista could even distinguish the little cow's light feet following. the two wrestled and swayed a moment, callista pushing a strong, capable hand into the elbow where the bills and the few coins were held. "take it, then. oh, my lord!" moaned octavia. "i think you're the hard-heartedest somebody i ever knew of. pore lance--pore lance!" sylvane, riding to the door with the rejected cow, received with something of lance's stoic grace the despised money. a thankfulness that his "buddy" was rehabilitated in his eyes made him say, as he stuffed the small wad down in his pocket: "an' i don't take back my word. sis' callie. you wouldn't have these; but whatever i can do is ready and waitin', you know that." and somehow, in the hour of her victory, callista tasted defeat. [ ] chapter xx. drawn blank. for a region of dwellers so scattered as those of the turkey tracks, the word neighborhood is a misnomer. where the distances are so great from house to house, where there is no telephone, no milkman on regular rounds, no gossiping servants, one would have said that callista might go home to her grandfather's and live a month without anyone suggesting that there had been a serious rupture between herself and lance. but news of this sort travels in a mysterious way through the singularly intimate life of these thinly settled, isolated highlands. the first comers who saw callista and her baby at the gentry place knew in some curious fashion that she had forsaken lance. perhaps it was her air of permanence in the new home which was her old one; perhaps it was the fact that she had established her little household of two in that outside cabin. however it may be, buck fuson rode straight from the gentry place to derf's with the information--and found it there before him. "iley's man seen her jest at the aidge o' the evenin', streakin' through the woods 'crost the holler with the chap on her hip, and a bundle over [ ] her shoulder," garrett derf explained. "them injuns is smart about some things. he said to iley when he come home that lance's squaw had done shook him. well!" gossip is generally personified as an old woman, but the men of a region like the turkey tracks are much thrown back upon it for an interest. "looks like callisty never had been greatly petted on lance," fuson put forward, flinging a leg around the pommel of his saddle and sitting at ease. derf shook his head. "i reckon she's like any other womern," he deprecated, with a sort of passive scorn. "you can spile the best of 'em. when lance come over here the day after him and callisty was wed and sot up housekeepin', and he showed hisse'f plumb crazy to spend money on her, i says to myse'f, says i, 'yes, an' there'll be trouble in that fambly befo' snow flies.'" he nodded with an air of one who utters the final wisdom, and fuson could but agree. "that's a fact," assented buck, as one who knew something of the matter himself. "man can pay out all he's worth, and still not satisfy a woman." "satisfy her!" echoed derf. "don't i tell you that it's the ruination of the best of 'em? they'll ax ye for anything, and then when they git it they'll quit ye, or turn ye out and pop the do' [ ] in yo' face. lance was jest that-a-way. he wouldn't take a dare. ef callisty said she wanted the moon, and let on like she thought he was able to git it, he'd say nothin' and try to grab it for her." "ain't that flent hands's hawse?" asked fuson suddenly, as cindy trotted across the small home pasture and came to the fence. "uh-huh," agreed derf, and the two men steadily avoided looking at each other. "flent, he put the nag here with us so as to be handy. him and me's got a trade up for openin' a store in the settlement, him to run that end o' the business and me to run this end. don't know how it'll turn out. he's been a-comin' and a-goin' considerable, and he left the filly with us. says he aims to take her away to-morrow." "alf dease 'lowed to me that lance was sort o' pestered 'count of flent havin' the filly," fuson murmured abstractedly. "said lance wanted him to see could he buy her back. i reckon he couldn't go to hands himself--lance couldn't--way things air; but it seems he axed dease to do it." derf was silent a moment, then, "some says that lance cleaverage is fixin' to sell and go to texas," he opened out categorically. "i've always been good friends with the feller, but i tell you right here and now, i'd be glad to see the last of him. he's got his word out agin [ ] flenton hands, and, whenever them two meets, there's liable to be interruptions. i'm a peaceful man, and i aim to keep a peaceful place, and i ain't got any use for sech. i wish't lance would see it that-a-way and move out--i do for a fact." slowly fuson straightened his foot down, sought and found his stirrup; meditatively he switched the mule's withers with the twig he carried, and spoke to the animal, digging a negligent heel into its side, to start it. "well, i must be movin'," he said. derf stood long, leaning on the rail fence, looking absently after the slow pacing mule in the dusty highway. he turned at the sound of ola's steps behind him. she had a halter in her hand and was making for the horse lot. "i hearn what you and buck was talkin' about," she said defiantly. "i'm goin' to ketch me out cindy and ride over to lance's." "oh, ye air, air ye?" demanded her father. "well," with free contempt, "much good may it do ye!" but ola was impervious to his scorn. a stone wall was the only barrier her direct methods recognized. she caught and saddled the filly, brought out her black calico riding skirt, hooked it on over her workaday frock, clambered to cindy's back, and turned her into the little frequented woodsroad down which lance used to come with his banjo to play for the dances. cindy put forward [ ] her ears and nickered softly as they neared her old home, and satan, running free in a field of stubble from which lance had gathered the corn, came galloping to the boundary to stretch a friendly nose across to his old companion. ola looked with relief at the black horse. here was assurance that lance was at home. yet, when she got off, tied the filly, and made her way to the cabin, she found it all closed, silent, apparently deserted. in the mountains, nobody raps on a door. ola gave the customary hail, her voice wavering on the "hello!" there was no answer. again she tried, drawing nearer, circling the house, forbearing to touch either of the doors or step on the porch. "hello, lance! hoo-ee--lance!" she ventured finally. "it's ola. i got somethin' to say to you." she stood long after that effort. a wind went by in the oak leaves, whispering to itself derisively. the shabby, stubbed little figure in the dooryard, halting with rusty calico riding skirt dragged about her, choked and shivered. "i know he's in thar," she muttered to herself resentfully, and then marched straight up the steps and shook the door. the rattling of the latch gave her to understand that the bar was dropped. people cannot go outside and bar a door. "lance," she reiterated, "i got somethin' to tell you about cindy." [ ] the hound who had accompanied lance and ola on many a stolen hunting trip or fishing excursion roused from his slumbers in the barn and came baying down to greet her. she paid no attention to the dog. "flent he's had the filly at our house for two weeks," she said, addressing the closed and barred door. "he--he's a-aimin' to take her away to-morrow. do you want me to buy her back for you? lance--aw, say, lance--do you? i could." outside were the usual summer sounds, the rattle of the dog's feet on the porch floor as he capered about her. within, hearken as she might, the silence was unbroken, till suddenly across it cut, with a sharp pang of melody, the twanging of banjo strings. ola began to cry. springing forward, she beat fiercely on the door with her palms, then laid hold of its knob once more to rattle it. under her touch it swung wide, revealing an empty room, spotlessly clean, in perfect order, with lance's banjo, yet humming, lying on the floor where it had fallen from its nail. "i know you' in thar," she sobbed, speaking now to the four walls that mocked her with a semblance of welcome. "this here is jest like you. lance cleaverage. this is the way you always treat a friend. you ain't a-lookin', you ain't a-carin'!" her voice broke shrilly on the last words, and, [ ] whirling, she sat down on the step, flinging her forehead upon her knees, sobbing, catching her breath, and still accusing. "i don't know why i come here this-a-way, a-hangin' around after you!" she stormed. "hit's jest like it's always been--i cain't he'p myself. the good lord! what's callisty gentry thinkin' of?--her that had you, and wouldn't keep you!" silence. the hound curled down at her feet. cindy, pulling loose from her tether, cropped the roadside grass with steady, even bites. callista's hollyhocks nodded by the doorstone. in the room there callista's hand showed everywhere. the derf girl sobbed herself quiet. "lance," she said heavily at length, getting to her feet, "i'm a-goin' to leave the turkey tracks. you won't see me no more. i"--she stood and listened long--"well, good-bye. lance." she halted down the steps, her glance over her shoulder in the vacant room, so like the empty expressionless face lance used to turn to her and her blandishments. she got to cindy and prepared to mount. again she waited, with her hand caught in the filly's mane; but there came no answer from the doorway, no sound nor movement in the house. she climbed droopingly to the saddle, and took the homeward trail. [ ] chapter xxi. flenton hands. lance cleaverage's wife had been many weeks in the home of her grandfather when it was noticed that flenton hands made occasion to come very frequently to the gentry place. ajax was well off, for the mountains, and they had always been hospitable; there was much coming and going about the farm; yet the presence of this visitor could not but be noted. "i reckon you'll have to speak to him. pappy," octavia said finally. "i had it on the end of my tongue to name it to him the other day that hit don't look well for him to come back here a-hangin' around the wife of a man that has threatened him. i know in my soul that lance cleaverage would not want more than a fair excuse to--well, an' i couldn't blame him, neither." it was evident to all that octavia gentry, though now as ever she loved her daughter above everything, could not find it in her soft heart to censure lance. indeed that heart bled for him and the sufferings she felt sure were his. it chanced that ajax spoke to his frequent guest the next day and in the presence of his daughter-in-law. flenton had come on one of his aimless visits; [ ] he was sitting on the porch edge, and callista had gathered up her baby and retreated to the weaving room, whence the steady "thump-a-chug! thump-a-chug!" of the loom came across to them. flenton's slaty gray eyes began to wander in the direction of the sounds, and ajax, prompted by anxious looks from octavia, finally addressed him. "flenton," he began, removing his pipe from his lips, and examining its filling as he spoke, "you've come here right smart of late." the visitor looked doubtfully from one to the other. "y-yes, mr. gentry," he allowed uneasily, "i have." "uh-huh," ajax pursued in deep, even tones. "yo're welcome in this house, like any other neighbor, and they ain't a man on top o' the turkey track mountings that can say i ever shut my door in the face of a friend. but--i'll ax you fa'r and open--do you think hit's wise?" again flenton's eyes went rapidly, almost stealthily, from one face to the other. "do i think what's wise?" he finally managed to inquire, with fair composure. "well," said the elder man slowly, "in the first place we'll say that lance cleaverage ain't a feller to fool with. we'll say that, and we'll lay it by and not name him again.". he paused a moment, then went on: "like some several other o' the boys hereabouts, [ ] you used to think a heap o' sis before she was wedded. she's quit her man; and do you think hit's wise to visit so much at the house where she's stayin'? this matter consarns me and the girl's mother, too. i take notice all the rest o' the boys lets sis alone. how about you?" this time flent did not turn his head. he stared out over the hills and made no answer for so long that octavia spoke up, a tremor of impatience, or of resentment, in her voice. "now, flent, they's no use o' talkin'; of all of sis's lovyers, you hung on the longest. look like you wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. why, the very night her and lance was married, you done yo' best to step betwixt 'em. and worst is, you don't quit it now that they air wedded." "octavy," demurred old ajax, chafed at seeing a man so bearded by one of the weaker sex, "flenton may have something to say--let him speak for hisself." thus encouraged, hands faced about toward them. "no, i ain't never give up callisty," he said doggedly, "and i ain't never a-goin' to. she's quit her husband." even in his eagerness he did not find it possible to take lance's name on his lips. "she's left that thar feller that never done her right, and never was fit for her, to consarn himself with his own evil works and ways; and she's come home here to you-all; and i don't [ ] see what should interfere now between her an' me." octavia's comely face crimsoned angrily. "a married woman--a wife--" she broke out with vehemence. but her father-in-law checked her by a motion of the hand. "yes, callisty's quit lance cleaverage," agreed ajax dryly. "an' she's come home. but i reckon she'll behave herself. leastways, she will while she's in my house." at the seeming implication, octavia's fingers trembled in her lap, and she turned a wounded look upon ajax. "well, pappy! you' no call--" she was beginning, when flenton, with a manner almost fawning, interrupted her. "you don't rightly git my meaning, mr. gentry--nor you, neither, miz. gentry," he said humbly. "i've lived considerable in the settlement. down thar, when married people cain't git along, and quits each other, there's--there's ways--down in the settlement--" he broke off under the disconcerting fire of ajax's eye. "oh--one o' them thar _di_-vo'ces, you mean?" the old man said, strong distaste giving an edge to his deep voice. "well, they ain't a-goin' to be none sech between lance and callisty," octavia protested indignantly. "if that's what you' hangin' around for, you'll [ ] have yo' trouble for yo' pains, flenton hands." she got up sharply, went into the house, and shut the door, leaving the two men together. yet when she reviewed her daughter's conduct, her mind, ever alert to the interests of the erring lance, misgave her. callista seemed hard enough and cold enough for anything. octavia heard the two masculine voices, questioning, replying, arguing. she had put herself beyond understanding the words they uttered, but presently feminine curiosity overcame her, and she was stealing back to listen, when, through the small window, she saw flenton hands get heavily to his feet. a moment he stood so, looking down, then, her head close to the sash, she heard him ask, "i've got yo' permission, have i, mr. gentry, to go over thar and name this all out to callisty?" "i don't know as you've got my permission, and i don't forbid ye," ajax gentry said haughtily. "i hold with lettin' every feller go to destruction his own way. he gits thar sooner; and that's whar most of 'em ort to be." "well, you don't say i shain't go and speak to her of it," hands persisted. "i'm a honest man, a perfesser and a church member, and what i do is did open and above-boards. i thank ye kindly for yo' good word." old ajax, who certainly had given no good word, merely grunted as hands made his way swiftly across the grass to the cabin where the loom stood. [ ] "don't werry, octavy," he said, not unkindly, as his daughter-in-law's distressed face showed at the window. "shorely sis has got the sense to settle him." callista, hard at work, was aware of her visitor by the darkening of the doorway. she looked up and frowned slightly, but gave no other sign of noting his coming. the baby sat on the floor, playing gravely with a feather which stuck first to one plump little finger end and then another. had flenton hands possessed tact, he might have made an oblique opening toward the mother through the child. as it was, he began in a choked, husky voice, "callisty, honey--" he broke off. the concluding word was said so low that callista could pretend not to have heard it, and she did so. "callisty," he repeated, coming in and leaning tremulously forward on the loom, "i want to have speech with you." "i'm not saying anything against your speakin', am i?" inquired callista. "but i'm right busy now, flenton. it isn't likely that you could have anything important to say to me, and i reckon it'll keep." "you know mighty well and good that what i have to say to you is plenty important," flenton told her, shaken out of his usual half-cringing caution. "callisty, yo' husband has quit ye; [ ] he's down in the settlement, and is givin' it out to each and every that he's aimin' to sell to the company and go to texas." he would have continued, but a glance at her face showed him such white rage that he was startled. "i didn't aim to make you mad," he pleaded. "i know you quit lance first--good for nothin' as he was, he'd never have given you up, i reckon, till you shook him." callista set a hand against her bosom as though she forcibly stilled some emotion that forbade speech. finally she managed to say with tolerable composure, "flenton hands, you've named a name to me that i won't hear from anybody's lips if i can help it--least of all from yours. if that's the speech you came to have with me, you better go--you cain't take yourself off too soon." "no," hands clung to his point, "no, callisty, that ain't all i come to say. i want to speak for myse'f." he studied her covertly. he did not dare to mention the divorce which he had assured her grandfather he was ready and anxious to secure for her. "i,"--he was breathing short, and he moistened his lips before he could go on--"i just wanted to say to you, callisty, that thar's them that loves you, and respects and admires you, and thinks the sun rises and sets in you." [ ] lance's wife looked down with bitten lip. her full glance studied the cooing child playing on the floor near her feet. "well--and if _that's_ all you came to say, you might have been in better business," she told him coldly. "i reckon i've got a few friends." she chose to ignore the attitude of lover which he had assumed. after a moment's silence flenton began desperately, "yo' grandfather named to me that i ought not to visit at the house like i do without my intentions towards and concerning you was made clear," twisting grandfather gentry's words to a significance that would certainly have amazed the original speaker. "i told him that i was a honest man and a member in good standin' of brush arbor church, and that what i wanted of you was--" he caught the eye of the girl at the loom and broke off. the red was rising in her pale face till she looked like the callista of old. "don't you never say it!" she choked. "don't you come here to me, a wedded wife, doin' for my child, and talk like i was a girl lookin' for a husband. i've got one man. him and me will settle our affairs without help from you. i may not let you nor nobody else, name him to me--but i'll take no such words as this from your mouth." "an' you won't let me come about any more--you won't speak to me?" demanded hands, in alarm. [ ] "what is it to me where you come or where you stay?" callista flung back scornfully. "this ain't house of mine---i'm not the one to bid you go or come." and with this very unsatisfactory permission, flenton was obliged to content himself. thereafter he went to the gentry's as often as he dared. he sent little liza when he was afraid to go; and if callista put her foot off the place, she found herself dogged and followed by her unwelcome suitor. [ ] chapter xxii. the speech of people. and now gossip began to weave a confusing veil of myth around the deserted man, such as time and idle conjecture spread about a deserted house. one day, visitors to the cabin in the gap would find the place apparently forsaken and untenanted; the next, lance would be seen plodding with bent shoulders at the plow, making ready a patch to plant with turf oats for winter pasture, lifting his head to answer nobody's hail, barely returning a greeting. it was evident that in his times of activity he worked with a fury of energy at the carrying forward of the farm labor, the improvements he and callista had planned in the home. plainly these were dropped as suddenly as entered upon when his mood veered, and he shut himself up in the cabin, or was out with his rifle on the distant peaks of white oak, in the ravines of possum mountain, or beating the breaks of west caney. he made more than one trip to the settlement, too, where he was known to be trying to get dan bayliss to buy back cindy for him. always a neat creature, careful of his personal appearance, a certain indefinite forlornness came to show itself upon him now--a touch of [ ] the wild. he was thin, often unshaven, and his hair straggled long on his coat collar. but the soul that looked out of lance's eyes, a bayed, tormented thing, was yet unsubdued. no doubt he was aghast at the whole situation; but willing to abase himself or cry "enough," he was not. ola derf, true to her word, left the turkey tracks the day after her unsuccessful attempt at an interview with lance. when it came to be said that he had sold to the coal company, not only the mineral rights of his land but the acres themselves, and that he was going west, rumor of course coupled the two names in that prospective hegira. there were those who would fain have brought this word to callista, hoping thereby to have something to report; but the blue fire of callista's eye, the cutting edge of her quiet voice, the carriage of that fair head of hers, warned such in time, and they came away without having opened the subject. it was preacher drumright who officially took the matter up, and set out, as he himself stated, "to have the rights of it." his advent at the gentry place greatly fluttered octavia, who knew well what to expect, and had grown to dread her daughter's inflexible temper. the inevitable chickens were chased and caught; callista set to work preparing the usual preacher's dinner. ajax was fence mending in a far field; octavia entertained the guest in the open porch, since, [ ] though it was now mid-october, the day was sunny, and your mountaineer cares little for chill in the air. drumright's sharp old eyes followed the graceful figure in its journeyings from table to hearth-stone; they stared thoughtfully at the bright, bent head, relieved against the darkness of the cavernous black chimney. finally he spoke out, cutting across some mild commonplace of octavia's. "callisty, come here," he ordered brusquely. the young woman put a last shovelful of coals back on the lid of the dutch oven whose browning contents she had just been inspecting, and then came composedly out, wiping her hands on her apron, to stand before the preacher quite as she used when a little girl. "i hear you've quit yo' husband--is that so?" drumright demanded baldly. callista kept her profile to him and looked absently away toward the distant round of yellow old bald, just visible against an unclouded sky. the color never varied on the fair cheek, and the breath which stirred her blue cotton bodice was light and even. when she did not reply, the old man ruffled a bit, and prompted her. "i ax you, is it true?" she drew up her shoulders in the very faintest possible shrug, as of one who releases a subject scarce worth consideration. "you said you'd heard," she returned indifferently. [ ] "i reckon you can follow your ruthers about believing." drumright's long, rugged face crimsoned with rising rage. his lean, knotted hands twitched as he started forward in his seat. he could have slapped the delicate, unmoved, disdainful face before him. "to yo' preacher, that's nothin' less than a insult," he stated, looking from one woman to the other. "well, sis won't let nobody name this to her," octavia broke in hurriedly. "an' i ort to have warned you--" "warned me!" snorted the preacher. "callisty won't let this and that be named! well, if she was my gal, she'd git some things named to her good and plenty." callista bent to pick up, from the porch floor, an acorn that had fallen with a sharp rap from the great oak over their heads; she tossed it lightly out into the grass, then she made as though to return to her cooking. "hold on!" drumright admonished her. "i ain't through with you yet. this here mammy o' yourn sp'iled you till them that ort to give you good advice is scared to come within reach. but i ain't scared. i've got a word to say. this man cleaverage has got property--and a right smart. hit's been told all around that he's sold out to the coal company and is goin' west with--well, [ ] they say he's goin' west. now, havin' a livin' wife and a infant child, he cain't make no good deed without you sign; and what i want to know is, has he axed you to sign sech? ef he has, i hope you had the sense to refuse. ef he comes to you with any sech, i want you to send for me to deal with him--you hear? send for me." the rasping voice paused. drumright was by no means through with his harangue, but he stopped a moment to arrange his ideas. he dwelt with genuine comfort on the thought of being called in to have it out once for all with lance cleaverage. then callista's voice sounded, clear and quiet. "mr. drumright," she said, "if you're never sent for till i do the sending, you'll stay away from this house the rest of yo' days. i'm a servant here, a-workin' for my livin' and the livin' of my child. them that my grandfather and my mother bids to this house, i cook for and wait on; but speak to you again i never will. mammy, the dinner's ready; if you don't mind putting it on the table, i'll go out and see is the baby waked up." with this she stepped lightly down and walked across to her own cabin. drumright turned furiously upon octavia. she, at least, was a member of his church, and bound to take his tongue-lashings meekly. what he found to say was not new to her, and she accepted [ ] it with tears of humiliation; but when he wound up with declaring that she had brought all this about by giving her daughter to an abandoned character, even she plucked up spirit to reply. "you may be adzactly right in all you say," she told the harsh, meddlesome old man; "but i've got the first thing to see about lance cleaverage that i couldn't forgive. what him and sis fell out about i don't know, and she won't tell me; but as to blamin' it all on lance, that i'll never do." then she dished up and set before her irate guest a dinner which might have soothed a more perverse temper. ajax gentry came in from his fence mending, and, with the advent of the man, drumright's tone and manner softened. he made no further reference to callista's personal affairs, nor to the castigation she ought to receive. the two old men sat eating and talking--the slow grave talk of the mountaineer--about crops and elections and religion. callista did not come back from the little cabin, whence presently the sound of her loom made itself heard. at this point drumright ventured a guarded suggestion to his host, in the matter of her affairs. he was met with a civil but comprehensive negative. "no, sir, i shall not make nor meddle," grandfather gentry told the preacher, as he stood finally at the roadside, looking up at that worthy mounted on his mule for departure. "callista is [ ] my only grandchild, and i've always thought a heap of her. she is welcome in my house. if she had done worse, i should still be willing to roof her; but i reckon it's best to tell you here and now, mr. drumright, that i have no quarrel with lance cleaverage, and no cause to meddle in his affairs. i take him to be a good deal like i was at his age--sort o' uneasy when folks come pesterin' around asking questions--and i don't choose to be one of them that goes to him that-a-way." the season wore on toward winter. there was frost, and after it a time of exquisite, mist-haunted indian summer, the clean, wooded cumberland highlands swimming in a dream of purple haze, that sense of waiting and listening brooding over all. then again the days were cold enough to make the fire welcome, even at noon, and callista piled the hearth in her outside cabin room and set the baby to play before it. she had run down to the chip pile for an apronful of trash to build the blaze higher (the vigorous, capable young creature made light work, these days, of getting her own fuel), when she was aware of two people mounted on one mule stopping at the gate. she paused a moment, shading her eyes with her hand, while rilly trigg slid down and buck fuson swung himself leisurely to earth. above the irregular line of the brown-gold trees, beginning to be dingy with the late storms, the [ ] sky was high, cloudless, purple-blue. the sweet, keen air lifted callista's bright hair and tossed it about her face. "howdy, callisty. me and buck jest stopped apast to say good-bye," rilly announced, joining her beside the chopping block, and bending to fill her own hands with the great hickory chips. "and where was you and buck a-goin'?" smiled callista, after she had greeted the young fellow, who tied his mule and came following the girl over to her. "buck and me was wedded this morning." rilly made her announcement with a mantling color, as they all turned in at the cabin door. "we're goin' down to hepzibah for a spell. looks like a man cain't git nothin' to do here, and buck's found work in the settlement." callista looked at them with a steady smile. "i hope you-all will be mighty happy," she said in a low tone. rilly, suddenly overtaken by the embarrassment of making such an announcement to callista in her present situation, sat down on the floor beside the baby and began to hug him ecstatically. "ain't he the sweetest thing?" she cried over and over again. "he ain't forgot me. he ain't a bit afraid of me. last time him an' me was together i had to make up with him mighty careful. i reckon he sees more strangers and more comin' and goin' over here." [ ] callista's beautiful mouth set itself in firm lines as she took her chair beside the hearth, motioning buck to one opposite. rilly glanced nervously from one to the other, and again looked embarrassed. "derf, he's opened his store down in the settlement," she returned hastily to her own affairs, for the sake of saying something, "and he offered buck a job with him; but i jest cain't stand that old flent hands, and so i told buck."' "what has flenton got to do with it?" inquired callista in a perfunctory tone. "why, him an' derf's went partners," buck explained. "didn't you know about it? flent's to run the town store, an' derf this'n up here." rumor in the turkey tracks now declared with a fair degree of boldness that flenton hands was getting, or was to get, for callista a divorce from her husband, and that then they would be married and live in the settlement. lance's wife looked her visitor very coolly in the face as she answered, "i certainly know nothing of flenton hands's comings or goings. the man made himself mighty unpleasant here. hit's not my house, and not for me to say who shall be bidden into it; but i did finally ax gran'pappy would he speak to flent hands and tell him please not to visit us any more. i hate to do an old neighbor that-a-way," she added, "but looks like there are some things that cain't be passed over." [ ] a swift glance of satisfaction flashed between the newly wedded pair. rilly rose and went timidly to callista, putting a hesitant arm about the other's neck. "we come a-past yo' house this morning, callisty, honey," she whispered, her cheek against the older girl's. "i--buck an' me wanted to see him; and we hoped--we thort--" not unkindly callista pushed the clinging arm away and looked straight into rilly's eyes, overflowing with tears. "you're not thinkin' what you say, rilly," she told the girl, almost sharply. "you never come a-past no house of mine. you are in the only house i've got on earth right now, and this belongs to grandfather gentry. i stay here on sufferance, and work for what i get. i've got no home but this." "oh, callisty--you're so hard-hearted!" rilly protested. "we come a-past, and he was thar, an' he never hid from us, like he does from most, nor shet the do' in our faces. he let us set on the porch a spell. oh, honey, he looks mighty porely. ain't you never scared about what he might do? heap o' folks tells tales about him now; but he came out jest as kind--jest like he used to be--oh, callisty!" callista's face was very pale; it looked pinched; she sat staring straight ahead of her, with the air of one who endures the babble of a forward child. [ ] "rilly," she said finally, when the other had made an end, "you've named something that i don't allow anybody to name in my hearing. if you and me are going to be friends, you've said your last word about it to me." "well,--i have, then," returned the visitor half angrily. she searched in a small bag she carried hung on her arm and brought out something. "i've said my last word, then," she repeated. "but--i brung you this." "this" proved to be a late rose marked by frost, its crimson petals smitten almost to black at their edges. callista knew where it had grown, she recalled the day that she and her bridegroom had planted it. the root came from father cleaverage's place; lance had brought it to her; and he had helped her well, and watered the little bush afterward. rilly cast the blossom toward her with a gesture half despair, half reproach. it lodged in her clasped hands a moment, and she looked down at it there. memory of that october day, the tossing wind that blew her hair in her eyes, the familiar little details of the dooryard, lance with his mattock and spade, the laughter and simple speech, the bits of foolish jest and words of tenderness--these took her by the throat and made her dumb. she knew that now the cabin which fronted that dooryard was desolate. she could not refuse to see lance's solitary figure moving from house to [ ] fence to greet these two. somehow she guessed that it was he who had plucked the rose and given it to the girl--that would be like lance. the blossom slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor. young ajax, cruising about seeking loot, discovered it with a crow of rapture, seized upon it and began, baby fashion, to pull it to pieces. the three watched with fascinated eyes as the fat little fingers rent away crimson petal after petal, till all the floor was strewn with their half withered brightness. "well," said rilly, discouraged, getting to her feet, "i reckon you an' me may as well be goin', buck." [ ] chapter xxiii. buck fuson's idea. down in hepzibah, flenton hands and derf had rented a store building close under the shadow of the court house. furtive grins were exchanged among those who knew; since it was expected that, the derf store on little turkey track mountain being a depot for wildcat whiskey, the derf hands store in the settlement would be a station along the line of that underground railway always necessary for the distribution of the illicit product. at last flenton hands seemed about to give some shape to that cloud of detraction which, with certain of his neighbors, had always hung over his name. as the separation between lance cleaverage and his wife continued, and appeared likely to be permanent; as hands felt himself in so far justified in his hopes concerning callista, his terror of the man whose word was out against him increased and became fairly morbid. this it was which drove him to hepzibah, where the strong arm of the law could reach, where there were such things as peace warrants, and where fortunately, just at present, lott beason, the newly elected sheriff, was his distant cousin and [ ] an old business partner, who still owed him money. to sheriff beason, then, hands went, with the statement that he would like to be a constable, so that, as an officer of the law, any attack lance made on him might appear at its gravest. "constable," debated beason. "that ain't so everlastin' easy; but i can swear you in as one of my deputies, and a deputy sheriff can pack a gun--you git you a good pistol, flent, and don't be ketched without it. yes, you might as well have a peace warrant out against the feller, too. i tell you, down in the settlement here we don't put up with such. you stay pretty close to town for a spell, flent. hit's the safest place." hands got out his peace warrant, he armed himself with a pistol, as is right and proper for an officer of the law. he followed beason's final suggestion as well, and stayed pretty close to town. lance cleaverage was far away on little turkey track mountain. the sense of security which hands drew from all these precautions loosened his tongue. wincing at remembrance of his former terror, he boasted of the favor with which cleaverage's wife regarded him; he let pass uncontradicted the statement that he had broken up that family, and added the information that he was going to get a divorce for callista and marry her. [ ] buck fuson, working in the woolen mill, had rented a tiny shack where the newly married pair were keeping house. one evening when he came home, orilla met him with a rather startling story. she had been down to derf's store to buy molasses and bacon for supper. "they was all in the back end of the room behind the boxes and the piles of things, buck," she told her husband. "the old injun, he waited on me; and when he went back with my bucket, injun-like, he never give them the word as to who nor what was a-listenin', and they just kept on talkin' re-dic'lous. flenton was a-braggin', an' after what callista's said to me and you, i knowed good an' well that every word he spoke was a lie. emmet provine bantered him to sell him that cindy filly that lance used to own, an' give to callista. an' flent said no, he wouldn't sell her for nothin'; he was a-goin' to keep the filly an' git the woman, too. he let on like he was shore goin' to marry callista--talked like they wasn't sech a man as lance cleaverage in the world. then derf peeked around and ketched sight of me, and they all hushed. but i heard what i heard." buck ate awhile in silence and with a somewhat troubled countenance. "i reckon i've got to send word to lance," he said finally, looking up. "lance cleaverage never was one of the loud-talkin', quarrelin' [ ] kind; but he sure don't know what it is to be scared; and i'm sartain he would take it kindly to be told of this." "an' yit i don't know," rilly debated timidly from across the table. "looks like you men are always killin' each other up for nothin' at all. 'course, ef i thought flent would be the one to git hurt--but like as not it would be lance. no, honey, i wouldn't send him no word." "you don't need to," smiled buck rather grimly. "i have my doubts whether he'd take the word from a gal o' yo' size; but i'm sure a-goin' to lay for him or sylvane and tell 'em what i know. i'd thank anybody to do the same by me." during the rest of the meal buck seemed to be in deep thought; rilly watched him anxiously. it was the next saturday afternoon that lance was down doing some trading. about dusk fuson, coming home from his work, found him on the street corner preparing to get his wagon from the public yard and make a night ride up the mountain. in these days lance made most of his journeyings after dark, shunning the faces of his neighbors. "i was sorter watchin' for ye, lance," said his friend. "i wanted to talk to ye--to tell ye somethin'." lance shot a swift glance at fuson; but he answered promptly, and with seeming indifference: [ ] "all right, buck; come on down to dowst's with me." they walked side by side down to the tiny, dingy, deserted office of the wagon yard. here a small stove, crammed with the soft coal of the region till the molten, smoky stuff dripped from the sagging corners of the gaping door to its firebox, made the room so intolerably warm that the window was left open. on a high desk rudely constructed of plank, an ill-tended kerosene lamp flared and generated evil odors. from nails upon the wall hung harness and whips, horse blankets, and one or two articles of male wearing-apparel. a dog-eared calendar over the desk gave the day of the month to the blacksmith when he was forced at long last to make out bills. alone together, safe from interruptions, the two young fellows faced each other for a moment in constrained silence. then, hastily, awkwardly, halting and hesitating for a word now and again. buck gave the information which he thought was due. "now, that's what was said," he finally made an end when he had repeated all that rilly heard, and all that he himself had since gathered from various sources, of flenton hands's boasting concerning callista cleaverage. something agonized in lance's gaze, something which looked out desperately interrogating, brought buck to himself with a gasp. [ ] "rilly and me knowed every word was lies," he hastened to add. "we come a-past the gentry place to see callisty as we was on our way down here--you remember, lance, that day we was at yo' house. flenton hands was named betwixt us, and callisty she said that she didn't know nothing about the man nor his doings. she said she'd went to her gran'pappy and axed him to warn flent off the place, becaze she wouldn't have the sort of talk be held." noting the sudden relief which showed in lance's countenance, fuson added, half doubtfully, "'course you might pay no attention to it, seein' it's all lies." the quiet lance flashed a sword-like look at him that was a revelation. "oh, no," he said. "the thing has got to be stopped. the only question is, how soon and how best can i get at flenton hands and stop it?" "lance," began the other with some hesitation, "i'm a-livin' right here in the settlement, and aim so to do from this on. if you can git through without bringin' my name in, i'd be obliged to you. if you need me, i'm ready. if you don't need me, it'll save hard feelin's with the man that keeps the store i trade at, and with all his kin and followin'." "all right," agreed lance briefly. "i won't give any names--there's no need to." [ ] "well, i been a studyin' on this thing right smart, and i had sorter worked it out in my mind for you to hear the talk yo'self--just happen in and hear mr. hands. don't you reckon that'd be the best way?" suggested fuson. "yes--good as any," assented lance. "i'm not lookin' for much trouble with flent hands. here, jimmy," he called to the sleepy boy who came yawning in, "you take my black horse out of the wagon, and put a saddle on him--you've got one here, haven't you? put a saddle and a riding bridle on him, and tie him in the vacant lot across from derf & hands's store about half-past eight o'clock. i'll bring the saddle back when i'm through with it." "all right," jimmy roused himself to assure lance. "i'll have sate thar on time. pap's got a saddle an' bridle o' yo' brother taylor's here, fuson. lance can take 'em back." as the two friends came out shoulder to shoulder, buck said quietly, "derf, he's got it in for you, too." lance nodded. "derf ain't never forgive me because he robbed me of money," he added, well aware that his indifference to ola had given the father perhaps greater offence. they walked for a little time in silence; then fuson said a little wistfully, "i 'lowed i ort to tell you." [ ] "hit was what a friend should do," lance agreed with him, putting out a hand. presently the other spoke again, out of the dark. "i wish't thar was time to git word to sylvane and your father," he hesitated. "looks like we've got too few on our side." "huh-uh, buck," came back lance's quiet, positive tones. "this thing is between me and flent. there it'll stay, and there we'll settle it. i'm not saying that i don't think pappy and sylvane would stand by me. they would. my father is one of the best men that god ever made, and he's a religious man; but i know how he'd feel about such as this--i don't need to go ask him. the most i hate in it is that it's bound to bring sorrow to him, whichever way it turns. he's mighty tender hearted." fuson debated a moment, but finally forbore to mention having sent word to sylvane, and being in hourly expectation of the lad's coming. they went to fuson's home for a belated supper. rilly found them preoccupied and unusually silent. with big, frightened eyes she waited on them, serving her best, noting that they paid little attention to anything saving the strong cups of coffee provided. the young host glanced from time to time uneasily through the window, and when the meal was over got up, and, telling his wife that they were going down town for a [ ] spell, followed his guest out into the dark. rilly ran after them to the door of the little shanty, and stood breathing unevenly and staring in the direction of their retreating footsteps. "i hope to the lord they don't nothing awful happen," she muttered over and over with chattering teeth. "i wonder will buck be keerful. i wish't they was something i could do. i wish't i could go along. oh, women do shore have a hard time in this world!" and she retired, shivering, to her bright little kitchen, where the lamp flared and the disordered table mutely suggested her clearing and washing the dishes. [ ] chapter xxiv. silenced. up the street tramped the two young fellows, lance silent, pulling his hat down over his face, fuson whistling in an absent, tuneless fashion. when they came to the store, buck paused and gave the instructions. "i'll go in. you walk a-past two or three times, and when you see me standin' with my back to you and my hands behind me, that'll mean that flenton's thar and the talk started. hit'll be yo' time to come in." lance nodded without a word. he passed the lighted doorway. beyond it was a butcher shop--for days after he could remember the odor of raw meat from the place, the sight of the carcasses hung up in the frosty winter air. at the corner he turned and walked back. there was no sign of fuson as he glanced swiftly into the store. on the other side of the way was the vacant lot where he had instructed the boy from the wagon-yard to tie satan. lance took the precaution to go down in the shadows and see if the black horse had arrived. he found his mount, the bridle rein looped over a bit of scrubby bush. he examined the saddle and [ ] equipments, and found all as it should be. when he came back to the store door and once more glanced in, he descried fuson's figure, standing, hands behind the back, in the aisle between the counters. quietly, neither hiding nor displaying himself, lance entered and made his way down the long room toward the far lighted end. after dark, trade in the main portion of the store was practically dead, and only one smoky lamp on the counter illuminated the entrance. in the rear, half-a-dozen men were grouped around a big, rust-red barrel stove, talking. the whole place back there reeked with the odors of whiskey, of the fiery, colorless applejack that comes down from the mountains, kerosene and molasses, with a softening blend from the calico, jeans and unbleached cottons heaped on the counters, narrowing in the approach to this retreat. he paused beside a tall pile of outing flannel, putting up one hand against the rounded edges of their bolts. fuson, glancing over his shoulder, was aware of the figure in the shadow, and at once spoke in a slightly raised voice. "flent, i hear you've sold yo' filly." "well, then, you hearn a lie," returned flenton hands's tones drawlingly. "i hain't sold that filly, and i'm not aimin' to. that thar nag belongs to my wife." he laughed uproariously at his own jest, and [ ] some of the other men laughed too. greene stribling, down from big turkey track to do a bit of trading, had sold a shoat. instead of getting the coffee and calico and long sweetening it should have purchased, and carrying them, with the remaining money, up to his toil-worn mother and younger brothers and sisters, he had bought a jug of the derf & hands wildcat whiskey; and having borrowed the small tin cup from beside the water bucket, he was standing treat to the crowd. "fust time i ever heared you had an old woman," derf said, accepting the cup from the assiduous stribling. it was evident, now that lance had a view of the faces, that this was a flenton hands nobody on turkey track mountain ever met. he had, as it were, come out into the open. certainly he was not drunk; it would have taken a very considerable amount of stimulant to intoxicate that heavy, dense spirit and mentality; but there was color in his cheek, a glint of courage in his pale eye, a warming and freeing of the whole personality, that bore witness to what he had been drinking. "i reckon you mean the wife that you're a-_goin_' to have," put in fuson. "hit's a good thing to git the pesky old stags like you married off. they have the name of breakin' up families. bein' a settled man myself in these days, i ain't got no use for such." [ ] hands turned on him eagerly. "well, i have shore broke up one family," he declared. "i am a church member and a man that keeps the law; but that thar is a thing i'm not ashamed of." "yet i reckon you ain't a-braggin' about it," suggested buck. "i don't know as i'm braggin' about it, but i shore ain't denyin' it," maintained hands. "i'm ready to tell any person that will listen at me that me an' callista gentry aims--" "i'm a-listenin'," said a quiet voice from the shadows, and lance stepped into the circle, clear-eyed, alert, but without any air of having come to quarrel. for a moment flenton quailed. then he looked about him. this was not the wild turkey tracks. he was down in the settlement. there was law and order here. he had a peace warrant out against this man cleaverage. he glanced across at his cousin, the sheriff. beason would back him. why, he was a deputy sheriff himself, and the feeling of the gun in his pocket reassured him. lance stood at ease, composed, but definitely changed from the light-footed lance who had come swinging buoyantly down over the little hill that sunday morning two years ago. something told hands that the other was unarmed. "now see here, cleaverage," he began, wagging [ ] his head and backing off a little, "i don't want to hurt your feelin's. i may have said to friends, and it may have got round to you, that the part you had did by--that the part you had did was not to your credit. she--" he hesitated. there was silence, and no one stirred. he went on. "she's a-workin' for her livin', and a-workin' mighty hard. she's a-supportin' the child. divo'ces can be had for such as that--you know they can." "that isn't what i heard you say--what you said you would tell anyone that'd listen," argued lance, his eyes fixed unwaveringly upon the other. "you've got to take back all that other talk, here before them you said it to. hit's a pack o' lies. i'm goin' to make you take it back, and beg pardon for it on your knees, flenton hands--on your knees, do you hear me?" the circle of men widened, each retiring inconspicuously, with apprehensive glance toward a clear exit for himself. the two opponents were left in the center of the floor, confronted, their faces glared upon by lamp-shine and the light from the open door of the stove; drawn by passionate hate, and with a creeping terror much more dangerous beginning to show itself in the countenance of the older man. "you wasn't never fitten for her," hands [ ] cried out finally, his voice rising almost to falsetto with excitement. "she's glad to be shut of you." then like a fellow making a desperate leap, half in fright, half in bravado, "when her and me is wedded--" he broke off, staring with open mouth. lance had scarcely moved at all, yet the crouching posture of his figure had something deadly in it. flenton's clumsy right hand went back toward the pocket where that gun lay. with the motion, lance left the floor like a missile, springing at his adversary and pinning his arms down to his sides. it was done in silence. "hold on thar!" cried derf in alarm. "you-all boys better not git to fightin' in my store. sheriff!--hey, you, beason!--why don't you arrest that feller?" the two wrestled mutely in that constricted place. hands struggling to get his pistol out, lance merely restraining him. beason came forward, watching his chance and grabbing for cleaverage. he finally caught lance's arm, and his jerk tore loose the young fellow's grip on flenton hands. swiftly lance turned, and with a swinging blow freed himself, sending the unprepared sheriff to the floor. as he flung his head up again, he had sight of hands with a half-drawn weapon. flenton backed away and stumbled against the stove. the great iron barrel trembled--toppled--heaved, crashing over, sending [ ] forth an outgush of incandescent coals, its pipe coming down with a mighty, hollow rattle and a profuse peppering of soot. the strangling smoke was everywhere. "name o' god, boys!" yelled derf, climbing to the counter, to get at a bunch of great shovels that hung on the wall above; "you'll set this place afire! flent, you fool, we ain't got a dollar of insurance!" at the moment lance closed with his man, locked him in a grip like a vise, went down with him, and rolled among the glowing cinders, conscious of a sudden burning pang along the left arm which was under him. fuson, watching hands strain and writhe to draw the pistol, and lance's effort to prevent him, saw that it was going against his friend. he thrust the haft of a knife into lance's right hand. the men were jumping about ineffectually, coughing and choking with the sulphurous fumes, divided between the fascination of that struggle on the floor, and the half-hearted effort to upend the stove by means of a piece of plank. the corner of a cracker box began to blaze. "lord god a'mighty!" derf was protesting, threshing at the burning goods, "we'll be plumb ruined!" fuson ran for the water bucket. some fool dashed a cup of whiskey on the coals, and in the ghastly light of the blue blaze. lance cleaverage, staggering up, saw a dead man at his feet. [ ] [illustration: "he broke off, staring with open mouth."] he was not conscious that he had struck at all with the knife, yet there it was in his hand, red. the sleeve was half burned off his left arm, and still smoking. it was dark away from the fire. beason, stunned, was getting to his feet and hallooing, "hold cleaverage! somebody hold cleaverage! he's killed flent." and then lance felt the shoving of a palm against his shoulder. buck was pushing him quietly away, down between the lines of piled commodities. they were running together toward satan. back in the room they could hear the sheriff yelling for lights. "i thought i might just as well knock them lamps over for good measure," fuson muttered as they ran. "here's your horse--my pistol's in that holster, lance. air ye hurt?" "no," lance returned. "nothin' but my arm. i reckon i burnt it a little. it's only the left one. thank you. buck. you've been a true friend to me this night." and he was away, down the bit of lamplit street that ran so quickly into country road, past outlying cabins already dark, till he struck the first rise of turkey track and slacked rein. a moment he turned, looking over his shoulder at the lights. upon the instant the court house bell back there broke out in loud, frightened clamor. [ ] "clang! clang! clang!" somebody was pulling wildly on the rope to call out the little volunteer fire company. he heard cries, shouts, and then the long wavering halloo that shakes the heart of the village dweller. "fire! fire! fire!" derf's store must be blazing. he wondered dully if they had dragged flenton's body away from the flames. hearkening, he suffered satan to breathe a bit on the rise that would take him to the great boulder where the roads branched, one going up little turkey track, the other leading aside direct to the big turkey track neighborhood. suddenly he stiffened in his saddle, cut short a groan wrenched from him by his injury, and listened strainingly. above the now diminishing noise from the village, he distinguished the sound of hoofs that galloped hard, growing louder with each moment,--the feet of one who pursued him. looping the bridle rein over the pommel of his saddle horn, he got at the pistol buck had provided, and thereafter rode warily but as rapidly as he dared, looking back to catch the first glimpse of the shape or shapes which might be following. he had just rounded the turn at the fork of the way, when somebody burst into it close at hand, coming through the short cut by cawthorne's gulch, and he thought he heard his name called. [ ] to be taken now, to be dragged back to the jail, and, if not set upon and lynched by the beason-hands following, to rot there till such time as they chose to try him, and possibly pay for his act of wild justice with his own life, this was a vista intolerable to lance cleaverage. raising the weapon he fired at his pursuer. "oh, don't!" wailed the unseen; and the next moment sylvane leaped from the mule he rode, ran forward and caught at satan's mane, panting, "lance--lance! i was a-goin' to you as fast as i could. i struck down thar 'bout the time you must have left. i come dry valley way. is it--have you--" at the sound of sylvane's voice, the heritage of cain came home to lance cleaverage. a great upwelling black horror of himself flowed in on the fugitive. to what had he sunk! a murderer fleeing for his life, in his panic terror of pursuit menacing his own brother who came to help and succor! "oh, buddy--buddy--buddy!" he cried, doubling forward over the pommel of his saddle, clutching sylvane's shoulder, and closing his eyes to shut out the face of the dead man which swam before them in that quivering blue light. [ ] chapter xxv. the flight. the dark hours of that january night saw the two brothers riding hard up into the mountains toward that tiny cleft in the peaks above east caney where lance now remembered the cave that he had once said should shelter him in case he ever killed a man. sylvane had much of lance's pride and courage, with little of his dash and perversity. had the peril been his own, one might have guessed that he would meet it with the gentle stoicism old kimbro showed. but that buddy should be in peril, fleeing for his life! the boy's universe reeled around him, confusion reigned where he should have been efficient and orderly; and when they stopped at the cabin in the gap for supplies, what with the agony of lance's burn and the disarray of his brother's whole mentality, they made sad work of it. something to eat, something to keep warm with, something to dress the hurt--these were the things the boy tried to remember, and forgot, and could not find, when he fancied the galloping hoofs of pursuers with every gust that shook the big trees in the dooryard. he got for the dressing of the arm only a roll [ ] of new cloth, rough and unsuitable; while a few extra garments, a blanket, meat, meal, salt, a cooking vessel and some white beans made up the rest of his packet. he came out at the last carrying lance's banjo and put it on top of the supplies. "'way up yon they'll be nobody to hear you, and i reckon it might take off the edge of the lonesomeness," he half apologized when lance looked curiously at it in the light of the lantern his brother held. the owner of the banjo made no movement to take it and swing it upon his back, neither did he decline it; but indifferently sylvane was allowed to bring the once cherished possession along. through the cold, naked woods, they pushed to east caney. the creek was up. it was three o'clock, nearly four hours before the wintry dawn might be expected; yet a late moon had risen sufficiently to show them the swollen torrent. these mountain streams, fed by the snows of the higher ranges, clear, cold, boulder checked and fretted, sometimes rise in a night to a fury of destruction, scouring away whole areas from one bank or another. to-night caney, great with the snows from both of the twin peaks above it which a january thaw had sent down, made traveling in its bed a matter of life and death. yet the boys must attempt it. once [ ] behind that barrier of roaring water, lance would be safe. true, mountain streams often subside as abruptly as they rise, so that no one could tell how long this particular safety would last. "i reckon we can git through better 'n the nags," sylvane said dubiously, as they divided the pack between them, and started out on the desperate enterprise of leaping from boulder to boulder through the swirling waters. they lost one bundle in the struggle, and they came through fearfully exhausted. lance with that left arm one surface of exquisite torture, his countenance pinched and his jaw set, his eyes burning in the white face that his brother could dimly discern. but they did get through, and came drenched, dripping, shuddering with cold, into the little valley. the last time lance had seen the place it was brimmed with the wine of summer, green, full of elusive forest scents, bird-haunted, drowsing under july sides, and the most beautiful creatures it held in its sweet shelter were callista and her child. now his desolate gaze searched its dim obscurity for the black loom of the rock house that had given its roof to their happy gipsying. the blanket and clothing had gone down roaring caney; but the banjo, carried carefully on sylvane's shoulders, whined against the bare twigs of the judas tree he was passing under, whimpered something in its twanging undertone that [ ] demanded awfully of lance, "how many miles--how many years?" without waiting for his brother, and the lantern which the boy was relighting, he dashed down the slope, past the stark, empty rock house--swerving a little like a man going wide of an open grave--and gained the steep pathway to the cave, where sylvane, panting after, overtook him. "i'm obliged to get a fire for you, and see can i tie up that there arm," the boy declared pitifully. "lance, i'm that sorry i lost your blanket and clothes that i don't know what to do!" and his voice trembled. "it don't make any difference about me," lance said wearily. "i'd like for you to be dry and warm before you start back--but there's no time. you got to get away from here as quick as you can. if we leave the horses tied down there, and anybody sees 'em--you've got to get away quick, buddy." "where'd i better take sate?" asked sylvane, as he had asked before. "i've been studyin' about that," lance told him. "they're bound to know i'm in the mountains. we can't get rid of the nag, and if he goes to our house it will seem no more than natural. best just take him home and put him in the stable." sylvane had gathered pitch pine for light and [ ] heat. he made a roaring fire and then attempted an awkward dressing of the injured arm. the rough cloths hurt. there was no liniment, not even flour to lay on the burn. lance locked his teeth in agony and bore it till time seemed to press. "go on, buddy," he urged. "when you can get to me with anything, do it. when you can't--i'll make out, somehow." "the good god knows i hate to leave you like this," the lad repeated, as he made his final preparations for departure. "pappy or me will be here inside of two days and bring you news, and something to keep warm with, and something to eat. lance, please lemme leave ye my coat--" "no, no, sylvane, you'd nigh about freeze without it a-ridin' home. it's not cold in the cave here. you go on now, buddy--that's a good boy." and blindly the younger lad turned and crept down the bank. [ ] chapter xxvi. roxy griever. it was nearly noon when sylvane, reaching home by an obscure, roundabout trail, half perished from the cold, scouting the place long and fearfully before he dared enter, found that sheriff beason with a posse had been at his father's house, searched it, and gone. at the door his sister roxy met him, clutching his arm, staring over his shoulder with fear-dilated eyes, and whispering huskily, "whar is he? whar's lance?" the boy shook his head, pulling the drenched hat from his curls, and moving toward the hearth-stone where his father sat bowed over. "he's safe," the words came finally in a half-reluctant tone. new lines of resolution and manhood's bitter knowledge had been graving themselves on sylvane's face the past twenty-four hours. "i helped him to whar they cain't find him nor take him. let that be enough." "no--but it ain't enough," his sister rebelled. "here's beason has swore him in a posse of six, and he's out a-rakin' the mountings after lance. six men." roxy's face was gray. "they've started, have they?" said sylvane in [ ] the voice of exhaustion. "well, what you don't know they cain't find out from you, sis' roxy. and i best not tell you whar lance is hid." "sylvane!" the woman's tone was sharp with suffering, rather than anger. "do you think i'd tell on my own brother? tham men might cut me into inch pieces and get nothin' from me. you don't know me, boy. i'd think little of puttin' one of 'em out of the way! thar was women in the bible done sech--and was praised for hit. i want to know whar lance is at," she choked, "and whether he's hurt, and what he's got for to comfort him--pore soul!" "hush, daughter," counselled kimbro gently. "sylvanus is right. people do sometimes betray what they aim to cover up. if i can guess whar my son is--and i reckon i could--that's one thing; but for any of us to be told, ain't safe." silently, almost sullenly, roxy hunted out dry clothes for sylvane, the boy sitting near his father, telling kimbro in a few brief sentences lance's version of the night's happenings, the old man nodding his head without a word of comment. she set food on the table and sylvane drew up to eat. "i want to go whar my unc' lance is at," whispered mary ann martha, suddenly pushing a tow head up under sylvane's arm and nearly causing him to overturn his coffee. "i'm a-goin' to he'p him fight." [ ] sylvane lifted the child into his lap, and began to feed her with bits from his plate. "its unc' lance is all right, pretty," he said absently. "unc' sylvane and gran'pappy'll look after him. that's men's work. it help its mammy to keep the house, and soon unc' lance is goin' to be back and play the banjo for it." all day, that strange, brief, silent sunday in february, roxy strove to have the secret of lance's hiding place from her younger brother. again and again she turned from what she was doing to demand it of him; more than once she quit abruptly her labors about the house, to go and hunt him up, to ask him sometimes half-angrily, sometimes cajolingly, pleadingly, almost with tears. the boy withstood the fire of her importunities as best he could. he answered her in as few words as might be. without harshness, but only doggedly, he still responded in the negative, and always with mildness and a sort of regret. as it drew toward dusk, roxy's face began to harden into grim lines, and she went about her preparations for supper with a gleaming eye. her father, who had walked to a far pasture to salt cattle, came in, and sat with mary ann martha on his knee by the fireplace. roxy looked in at the door. mutely, with only a backward jerk of the head, she called them to their [ ] meal. as the child was following, her mother detained her and, giving no explanation, went with her into the far room. a moment later she came to the men sitting at the table. "well, there's yo' supper," she said resentfully to sylvane, "sence you 'low that's all i'm fitten to do. ye can put the things away yo'selves, i reckon. i'm a-goin' on a arrant." and with the chubby mary ann martha bundled heavily in shawls, silent as a small mummy, and plainly under the hypnotism of impressive instructions from her mother, she turned and went from the room, and they heard the front door close softly after her. the men looked at each other uneasily, but there seemed nothing to be done. outside, roxy stooped and spoke again to the child. she straightened up and peered long about her, listening intently, then moved obliquely among the yard shrubbery down to the gate. crossing the road in the deep shade of cedar trees, she struck direct for the gentry place, going by woods-paths that had so often known lance's feet. when the short, fat little legs that trotted beside her in silence grew weary, she carried mary ann martha pick-a-back, and always she was whispering to her. "we're injuns now, ma'y-ann-marth'. mammy's a squaw, and you' a little papoose, out a-scoutin' to see can we find unc' lance; or head [ ] off them that's a-aimin' to do him mischief. don't it make no noise." when, in turn, roxy herself was too tired to carry her daughter longer, she broke a thick willow switch beside a spring branch, and encouraged the little girl to ride a stick horse. "but remember we' injuns, honey," she whispered. "injuns don't make no noise nor let they' nags make none." in this wise they came to the edge of the timber and surveyed the opening where lay the gentry farm. here roxy left the child, motionless as a little image in her swaddling of thick shawls--stationing her in the grove of young chestnuts from which lance had emerged the night he came singing to callista's window--while she scouted with infinite pains the entire circuit of the clearing. she encountered nobody, and heard nothing; yet surely the house where lance cleaverage's wife and child were would be subject to espionage. the clear stars hung above the bleak treetops, and by their dim light she could just make out the various buildings, trees and bushes. once more carrying mary ann martha, she moved down to the corner of a small out-building. here she gave her last instructions to the child. "now, ma'y-ann-marth', you go right up that line of bushes, on the shady side, to yo' aunt callisty's house; and don't you speak a word [ ] to anybody but her. you say to her that they's somebody--mind, honey, _somebody_, don't you name who--that wants speech with her, a-waitin' out here by the chicken-house. tell her to slip down here longside o' them same bushes. can mammy's gal say all that and say it right?" and she looked anxiously into mary ann martha's solemn little face. the child nodded her head vigorously, and a moment later the shapeless small figure started worming its way up along the obscuring row of bushes. finally she stopped on the doorstone of that cabin where she could hear the "thump-a-chug" of callista's loom. she well remembered that the last time she was over here her aunt callie had entertained her in that building, refusing to come out and see her mother. unacquainted with any such ceremonial as knocking, incapable of achieving the customary "hello," she planted herself on the doorstep and remarked gruffly, "huh!" the sound did not amount to much as a hail or an alarum, yet it reached the ear of the woman who sat at the loom inside working, with what strange thoughts as her companions it were hard to guess. somehow, it was now known all over both turkey track neighborhoods that lance had killed his man and fled, and that the sheriff and posse were out after him. the face that [ ] bent over the web of rag carpet was sharpened and bleached by this knowledge. the blue eyes gleamed bright with it. when that curious, gruff little "huh" came to her ears, callista stopped her work like a shot and stood long hearkening. "hit was nothing," she told herself, half-scornfully. "i'm just scared, and listenin' for something." she started the treadle again, and the noise of the batten once more checked the silence into a rhythmic measure. but the dogs had become aware of an intruder. rousing from their snug quarters under the porch of the big log house, they came baying across the frozen ground. at their outburst of clamor, almost with one motion, callista stopped the loom a second time, turned out her lamp, and was at the door, drawing it open with a swift, yet cautious movement. there in the vague starlight was mary ann martha backed up against it, shaking a small and inadequate stick at the approaching pack. swiftly callista caught the little thing and pulled her inside, closed the door and dropped the bar across. she stooped to the child in the uncertain shine of the fire, questioning in amazement, "why, mary ann martha! how on earth did you get here--all alone--at night this-a-way?" "thest walked," returned the ambassador briefly. "aunt callie," she embarked promptly [ ] and sturdily upon her narrative, "they's somebody down at the corner of the chicken-house that wants to have speech with you. don't you tell nobody, and you thest come along o' me and be injuns, and don't make no noise, an' slip down thar in the shadder o' the bubby bushes, like i done, so nobody cain't see." faithful to her trust, mary ann martha the outrageous, the terror of little turkey track, had delivered the entire message without an error. callista's mind was a turmoil of wild surmise. who could the "somebody" waiting for her out there be--somebody who arranged all these precautions with such care and exactness? she gave but one glance at the sleeping baby on her bed, caught a heavy shawl from its peg, and, winding it about her head and shoulders, slipped soundlessly from the door, holding mary ann martha's hand. not a word was spoken between them. when they finally entered the area darkened by the chicken-house, callista started and her eyes widened mutely at the touch of a hand on her arm. "h-ssh--callisty!" came roxy griever's thin, scared tones, just above a whisper. "god knows who might be a-watchin' and a-listenin'." callista faced about on the older woman staring with sharp inquiry at her in the gloom. lance's wife found it hard to guess what attitude would be her sister-in-law's now. [ ] "callisty, honey," began the griever woman with a sort of wheedling, "i ain't a-goin' to ax one thing of you. hit's but natural that you don't want to hear mention of my brother's name at this time; but, honey. pappy and sylvane has got him hid out somewhars, and they won't tell me whar. i know in reason it's the place you and him camped last summer. couldn't you lead to it?" it seemed for a moment as though callista would spring at her sister-in-law; then she said in a low, distinct voice, "well, roxy griever, what sort of woman are you, anyhow?" roxy studied the horrified countenance turned toward her as well as she could in the half light. she was thick-witted, but eventually she understood. "you callisty gentry!" she ejaculated with a note of passive savagery. "do you think i'd lead the law to buddy? what i want to know is whar he's at and how bad hurt is he? tham men won't trust me, but i 'lowed you'd think enough of the father of yo' child to give me the directions so i could git to him. he's got to have good vittles, and someone to--he's got to have care. l--l"--her mouth quivered so that she could scarce go on--"lance ain't like some folks--he could jest die for want of somebody to tend on him. don't i know?" a tremor shook [ ] her. "i mind after ma was gone, and sylvane was a baby, an' lance he cried bekaze i--oh, my god, callisty! tell me whar he's at. i got to git to him. don't be so hard-hearted, honey. i know hit seemed like lance was a sinner--oftentimes; but the good god hisself did love sinners when he was here on earth. hit says so in the book. he used to git out an' hunt 'em up. oh! oh! oh!" flinging an arm against the trunk of a sapling, roxy griever hid her face upon it and began to weep. mary ann martha stood the sight and sound as long as she could, and then added her shrill pipe of woe. "sssh! hush; both of you, for mercy's sake!" besought callista. "stay here just a minute, roxy. i'm going back to the house to get--well, i know about what he'll need. then i have to tell mother to look after the baby." "air you goin' with me? oh, callisty, air you goin' with me now?" the widow quavered. "no," answered callista. "i'm going alone. grandfather can let me have a horse, or not, as he's a mind. if i can't get it from him, i'll slip back with you and see what sylvane and father cleaverage can do for me. i'm the one to go and look after lance." roxy and the child waited in stoic silence while callista returned cautiously to the main house. there was some quiet moving about from one [ ] building to another, a stir over at the log stable, and in an incredibly brief time callista came to them riding on her grandfather's horse and leading the mule, saddled, for the other two. "we'll go a-past yo' house--hit's as near as any way," was all she said. once at the cleaverage place, lance's wife was persuaded to accept sylvane's company for the night journey, though she peremptorily--almost impatiently--refused any addition to her ample provision for lance's comfort. but when the two, all ready to leave, stood reconnoitering in the dark outside the house to see that the coast was clear before starting, roxy came trembling out with a package which she thrust into her brother's hand. "thar," she whispered, "take it to him. i only wish't i'd 'a' got it in the frames and quilted it, so that it might have been some use keepin' him warm." "it--it ain't yo' gospel quilt, sis' roxy, is it?" sylvane inquired, fumbling with doubtful inquiry at the roll in his hands. "hit air," returned his sister, the dignity of a high resolve in her brief response. "why, daughter, i think i wouldn't send that," kimbro deprecated, drawing close in the obscurity. "of course it's a mighty improvin' thing, but i doubt if lance has the opportunities to take care of it that a body ought to have to [ ] handle such. don't send it, roxana. without doubt it would do him good, if he was whar he could make use of it." roxy did not move to receive the bundle which her brother hesitatingly offered back to her. "i know hit ain't much account," she said disconsolately. "but i 'lowed hit might make him--maybe he'd laugh at it, and hit would cheer him up a leetle. he used to laugh powerful at some of 'em. i've put in my good shears and that turkey-red calicker, and you tell him, sylvane, that i want him to cut me out them little davils he was a-talkin' about, as many of 'em as hit'll make." she looked pathetically from one to the other. "there ain't nothin' like gittin' a man person that's in trouble intrusted in something. you git him intrusted in cuttin' out davils for my gospel quilt, won't you, sylvane, honey?--or you do it, sis' callie. maybe hit might make him laugh--po' buddy, away off to hisself in some old hideout, an' nary soul to--to--an' the sheriff chasin' him like he's a wolf!" and callista, wiser than the men, knowing that the gospel quilt would take its own message to lance, stretched out a hand for the package. [ ] chapter xxvii. in hiding. in the skull-shaped pocket--which was the inner chamber of the cave where lance lay, was neither light nor life. they were the bare ribs of the mountain that arched above him in that place, blackish, misshapen, grisly in an unchanging chill. the continual dripping which would have seemed music if he had come upon it in a summer's noon, vexed him now, and took on tones that he wished to forget. sylvane had provided him pitch pine to burn, because it would give more light, and there was a crevice which would lead the smoke away; but he fretfully told himself that the resinous sticks made the place smell like a tar kiln, and put out his fire rather than endure it. then in the blank darkness his burned arm pained him intolerably, and presently he crept forth into the entrance which held the tiny spring to steep the cloths in water, hoping to assuage the hurt. day filled this outer chamber with a blue twilight, while round the turn was always black obscurity. summer spread upon it each year a carpet of the finest ferns; now the delicate fronds [ ] lay shriveled and yellow on the inky mold; only a few tiny bladderworts remained in the shelter of the remote crevices. in spite of the raw cold he lingered by the little basin, his lifted eye encountering the bird's nest he and callista had found there in july, full then of warmth and young life and faithful love. it was beneath a breadth never penetrated by the drip. he studied the little abandoned home of the phoebe, built there of moss and leaves plastered together against the rock with clay. he noted absently how beside it remained a portion from the building of the previous year; and by looking closer in the half light he made out at least five rims of mud, from which the nests of five preceding spring-times had crumbled away. then, a caged, fevered animal, he went back into the cave and lay down. it was not freezing cold there--such a place is much like a cellar, warmer than the outside air in winter, as it is cooler in summer--but the sensation of being buried came to wear upon the spirit of the fugitive, and he was fain to creep nearer to glimpses of the sky, out once more into the vestibule of his prison. there were bits of life here, too, humble, and--as his own had come to be--furtive. plastered upon the limestone walls were the homes of countless mud wasps, and the bell-shaped tents of the rock spiders. around the edges the dry sand of its floor was pitted with the [ ] insect traps of the ant-lion, that creature at the mouth of whose tiny burrow a prehistoric lance cleaverage--a lance whose tousled head would scarce have reached above this man's knee--used to call long and patiently, "doodle-bug, doodle-bug, come up and get some bread!" as though recalling the childhood of another, he could see that valiant small man, masterfully at home in his world, arrogantly sure of himself, coming to--this. the rock vole, whitish-gray, rat-like, most distinctive of all the small, subterranean life of the cave, peered out at him and reminded him where he lay, and for what reason. in suffering, half delirious, those earlier hours went by. he had never contemplated killing flenton hands. there was none of the bully in lance cleaverage, iron as his nerves were, high as his courage. he had gone purposely unarmed to the quarrel, regarding flenton contemptuously as a coward; believing that he could make the man publicly eat his words and apologize for them. but this open humiliation was as far as his intentions went. the poet in him, the lance of the island, recoiled desperately from memory of that dead face, the eyes closed, the mouth crookedly a-gape, the ghastly light from the flaming alcohol wavering upon it. so greatly was he wrought upon by his situation and his hurts, that by the second night his [ ] anguish of mind and body had only sunk from that first fierce clamor to a dull ache, which was almost harder to bear, and which kept sleep from him quite as effectually. he scarcely ate at all of the food sylvane had left; but drank thirstily at the little spring every hour of the twenty-four. in this sort the time had passed, and now sunday and sunday night were gone; the morning of the second day was here. the thought of callista haunted him continually. what, at such a juncture, would be her attitude? one of reprehension, certainly; but if he knew that mind of hers at all, there would be no hostility. her pride would lead her to offer, perhaps, some assistance to the man whose name she bore. and then suddenly he was aware of a figure in the mouth of the cave, and callista's voice whispering, "lance--lance!" he stumbled to his feet and went gropingly forward, encountering with his right hand--held out as a sort of shield to the burned arm--the bundle she carried,--the great hunter's quilt, wool-padded and well-nigh waterproof, the pair of homespun blankets, and, riding upon them, a basket of cooked food,--while from the other hand swung a tin pail. she was laden like a strong man. "who's with you--who packed all this?"--he made his first inquiry quite as though he had [ ] expected her. there was no word of surprise or gratitude. "sylvane," she answered in the same hushed tone. "i aimed to come alone, but he wouldn't let me. we made it since midnight. he left me yon side the creek, so as to make haste home. he'll be burning brush in the nigh field on the big road where everybody can see him all day. come night, he'll be back for me. what you got it all dark here for, lance? i'll make ye a fire that won't smoke." she felt the earth, to be sure that it was dry, and then, with brusque kindness, refusing all aid from him, flung down her burden. she carried quilt and blankets in and spread a comfortable pallet of them. "you go back inside where it's not so cold," she commanded briefly. "i'll bring some chestnut chunks and make you a good fire. go back. lance." he turned obediently. did memory come to either of the chill, inhospitable hearth she had once refused to tend? she was swift and efficient in her preparations, breaking an armful of dry chestnut limbs and twigs for a clean, smokeless fire; and when that was sending forth its flood of clear, hot radiance, she knelt down and dressed his hurt with the liniment and soft old cloths she had provided. "brother sylvane said he'd be at the creek [ ] about nine o'clock to-night for me," she told lance, as she deftly arranged a sling by means of a bandana. "we got to be right careful about comin' here, now that caney's goin' down. wish't it had stayed up, like sylvane said it was when you-all came." lance stared at her with the ghost of a laugh in his eyes. "you never could have got through it in this world, callista," he said softly. "it was all buddy and me could do. we was wet to the skin and nigh drowned." "oh, yes i could," callista assured him with that new, womanly authoritativeness which seemed now to make him her own, rather than set him outside her caring, as it had once done. "i'd 'a' found a way to get through to you. if you have to hide out long, i'm goin' to fix it so that i can be nearer you and do for you. does that arm feel better now?" there was a large, maternal tenderness about her which appealed powerfully to lance, upon whose boyhood fretful, chiding roxy had tended. she seemed a refuge, a comforter indeed. his haggard gaze still on her face, he answered in a half-voice that the arm did feel better. the food she warmed for him, the coffee that was heated and served steaming, these gave him courage as nothing yet had. he fairly choked, and a mist swam before his eyes, when she [ ] suddenly held the fragrant, inspiring beverage to his lips. her voice drove away at once the haunting noises of the wind howling up the breaks of the creek, the insistent drip-drip of the water; her presence shut out the vast, oppressive loneliness of the place; her bright warm color shone in that dark against which the mere blaze of the pine knots had been so feeble; sounds of her living presence vanquished the silence that had weighed heavier on his spirit than all the rocks in the bluff. the dome of that stone skull at once became a round, cozy cup of sheltered warmth and kindly human cheer; as much a home, there in the heart of the wilderness, as the phoebe's nest had ever been. for the first time the grim fact that had sent him into hiding, the horrid tragedy, seemed to blur a bit in its outlines. callista made a trip down the bank to the floor of the valley, and brought up from where she had left them a small kettle and a frying pan. "i'll cook you a fine dinner," she said in a cheery, practical tone, speaking as though she were in her own kitchen. she maintained an absolutely commonplace note. neither of them mentioned flenton hands nor the reason for lance's present predicament. "that stuff i brought ready cooked made a pretty good breakfast snack; but when i get me plenty of clean coals here, we'll have some good hot sweet potatoes and bacon. i'm right hungry myself." [ ] lance sighed. "i reckon i'm as much perished for sleep as for victuals," he told her heavily. "after buddy left me, i tried to get dry; but we'd missed out most of the things we ought to have got when we come a-past the place, and lost the rest in the creek; i hadn't scarcely anything to change with. look like i couldn't get to sleep. then all day yesterday i thought i'd catch a nap; but my arm sort o' bothered me some, and--well, the water drip-drip-drippin' out there pestered me. it seemed i must sleep when night come again; but i don't think i had to exceed two hours of rest." callista glanced keenly sidewise at him where he lay inert. the weeks of their separation were now running into months. what these had done to lance grieved her generosity and flattered her pride. always lean and bright eyed, there was now a painful appearance about the extreme fleshlessness of jaw and temple, the over-brilliance of the eye in its deeply hollowed orbit. sight of what he had suffered for her and by her softened callista's voice to tenderness when she spoke. "we'll fix it for you to rest after dinner," she told him positively. "i can set out at the mouth of the cave, so you will be easy in your mind; then you'll get some good sleep." lance accepted this as indicating that she was [ ] very willing to be rid of him and his talk. it was what might be expected. he asked her a question or two and relapsed into silence. presently, noticing that his eyes were not closed, she gave him some additional news. "the baby's about to walk," she said. "he's a-pullin' up by the chairs all the time, and he can go from one person to another, if they'll hold out they' hands." a swift contraction passed over lance's features at the picture her words called up. "haven't got him named yet?" he suggested huskily. the color flared warm on callista's face as she bent to the fire. "i--why--gran'pappy's an old man, and i'm the onliest grandchild he's got. he always was powerful kind to me; and the baby--why, he just--" "you've called the boy ajax," supplied lance, in that tired voice which now was his. "that's a good name." while she cooked the "fine dinner" their talk blew idly across the surface of deeps which both dreaded. "pore roxy!" lance said musingly. "hit was mighty kind of her to send me her gospel quilt." from her work at the fire callista answered him. [ ] "your sister roxy thinks a heap o' you, lance; you needn't never to doubt it. course she does, or she wouldn't always have been pickin' at you." lance lay tensely quiescent a moment, then he questioned softly, "is that a sign?" callista glanced at him a bit startled; but the long lashes veiled his eyes, and the face was indecipherable. "roxy was bound and determined to come here in my place," she observed. "i reckon i'd never 'a' got the word where you was hid out if it hadn't 'a' been for her. sylvane wouldn't tell her, and she come to me about it. sis' roxy has a kind heart under her sharp speech." from beneath those shadowing lashes lance looked long and curiously at her, but made no response. after the meal was served and eaten with a sort of subdued enjoyment, they continued silent, glancing furtively at each other, callista a bit uneasy, and most urgent that he should try to rest. when she rose and went lightly about little homely tasks, her husband's eyes followed her every movement. something he wanted to say--the sum of all those days of black loneliness and nights of brooding in the gap cabin after she left him there--stuck in his throat and held him silent. a tiny creature, probably the rock vole, [ ] nosing about in the obscurity which hid the rear of the cave, dislodged something which fell with a sudden pang of musical sound across the aching silence, to be followed by tiny squeakings and scuttlings. callista turned, her hand raised to her lip, and stared into the darkness whence the airy chord spoke to her. lance looked up and caught the shine of the firelight on her white cheek, her bright hair, lighting a spark in the eye which was averted from him. "it's my old banjo," he said nervelessly. "go get it, callista, and break it up and put it on the fire." she seemed to hear only the opening words of his command, and moved quietly into the shadows behind them, groped for the instrument, found and brought it forward in her hand. "break it 'crost your knee, and then burn it," lance prompted her. she looked at him with a curious round of the eye, a swift surprise that was almost terror. the banjo, lacking a string and with the remaining four sagging woefully, yet spoke its querulous little protest in her fingers. this was the voice that had cried under her window. here was the singer of "how many miles, how many years?" and she was bidden to break it and cast it to the flames. this had been lance's joy of life, the expression of moods outside her understanding and sympathy. she caught the shining [ ] thing to her as though she defended it from some menace, cherishing it in a kindly grasp. "oh, no," she answered softly. "no, lance. i couldn't burn it up. it's--the banjo is the most harmless thing in the world. why should i be mad at it?" "you used to be," said lance simply. "i--" he hesitated, then finished with a sort of haste--"i always was a fool about it. i think you'd better put it in the fire." reverently she touched the strings, struggling with something too big for expression. "i'll never harm it," she told him. "if i thought you would, i'd take it back with me and keep it till--till you could come and play it again. you just don't feel like yourself now." his arm dropped to the rock beside him. his face, turned away from her, was laid sidewise upon it. she guessed that he feigned sleep. she had forgiven the banjo. she spoke of his homecoming. she would accept him. she would hold nothing against him! . . . yet, somehow, he could not find in his sore heart the joy and gratitude which should have answered to this state of affairs. he ought to be thankful. it was more than he deserved. yet--to be forgiven, to be accepted--when had lance cleaverage ever desired such boons? when all was cleared away with efficient, skillful swiftness, callista left her patient lying [ ] quiescent, and went to the cave, wrapping herself in one of the homespun blankets and sitting where she could look out and see the valley. after a time inaction became irksome, and she went down to gather more chestnut wood for his fire. this she piled in the vestibule, laying it down lightly for fear of disturbing the sleeper. the afternoon wore on. once she looked around the turn, but the fire had declined, and she could make out nothing save a bulk of shadow where lance lay. stealing in, she laid on more wood. the next time she went out the sun was sunk behind the western ranges, and twilight, coming fast, warned her that she must presently get back to her tryst with sylvane. returning with the last load of fuel, she found the inner chamber of the cave full of the broken brightness that came from a branch of pine she had ventured to put in place, seeing that the smoke so completely took care of itself. her husband still lay with his head on his arm. she would not wake him. doubtfully she regarded the prostrate figure, then knelt a moment at his side and whispered, "lance. lance, i have obliged to go now. either sylvane or me--or both of us--will be here a-wednesday night about moonrise. if anything happens that we can't come wednesday, we'll be here the next night." she waited a moment. getting no response, she murmured, [ ] "good-by, lance." the tone was kind, even tender. yet the man, whose closed lids covered waking eyes, felt no impulse to let her know that he heard, no desire to respond to her farewell. [ ] chapter xxviii. the sheriff scores. lance cleaverage lay in the cavern above the east fork of caney for nearly two weeks. the search for him was persistent, even savage, the reason given being that he had attempted the life of an officer of the law. flenton hands had been taken to the house of his kinsman the sheriff, and the bulletins sent out from his bedside were not encouraging; yet lance's people clung to such hope as they might from the fact that the man was not yet dead. "no, flent ain't gone yet," beason would rumble out when questioned on the subject, "but he's mighty low--mighty low. he's liable to drop off any time; and who'd take lance cleaverage then, i'd like to know? not me. no, nor not any man i've met, so far. the thing for us to do is to git that thar wild hawk of a feller while they's nothing agin him more than assault with intent to kill, or some such. when he smells hemp in the business, he's goin' to make it too dangerous for anybody to go after him, and his folks'll git him out o' them mountains and plumb away to texas, or californy." this it was which, urging haste, gave the hunt [ ] its flavor of savagery. the empty cabin at the head of lance's laurel had been ransacked again and again; it was known to be watched day and night; the espionage on the house of kimbro cleaverage and that of the gentrys was almost as close. but callista and sylvane continually evaded it at night, and kept the fugitive in his cave well provided. in spite of their care, lance pined visibly. his arm was almost healed; he suffered from no definite bodily ailment, save a low, fretting fever; but his manner was one of heavy languor, broken by random breaths of surface irritability. then came a saturday night when beason's men, watching a trail, surprised and took sylvane laden with food and necessaries plainly intended for the man in hiding. they rose up from behind some rocks by the roadside and had the boy in their clutches almost before he knew to be alarmed. it was a raw, gray february evening, drawing in sullenly to night, with a spit of rain in the air, freezing as it fell, stinging the cheek like a whip-lash, numbing toes and fingers. the boy looked desolately up the long road which he had intended to forsake for a safer trail at the next turning. he glanced at his laden mule, and answered at random the volleyed questions flung at him. finally beason, heavy, black-bearded, saturnine, silenced them all and opened out, with the dignity of his office, [ ] "now see here, sylvanus cleaverage, these gentlemen with me is sworn officers of the law. we know whar you're a-goin' at, and who you're a-goin' to. they's no use to dodge." "i ain't a-dodgin'," retorted sylvane, and in the tilt of his head against the weak light of the western sky one got his full resemblance to lance. "if you know so mighty well and good right where i was a-goin' at, go thar yo'self," he concluded, desperate, at the end of everything. "what you pesterin' me about it for? with your kind leave i'll turn around and walk myself back home." "no you won't," beason countered. "ain't i told you that we're all officers of the law, and i'm sheriff of this here county, and i aim to do my duty as sworn to perform it? what you got to do is to jest move along in the--in the direction you was a-goin', and lead us to lance cleaver-age. you do that, or you'll wish you had." it was a lack of tact to threaten even this younger one of the cleaverage boys. "i'll never do yo' biddin'," sylvane told him with positiveness, "not this side of the grave. as for makin' me wish i had, you can kill me, but that won't get buddy for you. he's whar you can't take him. you'll never find him; an' if you did, no ten men could take him whar he's at. an' if i was killed and put out of the way, there's them that would still feed him and carry him the news." [ ] "the good god a'mighty! who wants to kill you, you fool boy?" demanded beason testily. "there's been too much killin' did; that's the trouble." "oh--flent's dead then?" inquired sylvane on a falling note, searching the faces before him in the dusk. "will you lead us to whar lance is at, or will you not?" demanded beason monotonously, dropping the flimsy pretense that they had any knowledge of the fugitive's hiding place. "i'll go with you to pappy," sylvane compromised. "whatever pappy says will be right." so they all turned and went together to the old cleaverage place, the boy on his laden mule riding in their midst. they found kimbro at home sick. he got up, trembling, from his bed and dressed himself. "gentlemen," he said to them, appearing in their midst, humbled, broken, but still self-respecting, "i wish my son lance would surrender himself up to the law--yes, i do. his health is giving way under what he has to endure. but lead you to him i will not, without i first get his consent to do so. if you have a mind to stay here--and if you will give me yo' word of honor not to foller nor watch me, sheriff beason--i will go myself and see what he has to say; and i'll come back and tell you." beason held a prolonged whispered consultation [ ] with his three men. at the end of it he turned and said to the father half surlily, "go ahead, i give you my word to neither foller nor watch." the men sprawled themselves about roxy griever's hearthstone, warming luxuriously, dreading to go forth again into the raw february weather. roxy followed her father to the door. "pappy," she pleaded, clinging to his arm. "hit'll be the death of you to go abroad this-a-way, sick like you air, and all." "no, roxana--no, daughter," kimbro replied, drawing her gently out to the porch, whence they could see sylvane getting a saddle on to satan. "i feel as though i might be greatly benefited if only this matter of lance's can be fixed up. i consider that they trust me more than another when they consent to let me go this way." roxy's eye rolled toward the doorway and dwelt upon the officers of the law who were to remain her guests till her father's return. across her mind came dim visions of heroic biblical women who had offered deadly hospitality to such. step by step she followed kimbro to the gate, whispering, "don't you git lance to give himself up, pappy--don't do it. you tell him sylvane is a-goin' to fetch extra ammunition from hepzibah, and if he can hold out till spring, these fellers [ ] is bound to git tired and turn loose the job. he can slip away then; or they'll be wore out, an' ready to make some sort o' terms with the boy." "daughter," said the old man, softly, "your brother would be dead before spring." "well, he'll shore die," cried the poor woman, in a sort of piercing whisper, "ef they take him down to jail in the settlement. pappy, you know lance ain't never goin' to live--_in the jail!_" and kimbro left her sobbing at the gate, as he rode away on the black horse, his frail, drooping figure a pathetic contrast to the young animal's mettlesome eagerness. [ ] chapter xxix. the island at last. after his father left him, lance slept, the sleep of a condemned and shriven man, long and deep and dreamless, the first sound rest his tortured nerves and flagging powers had known since the night in hepzibah. kimbro cleaverage--following sylvane's directions--had come without difficulty to his son's cave hide-out, arriving at about eleven o'clock. he found lance sitting wakeful by the fire, the gay folds of the gospel quilt over his knees, played upon by the shimmer and shine of the leaping blaze. the young man's fever-bright gaze was directed with absorbed attention toward his work. he was delicately snipping loose ends with the shears, while a threaded needle was stuck in the lapel of his coat. he had taken the scarlet calico and cut from it a series of tiny greek crosses, beautifully exact and deftly grouped and related so as to form a border around the entire square. with that sense of decorative effect which was denied his sister, he had set these so that the interplay of red and white pleased the eye, and almost redeemed the archaic absurdities of the quilt itself. skilled with the needle as a woman, he had [ ] basted the last cross in place when his father entered. the talk which followed, there in that subterranean atmosphere that is neither out-nor in-door, neither dark nor light, was long and earnest. kimbro spoke freely, and there was always that in his father which took lance by the throat. perhaps it was the entire lack of accusation; perhaps something in the old man's personality that appealed with its tale of struggle and failure, its frank revelation of patiently borne defeat. "i'll go right back with you, pappy, if you say so," lance murmured huskily at the last, looking up into the gray old face above him like the child he had used to be. "as well now as any time." "no, son," said kimbro slowly. his heart ached with the cry, "the lord knows there ain't no such hurry--there'll be time enough afterward!" but his habit of gentle stoicism prevailed, and he only paused a little, then added, "i reckon we better not do that--i reckon we couldn't very well. i rode the black nag pretty hard coming up. the going's heavy. he couldn't carry us both back, not in any sort of time; and nary one of us is fit to make it afoot. no, i'll take the word to beason, and him and his men will likely stay at our house till in the morning--poor roxy! sylvane'll ride the mule up here tol'able early, and lead your horse. you go straight home. [ ] beason and his men can come for you to your house. will that suit?" "hit'll suit" lance answered. there was along silence between the two. then the old man moved to the cave's mouth. "farewell," he said, and stood hesitating, his back to his son. lance followed his father a few halting paces, carrying a chunk of fire, lighting the old man down the bank. "farewell, pappy," he echoed. "all right, son," came back the faint hail, then after a moment's silence kimbro's voice added, "thank you for sending this word by me. farewell," and there was the sound of his footsteps moving on down the little valley. probably six hours later, lance wakened and lay looking at the embers; he reached out a languid hand to push a brand in place. presently he rose and built up the smoldering fire, and thereafter sat beside it, head on hand, his hollow eyes studying the coals. his father was gone back to notify the sheriff. well, that was right--a man must answer for the thing he did; and they said that flenton hands was dead. he was not consciously glad of this--nor regretful; he was only very weary, spent and at the end of everything. how could he have done otherwise than he had done? and yet--and yet-- his mind went back the long way to his wooing [ ] of callista. what a flowery path it was to lead to such a bleak conclusion! then once more his thought veered, like the light shifting smoke above the fire, to hands. they'd hardly hang him for the killing. it was not a murder. there were those who would testify as to what his provocation had been. but it would mean his days shut away from the sun; a disgraced name to hand down to his boy. for no reason which he could have given, the sound of a banjo whispered in his memory, "how many miles, how many years?" ah, the miles and the years then! callista would be free--and that would be right, too. he had no call to cling to her and claim her. she had never been his, never--never--never! an inconsequent vision of her face lying on his breast the night he had climbed the wild grapevine to her window came mockingly back to tantalize him. he stirred uneasily, and reached to lay another chunk in place, mutely answering the recollection back again--she had never been his. then suddenly his head lifted with a start; there was the noise of a rolling stone outside, a thrashing of the bushes, a rush of hurrying feet, and even before he could spring up callista was in the cave. but not any callista lance had ever known; not the scornful beauty who throned herself among her mates and accepted the homage of mankind as her due; not the flushed, tremulous callista of that [ ] never-to-be-forgotten night at the window. this was not the young wife of the earlier married days--least of all the mother of his son, or the kindly friend, the stanch partner, who had tended on and served him here in the cave. this was a strange, fierce, half-distraught, shining-eyed callista, a fit adventurer, if she list, to put forth toward his island. a little dark shawl was tied over her bright head; but from under its confining edges the fair locks, usually so ordered and placid, streamed loosely around the face which looked out white and fearful. her dress was soaked about the edges and all up one side. it was stained with earth, there, too, ripped loose from the waist, and torn till it hung in long, streaming shreads. a deep scratch across her cheek bled unheeded, and a flying strand of hair had glued fast in it. her shaking hands were bleeding too, and grimed with woods mold, her finger nails were packed with it, where she had fallen again and again and scrambled up. she walked staggeringly and breathed in gasps. "they--" she panted, then took two or three laboring breaths before she could go on. "they told me at father cleaverage's that they was goin' to send here and fetch you in--is that so?" "i reckon they are," the man beside the fire assented nervelessly. a wild look lightened over her face. she came stumblingly up to him. "lance!" she choked. "did you sure enough [ ] _send_ that word by your father to the sheriff?--did you _say_ you'd give up and go in--did you?" "yes," he returned somberly. "i did, callista. that's all that was left me." "my god!" she breathed. "and i couldn't believe it--not a word of it. but i just slipped out and come. i've got gran'pappy's horse maje and the mandy mule tied down in the bushes below there, and--" cleaverage glanced about him and, rising, began to roll together the blankets of his bed. "yes," he repeated, in a sort of automatic fashion. "pappy left me before midnight, and he was riding satan. i reckon i ought to be moving right soon now. it must be sun-up outside, ain't it?" she looked at him with desperate doubt. "lance!" she demanded, clutching his arm with her trembling hand. "what made you send father cleaverage with such word as that?--and never let me know!--oh, lance, what did you do it for? bring them things and come on down quick. there may be time yet." he stared at her dumbly questioning for a moment. long misery had made his wits slow. he plainly hesitated between thinking her the emissary sent from home for him and the understanding that she wanted him to escape. "time?" he repeated. "do you mean--?" [ ] her lips shaped "yes," her eyes fastened upon his face. he took it very quietly. slowly he shook his head. "i ain't got any right to do that," he said. "i've given my word to pappy. they'd hold him for it. and if i did go, i'd be running and hiding the balance o' my days. you and the boy would be lost to me--same as you will be as it is. and--and you wouldn't be free. i done the thing. let me take my punishment like a man, callista. oh, for god's sake," he cried out with a sudden sharp cry, "let me do something like a man! i've played the fool boy long enough." he dropped back into a sitting posture beside the fire. callista had never released his arm. it was plain that his attitude frightened her more terribly than any violence of resistance would have done. she bent over him now in the tremulous intensity of her purpose, whispering, the low pleading of her voice still interrupted with little gasps. "you're broke down living this-a-way. lance. you don't know your own mind--you ain't fit to speak for yourself." "oh, callista," said lance's quiet tones, "i'm a sight fitter to speak for myself now than i ever was before in my life. i've got it to do." up to this time, the trouble between these two had continued to be a lovers' quarrel. leaving [ ] lance alone in the house he had builded for her, throwing back into his face such help as he would have followed her with, callista had but triumphed as she used to when they bickered before an audience of their mates. angry as she actually was when she broke with him, there could not fail, also, to be a cruel satisfaction in the knowledge of how she put him from his ordinary, how she changed the course of his life, and knew him her pining lover, the man who could not sleep o' nights for thought of her. perhaps, when his pride was broken, and he came suing to her, personally, she would go home with him and patch the matter up with patronage and forgiveness. from the first this expected consummation had been vaguely shadowed in her mind back of all she did or refused to do. here and now was the matter sharply taken out of her hands. lance turned his back on her. he reckoned without her. he promised to others that which would set him at once and permanently beyond her recall. with an impassioned gesture, she flung herself down on her knees before him where he sat. her arms went around him, her face was pressed against him. "no, no. lance," she implored. "you might speak for yourself--but who's to speak for me? what'll i do when they take you from me? i'd sooner hide like a wild varmint all my days. i'd sooner--oh, come on and go with me, lance. i'll run with you as long as we both live." [ ] "that wouldn't be a fit life for you and the baby," lance told her. "the baby!" replied callista, almost scornfully. "i didn't aim to take him along. it's you and me, lance--you and me." gazing up at him, she saw the look in her husband's face; she saw that his thoughts were clearing, and that the resolute, formulated negative was coming. "oh, don't say it, lance!" she cried, her arms tightening convulsively around his body, the tears streaming down her lifted face, washing away the blood. a great coughing sob shook her from head to foot. "oh, lance, don't--don't do it! i know--" she hastened pitifully--"i know i haven't got any rights. i know i've wore out your love. but oh, please, honey, come with me and let's run." through the man's dazed senses the truth had made its way at last. he sat wonder-smitten. the weeping woman on her knees before him looking up into his face, with eyes from which the veil of pride and indifference was rent away, eyes out of which the sheer, hungry, unashamed adoration gazed. "lance," she began at last, in a voice that was scarce more than a breath, a mere shadow of sound, "i've never told you. look like i always waited for you to say. but since--long ago--ever since you and me was boy and girl--and [ ] girl together--they was never anybody for me but you--you, dear. they's nothing you could do or be that would make it different. i--my heart--if they take you away from me, lance, darlin', they might just as well kill me." lance reached around and got the two hands that were clinging to him so frantically. he held them, one over the other, in his own and, bending his head, kissed them again and again. he touched the loose hair about her forehead, then mutely laid his lips against its fairness. he lifted his head and looked long into her eyes with a look which she could not understand. "you--you're a-comin', lance?" she breathed. he shook his head ever so little. "callista," he said very softly, and the name was a caress,-- "mine--my girl--my callista, you're a-goin' to help me do the right thing." she started back a little; she caught her breath, and her blue eyes dilated upon him. "the right thing," her husband repeated, with something that was almost a smile on his lips. "and that's to ride over home and give myself up. god bless you, dear, i can do it now with a quiet mind. oh, callista--callista--i'm happier this minute than i ever was before in my life! whatever comes, i can face it now." callista crouched with parted lips and desperate eyes. about them there was silence, broken only by the tiny sibilations of the fire, the hushed voice [ ] of the night wind muttering in the outer chamber of the cave, as the air sighs through the open lips of a sea-shell. her ear was against his breast; with a sort of creeping terror she heard the even beating of his heart. he could say such words quietly! an awful sense of powerlessness gripped her. lance was arbiter of his own fate. if he chose, he could do this thing. she was like one who waits, the flood at her lips, while the inevitable death rises slowly to engulf. then it was as if the waters closed above her. with a whispered cry she settled forward against him, and rested so, held close in his embrace. little shivers went over her lax body. she uttered brief, broken murmurs. down and down she sank in the arms that clasped her. lance bent his head to hear. "well--if ye won't go with me," she was saying, "i'll go with you. i'll go wherever they take you. what you suffer, i'll suffer, lance; because the fault was mine--oh, the fault was mine!" "we ain't got no time to talk about faults, honey," he said to her, slipping a caressing hand beneath her cheek, lifting the bent face, kissing her again and again, offering that demonstrative love for which callista thirsted, which she had no initiative herself to proffer. "i'll not let you miscall my girl. i wouldn't have a hair of her head different. come on, darlin', i've got to make good my word." [ ] strangely stilled as to her grief, callista rose. she moved silently about the cave and, without any further word of remonstrance, helped him gather his belongings together and make them ready. lance himself was like a man for whom a new day has dawned. he was almost gay when they turned to take their farewell of the place that had been his home for weeks. when they stepped forth, they found the sun fully risen upon a morning fair and promising. callista looked long at the rock-house as, carrying their bundles, they passed it on the way to their mounts. "and i had you for my own--all my own--and nobody to hinder--while we lived there," she said, speaking in a slow, wondering tone. "oh, lord! foolish people have to learn hard when 'tis that they're blessed." lance's free arm went around her slight body and drew her close to his side as they walked. when they reached the animals, he loaded the bedding and other things carefully upon them, then turned to her. "sweetheart," he said, with that strange deep glow in his eyes, "folks that love each other like we do are blessed all the time, whether they're free and together--or separated--or in jail. they're blessed whether they're above ground or below it." he kissed her and lifted her lightly to maje's back and they rode away. as they followed down caney and struck [ ] eastward toward the cleaverage place, the morning drew on, sweet and towardly. for all the cold, there was an under-note of spring in the air. february felt the stirring of the year which had turned in its sleep. they rode together, hand in hand, where the trail permitted, both remembering--lance with an added light in his eyes and a meaning smile, callista with a sudden burst of tears--that other ride they had taken together. lance's arm around her, her head on his shoulder, when they went down to squire ashe's to be married. they traveled thus, in silence or with few words spoken, for nearly two hours. their best road home would take them past the old cleaverage place, and within a mile of the house. as they drew near this point something stirred down deep under lance's quiet. his breath quickened, his face set in sharp lines. he suddenly strained callista to him in a grasp that hurt, then released her, touched the patient maje with his heel and pushed ahead at a good gait. callista, watching him, followed drooping and mute. moving so, swiftly and in single file they reached the place whence they could see the chimney of the kimbro cleaverage house through the trees, and were aware of a woman on a black horse, a child carried carefully in her arms, coming toward them. callista lifted her hanging head and looked wonderingly around her husband. [ ] "why, i do believe that's ola derf on cindy!" she said heavily. "is it? no, i reckon not." since the day on which ola had bidden her strange reproachful adieu to lance's empty room, no one had seen her on turkey track, though it was reported that she was staying with kin no further away than hepzibah. "it is ola," said callista, as the rider of the black filly came nearer. "and she--she's got my baby! o lord! what now?" for a moment the astonishment of it dulled the agony of rebellion which once more surged in callista's soul as she looked at that chimney through the trees and knew that there by its hearthstone were the sheriff and his men ready to take lance from her. "i come a-past the gentry place and stopped to git the boy," ola called, as soon as she could make them hear. it occurred to callista that this girl, too, supposed that lance would try to escape, and that they would wish to take the baby with them. "sheriff beason and his men are in yon," lance told ola, glancing in the direction of his father's house. "i'm going to my own place to give myself up--they're coming up there for me." ola nodded, without making any immediate reply. she looked with curious questioning from husband to wife, shifting the baby to her hip. [ ] "my, but he's solid," she said enviously, the aboriginal mother-woman showing strong in her ugly little brown face. "i'll take him," callista murmured, putting out her arms almost mechanically. but ola made no movement to hand over the baby. she yet sat her horse, glancing from one countenance to the other. "i've been a-stayin' down in hepzibah," she observed abruptly. "my man, he's about to be out of the pen, and him and flent hands had dealings that--well, that's what charlie was sent up for." "your man?" echoed callista; and lance smiled as she had not seen him for long. "yes, charlie massengale, my man," ola repeated. "heap o' folks around here didn't know i had one. we was wedded in the territory when i was fo'teen, and he got into trouble in the settlement--this here trouble that flent was mixed up in--and pappy 'lowed that as long as 'yo' old man was in the pen you better not name anything about him.'" she was smoothing the baby's garments, making ready, with evident reluctance, to surrender him to them. ajax the second shouted inarticulately at his mother, but kept a fairly apprehensive eye upon the man who rode beside her. "well, young feller," said ola finally, lifting the baby and holding him toward his parents, "i [ ] reckon i've got to give you up, jest like i had to give up yo' pappy afore ye." she laughed a little hardily, and looked with a sort of dubious defiance at callista, who paid no attention, but pushed her mule close in beside cindy. "they say that flenton hands is--is--did you go to flenton's funeral, ola?" asked callista fearfully, as the women negotiated the exchange of the baby. ola laughed again, and more loudly. "i say funeral!" she exclaimed. "flenton hands has got a powerful lot more davilment to do in this world before they put him un'neath the ground. i--pappy--they--well, you know i was down there when this all happened, and somehow, i thest got the notion in my head that flent wasn't so mighty awful bad hurt; and when i heared how beason was a-carryin' on, i went to their house to see flent. i named to him that charlie's time was 'bout to be up an' he'd be out, and that what charlie had stood for him was a plenty. i axed him didn't he want to send a writin' up to beason and stop this foolishness up here on turkey track, and after i'd talked to him for a little spell he 'lowed he did." callista, hearkening in silence, caught the child in so strained a grasp that he made a little outcry, half scared, half offended. ola pulled from the bosom of her dress a letter which she flung over to [ ] lance with the uncouth yet generous gesture of a savage. "'course flent could hang on and make you a little trouble--but he ain't a-goin' to," she said sturdily. "i reckon he's called off his dogs in that writin'. hit's to dan beason." with the words she wheeled her horse and would have gone, but callista, at the imminent risk of dropping ajax, caught at cindy's bridle rein. "i've got a heap to thank you for, ola derf," she said in a voice shaken with deep feeling. "you ain't got a thing in the world to thank me for, callista gentry," declared the little brown girl, and drew her black brows at lance's wife. but callista's whole nature melted into grateful love. "where you goin' now?" she asked wistfully. "looks like you and me ought to be better friends than we ever have been." ola considered the proposition, and shook her head. "i reckon not," she said finally. "i'm a-goin' down to nashville right soon. charlie will want me to be right thar when he gits out. he's not the worst man in the world, ef he ain't--" she turned a sudden swimming look on the pair with their child. "good-by," she ended abruptly, and signaling cindy with her heel, loped off down the road. the hounds at the kimbro cleaverage place [ ] were evidently away on hunting enterprises of their own. lance and his wife rode to the gate without challenge, dismounted, tethered the animals, and omitting the customary halloo, opened the door upon the family seated at a late breakfast. for a moment nobody in the room stirred or spoke. the sheriff paused with a morsel checked on its way to his open mouth. roxy griever, coffee-pot in hand, stopped between fireplace and table. sylvane, who had half risen at the sound of steps, remained as he was, staring, while old kimbro's eyes reached the newcomer with pathetic entreaty in their depths. ma'y-ann-marth' broke the spell by rushing at her uncle lance and butting into his knees, shouting welcome. then sylvane hastily leaped up and ran to his brother's side, as though to share as nearly as might be that which must now befall. the men on beason's either hand nudged him and whispered. "do it quick," roxy heard one mutter. "better get the handcuffs on him," admonished the other. "he's a slippery cuss." roxy cast a look of helpless fury at the officers of the law, and mechanically advanced to fill their cups once more--gladly would she have poured to them henbane, plague, the venom of adders. beason jammed into his mouth the bite he had started to take, and speaking around it in a voice of somewhat impaired dignity, began his solemn recitative, [ ] "lance cleaverage, i arrest you in the name of the law--" "hold on a minute," suggested lance, mildly, bending to pick up ma'y-ann-marth' (both of the deputies ducked as his head went down); "i've got a letter for you, daniel beason." he tossed the envelope to the sheriff across the little girl's flaxen head. "read it before you make your arrest. read it out, or to yourself." "flent ain't dead!" cried roxy, with a woman's instinctive piercing to the heart of the matter. they all remained gazing at beason while he tore open and laboriously deciphered the communication. his face fell almost comically. "no, he ain't dead--an' he ain't a-goin' to die," blustered the sheriff, trying to cover his own pre-knowledge of the fact. "well, he's made a fool of me one time too many. when i go back to hepzibah, i'll settle this here business with mr. flenton hands, that thinks he can sick the law on people and call it off, same as you would a hound dog. ouch! the good lord, woman! you needn't scald a body." for in her blissful relief, roxy had swung the spout of the coffee-pot a wide circle, which sprayed the boiling fluid liberally over the sheriff's thumb. he regarded her frowningly, the member in his mouth, as she set the pot down ruthlessly on her cherished tablecloth of floursacks and ran to add herself to the group about her returned brother. [ ] the deputies got to their feet and came over to shake hands, muttering broken phrases concerning the law, and always having entertained the utmost good will toward their quarry. even beason, nursing his painful thumb, finally offered a surly paw. only old kimbro wheeled from the table and sat with bent head, his working face turned toward the hearthstone, tears running unchecked, unheeded, down the cheeks that had never been thus wet in the days of his most poignant sorrow. "no, thank you kindly. sis' roxy," lance refused his sister's invitation when she would have forced him and callista into places at the table. "we'll be movin' along home." his tones dwelt fondly on the word. "neither callista nor me is rightly hungry yet; we'll take our first meal at our own place to-day." it was bare branches they rode under going home to the cabin in the gap; but the sap had started at the roots. winter had done his worst; his bolt was sped; spring was on the way. fire was kindled once more on the cold hearth, a splendid banner of flame wrapping the hickory logs, and lance sat before it with his son on his knees, warming the small rosy feet chilled from the long ride. for a moment he caught and held both restless, dimpled little members in one sinewy brown hand, marveling at them, thrilling to the touch of their velvet softness. outside, a cardinal's note came persistently [ ] from the stream's edge, a gallant call. high over the cumberlands arched the blue, dappled with white cloud. it was a rarely beautiful day, such as nearly every february brings a few of in that region. on every rocky hillside farm of the mountain country harness and implements were being dragged forth and inspected against the beginning of the year's work. winter's prisoners were everywhere rejoicing in the prospect of release. doors were left open; girls called from outside announcing finds of early blossoms; the piping voices of children at play came shrill and keen on the cool, sunlit air. within callista's dusk kitchen, the firelight set moving ruddy shine and shadow on the brown walls. midway one of these she had hung up the banjo, having carried it home across her shoulders. its sheepskin round showed a misty moon within the gleam of metal band where the blaze struck out a sparkling crescent to rim one side. it made no question now of "how many miles, how many years?" for the answer was come. later lance would take it down and string it afresh, and the little feet that kicked their pink heels against his knee, their fat toes curling ecstatically in the heat of the fire, would dance to its strumming. even callista would learn the delight of measuring her step by its music. but now it was mute. there was no need of its voice in the harmony that was here. and when callista, in the pauses of her [ ] homely task of dinner making, knelt beside the pair at the fire and encircled them both with her arms, lance knew that he had at last brought home his own to his island. an island! it stretched away before the eye of his spirit, a continent, a world, a universe! the confines of that airy domain where he had dwelt alone and uncompanioned, were suddenly wide enough to take in all mankind, though they held just now only the trinity of home--father, mother, and child. produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) when 'bear cat' went dry [illustration: you're agoing to marry me and we're goin' to dwell thar--together] when 'bear cat' went dry by charles neville buck _author of_ "the call of the cumberlands," etc. illustrations by george w. gage new york w. j. watt & company publishers copyright, , by w. j. watt & company _other books_ _by_ charles neville buck the key to yesterday the lighted match the portal of dreams the call of the cumberlands the battle cry the code of the mountains destiny the tyranny of weakness press of braunworth & co. book manufacturers brooklyn, n. y. to m. f. when 'bear cat' went dry chapter i a creaking complaint of loose and rattling boards rose under the old mountaineer's brogans as he stepped from the threshold to the porch. his eyes, searching the wooded mountain-side, held at first only that penetration which born woodsmen share with the hawk and ferret, but presently they kindled into irascibility as well. he raised his voice in a loud whoop that went skittering off across the rocky creek bed where little slippery crawled along to feed the trickle of big slippery ten miles below, and the volume of sound broke into a splintering of echoes against the forested crags of the old wilderness ridges. "you, turner!" bellowed the man with such a bull-like roar as might have issued from the chest of a viking. "you, turner, don't ye heer me a-callin' ye?" a woman, rawboned and crone-like before her time under the merciless forcing of drudgery, appeared in the door, wiping reddened hands on a coarse cotton apron. "i reckon he'll be hyar, presently, paw," she suggested in a high-pitched voice meant to be placating. "i reckon he hain't fared far away." the hodden-gray figure of the man turned to his wife and his voice, as it dropped to conversational pitch, held a surprisingly low and drawling cadence. "what needcessity did he hev ter go away a-tall?" came his interrogation. "he knowed i aimed ter hev him tote thet gryste acrost ther ridge ter the tub-mill, didn't he? he knows that hits perilous business ter leave corn like that a-layin' 'round, don't he--_sprouted corn_!" a flash of poignant anxiety clouded the woman's eyes. corn sprouted in the grain before grinding! she knew well enough what that meant--incrimination in the eyes of the government--trial, perhaps, and imprisonment. "ye 'lowed a long while since, lone," she reminded him with a trace of wistfulness in her voice, "that ye aimed ter quit makin' blockade licker fer all time. hit don't pleasure me none ter see ye a-follerin' hit ergin. seems like thar's a curse on hit from start ter finish." "i don't foller hit because i delights in hit," he retorted grimly. "but what else is thar ter do? i reckon we've got ter live somehow--hain't we?" for an instant his eyes flared with an upleaping of rebellion; then he turned again on his heel and roared "turner--you, turner!" "ther boy seemed kinderly fagged out when he come in. i reckon he aimed ter slip off and rest in ther shade somewhars fer a lettle spell afore ye needed him," volunteered the boy's mother, but the suggestion failed to mollify the mounting impatience of the father. "fagged! what's fagged him? i hain't never disc'arned nothin' puny about him. he's survigrous enough ter go a-snortin' an' a-stompin' over ther hills like a yearlin' bull, a-honin' fer battle. he's knowed from god's blessin' creek ter hell's holler by ther name of bear cat stacy, hain't he? bear cat stacy! i'd hate ter take my name from a varmint--but it pleasures him." "i don't sca'cely b'lieve he seeks no aimless quarrels," argued the mother defensively. "thar hain't no _meanness_ in him. he's jest like you was, lone, when ye was twenty a-goin' on twenty-one. he's full o' sperrit. i reckon bear cat jest means thet he's quick-like an' supple." "supple! hell's torment! whar's he at now? he's jest about a-layin' somewhar's on his shoulder-blades a-readin' thet everlastin' book erbout abe lincoln--you, turner!" then the figure of a young man appeared, swinging along with an effortless stride down the steep grade of the mountain which was richly mottled with the afternoon sun. he came between giant clusters of flowering laurel, along aisles pink with wild roses and white with the foaming spray of elder blossoms; flanked by masses of colossal rock, and every movement was a note of frictionless power. like his father, turner stacy measured a full six feet, but age and the yoke of hardship had not yet stooped his fine shoulders nor thickened his slenderness of girth. his face was striking in its clear chiseling of feature and its bronzed color. it would have been arrestingly handsome but for its marring shadow of surliness. in one hand he held a battered book, palpably one used with the constancy and devotion of a monk's breviary, and a forefinger was still thrust between the dog-eared pages. "lincoln: master of men,"--such was the title of the volume. as turner stacy arrived at the house, his father's uncompromisingly stern eyes dwelt on the book and they were brimming with displeasure. "didn't ye know i hed work for ye ter do terday?" the boy nodded indifferently. "i 'lowed ye hed ther power ter shout fer me when ye war ready, i wasn't more'n a whoop an' a holler distant." the mother, hovering in the shadowed interior of the house, listened silently, and a little anxiously. this friction of unbending temper between her husband and son was a thing to which she could never quite accustom herself. always she was interposing herself as a buffer between their threats of clashing wills. "turner," said the elder man slowly, and now he spoke quietly with an effort to curb his irascibililty, "i knows thet boys often-times gits uppety an' brash when they're a-growin' inter manhood. they've got thar growth an' they feel thar strength an' they hain't acquired neither sense ner experience enough ter realize how plumb teetotally much they _don't_ know yit. but speakin' jedgmatically, i hain't never heered tell of no stacy afore what hain't been loyal ter his family an' ther head of his house. 'pears like ter me hit pleasures ye beyond all reason ter sot yoreself crost-wise erginst me." the boy's eyes grew somberly dark as they met those of his father with undeviating steadiness. an analyst would have said that the outward surliness was after all only a mask for an inner questioning--the inarticulate stress of a cramped and aspiring spirit. "i don't know as ye hev any rightful cause fer ter charge me with bein' disloyal," he answered slowly, as if pondering the accusation. "i hain't never aimed ter contrary ye." lone stacy paused for a moment and then the timbre of his voice acquired the barb of an irony more massive than subtle. "air yore heart in torment because ye hain't ther presi_dent_ of ther country, like abe lincoln was? is _thet_ why ye don't delight in nothin' save dilitary dreams?" a slow, brick-red flush suffused the brown cheeks of bear cat stacy, and his answer came with a slowness that was almost halting. "when abraham lincoln was twenty years old he warn't no more presi_dent_ then what i be. thar hain't many lincoln's, but any feller kin have ther thing in him, though, thet carried lincoln up ter whar he went. any feller kin do his best and want ter do some better. thet's all i'm aimin' after." the father studied his son's suddenly animated eyes and inquired drily, "does this book-l'arnin' teach ye ter lay around plumb ind'lent with times so slavish hard thet i've been pintedly compelled ter start ther still workin' ergin, despite my a-bein' a christian an' a law-lover: despite my seekin' godliness an' abhorin' iniquity?" there was in the sober expression of the questioner no cast of hypocrisy or conscious anomaly, and the younger man shook his head. "i hain't never shirked no labor, neither in ther field ner at ther still, but----" he paused a moment and once more the rebellious light flared in his eyes and he continued with the level steadiness of resolution. "but i hates ter foller thet business, an' when i comes of age i aims ter quit hit." "ye aims ter quit hit, does ye?" the old mountaineer forgot, in the sudden leaping of wrath at such unfilial utterances, that he himself had a few minutes before spoken in the same tenor. "ye aims ter defy me, does ye? wa'al even afore ye comes of age hit wouldn't hardly hurt ye none ter quit _drinkin'_ hit. ye're too everlastin' good ter _make_ blockade licker, but ye hain't none too good ter lay drunk up thar with hit." this time the boy's flush was one of genuine chagrin and he bit off the instinctive retort that perhaps a realization of this overpowering thirst was the precise thing which haunted him: the exact urge which made him want to break away from a serfdom that held him always chained to his temptation. "ye thinks ye're too much like abe lincoln ter make blockade licker," went on the angry parent, "but ye hain't above rampagin' about these hills seekin' trouble an' raisin' up enemies whar i've done spent my days aimin' ter consort peaceable with my neighbors. hit hain't been but a week since ye broke ratler webb's nose." "hit come about in fair fight--fist an' skull, an' i only hit him oncet." "nobody else didn't feel compelled ter hit him even oncet, did they?" "mebby not--but he was seekin' ter bulldoze me an' he hurt my feelin's. i'd done laughed hit off twic't." "an' so ye're a-goin' on a-layin' up trouble erginst ther future. hit hain't ther _makin'_ of licker thet's laid a curse on these hills. hit's _drinkin'_ hit. ef a man kin walk abroad nowadays without totin' his rifle-gun an' a-dreadin' ther shot from the la'rel, hit's because men like me hev sought day an' night ter bring about peace. i counseled a truce in ther stacy-towers war because i war a christian an' i didn't 'low thet god favored bloodshed. but ther truce won't hardly last ef ye goes about stirrin' up ructions. "bear cat stacy!" stormed the older man furiously as his anger fed upon itself. "what air a bear cat anyways? hit's a beast thet rouses up from sleep an' crosses a mountain fer ther pure pleasure of tearin' out some other critter's throat an' vitals. hit's a varmint drove on by ther devil's own sperit of hatefulness. "even in ther feud days men warred with clean powder an' lead, but sich-like fightin' don't seem ter satisfy ye. ye hain't got no use fer a rifle-gun. ye wants ter tear men apart with yore bare hands an' ter plumb rend 'em asunder! i've trod ther streets of marlin town with ye, an' watched yore eyes burnin' like hot embers, until peaceable men drew back from ye an' p'inted ye out ter strangers. 'thar goes ther bear cat,' they'd whisper. 'give him ther whole road!' even ther town marshal walked in fear of ye an' war a-prayin' ter god almighty ye wouldn't start nothin'." "i don't never seek no fight." this time turner stacy spoke without shame. "i don't never have no trouble save whar i'm plumb _obleeged_ ter hev hit." "thet's what kinnard towers always 'lowed," was the dry retort, "though he's killed numerous men, and folks says he's hired others killed, too." the boy met the accusing glance and answered quietly: "ye don't favor peace no more than what i do." "i've aimed ter be both god-fearin' an' law-abidin'," continued the parent whose face and figure might have been cast in bronze as a type of the american pioneer, "yet ye censures me fer makin' untaxed licker!" his voice trembled with a repressed thunder of emotion. "i've seed times right hyar on this creek when fer ther most part of a whole winter we hurted fer salt an' thar warn't none to be had fer love nor money. thar warn't no money in these hills nohow--an' damn'-little love ter brag about. yore maw an' me an' poverty dwelt hyar tergether--ther three of us. we've got timber an' coal an' no way ter git hit ter market. thar's jest only one thing we kin turn inter money or store-credit--an' thet's our corn run inter white licker." he paused as if awaiting a reply and when his son volunteered none he swept on to his peroration. "when i makes hit now i takes numerous chances, an' don't complain. some revenuer, a-settin' on his hunkers, takin' life easy an' a-waitin' fer a fist full of blood money is liable ter meet up in ther highway with some feller thet's nursin' of a grudge erginst me or you. hit's plumb risky an' hits damn'-hard work, but hit hain't no wrong-doin' an' ef yore grandsires an' yore father hain't been above hit, i rekon _you_ hain't above hit neither." turner stacy was still standing on the porch, with one finger marking the place where he had left off reading his biography of lincoln--the master of men. born of a line of stoics, heir to laconic speech and reared to stifle emotions, he was inarticulate and the somberness of his eyes, which masked a pageantry of dreams and a surging conflict in his breast, seemed only the surliness of rebellion. he looked at his father and his mother, withered to sereness by their unrelenting battle with a life that had all been frostbite until even their power of resentment for its injustice had guttered out and dried into a dull acceptance. his fingers gripped the book. abraham lincoln had, like himself, started life in a log house and among crude people. probably he, too, had in those early days no one who could give an understanding ear to the whispering voices that urged him upward. at first the urge itself must have been blurred of detail and shadowy of object. turner's lips parted under an impulse of explanation, and closed again into a more hopelessly sullen line. the older man had chafed too long in heavy harness to comprehend a new vision. any attempt at self-expression would be futile. so the picture he made was only that of a headstrong and wilful junior who had listened unmoved to reason, and a mounting resentment kindled in the gaze of the bearded moonshiner. "i've done aimed ter talk reason with ye," barked the angry voice, "an' hit don't seem ter convince ye none. ef ther pattern of life i've sot ye hain't good enough, do ye think ye're better than yore maw, too?" "i didn't never say ye warn't good enough." the boy found himself freezing into defiant stiffness under this misconstruction until his very eagerness to be understood militated against him. "wa'al, i'll tell ye a thing i don't talk a heap about. hit's a thing thet happened when ye was a young baby. i spent two y'ars in prison then fer makin' white whiskey." "you!" turner stacy's eyes dilated with amazement and the older face hardened with a baleful resentment. "hit warn't jest bein' put in ther jail-house thet i kain't fergit ner fergive so long as i goes on livin'. hit war ther _reason_. ye talks mighty brash erbout ther sacredness of ther revenue laws--wa'al, listen ter me afore ye talks any more." he paused and then continued, as if forcing himself to an unwelcome recital. "i've always borne the name hyarabouts of bein' a law-abidin' citizen and a man thet could be trusted. i'd hoped ter bring peace to the mountings, but when they lawed me and sent me down to looeyville fer trial, ther govern_ment_ lawyer 'lowed thet sence i was a prominent citizen up hyar a-breakin' of the law, they had ought to make a sample of me. because my reputation was good i got two y'ars. ef hit hed been bad, i mout hev come cl'ar." the son took an impulsive step forward, but with an imperious wave of the hand, his father halted him and the chance for a sympathetic understanding was gone. "hold on! i hain't quite done talkin' yit. in them days we war livin' over ther ridge, whar little ivy heads up. you thinks this hyar's a pore fashion of dwellin'-house, but _thet_ one hed jest a single room an' na'ry a winder in all hits four walls. you're maw war right ailin' when they tuck me away ter ther big co'te an' she war mighty young, too, an' purty them days afore she broke. thar warn't no man left ter raise ther crops, an' _you_ ra'red like a young calf ef ye didn't git yore vittles reg'lar. "i reckon mebby ye hain't hardly got no proper idee how long two y'ars kin string out ter be when a man's sulterin' behind bars with a young wife an' a baby thet's liable ter be starvin' meanwhile! i reckon ye don't hardly realize how i studied down thar in prison about ther snow on these godforsaken hillsides an' ther wind whirrin' through ther chinks. but mebby ye _kin_ comprehend this hyar fact. _you'd_ hev pintedly starved ter death, ef yore maw hedn't rigged up a new still in place of ther one the govern_ment_ confiscated, an' made white licker all ther time i was down thar sarvin' time. _she_ did thet an' paid off ther interest on the mortgage an' saved a leetle mite for me erginst ther day when i come home. now air ye sich a sight better then yore maw was?" a yellow flood of sunlight fell upon the two figures and threw into a relief of high lights their two faces; one sternly patriarchal and rugged, the other vitally young and spare of feature. corded arteries appeared on bear cat's temples and, as he listened, the nails of his fingers bit into the flesh of his palms, but his father swept on, giving him no opportunity to reply. "my daddy hed jest shortly afore been lay-wayed an' killed by some towers murderer, an' his property had done been parceled out amongst his children. thar wasn't but jest fourteen of us ter heir hit an' nobody got much. when they tuck me down ter ther big co'te i had ter hire me a lawyer--an' thet meant a mortgage. yore maw hedn't, up ter then, been used ter sich-like slavish poverty. she could hev married mighty nigh any man in these parts--an' she tuck me. "whilst i war a-layin' thar in jail a-tormentin' myself with my doubtin' whether either one of ye would weather them times alive, _she_ was a-runnin' ther still hyar in my stead. many's the day she tromped over them hills through ther snow an' mud with _you_ a-whimperin' on her breast an' wropped in a shawl thet she needed her own self. many's ther night she tromped back ergin an' went hongry ter bed, so's _you_ could have plenty ter eat, when thar warn't sca'cely enough ter divide betwixt ye. but them things _she_ did in famine days, _you're_ too sanctified ter relish now." turner stacy trembled from head to foot. it seemed to him that he could see that grim picture in retrospect and despite his stoic's training his eyes burned with unshed tears. loyalty to kith and kin is the cornerstone of every mountain man's religion, the very grail of his faith. into his eyes blazed a tawny, tigerish light, but words choked in his throat and his father read, in his agitation, only a defiance which was no part of his thought. "now, see hyar," he went on with mounting autocracy, "i've done told ye things i don't oftentimes discuss. i've done reasoned with ye an' now i commands ye! ye hain't of age yit and until ye do be, ye've got to do as i bids ye. atter that, ef ye aims to turn yore back on yore family ye can do hit, an' i reckon we can go our two ways. that's all i got to say to ye. now pick up that sack of gryste an' be gone with hit." the boy's face blackened and his muscles tautened under the arrogant domineering of the edict. for a moment he neither spoke nor stirred from his place, though his chest heaved with the fulness of his breathing. the elder man moved ominously forward and his tone was violently truculent. "air ye goin' ter obey me or do i hev ter _make_ ye? thar's a sayin' thet come acrost ther waters thet no man kin lick his own daddy. i reckon hit still holds good." still the son remained as unmoving as bronze while his eyes sustained unflinchingly the wrathful gaze of a patriarchal order. then he spoke in a voice carefully schooled to quietness. "as to thet sayin'," he suggested evenly, "i reckon mebbe hit mought be disproved, but i hain't aimin' to try hit. ye've done said some right-hard things to-day an' some thet wasn't hardly justified--but i aims ter fergit 'em." suddenly, by virtue of a leaping light in his eyes, the boy in jeans and hodden-gray stood forth strangely transfigured. some spirit revelation seemed to have converted him into a mystifying incarnation of latent, if uncomprehended power. it was as startling as though a road-side beggar had tossed aside a drab cloak and hood of rags and revealed beneath it, the glitter of helmet and whole armor. "i aims ter fergit hit all," he repeated. "but don't seek ter fo'ce me ner ter drive me none--fer thet's a thing i kain't hardly suffer. as fur as a man kin go outen loyalty i'll go fer _you_--but i've got ter go in my own fashion--an' of my own free will. ye've done said that i went erbout seekin' trouble an' i hain't got no doubt ye believes what ye says albeit most of hit's false. ye says i lays drunk sometimes. thet's true an' hit's a shameful thing fer a man ter admit, but hit's a thing i've got ter fight out fer myself. hit don't profit neither of us fer ye ter vilify me." he broke off abruptly, his chest heaving, and to lone stacy it seemed that the air was electrically charged, as with the still tensity that goes, windless and breathless, before the bursting of thunder heads among the crags. then bear cat spoke again somewhat gropingly and with inarticulate faultiness, as though a flood pressure were seeking egress through a choked channel. the words were crude, but back of them was a dammed-up meaning like the power of hurricane and forest fire. "thar's somethin' in me--i don't know how ter name it--thar's somethin' in me sort of strugglin' an' a-drivin' me like a torment! thet weakness fer licker--i hates hit like--like all hell--but i hain't _all_ weakness! thet thing, whatever hit be--sometimes jest when hit seems like hit ought ter raise me up--hit crushes me down like the weight of ther mountings themselves." he wheeled suddenly and disappeared into the house where he deposited his book on the mantel-shelf and from behind the door swung a grain sack to his shoulder. then he left the house. lone stacy turned to his wife and lifted his hands with a gesture of baffled perplexity as he inquired, "does ye understand ther boy? he's our own blood an' bone, but sometimes i feels like i was talkin' ter a person from a teetotally diff'rent world. nobody round hyar don't comprehend him. i've even heered hit norated round amongst foolish folks thet he talks with graveyard ha'nts an' hes a witch-craft charm on his life. air he jest headstrong, maw, or air he so master big thet we kain't comprehend him? no man hain't never called me a coward, but thar's spells when i'm half-way skeered of my own boy." "mebby," suggested the woman quietly, "ef ye gentled him a leetle mite he wouldn't contrary ye so much." lone stacy nodded his head and spoke with a grim smile. "seems like i've got ter be eternally blusterin' at him jest ter remind myself thet i'm ther head of this fam'ly. ef i didn't fo'ce myself ter git mad, i'd be actin' like he was my daddy instid of me bein' his'n." chapter ii the afternoon was half spent and the sun, making its way toward the purpled ridges of the west, was already casting long shadows athwart the valleys. along a trail which wound itself in many tortuous twists across forested heights and dipped down to lose itself at intervals in the creek bed of little slippery, a mounted traveler rode at a snail-like pace. the horse was a lean brute through whose rusty coat the ribs showed in under-nourished prominence, but it went sure-footedly up and down broken stairways of slimy ledges where tiny waterfalls licked at its fetlocks and along the brinks of chasms where the sand shelved with treacherous looseness. the rider, a man weather-rusted to a drab monotone, slouched in his saddle with an apathetic droop which was almost stupor, permitting his reins to flap loosely. his face, under an unclean bristle of beard, wore a sleepy sneer and his eyes were bloodshot from white whiskey. as he rode, unseeing, through the magnificent beauty of the cumberlands his glance was sluggish and his face emotionless. but at last the horse halted where a spring came with a crystal gush out of the rhododendron thickets, and then ratler webb's stupefaction yielded to a semi-wakefulness of interest. he rubbed a shoddy coat-sleeve across his eyes and straightened his stooped shoulders. the old horse had thrust his nose thirstily into the basin with evident eagerness to drink. yet, after splashing his muzzle about for a moment he refused refreshment and jerked his head up with a snort of disgust. a leering smile parted the man's lips over his yellow and uneven teeth: "so ye won't partake of hit, old bag-o'-bones, won't ye?" he inquired ironically. "ye hain't nobody's brag critter to look at, but i reckon some revenue fellers mought be willin' to pay a master price fer ye. ye kin stand at ther mouth of a spring-branch an' smell a still-house cl'ar up on hits headwaters, kain't ye?" for a while webb suffered the tired horse to stand panting in the creek bed, while his own eyes, lit now with a crafty livening, traveled up the hillside impenetrably masked with verdure, where all was silence. somewhere up along the watercourse was the mash-vat and coil which had contaminated this basin for his mount's brute fastidiousness: an illicit distillery. this man clad in rusty store clothes was not inspired with a crusading ardor for supporting the law. he lived among men whose community opinion condones certain offenses--and pillories the tale-bearer. but above the ethical bearing of local standards and federal statutes, alike, loomed a matter of personal hatred, which powerfully stimulated his curiosity. he raised one hand and thoughtfully stroked his nose--recently broken with workman-like thoroughness and reset with amateurish imperfection. "damn thet bear cat stacy," he muttered, as he kicked his weary mount into jogging motion. "i reckon i'll hev my chance at him yit. i'm jest a-waitin' fer hit." a half-mile further on, he suddenly drew rein and remained in an attitude of alert listening. then slipping quietly to the ground, he hitched his horse in the concealment of a deep gulch and melted out of sight into the thicket. soon he sat crouched on his heels, invisible in the tangled laurel. his place of vantage overlooked a foot-path so little traveled as to be hardly discernible, but shortly a figure came into view around a hulking head of rock, and ratler webb's smile broadened to a grin of satisfaction. the figure was tall and spare and it stooped as it plodded up the ascent under the weight of a heavy sack upon its shoulders. the observer did not move or make a sound until the other man had been for several minutes out of sight. he was engaged in reflection. "so, thet's how ther land lays," he ruminated. "bear cat stacy's totin' thet gryste over to bud jason's tub-mill on little ivy despite ther fact thet thar's numerous bigger mills nigher to his house. thet sack's full of _sprouted_ corn, and he dasn't turn it in at no _reg'lar_ mill. them stacys air jest about blockadin' up thet spring-branch." he spat at a toad which blinked beadily up at him and then, rising from his cramped posture, he commented, "i hain't plumb dead sartin yet, but i aims ter be afore sun-up ter-morrer." bear cat stacy might have crossed the ridge that afternoon by a less devious route than the one he followed. in so doing he would have saved much weariness of leg and ache of burdened shoulder, but ratler webb's summing up had been correct, and though honest corn may follow the highways, sprouted grain must go by blinder trails. when he reached the backbone of the heights, he eased the jute sack from his shoulders to the ground and stretched the cramp out of his arms. sweat dripped from his face and streamed down the brown throat where his coarse shirt stood open. he had carried a dead weight of seventy pounds across a mountain, and must carry back another as heavy. now he wiped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve and stood looking away with a sudden distraction of dreaminess. a few more steps would take him again into the steamy swelter of woods where no breath of breeze stirred the still leafage, and even in the open spaces the afternoon was torridly hot. but here he could sweep with his eyes league upon league of a vast panorama where sky and peak mingled in a glory of purple haze. unaccountably the whole beauty of it smote him with a sense of undefined appreciation and grateful wonderment. the cramp of heart was eased and the groping voices of imagination seemed for the time no longer tortured nightmares of complaint. there was no one here to censor his fantasies and out of the gray eyes went their veiling sullenness and out of the lips their taut grimness. into eyes and lips alike came something else--something touched with the zealousness of aspiration. "hit's right over thar!" he murmured aloud but in a voice low pitched and caressing of tone. "i've got ter get me money enough ter buy thet farm offen kinnard towers." he was looking down upon a point far below him where through a cleared space flashed the shimmer of flowing water, and where in a small pocket of acreage, the bottom ground rolled in gracious amenability to the plow and harrow. again he nodded, and since he was quite alone he laughed aloud. "she 'lows thet's ther place whar she wants ter live at," he added to himself, "an' i aims ter satisfy her." so after all some of his day-dreams were tangible! he realized that he ought to be going on, yet he lingered and after a few moments he spoke again, confiding his secrets to the open woods and the arching skies--his only confidants. "blossom 'lowed yestiddy she was a-goin' over ter aunt jane colby's this mornin'. 'pears like she ought ter be passin' back by hyar about this time." cupping his hands at his lips, he sent out a long whoop, but before he did that he took the precaution of concealing his sack of sprouted grain under a ledge. then he bent listening for an answer--but without reward, and disappointment mantled in his gray eyes as he dropped to the age-corroded rock and sat with his hands clasped about his updrawn knees. it was very still there, except for the industrious hammering of a "peckerwood" on a decayed tree trunk, and the young mountaineer sat almost as motionless as his pedestal. then without warning a lilting peal of laughter sounded at his back and turner came to his feet. as he wheeled he saw blossom fulkerson standing there above him and her eyes were dancing with the mischievous delight of having stalked him undiscovered. "it's a right happy thing fer you, turner stacy, that i didn't aim ter kill ye," she informed him with mock solemnity. "i've heered ye brag thet no feller hereabouts could slip up on ye in the woods, unbeknownst." "i wasn't studyin' erbout nobody slippin' up on me. blossom," he answered calmly. "i hain't got no cause ter be a-hidin' out from nobody." she was standing with the waxen green of the laurel breaking into pink flower-foam at her back and through the oak and poplar branches showed scraps of blue sky--the blue of june. a catch came into turner's voice and he said somewhat huskily, "when they christened ye blossom they didn't misname ye none." blossom, he thought, was like a wild-rose growing among sun-flowers. when the evening star came up luminous and dewy-fresh over the darkening peaks, while twilight still lingered at the edges of the world, he always thought of her. but the charm was not all in his own eye: not all the magic endowment of first love. the mountain preacher's daughter had escaped those slovenly habits of backwoods life that inevitably coarsen. her beauty had slender strength and flower freshness. now she stood holding with one hand to the gnarled branch of a dogwood sapling. a blue sunbonnet falling back from her head left the abundance of her hair bared to the light so that it shimmered between brown and gold. she was perhaps sixteen and her heavily lashed eyes were brownish amber and just now full of a mirthful sparkle. "ye seemed ter be studyin' about somethin' almighty hard," she insisted teasingly. "i thought for a minute that mebbe ye'd done growed thar." turner stacy smiled again as he looked at her. in his eyes was unveiled and honest worship. "i was a'studyin' about you, blossom. i don't know no way ter do that save almighty hard. didn't ye hear me whoop?" the girl's head nodded. "why didn't ye answer me?" "i aimed ter slip up on ye, if i could, turner, but i didn't low it would be so plumb easy.--you made believe that yore ears could hear the grass a-growin'." the youth took a sudden step toward her and stood close, so close that her breath touched his face fragrantly as she looked up with a witching mockery in her eyes. his heart fluttered with the clamor of impulse to seize her in his arms, but his half-lifted hands dropped to his sides. he was not quite twenty-one and she was only sixteen, and the code of the mountains is strict with the simplicity of the pioneer. a woman gives her lips in betrothal or, giving them lightly, drops to the caste of a light woman. so the boy drew back with a resolute jerk of his head. "i was a-studyin' erbout some day, blossom," he said, "when thar's a-goin' ter be a dwellin'-house down thar. not a house of warped timbers whar the hawgs scratch their backs under the floors--but a _real_ house. mebby by thet day an' time thar'll be a highway men kin travel without torment." as he paused, at a loss for power of architectural enlargement, the girl sighed. "then i reckon ye don't hardly 'low ter raise thet house in my lifetime, turner," she teased. "i'll most likely be too old ter visit ye thar afore a highway gits built." but he shook his head. "i aims ter speed up ther comin' of sich things," he announced with the splendid effrontery of youth. "hit hain't been so long since ther fust wagon crossed cedar mountain. we're liable to see balloons comin' afore we die." "aunt jane colby was tellin' me about that first wagon to-day at dinner," blossom assented. "she says one old man asked folks whether it was true or whether he was fitified. he said: 'what manner of _contrivance_ air thet? hit's got four wheels an' one pair's bigger then t'other pair, an' two of 'em goes round faster then t'other two an' the lord a'mighty only knows how hit manages ter keep up with hitself.'" they both laughed with young condescension for the old-fashioned and then turner went on, haltingly by reason of callow diffidence. "ef thet house couldn't be reared in time fer _you_ ter come to hit, blossom--hit wouldn't be no manner of use ter me a-tall." "does ye aim ter make me a present of a house?" she challenged and again the provocative allurement of her swept him so that the smooth sinews of his arms tightened as if with physical effort. "i means thet someday--when i've done something worth doin' an' when ye're a leetle bit older yoreself, blossom, you're agoin' ter marry me, an' we're goin' ter dwell thar--together." the girl's cheeks reddened furiously and for a moment she made no response, then she declared with a stout self-assertion designed to mask her confusion, "i reckon i'll hev somethin' ter say about thet." "ye'll have _everything_ ter say about hit, blossom, but"--there was a purposeful ring in his voice that hinted at ultimate victory--"but some day i aims ter persuade ye ter say, 'yes.'" her cheeks were brightly pink and she pretended to be engrossed in the demeanor of a squirrel that chattered quarrelsomely at them from a nearby poplar. turner stacy dropped his voice until it was very soft. "i kin bide my time an' wait twell ye're ready, blossom, but if ye don't _never_ say hit, i don't hardly see how i kin go on livin'." "i'm right glad ef ye likes me, turner," she demurely assured him. "we've growed up together an' ef ye was to go away somewhar's an' leave me, i reckon i'd nigh die of lonesomeness." distrust of effusiveness was bred in his bone. laconic utterance was his heritage, and now that his heart demanded expression and his eyes kindled with the dreamer's fire, he stood struggling against the fettering of his tongue. then abruptly, tumultuously he burst out, talking fast. "i hain't got ther gift of speech, blossom; i only knows thet hit hain't enough ter jest have ye miss me ef i went away. i knows thet when ye stands thar with ther sun on yore hair hit would be springtime fer me, even ef thar war snow on ther hillsides an' ice in ther creek. i knows thet i'm standin' hyar on solid rock. yore paw says these-hyar hills were old when ther alps hadn't riz up yit outen ther waters, but when i looks at ye, blossom, this mountain's shakin' under me ... an' yore face is ther only thing thet's steady afore my eyes." he broke off with something like a choke in his throat and blossom was trembling a little under that first impact of new emotion that comes with the waking of the senses. then she remembered the stories of his escapades and her eyes clouded. her hand fell flutteringly on his arm. "if--if ye cares thet much about me, turner, i wish--i don't aim ter nag ye--but i wish ye'd promise me thet ye won't give men cause ter say ye drinks too much." turner's brow contracted and his lips stiffened. the defensive mask which seemed sullen because it was his idea of impassiveness set itself again, but he nodded. "thet's a fair thing," he said slowly at last. "drinkin' hain't hardly a thing a gal kin understand noways. i hain't jest a common drunkard, blossom. thar's times though when i feels es ef i war a-livin' in a jail-house--an' seekin' ter git free. thar's su'thin' in me--i don't know jest what--thet's always fightin'. these hyar hills with their ign'rance an' dirt an' poverty seems ter be on top of me 'stid of underneath me. thet's when i drinks too much. fer a little spell i seems ter dream i'm free." a few minutes later the girl started down the "yon" side of the wooded slope, going with a light step and humming a ballade that had come across the sea with the beginnings of america, and the boy looked after her with a passionate tenderness that was far from stoical. if most of his dreams were intangible and misty, this, his greatest and brightest dream, was at least clear and vivid. when he could no longer see the flash of her blue dress between the interlacing branches he turned, and drawing his sack of sprouted corn out of its hiding place, hefted it to his shoulders. he would have to hurry now to finish his task and get back by dusk. chapter iii old man bud jason stood at the door of his tub-mill, leaning on the long hickory staff which he always carried. he stood gauntly tall even now that his once-broad shoulders sagged and his mane of hair was white, and from his lips came a querulous mumbling as though he were awaiting some one tardy of arrival. at last, though, he gave a grunt of relief when the thicket far above him stirred and the figure of bear cat stacy appeared, bending under his load of grist. he turned then into the shack and drew out a sack of meal from the bottom of a pile, and as he finished this task a shadow fell across the door. turner stacy let his burden fall and availed himself of the opportunity to drop into a sitting posture on the step of the shanty, resting his back against a post. his broad chest heaved and a profound sigh of relief broke from his panting lips. the old miller stood regarding him for a little while without words, then broke into volcanic utterance: "hell's banjer! may god almighty holp a country whar a young pa'r of shoulders like your'n don't find no worthier use than man-powerin' good corn acrost ther ridges ter turn hit inter bad licker." turner stacy glanced up with mild surprise for the sentiment. "i hain't nuver heered ye cavil with a man's license ter use his own corn as he sees fit, afore, bud," was his casual reply, and the white-bearded one wagged his head and laughed tremulously after the fashion of the old. "i reckon ye don't mistrust me none, bear cat, even ef i does hit now, but here of late i've cogitated a heap whilst i've been a-settin' hyar listenin' ter ther creak of that old mill. seems almost like ther wheel was a-lamentin' over hits job. thar bein' sich a sight of wickedness in ther community whar my grand-children hes got ter be reared up is a powerful solemn thing fer me ter study over, an' i've jes erbout concluded thet whilst ther whiskey-makin' goes on ther killin's an gin'ral wickedness won't hardly diminish none." furrows of dubious thought etched themselves on the young man's forehead. "ef ye feels thet-a-way, bud, why does yer consent ter grind corn fer blockaders?" he demanded, and the reply was prompt: "i don't grind hit only fer a few men thet i'm beholden to." pausing a moment, he became more specific. "yore paw stood over my body onct when i'd done been shot outen my saddle, an' fought off numerous enemies single-handed, thereby savin' me from death in ther creekbed. i couldn't hardly deny him ther use of my mill even ef his corn _hes_ got sprouts in ther grain two inches long, now, could i?" the boy looked abstractedly away, then suddenly blurted out: "i disgusts blockadin', too, bud, but pap 'lows hit's ther only way ter mek a livin' hyarabouts." "lots of folks argues hit out in like fashion, but i don't hold with 'em." the speaker rapped the boards with his long staff and spoke with conviction. "what these mountings needs air a mite of l'arnin' an' a leetle common sense an' a heap of good roads. ef prosperity ever comes ter these hills, sonny, hit'll come along a highway--an' so long as stills don't thrive none along highways, hit looks mightily like a sorry chance." after a thoughtful pause he added, "hit won't never change, so long es hits only furriners thet aims ter alter hit. revenuers kain't do nothin'. damn thar skunk hides anyhow! they're our mortal enemies." the old man drew himself up as if he were seeing a vision and his eyes held an almost fanatical gleam. "but mark down my words! some day thar'll rise up a mountain man--a man thet hain't never met up with fear an thet's as steadfast as ther hills he sprung from. _thet_ man will change hit all, like ther sun changes fog. i wisht i mout live ter see thet day." "hit'll tek a powerful towerin' man ter bring sich things ter pass," mused the listener and the oracle declared vehemently: "hit teks a powerful towerin' man ter lead any fight ter victory, whether hit's a-guidin' ther children of israel outen thar bondage or our benighted children outen thars." suddenly the miller laid a trembling hand on the boy's arm and demanded in a hushed voice: "why shouldn't hit be you, bear cat? folks says ye bears a charmed life, thet thar hain't enough lead in ther mountings ter kill ye. i heered kinnard towers say with my own ears, thet hit war a god's blessin' ther feud ended afore ye got yore growth--an' kinnard don't fear many. when a man thet's hardly nothin' but a saplin' of a boy bears a repute like thet--hit must denote thet thar's power in him beyond ther common!" the boy stood silent for a moment and slowly his brow drew into a black scowl. "i reckon, bud, one reason air this," he said bitterly, "thet i'm accounted ter be a drunkard my own self an' like as not, one sich reason es thet air plenty." turner glanced up to the bristling ridge which he must climb. already the west was kindling into a flare of richness and the skyline hills were dyed with ashy purple. "i've done over-tarried," he said abruptly, as he lifted his sack from the floor, but his face wore a glow which was not altogether from the sinking sun. "i reckon i'd better be on my way--but i hain't denyin' thet i've done hed thoughts like your'n myself, bud." but young stacy had not gone far when that sense of intensified woodcraft which blossom had derided caused him to halt dead in his tracks. the sound that had first arrested him had been nothing more than a laugh, but, in it, he had recognized a quality that bespoke derisive hostility and a thickness that indicated drink. he had left the place empty except for old bud jason and no one could have reached it, unannounced by normal sounds, so soon unless the approach had been achieved by stealth. bear cat stacy put down his sack and worked his way back, holding the concealment of rock and laurel; guarding each footfall against the betrayal of a broken twig--and, as yet, denied a view of the tub-mill. but his cars were open and doing duty for his eyes. "wa'al," came the miller's voice in a wrathful tremolo, "what business brings ye hyar es ef ye war aimin' ter lay-way somebody? folks gin'rally comes hither upstandin'--an' open." this time the voice of the new arrival was sneeringly truculent: "does they come thet-a-way when they fotches in sprouted corn thet they dastn't take elsewhere?" bear cat stiffened as he recognized the voice of ratler webb, whom he had not met since their encounter in which a nose had been broken. he knew that in the breast of this man, hitherto unchallenged as neighborhood bully, an ugly and dangerous grudge was festering. now it seemed that the old miller, because of friendship for the stacys was to be heckled, and bear cat's wrath boiled. he heard bud jason inquiring in tones no longer querulous but firmly indignant: "is thet all ye come fer? ter blackguard me?" ratler answered in a voice savoring more of highwayman's coercion than request. "i was jest a-funnin' with ye, old bud, but i'd be mighty obleeged ter ye fer a leetle dram of licker. my bottle's nigh empty an' i've got a far way ter travel yit." turner stacy had now arrived at a point from which he could see around the hulking shoulder of sandstone and the picture which met his eye was not reassuring. the miller stood barring the door to his shack and the visitor, inflamed of eye, a little unsteady on his feet, confronted him with a swagger of lawless daredeviltry. "i hain't got no licker. i don't never use hit," replied jason curtly. "so ef thet's all thet brought ye hyar, ye've already got yore answer an' ye mout es well be farin' on." webb's leer darkened to malignity and his voice came in a snarl. "ye hain't hardly got no tolerance fer drinkin', hes ye, bud? albeit ye hain't none too sanctified ter grind up all ther sprouted corn thet other fellers fotches in ter ye." the old fellow was alone and unarmed save for his hickory staff, but he was vested with that authority which stiffens a man, standing on his own threshold and facing an insolent trespasser. his manner was choleric and crisp in its note of command. "i don't aim ter waste no time cavilin' with a drunken carouser. i bids ye ter leave my place. begone!" but the traveler, inflamed with the venom of the drunken bully, lurched forward, whipping a revolver from its sagging pocket. with an oath he rammed the muzzle close against the pit of the other's stomach. bud's level eyes did not falter. he gripped his useless hickory as if it had been a lictor's staff of unchallengeable office. perhaps that steady moment saved his life, for before his assailant's flood of obscene vilification had reached its period, ratler webb leaped back--interrupted. he changed front, wheeling to protect his back against the logs of the rude wall and thrusting his pistol before him, while his jaw sagged abruptly in dismay. bear cat stood facing him, ten yards distant, and his right hand was thrust into his opened shirt, under the armpit, where the mountain man carries his holster. that the position of the hand was a bluff, covering an unarmed helplessness, ratler webb did not know. "air ye follerin' revenuin' these days, ratler?" inquired stacy in a voice of such velvet softness that the other responded only with an incoherent snarl. "because ef ye air, numerous folks hyarabouts will be right glad ter find out who it is that's informin' on 'em." "damn ye! keep thet hand whar hit's at!" ordered the aggressor violently and like the cornered rat he had become doubly dangerous. he had set out only to torture a defenseless victim, and now it seemed a question of killing or being killed, so he loaded his voice with truculence as he went on. "ef ye seeks ter draw hit out or come a step frontwards, so help me almighty god i'll kill ye in yore tracks!" turner stacy smiled. upon his ability to do so with a semblance of quiet contempt he was staking everything. "shoot whenever ye gits ready, ratler," he challenged. "but don't do hit onless ye're expectin' ter die, too. when this trigger-work commences, i aims ter _git_ ye." "move a hand or a foot then, an' see--" the voice was desperately high pitched and nasal now, almost falsetto, but through its threat bear cat recognized an undercurrent of sudden terror. the desperado remembered that his horse stood hitched a quarter of a mile away. his right boot sole had been freshly patched and left a clearly identifying mark in the mud. he had prepared no alibi in advance, and within a few hours after turner fell scores of his kinsmen would be baying on the trail. "shoot!" taunted bear cat stacy. "why don't ye shoot?"--and then with an effrontery which dazed his antagonist, he deliberately moved several steps forward--halting nearer the pistol's muzzle. "i don't aim ter kill ye onless i has ter," stormed webb with weakening assurance. "halt! i'm givin' ye fa'r warnin'. hit's self-d_ee_fense ef ye crowds me." stacy spoke again, standing once more motionless. "ye couldn't shoot thet pistol at me ef i walked in on ye with my hands over my head. my time hain't come yit ter die, because ther's things i was born ter do--an' god almighty aims ter hev me live till i've done 'em. he don't aim ter hev me hurt by no coward like you, i reckon. ye couldn't shoot any man noways whilst his eyes was lookin' full at ye. ye has need ter lay hid in ther la'rel afore ye kin pull yore trigger finger. i dares ye to shoot!" the white-bearded miller stood motionless, too, measuring all the chances. for a moment he wondered whether it would be possible to strike up the armed hand with his long staff, but he wisely repressed the impulse. this after all was a new sort of combat, a duel of wills rather than of weapons. he knew that bear cat stacy was unarmed because he had so recently seen the sweat-drenched shirt clinging close to the arched chest. ratler webb's hand no longer trembled with the uncertainty of tipsiness. his eyes were no longer obfuscated and muddled with whiskey fumes. he had reverted to the feral instincts of desperation--and was suddenly sobered. he gripped his out-thrust pistol in both hands for greater surety and half-crouched with knees bent under him, ready either to spring or brace himself against attack. his eyes, gleaming with blood-passion, traveled shiftily so that he could keep watch on both his possible adversaries. the other and younger man stood upright, but his muscles, too, were poised and balanced with all nicety of readiness and his eyes were measuring the distance between: gauging sundry odds of life and death. for a moment more the tableau held in silence. both the miller and the boy could hear the labored, almost gasping breath of the man with the pistol and both knew that the mean temper of his heart's metal was weakening. then when a squirrel barked from the timber, ratler webb started violently and above the stubble of dirty beard, sweat drops began to ooze on his face. why didn't bear cat stacy say something? why didn't somebody move? if he fired now he must kill both men or leave a witness to blab deadly information close on the heels of his flight! in his heart welled a rising tide of panic. turner knew by instinct that every moment he could hold ratler there with his pistol leveled, was for the desperado, a moment of weakening resolve and nerve-breaking suspense. but he also knew another thing. when the strain of that waiting snapped ratler would either run or shoot. mountain annals hold more instances of the latter decision that the former, but that was the chance to be taken. webb carried a notched gun. he had forced many fights in his day, but in all of them there had been the swift tonic of action and little time to think. now he dared not lower his weapon in surrender--and he was afraid to fire. he felt that his lips were growing dry and thickening. he thrust out his tongue to lick them, and its red tip gave, to his ugly features, a strange grotesqueness. under the brown of wind and sun and the red of liquor-flush his face paled perceptibly. then it grew greenish yellow with a sick clamminess of dread. at last with a discernible quaver in his voice he broke the unendurable silence, and his words came brokenly and disjointed: "i didn't aim ter force no quarrel on ye, bear cat.... ef ye plumb compels me ter do hit, i've got ter kill ye, but i hain't a-hankerin' none fer ther task." "thet's a lie, too. ye come hyar a-seekin' of _evidence_ because ye're harborin' a grudge erginst me an' ye dastn't satisfy hit no other way." there was a pause, then webb said slowly, and with a half-heartedness from which all the effrontery had ebbed: "i 'lows ter go on erbout my business now, but if either one of ye moves from whar ye're standin' twell i'm outen range i aims ter kill ye both." shifting his revolver to his right hand and feeling behind him with his left, he began backing away, still covering his retreat and edging a step at a time toward the corner of the shack, but at the second step, with a swiftness which vindicated his name, the bear cat sprang. the old miller shook his head, but made no outcry. he heard the thud of two bodies and the grunt driven from a chest by the impact of charging shoulders. he saw two figures go down together while a tongue of flame and a muffled roar broke belatedly from the mouth of the pistol. whether the bullet had taken effect or, if so, who was its victim, he could not at first distinguish. two human beings, muscled like razor-backs were writhing and twisting in a smother of dust, their limbs clinched and their voices mingled in snarling and incoherent savagery. the mountain ethics of "fist and skull" impose no queensbury restrictions. tooth and knee, heel and knuckle may do their best--and worst. but the pistol itself flew clear and the old miller picked it up, turning again to observe the result of the encounter. the fighters had struggled up again to their feet and were locked in a bone-breaking embrace of hatred. for the moment the advantage seemed to rest with webb, who was clutching turner's head in the distressing chancery of his powerful right arm and doing his utmost to break the neck. bear cat's breathing was a hoarse and strangling agony, but his fists battered like unremitting flails against the ribs and kidneys of his antagonist. as they swayed and tottered their brogans were ploughing up the hard soil and, totally blinded by sweat and rage, they wavered perilously close to the edge of the huge rock--with its ten-foot drop to the mill race. even as old bud gave his warning cry, they went down together--and fell short of the brink, escaping that danger. stacy writhed free from the neck-grip, and both came up again, leaping into a fresh embrace of panthers, with eyes glaring insanely out of blood-smeared faces. then it all ended abruptly. bear cat wrenched himself free and sent a chance blow, but one behind which went all his weight and passion, to the other's mouth. the smitten head went back with a jerk. webb reeled groggily for an instant, then crumpled, but before he had quite fallen stacy, with an insensate fury, was dragging him to his feet and clutching at the throat which his fingers ached to strangle. at that instant, the old miller seized his arms. "hold on thar, bear cat," he cried with his quavering voice. "he's already licked. you'll kill him ef ye hain't heedful." "i _aims_ ter kill him," panted the boy, casting off the interference of aged arms with the savagery of a dog whose fangs have been pried too soon from the throat of its victim. but bud jason clung on, reiterating: "fer shame, son! thet hain't _yore_ manner of conduct. fer shame!" unsteadily, then, with a slow dawning of reason bear cat stacy staggered back and leaned heavily against the wall of the tub-mill, breathing in sob-like gasps. his shirt was half torn from his body and for the first time the miller saw the ugly gash where a pistol bullet had bitten its grazing course along his left shoulder. grime and blood stained him and for a while he stood gazing down on the collapsed figure at his feet--a figure that stirred gropingly. "i reckon," he said slowly, "i'd jest about hev finished him, ef hit hadn't a-been fer _you_, bud. i'm beholden ter ye. i reckon i was seein' red." together they lifted ratler webb and gave him water from the gourd that hung by the door. when he was able to stand, dourly resentful, baleful of eye but mute as to tongue, bear cat spoke briefly with the victor's authority: "i aims ter keep thet pistol o' your'n fer a spell, ratler. i don't hardly trust ye with hit jest yit. when ye wants hit, come by my house and ask fer hit." the bully turned sullenly away. he spoke no word of farewell and offered no protest, but when he was out of sight the miller shook his head and his voice was troubled. "of course ye knows, son, thet he hain't never agoin' ter fergit hit? so long as ther two of ye lives ye've got ter keep on watchin' him." turner nodded. he was bathing his shoulder and spreading cobwebs on its grazed wound. "i've done wasted a heap of time," he said irrelevantly. "an' hit's comin' on to rain, too. i reckon i'll be benighted afore i gets over ter ther still." starting away, he paused and turned shamefacedly back for a moment. "hit won't profit us none to norrate this matter abroad," he suggested. "i've got enough name already fer gittin' into ructions. paw don't like hit none." gazing after the retreating figures the old man wagged his head and his expression was one of foreboding. "meanness an' grudge-nursin' kin bring on a heap of pestilence," he mused. "this ratler will nurse his on ther bottle, an' he won't never wean hit--an' some day----! but it don't profit a feller ter borry trouble. these hills hes got enough misfortunes withouten thet." already twilight was settling over the valleys and the ridges were starkly grim as their color died to the neutrality of night, and the murk of a gathering storm. chapter iv with a mutter of distant thunder in his ears, the young mountaineer plodded "slavishly" on under his load as night closed about him. the path twisted among heaped up bowlders where a misstep might mean broken bones and crawled through entanglements of fallen timber: of gnarled rhododendron and thorn-leaved holly. it wormed into dew-drenched thicknesses where branches lashed the burden-bearer's face with the sting of whips, and soon the colossal barriers began to echo with the storm roar of high places. the clouds were ripped with the blue-white blades of lightning. the rock walls of the ranges seemed quaking under the thunder's incessant cannonading, and the wind's shrieking mania. then through the rent and buffeted timber-tops the rain burst in a lashing curtain of water as violent as a shot-shower. bear cat stacy, wet to the skin, with the steaming sweat of toil and fight turned into a marrow-pinching chill, cast about him for a place where he could protect his sack of meal until an abatement should come to the storm's violence. as he sat under a dripping roof of shelving rock to which he had groped his way by the beacon of the lightning, a startled owl swept past him, almost brushing his face with its downy wings. his wet clothes hung to his flesh with what seemed icy coldness. his shoulder throbbed with an abomination of pain and his bones ached with a dull wretchedness. but after a time the wind and thunder dropped away to whimpering echoes. it was as if the hound pack of the furies had been whistled in, its hunt ended. turner rose and stamped his numbed feet. there was yet a long way to go before he arrived at the low-built shed, thatched with brush and screened behind a fallen hemlock top, where the stacy still lay hidden. at last he was there, with every muscle proclaiming its location by the outcry of sore tissues, and ahead of him lay the task of watching and feeding the fire under the mash kettle until dawn. "ye kin lay down when ye're ready, lee," he said shortly to the stockily built man whom he was relieving from duty there. "i'll keep ther fire goin' an' call ye round about dawn." taking up the rifle to which he had fallen heir, as picket, he made his way from the sentinel's shelter to the still-house itself, stooping low, so that the waning fire might not throw his figure or face into relief. he piled a handful of wood under the kettle and crawled back into the timber. the heavens were full of stars now: not the small light-points of skies arching over lowlands, but the gorgeous, great stars of the walled highlands. his mother had done this sort of work to keep him alive, while his father was in prison! if he went on doing it, and if blossom married him, they faced a future of the same drab decay! at the thought of that prospect he ground his chattering teeth and cursed under his breath. the dull glow of the fire on a tin bucket and cup held his eyes with a spell of fascination. it was white liquor, raw, sweetish and freshly brewed. a gleam of craving flashed into his eyes: a craving that had come down through generations of grandsires--even though his own father had escaped it. turner put out one hand, trembling with anticipation. here was warmth! here was to be had for the taking a glow about the heart and a quickened current in the veins. here was the stuff from which ease and waking dreams would come; release from his aching chill and dulness of spirit! bear cat's eyes burned thirstily. he seemed only a vessel of flesh overflowing with craving--with a torture of craving--an utter hell of craving! then he drew back the eagerly extended hand. "no," he said grimly. "blossom air right. ther stuff'll ruin me." resolutely he turned his back and stood facing the woods, listening to the drip of drenched leafage. through raw hours he struggled with his appetite. each time that he went back to throw fresh faggots on the fire he moved warily around the bucket, seeking to keep his eyes averted, but each time his gaze came back to it, and rested there thirstily. twice as his watch drew near its end he dipped the cup into the pail only to spill back the contents again, almost wildly, watching the thin trickle; and greedily sniffing its sweetish invitation of odor. once the rim met his lips and the taste touched his tongue, but he violently spat it out and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his shirt. "hits ther devil's holy water," he murmured to himself. "thet's what brother fulkerson says--an' i reckon he's right." the evening star always reminded him of blossom. he thought of it as her star, and upon it, as upon her own face, he kept his eyes fixed for encouragement as his spirit's resistance waned in the mounting tide of exhaustion. but when even that beacon was gone behind the mountain-top he felt the despair of one whose last ally has abandoned him to face travail unsupported. he fell back on his dreams; dreams of what lincoln had faced and conquered; of what he, too, might achieve. but now he could see them only dispiritedly as hollow shapes; misty things without hope or substance. that bucket now--a sip from it would rehabilitate them, give them at least the semblance of attainability. there lay relief from despair! his mind flashed back to his father's rebuke and his answer: "ye says i lay drunk. thet's true an' hit's a shameful thing fer a man ter admit.... but hit's a thing i've got ter fight out fer myself." a great indignation against his father's misunderstanding possessed him. he must fight in his own way! even blossom had only asked him not to drink "too much." when it needed only an hour more for the coming of dawn, his face grew darkly sullen. "hit's hell thet i've got ter spend my whole life a-brewin' ther stuff ergin my will--takin' chances of ther jail-house fer hit--an' yit i kain't have a drink when i'm wet ter ther bone," he growled. going as if drawn by a power stronger than his own volition, he moved balkingly yet with inevitable progress once more to the bucket. he half filled the cup--raised it--and this time gulped it down greedily and recklessly to the bottom. immediately his chilled veins began to glow with an ardent gratefulness. the stars seemed brighter and the little voices of the night became sweeter. the iron-bound gates of imagination swung wide to a pageantry of dreams, and as he crouched in the reeking underbrush, he half forgot his discontent. repeatedly he dipped and drained the cup. he was still on duty, but now he watched with a diminished vigilance. gradually his senses became more blunt. the waking dreams were vaguer, too, and more absurd. he still tended the fire under the kettle--but he laughed scornfully at the foolish need of keeping his face always in the shadow. then suddenly he dropped down close to the dark earth, let the cup splash into the bucket, and thrust forward his rifle. his ears had caught a sound which might have been a raccoon stirring in the brush--or a fox slipping covertly through the fallen hemlock top. but there was no repetition, so he laughed again and with the first pallid hint of dawn on the ridges he shook the shoulder of his sleeping companion. then he himself sank down in the heavy torpor of exhaustion and drunkenness. at the same time, because it would soon be light, the living creature which had made the sound began creeping away, and in doing so it avoided any other alarms. it was the figure of a man who had learned what he came there to determine. when lone stacy plodded up to his still-house some hours later, he exchanged nods with the squat mountaineer whom he found waiting. "whar's turner?" was his brief inquiry and the reply matched it in taciturnity. "in thar--a-layin' drunk." the father went over and looked scowlingly down at the prostrate figure stretched awkwardly in open-mouthed stupor. "i reckon," he announced succinctly, "thar hain't nothin' fer hit but ter suffer him ter sleep hit off." with the toe of his boot lone stacy stirred the insensate body which sprawled there; all its youthful vitality stilled into grotesque stagnation. but when the hired man, lee, was out of sight the bearded face twitched with a spasm of distress. its eyes traveled in a silent pathos from the sight of sagging jaw and hunched shoulders to the unresponsive majesty of the calm hills as if beseeching comfort there. in his only son's spirit had seemed to burn a fire of promise which even he could not understand. was that fire to be quenched into the stale ashes of habitual drunkenness? a groan rumbled in his throat. yet, had he remembered his scriptures, samson, the mighty, had surrendered in his moment of weakness to the allurements and the shears of delilah! afterward, he had pulled down the pillars of the temple. these hills that had stood upright in days when the alps and the himalayas had not yet stirred in conception, looked down placid, and unsympathetic. perhaps the eternal spirit of the range was not ashamed of this erring child, asleep on its bosom. perhaps, cognizant alike of tempest and calm, it recognized this son's kinship with itself. the prophecy which dwells in the immemorial may have foreseen gathering powers of hurricane and might, which should some day make him rise, above lesser summits. possibly as he slept the great, silent voices were crooning a lullaby over offspring destined for mastery. * * * * * when ratler webb had turned away from the tub-mill his brain was still half stunned from the jarring punishment of battle. he was thoroughly conscious only of deep chagrin and a gnawing hunger for reprisal. from childhood he retained no tender memories. there was no one upon whom he had a claim of blood, and neighborhood report had not let him forget that he was a woodscolt. in hill parlance a woodscolt signifies one whose birth has been sanctioned by no prior rites of matrimony. since he could remember he had existed only by virtue of the same predatory boldness which gives the lean razor-back strength and innate craftiness to live. just now his whole abundant capacity for hatred was centered on bear cat stacy, yet since bear cat's kinsmen peopled every creek and spring-branch of this country he could not be casually murdered. any word slipped to the ear of the revenue man might be traced back to him and after that he could no longer live among his native hills. still, he reflected as he slowly rubbed his fingers along his uneven nose, time brings changes and chances. the possession of definite evidence against his enemy might some day bear fruit. so ratler did not ride home after his encounter at the mill. he took refuge instead in an abandoned cabin of which he knew, strategically located within a mile of the place where he had surmised the stacy family were making illicit whiskey. while the storm raged, threatening to bring down the sagging roof timbers about his ears, he sat before its dead and ruined hearth, entertaining bitter thoughts. between midnight and dawn he stepped over the broken threshold and began his reconnaissance. for two hours he crouched, wet and cramped, in the laurel near enough to throw a stone against the kettle of the primitive distillery--waiting for that moment of relaxed vigilance, when the figure that moved in the shadows should permit a ray from the fire to fall upon its features. when dawn had almost come his vigil was rewarded and he had turned away again. blossom fulkerson knew none of these things at noon of the day following the fight at the mill when, in the road, she encountered lone stacy making his way back to his house for his midday dinner, but as the old man stopped and nodded she read trouble in his eyes. "air ye worrited about somethin', mr. stacy?" she demanded, and for a little space the man stood hesitantly silent. at last he hazarded, "little gal, thar's a thing i'd like ter name ter ye. i reckon if anybody kin holp me hit mout be you." the girl's eyes lighted with an instinctive sympathy--then shadowed with a premonition of what was coming. "is hit--about--turner?" the father nodded his head gravely. his eyes wore the harassed disquiet of a problem for which he knew no solution. "does ye mean thet he's--he's----" she broke off abruptly and lone stacy answered her with unrelieved bluntness. "he's a-layin' up thar drunk ergin, an' he's got a gash on one shoulder thet's powder burned. i reckon he's been engagin' in some manner of ruction." for a moment the girl did not speak, but her cheeks paled and tears swam abruptly in her eyes. she raised one hand and brushed them fiercely away. she had awakened this morning with a new and unaccountable happiness in her heart. in all the lilt and sparkle of the world and all the tunefulness of the young summer there had seemed a direct message to herself. in her memory she had been hearing afresh the crude but impassioned eloquence with which the boy had talked to her yesterday. now he lay up there at the distillery in the heavy sleep of the drunkard. "ther boy's all i've got," announced lone stacy with an unaccustomed break in his voice. "i reckon mebby ef i hadn't been so harsh i mout hev more influence with him." then he turned abruptly on his heel and trudged on. blossom fulkerson slipped into the woods and came to a sun-flecked amphitheater of rock and rhododendron where the ferns grew lush and tall, by the sparkle of water. there she sank down and covered her face with her hands. her sobs shook her for a while, and then washing the tears away, she knelt and prayed with a passionate simplicity. sometimes she lifted a pale face and her lips twisted themselves pathetically in the earnestness of her prayer. the almighty to whom she made her plea, and who knew everything, must know, even as she knew, that turner stacy was not like those rowdy youths who habitually disgraced the hills. that occasional smile which lurked with its inherent sweetness under his affected sullenness must mean _something_. turner had always been her willing vassal, and "sometime" she had supposed, though hitherto that had always seemed a vaguely distant matter like the purple haze on the horizon, they would be avowed sweethearts. yesterday, though, as she walked back from the meeting on the ridge it had seemed as if she had spent a moment in that languourous land where the far mists drouse,--and yet the glamour had not faded. she hadn't sought to analyze then, she had only felt a new thrill in her heart as she instinctively broke clusters of pink-hearted bloom from the laurel. she left the woods after a while and as she came out again to the high road, she heard a voice raised in the high-pitched, almost falsetto, minors of mountain minstrelsy. it was not a pleasing voice, nor was the ballad a cheery one. as for the singer himself, the twisting of the way still concealed him from view, so that his song proclaimed him like a herald in advance. "he stobbed her to ther heart an' she fell with a groan. he threw a leetle dirt _ov_-er her, an' started fer home," wailed the dolorous voice of the traveler. there was a splashing of hoofs in shallow water, then a continuation "his debt ter ther devil now william must pay, fer he fell down an' died afore break of day." thus announced, a mule plodded shortly into sight, and upon his back, perching sidewise, sat a tow-headed lout of a boy with staring, vacant eyes and a mouth which hung open, even when he desisted from song. with an access of callow diffidence he halted his mount at sight of blossom, staring with a nod and a bashful "howdy." "howdy, leander," accosted the girl. "how's all your folks?" leander white, of crowfoot branch, aged fifteen, gulped twice with prodigious and spasmodic play of his adam's apple, before he eventually commanded voice to reply: "they're all well.... i'm obleeged ... ter ye." then, however, reassured by the cordial smile on the lips of blossom fulkerson, his power of speech and his hunger for gossip returned to him in unison. "but old aunt lucy hutton, over acrost ther branch, she fell down yistiddy an' broke a bone inside of her, though." "did she?" demanded the girl, readily sympathetic, and leander, thus given sanction as a purveyor of tidings, nodded and gathered confidence. "huh-huh, an' revenuers raided joe simmons's still-house on ther headwaters of skinflint an' cyarried off a _beau_tiful piece o' copper--atter they'd punched hit full o' holes." "revenuers!" into the girl's voice now came a note of anxiety. "huh-huh, revenuers. folks says they're gittin' bodaciously pesky these days." "ye ain't--ye ain't seen none of 'em yourself, have ye, leander?" the question came a bit breathlessly and the boy forgot his bashfulness as he expanded with the importance of his traveler's tales. "not to know 'em fer sich," he admitted, "but i met up with a furriner a few leagues back along ther highway. he was broguein' along mighty brash on his own two feet. la! but he was an elegant party ter be a-ridin' on shoe-leather, though!" "what manner of furriner was he, leander?" demanded blossom with a clutch of fright at her heart, but the boy shook his head stupidly. "wa'al he was jest a feller from down below. ter tell hit proper, i didn't hev much speech with him. we jest met an' made our manners an' went our ways. he 'lowed ter go ter lone stacy's house." "lone stacy's house," echoed the girl faintly. "reckon' i'll be a-ridin' on," drawled the young horseman nonchalantly. "reckon i've done told ye all ther tidings i knows." blossom stood, for a while, rooted where he had left her, listening to the splash of the mule's feet along the creek. if a prying eye should discover the stacy still to-day it would find not only "a beautiful piece of copper" but bear cat lying there incapacitated and helpless! her heart missed its beat at the thought. the hills seemed to close in on her stiflingly with all their age-old oppression of fears and impending tragedies, and she sat down by the roadside to think it out. what should she do? after a while she saw the tall figure of the elder stacy climbing the mountainside, but he was taking a short cut--and would not come within hailing distance. her eye, trained to read indications, noted that a rifle swung in his right hand. bitterly she had been taught by her father to resent the illicit business to which turner's service was grudgingly given. but above all ethical hatred of law-breaking rose the very present danger to turner himself. laws were abstract things and turner was turner! there was only one answer. she must watch and, if need arose, give warning. just where the brook that trickled down from the still gushed out to the creek and the road which followed its course, lay a steeply sloping field of young corn. along its back grew rows of "shuckybeans," and here blossom took her station for her self-appointed task of sentry duty. chapter v jerry henderson had lost his way. aching muscles protested the extra miles because back there at marlin town he had been advised to cross cedar mountain on foot. "unless they suspicions ye, 'most any man'll contrive ter take ye in an' enjoy ye somehow," his counselors had pointed out. "but thar's heaps of them pore fam'lies over thar thet hain't got feed fer a ridin' critter noways." now cedar mountain is not, as its name mendaciously implies, a single peak but a chain that crawls, zig-zag as herringbone, for more than a hundred miles with few crossings which wheels can follow. it is a wall twenty-five hundred feet high, separating the world from "back of beyond." having scaled it since breakfast, jerry henderson was tired. he was tanned and toughened like saddle-leather. he was broad of shoulder, narrow of thigh, and possessed of a good, resolute brow and a straight-cut jaw. his eyes were keen with intelligence and sufficiently cool with boldness. arriving at a narrow thread of clear water which came singing out at the edge of a corn-field, his eyes lighted with satisfaction. tilled ground presumably denoted the proximity of a human habitation where questions could be answered. so he stood, searching the forested landscape for a thread of smoke or a roof, and as he did so he perceived a movement at the edge of the field where the stalks had grown higher than the average and merged with the confusion of the thicket. jerry turned and began making his way along the edge of the patch, respecting the corn rows by holding close to the tangle at the margin. then suddenly with a rustling of the shrubbery as startling as the sound with which a covey of quail rises from nowhere, a figure stepped into sight and the stranger halted in an astonishment which, had blossom fulkerson realized it, was the purest form of flattery. he had seen many women and girls working in the fields as he had come along the way and most of them had been heavy of feature and slovenly of dress. here was one who might have been the spirit of the hills themselves in bloom; one who suggested kinship with the free skies and the sunlit foliage. with frank delight in the astonishing vision, jerry henderson stood there, his feet well apart, his pack still on his shoulders and his lips parted in a smile of greeting and friendliness. "howdy," he said, but the girl remained motionless, vouchsafing no response. "i'm a stranger in these parts," he volunteered easily, using the vernacular of the hills, "and i've strayed off my course. i was aiming to go to lone stacy's dwelling-house." still she remained statuesque and voiceless, so the man went on: "can you set me right? there seems to be a sort of a path here. does it lead anywhere in particular?" he took a step nearer and eased his pack to the ground among the briars of the blackberry bushes. abruptly, as if to bar his threatened progress, blossom moved a little to the side, obstructing the path. into her eyes leaped a flame of amazonian hostility and her hands clenched themselves tautly at her sides. her lips parted and from her throat came a long, mellow cry not unlike the yodle of the tyrol. it echoed through the timber and died away--and again she stood confronting him--wordless! "i didn't mean to startle you," he declared reassuringly, "i only wanted information." again the far-carrying but musical shout was sent through the quiet of the forest--his only answer. "since you won't answer my questions," said jerry henderson, irritated into capriciousness, "i think i'll see for myself where this trail leads." instantly, then, she planted herself before him, with a violently heaving bosom and a wrathful quivering of her delicate nostrils, her challenge broke tensely from her lips with a note of unyielding defiance. "ye can't pass hyar!" "so you _can_ talk, after all," he observed coolly. "it's a help to learn that much at all events." he had chanced on a path, he realized, which some moonshiner preferred keeping closed and the girl had been stationed there as a human declaration, "no thoroughfare." still he stood where he was and presently he had the result of his waiting. a deep, masculine voice, unmistakable in the peremptoriness of its command, sounded from the massed tangle of the hillside. it expressed itself in the single word "begone!" and henderson was not fool enough to search the underbrush for an identifying glimpse of his challenger. "my name is jerry henderson and i was seeking to be shown my way," he said quietly, keeping his eyes, as he spoke, studiously on the face of the girl. "begone! i'm a-warnin' ye fa'r. begone!" the wayfarer shrugged his shoulders. debate seemed impracticable, but his annoyance was not lessened as he recognized in the clear eyes of the young woman a half-suppressed mockery of scorn and triumph. henderson stooped and hefted his pack again to his shoulders, adjusting it deliberately. if it must be retreat, he wished at least to retire with the honors of war. the girl's expression had piqued him into irascibility. "i'd heard tell that folks hereabouts were civil to strangers," he announced bluntly. "and i don't give a damn about whatever secret you're bent on hiding from me." then he turned on his heel and started, not rapidly but with a leisurely stride to the road. he seemed to feel the eyes of the girl following him as he went, and his spirit of resentment prompted an act of mild bravado as he halted by the rotten line of fence and unhurriedly tightened the lace of a boot. "hasten!" barked the warning voice from the laurel, but henderson did not hasten. he acknowledged the disquieting surmise of a rifle trained on him from the dense cover, but he neither looked back nor altered his pace. then he heard a gun bark from the shrubbery and a bullet zip as it found its billet in a tree trunk above his head, but that he had expected. it was merely a demonstration in warning--not an attempt on his life. as long as he kept on his way, he believed hostilities would go no further. without venturing to use his eyes, he let his ears do their best, and a satirical smile came to his lips as he heard a low, half-smothered scream of fright break from the lips of the girl whom he could no longer see. and, had he been able to study the golden-brown eyes just then, he would have been even more compensated, for into them crept a slow light of admiration and astonished interest. "he ain't nobody's coward anyways," she murmured as the figure of the unknown man swung out of sight around the bend, and some thought of the same sort passed through the mind of the elderly man in the thicket, bringing a grim but not an altogether humorless smile to his lips. "wa'al, i run him off," he mused, "but i didn't hardly run him no-ways _hard_!" jerry henderson had borne credentials from uncle israel calvert who kept a store on big ivy, and he had been everywhere told that once uncle billy had viséd his passports, he would need no further safe-conduct. in the encounter at the cornfield there had been no opportunity to show that bill of health and it was only after an hour spent in walking the wrong way, that its possessor met the next person to whom he could put questions. then he learned that "lone stacy dwelt in a sizeable house over on little slippery,"--but that he had strayed so far from the true course that now he must climb a mountain or take a detour and that in either event he would have to hasten to arrive there before nightfall. so the shadows were lengthening when he turned into the course of what must be "little slippery"--and came face to face with two men of generous stature, one elderly and the other youthful. he noted that the older of these men carried a rifle on his shoulder and was conscious of a piercing scrutiny from both pairs of eyes. "i'm seeking lone stacy," began henderson, and the older face darkened into a momentary scowl of animosity, with the coming of the curt reply: "thet's my name." the traveler gave a violent start of astonishment. it was a deep-chested voice which, once heard, was not to be confused with other voices, and jerry henderson had heard it not many hours before raised in stentorian warning from the depth of the thickets. but promptly he recovered his poise and smiled. "i have a piece of paper here," he said, "from uncle israel calvert. he said that if he vouched for me you would be satisfied." as lone stacy accepted the proffered note with his left hand he passed his rifle to the younger man with his right, and even then he held the sheet unopened for a space while his serious gaze swept the stranger slowly from head to foot in challenging appraisal. he read slowly, with the knitted brows of the unscholastic, and as he did so the youth kept his eye on henderson's face--and his finger on the trigger. having seen the boy's face, henderson found it hard to shift his glance elsewhere. he had encountered many mountain faces that were sinister and vindictive--almost malign, but it was not the unyielding challenge which arrested him now. it was something far more individual and impressive. there are eyes that reflect light with the quicksilver responsiveness of mirrors. there are others, though more rare, which shine from an inner fire. bear cat stacy's held the golden, unresting flame that one encounters in the tawny iris of a captive lion or eagle. such eyes in a human face mean something and it is something which leads their possessor to the gallows or the throne. they are heralds of a spirit untameable and invincible; of the will to rend or rebuild. henderson found himself thinking of volcanoes which are latent but not extinct. it was a first glimpse, but if he never again saw this boy, who stood there measuring him with cool deliberation, he would always remember him as one remembers the few instantly convincing personalities one has brushed in walking through life. but when lone stacy had finished his perusal, the nod of his head was an assurance of dissipated doubt. there was even a grave sort of courtesy in his manner now, as he announced: "thet's good enough fer me. if uncle israel vouches fer ye, ye're welcome. he says hyar 'ther bearer is trustworthy'--but he don't say who ye air. ye said yore name war jerry henderson, didn't ye?" "that _is_ my name," assented the newcomer, once more astonished. "but i didn't realize i'd told it yet." with an outright scorn for subterfuge the older man replied, "i reckon thar hain't no profit in a-beatin' ther devil round ther stump. you've heered my voice afore--an' i've seed yore face. ye tole me yore name back thar--in ther la'rel, didn't ye?" henderson bowed. "i _did_ recognize your voice, but i didn't aim to speak of it--unless you did." "when i says that i trusts a man," the moonshiner spoke with an unambiguous quietness of force, "i means what i says an' takes my chances accordin'. ef a man betrays my confidence--" he paused just an instant then added pointedly--"he takes _his_ chances. what did ye 'low yore business war, hyarabouts, mr. henderson?" "i mean to explain that to you in due time, mr. stacy, but just now it takes fewer words to say what's _not_ my business." "wall then, what _hain't_ yore business?" "other people's business." "wa'al so far as hit goes thet's straight talk. i favors outright speech myself an' ye don't seem none mealy-mouthed. ye talks right fer yoreself--like a mountain man." "you see," said henderson calmly, "i _am_ a mountain man even if i've dwelt down below for some years." "you--a mountain man?" echoed the bearded giant in bewilderment and the visitor nodded. "ever hear of torment henderson?" he inquired. "colonel torment henderson! why, hell's fiddle, man, my daddy sarved under him in ther war over slavery! i was raised upon stories of how he tuck thet thar name of 'torment' in battle." "he was my grandpap," the stranger announced, dropping easily into the phrases of the country. "mr. henderson," said the old man, drawing himself up a trifle straighter, "we're pore folks, but we're proud ter hev ye enjoy what little we've got. this hyar's my son, turner stacy." then bear cat spoke for the first time. "i reckon ye be leg-weary, mr. henderson. i'll fotch yore contraptions ter ther house." there remained to the splendidly resilient powers of bear cat's physical endowment no trace of last night's debauch except that invisible aftermath of desperate chagrin and mortification. as he lifted the pack which henderson had put down something like admiring wonderment awoke in him. here was a man born like himself in the hills, reared in crude places, who yet bore himself with the air of one familiar with the world, and who spoke with the fluency of education. as the wearied traveler trudged along with his two hosts, he had glowing before his eyes the final fires of sunset over hills that grew awesomely somber and majestic under the radiance of gold and ash of rose. then they reached a gate, where a horse stood hitched, and before them bulked the dark shape of a house whose open door was a yellow slab of lamplight. from the porch as they came up, rose a gray figure in the neutrality of the dying light; a man with a patriarchal beard that fell over his breast and an upper lip clean shaven, like a mormon elder. even in that dimness a rude dignity seemed inherent to this man and as henderson glanced at him he heard lone stacy declaring, "brother fulkerson, ye're welcome. this hyar is mr. henderson." then turning to the guest, the householder explained. "brother fulkerson air ther preacher of god's word hyarabouts. he's a friend ter every christian an' a mighty wrastler with sin." as the stranger acknowledged this presentation he glanced up and, standing in the light from the door, found himself face to face with yet another figure; the figure of a girl who was silhouetted there in profile, for the moment seemingly frozen motionless by astonishment. her face was flooded with the pinkness of a deep blush, and her slender beauty was as undeniable as an axiom. lone stacy turned with an amused laugh, "an' this, mr. henderson," he went on, "air brother fulkerson's gal, blossom. i reckon ye two hev met afore--albeit ye didn't, in a way of speakin', make yore manners ther fust time." blossom bowed, then she laughed shyly but with a delicious quality of music in her voice. "i reckon ye 'lowed i didn't know nothin'--i mean anything--about manners, mr. henderson," she confessed and the man hastily assured her: "i 'lowed that you were splendidly loyal--to somebody." as he spoke he saw bear cat at his elbow, his eyes fixed on the girl with a wordless appeal of contrition and devotion, and he thought he understood. "howdy, blossom," murmured turner, and the girl's chin came up. her voice seemed to excommunicate him as she replied briefly: "howdy, turner." this was a lover's quarrel, surmised henderson and discreetly he turned again to the host, but, even so, he saw turner step swiftly forward and raise his hands. his lips were parted and his eyes full of supplication, but he did not speak. he only let his arms fall and turned away with a face of stricken misery. blossom knew about last night, reflected bear cat. he was, as he deserved to be, in disgrace. then as the girl stood looking off into the gathering darkness her own face filled wistfully with pain and the boy, dropping to a seat on the floor of the porch, watched her covertly with sidewise glances. "blossom met me down ther road," observed the minister, "an' named ter me thet she hed----" he paused, casting a dubious glance at the stranger, and lone stacy interrupted: "she named ter ye thet she stood guard at ther still an' warned mr. henderson off?" brother fulkerson nodded gravely. "i was a little mite troubled in my mind lest she'd put herself in jeopardy of the law. thet's why i lighted down an' hitched hyar: ter hev speech with ye." "ye needn't worrit yoreself none, brother fulkerson," reassured the host. "mr. henderson comes vouched fer by uncle israel." the preacher sat for a space silent and when he next spoke it was still with a remnant of misgiving in his tone. "i don't aim to go about crossin' good men and a-cavilin' with thar opinions," he began apologetically. "like as not heaps of 'em air godlier men than me, but i holds it to be my duty to speak out free." again he paused and cast a questioning glance at his host as though in deference to the hospitality of the roof, and the tall mountaineer, standing beside the post of his porch, nodded assent with equal gravity. "talk right fer yoreself, brother fulkerson. i don't never aim ter muzzle no man's speech." "waal, this day i've rid some twenty miles acrost high ridges and down inter shadowy valleys, i've done traversed some places thet war powerful wild an' laurely. wharsoever god's work calls me, i'm obleeged ter go, but i raised my voice in song as i fared along amongst them thickets, lest some man thet i couldn't see; some man a-layin' on watch, mout suspicion i was seekin' ter discover somethin' he aimed ter keep hid--jest as ye suspicioned mr. henderson, hyar." lone stacy stroked his beard. "i reckon thet war ther wisest way, brother fulkerson, unless every man over thar knowed ye." "i reckon god likes ther songs of his birds better," declared the preacher, "then ther song of a man thet _hes_ ter sing ter protect his own life. i reckon no country won't ever prosper mightily, whilst hit's a land of hidin' out with rifle-guns in ther laurel." there was no wrath in the eyes of the host as he listened to his guest's indictment or the voice of thrilling earnestness in which it was delivered. he only raised one hand and pointed upward where a mighty shoulder of mountain rose hulking through the twilight. near its top one could just make out the thread-like whiteness of a new fence line. "yonder's my corn patch," he said. "when i cl'ared hit an' grubbed hit out my neighbors all came ter ther workin' an' amongst us we toiled thar from sun-up twell one o'clock at night--daylight an' moonlight. on thet patch i kin raise me two or three master crops o' corn an' atter _thet_ hit won't hardly raise rag weeds! a bushel o' thet corn, sledded over ter ther nighest store fotches in mebby forty cents. but thar's two gallons of licker in hit an' _thet's_ wuth money. who's a-goin' ter deny me ther rightful license ter do hit?" "ther law denies ye," replied the preacher gravely, but without acerbity. "thar's things thet's erginst ther law," announced the old man with a swift gathering of fierceness in his tone, "an' thar's things thet's _above_ ther law. a criminal is a man thet's done befouled his own self-respect. i hain't never done thet an' i hain't no criminal. what do _you_ think, mr. henderson?" henderson had no wish to be drawn, so soon, into any conflict of local opinion, yet he realized that a candid reply was expected. "my opinion is that of theory only," he responded seriously. "but i agree with brother fulkerson. a community with secrets to hide is a hermit community--and one of the strangers that is frightened away--is prosperity." bear cat stacy, brooding silently in his place, looked suddenly up. hitherto he had seen only the sweet wistfulness of blossom's eyes. now he remembered the words of the old miller. "some day a mountain man will rise up as steadfast as the hills he sprung from--an' he'll change hit all like ther sun changes fog!" perhaps turner stacy was ripe for hero-worship. over the mountain top appeared the beacon of the evening star--luminous but pale. as if saluting it the timber became wistful with the call of whippoorwills and fireflies began to flit against the sooty curtain of night. something stirred in the boy, as though the freshening breeze brought the new message of an awakening. here was the talk of wise men, concurring with the voices of his dreams! but at that moment his mother appeared in the doorway and announced "you men kin come in an' _eat_, now." chapter vi in former days an appalachian tavern was a "quarter-house"; a hostelry where one paid a quarter for one's bed and a quarter, each, for meals. now the term has fallen into such disuse as to be no longer generic, but locally it survived with a meaning both specific and malodorous. the press of kentucky and virginia had used it often, coupled with lurid stories of blood-lettings and orgies; linking with it always the name of its proprietor, kinnard towers. how could such things go on in the twentieth century? questioned the readers of these news columns, forgetting that this ramparted isolation lives not in the twentieth century but still in the eighteenth; that its people who have never seen salt water still sing the ballads of walter raleigh's sea-rovers, and that from their lips still fall, warm with every-day usage, the colloquialisms of chaucer and of piers the ploughman. the quarterhouse stood in a cleft where the mountains had been riven. its front door opened into virginia and its rear door gave into kentucky. across the puncheon floor was humorously painted a stripe of whitewash, as constantly renewed as the markings of a well-kept tennis court--and that line was a state boundary. hither flocked refugees from the justice of two states, and if a suddenly materializing sheriff confronted his quarry in the room where each day and each night foregathered the wildest spirits of a wild land, the hounded culprit had only to cross that white line and stand upon his lawful demand for extradition papers. here, therefore, the hunted foxes of the law ran to ground. the man who presided as proprietor was a power to be feared, admired, hated as individual circumstance dictated, but in any case one whose wrath was not to be advisedly stirred. he had found it possible to become wealthy in a land where such achievement involves battening on poverty. cruel--suave; predatory--charitable, he had taken life by his own hand and that of the hireling, but also he had, in famine-times, succored the poor. he had, in short, awed local courts and intimidated juries of the vicinage until he seemed beyond the law, and until office-holders wore his collar. kinnard towers was floridly blond of coloring, mild of eye and urbanely soft-spoken of voice. once, almost two decades ago, while the feud was still eruptive, it had seemed advisable to him to have lone stacy done to death, and to that end he had bargained with black tom carmichael. black tom had been provided with a double-barreled gun, loaded with buckshot, and placed in a thicket which, at the appointed hour, the intended victim must pass. but it had chanced that fate intervened. on that day lone stacy had carried in his arms his baby son, turner stacy, and, seeing the child, black tom had faltered. later in the seclusion of a room over the quarterhouse, the employer had wrathfully taken his churl to task. "wa'al, why didn't ye git him?" was the truculent interrogation. "he passed by close enough fer ye ter hit him with a rock." "he was totin' his baby," apologized the designated assassin shamefacedly, yet with a sullen obstinacy, "i was only hired ter kill a growed-up man. ef ye'd a-give me a rifle-gun like i asked ye 'stid of a scatter-gun i could've got him through his damned head an' not harmed ther child none. thet's why i held my hand." kinnard towers had scornfully questioned: "what makes ye so tormentin' mincy erbout ther kid? don't ye know full well thet when he grows up we'll have ter git _him_, too? howsoever next time i'll give ye a rifle-gun." like all unlettered folk the mountaineer is deeply superstitious and prone to believe in portents and wonders. often, though he can never be brought to confess it he gives credence to tales of sorcery and witchcraft. turner stacy was from his birth a "survigrous" child, and he was born on the day of the eclipse. as he came into the world the sun was darkened. immediately after that a sudden tempest broke which tore the forests to tatters, awoke quiet brooks to swirling torrents, unroofed houses and took its toll of human life. even in after years when men spoke of the "big storm" they always alluded to _that_ one. an old crone who was accounted able to read fortunes and work charms announced that turner stacy came into life on the wings of that storm, and that the sun darkened its face because his birth savored of the supernatural. this being so, she said, he was immune from any harm of man's devising. her absurd story was told and retold around many a smoky cabin hearth, and there were those who accorded it an unconfessed credence. later black tom was given a rifle and again stationed in ambush. again lone stacy, favored by chance, carried his baby son in his arms. black tom, whose conscience had never before impeded his action, continued to gaze over his gun-sights--without pressing the trigger. towers was furious, but carmichael could only shake his head in a frightened bewilderment, as if he had seen a ghost. "ther brat looked at me jest as i was about to fire," he protested. "his eyes didn't look like a human bein's. he hain't no baby--he was born a man--or somethin' more then a man." as affairs developed, the truce was arranged soon afterward, and also the marked man's death became unnecessary, because he was safe in prison on a charge of moonshining. neither lone stacy nor his son had ever known of this occurrence, and now the stacys and the towers met on the road and "made their manners" without gun-play. but to kinnard towers local happenings remained vital and, for all his crudity, few things of topical interest occurred of which he was not duly apprised. into his dwelling place came one day the honorable abraham towers, his nephew, who sat in the state legislature at frankfort. the two were closeted together for an hour and as the nephew emerged, at the end of the interview, kinnard walked with him to the hitching-post where the visitor's horse stood tethered. "i'm obleeged ter ye, abe," he said graciously. "when this man henderson gits hyar, i'll make hit a point ter hev casual speech with him. i aims ter l'arn his business, an' ef what ye suspicions air true, he'll have dealin's with me--or else he won't hardly succeed." so it happened logically enough that on the evening of jerry's arrival, kinnard towers mounted and started out over the hill trails. he rode, as he always did when he went far abroad, under armed escort since tyrants are never secure. four rifle-equipped vassals accompanied him; two riding as advance guard and two protecting the rear. kinnard's destination was the house of lone stacy on little slippery, a house whose threshold he could not, in the old days, have crossed without blood-letting; but these were the days of peace. arriving, he did not go direct to the door and knock, but discreetly halting in the highway, lifted his voice and shouted aloud, "halloo! i'm kinnard towers an' i'm a-comin' in." the door was thrown promptly open and lone stacy appeared, framed between threshold and lintel, holding a lamp aloft and offering welcome. "gentlemen," said the host in a matter-of-fact voice, "ef you'll excuse me, i'll rest yore guns." then in observance of a quaint and ancient ceremonial, each armed guardian passed in, surrendering his rifle at the threshold. in retarded appalachia so runs the rule. to fail in its fulfilment is to express distrust for the honesty and ability of the householder to protect his guests, and such an implication constitutes a grave discourtesy. inside a fire roared on the hearth, for even in june, the mountain nights are raw. henderson, watching the small cavalcade troop in, smiled inwardly. he was not unmindful of the identity or the power of this modern baron, and he was not without suspicion that he himself was the cause of the visit. "i chanced ter be farin' by, lone," kinnard towers enlightened his host easily, "an' i 'lowed i'd light down an' rest a little spell." "ye're welcome," was the simple reply. "draw up ter ther fire an' set ye a cheer." the talk lingered for a space on neighborhood topics, but the host had found time, between hearing the shout outside and replying to it, to say in a low voice to his guest: "i reckon atter kinnard towers comes in we won't talk no more erbout my still--jest stills in gin'ral," and that caution was religiously observed. the kitchen tasks had been finished now and while the men sat close to the smoking hearth the faces of the women looked on from the shadowed corners of the room, where they sat half obscured upon the huge four-poster beds. the man who had crossed cedar mountain lighted his pipe from the bed of coals and then, straightening up, he stood on the hearth where his eyes could take in the whole semicircle of listening faces. they were eyes that, for all their seeming of a theorist's engrossment, missed little. this house might have been a pioneer abode of two hundred years ago, standing unamended by the whole swelling tide of modernity that had passed it by untouched. the leaping blaze glittered on the metal of polished rifles stacked in a corner, and on two others hanging against the smoke-dimmed logs of the walls. red pods of peppers and brown leaves of tobacco were strung along the rafters. hardly defined of shape against one shadowy wall, stood a spinning wheel. henderson knew that the room was pregnant with the conflict of human elements. he realized that he himself faced possibilities which made his mission here a thing of delicate manipulation; even of personal danger. the blond man with the heavy neck, who sat contemplatively chewing at the stem of an unlighted pipe, listened in silence. he hardly seemed interested, but henderson recognized him for the sponsor and beneficiary of lawlessness. he more than any other would be the logical foe to a new order which brought the law in its wake--and the law's reckonings. near to the enemy whom he had heretofore faced in pitched battle, sat old lone stacy, his brogans kicked off and his bare feet thrust out to the warmth; bearded, shrewd of eye, a professed lover of the law, asking only the exemption of his illicit still. he, too, in the feud days had wielded power, but had sought in the main to wield it for peace. and there, showing no disposition to draw aside the skirts of his raiment in disgust, sat the preacher of the hills whose strength lay in his ability to reconcile antagonisms, while yet he stood staunch, abating nothing of self-sacrificial effort. it was almost as though church and crown and commoner were gathered in informal conclave. but luminous, like fixed stars, gleamed two other pairs of eyes. as he realized them, henderson straightened up with such a thrill as comes from a vision. here were the eyes of builders of the future--agleam as they looked on the present! blossom's were wide and enthralled and turner stacy's burned as might those of a young crusader hearing from the lips of old and seasoned knights recitals of the wars of the sepulchre. bear cat stacy saw in this stranger the prophet bearing messages for which he had longed--and waited almost without hope. but kinnard towers saw in him a dangerous and unsettling agitator. "you said," declared henderson, when the theme had swung back again to economic discussion, "that your cornfield was good for a few crops and then the rains would wash it bare, yet as i came along the road i saw an out-cropping vein of coal that reached above my head, and on each side of me were magnificent stretches of timber that the world needs and that is growing scarce." "much profit thet does me," lone stacy laughed dryly. "down at uncle israel's store thar's a dollar bill thet looks like hit's a-layin' on ther counter--but when ye aims to pick hit up ye discarns thet hit's pasted under ther glass. thet coal an' timber of mine air pasted ter ther wrong side of cedar mounting." "and why? because there are few roads and fewer schools. it's less the cost and difficulties of building wagon roads than something else that stands in the way. it's the laurel." "the laurel?" repeated lone stacy, but the preacher nodded comprehendingly, and the visitor went on: "yes. the laurel. i've been in central american jungles where men died of fever because the thick growth held and bred the miasma. here the laurel holds a spirit of concealment. if there wasn't a bush in all these hills big enough to hide a man, the country would be thrown open to the markets of the world. it's the spirit of hiding--that locks life in and keeps it poor." "i presume ye means on account of ther blockade licker," replied the host, "but thet don't tech ther root of ther matter. how erbout ther fields thet stand on end; fields thet kain't be plowed an' thet ther rains brings down on yore head, leavin' nuthin 'thar but ther rock?" henderson had the power of convincing words, abetted by a persuasive quality of voice. as a mountain man he preached his faith in the future of the hills. he spoke of the vineyards of madeira where slopes as incorrigibly steep as these were redeemed by terracing. he talked of other lands that were being exhausted of resources and turning greedy eyes upon the untapped wealth of the cumberlands. he painted the picture glowingly and fervently, and turner stacy, listening, bent forward with a new fire in his eyes: a fire which kinnard towers did not fail to mark. "when ther railroad taps us," interpolated lone stacy, in a pause, "mebby we kin manage ter live. some says ther road aims ter cross cedar mounting." "don't deceive yourself with false hopes," warned the visitor. "this change must be brought about from inside--not outside. the coming of the railroad lies a decade or two away. i've investigated that question pretty thoroughly and i know. the coal-fields are so large that railroads can still, for a long time to come, choose the less expensive routes. cedar mountain balks them for the present. it will probably balk them for the length of our lives--but this country can progress without waiting for that." "so ye thinks thet even without no railroad this god-forsaken land kin still prosper somehow?" inquired the host skeptically, and the visitor answered promptly: "i do. i am so convinced of it that i'm here to buy property--to invest all i have and all my mother and sisters have. i think that by introducing modern methods of intensive farming, i can make it pay a fair return in my own time--and when i die i'll leave property that will ultimately enrich the younger generations. i _don't_ think it can make me rich in my lifetime--but _some_ day it's a certainty of millions." "why don't ye buy yoreself property whar ther railroad will come in yore own day, then? wouldn't thet pay ye better?" the suggestion was the first contribution to the conversation that had come from kinnard towers, and it was proffered in a voice almost urbane of tone. henderson turned toward him. "that's a straight question and i'll answer it straight. to buy as much property as i want along a possible railway line would cost too much money. i'm gambling, not on the present but on the future. i come here because i know the railroad is _not_ coming and for that reason prices will be moderate." as he made this explanation the newcomer was watching the face of his questioner almost eagerly. what he read there might spell the success or failure of his plans. any enterprise across which kinnard towers stamped the word "prohibited" was an enterprise doomed to great vicissitude in a land where his word was often above the law. but the blond and florid man granted him the satisfaction of no reply. he gazed pensively at the logs crackling on the hearth and his features were as inscrutably blank as those of the sphinx. after a moment towers did speak, but it was to his host and on another topic. "lone," he said, "thet firewood of yourn's right green an' sappy, hain't it? hit pops like ther fo'th of july." brother fulkerson spoke reflectively: "we needs two more things then we've got in these hills--an' one thing less then we've got. we wants roads an' schools--and the end of makin' white licker." henderson saw blossom slip from the bed and flit shadow-like through the door, and a few moments later he missed, too, the eagerly attentive presence of the boy. blossom had escaped from the reek of tobacco smoke inside, to the soft cadences of the night-song and the silver wash of the moonlight. turner stacy found her sitting, with her face between her palms, under a great oak that leaned out across the trickle of the creek, and when he spoke her name, she raised eyes glistening with tears. "blossom," he began in a contrite voice, "ye're mad at me, ain't ye? ye've done heerd about--about last night." then he added with moody self-accusation, "god knows i don't blame ye none." she turned her head away and did not at once answer. suddenly her throat choked and she broke into sobs that shook her with their violence. the young man stood rigid, his face drawn with self-hatred and at last she looked up at him. "somehow, turner," she said unsteadily, "hit wouldn't of been jest ther same ef hit had been any other time. yestiddy--up thar on ther ridge--ye promised me thet ye'd be heedful with licker." "i knows i did," he declared bitterly. "ye've got a right ter plumb hate me." "ef i'd a-hated ye," she reminded him simply, "i wouldn't sca'cely have watched ther road all day." then irrelevantly she demanded, "how did ye git yore shoulder hurt?" the wish to defend himself with the palliations of last night's desperate fatigue and the chill in his wound was a strong temptation, but he repressed it. knowledge of his encounter with ratler webb would only alarm her and conjure up fears of unforgiving vengeance. "hit war just a gun thet went off accidental-like," he prevaricated. "i wasn't harmed none, blossom." then in a tense voice he continued: "i only aimed ter drink a leetle--not too much--an' then somehow i didn't seem ter hev ther power ter quit." he felt the lameness of that plea and broke off. "i'd been studyin' about what you said on ther ridge," she told him falteringly, and the tremor of her voice electrified him. again the mountains on their ancient foundations grew unsteady before his eyes. "does ye mean thet--thet despite last night--ye keers fer me?" he bent forward, lips parted and heart pounding--and her reply was an unsteady whisper. "i hain't plumb dead sartain yit, turner, but--but this mornin' i couldn't think of nothin' else but you." "blossom!" exclaimed the boy, his voice ringing with a solemn earnestness. "i don't want thet ye shall hev ter feel shame fer me--but----" once again the words refused to come. the girl had risen now and stood slender in the silver light, her lashes wet with tears. with that picture in his eyes it became impossible to balance the other problems of his life. so he straightened himself stiffly and turned his gaze away from her. he was seeing instead a picture of the squat shanty where the copper worm was at work in the shadow, and for him it was a picture of bondage. so she waited, feeling some hint of realization for the struggle his eyes mirrored. there would be many other wet nights up there, he reflected as his jaw set itself grimly; many nights of chilled and aching bones with that wild thirst creeping seductively, everpoweringly upon him out of the darkness. there would be the clutch of longing, strangling his heart and gnawing at his stomach. but if he _did_ promise and failed, he could never again recover his self-respect. he would be doomed. with his face still averted, he spoke huskily and laboriously. "i reckon thar hain't no way ter make ye understand, blossom. i don't drink like some folks, jest ter carouse. i don't oftentimes want ter tech hit, but seems like sometimes i jest _has_ ter hev hit. hit's most gin'rally when i'm plumb sick of livin' on hyar withouten no chance ter better myself." even in the moonlight she could see that his face was drawn and pallid. then abruptly he wheeled: "ther stacys always keeps thar bonds. i reckons ye wants me ter give ye my hand thet i won't never tech another drop, blossom, but i kain't do thet yit--i've got ter fight hit out fust an' be plumb dead sartain thet i could keep my word ef i pledged hit----" blossom heard her father calling her from the porch and as she seized the boy's arms she found them set as hard as rawhide. "i understands, turney," she declared hastily, "an'--an'--i'm a-goin' ter be prayin' fer ye afore i lays down ternight!" as turner watched the preacher mount and ride away, his daughter walking alongside, he did not return to the house. he meant to fight it out in his own way. last night when the hills had rocked to the fury of the storm--he had surrendered. to-night when the moonlit slopes drowsed in the quiet of silver mists, the storm was in himself. within a few feet of the gate he took his seat at the edge of a thick rhododendron bush, where the shadow blotted him into total invisibility. he sat there drawn of face and his hands clenched and unclenched themselves. he did not know it, but, in his silence and darkness, he was growing. there was for him a touch of golgotha in those long moments of reflection and something of that anguished concentration which one sees in rodin's figure of "the thinker"--that bronze man bent in the melancholy travail of the birth of thought. when an hour later kinnard towers and his cortège trooped out of lone stacy's house, jerry henderson, willing to breathe the freshness of the night, strolled along. the men with the rifles swung to their saddles and rode a few rods away, but towers himself lingered and at last with a steady gaze upon the stranger he made a tentative suggestion. "i don't aim ter discourage a man thet's got fine ideas, mr. henderson, but hev ye duly considered thet when ye undertakes ter wake up a country thet's been slumberin' as ye puts hit, fer two centuries, ye're right apt ter find some sleepy-heads thet would rather be--left alone?" "i'm not undertaking a revolution," smiled the new arrival. "i'm only aiming to show folks, by my own example, how to better themselves." the man who stood as the sponsor of the old order mounted and looked down from his saddle. "hain't thet right smart like a doctor a-comin' in ter cure a man," he inquired dryly, "a-fore ther sick person hes sent fer him? sometimes ther ailin' one moutn't take hit kindly." "i should say," retorted henderson blandly, "that it's more like the doctor who hangs out his shingle--so that men can come if they like." there was a momentary silence and at its end towers spoke again with just a hint of the enigmatical in his voice. "ye spoke in thar of havin' personal knowledge thet ther railroad didn't aim ter come acrost cedar mounting, didn't ye?" "yes." "well now, mr. henderson--not meanin' ter dispute ye none--i don't feel so sartain about thet." "i spoke from fairly definite information." the man on horseback nodded. "i aims ter talk pretty plain. we're a long ways behind ther times up hyar, an' thet means thet we likes ter sort of pass on folks thet comes ter dwell amongst us." "i call that reasonable, mr. towers." "i'm obleeged ter ye. now jest let's suppose thet ther railroad _did_ aim ter come in atter all an' let's jest suppose for ther fun of ther thing, thet hit likewise aimed ter grab off all ther best coal an' timber rights afore ther pore, ign'rant mountain-men caught on ter what war happenin'. in sich a case, ther fust step would be ter send a man on ahead, wouldn't hit--a mountain man, if possible--ter preach thet ther railroad didn't aim ter come? thet would mean bargains, wouldn't hit?" jerry henderson laughed aloud. "do you mean that you suspect me of such a mission?" glancing about to assure himself that no one heard except his single auditor, the erstwhile hirer of assassins bent over his saddle pommel. into the suavity of his voice had crept a new hardness and into the pale color of his eyes an ominous glint. "back in ther days of ther war with england, mr. henderson, i've heered tell thet our grandsires hed a flag with a rattlesnake on hit, an' ther words, 'don't tread on me!' some folks says we're right-smart like our grandsires back hyar in ther timber." "if that's a threat, mr. towers," said henderson steadily, "i make it a point never to understand them." "an' i makes hit a point never ter give them more then onct. i don't say i suspicions ye--but i do _p'intedly_ say this ter ye: whatever yore real project air, afore ye goes inter hit too deep--afore ye invests all ye've got, an' all yore mother hes got an' all yore sister hes got, hit mout be right heedful ter ride over ter my dwellin'-house an' hev speech with me." an indignant retort rose to jerry's lips, but with diplomatic forbearance he repressed it. "when i've been here a while, i guess your suspicions will be allayed without verbal assurances, mr. towers." "even if ye only comes preachin' ther drivin' out of licker," said towers slowly, "ye're treadin' on my friends. we suffers sabbath talk like thet from preachers, but we don't relish hit on week-days from strangers. in thar a while back i listened. i seen ye an' brother fulkerson a-stirrin' up an' onsettlin' ther young folks. i kin feel ther restless things thet's a-ridin' in ther wind ter-night, mr. henderson, an' hit hain't sca'cely right ter bring trouble on these folks thet's shelterin' ye." bear cat stacy, unseen but eagerly listening, felt a leaping of resentment in his veins. all the feudal instincts that had their currents there woke to wrath as he heard his hereditary enemy warning away his guest. it was the intolerable affront of a hint that the power of the stacys had dwindled and waned until it could no longer secure the protection of its own roof-trees. with the anger of marmion for angus, sternly repressed but forceful, bear cat suddenly stood out revealed in the moonlight. he had only to take a step, but the effect was precisely that of having been suddenly materialized out of nothingness, and when his voice announced him, even the case-hardened control of kinnard towers suffered a violent jolt of surprise. "i reckon, kinnard towers," said the boy with a velvety evenness of voice, "ther day hain't hardly come yit when ther stacys hes ter ask ye what visitors they kin take inter thar dwellin'-houses. i reckon mebby mr. henderson's ideas may suit some folks hyarabouts, even if they don't pleasure you none. so long as he aims ter tarry hyar, an' we aims ter enjoy him, ther man thet seeks ter harm him will hev ter come hyar an' git him." never since the fend had ended in a pact of peace, had two factional leaders come so near a rupture. henderson could feel the ominous tensity in the air, but towers himself only shook his head and laughed. it was a good-humored laugh, since this was not the time for open enmity. "oh, pshaw, son! i reckon nobody don't aim no harm to mr. henderson. i jest knows this country an' he ought ter realize thet my counsel mout help him." there was a brief pause and then with an audacity of bantering kinnard proceeded. "i've done heered thet ye tuck yore dram onct in a while yoreself--mebby you've got friends thet makes licker--an' you knows how they mout feel about too much talk." bear cat stacy stood with his shoulders drawn back and his eyes smoldering. "thet's my business," he retorted curtly, but the quarterhouse baron went on with the same teasing smile. "mebby so, son, but hit kinderly 'peared like ter me thet brother fulkerson's gal war a-'lowin' thet hit war _her_ business, too. i overheered yore maw say somethin' 'bout yore drinkin' some last night an' i seed blossom's purty eyes flash." the mounted man waved his hand and rode away, his escort falling in at front and rear, but when the cavalcade had turned the angle of the road kinnard towers beckoned black tom carmichael to his side and spoke grimly. "thar's trouble breedin', tom, an' this young bear cat stacy's in ther b'ilin'. ye played ther fool when yer failed ter git him as a kid. hit war only a-layin' up torment erginst ther future." henderson lay long awake that night in the loft which he shared with bear cat. he heard the snores of the man and woman sleeping below, but the unmoving figure beside him had not relaxed in slumber. henderson wondered if he were reflecting upon that talk by the gate and all the dark possibilities it might presage. it was almost dawn, when bear cat slipped from under his quilt, drew on his shoes and trousers and left the loft-like attic, his feet making no sound on the rungs of the ladder. what furtive mission was taking him out, pondered henderson, into the laurel-masked hills at that hour? but out in the creek-bed road, with the setting moon on his face, bear cat stacy paused and drank in a long breath. "he seen blossom's eyes flash, he said," murmured the boy with his hands clenched at his sides, then he threw back his shoulders and spoke half aloud and very resolutely: "wa'al they won't never hev ter flash no more fer thet cause." after a little while, his gaze fixed on the myriad stars, he spoke again. "god almighty, i needs thet ye should holp me now. i aims ter go dry fer all time--an' i kain't hardly compass hit withouten ye upholds me." wheeling abruptly, he went with long strides around the turn of the road. a half hour later he was noiselessly opening the gate of the preacher's house. he meant to wait there until blossom awoke, but prompted by habit he gave, thrice repeated, the quavering and perfectly counterfeited call of a barn owl. since she had been a very small girl, that had been their signal, and though she would not hear it now, it pleased him to repeat it. then to his astonishment he heard, very low, the whining creak of an opening door, and there before him, fully dressed, intently awake, stood the girl herself. "blossom," said bear cat in a low voice that trembled a little, "blossom, i came over ter wail hyar till ye woke up. i came ter tell ye--thet i'm ready ter give ye my hand. i hain't never goin' ter tech a drap of licker no more, so long es i lives. i says hit ter ye with god almighty listenin'." "oh, turney----!" she exclaimed, then her voice broke and her eyes swam with tears. "i'm--i'm right proud of ye," was all she could find the words to add. "did i wake ye up?" demanded the boy in a voice of self-accusation. "i didn't aim to. i 'lowed i'd wait till mornin'." blossom shook her head. "i hain't been asleep yit," she assured him. her cheeks flushed and she drooped her head as she explained. "i've been a-prayin, turney. god's done answered my prayer." turner stacy took off his hat and shook back the dark lock of hair that fell over his forehead. beads of moisture stood out on his temples. "did ye keer--thet much, blossom?" he humbly questioned, and suddenly the girl threw both arms about his neck. "i keers all a gal _kin_ keer, turney. i wasn't sartain afore--but i knowed hit es soon as i begun prayin' fer ye." standing there in the pallid mistiness before dawn, and yielding her lips to the pressure of his kiss, blossom felt the almost religious solemnity of the moment. she was crossing the boundary of acknowledged love--and he had passed through the stress of terrific struggle before he had been able to bring her his pledge. his face, now cool, had been hot with its fevered passion. but she did not know that out of this moment was to be born transforming elements of change destined to shake her life and his; to quake the very mountains themselves; to rend the old order's crust, and finally, after tempest and bloodshed--to bring the light of a new day. no gift of prophecy told her that, of the parentage of this declaration of her love and this declaration of his pledge, was to be born in him a warrior's spirit of crusade which could only reach victory after all the old vindictive furies had been roused to wrath--and conquered--and the shadow of tragedy had touched them both. and had bear cat stacy, holding her soft cheek pressed to his own, been able to look even a little way ahead, he would have gone home and withdrawn the hospitality he had pledged to the guest who slept there. chapter vii because jerry henderson viewed the life of the hills through understanding eyes, certain paradoxes resolved themselves into the expected. he was not surprised to find under lone stacy's rude exterior an innate politeness which was a thing not of formula but of instinct. "would hit pleasure ye," demanded the host casually the next morning, "ter go along with me up thar an' see that same identical still thet i tuck sich pains yestiddy ye _shouldn't_ see?" but henderson shook his head, smiling. "no, thank you. i'd rather not see any still that i can avoid. what i don't know can't get me--or anyone else--into trouble." lone stacy nodded his approval as he said: "i didn't aim ter deny ye no mark of confi_dence_. i 'lowed i'd ought ter ask ye." turner stacy stood further off from illiteracy than his father. in the loft which the visitor had shared with him the night before he had found a copy of the kentucky statutes and one of blackstone's commentaries, though neither of them was so fondly thumbed as the life of lincoln. by adroit questioning jerry elicited the information that the boy had been as far along the way of learning as the sadly deficient district schools could conduct him; those shambling wayside institutions where, on puncheon benches, the children memorize in that droning chorus from which comes the local name of "blab-school." turner had even taken his certificate and taught for a term in one of these pathetic places. he laughed as he confessed this: "hit jest proves how pore ther schools air, hyarabouts," he avowed. "i expect you'd have liked to go to college," inquired henderson, and the boy's eyes blazed passionately with his thwarted lust for opportunity--then dimmed to wretchedness. "like hit! hell, mr. henderson, i'd lay my left hand down, without begrudgin' hit, an' cut hit off at ther wrist fer ther chanst ter do thet!" henderson sketched for him briefly the histories of schools that had come to other sections of the hills; schools taught by inspired teachers, with their model farms, their saw-mills and even their hospitals: schools to which not only children but pupils whose hair had turned white came and eagerly learned their alphabets, and as much more as they sought. the boy raised a hand. "fer god's sake don't narrate them things," he implored. "they sots me on fire. my grandsires hev been satisfied hyar fer centuries an' all my folks sees in me, fer dreamin' erbout things like thet, is lackin' of loyalty." henderson found his interest so powerfully engaged that he talked on with an excess of enthusiasm. "but back of those grandsires were other grandsires, turner. they were the strongest, the best and the most american of all america; those earlier ancestors of yours and mine. they dared to face the wilderness, and those that got across the mountains won the west." "ours didn't git acrost though," countered the boy dryly. "ours was them thet started out ter do big things an' failed." henderson smiled. "a mule that went lame, a failure to strike one of the few possible passes, made all the difference between success and failure in that pilgrimage, but the blood of those empire-builders is our blood and what they are now, we shall be when we catch up. we've been marking time while they were marching, that's all." "ye've done been off ter college yoreself, hain't ye, mr. henderson?" "yes. harvard." "harvard? seems ter me i've heered tell of hit. air hit as good as berea?" the visitor repressed his smile, but before he could answer bear cat pressed on: "whilst ye're up hyar, i wonder ef hit'd be askin' too master much of ye ef--" the boy paused, gulped down his embarrassment and continued hastily--"ef ye could kinderly tell me a few books ter read?" "gladly," agreed henderson. "it's the young men like you who have the opportunity to make life up here worth living for the rest." after a moment bear cat suggested dubiously: "but amongst my folks i wouldn't git much thanks fer tryin'. ther outside world stands fer interference--an' they won't suffer hit. they believes in holdin' with their kith an' kin." again henderson nodded, and this time the smile that danced in his eyes was irresistibly infectious. in a low voice he quoted: "the men of my own stock they may do ill or well, but they tell the lies i am wonted to, they are used to the lies i tell. we do not need interpreters when we go to buy and sell." bear cat stacy stood looking off over the mountain sides. he filled his splendidly rounded chest with a deep draft of the morning air,--air as clean and sparkling as a fine wine, and into his veins stole an ardor like intoxication. in his eyes kindled again that light, which had made henderson think of volcanoes lying quiet with immeasurable fires slumbering at their hearts. last night the boy had fought out the hardest battle of his life, and to-day he was one who had passed a definite mile-post of progress. this morning, too, a seed had dropped and a new life influence was stirring. it would take storm and stress and seasons to bring it to fulfilment, perhaps. the poplar does not grow from seed to great tree in a day--but, this morning, the seed had begun to swell and quicken. what broke, like the fledgling of a new conception, in bear cat's heart, was less palpably but none the less certainly abroad in the air, riding the winds--with varied results. that an outside voice was speaking: a voice which was dangerous to the old gods of custom, was the conviction entertained, not with elation but with somber resentment in the mind of kinnard towers. upon that realization followed a grim resolve to clip the wings of innovation while there was yet time. it was no part of this crude dictator's program to suffer a stranger, with a gift for "glib speech," to curtail his enjoyment of prerogatives built upon a lifetime of stress and proven power. back of cedar mountain, where there are few telephones, news travels on swift, if unseen wings. henderson had not been at lone stacy's house twenty-four hours when the large excitement of his coming, gathering mythical embellishment as it passed from mouth to mouth, was mysteriously launched. wayfarers, meeting in the road and halting for talk, accosted each other thus: "i heer tell thar's a man over ter lone stacy's house thet's done been clar ter ther other world an' back. he's met up with all character of outlanders." having come back from "ther other world" did not indeed mean, as might be casually inferred, that henderson had risen from his grave; relinquishing his shroud for a rehabilitated life. it signified only that he had been "acrost the waters"--a matter almost as vague. so the legend grew as it traveled, endowing jerry with a "survigrous" importance. "folks says," went the rumor, "thet he knows ways fer a man ter make a livin' offen these-hyar tormentin' rocks. hev ye seed him yit?" having come to the house of lone stacy, it was quite in accordance with the custom of the hills that he should remain there indefinitely. his plans for acquiring land meant first establishing himself in popular esteem and to this end no means could have contributed more directly than acceptance under a stacy roof. with the younger stacy this approval was something more: it savored of hero-worship and upon henderson's store of wisdom, bear cat's avid hunger for knowledge feasted itself. henderson saw blossom often in these days and her initial shyness, in his presence, remained obdurate. but through it he caught, with a refreshing quality, the quick-flashing alertness of her mind and he became anxious to win her confidence and friendship. and she, for all her timidity, was profoundly impressed and fed vicariously on his wisdom--through the enthusiastic relaying of bear cat stacy's narration. when conversation with jerry was unavoidable, turner noted that she was giving a new and unaccustomed care to her diction, catching herself up from vernacular to an effort at more correct forms. "blossom," he gravely questioned her one day, "what makes ye so mindful of yore p's and q's when ye hes speech with jerry henderson?" "i reckon hit's jest shame fer my ign'rance," she candidly replied, forgetting to be ashamed of it now that the stranger was no longer present. "and yit," he reminded her, "ye've got more eddication now then common--hyarabouts." "_hyarabouts_, yes," came the prompt retort, touched with irony. "so hev _you_. air ye satisfied with hit?" "no," he admitted honestly. "god knows i hain't!" * * * * * one evening kinnard towers entered the saloon at the quarterhouse and stood unobserved at the door, as he watched the roistering crowd about the bar. it was a squalid place, but to the foreign eye it would have been, in a sordid sense, interesting. its walls and the eight-foot stockade that went around it were stoutly builded of hewn timbers as though it had been planned with a view toward defense against siege. a few lithographed calendars from mail-order houses afforded the sole note of decoration to the interior. the ordinary bar-mirror was dispensed with. it could hardly have come across the mountain intact. had it come it could scarcely have survived. the less perishable fixtures of woodwork and ceiling bore testimony to that in their pitted scars reminiscent of gun-play undertaken in rude sport--and in deadly earnest. the shutters, heavy and solid, had on occasion done service as stretchers and cooling boards. vilely odorous kerosene lamps swung against the walls, dimly abetted by tin reflectors, and across the floor went the painted white line of the state border. at the room's exact center were two huge letters. that east of the line was v. and that west was k. the air was thick with the reek of smoke and the fumes of liquor. the boisterousness was raucously profane--the general atmosphere was that of an unclean rookery. as the proprietor stood at the threshold, loud guffaws of maudlin laughter greeted his ears and, seeking the concrete cause, his gaze encountered ratler webb, propped against the bar, somewhat redder of eye and more unsteady on his legs than usual. obviously he was the enraged butt of ill-advised heckling. "ye hadn't ought ter hev crossed bear cat," suggested a badgering voice. "then ye wouldn't hev a busted nose. he's a bad man ter fool with. thar war witches at his bornin'." "i reckon bear cat knows what's healthful fer him," snarled webb. "when we meets in ther highway he rides plumb round me." the speaker broke off and, with a sweeping truculence, challenged contradiction. "air any of you men friends of his'n? does airy one of ye aim ter dispute what i says?" silence ensued, possibly influenced by the circumstance that ratler's hand was on his pistol grip as he spoke, so he continued: "ef i sought ter be a damn' tale-bearer, i could penitenshery him fer blockadin' right now, but thet wouldn't satisfy me nohow. i aims ter handle him my own self." again there was absence of contradiction near about the braggart, though ripples of derisive mirth trickled in from the outskirts. ratler jerked out his weapon and leaned against the bar. as he waved the muzzle about he stormed furiously: "who laughed back thar?" and no one volunteered response. webb squinted hazily up at one of the reflector-backed lamps. "damn thet light," he exclaimed. "hit hurts my eyes." there followed a report and the lamp fell crashing. for a brief space the drunken man stood holding the smoking weapon in his hand, then he looked up and started, but this time he let the pistol swing inactive at his side and the truculent blackness of his face faded to an expression of dismay. kinnard towers stood facing him with an unpleasant coldness in his eyes. "i reckon, ratler," suggested the proprietor, "ye'd better come along with me. i wants ter hev peaceable speech with ye." in a room above-stairs kinnard motioned him to a chair much as a teacher might command a child taken red-handed in some mad prank. "ratler, hit hain't a right wise thing ter talk over-much," he volunteered at last. "whar air thet still ye spoke erbout--bear cat stacy's still?" webb cringed. "i war jest a-talkin'. i don't know nuthin' erbout no sich still." what means of loosening unwilling tongues kinnard towers commanded was his own secret. a half hour later he knew what he wished to know and ratler webb left the place. upon his ishmaelite neck was firmly fastened the collar of vassalage to the baron of the quarterhouse. on the day following that evening towers talked with black tom carmichael. "this man henderson," he said musingly, "air plumb stirring up ther country. i reckon hit'd better be seen to." black tom nodded. "thet oughtn't ter be much trouble." but towers shook his blond head with an air of less assured confidence. "ter me hit don't look like no easy matter. lone stacy's givin' him countenance. ef i war ter run him outen these parts i reckon ther stacys would jest about swarm inter war over hit." "what does ye aim ter do, kinnard?" "so far i'm only bidin' my time, but i aims ter keep a mighty sharp eye on him. he hain't made no move yit, but he's gainin' friends fast an' a man's obleeged ter kinderly plan ahead. when ther time's ripe he's got ter go." towers paused, then added significantly, "one way or another--but afore thet's undertook, i 'lows ter git rid of his protectors." "thet's a mighty perilous thing ter try, kinnard," demurred the lieutenant in a voice fraught with anxiety. "ye kain't bring hit ter pass without ye opens up ther war afresh--an' _this_ time they'd hev bear cat ter lead 'em." but towers smiled easily. "i've got a plan, tom. they won't even suspicion i knows anything about events. i'm goin' ter foller mr. henderson's counsel an' do things ther _new_ way, 'stid of ther old." chapter viii henderson found brother fulkerson a preacher who, more by service and example and comforting the disconsolate than by pulpit oratory, held a strong influence upon his people, and commanded their deep devotion. his quiet ministry had indeed been heard of beyond the hills and even in the black days of feudal hatred, dead lines had been wiped out for him so that he came and went freely among both factions, and no man doubted him. kindly, grave and steadfast, henderson found him to be, and possessed of a natively shrewd brain, as well. blossom was usually at the fulkerson house when jerry called, but she fitted silently in the background and her eyes regarded him with that shy gravity, in which he found an insurmountable barrier to better acquaintance. one morning as he passed the fulkerson abode he found the girl alone by the gate--and paused there. the season's first tenderness of greenery along the slopes had ripened now to the sunburned and freckled warmth of midsummer, but the day was young enough for lingering drops of the heavy dew to remain on the petals of the morning-glories and the weed stalks along the roadside. between the waxen delicacy and rich variety of the morning-glory petals and the bloom of the girl, jerry fell musingly to tracing analogies. the morning-glory is among the most plebeian of flowering things, boasting no nobility except a charm too fragile to endure long its coarse companionship with smart-weed and mullen, so that each day it comes confidently into being only to shrink shortly into disappointed death. blossom, too, would in the course of nature and environment, have a brief bloom and a swift fading--but just now her beauty was only enhanced by the pathos of its doom. "blossom," he smilingly suggested, "i'd like to be friends with you, just as i am with turner. i'm not really an evil spirit you know, yet you seem always half afraid of me." the girl's lashes drooped shyly, veiling her splendid eyes, but she made no immediate response to his amenities, and henderson laughed. "it's all the stranger," he said, "because i can't forget our first meeting. then you were the spirit of warfare. i can still seem to see you standing there barring the path; your eyes ablaze and your nostrils aquiver with righteous wrath." for an instant, in recollection of the incident, she forgot her timidity and there flashed into her face the swift illumination of a smile. "thet war when i 'lowed ye war an enemy. folks don't show no--i mean don't show any--fear of thar enemies. leastways--at least--mountain folks don't." he understood that attitude, but he smiled, pretending to misconstrue it. "then i'm not dangerous as an enemy? it's only when i seek to be a friend that i need be feared?" her flush deepened into positive confusion and her reply was faltering. "i didn't mean nothin' like thet. hit's jest thet when i tries ter talk with ye, i feels so plumb ign'rant an'--an' benighted--thet--thet----" she broke off and the man leaning on the fence bent toward her. "you mean that when you talk to me you think i'm comparing you with the girls i know down below, isn't that it?" blossom nodded her head and added, "with gals--girls i mean--that wears fancy fixin's an' talks grammar." "sit down there for a minute, blossom," he commanded, and when she had enthroned herself on the square-hewn horse-block by the gate he seated himself, cross-legged at her feet. "grammar isn't so very hard to learn," he assured her. "and any woman who carries herself with your lance-like ease, starts out equipped with more than 'fancy fixin's.' i want to tell you about a dream i had the other night." at once her face grew as absorbed as a child's at the promise of a fairy story. "i dreamed that i went to a very grand ball in a city down below. the ladies were gorgeously dressed, but late in the evening an unknown girl came into the room and everybody turned to look at her, forgetting all the rest of the party." he paused a moment before adding, "i dreamed that that girl was you." "what did they all hev ter say about me?" she eagerly demanded. "to be perfectly frank--you see it was a dream--most of them just exclaimed: 'my god!'" "i don't hardly censure 'em," admitted blossom. "i reckon i cut a right sorry figger at that party." henderson laughed aloud. "but don't you see, that wasn't it at all. they were all breathless with admiration. you had the things they would have given all their jewels for--things they can't buy." for a little space she looked at him with serious, pained eyes, suspicious of ridicule, then the expression altered to bewilderment, and her question came in a lowered voice. "things i hev thet they lacks? what manner of things air them--i mean----those?" "the very rare gifts of originality and an elfin personality," he assured her. "besides that you have beauty of the freshest and most colorful sort." for a moment blossom flushed again shyly, then she lifted one hand and pointed across the road. "see thet white flower? thet's wild parsely. i always calls it the pore relation to the elder bush--but it's jest got to stay a pore relation--always--because it started out thet way." henderson, as the summer progressed, discovered an absurd thought lurking in his mind with annoying pertinacity. he could not for long banish the fanciful picture of blossom fulkerson transplanted--of blossom as she might be with fuller opportunities for development. there is an undeniable fascination in building air-castles about the cinderella theme of human transformations and the sight of her always teased his imagination into play. that these fantasies bore any personal relation to himself he did not admit or even suspect. readily enough, and satisfactorily enough he explained to himself that he, who was accustomed to a life of teeming activities, was here marooned in monotony. all things are measurable by contrasts, and in her little world, blossom stood out radiantly and exquisitely different from her colorless sisters. when he had crossed cedar mountain again and boarded a railroad train, more vital things would engage him, and he would promptly forget the beautiful little barbarian. one hot afternoon in late july jerry henderson sat in the lounging-room of his club in louisville. the windows were open and the street noises, after the still whispers of the mountains, seemed to beat on his senses with discordant insistence. down the length of the broad, wainscoted hall he saw a party of young men in flannels and girls in soft muslins passing out and he growled testily. "all cut to a single pattern!" he exclaimed. "all impeccably monotonous!" then he irrelevantly added to himself, "i'm allowing myself to become absurd--i expect its the damned heat. anyhow she's bear cat stacy's gal!" as jerry sat alone he was, quite unconsciously, affording a theme of conversation for two fellow clubmen in the billiard-room. "i see jerry henderson has reappeared in our midst," commented one. "i wonder what titanic enterprise is engaging his genius just now." "give it up," was the laconic reply. "but whatever it is, i'm ready to wager he'll emerge from it unscathed and that everybody who backs him will be ruined. that's the history of his buccaneer activities up to date." "what's his secret? why don't his creditors fall on him and destroy him?" inquired the first speaker and his companion yawned. "it's the damned charm of the fellow, i suppose. he could hypnotize the shah of persia into calvinism." for a moment the speakers fell silent, watching a shot on the pool-table, then one of them spoke with languid interest. "whatever we may think of our friend henderson, he's a picturesque figure, and he's running a most diverting race. he's always just a jump behind a billion dollars and just a jump ahead of the wolf and the constable." while this conversation proceeded, a heavy-set and elderly gentleman, with determined eyes, entered the club. it was president wallace of the c. and s-e railways, and palpably something was on his mind. glancing in at the reading-room, and seeing henderson there, he promptly disposed himself in a heavily cushioned chair at his side and inquired: "well, what have you to report?" "very little so far," rejoined henderson with his suavest smile. "you see, there's a man up there who has an annoying capacity for seeing into things and through things. on the day of my arrival he put his finger on my actual purpose in coming." "you mean kinnard towers, i presume." the railroad president drummed thoughtfully on the table-top with his fingers. "i was afraid he would try to hold us up." jerry nodded. "he pretends to be unalterably opposed to innovation, but i fancy he really wants to be let in on the ground floor. he has decided that unless he shares our loot, there is to be no plundering." "possibly," the railroad magnate spoke thoughtfully, "we'd better meet his terms. the damned outlaw has power up there and we stand to win--or lose--a little empire of wealth." henderson's closed fist fell softly but very firmly on the table. his tone was smooth and determined. "please leave me in command for a while, mr. wallace. i mean to beat this highbinder at his own favorite game. if we yield to him he'll emasculate our profits. you gave me five years when we first discussed this thing. in that time i can accomplish it." "take seven if you need them. it's worth it." sitting in the smoking-car of the train that was transporting him again from civilization to "back of beyond," jerry henderson found himself absorbed in somewhat disquieting thoughts. he gazed out with a dulled admiration on the fertility of blue-grass farms where the land rolled with as smooth and gracious a swell as a woman's bosom. always heretofore the central kentucky mansions with their colonial dignity and quiet air of pride had brought an eager appreciation to his thoughts--the tribute of one who worships an aristocracy based on wealth. but now when he saw again the tangled underbrush and outcropping rock of the first foothills, something in him cried out, for the first time since boyhood, "i'm going home!" when the altitudes began to clamber into the loftiness of peaks, with wet streamers of cloud along their slopes, the feeling grew. the sight of an eagle circling far overhead almost excited him. jerry henderson was a soldier of fortune, with napoleonic dreams, and finance was his terrain of conquest. to its overweening ambition he had subordinated everything else. to that attainment he had pointed his whole training, cultivating himself not only in the practicalities of life but also in its refinements, until his bearing, his speech, his manners were possibly a shade too meticulously perfect; too impeccably starched. where other men had permitted themselves mild adventures in love and moderate indulgence in drink, he had set upon his conduct a rigid censorship. his heart, like his conduct, had been severely schooled, for upon marriage, as upon all else, he looked with an opportunist's eye. his wife must come as an ally, strengthening his position socially and financially. she must be a lady of the old aristocracy, bringing to his house cultivated charm and the power of wealth. she must be fitted, when he took his place among the financially elect, to reign with him. so it was strange that as he sat here in the smoking-car he should be thinking of an unlettered girl across cedar mountain, and acknowledging with a boyish elation that on the way to lone stacy's house he would pass her cabin, see her--hear the lilting music of her laugh. and when cedar mountain itself rose before him he swung his way with buoyant stride, up one side and down the other of the range. blossom was not in sight when at last he reached the fulkerson cabin, but the door stood open and henderson approached it stealthily. he paused for a moment, pondering how conspicuously the small house contrasted with the shabbiness of its neighborhood. it was as trim as a swiss chalet, reflecting the personality of its mistress. door frames and window casings were neatly painted--and he knew that was bear cat's labor of love. the low hickory-withed chairs on the porch were put together with an approach to a craftsman's skill--and he knew that, too, was bear cat's labor of love. as he reached the porch he saw the girl herself sitting just within, and a broad shaft of sun fell across her, lighting the exquisite quality of her cheeks and the richness of her hair. she was bending studiously over a book, and her lips were drooping with an unconscious wistfulness. then, as his shadow fell, blossom looked up and, in the sudden delight with which she came to her feet, she betrayed her secret of a welcome deeper than that accorded to a friendly but casual stranger. they were still very much engrossed in each other when half an hour later bear cat stacy appeared without warning in the door. for just a moment he halted on the threshold with pained eyes, before he entered. the two men walked home together and, along the way, the younger was unaccountably silent. his demeanor had relapsed into that shadow of sullenness which it had often worn before henderson's coming. finally jerry smilingly demanded an explanation and bear cat stacy turned upon him a face which had suddenly paled. he spoke with a dead evenness. "we've been honest with each other up to now, mr. henderson, an' i demands thet ye be honest with me still." "i aim to be, turner. what is it?" the younger man gulped down a lump which had suddenly risen in his throat, and jerked his head toward the house they had just left. "hit's blossom. does ye aim ter--ter co'te her?" "court her! what put such an idea into your head?" "never mind what put hit thar. i've got ter know! blossom hain't never promised ter wed me, yit, but----" he broke off and for a little while could not resume though his face was expressive enough of his wretchedness. finally he echoed: "i've got to know! ef she'd rather marry _you_, she's got a license ter choose a-tween us. only i hadn't never thought of thet--an'----." once more he fell silent. "my god, turner," exclaimed jerry, with a sudden realization of the absurdity of such an idea, "i could have no thought of marrying her." "why couldn't ye?" for an instant the gray eyes narrowed and into them came a dangerous gleam. "hain't she good enough--fer you or any other man?" jerry henderson nodded with grave assent. "she's good enough for any man alive," he declared. "but i can't think of marriage at all now. all my plans of life prohibit that." bear cat stacy drank in the clear air in a long breath of joyous relief. "that's all i needs ter know," he said with entire sincerity. "only," his voice dropped and he spoke very gently, "only, i reckon ye don't realize how much yore eddycation counts with us thet wants hit an' hain't got hit. don't let her misunderstand ye none, mr. henderson. i don't want ter see her hurt." chapter ix marlin town lies cradled in the elbow of the river and about its ragged edges the hills stand beetling, hemming it in. had it been located in switzerland, it would have been acclaimed in guide-book and traveler's tales for the sheer beauty of its surroundings. hither, when the summer had spent its heat and the hard duties of the farmer had relaxed, flocked the men and women and the children of the country side for that annual diversion which combined with the ardor of religious pilgrimage a long-denied hunger for personal intercourse and excitement. then, in fine, came "big-meeting time." the clans gathered from "'way over on t'other side of nowhars." they trooped in from communities which the circuit rider visited so rarely that it was no disgrace for a man and a maid to dwell together as man and wife until a child had been born to them before opportunity came to have the marriage rites solemnized. they flocked from localities so remote that in them sometimes the dead lay buried without funeral until an itinerant minister chanced by to hold obsequies over all delinquent graves in common. it is even told how occasionally a widowed husband wept over the mortal remains of his first and second wife--at a sermon held for both. so while the magnet which draws them out of their deep-burrowed existence is the camp-meeting with its hymns and discourse, the occasion holds also the secular importance of county-fair and social conclave. brother fulkerson left his cabin before daylight one morning for the journey to town, riding his old mare, with his daughter on a pillion behind him. with them started lone stacy, bear cat and henderson, though since these three must travel with only two mules, the younger men followed the ancient custom of "riding and tying"--alternating in the saddle and on foot. the air held the heady bouquet of autumn now with the flavor of cider presses and of ripened fox-grapes for the delight of the nostril and the dreamy softness of hazy horizons for the eye. oak and poplar flaunted their carnival color along the hillsides. maples threw out scarlet and orange banners against the sedate tone of the pines and cedars. among the falling acorns of the woods, mast-fed razor-backs were fattening against the day of slaughter, when for a little while the scantily supplied cabin-dwellers would be abundantly provisioned with pork and cider. bear cat's eyes dwelt steadfastly on blossom, and jerry henderson's turned toward her oftener than he meant them to. there was, in the air, a pervasive holiday spirit. roads usually so bare of travel were full now, full with a rude procession of wayfarers; men trudging along with trailing families at their heels; calico-clad women riding sideways on bony steeds, sometimes bizarre in fanciful efforts at finery; tow-headed children with wide-staring eyes. then at last they were in marlin town, rubbing shoulders with all the narrow mountain world. there was kinnard towers riding among his rifle-armed henchmen. he sat stiff in his saddle, baronially pleased as men pointed him out,--and jerry thought it a safe wager that kinnard had not come as a convert to the mourners' bench. towers nodded affably and shouted his salutation in passing. but among all the strange types foregathered here with a tone of the medieval about them and over them, none were more fantastic than the two preachers who were to conduct the revival. brother fulkerson and his party encountered this pair as they passed the court-house. both were tall, cadaverous and preternaturally solemn of visage. both wore rusty prince albert coats faded to a threadbare green. one had a collar and no necktie; the other a necktie and no collar. between the frayed bottoms of shrunken trousers and the battered tops of crude brogans each showed a dusty and unstockinged shank. "who are these preachers we're going to hear?" inquired jerry henderson, and brother fulkerson shook his head dubiously. "i heer tell thet they're some new sect," was the guarded reply. "i don't hold with them none, myself." "they are sensational exhorters, i take it," hazarded jerry, and again the preacher from across the mountain tempered his criticism with charity: "folks say so. i don't aim ter jedge 'em though--leastways not till i've sat under th'ar discourse first." but bear cat was restrained by no such inhibition and his voice was openly scornful. "they're ther sort of preachers thet keeps folks benighted. all they teaches is superstition an' ign'rance." "son," suggested lone stacy with a grave consideration, "i wouldn't hardly condemn 'em unheard, ef i was you. they claims ter be preachers of god's word, an' thar's room, a-plenty, fer all sorts an' sects." but the younger man's eyes glowed with that tawny fire of militant rebellion, which was awakening in him against all the shackling influences of mental lethargy. "they don't believe in book larnin'," went on bear cat contemptuously, "because they says thar hain't no holy ghost in hit. they harangues so long es thar wind holds out, an' all they keers about is how many takes a big through at meetin'." jerry smiled at the characterization. he had seen men and women "take big throughs," that hysterical--and often ephemeral declaration of conversion which measures its over-wrought zeal by the vehemence of outcry and bodily contortion with which the convert comes through to the mourners' bench. later in the day henderson and bear cat, returning from the livery stable, were walking single-file along the narrow plank that served as a sidewalk, when they encountered a young man, blood-shot of eye and malevolent of expression. either bear cat stacy who was in advance or the newcomer must step down into the mud and surrender the right-of-way. if pedestrians so situated are friends, each will be prompt of courtesy. if they are enemies, ethics require that the weaker will must yield and the stronger hold to its rights. now henderson perceived that the two were confronting each other rigidly. over turner's shoulder he could see the bleary eyes of the other smolder with a wrath that he knew meant blood-lust as bear cat waved his hand in an imperious gesture which commanded as plainly as words, "give me the road!" it was a brief and tense situation, but it was being publicly observed and he who surrendered would be branded in street-corner gossip with cowardice. passers-by, across the way, halted and held their breath. the more timid glanced about for shelter should gun-play ensue, but after an instant ratler webb turned grudgingly aside and stepped down into the outer road. bear cat stacy walked on, stiffly erect, and he did not turn his head for a backward glance. ratler halted where he stood, dangerously snarling, and his hand fumbled for a moment under his coat. he challengingly swept the faces of all men in sight, and murmurs of laughter, which had broken out in sheer relief at a relaxed tension, died as abruptly as they had begun. every pair of eyes became studiously inattentive. * * * * * through the crowds that overflowed the town moved one figure who seemed more the ishmaelite than even the disgraced ratler. men who had, in the past, plotted against each other's lives to-day "met an' made their manners" with all outward guise of complete amity, yet this one figure walked ungreeted or recognized only with the curt nod which was in itself a modified ostracism. it must be said of him that he bore the baleful insistence of public enmity with a half-contemptuous steadiness in his own eyes, and a certain bold dignity of bearing. mark tapier--mongrelized by mountain pronunciation into tapper--was the revenue officer and behind him, though operating from remote distance, lay the power of washington. to comprehend the universal hatred of the backwoods highlander for the "revenue" one must step back from to-day's standard of vision into the far past and accept that prejudice which existed when as legalistic a mind as blackstone said: "from its original to the present time, the very name of excise has been odious to the people of england," and when dr. johnson defined the term in his dictionary as: "a hateful tax levied upon commodities ... by wretches hired by those to whom excise is paid." such a "wretch" was mark tapper in the local forum of public thought; a wretch with an avocation dependent upon stealth and treachery of broken confidences; profiting like judas iscariot upon blood-money. yet before the first day of "big meeting time" had progressed to noon, mark tapper sat in close and secret conference with the strongest and most typical exponent of the old order of the hills. into the side door of the court-house strolled kinnard towers at ten-thirty in the morning. from the jailer, who was his vassal, he received the key which unlocked the small study giving off from the circuit court-room--the judge's chamber--now vacant and cobwebbed. in this sanctum of the law's ostensible upholding, surrounded by battered volumes of code and precedent, the man who was above the law received first jud white, the town marshal. "i reckon sich a gatherin' of folks es this hyar sort of complicates yore job, jud," he began blandly. "i thought i ought to tell ye thet ratler webb's broguein' round town gittin' fuller of licker an' hostility every minute thet goes by." the town marshal scowled with a joyless foreboding. "mebby," he tentatively mused, "hit moutn't be a bad idee ter clap him in ther jail-house right now--afore he gits too pizen mean ter handle." but with judicial forbearance kinnard towers shook his head. "no, i wouldn't counsel ye ter do thet. hit wouldn't be hardly lawful. i've done instructed black tom carmichael ter kinderly keep an eye on him." after a moment he casually added: "thar's bad blood betwixt ratler an' young bear cat stacy. hit would sarve a better purpose fer ye ter keep a heedful watch on bear cat." the town marshal's face fell. he felt that to him was being assigned a greater share than his poor deserts in the matter of safe-guarding the peace and dignity of the commonwealth. towers caught the crestfallen frown and repressed a twinkle of amusement. "what's ther matter, jud? air ye a-settin' on carpet tacks?" he inquired with even, good humor. "or air ye jest plain skeered at ther idee of contraryin' bear cat stacy?" "no, i hain't skeered of bear cat," lied the officer, reddening. "ef he breaches ther peace terday i aims ter jail him fer hit ther same es anybody else." he paused, then broke out with fervor: "but he's a mighty good man ter leave alone, kinnard. he's ther best man ter leave alone i ever met up with, an' thet's god's own blessed truth." towers laughed. "well, son, i aims ter be kinderly keepin' in touch with bear cat stacy myself, an' ef any ruction rises a-tween ye, i'll be thar ter straighten hit out. so, if need be,--why, jest treat him like anybody else--as ye says--an' don't be narvous about hit." ten minutes after the dejected exit of jud white, mark tapper, the revenuer, entered the front door of the courthouse and shouldered his way aggressively among loungers who eyed him with hostile vindictiveness. passing unchallenged between several rifle-bearers in the upper area, he entered the judge's office, where towers sat expectantly waiting. kinnard opened the interview by drawing forth his wallet and counting sundry bank notes into tapper's extended palm. "kinnard," suggested the federal sleuth irritably, "it was clearly understood between us that you were going to limit those stills you're interested in--not develop them into a damned syndicate." towers frowned a little. "ther more thar is of 'em ther more ye gits, don't ye?" "yes, and where my revenue, from your hush money, increases a picayune, my peril increases--vastly. one tip to the government, and i'm ruined." "oh, pshaw, mark," urged towers conciliatingly, "hit's jest an exchange of leetle favors a-tween us. there's some fellers i've got ter kinderly protect an' thar's some information ye needs ter hev in yore business--so 'stid of wagin' war on one another we trades tergether. thet's all." for a few moments the revenue officer restlessly paced the room, then, halting before the desk, he rapped sharply with his knuckles. "since i let myself in for this folly of selling you protection i'm not damned fool enough to try to threaten you. you can hurt me worse than i can hurt you--and have me assassinated to boot--but unless we can arrange things more to my liking, i'll get myself transferred to another district--and you'll have to begin all over again." towers did not at once answer. when he did it was with the air of one tendering the olive branch of peace. "set down, mark, an' let's be reasonable. if so be thar's dissatisfaction i reckon we kin fix matters. right now i've got a bigger project in mind than _thet_--an' i needs yore aid. this here jerry henderson stands mightily in my light an' i aims ter be rid of him. he hain't got no money invested hyar. he kin go without no loss ner trouble. he don't even hev ter put out ther fire an' call ther dawg. he sets by lone stacy's fire an' he hain't got no dawg." "if you mean a watch-dog he doesn't need one--so long as the stacys choose to protect him." towers slowly nodded. "thet's right, but with lone stacy and bear cat moved away fer a leetle spell, hit would be as easy as old shoes." "and how do you aim to move them?" "thet's whar you comes in, mark. lone's runnin' a blockade still over on little slippery." the revenuer leaned forward with as unreceptive a stare as though his companion had graciously proffered him the gift of a hornet's nest. "hold on," he bluntly protested, "i have no evidence of that--and what's more, i don't want any." "air you like ther balance of 'em hyarabouts?" came kinnard's satiric inquiry. "air ye skeered ter tackle bear cat stacy?" mark tapper replied with entire sincerity. "yes, i'm afraid to tackle him--and i'm brave enough to admit it. once in a century a man like that is born and he's born to be a master. i warn you betimes, kinnard, _leave him alone_! play with a keg of blasting powder and a lighted match if you like. tickle a kicking mule if you've a mind to, but _leave bear cat alone_!" the minion of the federal law rose from his chair and spoke excitedly. "and if you're hell-bent on starting an avalanche, do it for yourself--don't try to make me pull it down on my own head, because i won't do it." kinnard towers leaned back in the judge's swivel chair and laughed uproariously. "mark, right sensibly at times, ye shows signs of human discernment. i hain't seekin' no open rupture with this young tiger cat my own self. i aims ter show in this matter only es his friend. _you_ hain't overly popular with them stacys nohow an' i've got hit all _dee_vised, ter plumb convince 'em thet ye're only actin' in ther lawful discharge of yore duty." "that will be very nice--if you succeed," commented the proposed catspaw dryly. "i aims ter succeed," came the prompt assurance. "i aims ter demonstrate thet thar war so much talkin' goin' round thet ye war plumb obleeged ter act an' thet thar hain't no profit in resistin'. i'll tell 'em hit's a weak case atter all. they won't harm ye. ye hain't a-goin' ter arrest ther boy nohow--jest ther old man." "and leave bear cat foot-loose to avenge his daddy! no thank you. not for me." again towers smiled. "now don't be short-sighted, mark. bear cat won't be hyar neither." "why won't he be here? because you'll tell him to go?" "i won't need ter say a word. his daddy'll counsel him ter leave fer a spell an' hide out--so thet he kain't be tuck down ter looeyville fer a gover'_ment_ witness." "when am i supposed to perform this highly spectacular stunt?" inquired mark tapper. "i aims ter hev ye do hit this afternoon." "this afternoon--with every foot of street and sidewalk full of wild men, ready to pull me to pieces!" the revenuer's face was hot with amazement. "besides i have no evidence." "ye kin git thet later," towers assured him calmly. "besides we don't keer a heap if ye fails ter convict. we only wants 'em outen ther way fer a while. es fer ther crowds, i'm fixed ter safeguard ye. i've got all my people hyar--ready--an' armed. i aims ter run things an' keep peace in marlin town terday!" chapter x on the river bank at the outskirts of marlin town that afternoon so primitive was the aspect of life that it seemed appropriate to say in scriptural form: "a great multitude was gathered together." the haze of indian summer lay veil-like and sweetly brooding along the ridged and purple horizon. the mountainsides flared with torch-like fires of autumnal splendor--and the quaint old town with its shingled roofs and its ox-teams in the streets, lay sleepily quiet in the mid-distance. toward the crudely constructed rostrum of the two preachers in long-tailed coats, strained the eyes of the throng, pathetically solemn in their tense earnestness. men bent with labor and women broken by toil and perennial child-bearing; children whose faces bore the stupid vacuity of in-bred degeneracy; other children alert and keen, needing only the chance they would never have. it was a sea of unlettered humanity in jeans and calico, in hodden-gray and homespun--seeking a sign from heaven, less to save their immortal souls than to break the tedium of their mortal weariness. henderson stood with folded arms beside the preacher whose pattern of faith differed from that of the two exhorters he had come to hear. blossom's cheeks were abloom and her eyes, back of their grave courtesy, rippled with a suppressed amusement. to her mind, her father exemplified true ministry and these others were interesting quacks, but to bear cat, standing at her elbow, they were performers whose clownish antics savored of charlatanism--and who capitalized the illiteracy of their hearers. lone stacy was there, too, but with a mask-like impassiveness of feature that betrayed neither the trend nor color of his thought. not far distant, though above and beyond the press of the crowd, stood the towers chief, and his four guardians, and shifting here and there, sauntered others of his henchmen, swinging rifles at their sides and watchful, through their seeming carelessness, for any signal from him. once for a moment henderson caught a glimpse of ratler webb's skulking figure with a vindictive glance bent upon bear cat--but in another instant he had disappeared. the first of the exhorters had swung into the full tide of his discourse. his arm swung flail-like. his eyes rolled in awe-provoking frenzy. his voice leaped and fell after the fashion of a troubled wind and through his pauses there came back to him the occasional low wail of some almost convinced sinner. gradually, under this invocation of passionate phrase and "holy-tone," the tide of crowd-psychology was mounting to hysteria. between sentences and phrases the preacher interlarded his sermon with grunts of emotion-laden "oh's" and "ah's." "fer them thet denies ther faith, oh brethren--oh! ah! ther pits of hell air yawnin' wide an' red! almighty god air jest a-bidin' his time afore he kicks 'em inter ther ragin', fiery furnace an' ther caldrons of molten brimstone, oh! ah!" the speaker rolled his eyes skyward until only their whites remained visible. with his upflung fingers clawing talon-wise at the air he froze abruptly out of crescendo into grotesque and motionless silence. through the close-ranked listeners ran a shuddering quaver, followed by a sighing sound like rising wind which in turn broke into a shrieking chorus of "amens!" and "hallelujahs!" the simple throng was an instrument upon which he played. their naive credulity was his keyboard. joel fulkerson's eyes were mirrors of silent pain as he looked on and listened. "lord god," he said in his heart, "i have toiled a lifetime in thy service and men have hardened their hearts. yet to these who harangue them in the market-place, they give ear--ay, and shed abundant tears." then the long-coated, long-haired preacher having exhausted the dramatic value of the pause, launched himself afresh. "ther lord hes said thet ef a man hes faith, even so sizeable es a mustard seed, he shell say ter thet mounting, 'move' an' hit'll plumb move! oh-ah!" once more the tone dwindled to a haunting whisper, then vaulted into sudden thunder. "brethren, i _hev_ sich faith! right now i could say ter thet thar mounting thet's stood thar since ther commencement of time, 'move,' an' hit would roll away like a cloud afore ther wind! right now afore ye all, i could walk down ter thet river an' cross hits deep waters dry-shod!" jerry henderson, looking with amusement about the overwrought crowd, saw no spirit of skepticism on any untutored face, only a superstitiously deep earnestness everywhere. now even the hysterical "amens!" which had been like responses to a crazed litany were left unspoken. the hearers sat in a strained silence; a voicelessness of bated breath--as if awed into a trance. that stillness held hypnotically and long. then like a bomb bursting in a cathedral came a clear voice, frankly scornful and full of challenge from somewhere on the fringe of the congregation. "all right--let's see ye do hit! let's see ye walk over ther waters dry-shod!" petrified, breathlessly shocked, men and women held for a little space their stunned poses, so that a margin of silence gave emphasis to the sacrilege. then, gradually gathering volume, from a gasp to a murmur, from a murmur to a sullen roar, spoke the voice of resentment. some indignant person, wanting full comprehension and seeking only a biblical form of expression, shouted loudly: "crucify him!" and following that, pandemonium drowned out individual utterances. kinnard towers did not share in the general excitement. he only bit liberally from his tobacco plug and remarked: "i reckon bear cat stacy's drunk ergin." but bear cat stacy, standing at the point from which he had interrupted the meeting, looked on with blazing eyes and said nothing. "now ye've done gone an' made another damn' fool of yourself!" whispered his father hoarsely in his ear. "ye've done disturbed public worship--an' as like es not hit'll end in bloodshed." turner made no reply. his fingers were tense as they gripped biceps equally set. the fury of his face died into quiet seriousness. if the howling mob destroyed him he had, at least, flung down the gauntlet to these impostors who sought to victimize the helplessness of ignorance. about him surged a crowd with shuffling feet and murmuring undertones; a crowd that moved and swayed like milling cattle in a corral, awaiting only leadership for violence. then abruptly a pistol shot ripped out, followed instantly by another, and the edges of the throng began an excited eddying of stampede. the babel of high voices, questioning, volunteering unreliable information, swelling into a deep-throated outcry, became inarticulate. the first impression was that some one in a moment of fanaticism had conceived himself called upon to punish sacrilege. the second had it that bear cat stacy himself, not satisfied with his impious beginnings, was bent on carrying his disturbance to a more sweeping conclusion. neither assumption was accurate. a few moments before bear cat's outbreak, kinnard towers had whispered to black tom carmichael, indicating with a glance of his eye the skulking figure of ratler webb, "watch him." nodding in response to that whisper, black tom had strolled casually over, stationing himself directly behind bear cat. his face wore a calm benignity and his arms were crossed on his breast so peacefully that one would hardly have guessed the right hand caressed the grip of an automatic pistol and that the pistol had already been drawn half free from its hidden holster. it happened that ratler's hand, in his coat pocket, was also nursing a weapon. ratler was biding his time. he had read into every face a contemptuous mockery for his surrender of the road to turner stacy that morning. in his disordered brain a fixed idea had festered into the mandate of a single word: "revengeance." then when bear cat had drawn down on himself the wrath of an outraged camp-meeting ratler thought his opportunity knocked. the crowd began to shift and move so that the focus of men's impressions was blurred. availing himself of that momentary confusion, he stole a little nearer and shifted sidewise so that he might see around black tom carmichael's bulking shoulders. he glanced furtively about him. kinnard towers was looking off abstractedly--another way. no one at front or back seemed to be noticing him. ratler webb's arm flashed up with a swiftness that was sheer slight-of-hand and black tom's vigilant eye caught a dull glint of blue metal. with a legerdemain superlatively quick, carmichael's hand, too, flashed from his breast. his pistol spoke, and ratler's shot was a harmless one into the air. when the startled faces turned that way ratler was staggering back with a flesh wound and black tom was once more standing calmly by. on the ground between his feet and bear cat stacy's, as near to the one as the other, lay a smoking pistol. "bear cat's done shot ratler webb!" yelled a treble voice, and again the agitated crowd broke into a confused roar. turner bent quickly toward blossom and spoke in a tense whisper. "leave hyar fer god's sake. this hain't no place fer _you_ right now!" the girl's eyes leaped into instant and amazonian fire and, as her chin came up, she answered in a low voice of unamenable obduracy: "so long es _you_ stays, i stays, too. i don't aim ter run away." the crowd was edging in, not swiftly but sullenly and there were faces through whose snarls showed such yellow fangs as suggested a wolf pack. here and there one could see the flash of a drawn pistol or the glint of a "dirk-knife." then, coming reluctantly, yet keyed to his hard duty by the consciousness of kinnard towers' scrutiny, jud white, the town marshal, arrived and laid a hand on bear cat's shoulder. "i reckon," he said, licking his lips, "ye'll hev ter come ter ther jail-house with me, bear cat." "what fer, jud?" inquired turner quietly, though the tawny fire was burning in his eyes. "i didn't shoot them shoots." "folks ses ye did, bear cat." "them folks lies." a sudden crescendo of violent outcry interrupted their debate. through it came shouts of: "kill ther blasphemer!" "string him up!" with a sudden flash of sardonic humor in his eyes bear cat suggested softly: "i reckon, jud, hit's yore duty ter kinderly protect yore prisoner, hain't hit?" a cold sweat broke out over the face of the town officer and as he stood irresolute, the crowd, in which mob passion was spreading like flames in dry grass, swayed in a brief indicision--and in that moment brother fulkerson stood forward, raising his arms above his head. "brethren," he cried in a voice that trembled, "i implores ye ter listen ter me. i hain't never lied ter ye afore now, an' unless my labors hev been fer naught, i des'arves ter be h'arkened to." curiosity prevailed and the din subsided enough to let the evangelist be heard. "i was standin' right hyar by bear cat stacy when them shots war fired," fulkerson went on earnestly, "an' i swears ter ye, with almighty god fer my witness, thet he didn't hev nothin' more ter do with hit then what i did." as he paused a sarcastic voice from the crowd demanded: "will ye swear he didn't aim ter break up ther meetin' neither?" "let me answer that question," shouted bear cat stacy, stepping defiantly forward. there was peril in that interruption, and the young man knew it. he realized that only a savage, cat-and-mouse spirit of prolonging excitement had, so far, held in leash the strained wrath of a crowd worked already to frenzy. but the mountaineer loves oratory of any sort, and a lynching need not be hurried through. they would have listened to brother fulkerson--but would they give _him_ a hearing? for a moment bear cat stood there, sweeping them with a gaze that held no fear and a great deal of open scorn. the effrontery of his attitude, the blaze of his eyes and even the rumors of his charmed life were having their effects. then he spoke: "any man thet charges me with blasphemin' lies! brother fulkerson hes done toiled his life away amongst ye--an' ye skeercely heeds his preachin'. i believes these fellers thet calls themselves god's sarvents ter be false prophets. instid of the light of knowledge, they offers ye ther smoke of ign'rance. they hev 'lowed thet they kin work miracles. ef they kin, why don't they? ef they kain't they lies an' sich a lie as thet air blasphemy. i called on 'em ter make good thar brag--an' now i calls on 'em ergin! let's see a miracle." he ended and, as the voice of the crowd rose once more, this time a shade less unanimous in tone, a strange thing happened. about bear cat stacy and the town marshal appeared a little knot of rifle-armed men, and coming to their front, kinnard towers bellowed: "men! listen!" they looked at his face and his guns--and listened. "i was standin' whar i could see this whole matter," asserted towers. "bear cat stacy never drawed nor fired no weepin. my friend tom carmichael shot ratler webb in _dee_fense of his life. ratler shot a shoot, too. i counsels ther town marshal not ter jail bear cat stacy, an' i counsels ther rest of ye ter settle down ergin ter quiet. mebby bear cat oughtn't ter hev interrupted ther preachin', but whoever aims ter harm him must needs take him away from me!" over the sea of faces ran a wave of amazement sounding out in a prolonged murmur. here was the incredible situation of a towers leader vouching for and protecting a stacy chieftain. feudal blood tingled with the drama of that realization. varied excitements were breaking the drab monotony of life to-day for marlin town! a voice shouted, "i reckon ratler needs a leetle shootin' anyhow," and the sally was greeted with laughter. the tide had turned. on bear cat's face, though, as he wheeled to his powerful rescuer was a mingling of emotions; surprise blended with a frown of unwillingly incurred obligation. "i'm obleeged ter ye, kinnard towers," he said dubiously, "but i reckon i could hev keered fer myself. i hain't seekin' ter be beholden ter ye." the florid man laughed. "ye hain't none beholden ter me, son," was his hearty disclaimer. "a man likes ter testify ter ther truth when he sees somebody falsely accused, thet's all." brother fulkerson and his daughter started back to little slippery that same evening, meaning to spend the night with friends a few miles from town. after bidding them farewell at the edge of the town, henderson and bear cat strolled back together toward the shack tavern where jerry had his quarters. the younger man's eyes were brooding, and suddenly he broke out in vehement insurgency: "i reckon i was a fool down thar by ther river--but i couldn't hold my peace deespite all my effort. hyar's a land dry-rottin' away in ign'rance--an' no man raisin' his voice fer its real betterment." his tone dropped and became gentle with an undernote of pain. "i looked at blossom, standin' thar, with a right ter ther best thar is--an' i could foresee ther misery an' tribulation of all this makin' her old in a few years. i jest had ter speak out." henderson only nodded. he, too, had been thinking of blossom, and he realized that wherever he went, when he left the hills, there was going to be an emptiness in his life. he was not going to be able to forget her. the shield which he had always held before his heart had failed to protect him against the dancing eyes of a girl who could not even speak correct english--the tilted chin of a girl who would not flee from a mob. "turner," he said, drawing himself together with an effort, "come over to the hotel with me. i'm going down to louisville for a few days, and i want you to help me make out a list of books for blossom and yourself." turner's eyes lighted. one man at least sought to be, in so far as he could, a torch-bearer. as they sat talking of titles and authors the boy's face softened and glowed with imagination. off through the window the peaks bulked loftily against the sunset's ash-of-rose. both men looked toward the west and a silence fell between them, then they heard hurried footsteps and, without knocking, jud white the town marshal, flung open the door. "bear cat," he announced briefly, "yore paw bade me fotch ye ter him direct. the revenue hes got him in ther jail-house, charged with blockadin'." chapter xi under the impact of these tidings turner stacy came to his feet with a sudden transformation of bearing. the poetic abstraction which had, a moment ago, been a facial mirror for the sunset mysticism, vanished to be harshly usurped by a spirit of sinister wrath. for several seconds he did not speak, but stood statuesquely taut and strained, the line of his lips straight and unbending over the angle of a set jaw. the yellow glow of the sinking sun seemed to light him as he stood by the window into a ruddy kinship with bronze, awakening a glint of metallic hardness on cheekbone, temple and dilated nostril. it was the menacing figure of a man whose ancestors had always settled their own scores in private reprisal and by undiscounted tally, and one just now forgetful of all save his heritage of blood. then the strained posture relaxed and bear cat stacy inquired in a tone of dead and impersonal calm: "mr. henderson, hev ye got a gun?" as jerry shook his head, bear cat wheeled abruptly on jud white: "lend me yore weepin, jud," he demanded with a manner of overbearing peremptoriness. "i'd love ter obleege ye, bear cat," haltingly parried the officer, "but i kain't hardly do hit--lawfully." volcanic fires burst instantly in the eyes where they had been smoldering, until from them seemed to spurt an outpouring of flame and the voice of command was as explosive as the rending thunders that release a flow of molten lava. "don't balk me, jud," stacy cautioned. "i'm in dire haste. air ye goin' ter loan me thet gun of yore own free will or hev i got ter take hit offen ye?" the town marshal glanced backward toward the exit, but with leopard swiftness bear cat was at the door, barring it with the weight of his body, and his breath was coming with deep intake of passion. after an irresolute moment, white surrendered his automatic pistol. but as turner gripped the knob, jerry henderson laid a deterring hand on his shoulder. "just a moment, bear cat," he said quietly. somewhat to his surprise the younger man paused and, as he turned his face questioningly to the speaker, some part of its fury dissolved. "this is a time, turner, when it's mighty easy to make a mistake," went on the promoter earnestly. "if your father sent for you, it's pretty certain that he wants to speak to you before you take any step." "thet's identically what he bade me caution ye, bear cat," echoed white. "he 'lowed thar'd be time enough fer reprisal later on." "mr. white," henderson demanded as he turned and fronted the marshal with a questioning gaze, "before he goes over there, i want you to give me your hand that this isn't a scheme to get bear cat stacy in the jail under false pretenses, so that he can be more easily arrested." "an' answer thet honest," turner warned vehemently, "because ef i don't walk outen thet jail-house es free es i goes inter hit, you won't never leave hit alive yoreself, jud. how comes hit ther revenue didn't seek ter arrest me, too?" "so holp me almighty god, men," the voice of the officer carried conviction of its sincerity. "i came over hyar only bearin' tidin's from lone stacy. i hain't aidin' no revenue. i heered mark tapper 'low thet he hedn't no charge ter mek ergin ye jest now." "in that case," declared henderson, assuming the rôle of spokesman, "we'll both go with you to the jail. bear cat will give me the gun, since he can't go in unsearched, and you will remain with me, unarmed, as a hostage until he comes out." "thet satisfies me, all right," readily agreed the town marshal. the jail-house at marlin town squats low of roof and uncompromising in its squareness to the left of the courthouse; hardly more than a brick pen, sturdily solid and sullenly unlovely of façade. when father and son met in the bare room where one rude chair was the only furnishing save for a tin basin on a soap-box, the fire of renewed wrath leaped in turner's eyes and he spoke with a tremor of voice: "i reckon ye knows full well, pap, thet i don't aim ter let ye lay hyar long. i aims ter tek ye outen hyar afore sun-up--ef i hes ter take ye single-handed!" the sunset was fading and in the bleak cell there was a grayness relieved only by the dim light from a high, barred slit that served as a window. the two men had to peer intently at each other through widened pupils to read the expression of lips and eyes. old lone stacy smiled grimly. "i'm obleeged ter ye, son." his response was quiet. "an' i knows ye means what ye says, but jest now ye've got ter let _me_ decide whether hit's a fit time ter wage war--or submit." "submit!" echoed the son in blank amazement. "ye don't aim ter let 'em penitenshery ye ergin, does ye?" laying a soothing hand on the arm that shook passionately, the senior went on in a modulated voice. "i've done studied this matter out, son, more ca'mly then you've hed time ter do yit--an' i discerns how ye kin holp me best. sometimes hit profits a man more ter study ther fox then ther eagle." the boy stood there in the half light, finding it bitter to stomach such passive counsel, but he gulped down his rising gorge of fury and forced himself to acquiesce calmly, "i'm hearkenin' ter ye." "ther revenue 'lowed thet he war plumb obleeged ter jail me," went on the elder moonshiner evenly, "because tidin's hes done reached ther men up above him." "i aims ter compel mark tapper ter give me ther names of them damn' tale-bearers," exploded bear cat violently, "an' i'm a-goin' ter settle with him an' them, too, in due course." but again lone stacy shook his head. "thet would only bring on more trouble," he declared steadfastly. "mark tapper made admission thet he hes a weak case, an' he said thet ef i went with him peaceable he wouldn't press hit no further then what he war compelled ter. he 'lowed he hedn't no evi_dence_ erginst _you_. i don't believe he's seed our still yit an' ef ye heeds my counsel, he won't never see hit." "what does ye counsel then? i'm a-listenin'." lone stacy's voice cast off its almost conciliating tone and became one of command. "i wants thet ye shell ride back over thar es fast es a beast kin carry ye--an' git thar afore ther revenue. i wants thet ye shell move thet still into a place of safe concealment erginst his comin', i wants thet 'stid of tryin' ter carcumvent him ye sha'n't be thar at all when he comes." "not be thar?" the words were echoed in surprise, and the older head bowed gravely. "jist so. ef they don't find ther copper worm ner ther kittle--an' don't git ye ter testify ergin me, i've still got a right gay chanst ter come cl'ar." "does ye 'low," demanded the son with deeply hurt pride, "that anybody this side of hell-a-poppin' could fo'ce me ter give testimony ergin my own blood?" again the wrinkled hand of the father fell on the shoulder of his son. it was as near to a caress as his undemonstrative nature could approach. "i wouldn't hev ye perjure yoreself, son--an' without ye did thet--ye'd convict me--ef ye was thar in co'te." turner glanced up at the narrow slit in the brick wall through which now showed only a greenish strip of pallid sky. his lips worked spasmodically. "i come over hyar resolved ter sot ye free," he said slowly, "ter fight my way outen hyar an' take ye along with me--but i'm ready ter heed yore counsel." "then ride over home es fast es ye kin go--an' when ye've told yore maw what's happened, an' hid ther still, take lee along with ye an' go cl'ar acrost inter virginny whar no summons sarver kain't find ye. stay plumb away from hyar till i sends ye word. tell yore maw where i kin reach ye, but don't tell me. i wants ter swear i don't know." bear cat hesitated, then his voice shook with a storm of protest. "i don't delight none thet ye should go down thar an' sulter in jail whilst i'm up hyar enjoyin' freedom." the older man met this impetuous outburst with the stoic's fine tranquillity. "when they tuck me afore," he said, "i left yore maw unprotected behind me an' you was only a burden on her then. now i kin go easy in my mind, knowin' she's got you." the prisoner's voice softened. "she war a mighty purty gal, yore maw, in them times. right sensibly blossom fulkerson puts me in mind of her now." lone stacy broke off with abruptness and added gruffly: "i reckon ye'd better be a-startin' home now--hit's comin' on ter be nightfall." as turner stacy went out he turned and looked back. the cell was almost totally dark now and its inmate had reseated himself, his shoulders sagging dejectedly. "i'll do what he bids me now," bear cat told himself grimly, "but some day thar's a-goin' ter be a reckonin'." on his way to the livery stable he met kinnard towers on foot but, as always, under escort. still stinging under the chagrin of an hereditary enemy's gratuitous intervention in his behalf and a deep-seated suspicion of the man, he halted stiffly and his brow was lowering. "air these hyar tidin's true, bear cat? i've heerd thet yore paw's done been jailed," demanded kinnard solicitously, ignoring the coldness of his greeting. "kin i holp ye in any fashion?" "no, we don't need no aid," was the curt response. "ef we did we'd call on ther stacys fer hit." towers smiled. "i aimed ter show ye this a'tternoon thet i _felt_ friendly, turner." the manner was seemingly so sincere that the young man felt ashamed of his contrasting churlishness and hastened to amend it. "i reckon i hev need ter ask yore pardon, kinnard. i'm sore fretted about this matter." "an' i don't blame ye neither, son. i jest stopped ter acquaint ye with what folks says. this hyar whole matter looks like a sort of bluff on mark tapper's part ter make a good showin' with ther govern_ment_. he hain't hardly got nothin' but hearsay ter go on--unless he kin make _you_ testify. ef ye was ter kinderly disappear now fer a space of time, i reckon nothin' much wouldn't come of hit." "i'm obleeged ter ye kinnard. paw hes don' give me ther same counsel," said bear cat, as he hurried to the stable where he parted with jerry henderson after a brief and earnest interview. it was with a very set face and with very deep thoughts that bear cat stacy set out for his home on little slippery. he rode all night with the starlight and the clean sweep of mountain wind in his face, and at sunrise stabled his mount at the cabin of a kinsman and started on again by a short cut "over the roughs" where a man can travel faster on foot. when eventually he entered the door of his house his mother looked across the dish she was drying to inquire, "where's yore paw at?" he told her and, under the sudden scorn in her eyes, he flinched. "ye went down thar ter town with him," she accused in the high falsetto of wrath, "an' ye come back scot free an' abandoned him ter ther penitenshery an' ye didn't raise a hand ter save him! ef hit hed of been me i'd hev brought him home safe or i wouldn't of been hyar myself ter tell of hit!" bear cat stacy went over and took the woman's wasted hands in both of his own. as he looked down on her from his six feet of height there came into his eyes a gentleness so winning that his expression was one of surprising and tender sweetness. "does ye 'low," he asked softly, "that i'd hev done _thet_ ef he hadn't p'intedly an' severely bid me do hit?" he told her the story in all its detail and as she listened no tears came into her eyes to relieve the hard misery of her face. but when he had drawn a chair for her to the hearth and she had seated herself stolidly there, he realized that he must go and remove the evidence which still remained back there in the laurel thickets. he left her tearless and haggard of expression, gazing dully ahead of her at the ashes of the burned-out fire; the gaunt figure of a mountain woman to whom life is a serial of apprehension. when he came back at sunset she still sat there, bending tearlessly forward, and it was not until he had crossed the threshold that he saw another figure rise from its knees. blossom fulkerson had been kneeling with her arms about the shrunken shoulders--but how long, he did not know. "blossom," he said that evening as he was starting away into banishment across the virginia boundary, "i don't know how long i'm a-goin' ter be gone, but i reckon you knows how i feels. i've done asked mr. henderson ter look atter ye, when he comes back from louisville. he aims ter see ter hit that paw gits ther best lawyers ter defend him while he's thar." "i reckon then," replied the girl with a faith of hero-worship which sent a sharp paroxysm of pain into bear cat's heart, "thet yore paw will mighty sartain come cl'ar." they were standing by the gate of the stacy house, for blossom meant to spend that night with the lone woman who sat staring dully into the blackened fireplace. to the lips of the departing lover rose a question, inspired by that note of admiration which had lent a thrill to her voice at mention of jerry henderson, but he sternly repressed it. to catechize her love would be disloyal and ungenerous. it would be a wrong alike to her whom he trusted and to the man who was his loyal friend--and hers. but in his heart, already sore with the prospect of exile, with the thought of that dejectedly rocking figure inside and the other figure he had left in the neutral grayness of the jail cell, awakened a new ache. he was thinking how untutored and raw he must seem now that his life had been thrown into the parallel of contrast with the man who knew the broad world of "down below" and even of over-seas. if to blossom's thinking he himself had shrunken in stature, it was not a surprising thing--but that did not rob the realization of its cutting edge or its barb. "blossom," he said, as his face once more became ineffably gentle, "thar's ther evenin' star comin' up over ther wilderness ridges." he took both her hands in his and looked not at the evening star but into the eyes that she lifted to gaze at it. "so long es i'm away--so long es i lives--i won't never see hit withouten i thinks of _you_. but hit hain't only when i see _hit_ thet i thinks of ye--hit's _always_. i reckon ye don't sca'cely realize even a leetle portion of how much i loves ye." he fell for a space silent, his glance caressing her, then added unsteadily and with an effort to smile, "i reckon thet's jest got ter be a secret a-tween ther almighty, who knows everything--an' me thet don't know much else but jest _thet_!" she pressed his hands, but she did not put her arms about him nor offer to kiss him, and he reflected rather wretchedly that she had done that only once. though it might be ungenerous to think of it, save as a coincidence, that one time had been before jerry henderson had been on the scene for twenty-four hours. bear cat stacy, with the lemon afterglow at his back and only the darkness before his face, was carrying a burdened spirit over into old virginia, where for the first time in his life he must, like some red-handed murderer, "hide out" from the law. kinnard towers felt that his plans had worked with a well-oiled precision until the day after lone stacy's arrest, when he awoke to receive the unwelcome tidings that jerry henderson had taken the train at four o'clock that morning for louisville. for a moment black rage possessed him, then it cleared away into a more philosophical mood as his informant added, "but he 'lowed ter several folks thet he aimed ter come back ergin in about a week's time." * * * * * on that trip to louisville jerry henderson saw to it that old lone stacy should face trial with every advantage of learned and distinguished counsel. jerry and president williams of the c. and s.-e. railways knew, though the public did not, that the expenses of that defense were to be charged up to the road's accounts under the head of "incidentals--_in re_ cedar mountain extension." old lone had been an unconscious sponsor during these months and his friendship warranted recognition, not only for what he had done, but also for what he might yet do. but the promoter's stay in the city was not happy since he found himself floundering in a quandary of mind and heart which he could no longer laugh away. he had heretofore boasted an adequate strength to regulate and discipline his life. such a power he had always regarded as test and measure of an ambitious man's effectiveness. its failure, total or partial, was a flaw which endangered the metal and temper of resolution. on these keen and bracing days, as he walked briskly along the streets of the city, he found himself instinctively searching for a face not to be found; the face of blossom fulkerson and always upon realization followed a pang of disappointment. unless he watched himself he would be idiotically falling in love with her, he mused, which was only a vain denial that he was already in love with her. it was in their half-conscious pervasiveness, their dream-like subtlety, that these influences were strongest. when they emerged into the full light of consciousness he laughed them away. such fantasies did not fit into his pattern of life. they were suicidally dangerous. yet they lingered in the fairy land of the partially realized. he wished that her ancestors had been among those who had won through to the promised land of the bluegrass, instead of those who had been stranded in the dry-rot of the hills. in that event, perhaps, her grandmothers would have been ladies in brocade and powdered hair instead of bent crones dipping snuff by cabin hearth-stones. all their inherent fineness of mind and charm, blossom had--under the submerging of generations. the most stately garden will go to ragged and weed-choked desolation if left too long untended. but he could hardly hope to make his more fashionable world see that. the freshness of her charm would be less obvious than the lapses of her grammar; the flash of her wit less marked than her difficulties with a tea-cup. blossom, too, of late had been troubled with a restlessness of spirit, new to her experience. until that day last june upon which so many important things had happened the gay spontaneity of her nature had dealt little with perplexities. she had acknowledged a deep and unsatisfied yearning for "education" and a fuller life, but even that was not poignantly destructive of happiness. then within a space of twenty-four hours, henderson had made his appearance, bringing a sense of contact with the wonder-world beyond the purple barriers; she had prayed through the night for turner and he had come to her at dawn with his pledge--and finally, she had confessed her love. in short she had matured with that swift sequence of happenings into womanhood, and since then nothing had been quite the same. but of all the unsettling elements, the disturbing-in-chief was jerry henderson. he had flashed into her life with all the startling fascination of cinderella's prince, and matters hitherto accepted as axiomatic remained no longer certain. "gittin' education" had before that meant keeping pace with turner's ambition. now it involved a pathetic effort to raise herself to henderson's more complex plane. she had sought as studiously as jerry himself to banish the absurd idea that this readjustment of values was sentimental, and she had as signally failed. these changes in herself had been of such gradual incubation that she had never realized their force sufficiently to face and analyze them--yet she had sent young stacy away without a caress! "i'm jest the same as plighted to bear cat," she told herself accusingly, because loyalty was an element of her blood. "i ain't hardly got ther right to think of mr. henderson." but she did think of him. perhaps she was culpable, but she was very young. turner had seemed a planet among small stars--then jerry had come like a flaming comet--and her heart was in sore doubt. when, on his return, henderson dropped from the step of the rickety day-coach to the cinder platform of the station at marlin town, he met uncle israel calvert who paused to greet him. "wa'al howdy, stranger," began the old man with a full volumed heartiness, then he added swiftly under his breath and with almost as little movement of his lips as a ventriloquist. "don't leave town withouten ye sees me fust--hit's urgent. don't appear ter hev much speech with me in public. meet me at ther farmers' bank--upsta'rs--one hour hence." jerry henderson recognized the whispered message as a warning which it would be foolhardiness to ignore. probably even as he received it he was under surveillance, so instead of setting out at once on foot, he waited and at the appointed time strolled with every appearance of unconcern into the farmers' bank. at the same time black tom carmichael happened in to have a two-dollar bill changed into silver, and overheard the cashier saying in a matter-of-fact voice, "thar's been some little tangle in yore balance, mr. henderson. would ye mind steppin' up to the directors' room an' seein' ef ye kin straighten it out with the bookkeeper. she's up thar." with a smile of assent henderson mounted the narrow stairs and black tom lighted his pipe and loafed with inquisitive indolence below. chapter xii instead of a puzzled accountant jerry found in the bare upper room the rosy-faced, white-haired man who had given him credentials when he first arrived in the hills, and who kept the store over on big ivy. "i come over hyar on my way ter knoxville ter lay me in a stock of winter goods," volunteered the storekeeper, "an' i 'lowed i'd tarry an' hev speech with ye afore i fared any further on." as he spoke he tilted back his chair, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. henderson lifted his brows in interrogation and the storekeeper proceeded with deliberate emphasis. "somebody, i hain't found out jest who--aims ter hev ye lay-wayed on yore trip acrost ther mounting. i felt obleeged ter warn ye." "have me way-laid," repeated jerry blankly, "what for?" uncle israel shook his silvery poll. "i hain't hardly got ther power ter answer thet," he said, "but thar's right-smart loose talk goin' round. some folks laments thet ye 'lowed ter teach profitable farmin' an' ye hain't done nothin'. they 'lows ye must hev some crooked projeck afoot. this much is all i jedgmatic'lly knows, joe campbell was over ter hook brewer's blind tiger, on skinflint, last week. some fellers got ter drinkin' an' talkin' aimless-like an' yore name come up. somebody 'lowed thet yore tarryin' hyar warn't a-goin' ter be tolerated no longer, an' thet he knowed of a plan ter git ye es ye crossed ther mounting whilst lone stacy an' bear cat was both away. joe, bein' a kinsman of mine an' lone's, told me. thet's all i knows, but ef i was you i wouldn't disregard hit." "what would you advise, uncle israel?" "does ye plumb pi'ntedly _hev_ ter go over thar? ye couldn't jest linger hyar in town twell ther night train pulls out an' go away on hit?" henderson shook his head with a sharp snap of decisiveness. "no, i'm not ready to be scared away just yet by enemies that threaten me from ambush. i mean to cross the mountain." for a moment the old storekeeper chewed reflectively on the stem of his pipe, then he nodded his approval and went on: "no, i didn't hardly 'low ye'd submit ter ther likes of thet without no debate." he lifted a package wrapped in newspaper which lay at his elbow on the table. "this hyar's one of them new-fangled automatic pistols and a box of ca'tridges ter fit hit. i reckon ye'd better slip hit inter yore pocket.... when i started over hyar, i borrowed a mule from lone stacy's house ... hit's at ther liv'ry-stable now an' ye kin call fer hit an' ride hit back." "i usually go on foot," interrupted henderson, but uncle israel raised a hand, commanding attention. "i knows thet, but this time hit'll profit ye ter ride ther mule. he's got calked irons on his feet an' every man knows his tracks in ther mud.... they won't sca'cely aim ter lay-way yer till ye gits a good ways out from town, whar ther timber's more la'rely an' wild-like.... word'll go on ahead of ye by them leetle deestrick telephone boxes thet ye're comin' mule-back an' they'll 'low ye don't suspicion nothin'. they will be a-watchin' fer ther mule then ... an' ef ye starts out within ther hour's time ye kin make hit ter the head of leetle ivy by nightfall." the adviser paused a moment, then went succinctly on. "hit's from thar on thet ye'll be in peril.... now when ye reaches some rocky p'int whar hit won't leave no shoe-track, git down offen ther critter an' hit him a severe whack.... thet mule will go straight on home jest as stiddy es ef ye war still ridin' him ... whilst _you_ turns inter ther la'rel on foot an' takes a hike straight across ther roughs. hit's ther roads they'll be watchin' an' _you_ won't be on no road." jerry henderson rose briskly from his chair. "uncle israel," he said feelingly, "i reckon i don't have to say i'm obliged to you. the quicker the start i get now, the better." the old man settled back again with leisurely calm. "go right on yore way, son, an' i'll tarry hyar a spell so nairy person won't connect my goin'-out with your'n." as he passed the cashier's grating henderson nodded to black tom carmichael. "does ye aim ter start acrost ther mounting?" politely inquired the chief lieutenant of kinnard towers, and jerry smiled. "yes, i'm going to the livery stable right now to get lone stacy's mule." "i wishes ye a gay journey then," the henchman assured him, using the stereotyped phrase of well-wishing, to the wayfarer. gorgeous was the flaunting color of autumn as henderson left the edges of the ragged town behind him. he drank in the spicy air that swept across the pines, and the beauty was so compelling that for a time his danger affected him only as an intoxicating sort of stimulant under whose beguiling he reared air-castles. it would be, he told himself, smiling with fantastic pleasure, a delectable way to salvage the hard practicalities of life if he could have a home here, presided over by blossom, and outside an arena of achievement. in the market-places of modern activity, he could then win his worldly triumphs and return here as to a quiet haven. one phase would supply the plaudits of cæsar--and one the tranquil philosophy of plato. but with evening came the bite of frost. the same crests that had been brilliantly colorful began to close in, brooding and sinister, and the reality of his danger could no longer be disavowed. twilight brought the death of all color save the lingering lemon of the afterglow, and now he had come to the head of little ivy, where uncle israel had said travel would become precarious. here he should abandon his mule and cut across the tangles, but a little way ahead lay a disk of pallid light in the general choke of the shadows--a place where the creek had spread itself into a shallow pool across the road. the hills and woods were already merged into a gray-blue silhouette, but the water down there still caught and clung to a remnant of the afterglow and dimly showed back the inverted counterparts of trees which were themselves lost to the eye. he might as well cross that water dry-shod, he reflected, and dismount just beyond. but, suddenly, he dragged hard at the bit and crouched low in his saddle. he had seen a reflection which belonged neither to fence nor roadside sapling. inverted in the dim and oblong mirror of the pool he made out the shoulders and head of a man with a rifle thrust forward. that up-side-down figure was so ready of poise that only one conclusion was feasible. the human being who stood so mirrored did not realize that he was close enough to the water's line to be himself revealed, but he was watching for another figure to be betrayed by the same agency. henderson slid quietly from his saddle and jabbed the mule's flank with the muzzle of his pistol. at his back was a thicket into which he melted as his mount splashed into the water, and he held with his eyes to the inverted shadow. he saw the rifle rise and bark with a spurt of flame; heard his beast plunge blunderingly on and then caught an oath of astonished dismay from beyond the pool, as two inverted shadows stood where there had been one. "damn me ef i hain't done shot acrost an empty saddle!" "mebby they got him further back," suggested the second voice as jerry henderson crouched in his hiding place. "mebby joe tuck up his stand at ther t'other crossin'." jerry henderson smiled grimly to himself. "that was shaving it pretty thin," he mused. "after all it was only a shadow that saved me." as he lay there unmoving, he heard one of his would-be assassins rattle off through the dry weed stalks after the lunging mule. the second splashed through the shallow water and passed almost in arm's length, but to neither did it occur that the intended victim had left the saddle at just that point. ten minutes later, with dead silence about him, jerry retreated into the woods and spent the night under a ledge of shielding rock. he had lived too long in the easy security of cities to pit his woodcraft against an unknown number of pursuers whose eyes and ears were more than a match for his own in the dark. had he known every foot of the way, night travel would have been safer, but, imperfectly familiar with the blind trails he meant to move only when he could gauge his course and pursue it cautiously step by step. from sunrise to dark on the following day he went at the rate of a half-mile an hour through thickets that lacerated his face and tore the skin from his hands and wrists. often he lay crouched close to the ground, listening. he had no food and dared not show his face at any house, and since he must avoid well-defined paths, he multiplied the distance so that when he arrived on the familiar ground of his own neighborhood, his hunger had become an acute pain and his weariness amounted to exhaustion. incidentally, he had slipped once and wrenched his ankle. within a radius of two miles were two houses only, lone stacy's and brother fulkerson's. the stacy place would presumably be watched, but brother fulkerson would not deny him food and shelter. painfully, yard by yard, he crept down the mountainside to the rear of the preacher's abode. then on a tour of reconnaissance he cautiously circled it. there were no visible signs of picketing and through one unshuttered window came a grateful glow of lamplight. he dared neither knock on the door nor scratch on the pane, but he remembered the signal that had been bear cat stacy's. he had heard the boy give it, and now he cautiously repeated, three times, the softly quavering call of the barn-owl. it was a moonless night, but the stars were frostily clear and as the refugee crouched, dissolved in shadow, against the mortised logs of the cabin's corner, the door opened and blossom stood, slim and straight, against the yellow background of the lamp-lit door. she might have seemed, to one passing, interested only in the star-filled skies and the starkly etched peaks, but in a low voice of extreme guardedness she demanded, "bear cat, where air ye?" henderson remembered that turner, too, was "hiding out" and that this girl had the ingrained self-repression of a people inured to the perils of ambuscade. without leaving the cancellation of the shadowed wall he spoke with a caution that equaled her own. "don't seem to hear me ... just keep looking straight ahead.... it's not bear cat.... it's henderson ... and they are after me.... so far i've escaped ... but i reckon they're following." he had seen the impulsive start with which she heard his announcement and the instant recovery with which she relaxed her attitude into one of less tell-tale significance. "thank god," breathed the pursued man, "for that self-control!" he detected a heart-wrenching anxiety in her voice, which belied the picture she made of unruffled simplicity as she commanded in a tense whisper, "go on, i'm hearkenin'." "go back into the house," he directed evenly. "close the window shutters ... then open the back door...." she did not obey with the haste of excitement. she was too wise for that, but paused unhurriedly, humming an ancient ballade, as though the stresses of life had no meaning for her, before she drew back and closed the door. reappearing, at the window, she repeated the same convincing assumption of untroubled indolence as she drew in the heavy shutters; but a moment later she stood shaken and blanched of cheek at the rear door. "come in hastily," she pleaded. "air ye hurted?" slipping through the aperture, henderson smiled at her. his heart had leaped wildly as he read the terror of her eyes: a terror for his danger. "i'm not hurt," he assured her, "except for a twisted ankle, but it's a miracle of luck. where's your father?" no actress trained and finished in her art could have carried off with greater perfection a semblance of tranquillity than had blossom while his safety hung in the balance. now, with that need ended, she leaned back against the support of the wall with her hands gropingly spread; weak of knee and limp almost to collapse. her amber eyes were preternaturally wide and her words came with gasping difficulty. she had forgotten her striving after exemplary grammar. "he hain't hyar--he won't be back afore to-morrow noon. thar hain't nobody hyar but me." "oh!" the monosyllable slipped from the man's lips with bitter disappointment. he knew the rigid tenets of mountain usage--an unwritten law. a stranger may share a one-roomed shack with men, women and children, but the traveler who is received into a cabin in the absence of its men compromises the honor of its women. "oh," he repeated dejectedly, "i was seekin' shelter for the night. i'm famishin' an' weary. kin ye give me a snack to eat. blossom, afore i fares forth again?" it was with entire unconsciousness that he had slipped back into the rough vernacular of his childhood. at that moment he was a man who had rubbed elbows with death and he had reverted to type as instinctively as though he had never known any other life. "afore ye fares forth!" in blossom's eyes blazed the same valkyrie fire that had been in them as she barred his path to bear cat stacy's still. "ye hain't a-goin ter fare forth, ter be murdered! i aims ter hide ye out right hyar!" civilization just then seemed far away; the primal very near--and, in that mood, the hot currents of long-denied love for this woman who was defying her own laws to offer him sanctuary, mounted to supremacy. such a love appeared as logical as a little while ago it had seemed illogical. eagle blood should mate with eagle blood. "but, little gal," jerry protested, "ye're alone hyar. i kain't hardly tarry. ef hit became known----" "thet's jest ther reason," she flashed back at him, "thet nobody won't suspicion ye _air_ hyar an' ef ye're in peril hit don't make no differ ter me what folks says nohow. i aims ter safeguard ye from harm." his eyes, darkly ringed by fatigue and hunger, held an even deeper avidity. he looked at the high-chinned and resolute face crowned with masses of hair which lamp-light and hearth-glow kindled into an aura and deep into amber eyes that were candid with their confession of love. slowly jerry henderson put his question--a question already answered. "i reckon ye knows what this means, blossom. why air ye willin' ter venture hit?" still leaning tremulously against the chinked wall, she answered with the thrill of feeling and purpose in her voice. "i hain't askin' what hit means. i hain't keerin' what hit means. all i knows it thet ye're in peril--an' thet's enough." jerry caught her in his arms, crushed her to him, felt her lips against his lips; her arms clinging softly about his neck, and at last he spoke--no longer with restraint. "until to-night i've always fought against love and i thought i was stronger than _it_ was, but i reckon that was just because i've never really come face-to-face with its full power, before. now i'm going out again." "no! no! i won't suffer hit," she protested with fervent vehemence. "ye're a-goin' ter stay right hyar. ye b'longs ter me now an' i aims ter keep ye--unharmed!" abruptly they fell silent, warned by some premonitory sense and, as they stood listening, a clamor of knocking sounded at the door. thrusting him into her bedroom and screening him behind a mass of clothing that hung in a small corner closet unenclosed, but deeply shadowed, she braced herself once more into seeming tranquillity and went to the front of the house. then she threw wide the door. "we wants ter hev speech with brother fulkerson," came the unrecognized voice of a stranger whose hat brim shielded his face in the darkness. "he hain't hyar an' he won't be back afore midday ter-morrow," responded the girl with ingenuous composure. "i kain't hardly invite ye in--because i'm hyar all alone," she added with a disarming gravity. "will ye leave any message?" out there among the shadows she heard the murmurs of a whispered consultation, and despite a palpitation of fear she bravely held the picture. then, partly because her manner carried conviction against suspicion, and partly because to enter would be to reveal identities, the voice shouted back: "no, thank ye, ma'am. i reckon we'll fare on." chapter xiii before henderson had come that night, blossom had been trying to study, but the pages of her book had developed the trick of becoming blurred. two faces persisted in rising before her imagination; one, the reproachful countenance of bear cat, whom she ought to love whole-heartedly; the other, that of henderson, whom she told herself she admired only as she might admire the president of the united states or the man who had written the dictionary--with distant and respectful appreciation. "he says i'm all right," she mused, "but i reckon he _knows_ in his heart that i ain't good enough fer him--ner fer his folks." tears sprang into her eyes at the confession, and her reasoning went upon the rocks of illogic. "in the first place," she irrelevantly argued, "i'm in love with bear cat--an' in the second to think about mr. henderson would be right smart like crying for the moon." then henderson had come; had come asking refuge from danger. he had declared his love with tumultuous force--and it seemed to blossom that, after all, the moon was hers without crying for it. when she had fed him in silence, because of the possibility of lurking spies outside, they sat, unmindful of passing hours, before the roar of the stone hearth and as the man's arms held her close to him she let her long lashes droop over her eyes and surrendered her hair and lips to his kisses. they had no great need of words, but sometimes she raised her lids and gazed steadfastly into his face, and as the carmine flecks of the blaze lighted her cheeks, the eyes were wide and unmasked, with a full, yet proud, surrender. he thought that for this gift of flower-like beauty and love the abandonment of his stern opportunism was a cheap exchange. his eyes, too, were glowing with an ardent light and both were spared the irony of realization that afterward impulse must again yield to the censorship of colder considerations. there is nothing more real than an impossible dream--while it endures. once the girl's glance fell on a home-made doll, with a coarse wig of horse-hair, propped on the mantel-shelf. it was one of those crude makeshifts which mountain children call poppets, as our great-grandfathers' great-grandmothers called them puppets. a shadow of self-accusing pain crossed blossom's face. "turney whittled that poppet fer me outen hickory wood when i was a jest a leetle gal," she whispered remorsefully, then added: "turney 'lowed ter wed me some day." henderson reassured her with irrefutable logic. "turner wouldn't have you disobey your heart, blossom. only you must be sure what your heart commands." "i _am_ sure. i'm plumb dead-sartain sure!" she vehemently responded, though still in a suppressed voice. they sat before the fire, alertly wakeful, in the shadow of impending danger until the first pale hint of dawn. then blossom went out with water pails, ostensibly busied about her early tasks but really on a journey of investigation. returning, satisfied of temporary safety, she said briefly and authoritatively: "come on, hit won't do fer ye ter tarry hyar. they'll come back, sartain sure. thar's a leetle cave back thar in ther rocks that's beknownst only to turner an' me. hit's dry an' clean an' thar's sweet water runnin' through hit. i'll fotch ye yore victuals every day--an' when the s'arch fer ye lets up a leetle, i'll guide ye acrost inter virginny whar ye kin strike the railroad without goin' back to marlin town." "if i were you, blossom," suggested the man as they slipped out of the house before full daylight, "i wouldn't tell brother fulkerson anything about my hiding place. these men who seek my life are probably influential. if your father can truthfully deny any knowledge of my being near, it will save him embarrassment. i don't want to make enemies for him--and you." the girl pondered this phase of the situation judicially for a moment, then nodded gravely: "i reckon thet's ther wisest way," she agreed. for three days blossom carried food across the steeps to the hidden man, then late one cold night, when again her father was away on some mission of kindness which would keep him from home for twenty-four hours or more, she appeared at the mouth of the cave and signaled to the refugee. she had decided that the moment had arrived for making the dash with him across the virginia border, and since she knew every foot of the way, it would be better to travel in the cover of darkness. it was a long and tedious journey, and the girl led the way tirelessly through frost-rimed thickets with a resilient endurance that seemed incompatible with her slenderness. when the rising sun was a pale disk like platinum, they had arrived on the backbone of a high ridge and the time had come for parting. below them banks of white vapor obliterated the valleys. above them, in the misty skies, began to appear opalescent patches of exquisite color and delicacy. about them swept and eddied clean and invigorating currents of frosted air. for a little while reluctant of leave-taking, they stood silent, and the argent shield of the sun burst into fiery splendor. then the heights stood out brilliant and unveiled. "i reckon," said blossom falteringly, "hit's come time to bid ye farewell." the man took her hands in his and held them lingeringly; but with a sudden and passionate gesture blossom withdrew them and threw her arms about his neck. "but ye hain't a-goin' fer always? ye aims ter come back ter me ergin in good time, don't ye?" for a little while he held her tightly clasped with his lips pressed to her soft hair, then he spoke impetuously: "i aims ter come back ter ye right soon." "ye mustn't come twell hit's safe, though," she commanded, and after that she asked softly: "now thet we're plighted i reckon ye don't forbid me ter tell my pappy, does ye?" henderson's muscles grew suddenly rigid and beads of sweat moistened his forehead in spite of the frosty tang of the morning air. the words brought back a sudden and terrifying realization; the renewed conflict of a dilemma. he was going out into the other world, leaving the dead reckoning of the primal for the calculated standards of modernity. he was plighted to a semi-illiterate! yet as her breath came fragrantly from upturned lips against his temples, all that went down under a wave of passionate love. "no, blossom," he advised steadily, "don't tell him yet. there are things that must be arranged--things that are hard to explain to you just now. wait until i come back. i've got to study out this attack from ambush so that i can know whom i'm fighting and how to fight. it may take time--and if i write to you, naming a place,--will you come to me?" gravely and with full trust she nodded her head. "i'll come anywhars--an' any time--to you," she told him, and the man kissed her good-bye. * * * * * turner stacy's longing to see blossom had driven him to the imprudence of breaking the restrictions of exile. after traveling by night and hiding by day it happened that he was breasting a ridge just at sunrise one morning on his way to her house, when his alert gaze caught an indistinct movement through the hazy half-light of the dawn. he could make out only that two figures seemed coming west along the mist-veiled path and that they appeared to be the figures of a man and a woman. surprised to encounter travelers at so remote a spot at that hour, he edged cautiously into the underbrush and lay flat on a huge rock which overlooked the path from a low eminence at its right. they had halted just beyond the range of hearing, but when with mountain suddenness, like a torn curtain, the half-light became full-light he froze into a petrified astonishment which seemed to have clutched and squeezed all the vitality out of his heart, and to have left his blood currentless. the abrupt revelation of light had fallen on the bright hair of blossom fulkerson and the dark uncovered head of jerry henderson; and before the monstrous incredibility of the situation could be fully grasped, the girl, to whom he had bade farewell as his acknowledged sweetheart, had thrown her arms around the neck of the man to whose loyal care he had confided her, and that man was kissing her with a lover's ardor! what their words might be he could not tell--but their clinging embrace said enough--and blossom was giving her lips with eager willingness. [illustration: what their words might be he could not tell--but their clinging embrace said enough] bear cat lay for a moment, sick, dizzy and motionless while a groan, which never reached his lips, spasmodically shook his chest and shoulders. succeeding that paralyzed instant, a fever of unspeakable fury surged over him and while all the rest of his body stretched unstirring, his arms slipped forward and the muzzle of his rifle crept over the ledge of rock. but that, too, was only a response to instinct and the thumb halted in the act of cocking the hammer. his vengeance called not only for satisfaction but for glutting. henderson must die face to face with him, not by the stealth of ambuscade, but by open violence to be administered with bare hands--realizing the cause of his punishment--dying by inches! but as he was on the point of rising to confront them, something arrested him: the stupor of a man whose mind and heart had trusted so implicitly that they could not yet fully credit even the full demonstration of his eyes. this must, despite all its certainty, be some hallucination--some wide-eyed nightmare! while the spell of his stunned heart held him in the thrall of inaction, henderson and blossom parted with slow reluctance and took up their opposite direction of journey. left alone, like a man sitting, shaken and demoralized, upon the broken débris of a wrecked universe, turner stared ahead with a dull incredulity. but inaction was foreign to his nature and after a while he rose unsteadily to his feet. he turned and started at a swift stride which broke presently into a dog-trot along the way henderson had taken; then he hesitated, halted and wheeled in his tracks. "no!" he exclaimed. "no, by god, ef i meets up with _him_ the way i feels now, i'll kill him afore he has ther chanst ter speak with me. i kain't govern myself. i aims ter let _her_ tell hit to me her own self!" so he altered his direction and went plunging westward. a short route through broken rock and tangled brush enabled him to cut ahead of blossom's course so that, turning an abrupt angle in the trail, the girl found him standing before her with clenched hands and a face so set and pale that she started back. it seemed to her that, instead of himself, it was his ghost which confronted her. with a slow and stifled outcry, at the apparition, she carried her hands to her face, then broke into convulsive sobs. "i didn't aim ter eavesdrop, blossom," said turner, his sternness wavering before her tears. "but i seed ye givin' yore lips ter jerry henderson back thar. hit seems ter me like i kin almost discern the stain of thet kiss soilin' em now. i reckon i ought rightfully ter hev speech with him fust--but i knowed i'd kill him ef i did--an' so i held my hand twell i'd done seed _you_." they were both trembling, and the girl's hands came slowly away from a face pitifully agitated. her voice was a whisper. "ye mustn't censure me, turney," she huskily protested. "i'm plighted--ter _him_." "plighted!" the word broke from the man as explosively as an oath, then after a moment's silence she heard him saying, in a slow and stunned fashion: "i 'lowed thet ye war all but plighted to _me_." "i knows--i knows, turney," she pleaded desperately. "i wants thet ye should understand. i thought thet i loved ye--i _do_ love ye better then ef ye war my own blood brother--but i didn't know afore now ther kind of love thet--thet----" "thet jerry henderson's done stole from me," he finished for her, in a voice she had never before heard on his lips. "atter all i did make a mistake. hit _war_ him i should hev spoke with fust--an' i reckon hit hain't too late ter overtake him yit." her hands were clinging to his arms. "no, turney," she sought to explain. "he didn't know hit an' i didn't know hit either, when ye left. neither one of us wouldn't hev sought ter lie ter ye." bear cat stacy was only partly conscious of what she was saying. before his eyes swam red spots of fury which blinded him. if there was any vestige of truth in his ugly suspicion that blossom was being deceived or played with, the responsible man, trusted friend and admired preceptor though he had been, was bear cat's to kill--and must die! so he stood, tensely strained of attitude and ashen of cheek while a murder light kindled afresh in his eyes, and blossom seemed the wavering shape of a dream: the dream of every hope his life had known--now utterly unattainable. her fingers were clutching his taut arms yet she seemed suddenly withdrawn from his world, leaving it void. but she was talking earnestly, beseeching, and with the strained effort of one striving to separate lucid voices from the chaotic din of a delirium, he gave painstaking heed. she told the story of jerry's narrow escape from death and of her conducting him to a place of safe departure. part of it only he understood through the crashing dissonance of tempest which still confused his brain. the volcanic fires within him that were destined to bring earthquake and transition were licking consumingly at the gates of his self-control. his whole life had been builded on a single dream: the dream of her love--and she had promised it. for that he had fought the one enemy that had ever mastered him, and had conquered. for that he had shaped his life. now he had been robbed of everything! "don't ye see how hit is, turney?" she pleaded. "hit wasn't his fault ner hit wasn't my fault.... hit jest had ter be! ye sees how hit is, don't ye?" "yes, i sees--how hit is!" the response came dully, then with a nearer recovery of a natural tone he went on. "anyways i reckon ye've got ther right ter decide atween us. i reckon yore heart's yore own ter give or withhold. hit war ter me that ye pledged yoreself first. yore first kiss was mine--an' ye suffered me ter hope an' believe." there was a strained pause, then he added: "but even ef i could hold yer erginst yore free will, i wouldn't seek ter do hit." blossom's contrite wretchedness was so sincere and her sympathy so inarticulate that his face presently changed. the bitter and accusing sternness died gradually out of it and after a grief-stricken moment gave way to a great gentleness--such a gentleness as brought a transformation and stamped his lips and brow with a spirit of renunciation. "thar was murder in my heart, jest at first, little gal," he assured her softly, "but i reckon atter all hit's a right-pore love thet seeks ter kill a man fer gainin' somethin' hit's lost hitself. he kin take ye down thar whar life means sich things as ye desarves ter enjoy. with me ye'd have ter endure ther same hardships thet broke my mother down. i wants above all else thet ye should be happy--an' ef i kain't make ye happy----" he paused abruptly with a choked throat and demanded: "when does ye aim ter wed?" the girl flushed. she did not think turner would accord a sympathetic understanding to her lover's somewhat vague attitude on that point, so she only answered. "he 'lows ter write ter me--ef so be he kain't come back soon." "write ter ye!" the militant scorn snapped again in his eyes, burning away their softness as a prairie fire consumes dry grass, in its first hot breath. "write ter ye! no, by almighty god in heaven, ye says ye're plighted ter wed him! ye've done suffered him ter hold ye in his arms. mountain men comes ter fotch thar brides ter church--they don't send fer 'em ter journey forth an' meet 'em. in these hills of old kaintuck men come to thar women! he's got ter come hyar an' claim ye ef he has ter fight his way acrost every league of ther journey--an' ef he _don't_----!" but bear cat broke off suddenly with a catch in his voice. "i've got full trust, turney," she declared, and her eyes showed it, so that the man forced himself to calmness again, and went on in a level voice. "i aims ter see thet ye hes what ye wants, blossom, ef i hes ter plumb tear ther hills down level by level ter git hit fer ye. i must be a-farin' back inter virginny," he announced a moment later with a curtness meant to bulwark him against a fresh outburst of feeling. blossom raised her hands as if to detain him, then let them drop again with a pathetic gesture. bear cat picked up his hat which had fallen to the ground and stood crushing its limp brim in his clenched fingers. finally he said, without anger, but very seriously: "i wants thet ye should give me back my pledge--erbout drinkin'. ye knows why i give hit ter ye--an' now----" "oh, turner," she interrupted protestingly, "don't ask thet!" "i'm obleeged ter ask hit, blossom," he obdurately answered. "i reckon mebby i kin still win my fight with licker--but i mustn't be beholden by a bond thet's lost hits cause." tearfully she nodded her head. "i'll free ye if ye demands hit," she conceded, "but i aims ter go on a-prayin'." * * * * * jerry henderson was not a scoundrel in a general sense nor had he hitherto been a weakling, but for once he was the self-governed man who has lost control of his life and fallen victim to vacillation. surging waves of heart-hunger made him want to go recklessly back; to fight his way, if need be, through all the towers' minions to blossom's side and claim her as his promised bride. other and perhaps saner waves of tremendous misgiving beat with steady reiteration against those of impulse. he must live out most of his days among people to whom such an alliance would be stripped of all illusion; would resolve itself into nothing more than a mesalliance. for both of them it would eventuate in wreck--and so blossom heard nothing from him and she tasted first fear, then despair. at last kinnard towers either learned or guessed the truth; that blossom had hidden henderson out in the absence of her father and had aided his escape. he saw to it that the report gained wide currency in a land avid for gossip. whatever the condition of his love affairs, jerry came up short against the realization that he could not indefinitely abandon his business. he must, in some way, demonstrate that he was not being effectively put to flight by feudal threats and so he carried his perplexities to lone stacy, who was awaiting trial in the louisville jail, and unbosomed himself in a full and candid recital. the bearded moonshiner, gaunter than ever and with the haunted eyes of a caged eagle, listened with grave courtesy but with a brow that gradually knitted into an expression half puzzled and half sinister. "i reckon bear cat'll feel right-sensibly broke up," he said slowly. "ye've done cut him out with his sweetheart, endurin' his absence from home, and ther two of 'em's growed up without no other notion then thet of bein' wed some day." henderson was on the point of self-justification, but before he could speak the prisoner went thoughtfully on: "howsoever, a gal's got a rather as to her sweet-heartin'--an' ef ye won her fa'r an' above-board, i reckon turner kin be fa'r-minded, too. i was thinkin' of somethin' else, though. from what ye tells me hit looks like es ef all these things, my jailin' an' yore lay-wayin', is jest pieces of one pattern. hit looks like _i_ was brought down hyar so thet kinnard towers could git _you_. ef i'd a-knowed erbout his warnin' ye off thet night ye came, i mout hev guessed hit afore now." he rose and paced the floor of the room where prisoners were permitted to receive guests bearing special permits--under the chaperonage of a turnkey. suddenly he halted and his eyes flared, though his voice remained low and tense. "i'm a christian an' a man of peace," he said ominously, "but ef what i suspicions air true i don't aim ter submit ter hit. does ye want ter go back thar ter little slippery?" "i do, indeed," replied henderson eagerly. "and soon!" "all right then. ther stacys hev still got some power acrost cedar mounting an' they aims ter exercise hit. i'll straightway send a letter ter my brother, joe stacy. ef ye gits offen ther train in marlin town one week from terday, he'll be thar ter meet ye--an' he'll hev enough men thar with rifle-guns ter see ye through safe--an' hold ye safe, too." "joe stacy," repeated henderson, "i've never met him, have i?" "i don't hardly believe ye hes. he dwells on skinflint, but he'll know _you_ when he sees ye." later that same day the turnkey, who had from time to time received certain courtesies from mark tapper, repeated the conversation to that officer, and within forty-eight hours a messenger relayed it verbally to kinnard towers. "ef thar's any way ter head off thet letter ter joe, now," reflected the backwoods master of intrigue, "an' thet bodyguard don't show up--i reckon we kin still compass what we failed in, ther first time." * * * * * to the house in virginia where bear cat was temporarily established came lew turner, a distant kinsman on an enterprise of cattle trading. the meeting was a coincidence though a natural one, since their host was a man who had migrated from little slippery and had long been known to both. shortly the two sat alone in conversation, and bear cat demanded news from home. "wa'al thar hain't no welcome tidings ter give ye. they keeps puttin' off yore paw's trial jest ter frazzle him out, fer one thing," began the newcomer lugubriously. "then henderson come back from down below an' some fellers aimed ter lay-way him, so he sought refuge in brother fulkerson's dwellin'-house when ther preacher warn't thar. blossom tuck him in outen charity an' the two of 'em spent ther night thar all alone by tharselves. hit didn't become gin'rally known till after he'd got away safe, but then ther gossips started in tongue-waggin'." "hold on, lew! by god almighty, ye've done said too much," bear cat broke out with a dangerous note of warning, his eyes narrowing into slits of menacing glitter. the man from home hastily hedged his statement. "hit warn't no fashion blossom's fault. he'd done faithfully promised ter wed with her." bear cat stacy had risen eruptively out of his chair. he bent over the intervening table, resting on hands in which the knuckles stood out white. "go on!" he commanded fiercely. "what next?" "thet's erbout all, save thet since thet time she's done been pinin' round like somebody sickenin' ter her death. es fer ther preacher, he just clamps his mouth shet an' won't say nothin' at all. howsoever, he looks like he'd done been stricken." bear cat straightened up and passed a hand across his forehead. he was rocking unsteadily on his feet as he reached for his hat. "whar air ye a-goin', bear cat?" asked the kinsman, with a sudden fear for the consequences of his narrative. "whar am i 'goin'? god, he knows! wharever jerry henderson's at, _thar's_ whar i'm 'goin'--an' no man hed better seek ter hinder me!" chapter xiv the post-office at possum trot, which serves the dwellers along the waters of skinflint, is housed in one corner of a shack store and the distribution of its mail is attended with a friendly informality. thus no suspicion was engendered when a neighbor of joe stacy's dropped in each day and regularly volunteered, with a spirit of neighborly accommodation, "i reckon ef thar's anything fer joe stacy or airy other folks dwellin' 'twixt hyar an' my house, i'll fotch hit over to 'em." the post-master had no way of knowing that this person was an agent of kinnard towers or that, when one day he handed out a letter "backed" to joe in the scrawl of lone stacy, it went not to its rightful recipient but to the quarterhouse. jerry henderson, in due time, stepped from his day coach at marlin town, equally innocent of suspicion, and was pleased to see emerging from the raw, twilight shadows, a man, unfamiliar of face, whose elbow cradled a repeating rifle. "i reckon ye be jerry henderson, hain't ye?" inquired a suave and amicable voice, and with a nod jerry replied, "yes--and you are joe stacy?" the man, slight but wiry and quick of movement, shook his head. "no--my name's john blackwell. joe, he couldn't hardly git hyar hisself, so he sent me in his stid but i reckon me an' ther boys kin put ye over ther route, without _dee_fault." as if in corroboration of this assurance jerry saw shadowy shapes materializing out of the empty darkness and as he mounted the extra horse provided for him he counted the armed figures swinging easily into their saddles. there were eight of them. his personal escort was larger than that with which towers himself traveled abroad. but when the cortège swung at length into an unfamiliar turning jerry was startled and demanded sharply: "why are we leaving the high road? this isn't the way to lone stacy's house." the man who had met him bowed with a reassuring calmness. "no, but joe 'lowed hit would be safer an' handier, too, fer ye ter spend ther night at his house on skinflint. hit's nigher an' all these men air neighbors of his'n. ter-morrow you kin fare on ter little slippery by daylight." with an acquiescent nod, henderson relapsed into silence and they rode in the starlight without sound save the thud of cuppy hooves on muddy byways, the straining creak of stirrup straps and a clinking of bit-rings. finally the cavalcade halted at a crossing where the shadows lay in sooty patches and its leader detached himself to engage in low-voiced converse with someone who seemed to have been suddenly created out of the pitchy thickness of the roadside. soon blackwell rode back and, with entire seriousness, made a startling suggestion. "right down thar, in thet valley, mr. henderson--whar ye kin see a leetle speck of light--sets kinnard towers' quarterhouse. would hit pleasure ye ter stop off thar an' enjoy a small dram? hit's a right-chillin' night." the railroad's agent had never visited that place of whose ill repute he had heard such bizarre tales, but in all this high, wild country, he thought, there was no other spot of which it so well behooved his party to ride wide. john blackwell was lighting his pipe just then and by the flare of the match henderson studied the face for a glint of jesting, but the eyes were humorless and entirely sober. "i think we'd better give the quarterhouse as wide a berth as possible," he answered dryly. "hits fer you ter say, mr. henderson," was the quiet rejoinder. "but i'll give ye joe stacy's message. from what his brother writ him joe concluded thet lone warn't aimin' ter start no needless strife with kinnard towers, but he aimed ter make hit p'intedly cl'ar thet ther stacys was detarmined ter pertect ye, an' thet ye'd done come back hyar plumb open an' upstandin'." "that's true enough," assented jerry. "i'm not trying to hide out, but i don't see any profit in walking into the lion's den." the guide nodded sympathetically. he seemed imbued with the excellent military conception of obeying orders and proffering no gratuitous counsel. "joe 'lowed thet ef things looked favorable hit mout be a right-bold sort of thing an' a right wise one, too, to stop in thar as ye rid by. hit's a public tavern--an' hit would prove thet ye're hyar, with a bodyguard, neither seekin' trouble ner fearin' hit." "why didn't you suggest this before, mr. blackwell?" inquired henderson to whom the very effrontery of the plan carried an appeal. "joe didn't want me ter risk even namin' hit ter ye twell we knowed how ther land lay over thar," came the prompt and easy response. "ye seed me talkin' with a man out front thar jest now, didn't ye? wa'al thet war one of our boys, thet come direct from ther quarterhouse, ter bear me ther tidin's. thar hain't more'n a handful of men thar now--an' half of 'em's our friends. i reckon ye hain't in no great peril nohow so long as we're all tergither--an' full-armed." henderson felt that already his prestige had suffered from an appearance of flight. here was an opportunity ready to hand for its complete rehabilitation. the bold course is always the best defense, and his decision was prompt. "come on then. let's go in." at the long rack in front of the frowning stockade, as they dismounted and hitched, were already tethered a half-dozen horses. * * * * * bear cat stacy, impelled by lew turner's news, traveled in a fever of haste. he meant to go as straight as a hiving bee to marlin and if need be to follow henderson to the lowlands of kentucky. henderson had compromised blossom, by the undeviating standards of mountain code, and he must come back and marry her even if he had to be dragged out of the most conspicuous place in louisville itself. casting all considerations of precaution and safety to the winds, the lover, whose devotion called for self-effacement, sought only the shortest way, and the shortest way led past the quarterhouse. when he was within a mile of the point where towers' resort straddled the state line he met a mounted man with a lantern swinging at his pommel. "i kain't tarry ter hev speech with ye, sim," he said shortly, "i'm in hot haste." yet as the other drawled a question, bear cat did tarry and a cold moisture dewed his temples. "did ye know thet yore friend, jerry henderson, hed done come back?" inquired sim, and turner's limbs trembled, then grew stiff as saddle leather. "come back! when did he come? whar is he now?" the questions tumbled upon each other with a mounting vibrance of impetuosity. "i war a-ridin' inter the road outen a side path a leetle spell back when i heered hosses an' so i drawed up ter let 'em go by," the chance traveler informed him. "i reckon they didn't hardly discern me. i hadn't lit my lantern then, but one of 'em lighted his pipe with a match an' i _ree_cognized two faces. one was mr. henderson's an' one was sam carlyle's. i seed sev'ral rifles acrost ther saddles, too." "which way war they ridin'?" "'peared like most likely they war makin' fer ther quarterhouse." "i'm obleeged ter ye." and bear cat was gone again into the darkness. when he had turned the first bend his walk broke into a run. his mind was racing, too. so henderson had not only come back, but come back with a reversed allegiance. he was riding with a towers bodyguard and bound for a towers stronghold! the name of sam carlyle indicated that as definitely as if it had been the name of black tom carmichael. in one way this dropping of all friendly pretense by jerry made his own task clearer and easier--but it was the most hazardous thing he had ever undertaken. single handed, he must go into the place where bloodshed was no novelty and take henderson away, and he went at a run. presumably, jerry henderson would not stop long in the bar-room, but would be conducted to the presence of kinnard towers, and, with all his haste, bear cat's speed seemed to himself desperately slow. he and his father had protected this ingrate against towers' wrath, he bitterly reflected, and this was their requital. their guest had used that hospitality to steal the love of blossom and then to discard her. he had deceived her, compromised her, promised her marriage and fled in the face of danger. lew turner had said: "she's been pinin' round like somebody sickenin' ter her death!" that was what her full trust had come to--and if she had trusted that far her trust might have gone farther! then finally from the secure distance of the city henderson had made his terms with kinnard towers! now blossom was going to be married--a heart-racking groan rumbled in his throat. blossom's wedding! how he had dreamed of it from his first days of callow love-thoughts! he had fed his imagination upon pictures of the house he had meant to build for her down there by the river! to his nostrils now seemed to come the sweet fragrance of freshly hewn timbers and sawed lumber; incense of home-making! a hundred times he had visualized himself--the ceremony over--riding proudly with his bride on a pillion behind him, as the mountain groom had always brought his bride, from her father's house to his own--and her own! now her honor required that an unwilling husband should be brought to her--her honor and her heart's bruised wish--and he, who had planned it all differently, must see the matter accomplished--to-night! * * * * * henderson and his guard had strolled with a fine assumption of carelessness into the barn-like resort and, as the handful of loiterers there recognized them, an abrupt silence fell and glasses, half-raised, were held for a moment poised. from a huge hearth-cavern at one end of the room leaped the ruddy illumination of burning logs and fagots in the flaming proportions of a bonfire. wreaths of blue and brown smoke floated in foggy streamers between the dark walls and up to the cobwebbed rafters. the lamps guttered and flared against their tin reflectors, reeking with an oily stench in the stagnation of the unaltered air. along one end of the place went the bar, backed by its shelves of bottles and thick glassware, and in each side wall gaped a door--one for each state. besides a few hickory-withed chairs there were several even ruder tables and benches, riven with axe and adze out of wide logs, and supported by such legs as those of a butcher's block. but these furnishings were all near the walls--and the whole center area of the floor, with its white-painted boundary line, was as unencumbered as a deck cleared for action. the momentary surprise which greeted the newcomers was for the most part fictitious--and carefully rehearsed, but of this jerry henderson had no knowledge. he walked to the bar, followed by one or two of his guardians, and extended a general invitation. "gentlemen, it's my treat. what will you-all have?" after the glasses had been filled and drained, henderson went over and stood for a while in the grateful warmth of the booming hearth. he was looking on at this picture with its savor of medievalism--the ensemble that called to mind a hogarth prim, but soon he nodded to his guide who slouched not far from his elbow. "i reckon we'd better fare on, mr. blackwell," he suggested evenly. "we've still got a journey ahead of us." blackwell seemed less impressed with the immediate urgency. "thar hain't no tormentin' haste," he demurred. "we're all right stiff-j'inted from ridin'. we mout as well limber up a leetle mite afore we starts out ergin." jerry's eyes clouded. he would have preferred finding a spirit of readier obedience in his body-guard, but it was best to accept the situation with philosophy. accordingly he turned again to the bar, though this time he made only a pretense of drinking. fresh arrivals had begun drifting in and the place now held more than a score. among them were already several whose voices were thickening or growing shrill, according to their individual fashions of becoming drunk. jerry sought to reassure himself against the disquieting birth of suspicion, yet when he heard one of the newcomers address blackwell as sam instead of john, an ugly apprehension settled upon him and this foreboding was not allayed as he caught the response in a low and savage growl: "shet up, ye fool!" the temper of the motley outfit was rapidly growing boisterous, though he himself seemed ignored until, in turning, he accidently jostled a man whom he had never seen before to-night, and that individual wheeled on him with an abusive truculence. henderson's gorge rose, but his realization was now fully awake to the requirement of self-control, so with a good-natured retort he moved away. beckoning peremptorily to blackwell, he started at a deliberate pace toward the door, but before he reached it, the staggering figure of the quarrelsome unknown overtook him and lurched drunkenly against him. then henderson felt a stunning blow in the face, and under its unexpected force he reeled back against the wall. he was no longer in doubt. he had been beguiled here to be made the victim of what should appear an accidental encounter, and all that remained now was to sell his life at as punitive a rate as possible. as he reached under his coat for the automatic pistol which was his sole remaining dependence, he caught in a sidewise glimpse the face of sam carlyle alias john blackwell. it wore a sardonic smile and its lips opened like a trap to shout in a staccato abandonment of disguise. "git him, boys! _git_ him!" it was palpably enough a signal for which they had been waiting, like the pack-master's horn casting loose his hounds. instantly the place burst into an eruption of confused and frenzied tumult. henderson had a momentary sense of unshaven faces with lips drawn over wolfish fangs, of the pungent reek of gunpowder in his nostrils and, in his ears, the cracking of pistol reports--as yet sounding only in demonstration. with a few steps more they would be swarming upon him, as a pack piles upon its defenseless quarry. but his own weapon spat doggedly, too, and for the brevity of an instant the rush wavered. his assailants were crowding each other so hamperingly that the fusillade from the front was wild and, at first, ineffective. those at the fore, cooled by a resolute reception and the sight of one of their number going down, with a snarl of pain, pressed forcibly back. for the space of one quick breath, they afforded their victim a reprieve. he was groping, with his left hand outstretched, against the wall toward the nearby door, when he felt that arm grow numb and drop limp at his side. through his left shoulder darted a sensation hardly recognized as pain. the two doors had not been closed. it was unnecessary. before the victim should reach either he would be riddled, and even if he gained one he would fall before he could mount and ride away. since they had him at their mercy they could afford to toy with him. no one saw the figure that had materialized on the threshold to which all the backs of the yelping crowd were turned. it had come unannounced from the outer darkness. it stood for a moment looking on and in that moment understood the only thing necessary to comprehend: that the man who must be married to-night, was being prematurely assassinated. from his shadow of concealment at the door, this volunteer in the conflict thrust forward his rifle. his lean jaws were set and his eyes were full of a cold and very deadly light. it was the ringing voice of his repeater that announced him as it launched into the place so swift and fatal a sequence of messages that, to those inside, it appeared that they were being raked by a squad's volley. the sharp challenge of the clean-mouthed rifle, multiplied by its echo, dominated the muffled belching of revolvers like thunder crashing through the smother of winds, and upon the drunken mob of murderers, the effect was both immediate and appalling. to a savage lust for violence succeeded panic and an uncontrollable instinct of flight. a very different performance had been rehearsed in advance. it had contemplated a pretense of mêlée in which jerry henderson was to be killed--and no one else was to suffer. what had been staged as a bar-room brawl with an incidental murder had been switched without prior notice into battle and siege, and as every head came about with eyes starting and jaws sagging, many dropped and lay prone on the floor to escape the scathe of flying lead. utilizing the respite of diverted attention, jerry henderson overturned a heavy table, behind which he crouched. he was bleeding now from half a dozen wounds--and his only thought was to die fighting. but that moment of terror-arrested inaction would not last, and before it was spent, bear cat stacy had hurled himself with hurricane fury into the room, his rifle clubbed and flying, flail-like, about his head. the brief advantage of surprise must be utilized for the rush across the floor and, if it were to succeed, it must be accomplished before the boldest recovered their poise. he must reach henderson's side and the two must fight their way out shoulder to shoulder. henderson must not die--just yet! turner stacy covered half the distance by the sheer impetuosity of his onslaught, and reached the painted line of the state border, before a voice from the outskirts sought to rally the dismayed and disorganized forces with a rafter-rocking howl: "bear cat stacy! _git_ him boys! git 'em both!" but the new arrival was not easy to "git." he seemed an indestructible spirit of devastation; a second samson wielding the jaw bone of an ass and wreaking death among his adversaries. he hurled aside his rifle shattered against broken heads and caught up a heavy chair. he cast away the chair, carrying a man down with it as it flew, and fought with his hands. the superstition of his charmed life seemed to have something more of verity, just then, than old wives' gossip. then the initial spell of panic broke and those who had neither fled nor fallen swarmed grimly upon him. the pistols broke out again in their ragged yelping, but bear cat seemed everywhere at once, and always at such close grips with one or more adversaries that lead could not reach him save through the flesh of his assailants. and while this deadly romp went forward, henderson rose and ducked like a jack-in-the-box behind his massive obstruction, sniping at such as fell back from the core of the conflict. but preponderating numbers must ultimately prevail and neither stacy nor henderson could have outlasted the minute in that inferno, had not sam carlyle undertaken to hurl himself on bear cat when, for a moment, the single combatant had wrenched himself free of the struggling mass. carlyle dived instead of standing off and shooting, and with the swiftness of a leopard's stroke turner whipped out his pistol and received the towers henchman on its muzzle. "hands high!" he ordered in a voice that crackled with pleasure at this miracle of deliverance, and carlyle, realizing too late his blunder, stretched his arms overhead. then giving back step by step and holding the would-be assassin as a shield at his front, bear cat edged to the corner of the table. he was bleeding, too, not in one place but in many. "git behind me, henderson," he commanded briefly, "an' make yore way ter ther door!" roused to a fictitious strength by the infection of his rescuer's prowess, the wounded promoter sought to gain his feet, but his legs gave way under the seeming burden of tons. "i'm not just wounded," he mused, "i'm riddled and shredded." sinking back, he said gaspingly, "save yourself, stacy.... i reckon ... i'm done for." but bear cat, crouching with his pistol thrust against the breast of his human shield, snapped out his words with a resolve which appeared ready to assume command over death itself. "do what i tells ye! ye kain't die yit--ye've got to endure fer a spell. i hain't done with ye!" [illustration: then giving back step by step, bear cat edged to the corner of the table] pulling himself painfully up by the table's edge with his one sound arm, jerry made a panting and final effort, but, as he struggled, part of his body became exposed and that was the signal for several desultory shots. he fell back again, bleeding at the mouth, and the spot where he collapsed was reddened with the flow from his wounds. bear cat stacy's voice ripped out again in a furious roar. "quit shootin'!" he yelled. "one more shoot an' i kills sam carlyle in his tracks. i warns ye!" carlyle turned his head, too, and bellowed across his shoulder. "fer god's sake boys, hold up! he means hit!" as the racket subsided, stacy knelt, still covering his hostage and said briefly to jerry, "hook yore arm round my shoulders. i'll tote ye." he came laboriously to his feet again with his clinging burden of bleeding freight,--and abruptly kinnard towers appeared in the other door. his voice was raised in a semblance of rage, corroborated by an anger so well-simulated that it made his face livid. "what manner of hell's deviltry air all this?" he thundered. "who attacked these men in my place? by god, i don't 'low ter hev my house turned into no murder den." his minions, acting on his orders, knew their chief too well to argue, and as they fell shamefacedly silent, kinnard shouted to bear cat. "son, let me succor ye. he looks badly hurted." "succor, hell!" retorted bear cat grimly. "you an' me will talk later. now ef any feller follers me, i aims ter kill this man ye hires ter do yore murderin'." at the hitching-rack several horses still stood tethered. there was need for haste, for one fugitive was perhaps bleeding to death and the other was wounded and exhausted. some of the scattered murderers might be already waiting, too, in the shadows of the thickets. then for the first time bear cat spoke to henderson of the mission that had brought him there. "now ye've got ter git up an' ride ter brother fulkerson's house," he said, with a bitter curtness. "ye're a-goin' ter be married ter-night." "married! to-night!" jerry was hanging limp in the arms of his rescuer. his senses were reeling with pain and a weakness which was close to coma, but at the tone he raised his lids and met the glittering eyes that bent close, feeling a hot breath on his cheeks. this was the face of the man who had recklessly walked into a death trap to save him, but in its implacable fixity of feature there was now no vestige of friendliness. "married!" echoed the plunger feebly. "no, buried. i'm mortally hurt, i tell you.... i'm dying. just put me down and save yourself while ... you can." but bear cat stacy was lifting him bodily to the saddle and holding him in place. "dying?" he scornfully repeated. "i hopes ter god ye air, but afore ye dies ye're agoin' ter be married. maybe i'm dying, too--i don't know--but i aims ter last long enough ter stand up with ye first." chapter xv kinnard towers had spent that evening in his house at the distance of a furlong from the stockaded structure wherein the drama of his authorship was to be staged and acted. the cast, from principals to supernumeraries, having been adequately rehearsed in lines and business, his own presence on the scene would be not only unnecessary but distinctly ill advised, and like a shrinkingly modest playwright, he remained invisible. the plot was forcible in its direct simplicity. a chance disturbance would spring out of some slight pretext--and henderson, the troublesome apostle of innovation, would fall, its accidental and single victim. when death sealed his lips the only version of the affair to reach alien ears would be that dictated by towers himself: the narrative of a regrettable brawl in a rough saloon. against miscarriage, the arrangements seemed airtight, and there was need that it should be so for, desirable as was the elimination of jerry's activities, that object would not have warranted recklessly fanning into active eruption the dormant crater of stacy animosities. however, with lone stacy in duress and turner stacy in hiding beyond the state border, the hereditary foes were left leaderless--and would hardly rise in open warfare. moreover, kinnard meant to insure himself against contingencies by hastening to such prominent stacys as might be in communication with the absentees and avowing, with deep show of conviction that, of all the turbulent affairs which had ever come to focus in his tavern, nothing had so outraged him as this particular calamity. he would appear eager for active participation in hunting down and punishing the malefactors. of course, a scape-goat might be required, perhaps more than one, but there were men who could be well enough sacrificed to such a diplomatic necessity. so during the first part of that evening, kinnard sat comfortably by his hearth, smoking his pipe with contemplative serenity the while he waited for the rattle of firearms, which should announce the climax of the drama. he allowed to drop on his knees the sheaf of correspondence which had come to his hand through the courtesy of his nephew in the legislature. these papers bore the caption: c. and s. e. railways company: "_in re_--cedar mountain extension," and they contained meaty information culled from underground and confidential sources. across the hearth from him, with bare feet spread to the blaze, sat the well-trusted tom carmichael--sunk deep in meditation, though his eyes were not entirely serene--nor cloudless of apprehension. "'pears like ther show ought ter be startin' up," complained towers restively. "ye seed 'em go inter ther quarterhouse, ye said?" tom nodded. "i watched 'em from ther shadders of ther roadside. they went in all right. they're inside now." after a brief pause the lieutenant demanded querulously, "ye've done tuck inter account thet ther killin' of this feller from looeyville's goin' ter stir up them furriners down below, hain't ye, kinnard? i wouldn't be none astonished ef they sent them damn' milishy soldiers up hyar ergin." "ease yore mind, tom." towers spoke with the confidence of the strategist who has, in advance, balanced the odds of campaign. "ther railroad will kick up hit's heels--an' snort like all hell--but ther co'te sets _hyar_--an' i carries ther co'te in my breeches pocket." after a moment he added, "the only people i'm a-fear'd of air ther stacys--an' i've done arranged _thet_." at last across the frosty, sound-carrying distance, came the spiteful crack of pistols, and kinnard towers leaned attentively forward in his chair. "them damn' fools air bunglin' hit, some fashion," he broke out wrathfully. "thar hain't no sort of sense in a-stringin' hit out so long." a momentary diminuendo of the racket was followed by the sharp, repeated bark of a rifle, which brought the intriguer violently to his feet. "hell's fiddle!" he ejaculated in sudden alarm. "they hain't finished hit up yit! i cautioned 'em special not ter use no rifle-guns--jest pistols, accidental like." hatless and coatless, he rushed out and made for the quarterhouse, disquieted and alarmed by the din of a howling chorus which sounded more like uncertain battle than orderly and definite assassination. before his panting, galloping haste brought him to the stockade he caught, above the confused pandemonium, a yell of: "bear cat stacy! _git_ him! git 'em both!" "good god!" he muttered between grinding teeth. "good god, them fools air startin' ther war ergin! i've got ter stop hit!" if bear cat fell within the four walls of that house to-morrow would dawn upon a country-side disrupted in open warfare. so kinnard appeared in the door, his face distorted with an ashen fury and sought, too late, to assume again the rôle of pacifist and rescuer. as bear cat had gone stumbling out, bearing his burden of wounded and misused humanity, two men started forward keyed for pursuit. "we kin still git 'em from ther brush," hazarded one, but with a biting sarcasm the chieftain wheeled on the volunteer. "stand where ye're at, ye fool! ye've done flung away ther chanst--an' plunged us all inter tribulation! hain't i got no men thet hain't damned bunglers?" he stood panting in a rage like hydrophobia. "thet bear cat, he hain't mortal noways!" whined a disheveled youth who nursed a limp arm. "i seed his chest square on my pistol sights, not two yards' distant, an' i shot two shoots thet hed a right ter be deadeners--but ther bullets jest bounced offen him. ye kin bleed him a leetle, but ye kain't in no fashion _kill_ him." kinnard towers stood looking about the débris of the place where shattered bottles on the shelves and grotesque figures cluttering the floor bore testimony to the hurricane that had swept and wrecked it. "them fools war mortal enough," he disdainfully commented. "i reckon ye'd better take a tally an' see what kin be done fer 'em." * * * * * under stars that were frostily clear, bear cat stacy rode doggedly on, gripping in his arms the limp and helpless figure of jerry henderson. beneath his shirt he was conscious of a lukewarm seeping of moisture as if a bottle had broken in an inner pocket and he recognized the leakage as waste from his own arteries. within his skull persisted a throbbing torture, so that from time to time he closed his eyes in futile effort to ease the blinding and confusing pain. with both arms wrapped about the insensible figure before him, and one hand clutching his pistol, rather from instinct than usefulness, he went with hanging reins. a trickle of blood filled his eyes and, having no free hand, he bent and dabbed his face against the shoulder of his human burden. through all his joints and veins he could feel the scalding rise of a fever wave like a swelling tide. to his imagination this half-delirious recognition of sanity-consuming heat became an external thing which he must combat with will-power. so long as he could fight it down from engulfing and quenching his brain, he told himself, he could go on. failing in that, he would be drowned in a steaming whirlpool of madness. the stark and shapeless ramparts of the hills became to his disordered senses hordes of crowding titans, pressing in ponderously to smother and bury him. he felt that he must fend them off; hold back from crushing and fatal assault the very mountains and the pitchiness of death--for a while yet--until his task was finished. above all he must think. no man could defeat death, but, for a sufficient cause and with dauntless temper of resolution, a man might postpone it. he must win blossom's battle before he fell. he swayed drunkenly in his saddle and gasped in his effort to breathe as a hooked fish gasps, out of water. it seemed that on his breast lay all the massiveness of the rock-built ranges and at his reason licked fiery tongues of lunacy so that he had constant need to remind himself of his mission. there was some task that he had set out to accomplish--but it wavered into shadowy vagueness. there were scores of mountains to be pushed back and a heavy, sagging thing which he carried in his arms, to be delivered somewhere--before it was too late. his mind wandered and his lips chattered crazy, fever-born things, but to his burden he clung, with a grim survival of instinctive purpose. sometimes an inarticulate and stifled sound came stertorously from the swollen lips of the weltering body that sagged across the horse's withers--but that was all, and it failed to recall the custodian from the nightmare shades of delirium. but the night was keenly edged with frost and as the plodding mount splashed across shallow fords its hooves broke through a thin rime of ice. that same cold touch laid its restoring influence on turner stacy's pounding temples. his eyes saw and recognized the setting of the evening star--and something lucid came back to him. to him the evening star meant blossom. he remembered now. he was taking a bridegroom to the woman he loved--and the bridegroom must be delivered alive. jerking himself painfully up in his saddle, he bent his head. "air ye alive?" he demanded fiercely, but there was no response. he shifted his burden a little and held his ear close. the lips were still breathing, though with broken fitfulness. his fever would return, bear cat told himself, in intermittent waves, and he must utilize to the full the available periods of reason. henderson would bleed to death unless his wounds were promptly staunched. liquor must be forced down his throat if he were to last to brother fulkerson's house with life enough to say "i will." since the dawn when bear cat had given his pledge to blossom he had always carried a flask in his pocket. he had done so in order that his fight should be one without any sort of evasion of issues: in order that the thirst should be met squarely and that whenever or wherever it attacked him he would have to face and conquer it with the knowledge that drink was at hand. now he felt for that flask and found that in the mêlée it had been shattered. rough and almost perpendicular leagues intervened between here and brother fulkerson's and there must immediately be some administration of first aid. the instinct of second nature came to bear cat's aid as he groped for his bearings. over this hill, a half mile through the "roughs," unless it had been moved of late, lay dog tate's blockade still. slipping back of his saddle, onto the flanks of his mount, turner lowered henderson until he hung limp after the fashion of a meal-sack between cantle and pommel. he himself slid experimentally to the ground, supporting himself against the horse while he tested his legs. he could still stand--but could he carry a man as heavy as himself? "a man kin do whatsoever he's obleeged ter do," he grimly told himself. "this hyar's a task i'm plumb decreed ter finish." the fever had temporarily subsided. his brain felt preternaturally clarified by the contrast, but the hinges of his knees seemed frail and collapsible. he hitched the horse, and hefting the insensible man in his arms, staggered blindly into the timber. dog's place was hedged about with the discouragement of thickets as arduous as a _cheval de frise_, but bear cat's feet groped along the blind path with a surety that survived from a life of wood-craft. once he fell, sprawling, and it was a little while before he could conquer the nausea of pain sufficiently to rise, gather up his weighty burden, and stumble on again. "i'll hev abundant time ter lay down an' die ter-morrow," he growled between the clamped jaws that were unconsciously biting the blood out of his tongue. "but i've got ter endure a spell yit--i hain't quite finished my job." at last he lifted his voice and called guardedly out of the thickets. "this is bear cat stacy--i'm bad wounded an' i seeks succor!" there was no reply, but shortly he defined a shadow stealing cautiously toward him and dog tate stood close, peering through the sooty dark with amazement welling in his eyes. the gorge which dog had chosen for his nefarious enterprise was a "master shut-in" between beetling walls of rock, fairly secure against discovery and now both the moonshiner and his sentinel brought their lanterns for an inquiry into this unexpected visit. at first mute astonishment held them. these two figures were bruised, torn and blood-stained, almost beyond semblance to humanity. in the yellow circlet of flare that the lantern bit out of the darkness, they seemed gory reminders of a slaughter-house. but much of the blood that besmeared bear cat stacy had come from his weltering burden. "i hain't got overly much time fer speech, dog," gasped turner between labored breaths. "we've got ter make brother fulkerson's afore we gives out.... strip this man an' bind up his hurts es well es ye kin.... git him licker, too!" they staunched henderson's graver wounds with a rough but not undeft speed, and when they had forced white liquor between his lips the faltering heart began to beat with less tenuous hold on the frayed fringes of life. "ef he lives ter git thar hit's a god's miracle," commented dog. he passed the whiskey to bear cat, who thrust it ungraciously back as he repeated, with dogged reiteration. "he's got ter last twell mornin'. he's _got_ ter." when the prostrate figure stirred with a flicker of returning consciousness turner's eyes became abruptly keen and his words ran swiftly into a current of decisiveness: "dog, yore maw war a stacy--an' yore paw was kilt from ther la'rel. i reckon ye suspicions who caused his death?" a baleful light glimmered instantly into the moonshiner's pupils; the light of a long-fostered and bitter hate. his answer was breathed rather than spoken. "i reckon kinnard towers hired him killed.... i was a kid when he died, but my mammy give me his handkerchief, dipped in his blood ... an' i tuck my oath then." he paused a moment and went on more soberly: "i've done held my hand ... because of ther truce ... but i hain't nowise forgetful ... an' some day----" bear cat leaned forward and laid an interrupting hand on the shoulder of the speaker, to find it trembling. "hearken, dog," he said. "mebby yore time will come sooner then ye reckoned. i wants thet afore sun-up ter-morrow word should go ter every stacy in these-hyar hills, thet i've done sent out my call, an' thet they shell be ready ter answer hit--full-armed. i wants thet ye shall summons all sich as ye hev ther power ter reach, ter meet fer counsel at my dwellin'-house ter-morrow mornin' ... an' now i wants ter hev private speech with this-hyar man--" he jerked his head toward henderson--"afore he gits past talkin'." with a nod of comprehension the moonshiner and his helper slipped out of sight in the shadows, and kneeling at jerry's side, bear cat again raised a cup of white whiskey to his lips. the odor of the stuff stole seductively into his own nostrils, but he raised his eyes and saw again the evening star, not rising but setting. "blossom's star!" he groaned, then added, "ye don't delight in me none, little gal! thar hain't but one thing left thet i kin do fer ye--an' i aims ter see hit through." with insupportable impatience he bent, waiting for a steadier light of consciousness to dawn in that other face. every atom of his own will was focused and concentrated in the effort to compel a response of sensibility. finally henderson's eyes opened and the wounded man saw close to him a face so fiercely fixed that slowly, under its tense insistence, fragments of remembrance came driftingly and disjointedly back to him. "kin ye hear me?" demanded bear cat stacy with an implacably ringing voice. "does ye understand me?" and the other's head moved faintly--almost imperceptibly. "then mark me clost because i reckon both of us hes got ter stand afore many hours facin' almighty god--an' hit don't profit us none ter mince words." through the haze of a brain still fogged and reeling, henderson became aware of a hatred so bitter that it dwarfed into petulance that of the murder horde at the quarterhouse. "ye come hyar ... an' we tuck ye in." the tone rose from feebleness to an iron steadiness as it continued. "when i come inter ther quarterhouse i 'lowed ye'd done turned traitor an' joined kinnard towers ... but since they sought ter kill ye, mayhap i war misguided.... thet don't make no difference, now, nohow." he paused and struggled for breath. "ye tuck blossom away from me ... ye made her love ye because she hadn't never knowed ... an eddicated man afore.... all my days an' nights i'd dreamed of her.... ter make her happy, i'd gladly hev laid down my life ... but i war jest a rough mounting man ... an' then she seed _you_." henderson's lips moved in a futile effort as bear cat halted, gasping. his hand wavered in a weak gesture of protest--as against an unjust charge. but bear cat's voice leaped suddenly. "don't stop me! thar hain't much time left! you an' me needs ter go ter god's jedgment seat with our jobs finished.... i don't censure blossom none ... hit war es rightful thet she should want a _real_ life ... es fer ther flowers ter want sunshine.... but _you_! ye stole her love--an' then abandoned her." henderson's eyes were eloquent with a denial--but the darkness hid it--and his lips refused utterance, while the other talked on, feebleness muting the accusing voice to a lower timbre. "she warn't good enough fer _you_--her thet war too good fer any man! but perchance ye may be wiser dyin' then livin'." the weak utterance mounted into inexorable command. "now ye're a-goin' ter make good afore ye dies.... she trusted ye ... an--" turner broke suddenly into a deep sob of agony. "i don't know how fur ye taxed her trust ... but i knows she told me she had full faith in ye, an' faith like thet don't stop ter reckon up costs. now she's sickenin' away--an' thet trust is broke ... an' i reckon her heart's broke, too." henderson moistened his lips and with a supreme effort succeeded in whispering almost inaudibly, "that's a lie." "a lie is hit? she gave ye her lips," went on the burning indictment. "an' in these hills when a woman like blossom gives her lips ter a man, she gives him her soul ter keep.... ye're a mountain man yoreself ... ye knows full well what mountain folks holds.... ye hain't got no excuse of ign'rance ter hide behind. ye knows thet withouten ye weds her, folks will tell lies an' she won't never be able ter hold up her head--ner smile again." "stacy--" henderson had rallied a little now, but he sagged back and at first got no further than the name. with another struggle, he added, "i ... i'm dying----" "mebby so. i hopes ye air ... but fust ye're a-goin' over thar with me ... an', because she'll be happier ef she thinks ye come of yore own free will.... i hain't a-goin' ter tell her ... thet i dragged ye thar ... like a sheep-killin' dog.... ye're a-goin' ter let her think thet her hero has done come back ter her ... _dee_spite death hitself." "but--but----" the young mountaineer broke out with something half sob and half muffled roar. "hell, thar hain't no but! i'm tellin' ye what ye air a-goin' ter do! with god's aid i aims ter keep ye alive thet long ... an' atter thet--i hain't takin' no heed what comes ter pass." "was ... that ... why you ... saved me?" the words were barely audible. "what else would hit be? did ye reckon hit war love for ther man thet hed done stole everything i counted dear--ther traitor thet betrayed my roof-tree? did ye 'low thet hit war fer yore own sake i war openin' up ther war ergin, deespite ther fact that i knows hit'll make these hills run red with ther blood of my kith an' kin?" abruptly bear cat came to his feet and shouted into the darkness. henderson saw two figures detach themselves from the inky void and come forward. then as they lifted him he swooned with pain. chapter xvi dog tate had left his mash kettle unguarded that night, putting clan loyalty above individual interest as he hastened off to stir into action the dwellers of the stacy cabins, and to dispatch other night-riders upon the same mission. but he sent joe sanders, his assistant, to convoy the wounded men along their road. they went at a labored and snail-like pace, sanders walking on one side of the horse, supporting the swooning figure it bore, while turner stacy trudged at the other saddle skirt. sometimes bear cat plodded on with fair erectness, setting his teeth against weariness and pain, but at other times the intermittent waves of fever rose scaldingly until, in a blind fog, he dragged shuffling feet, clinging grimly the while to pommel and stirrup-leather as his head sagged forward between his shoulders. sometimes, too, he mumbled incomprehensible things in a voice that was weirdly unnatural. from time to time there was a halt to make sure that the life spark still flickered, though tenuously and gutteringly, in the breast of the inert thing lashed to the saddle. when they had been on the road for three hours bear cat and sanders, by a common impulse, strained their ears through what had been silence, except for the wail of the high-riding breeze among the pine crests. now faint, and far away, hardly more than a hint of sound, they could hear something else, and it lifted turner out of his reek of nightmare and semi-delirium so that his eyes cleared and his head came up. it was as though a bugle had sounded a note of martial encouragement through the mists of despair. joe sanders spoke shortly, half to his companion and half to himself. "hit kinderly seems like dog tate's rousin' em up. i reckon ther war's on now all right an' it's liable ter be unshirted hell." * * * * * blossom had been sitting until late that evening with her hands lying listlessly in her lap and her eyes staringly fixed on the blaze of her hearth. their amber pools were darkened with jaded misery and her cheeks were pale. their graciousness of youthful curve had been somewhat flattened, as her whole life had been flattened. only her hair, awakened into halo-brightness by the blaze of the logs, spoke of that old vividness of color that had been a sort of delicate gorgeousness and even that nimbus had the suggestion of the glow about the head of a saint who has achieved sanctity through suffering. "he swore he aimed ter come back ter me right soon," she repeated to herself. "i wouldn't have him imperil himself--but he mout have writ me a letter." her instinct told her what had happened with a fulness of realization from which there was no escape. it was only because she had pretended her cinderella dream to be a fact, that she had not all along recognized it for an impossible fairy tale. the jerry henderson who had promised her marriage was only a temporary jerry: a man swept off his feet by the stress and freshet of crisis. the mountain blood in his veins had welled up to flood tide and swept away the dams of his superimposed cultivation. he had relapsed into her life--for a little while--just as his ardent tongue had relapsed into her uncouth vernacular. now the more permanent jerry, awakened by his return to city conditions, was standing aloof, regarding that experience with self-contemptuous regret: thinking of it as a lapse into savagery. it had been an impetuous thing of the flesh to which his mind denied permanent sanction. the dream was over now--but she could not forget it. her fingers twisted themselves tightly together and she rose and leaned wearily against the mantel-shelf. as her eyes, clouded with misery, traveled about the tidy room, its every note spoke of bear cat stacy. he had fashioned, for her comfort, all the furnishings that made it a place different from the rooms of other mountain cabins. on the pelion of her own misery she heaped the ossa of self-condemnation. she saw again the stricken look in turner's eyes as he had set out for virginia after hearing the news that had cut the foundation from under all his own life-dream. she remembered, too, the gentleness with which, placing thought of her above self, he had made his renunciation. "oh, god," she murmured, "why air hit thet we kain't love best of all ther folks thet loves us most? turney would hev walked through ther valley of death fer me--an' i've got ter break my heart fer a man thet don't hold me good enough ter wed." yet even now she was making excuses for the lover who had neither come nor written. the first bond between turner and herself had been their common revolt against a life of squalid ignorance and emptiness. that revolt had carried them into the no-man's land of discontent without bringing them to the other side: the line of real attainment upon which jerry stood secure. her father came once to the door, but did not enter it. his bearded face was more soberly patriarchal than ever. he had long struggled against violence in his efforts to shepherd a wild and turbulent flock. he had pleaded for the christ-law of forgiven sins, but in his veins ran the unforgetting blood of warring generations. there had been times of late when he had felt that he would need god's help and restraint should he ever meet the man who had broken his daughter's heart. "i reckon thar hain't sca'cely nothin' i kin say ter console her," he mused as he turned away from the door. at length when the fire had burned low blossom went to bed and lay wide-eyed for other hours. through the harping wind in the evergreens sometimes came the high, wild note of southward-winging ducks and geese--refugees from winter. henceforth her life was all to be winter. neither the freshly green and tuneful things of springtime nor the gorgeousness and fragrance of autumn could amend or temper its lethargy. she had tossed until nearly dawn, and the house lay deadly quiet. if sleep came near her it was only to veer away again for each sputter of a dying ember brought her, with a start, into tenser wakefulness. then came another sound, and her nervous little body tightened into the dismay of panic. unmoving, holding her breath between pressed lips, she strained her ears. there was no mistake--she had heard it again. it was a wild note riding the wind, and now for the first time it became more than a legend in her experience. from babyhood she had heard of this night noise, long silenced by the truce, and had trembled at its portentousness. she had from childhood heard her father thank god that men were no more roused by it from their sleep: that it was one accursed thing which belonged to the past. now it had found resurrection! as she lay listening it sounded once more, nearer than before, a shout suggestive of a wild-cat's wail that quavered and rose and dwindled and rose again. that clan-signal of the stacys along the ridges meant war--open and unmitigated war. it was not merely a demonstration of inimical feeling but a definite summons. the man of that blood who heard it needed no particulars. he had his orders. straightway he must arm and rally. from her father's room came a deeply anguished groan and the muttering of a prayer. he, too, had been awakened and realized that the "war" had broken out afresh. it was useless to try to sleep now. blossom rose and threw fresh fagots on the fire. she dressed and sat with her fingers twisting and her lips trembling. once she stifled a scream at the rush of hoof-beats and the scatter of gravel along the road, but the commotion went by in hot haste and silence closed down again. eventually an abrupt shout sounded imperatively from just beyond the door--a voice which blossom did not recognize, and as she came to her feet she heard her father's stern challenge, "who's out thar?" "hit's joe sanders--an' i'm in haste!" despite the urgency of word and tone the preacher hesitated to demand: "what business brings ye hyar in ther dead of night-time?" "i've got bear cat stacy an' mr. henderson. they're both sore wounded. fer god's sake, hasten!" with a swiftness of motion that outstripped her father's, blossom flung herself forward and with feverish fingers was sliding the bar from its sockets. but while the preacher stood waiting, his lips drew themselves into an unbending line and his shaggy brows lowered. inwardly he was praying: "almighty god, i beseeches ye ter strengthen me in this hour ter fergive mine enemies--fer thou knowest thar's murder in my heart!" as the girl threw the door wide, she saw what seemed to be three figures locked in a close embrace. the trio lurched rather than stepped into the lighted area, and, shrinking back horrified, blossom saw brother fulkerson close his house, his face marked, as she had never before seen it, with a grim unwelcome. sanders carried in his arms a figure whose limbs fell in grotesque inertia. its clothing was torn by briars and bullets; matted with mire and blood. its face was half hidden by a rough bandage made from jerry's own handkerchief, upon which the stains had turned from red to dull brown, except at the spots where the crimson had been renewed by an unstaunched trickle. bear cat stumbled across the threshold unaided, but as he halted, blinking at the light, he reeled drunkenly and propped his disheveled body against the wall. that was for a moment only and at its end he drew himself into something nearer uprightness and swept his hand across his brow. he had not carried the matter this far to fail at the finish. "lay thet man on a bed," he panted with fierce earnestness. "thar hain't no time ter waste ... he's nigh death ... an' he's come hyar ter be wedded." brother fulkerson answered in a voice of bewilderment, tinged, too, with protest. "thar hain't sca'cely no life in him. hit's too late fer marryin'." "not yit hit hain't ... hit will be ef ye tarries!" turner ripped out his words with the staccato snap of rifle fire. his own feebleness seemed to drop away like the hat he flung to one side. his eyes burned with tawny fire and a positive fury of haste. for hours, he felt he had been holding death in abeyance by a sheer grapple of resolution, and now men paused to parley and make comment. an impulse of insane wrath besieged him. he must be obeyed--and the moments were flying--the sands running out. "hasten now--an' talk afterwards," he burst out. they laid jerry on blossom's bed, its coverings magically smoothed into comfort by her flying hands, and joe sanders once more pressed his pocket flask to the white lips. the girl, buoyed up, beyond her strength, by the moment's need and the mettle of her blood, swiftly and capably eased the posture of the wounded man, loosened his heavy boots and rushed from the room to prepare fresh bandages. the stunning impact of despair would come later. now every fighting chance must be preserved to him. while she was still out of the room, henderson's eyes opened in a fluttering and precarious consciousness, to find other eyes fixed on them with flaming intensity. the basilisk gaze was fabulously reputed to bring death, but turner stacy was reversing its hypnotism to compel life. "where--am i?" whispered jerry; and the answer was as peremptory as predestination. "ye're at blossom's house--ter git married--an,' by god, ye've got ter last thet long. she's got ter believe ye come of yore own free will--see thet she does!" the half-insensible eyes ranged vaguely about the place. the weak fingers plucked absently at the coverlet, and then essayed a gesture. the promoter seemed rallying his failing faculties for a supreme effort though his voice was hardly audible. "but--stacy--you don't--under--stand." bear cat brought his face close; a face with belligerently out-thrust chin and fiercely narrowed eyes. henderson must consent before blossom returned to divine with her quick intuition that her dying lover balked in the shadow of death. "don't explain nothin' ter me. save yore breath ter say 'i will.' thet's all ye hev need ter utter now--an' hits need enough." in his overwrought singleness of purpose turner forgot that this man was beyond any force of threat or coercion. as he spoke so dictatorially he believed himself, too, to be facing death with equal certainty, though more slowly, and what he had sworn to do must first be done. yet there was such an inescapable compulsion in the ernest fixity of his pale face and burning eyes that the outstretched figure felt its own declining will merged and conquered. "hit's ther only decent thing thet's left fer ye ter do," went on the strained but inflexible voice. "ye took her heart fer yore own--an' broke hit. ye've got ter let her have yore name an' ther consolation of believin' thet ye came ter her ... honest, fightin' back black death hitself!" sometimes between sleep and waking come fugitive thoughts that seem crystal-clear, but that elude definite memory. such a process enacted itself in the mind of the dying man. doubt and complications were dissolved into simplicity--and acquiescence. faintly he nodded his head and even tried to hold out his hand to be shaken. perhaps bear cat was too excited to recognize that proffer of amenity. possibly his own bitterness was yet too black for forgiveness--at all events he turned away without response to seek out joel fulkerson, who had disappeared. "ye've got ter hasten, brother fulkerson," he hurriedly urged. "jerry henderson's done come back ter give his name ter blossom afore he dies an' death hain't far off." the old evangelist was bending over a medicine chest. it was a thing which a visiting surgeon had once given him and in the use of which he had developed an inborn skill that had before now saved lives and ameliorated suffering. he straightened up dubiously and faced the younger man. "turney," he said grimly, "ef they don't wed, folks hyarabouts'll always look askance at my little gal with a suspicion thet i'm confi_dent_ is as false as hell hitself--but god made ther state of matrimony holy--an' i'm his servant--onlessen they both enters inter hit free-minded hit wouldn't be nothin' but a blasphemy. _air_ they both of one mind?" turner stiffened to a ramrod straightness. his hands clenched themselves into hard fists and his nostrils quivered. "brother fulkerson, ye're a godly man," he declared with suppressed passion, "an' i hain't never sought ter dispute ye ner defy ye afore now--but thar hain't no time ter argyfy. willin'ly or unwillin'ly ye're a-goin' ter wed them two--right hyar--an' now! he plighted his troth ter her. he's got a mighty brief chanct ter fulfill his pledge an' leave her thinkin' she gave her love ter a true man. he's come acrost hyar, shot like a bob-white--jest fer thet. i've fought off death my own self ter-night--jest fer thet! ef god has spared both of us this long, i reckon he done hit--jest fer thet! i'll answer ter him at ther jedgment-seat, ef so be i'm wrong." for an irresolute moment the father hesitated, then he said briefly, "come on." turner wheeled, bracing himself for the bitterest ordeal of all. he must be the spokesman for a rival whom he hated beyond superlatives--and in order that blossom might keep her dream, which was all she could now hope to salvage out of life, he meant to tell a lie which would for all time enshrine that detestable traitor. none the less, when he had drawn her aside, he spoke with great gentleness, perjuring himself with knightly self-effacement. he took both her hands in his own and looked with a tender consideration into her forlorn eyes, gulping down the choke that rose in his throat and threatened his power of speech. though her gaze was fixed on his face she seemed hardly to see him, so stiff and trance-like was her posture and so tight-drawn and expressionless her features. if he could soften that paralysis of grief it was worth a self-sacrificing lie. "blossom," he began softly, "mr. henderson fell inter a murder trap an' i got thar too late ... ter fotch him out unharmed. betwixt us we _did_ come through, though, with ther breath still in our bodies ... an' he made me pledge myself ter git him hyar in time ... ter wed with ye afore he died." he saw the eyes widen and soften as if the tight constriction of heart and nerve had been a little eased. into them came even a pale hint of serenity and pride--pride for the splendid vindication of a hero whom she had tried to believe true and had been compelled to doubt. even the bleak dreariness of widowhood could not tarnish that memory: her ideal instead of being shattered was canonized! "i knowed he'd prove true," she loyally declared. "despite everything i jest knowed hit deep down in my heart!" a pallid thinning of the darkness was discernible over the eastern ridges as brother fulkerson, who had administered his most powerful restoratives, thrust back his medicine chest. his face became mysteriously grave as he joined the hands of his daughter and the man whose fingers were limp in their enfeebled clasp. across the quilted four-poster stood bear cat stacy, as erectly motionless as bronze. his unblinking eyes and lips, schooled into firm stoicism, might have suggested some young indian brave going, set of purpose, to his torture. the lamp flared and sputtered toward the end of its night-long service and the fire had dwindled to an ashen desolation. at the foot of the bed, and depressed with a dull sense of awe, was joe sanders, fingering his hat-brim and shifting his weight from foot to foot. the old preacher of the hills, ordained in no recognized school of divinity, had for this occasion put aside the simple formula that the mountains knew and substituted for it such fragments as he remembered from the church of england's more stately ritual. it was a service that he had heard infrequently and long ago, but it had stirred him with its solemn beauty and god would forgive any unmeant distortions since the intent was reverent. "dearly beloved, we're gathered together hyar in ther sight of god a'mighty an' in the face of this hyar company ... to j'ine tergither this-hyar man an' this-hyar woman." there exact memory failed him and his voice broke in a pathetic quaver. bear cat stacy bit his tongue until he could taste the blood in his mouth as he held his gaze rigidly fixed above the heads of the little group. god alone knew how bitter were the broken dreams in his heart, just then. "i require an' charge ye both, as ye will answer at ther dreadful day of jedgment--" the holy words were still illusive and memory tricky--"thet ef either one of ye knows any--any--cause why ye kain't rightfully be j'ined tergither in matrimony ... ye do now confess hit." the pause which ensued lay upon the small company with oppressive weight. joe sanders coughed and nervously cleared his throat. "wilt thou have this-hyar woman fer thy wedded wife? wilt thou love her, comfort her an' keep her in sickness an' in health?" for a moment there was dead and unresponsive silence. a cold fear smote upon them all that death had intervened. then bear cat, bringing his eyes back from their fixity, bent abruptly; so abruptly that his movement seemed a thing of violent threat. "don't ye hear?" he demanded in a strained whisper. "speak whilst thar's breath left. say 'i will.' say hit speedily!" recalled by that sharp challenge out of his sinking consciousness, jerry henderson stirred and murmured faintly, "i will." "wilt thou have this-hyar man fer thy wedded husband ter serve, honor an' obey----" but before the interrogation came to its period blossom fulkerson broke in with a prideful and willing avowal, "i will! i will!" turner stacy felt icy moisture on his temples. his world seemed rocking as he stood straight again with wooden immobility. "i pronounces ye man an' wife." bear cat turned away, walking with the stiff fashion of an automaton. he could feel a stringent tightness like paralysis at his heart--and his limbs seemed unresponsive and heavy. then to his ears came, on the morning breeze, that same call to arms that had stiffened blossom into a paralysis of fear. his cramped posture relaxed, and to himself he said, "i reckon i hain't quite through yit!" chapter xvii blossom still knelt at the bedside with eyes of absorbed suffering and fingers that strayed flutteringly toward the bandaged head. bear cat, with his hand on the latch, lingered at the door, held there by a spell which he seemed powerless to combat. his part here was played out and to remain longer was an intrusion--yet he seemed unable to go. the kneeling girl was not even conscious of his presence. for her there was no world except that little one bounded by the sides and the end of the bed upon which her lover lay dying. her hands clasped themselves at last and her face buried itself in the coverings. she was praying. bear cat saw the glimmer of the firelight on her hair and to him it was all the lost gold of his dreams. he caught the sweet graciousness of her lissome curves, and his own fingers clutched at the shirt which had become stiff with dried blood. once she had prayed for him, he remembered--but that was before her real power of loving had burned to its fulness. now he stood there forgotten. he did not blame her for that forgetfulness. it only demonstrated the singleness of devotion of which she was capable; the dedication of heart which he had once hoped would be lavished on himself. he, too, was so centered on one yearning that he was beyond the realization of lesser matters, so that the gaunt preacher came within arm's length unnoticed and laid a hand on his shoulder. brother fulkerson nodded toward the other room, and turner followed him with the dumb and perfunctory abstraction of a sleep-walker. "now, son, ef hit hain't too late ter avail, let's hev a look at yore own hurts. ye didn't come through totally unscathed yore own self." bear cat stood apathetically and his eyes turned hungrily toward the stout partition of logs beyond which knelt the girl. it was not until the older man had spoken the second time that he replied with a flat tonelessness of voice, "my worst hurts ... hain't none ... thet ye kin aid." "thet's what i aims ter find out." joel fulkerson's manner was brisk and authoritative. "strip off yore coat an' shirt." indifferently bear cat obeyed. several times his lips moved without sound, while the other pressed investigating fingers over the splendidly sinewed torso and bathed away the dried blood. "hit looks p'intedly like ye've been seekin' ter prove them fruitless stories thet bullets kain't kill ye," observed the preacher at the end of his inspection, speaking with a somber humor. "ye've done been shot right nigh yore heart, an' ther bullet jest glanced round a rib without penetratin'. ye've done suffered wounds enough ter kill a half-dozen ord'nary humans--an' beyond wastin' a heap of blood ye don't seem much injured." "i wisht," declared the young man bitterly, "ye'd done told me thet i was about ter lay down an' die. thet's all i'm longin' fer now." for some moments they were silent; then joel fulkerson's grave pupils flickered and a hint of quaver stole into his voice. "son, i've done spent my life in god's sarvice--unworthily yet plumb earnest, too, an' thar's been times a-plenty when hit almost looked ter me like he'd turned aside his face in wrath fer ther unregenerate sin of these-hyar hills. i've hed my big dreams, too, turner ... an' i've seed 'em fail. oftentimes, despairin' of ther heathenism of ther growed-ups, i've sot my hopes on ther comin' generation. if ther children could be given a new pattern of life ther whole system mout come ter betterment." the young man had been putting on again his discarded shirt and coat, but his hands moved with the fumbling and apathetic motions of a sleep-walker. his face, turned always toward that room beyond the wall, was set in a dull immobility, yet he heard what the elder man was saying, and listened with the impatience of one whose thoughts are in travail, and whose interest for abstractions is dead. the preacher recognized this, but with a resolute effort he continued. "when _you_ war a leetle shaver i seed in yore eyes thet ye hed dreams above sordidness.... oft-times when i watched ye gazin' off acrost the most distant ridges i 'lowed that god hed breathed a wonderful gift inter ye ... ther ability ter dream an' make them dreams come true. i seed thet ye hed _power_, power thet mout do great good or make yore name a terror ter mankind, dependin' on which way ye turned hit." an agonized groan came brokenly from the twisted lips. bear cat dropped into a chair and covered his eyes with trembling palms. he had faced his enemies without flinching, but after the cumulative forms of torture through which he had passed to-night, his stoicism threatened to break under the kind intentions of a talkative friend. still the evangelist went on: "i had visions of a new type of mountain folks--some day ... when boys like you an' gals like blossom grew up--and wedded. folks with all the honesty an' generosity we've got now--but with ther black hate an' suspicion gone--. ay--an' ther cause of hit gone, too,--ther blockade stills." turner's nails bit into his temples as if with an effort to hold the fugitive reason in his bursting head, as the words assaulted his ears. "i've set hyar afore my fire many's ther night, a-dreamin' of some day when there'd be a grandchild on my knee ... yore child an' blossom's ... a baby thet would be trained up right." suddenly turner's silence of apathy broke and he fell to trembling, while his eyes flared wildly. "in god's name why does ye have ter taunt me in this hour with reminders of all thet i've lived fer an' lost? does ye reckon i kin ever fergit hit?" he broke off, then went on again with panting vehemence. "i hain't never had no dream but what was jest a part of _thet_ dream. "why i've stood up thar on ther ridges in ther spring when ther face of god's earth war so beautiful thet i've wondered ef his heaven could be much better--an' thet's ther sperit of ther hills thet blossom stood fer ter me." the shaking voice gathered volume and passion. "i've seed ther bleak misery of winter strangle all but ther breath of life hitself outen folks thet lives hyar--an' thet's what this country means ter me without blossom! folks knows how ter hate up hyar, but jest now, somehow, i feels thet no man in all these god-forsaken mountings kin hate life an' humanity like i hates 'em!" joel fulkerson responded soberly though without reproof: "yore man lincoln could go right on when things was turrible black. when his own ends failed he still went on--fer others. he didn't give way ter hate. he could go on tell he give his life hitself--fer dreams of betterin' things thet needed betterment, an' he come from ther same blood as us." "wharfore in god's name does ye stand thar preachin' at me?" the young man's reaction from stunned torpor to passion had brought with it something like the fever of madness. "ye knows i holds with ye es ter schools--an' all fashion of betterment--but what's them things ter me now? what i wants in this hour is ter visit on ther man thet's ruint my life ther direst punishment thet kin be meted out--an' he's cheatin' me by a-dyin'. listen--" he broke off and bent his head toward the wall of blossom's room and his voice took on a queer, almost maniacal note. "kain't ye heer her--in thar--groanin' out her heart! let me git outen hyar.... i kain't endure hit.... i'm liable ter do even _you_ an injury ef i stays--albeit i loves ye!" "i hates thet man in thar, too, turner." the preacher laid a restraining hand on his companion's taut arm and sought to soothe the frenzy of wrath with the cool steadiness of his tone. "i've had need ter pray fer strength against thet hate--but i've heered ther stacy rallyin' cry ter-night an' we've got ter hev speech." "speech hain't ergoin' ter mollify me. what i wants is ter hev ther things i've suffered this night paid fer. hit's all _got_ ter be paid fer!" the inheritor of feudal instincts wheeled and burst from the room, the preacher following more slowly but still determined. outside turner halted. the ordeal through which he had passed had left him shaken in a frenzy of passion, and he stood looking about him with the gaze of a wild beast fretting under the feral urge of blood-lust. with a clan easily inflamed and gathering to his call, brother fulkerson realized the danger of that mood. its menace must be met and stemmed before it ran to a flood-tide of homicidal violence. the preacher came close and spoke quietly. "i don't know yit what tuck place ter night--over yon," he said. "i only knows i've heered acrost ther hills a sound i'd prayed i mout never hear ergin--ther cry of ther stacys rallyin' fer battle. ye've got power, son--power beyond ther common. what air ye goin' ter do with hit? air ye a-goin' ter fergit yore dreams, because ther future's black afore ye? or air ye goin' ter be big enough, since ye're denied children of yore own, ter make them dreams come true fer ther benefit of other men's children?" bear cat stacy's voice as he answered was gratingly hard and his eyes were unyielding. "i don't know yit," he savagely announced. "i don't know yit fer sure whose a-goin' ter need punishment, but i've called on my kinsmen ter gather--an' when i knows the truth we'll be ready to deal hit out full measure." "ther days of feuds is past, son. fer god's sake don't be ther backwardest man in all this evil-ridden country--you thet should be the forwardest." but bear cat's hands, clenched into fists, were raised high above his head. "my paw's in jail," he ripped out. "i hed ter go over thar ter hide out in virginny. ef them things hadn't come ter pass mebby i mout hev saved blossom from her tribulation." suddenly he fell silent. in the dim light the preacher saw his face alter to the ugly set of a gargoyle and his body come to such sudden rigidity as paralysis might have brought. "god almighty in heaven!" turner exclaimed, then his words come racing in a torrent of frenzy. "i war a damn' fool not ter hev seed hit afore! why air my paw in jail? why did kinnard towers counsel me ter go ter virginny an' hide out? hit war because he war plannin' ter murder jerry henderson--an' he didn't dast do hit with us hyar! i knows now who needs killin' an' so holp me god, i hain't a goin' ter lay down ner sleep, ever again, until i kills him!" the eyes burned madly; the figure shook and he would have rushed off at the moment had not the preacher caught his arms and held them doggedly even though the infuriated young giant tossed him about in his efforts to free himself. yet for all his thinness and age, joel fulkerson had power in his frame--and an unshakeable determination in his heart. "listen ter me," he pleaded. "i won't keep ye hyar long--an' ef ye don't listen now, ye won't never forgive yoreself hereafter.... ye hain't got no cause ter misdoubt my loyalty.... i hain't never asked a favor of ye afore." at any other time turner would have acquiesced without debate and in a spirit of fairness, but now he was driven by all the furies of his blood. he had been through the icy chill of dull despair and then plunged into the blast furnace of red wrath. upon some guilty agency reprisal must be wreaked--and as if with a revelation, he thought he saw the origin of the conspiracy which his father had long ago suspected. he saw it so late because until now his mind had been too focused on effects to hark back to causes, and now that he did see it, unless he could be curbed, he would run amuck with the recklessness of a mad mullah. "let me go, damn ye," the young man almost shrieked as he tore himself loose from the restraining grasp, and flung the old preacher spinning to the side so that he fell to his knees, shaken. he clambered up slowly with a thin trickle of blood on his lips, where his teeth had cut them in the fall. "thet war a pity, bear cat," he said in a queer voice, though still unangered, wiping his mouth with his bony hand. "i'd thought thet we two--with a common sorrow between us----" there he broke off, and the boy stood for a breathing space, panting and smoldering. he could not come back to cold sanity at one step because he had been too far shaken from his balance--but as he watched the gray-haired man, to whom he had always looked up with veneration and love, standing there, hurt to the quick, and realized that upon that man he had laid violent hands, the crazy fire in his arteries began to cool into an unutterable mortification. since the cattle trader's story had been told back in the virginia cabin, until this moment, his mind had been successively scorched with wrath, chilled in despair and buffeted by hurricane violence, but never had it for a tranquil instant been stilled to normality. over at the quarterhouse, when in berserker rage he had been lashing out through a red mist of battle, he had suffered less than since, because in action he was spending the hoarded accumulation of wrath--but since then he had been in the pits of an unbearable hell. now at the sight of that unresenting figure, wiping the blood from its lip, a new emotion swept him with a flood of chagrin and self-contempt. he had struck down a friend, defenseless and old, who had sought only to give true counsel. the stubborn spirit that had upheld him as he fought his fever-scalded way over the hills, and remained with him as he watched the wedding ceremony, broke; and with face hidden behind spread palms and a body racked by a spasm of collapse, he shook with dry sobs that come in wrenching incoherence from deep in his chest. he reeled and rocked on his feet under the tempest of tearless weeping--and like a blind man staggered back and forth, until the preacher, with a hand on each shoulder, had soothed him, as a child is soothed. at last he found the power of speech. "fer god's sake, brother fulkerson, fergive me ... ef ye kin.... i don't know what i'm doin'.... i'm seein' red." again his voice vaulted into choleric transports. "ye says i mustn't call ther stacys ter bloodshed. ye're right. hit's my own private job--an' i'm goin' back thar ter kill him--now! but es fer _you_, i wouldn't hev treated ye with sich disrespect fer no cause in ther world--ef i hadn't been well-nigh crazed." "son, i forgives ye full free ... but ye jest suspicions these other matters. ye hain't dead sure--and ye hain't ther man ter go out killin' without ye _air_ plumb sartain.... now will ye set down an' give me leave ter talk a spell?" the boy dropped upon the edge of the porch and jerked with a palsy of wretchedness, and as he sat the old preacher pleaded. for a while bear cat's attention was perfunctory. he listened because he had promised to listen, but as the evangelist swept on with an earnestness that gave a fire of eloquence to his uncouth words, his congregation of one was heeding him because of the compulsion of interest. he saw a bigger enemy and one more worthy of his warfare behind the malign individual who was, after all, only its figure-head and coefficient. "ef them ye loves hed been struck ter death by a rattlesnake--and hit war feasible fer ye, 'stid of jest killin' ther snake, ter put an end ter ther pizen hitself--fer all time--would ye waste strength on a single sarpent?" the eyes of the speaker were glowing with ardor. "men like kinnard air snakes thet couldn't do no harm save fer ther pizen of ther copper worms. hit's because they pertects them worms thet ther lawless stands behind sich men--an' ther law-abidin' fears 'em. wipe out ther curse itself--an' ye wipes out ther whole system of meanness an' murder." he paused, and for the first time since his outburst bear cat spoke soberly. "over thar--at ther quarterhouse--whar they sought ter git henderson--they warn't nothin' but a yelpin' pack of mad dogs--all fired ter murder with white licker." brother fulkerson nodded. "i said ye hed power, an' i don't want ter see ye misuse hit. "ye asked me a spell back why i pestered ye with talk about betterment in this hour of yore affliction. hit's because i wants ye ter go on fightin' fer thet dream--even ef hit's denied ye ter profit by hit. i wants thet jest now with ther stacys gatherin' in from back of beyond, ye starts out leadin' 'em rightfully 'stid of wrongfully--fer whichever way ye leads, ye'll go far." bear cat stacy rose from his seat. his chest still heaved, but his eyes were aflame with a fire no longer baleful. in them was the thrilling blaze of far-reaching vision. for a time he stood silent, then he thrust out his hand. "brother fulkerson, i've done been right close ter hell's edge ter-night--but ye've brought me out. i hevn't put by my resolve ter punish murder--if i can prove hit--but i've put by punishin' hit with more murder. i aims ter make an end of blockadin'." "praise god," murmured brother fulkerson with the glowing face of an old and wearied prophet who sees a younger and mightier rise before him. yet because his own long labors had taken heavy toll of weariness, he knew the ashes of despair as well as the flame of ardor. now he found himself arguing the insurmountable difficulties. "but how does ye aim ter persuade men ter forego blockadin'? yore own kinfolks air amongst 'em." bear cat's excitement of resolve brought a tremor to his voice. "by god, i don't aim ter persuade 'em over-much. i aims ter force 'em. i aims ter rip out every still this side of cedar mounting--stacys' and towers' alike, an' i don't aim ter sneak up on 'em, but ter march open about ther business!" it was to a campaign of persuasion, rather than abrupt coercion, that the preacher had sought to guide his convert, and at this announcement of audacious purpose he shook his head, and the hopefulness faded from his pupils. "the system hes hits roots set deep in ancient toleration, an' hooked under ther rocks themselves. afore ye alters hit by fo'ce, ye've got ter shake, ter the bottom-most ledges, hills thet hain't never been shuck afore." but bear cat stacy had within the hour become the crusader in spirit, hot with a new-born purpose, and it would have been as possible to send molten lava traveling uphill to go tamely back again into its bursted crater, as to shake his purpose. he was in eruption. "i knows thet, but i aims ter blast out the bed-rock hitself an' build hit up anew. "hit seems ter me right now es ef i kin see ther picture of this land in y'ars ter come. i kin see men walkin' with thar heads high an' thar gaze cl'ar--'stid of reelin' in thar saddles an' scowlin' hate outen drunken eyes. i kin see sich schools es jerry henderson named ter me in other valleys an' coves. "ye says hit hain't a-goin' ter be easy, but i tells ye more then thet--hit's goin' ter be jest one mite short of impossible--an' none-the-less i'm a-goin' ter do hit. i'm a-goin' ter lay ther foundations fer a peace thet kin endure. i reckon folks'll laugh at 'em fust, an' then mark me down fer death, but i means ter prevail afore i quits--an' i'm beholden ter ye fer p'intin' me ther way." the preacher clasped his hands in a nervous uncertainty. the transition from night to the twilight of the day's beginning had passed through its most ghostly vagueness to a fog-wrapped morning. a dour veil of gray and sodden mists trailed along the slopes with that chill that strikes at the heart and quenches the spirit in depression. joel fulkerson stood, gray, too, and colorless. "i don't hardly know how ter counsel ye, son," he said, and his voice was that of a man whose burden of weariness was crushing him. "ye aims ter do a thing thet hain't nuver been successfully undertook afore. ef ye seeks ter fo'ce men 'stid of persuadin' 'em--ye're mighty liable ter fail--and cause ther valleys ter run red." bear cat's lips twisted themselves into a smile ironically mirthless. "brother fulkerson," he said, "in thar--ye kin almost hear her moanin' now--is ther gal thet i've always loved. ter me ther ground she walks on is holy--ther air she breathes is ther only air i kin breathe without tormint ... ter-night i fotched hyar ther man thet my heart was clamorin' ter kill: fotched him hyar ter wed with her." as he paused turner's face twitched painfully. "ye says i mustn't undertake this job in no spirit of vengeance. thar hain't no other fashion i _kin_ undertake hit. i must needs throw myself inter this warfare with all ther hate--an' all ther love thet's in my blood. i hain't a-goin' ter try ter gentle iniquity--i'm goin' ter strive ter tromp hit underfoot." when bear cat was joined by joe sanders a few minutes later, the ridges were still grim and unrelieved heaps of ragged gray. the sky was lowering and vague, and the face of the sun pale and sullen. joe, too, in that depressing dimness looked like a churlish ghost, and as the pair stood silently in the road they saw a trio of horsemen approaching and recognized at their head dog tate, mud-splashed and astride a horse that limped stiffly with weariness. dog slid from his saddle, and reported briefly. "ther boys air a-comin' in from ther branch waters an' ther furthermost coves. i've done started a tide of men flowin' ter-night." "i'm beholden ter ye. i reckon we'd all better fare over ter my house and make ready ter meet 'em thar." tate leaned forward and gripped bear cat's arm. "i've done warned everybody thet our folks must come in quiet. i 'lowed ye'd want ter hold counsel afore any man fired a shot--but--" he paused and looked furtively about him, then lowered his voice. "but thar's a thing comin' ter pass thet don't pleasure me none. kinnard towers air a-ridin' over hyar ter hev speech with ye--an' ef ye jest says ther word--thar hain't no need of his ever gittin' hyar." "kinnard towers!" for an instant an astonished and renewed anger flared in bear cat's pupils, and the face of the other man blackened with the malevolence of a grudge long nursed and long festering in repression. "kinnard towers," repeated dog tate, vindictively mouthing the name. "he's hired more men killed then he's got teeth in his jaws. he's raked hell itself, stirrin' tribulation fer yore people an' mine--an' i've done took my oath. jest es soon es things start poppin' he's my man ter kill!" abruptly tate fell to trembling. his face became a thing of ash and flint. from his pocket he drew a small package folded in newspaper, which he unwrapped and held out, displaying an old and very soiled handkerchief, spotted with dark discolorations. a shrill note sharpened his voice as he spoke in vehement haste. "thar hit air! thet's my daddy's 'kerchief--an' thet spot air ther blood thet was spilled outen his heart--by a bullet kinnard towers caused ter be fired! seems like i kin see him a-lyin' thar now, sort of gaspin' an' tryin' ter say somethin' ter me, thet he didn't never succeed in utterin' afore he died! i wasn't hardly more'n a baby them days an' when i come ter manhood they'd done made a truce an' yore paw 'lowed thet hit bound me. but now!" the man's excited tones cracked like a mule-whip. "now ef ther truce air ended, hit's my right ter hev ther fust chance." slowly, with a comprehending sympathy but a firm resolution, stacy shook his head. "ye've got ter be as heedful an' patient es ye bade ther others be. i've got a right-sensible hankerin' atter vengeance myself to-day, dog--but i've got ter hold my hand for a spell yit, an' ye've got ter give me yore solemn pledge ter hold your'n, too. hit mustn't be said thet ef any man--even kinnard--trusts us enough ter ride inter our midst when we're gathered, he kain't be heered in safety." the messenger stood looking down at the grewsome souvenir of the tragedy which he believed left him a debtor with an unpaid score. clan obedience and individual lust for reprisal shook him in profound dilemma, but finally, with a strong effort, he nodded his head--though grudgingly. "i gives ye my hand," he said in a dull voice, and up to them at that moment rode a spattered horseman who, because of towers' relationship and marriage with a stacy wife, was qualified as a neutral. "i brings tidin's from kinnard towers," he announced. "he seeks ter hold a parley with ye. he comes in peace, an' he wants yore pledge thet he kin fare hither without harm." turner's jaw came out with a belligerent set, but he answered slowly. "i was over at his place last night an' he didn't hardly hold _me_ harmless. none-the-less, tell him ter come on. i'll send back a few of my kinfolks with ye ter safeguard him along ther way." chapter xviii luke towers, the father of kinnard, had been one of those fierce and humorless old feudists of primal animosities and exploits as engagingly bold as the feats of moss-trooping barons. the "stacy-towers" war had broken into eruption in his day. no man remembered to just what origin it was traceable--but it had, from its forgotten cause, flared, guttered, smoldered and flared again until its toll of lives had reached a scattering summary enumerated in scores and its record had included some sanguinary highlights of pitched battle. the state government had sought to regulate its bloodier phases with the impressive lesson of troops and gatling guns, but that had been very much like scourging tempestuous seas with rods. courts sat and charged panels, with a fine ironic mask of solemnity. grand juries were sworn and listened with an equal mockery of owlish dignity. deputies rode forth and returned with unserved subpoenas. prosecutions collapsed, since no law unbacked by public sanction in its own jurisdiction can prevail. stacys and towers, alike fierce in private quarrel and jealous of their right of personal settlement, became blankly ignorant in the witness chair; welded by their very animosities into a common cause against judge and jury. there had been, among that generation of stacys, no such outstanding figure as old mark towers, the indomitable lion of the hills. kinnard had followed mark, bringing to the succession no such picturesque savagery--but still a bold spirit, tempered by craft. in lieu of the sledge blow he favored the smiling face with the dirk unsheathed behind his back. times were altering and to him mere leadership meant less than enough. he was also covetous of wealth, in a land of meagerness. to clan loyalty as an abstract principle he must have added such obedience as comes only from fear--and men must know that to thwart him was dangerous. upon that principle, he had built his dominance until men shaped even their court testimony to the pattern of his requirements. at first the stacy clan had challenged his autocracy, but twenty years before, the truce had been made and, since no stacy leader had arisen of sufficient caliber to wrest from him the ascendency of his guile and bold wits, he had triumphed and fattened in material wealth. the farm that he had "heired" from his father, with its few fallow acres of river bottom, had spread gradually but graciously into something like a domain. he might now have moved his household to a smoother land and basked in the security of fair affluence--but an invisible bond chains the mountain-born to mountain environment. highland nostrils shut themselves against lowland air. highland lips spit out as flat and stale that water which does not gush from the source of living brooks. there were enemies here who hungered for his life--a contingency which he faced with open-eyed realization--enemies actuated by grievances apart from feud cleavage. three attempts upon his life, he had already survived. some day he would not escape. but that eventuality was more welcome, despite its endless threat, than an ease that carried with it surrender of his rude ascendency and the strong intoxication of petty might. for several years now he had been hearing tales of a stacy youth who bore the ear-marks of leadership, and from whom, some day, he might expect a challenge of power. if such a test came, he must combat a younger and fierier adversary when his own prime had passed. elsewhere in the hills waves of transition were encroaching on the old order of lethargic ignorance. the hermit blindfold was being loosened from eager eyes--and men like himself were being recognized and overthrown. so far the rock-built ridges of cedar mountain had been a reef, protecting his own locality--but the advent of jerry henderson had bespoken the imminence of a mounting tide--and whispered the warning of deluge. the elimination of jerry had seemed imperative, but the result promised disaster--since the wounding of bear cat had threatened the wrath-glutting of the stacys. there was only one method of discounting that danger. bear cat had come single-handed to his stronghold--he must now go single-handed, or escorted only by his customary body-guard, into the heart of stacy territory, disavowing responsibility for the attack. he must, by that convincingly reckless device, appear to demonstrate that he trusted himself among them and expected in turn to be trusted by them. he hoped with a fair degree of confidence that jerry henderson had not reached the minister's alive--or that at all events he had not been able to talk with a revealing fluency. so the guileful old wolf had set out to ride boldly through an aroused and hostile country, facing a score of parlous contingencies. as he rode, he heard the rallying cry and its full portent in no wise escaped his just appraisal. it caused him to spur on faster, however, for the ugliness of the situation made it the more imperative that he should reach lone stacy's house in time to present himself as an ally before he was sought out as an enemy. but when he had sent his message ahead by a neutral bearer, kinnard towers slowed down and watched the stream of horsemen that flowed past him: all men with scowling eyes responding to the cry which meant war: all men who passed without attack, only because, as yet, the summons had not been explained. "by ther godlings!" muttered the towers chieftain, with a bitter humor, "i didn't know thar was sich a passel o' stacys in ther world. they'll stand a heap of thinnin' out!" "an' as shore es hell's hot," growled black tom carmichael with a dark pessimism brooding in his eyes, "they'll _do_ right-smart thinnin' out their own selves--once they gits stirred up." * * * * * by the time the sun had fully dissipated the early mists, the door yard of lone stacy's house was dotted with little groups of men, and from the wide doors of the barn more faces looked expectantly out. along the sandy creek-bed of the road, where a flock of geese waddled and hissed, other arrivals stamped their feet against the cold of the frost-stiffened mud, and rammed chapped hands into trouser pockets. they talked little, but waited with an enduring patience. they were determined men, raggedly clothed and bearded; incurious of gaze and uncommunicative of speech--but armed and purposeful. they were men who had left their beds to respond to the call of their clan. slowly bear cat circulated among the motley crowd, exchanging greetings, but holding his counsel until the tide of arrivals should end. it was a tatterdemalion array that he had conjured into conclave with his skittering whoop along the hill-tops. there were lads in jeans and veterans in long-tailed coats, green of seam and fringed of cuff. they carried rifles of all descriptions from modern repeaters to antiquated squirrel guns, but, in the bond of unshrinking stalwartness, they were uniform. to hold such a headstrong army--mightily leaning toward violence--in leash needed a firm hand, and an unbending will. old fires were kindling in them, ignited by the cry that had been a match set to tinder and gunpowder. it was, all in all, a parlous time, but no one caught any riffle of doubt in turner stacy's self-confident authority as he passed from group to group, explaining the vital need of forbearant control until kinnard towers had come, spoken and departed. the stacy honor was at stake and must be upheld. his morning hurricane of passion had left him alertly cool and self-possessed--but there was battle-light in his eyes. in grim expectancy they waited, while nerves tightened under the heavy burden of suspense. turner had sternly commanded cold sobriety, and the elders had sought to enforce it, but here and there in hidden places the more light-headed passed flasks from hand to hand and from mouth to mouth. such was the crowd into which kinnard towers eventually rode, with his double body-guard, and even his tough-fibred spirit must have acknowledged an inward qualm of trepidation, though he nodded with a suave ease of bearing as he swung himself from his saddle at the gate. the urbane blue eyes under the straw-yellow brows were not unseeing, nor were they lacking in a just power of estimate. they noted the thunder-cloud quiet--and did not like it, but, after all, they had not expected to like it. as bear cat came forward the towers chieftain began unctuously. "how air mr. henderson? air he still alive?" "he war last time i heered," was the curt reply. towers nodded with the air of one whose grave anxiety has been allayed, but under the meditative quality of his sabbath calm he was wishing that he could learn, without asking, whether jerry had been able to talk. a great deal depended on that--but making the best of affairs as he found them, he broached his mission. "this hyar trouble came up in my place--an' hit's made me mighty sore-hearted," he avowed. "but i've got ther names of every man thet war thar when i come in--an' i rid over hyar ter proffer ye my aid in runnin' down ther matter and punishin' them thet's guilty." he paused, and feeling the unmasked distrust with which his assurance was greeted, added: "i reckon yore father's son wouldn't hardly want no _illegal_ punishment." bear cat declined to meet diplomacy in kind. "ye reckons thet my father's son aims ter stand out fer a truce thet's kept on one side an' broke on ther t'other. air thet what ye means?" kinnard towers felt his cheek-bones grow red and hot with anger at the taunt, but he blunted the edge of acerbity and parried in sober dignity. "ef i'd aimed ter bust ther truce i wouldn't hardly hev interfered ter save ye, fust in marlin town and then ergin last night. i rid over hyar with ther roads full of stacys ter hold counsel with ye. i aimed ter tell ye all i knowed and find out what _you_ knowed, so thet betwixt us we could sift this matter ter ther bottom." "whatever ye've got ter say ter me, ye kin say ter these men, too," was the tartly unconciliating reply. "i've pledged ye safety twell ye rides back home. i aims ter say some things myself--an' i reckon most of 'em won't pleasure ye none." the speaker's eyes flared as he added, "but from this day forwards either you or me air goin' ter run things in these hills an' ther t'other one of us won't hardly hev standin' room left." "i reckon," said kinnard towers,--and now the ingratiating quality that had sugar-coated his address dissolved into frank enmity,--"i reckon ef thet's ther road ye elects ter travel, thar hain't scarcely any avail in my tarryin' hyar. i mout es well say farewell an' tell hell with ye! yore paw wouldn't hardly be so malicious an' stiff-necked. ye don't need ter be told thet i've got numerous enemies hyar in these mountings, too--an' thet more'n once they've marked me down fer death." the younger man's attitude was that of unmasked distrust, yet of patience to listen to the end. kinnard towers, hirer of assassins though he was, spoke with a certain dignity that savored of sound logic. "moreover, ye knows right well thet when i rid over hyar with yore war-whoop skitterin' from hill-top ter hill-top, an' yore men trapesin' along highways an' through ther timber trails, i traveled, in a manner of speakin', with my neck in a halter. i was willin' ter risk ther shot from the la'rel because, in a fashion, you an' me holds ther lives an' ther welfare of our people in ther hollers of our hands. i fared hither seekin' peace; aimin' ter stand side by side with ye in huntin' down ther men thet sought ter murder you an' yore friend from down below." a crimson flush mantled on the full jowl and bull-like neck. the voice shook with antagonism. "but i didn't come over hyar ter _sue_ fer peace--an' the day hain't dawned yit when any man kin order me ter leave ther mountings whar i belongs." "by god in heaven!" bear cat stacy leaned forward and his words cracked like flame in green wood. "ye says ye stands fer law--an' ye' makes slaves of ther men thet runs ther co'tes of law! ye says ye stands fer ther people an' ye fosters thar ign'rance and denies 'em roads an' schools. ye sacrifices everything fer yore own gain--an' ther profit of yore boot-lickers thet seeks ter run blockade stills. wa'al ef thet's law, i'm goin' ter start ter-day makin' war on ther law. i'm goin' ter see what an outlaw kin do! i aims ter give thet message to them thet's gathered hyar this afternoon--an' as soon as i'm done talkin' i'm goin' ter commence actin'. atter ter-day thar'll be decent towerses alongside of me and worthless stacys 'longside of _you_!" his voice fell--then leaped again to passion. "i reckon ther time's ripe. let's go now an' talk with 'em. i've jest been a-waitin' fer ye ter get hyar." deeply perplexed and depressed with the foreboding of one who fights enemies shadowy and ill-defined, yet forced, since he had come so far, to go forward, kinnard towers followed, as bear cat led the way to a huge rock which afforded a natural rostrum. "men," cried turner stacy when a semi-circle of lowering faces had pressed close and attentive about the shallow eminence, "last night mr. henderson an' me come sore wounded from ther quarterhouse, whar a murder hed done been hatched: a murder thet partly failed. i sent out messengers ter call ye tergether fer counsel as ter whether ther truce hed been busted. i hain't found out yit fer sartain whether hit has er not--an' until we knows fer sure we're still held in our bonds of peace. meanwhile i've done give my hand ter kinnard towers hyar, in my name an' yourn, thet he kin ride home, safe. if he speaks ther truth he's entitled ter respect. if he lies thar'll be time a plenty an' men a plenty ter deal with him hereafter. kinnard aims ter talk ter ye, an' i wants thet ye hearken till he gits through." the hereditary foeman, who knew that he was being pilloried in bitter disbelief, stood with an erect calmness as he was introduced. his face held an almost ministerial tranquillity, though his sense apprised him of the hush that goes ahead of the storm. he saw the green patches of the pines against the unaltered blue of the sky and the dull sparkle awakened by the sunlight on the barrels and locks of fiercely-caressed firearms. as he moved a pace forward a chorused growl of truculent hatred was his reception, but that was a demonstration for which he was prepared--and against which he had steeled himself. he was less accustomed to making public pleas than to giving orders in cloistered privacy--but he was a lord of lies, and deeply versed in the prejudices upon which he hoped to play. "i come over hyar this day," he declared by way of preface, "of my own free will--an' unsolicited by any man. i come open-eyed an' chancin' death, because i knowed i'd done kept ther compact of ther peace--an' i trusted myself ter ther upstandin' honesty of ther stacys ter do likewise. ef harm overtakes me hit'll be because i trusted thet honesty over-much." chapter xix as the snarling restiveness moderated to curiosity under kinnard's uncouth forcefulness and seemingly candid words, he repeated the mendacious story of his outraged righteousness, when he had learned that in his tavern the murder of a gentleman from the lowlands had been attempted. his place, he pointed out, was open to all comers--the law required that he extend its entertainment to every man who paid the price. he himself had not been present in time to prevent the outbreak. had he entertained a prior and guilty knowledge of the plot, he would scarcely have interfered last night. he would not have come to-day with his assurance of sympathy and his proffer of aid into a nest of swarming hornets. mr. henderson's life had been attempted by some unknown foe once before, he reminded them. apparently it had been his misfortune to make enemies as well as friends. the speaker paused and shook his head regretfully. "he come hyar a stranger amongst us an' war tuck in by lone stacy, a man we all trusts--a man we all loves. why should ther hand of anybody hev been lifted erginst him? ther stranger thet sojourns hyarabouts, mindin' his own business, gin'rally walks safe. hit's a question i kain't answer.... mebby hit war because mr. henderson fell inter ther error of preachin' too strong a doctrine of change.... i only knows this much myself: thet on ther night he got hyar i heered him talk thet a-way--an' outen sheer friendliness i warned him thet amongst us simple folks thar'd be some thet wouldn't take kindly ter sich notions. he aimed ter show us how wrong our idees war; notions of life thet our grand-sires hes fostered fer two hundred y'ars an' upwards. he aimed ter undo in a twinklin' all thet's growed into our bones an' blood an' free life endurin' ginerations--an' ter _civilize_ us. it war considerable undertakin'." again a low growl ran through his audience, but this time its indignation was not aimed at the speaker. "i've even heered men claim thet mr. henderson come up hyar seekin' ter rob us in ther interest of ther railroad, though i don't sceercely like ter believe hit--ner even ter repeat hit." once more the blond head was shaken in sad regretfulness. "we've done dwelt hyar, cut off from ther rest of ther world fer ginerations. we hain't got much eddication, but we're honest an' independent an' all we asks is ter be left alone ter work out our own salvation. in other times ther feud split us up into enemies, but since ther truce war made we've consorted peaceable." for a space he paused to gaze meditatively at the spear-like timber fringe against the fleckless blue. "ef mr. henderson unthoughtedly meddled an' somebody acted rash," went on towers easily, "sorry es we all feels fer hit, an' det'armined es we all air ter punish thet person in full accordance with ther law--still hit warn't no stacy thet was attacked. mr. henderson lays thar a-dyin' an' fer him i hain't got no feelin' but charity--but he warn't no stacy! ther folks down below, whar he hails from, will take plentiful pains ter avenge his death. ter them, we hain't nothin' but benighted barbarians of ther bloody hills--an' he war an eddicated gentleman! hit'll be a turrible pity ef we neighborly men goes ter war ergin over any false suspicion." kinnard swept his hands outward in a gesture like a benediction and stepped back. where slurring growls had greeted him he left a silence which testified to the telling effect of his words. their anger now was readier to burn into indignation against the invader who had sought to alter their life. though the young stacy had interrupted by no word or sound, there was something in his stillness of deportment that presaged storm ready to burst. as he came to the edge of the bowlder his movements had the smooth elasticity of a panther--and when he stood silent for a moment his eyes rained lightning bolts of intensity. "i've done stood here without interruptin' an' listened at kinnard towers' talk," he said, and the contempt of his tone was as stinging as a rawhide lash. "'most all of what he has told ye, i believes ter be lies an' if they be, i aims ter have a full reckonin', but afore i begins i wants ter charge ye all in full solemnity thet we've pledged him a safe journey home--an' ef harm comes ter him afore he gits thar our name stands disgraced ter ther end of time. he's a hirer of murderers an' he's fattened offen poverty an' ther gallows air too good fer him--but a pledge is a bond!" bear cat wheeled for a moment to face kinnard towers himself as he made this assertion, then he proceeded with the crescendo of a gathering tempest. "he says thet ther murder of jerry henderson hain't no consarn of your'n, and he tells ye thet henderson's under suspicion of seekin' ter cheat ye outen yore birthright. ef he believed thet on good reason an' held his counsel thus far he aided an' abetted ther robbery. but i believes thet's a lie, too, because ef jerry henderson sought ter rob ye an' plunder ye successfully all he needed ter do war to _make a deal_ with kinnard towers, fust. "this man thet rules thet country from a boozin' ken, whar' ther stench of infamy pizens ther air, tells ye he stands fer law--an' i tells ye thet his kind of law makes all decent men want ter be outlaws. judges an' juries hyarabouts does his biddin' ter ther damage of every honest man, because they walks in terror of him--an' debauches themselves ter hold his favor! he flies high an' his wings are strong--he passes fer an eagle--but he feeds on carrion." bear cat swept into a stinging arraignment of the chicanery with which he charged towers, piling invective upon anathema with the passionate sweep of a tornado. as faces that had listened to towers with attention hardened again, kinnard braced himself and forced a satirical smile. "this man aimed ter git jerry henderson from ther fust day he come hyar--not because ther stranger sought ter feel ther way fer ther railroad, but because he dared ter talk fer enlightenment: for schools whar yore children could grow inter straight manhood, an' roads thet could take yore crops and timber ter market. sich open speech didn't suit kinnard, hyar, because when folks has knowledge they ceases ter be victims ter his greed and cunnin'. "jerry henderson spoke out his belief an' he was marked down by kinnard towers fer death. he's a-dyin' now." a low and dangerous murmur ran over the crowd, but bear cat stacy stilled it with his raised hands. "i believes thet kinnard connived with ther judas revenuer to jail my paw expressly ter cl'ar ther road fer this murder. ef thet's true he didn't jest attack a furriner, but he affronted every stacy an' busted ther truce ter boot! till i kin prove what i suspicions, i aims ter hold my hand; but i stud in brother fulkerson's house last night amids ther ashes of sorrow an' i've done dedicated what's left of my life ter one aim. "i don't know whether i'll hev holp or go single-handed, but as almighty god hears me, i aims ter clean up these hills! i aims thet 'stid of grumblin' like old grannies because our fields air littered with rock an' our roads air all dirt, we shell take ther rock outen ther fields an' put hit on ther roads. i aims thet every child thet hankers fer enough larnin' ter raise himself above ther level of beasts shell hev a school whar he kin git hit. i aims thet when yore baby falls sick or thar's a bornin' at yore house, ther doctor kin git thar--in time!" he paused, and his audience, swept by the abandon of his extemporaneous fervor, fell into an excited approval. the magic of inherent strength and sheer personality was at work upon them. "before sich things es them kin be brought ter pass," began the speaker again in a voice dropping suddenly to stern calm, "ther wrath of numerous folks will flare up ter murder-hate--because thar's a stumblin' block in ther path thet's ancient an' thet hes got ter be man-powered loose. betwixt us an' betterment stands ther thing thet all our troubles springs from--an' though hit don't profit but one man in every score, yit thar be some amongst ye thet'll die fer hit!" he stopped and looked down into faces puzzled and uncomprehending. eyes turned up to the speaker out of lean and serious visages, waiting for his next sentence, and he himself stood there for a moment or two in a silence which was as much an emphasis as a blank margin which stresses the conspicuousness of print. his own face, still drawn with the travail of last night's gamut of emotion, and his figure motionless with the pent-up dynamics of a tight-wound coil, carried the impression of action presently to burst with a force beyond governing. they had always thought of him as a man bred for action but short of speech; a man bound like themselves by the constrictions which generations of taciturn ancestors had laid upon fluency, damming it into difficulty. but now self-consciousness was as absent from his attitude as though the torrential quality of his thoughts and words came from an external force sweeping through him and speaking through him. abruptly he thrust a hand into the breast pocket of his coat--a coat torn recently by bullets meant for his heart--and drew out a thing familiar to every man in that assemblage: a flat flask of colorless glass, filled with a fluid as white as itself. he held the thing high above his head, and ripped out his words with a crackling force. "thar's ther enemy thet's laid hits curse on the men an' women of these-hyar mountings! thar's ther thing thet's hatched from ther worm of their still--ther pizen thet breeds in ther la'rel! _that's_ what turns kindly men inter brutes an' wives inter widders an' children inter orphans! thar's ther thing thet hes made ther purest blood in all america bear ther repute afore ther rest of ther world of a people of bloody outlaws! "hit's bottles like thet thet hes shut ther doors of our country against progress an' prosperity--an' barred out ther future from ther hills. hit's bottles like thet thet hes chained us ter ther dead past when our kinsmen down below war a-marchin' on ter advancement. hit's ther false idee thet a man hes a license ter break ther law in blockadin', even ter ther hurt of them thet don't blockade, thet's carried along with hit a contempt fer all other law--an' raised up a spirit of murder an' lay-wayin'." as he paused again for a breathing space, still holding high the flask above his head, he might have read a warning in the clouding of pupils and the tightening of lips; in the out-thrusting of jaws and the stiffening of shoulders. but these indications of hostile sentiment seemed only to bring a more fiery hotness to his words and his voice. "i made this licker myself," he declared. "i made hit up thar in ther thickets. my paw lies in jail now fer doin' ther same thing. many's ther night--an' ther day, too--thet i've laid up thar drunk with ther pizen thet i've brewed--but no man will ever see me drunk ergin! "i've carried this flask in my pocket whar i could feel hit a-layin' against my heart--ever since ther day i quit. i've carried hit thar so thet thar wouldn't never be a time, day or night, when hit couldn't hev ther chance ter lick me, ef so be hit proved bigger an' stronger then me. i wasn't askin' no favors of ther worm of ther still--an' now i hain't a-goin' ter give hit none! thar's been times when my throat scalded me an' my belly tormented me--when i felt like as ef i'd burn an' shrivel ef i didn't uncork hit an' drink. but i hain't never teched hit since then--an' now i kin laugh at hit. now i know that satan helped me ter make hit--an' i'm a-goin' ter make war on hit till i stomps hit out or hit kills me!" bear cat stacy, with that quick gesture so often seen in the hills, raised the flask to his mouth and jerked out the cork with his teeth--then he spat the stopper out of his mouth, and with hand again raised high, inverted the flask so that the contents gurgled out in a thin stream and, in the dead silence, the blubbering sound of the emptying was as if the thing itself was giving up its life with a sob of protest. then dashing down the bottle and shattering it on the rocks, the young man broke out with a crescendo of vehemence. "what you men hev seed me do with thet-thar flask of blockade licker thet i made myself, ye're a-goin' ter see me do in like fashion with all the rest this side of cedar mounting. ye're a-goin' ter see me lift ther curse thet's been on us like a lunacy an' a pestilence. ye're goin' ter see me smash every flask an' every bottle. ye're goin' ter see me empty out every jug an' knock in ther head of every kag an' barrel, twell ther spleen of meanness an' murder runs out with ther licker--an' a peace comes thet kin hope ter endure." then with abrupt and climacteric effect he wheeled and shouted to someone who stood unseen behind the angular shoulder of the rock itself. the next moment he lifted up and set down at his feet a spiral thing of copper tubing which caught on its burnished coils the brightness of the sun and gave back a red glitter. "ther day of hills enslaved by a copper sarpint hes done come to an end!" he declared in a passion-shaken voice. "i aims ter do ter every cursed one of 'em this side of cedar mountain what i'm goin' ter do ter this one, hyar an' now!" he seized up an axe which had been lying at his feet and swung it above his head. poised in that posture of arrested action, his final words were defiantly thundered out. "i've done took my oath ter hang these things like dead snakes along ther highway fer all men ter see. they stands accountable fer poverty an' squalor an' bloodshed. because of ther pestilence they've brought an' ther prosperity they've turned away--they've got ter go." the ax crashed down in stroke after stroke upon the coiled thing at his feet, gashing it into destruction as the crowd broke into a restive shuffling of feet and looked on in dismay--as yet too dumfounded for open protest. "my god, bear cat's done gone crazed," whispered a man on the outskirts of the crowd. "he's plumb fittified." slowly the spell of astonishment began to give way to a fuller realization of the heresy that had been preached and which had appalled them by its audacity. comparatively few of them were actual moonshiners but at other times many of them had been--and their spirit was defense of their institutions. yet the face of this young man, bred to their own traditions, was fired with an ardor amazingly convincing and dauntless. in many of the elder heads had glimmered a germ of the same thought that bear cat had put into hot words; glimmered in transient consideration, to be thrust back because the daring needed for its expression was lacking. here was bear cat stacy boldly proclaiming his revolutionary purpose in advance because he wished to be fair; announcing that if need arose he would wage war on his enemies and his friends alike in its fulfilment. it would take a bold spirit to volunteer aid--and yet there were those whose only objection to the crusade was its mad impracticability. there were others, too, who, as bear cat had prophesied, would fight such vandal menace to the death. so, after the first spell-bound pause, a threatening growl ran through the crowd and then like a magpie chorus broke and swelled the babel of discussion. out of it came a dominating note of disappointment--almost disgust--for the leader to whom they had loyally rallied. kinnard towers stood for a while appraising their temper, then his lips parted in a smile that savored of satisfaction. "so bear cat stacy goes dry!" he exclaimed with a contemptuous tone intended to be generally overheard. then in a lower voice he added for turner's ear alone: "son, ye've done made a damn' fool of yoreself, but hit hain't hardly fer me ter censure ye. hit suits me right well. afore this day i feared ye mout be troublesome ter me, but ye've done broke yore own wings. from this time forward ye hain't nothin' but an eaglet thet kain't rise offen ther ground. i was sensibly indignant whilst ye blackguarded me a while ago--but now i kin look over hit. i reckon yore own people will handle ye all right, without any interference from me." the chief of the towers clan turned insolently on his heel and walked away and the crowd fell back to let him pass. chapter xx when the jews heard of a messiah coming as a king they made ready to acclaim him, but when they found him a moralist commanding the sacrifice of their favorite sins, they surrendered him to pilate and cried out to have barrabas freed to them. that afternoon turner stacy, the apostate leader, saw his kinsmen breaking into troubled groups of seething debate. the yeast of surprise and palpable disappointment was fermenting in their thoughts. they had come prepared to follow blindly the command of a warrior--and had encountered what seemed to them a noisy parson. those who saw in the young man a bigger and broader leadership than they had expected were those who just now said little. so some regarded him with silent and pitying reproach while others scowled openly and spat in disgust--but all dropped away and the crowd melted from formidable numbers to lingering and unenthusiastic squads. they had not even attached serious importance to his threat upon blockading--it was mere bumptiousness indicating his mercurial folly. in every indication he read utter repudiation by his clan. his eager but limited reading had taught him that every true leader, if he is far enough in advance of those he leads, must bear this bitter brunt of misunderstanding, but he was young and a freshly inspired fanatic, and that meant that he was in this respect, humorless--but he was not beaten. standing somewhat apart with a satirical smite drawing his lips, bear cat watched them ride away, and when most of them had gone his uncle, joe stacy, came over and stood by his side. "ontil ter-day, turner," he said with a note of deep sorrow in his voice, "i 'lowed ye hed ahead of ye a right hopeful future. i 'lowed ye'd be a leader--but ye kain't lead men contrarywise ter doctrines thet they fed on at thar mothers' breasts. i've always kind of hed ther notion thet someday ye'd go down thar ter frankfort an' set in ther legislature ... but ter-day ye've done flung away ther loyalty of men that bragged about ye an' war ready ter die, follerin' ye." "i reckon they kin find plenty of men ter lead 'em _thet_ way,--round an' round in circles thet don't git nowhars," came the defiant response. "thet hain't ther sort of leadership i craves." "hit hain't thet i holds no love fer blockade 'stillin'," explained the older man seriously. "i got my belly full a long time back--an' quit. ef ye could stomp hit out, i'd say do hit--but ye kain't. ye hain't jest seekin' ter t'ar out stills--ye're splittin' up yore own blood inter factions an' warfare. thar hain't nothin' kin come outen hit all, save fer ye ter be diskivered some day a-layin' stretched out in a creek-bed road, with a bullet bored through yore body." bear cat only shook his head with stubborn insistence. "ye don't raise no crop," he declared, "twell ye've done cl'ared ther ground, an' ef ther snags goes deep hit takes dynamite." "then i kain't dissuade ye? ye aims ter go ahead with hit?" "i aims ter go ahead with hit twell i finishes my job or gets kilt tryin'." "then thar hain't nuthin' left ter do but bid ye farewell. ye've done made yoreself a hard bed. in a fashion i honors ye fer hit, but i pities ye, too. ye've done signed yore own doom." "i thanks ye," said bear cat gravely. "but i hain't askin' pity yit." in the yard where so many feet had been tramping there was now total emptiness. the flock of geese still waddled and squawked down by the creek, but by the gate bear cat stood alone--a man who had forfeited his heritage. the sun was setting and the ache of recent wounds and fatigue was accentuated by the rawness of approaching twilight. beyond the trickle of prattling water, went up the frowning and unchanging hills, bleak and sinister with their ancient contempt for change. bear cat stacy threw back his head. "they don't see nothin' in me but brag an' foolishness," he bitterly admitted, "but afore god i aims ter show 'em thet thar's more in me then thet!" already a plan for the first chapter of his undertaking had fully evolved itself and it was a thing which must be launched to-night--but first he meant to make a sad pilgrimage. he would not go in, but he would stand outside blossom's window--perhaps for the last time. something drew him there--a compelling force and he remained an hour. when he turned away cold beads of nervous sweat stood on his temples. suddenly he saw two figures cross the road and plunge furtively into the laurel, and they moved as men move who have a nefarious intent. they were dog tate and joe sanders; the men to whom, last night, he had fled for succor, and at once he divined their purpose. bear cat, too, turned into the timber and, by hurrying over the broken face of the slopes, intercepted their more cautious course. but when he stood out in the path and confronted them, it was no longer into friendly faces that he looked. "dog, i wants ter hev speech with ye," he said quietly, and the moonshiner, who had instinctively thrust forward his rifle, stood with a finger that trembled in impatience while it nursed the trigger. "don't hinder me, bear cat," he barked warningly, "i'm in dire haste--an' i've got severe work ahead of me." "i knows right well what thet work air, dog." the young man spoke calmly. "i reckon hit's a thing ye gave me yore pledge not many hours back ye'd put by twell another day an' i hain't freed ye from thet bond." "who air _you_ ter talk of pledges?" the friend of last night savagely snarled his question with a scorn that shook his voice. "you thet this day broke yore faith with yore blood ter line up with raiders an' revenuers!" bear cat's face whitened with an anger which he rigidly repressed. "ye succored me last night when i needed ye sore," came the steady response, "an' i'm willin' ter look over these hardships of speech, but a pledge given is a pledge thet's got ter stand till hit's done been given back." tate's eyes were blazing with a dangerous passion and his rage made his words come pantingly: "hit's too late fer preachin' texts, bear cat. we believed in ye yestiddy. ter-day we spits ye outen our mouths. ye kain't call us ter war one day an' send us back home, unsatisfied, ther next. my pappy's kerchief's right hyar in my pocket now--an' ther blood thet's on hit calls out ter me louder then yore fine palaverin's!" bear cat stacy's rifle had been swinging in his hand. he made no effort to raise it. "when ye calls me a traitor ter my blood, ye lies, dog," he said with a hard evenness of tone. "i reckon ye knows what hit means ter hold a bitter hate--i've done read thet much in yore face, but i holds a deeper an' blacker hate then ye ever dreamt of--an' i've done put hit aside--fer a reason thet meant more ter me then _hit_ did." through the excitement that made the other's chest heave turner recognized a bewildered curiosity and he went on. "i hain't never stood by afore an' suffered no man ter give me names like you've jest called me. i reckon i won't hardly never do hit ergin--but i owes ye gratitude fer last night an' i'm goin' ter owe ye more. ye hain't a-goin' ter lay-way kinnard towers this night, dog. ye're a-goin' along with me ter do what i bids ye." "like hell i am!" snarled tate, though in the next breath, without realizing the anti-climax of his question, he added, "why am i?" "because i've got a bigger aim then sneakin' murders an' i aims ter hev men like you holp me. because when we finishes our job yore children air goin' ter dwell in safety." he talked on fervently and despite himself the man with his finger on the trigger listened. it all seemed very fantastic and radical to dog tate, yet there was such a hypnotic power in the voice and manner that he lowered his cocked rifle. "bear cat," he said with a sort of bewilderment, "thet talk sounds powerful flighty ter me, but if ye air outen yer right mind i reckon i kain't kill ye--an' ef thar's a solitary grain of sense in what ye says god knows i'd like ter hev ye show hit ter me." the shadows lengthened across the valleys and the peaks grew cloudily somber as bear cat stacy talked. he was trying for his first convert and his soul went into his persuasiveness. he had himself done first what he asked of others. his still was destroyed for a bigger aim. it was a new and more effective warfare which required certain sacrifices. a slow grin of sardonic amusement spread eventually over the face of dog tate. he put down his rifle. "then ye means thet hit hain't a-goin' ter be jest preachin'? kinnard hain't goin' ter escape scot-free? because i've always figgered he belonged ter me." "so many men figgers thet," retorted stacy dryly, "thet in ther time of final reckonin' thar won't be enough of him ter go round. i aims ter hang him in marlin town, with his own jedge passin' sentence on him." dog tate drew a clay pipe from his pocket and kindled it. his eyes glowed with a pleasurable anticipation. "wa'al, now, es ter thet blockade still of mine," he drawled reflectively. "my old woman's been faultin' me erbout hit fer a long spell, an' seekin' ter prevail on me ter quit. she 'lows hit'll cost more'n hit comes ter afore we gits through an' i misdoubts she hain't fur wrong." he chewed on the pipe-stem yet a while longer, then suddenly he announced: "i reckon thet still don't owe me nothin' much. hit's about wore out anyhow. let's go over thar an' bust her up--an' straightway start hell a-poppin'." bear cat stacy glanced keenly at joe sanders who had remained a pace or two apart, holding his counsel with a face that bore no index to his sentiments. "air you with us, too, joe?" he demanded. "this-hyar business hain't a-goin' ter be no frolic. we don't want no men thet don't aim ter go through with hit." joe scratched his head, speaking cautiously. "i works fer wages myself. dog hires me--albeit i'd ruther do any other fashion of labor. howsoever, i don't aim ter make common cause with no revenuers. i hain't no judas priest." "revenuers--hell!" exploded bear cat stacy. "i don't make no common cause with 'em nuther. i'm willin' ter let ther govern_ment_ skin hits own skunks." for so portentous a decision, joe sanders gave a disproportionately laconic reply. "all right then. ye kin count me in es fur es ye goes." it was a night of fitful moonlight, breaking through a scud of windy clouds, only to be swallowed again, when by the flare of a lantern the three men stood over the ruins of what had been a crude distillery--its erstwhile proprietor grinning sardonically as he surveyed the completeness of his vandalism. "i reckon thet finishes ye up, old whiskey-snake," he commented in grim obituary. "i boughten thet piece of copper offen a feller thet murdered a revenuer ter save hit--so hit's due fer punishment." "thet's all right so far es hit goes," bear cat reminded him crisply, "but hit don't go far enough. we've got more work ter do yit. when men wakes up ter-morrer, they've got ter hev proof thet i've started out in earnest." around the fire the three squatted on their heels, and talked in low voices. "i knows of three more stills sca'cely more'n a whoop an' a holler distant from hyar es ye mout say," volunteered joe sanders. "i hain't settin' hit out fer gospel fact, but i've heered hit norated round about, thet mark tapper don't even try ter molest these stills on account of a deal he's made with kinnard." "wa'al, kinnard hain't got no bit in _my_ mouth," growled dog. "whar air these places at, joe?" sanders was now innoculated with the spirit of crusade--not so much as a reform as a new and impudent adventure--and his lips parted in a contented grin that showed his uneven teeth. "a couple on 'em air closed down fer ther time-bein'," he enlightened, "but ther worms air thar. by ter-morrer kinnard'll jest about hev passed on a warnin' an' they'll be watched, but ter-night hit's cl'ar sleddin'. a man kin bust 'em up single handed an' nuver be suspicioned. hit'll tek all three of us tergether ter manage ther third one though, because _thet_ still b'longs ter little jake kinnard an' jake or his law-kin mat branham'll be on watch--mebby both of 'em." bear cat's eyes brightened at this prospect of immediate action. "little" jake, so dubbed after mountain custom because his father still lived and bore the same given name, was a nephew of kinnard towers, and despite his diminutive title prided himself on his evil and murderous repute. he was a "notched-gun" man and high in his uncle's favor. "air they runnin' thet kittle in ther same place es they used to a year back?" demanded turner, and joe nodded as he replied. "ther same identical spot. hit's, as a man mout say, right in ther shadder of ther quarterhouse hitself." bear cat stacy was on his feet and his words came with the animation of a daring plan already formulated. "now hearken.... you two boys look atter them idle stills.... i aims ter manage this t'other one--by myself." dog tate raised a hand in remonstrance, but turner beat down argument with a contemptuous laugh. "i'm in haste because i'm a-wearied," he explained, "an' thet's ther speediest way ter git through an' lay down. i'll be at yore house afore sun-up, an' i reckon ye kin hide me out thar fer a few hours while i sleeps, kain't ye?" "i kin take keer of ye--ef ye gits thar alive," affirmed the first recruit. "but hit looks severely dubious ter me." turner tightened his belt, but as he was leaving he wheeled to direct: "this worm of your'n an' ther t'other two hes got ter be hangin' in ther highway by daylight. i aims ter hang jake kinnard's right up erginst ther stockade of ther quarterhouse." as he scuttled through the dark timber the moon broke out at intervals, making of the road a patch-work of shadow and light. last night he was hiding out only from the revenue agent and his informers. to-night he had flung his challenge to the vested rights of tradition and forfeited clan sponsorship. every hand was against him. his way carried him past the quarterhouse itself and near the hitching-rack he halted, crouched low against the naked briars and dead brush-wood. among the several beasts fastened there was a gray horse more visible than its darker companions, which he recognized as belonging to black tom carmichael. yet black tom had been otherwise mounted to-day when he had ridden away from little slippery with kinnard towers. obviously the fresh animal stood saddled for a new journey--probably a mission of general warning. bear cat drew back into the invisibility of the steep hillside to watch, and it was only a short time before the door of kinnard's own house, on the opposite slope, opened. towers himself he only glimpsed, for the chieftain did not make a practice of offering himself as a target by night, framed in lighted doorways. but black tom came down the path to mount and ride away, and bear cat struck off at right angles through the woods. the horseman must follow the road he had taken to the next crossing, and the pedestrian could reach the place more quickly by the footpath. having arrived, he lay belly-down on a titanic bowlder in time to hear the cuppy thud of unshod hooves on the soft road and, a little later, to see black tom dismount and hitch. carmichael turned into the woodland trail without suspicion. he was on territory which should be safe, and he walked with a noisy carelessness that swallowed up what little sound turner stacy could not avoid as he followed. by the simple device of playing shadow to the man in front bear cat drew so near to the still that he could both see and hear, though the last stage of the journey through the interlocked thickets he accomplished with such minute caution that black tom sat by the fire with a tin cup of white liquor in his hand before his follower lay ensconced a stone's throw away. it was a nest of secrecy, buried from even a near view by the tops of felled hemlock which would hold their screen of foliage throughout the winter. edging the narrow circle of firelight, walls of rock and naked trees were sketched flat and grotesque against the inky void beyond them. two figures in muddied overcoats huddled close to the blaze, and black tom was reciting the events of the day over on little slippery. "they didn't p'intedly aim ter harm bear cat stacy last night--he jest run inter ther ruction. hit war ther furriner thet kinnard wanted kilt." "drink all ye craves an' tell me ther whole story," amicably invited "little" jake kinnard. "i aimed ter warn ye erbout this bear cat's threat ter rip out stills--albeit we deems hit ter be mostly brash talk," carmichael explained. "we didn't invite no trouble with ther stacys. kinnard fixed hit with mark tapper ter hev old lone jailed so thet ther thing could he done easy like--an' peaceable--but bear cat come a-beltin' back an' hit went awry." the simmering fury of his blood boiled over in turner's veins while he listened. all the duplicity of to-day now stood revealed and positive. all his suspicions were proven. with two quick shots from his rifle he could put an end to both these assassins, but he remained rigid. "no, by god," he mused. "i aims ter do hit on ther gallows-tree--not from ambush." after a period black tom rose, making ready to leave, and now turner stacy had need to hasten. the point at which he wished to await kinnard's second in command was the outer end of a narrow defile which served as a sort of gateway to the place. centuries of trickling water-tongues had licked it out of the rock walls and it was so narrow that two men could not pass through it abreast. but carmichael paused for further converse on the edge of his departure, and turner wailed for some minutes, shivering because he had taken off his coat, before his ears told him of the approach of a single pair of heavy feet. the scudding raggedness of the clouds had been swept into wider tatters now and the moon was steadier though still not brightly clear. bear cat stooped, like a crouching panther, just outside the elbow of the rock wall, holding his coat as a _matador_ holds the flag in the course of a charging bull. then a bulky figure emerged and there followed a sweep of heavy cloth; an attempted outcry which ended in a stifled gurgle, and carmichael went down, borne under the impact of an unexpected onslaught, with his breath smothered in an enmeshing tangle. for a moment bear cat knelt on the prostrate figure which had been stunned by its heavy fall, twisting the coat about the face and throat; then, experimentally, he eased the suffocation--and there was no hint of attempted outcry. a few minutes later black tom opened his eyes and peered through the darkness. to his dizzy eyes matters seemed confused. his mouth was securely gagged and, at his back, his wrists were so stiffly pinioned that when he struggled to free them he felt the nasty bite of metal--evidently a buckle. above him he made out a pair of eyes that glittered down on him with an unpleasant truculence. "git up an' come on," ordered a voice. "ye'll hev ter excuse me fer takin' yore rifle-gun an' pistol." slowly tom rose and went, prodded into amenability by the muzzle of a rifle in the small of his back. when he had been thus goaded to the point where his horse was hitched his captor stripped saddle, bridle and halter of their straps and ropes, and set the beast free. some of the commandeered tethers he employed to truss his prisoner up in a manner that left him as helplessly immovable as a mummy. "now i reckon ye'll hev ter wait fer me a leetle," said bear cat with brutal shortness. "thar's still one more back thar ter attend ter." carrying with him bridle-reins and stirrup-straps, he disappeared again into the defile. creeping for the second time with the best of his indian-like stealth to the edge of the fire-lighted clearing, he saw jake kinnard standing, with his eyes on the embers, ten feet away from the rifle that was propped against a tree. with a leap that sounded crashingly in the dead bushes turner catapulted himself into the lighted area, and as the moonshiner wheeled, his hand going instinctively out toward his weapon, he found himself covered from a distance of two yards. "hands overhead!--an' no noise," came the sharp warning, and had he been inclined to disobey the words there was an avid glitter in the eyes of the sudden visitor discouraging to argument. "lay down betwixt them two saplin's thar," was the next order, and foaming with futile rage, jake glanced about wildly--and discreetly did as he was told. ten minutes later turner rose from his knees, leaving behind him a man gagged and staked out, indian fashion, with feet harnessed to one tree-trunk and hands to another. lying mute and harrowed with chagrin, he saw his copper coil battered into shapelessness and his mash vat emptied upon the ground. then he saw bear cat stacy disappear into the shadows, trophy-laden. dawn was near once more before turner reached the quarterhouse, and from the hitching-rack the last mount had been ridden away. before him, still muffled against outcry, plodded black carmichael, seething with a fury which would ride him like a mania until he had avenged his indignities--but for the moment he was inoffensive. at the place where the gray horse had been tethered, turner lashed the rider. above his head to an over-arching sycamore branch, he swung a maltreated coil of copper tubing. then he turned, somewhat wearied and aching of muscle, into the timber again. "i reckon now," he said to himself, "i kin go over thar an' lay down." chapter xxi three times along the way, as the new crusader trudged on to dog tate's cabin, the late-setting moon glinted on queerly twisted things suspended from road-side trees--things unlike the fruit of either hickory or poplar. a grim satisfaction enlivened his tired eyes, but it lingered only for a moment. before them rose the picture of a girl sitting stricken by a bedside, and his brows contracted painfully with the memory. from the window of tate's cabin came a faint gleam of light, and, as he drew cautiously near, a figure rose wearily from the dark doorstep. "i've been settin' up fer ye," announced dog. "i mistrusted ye'd done met with mishap." inside the cabin crowded with sleeping and snoring figures, the host pointed to a loft under the shingles. "ye'll hev ter bed in up thar," he said. "don't come down ter-morrer twell i gives ye ther word. right likely thar'll be folks abroad sarchin' fer ye. me an' joe aims ter blackguard ye no end fer bustin' up our still." "thet's what i 'lowed ter caution ye ter do," acquiesced turner. "all i'm askin' now air a few hours of slumber." he climbed the ladder with heavy limbs, and, falling on the floor among its litter of household effects, was instantly asleep. * * * * * it was the habit of kinnard towers to rise early, even for a people of early risers, and on this morning he followed his customary routine. last night he had slept restlessly because the events of the day had been stressful and uncertain, even if, in their summary, there had been an element of satisfaction. so kinnard pulled on his trousers and boots, still thinking of yesterday, and crossed the hall to the room where black tom carmichael slept. black tom's bed had not been disturbed, and his door swung open. towers roused two other members of his household and the three went out into the first mists of dawn to investigate. at the hitching-rack they halted in dismay and their jaws sagged. the light was yet dim and ghostly, and at first the body that hung unconscious with hours of chilling and cramp had every appearance of lifelessness. a bitter anger broke out in kinnard's face and for a time none of them spoke. then from the chief's lips escaped an oath so fierce and profane that his men paused in their attempt at resuscitating the corpse-like figure, and following his eyes they saw the fresh insult which he had just discovered--a still-worm demolished and hanging high. "hell's clinkers!" stormed the leader. "what manner of deviltry air this?" restored, an hour later, by hot coffee and whiskey, black tom told his story, colorfully embellished with profane metaphor, and a squad went riding "hell-fer-leather" to the still of "little" jake kinnard. when the sun was fully revealed they were back again, with another man, feeble and half-frozen of body, but molten-hot of spirit to vouchsafe indignant evidence. the cup of towers' fury was brimming over, but before its first bitterness had been quaffed yet other heralds of tribulation arrived to pour in fresh wormwood. "thar's still-house quiles hangin' all up an' down ther high-road," they lamented. kinnard looked at his henchman out of eyes somberly furious and his florid face turned a choleric purple. "thar hain't but one way ter treat sech a damn' pest es thet," he said slowly with the implacable manner of one passing final sentence. "he's got ter be kilt--an' kilt quick." but a sudden reflection obtruded itself, snarling the simple edict with complication. "hold on!" he added with a less assured finality. "hev any stills been tampered with among his own folks--or air hit jest over hyar?" "we hain't heered much from ther yon side yit," admitted the news-bearers. "thar's one thet dog tate used ter run, though, thet's hangin' high as haaman. dog's a kinsman of his'n but he dwells nigh ter hyar." "hev some fellers ride over thar an' talk with him," commanded towers with prompt efficiency. "ef i war sure they wouldn't all stand behind him, i'd take a crowd of men over thar an' hang him in front of his own house. yestiddy they didn't seem ter hev much use fer him." of one thing, however, he failed to take adequate cognizance. that turning away of the clan, yesterday, in cool or angry repudiation had been less unanimous than it seemed. there were elders among them who had for years deplored the locked-in life of their kind and to whom this boy's effrontery secretly appealed. none of their own heritage and breed had ever before dared to raise his voice against forcible scourging out of a tolerated practice--but that did not mean that all men sanctioned it in their hearts. so as the stacys had scattered they had discussed the matter, guardedly save where the speaker was sure of his auditor, and kinnard would have been astonished to know how many of them said, "i reckon mebby ther boy is fittified--but ef he could do what he seeks ter, hit would sartain sure be a god's blessin' ter these hills." "i don't see no diff'rence atween what he aims at, an' what them damn' revenuers seeks ter do," suggested a young man who had fallen in with joe stacy after the gathering and rode knee to knee with him. "myself i don't foller nuther makin' hit ner drinkin' hit. hit kilt my daddy an' my maw raised me up ter hate ther stuff--but i'm jest tellin' how hit looks ter me." "sim," said joe stacy gravely, "i counseled turner ter put aside this notion--because i misdoubted hit would mean his death, but ef ye don't see no difference atween him an' a revenuer ye're jest a plain idjit--an' i don't mean no offense neither. ther revenuer works fer blood money. bear cat hain't seekin' no gain but ter bring profit ter his people. ther revenuer slips up with knowledge thet he gains by busted faith an' spies. bear cat's done spoke out open an' deeclared hisself." the young man reined in his horse abruptly. "i'm obleeged ter ye fer enlightenen' me," he said with blunt directness. "i'll ask ye ter hold yore counsel about this matter. i aims ter go back thar an' work with him." a slow smile spread over the ragged lips of bear cat's uncle. he made no criticism, but one might have gathered that he was not displeased. back at lone stacy's house on the morning that kinnard towers was awakening to conditions, were gathered a handful of men. they lounged shiftlessly as though responding to no object save casual curiosity. they were cautious to express neither approbation nor disapproval, but intangibly the threads of sympathy and hostility were unraveling. those who were the steadier of gaze, clearer of pupil and fitter of brawn, inclined toward bear cat and his crusade, and, conversely, those who wore the stamp of reddened eye and puffed socket gave back sneering scowls to the mention of his name. but all alike crowded around, when a traveler, who had elected to cross the mountain from marlin town by night, paused, puffed with the importance of one bearing news. "hev ye folks done heered ther tidin's?" he demanded, shifting to a sidewise position in his saddle. "bear cat stacy's been raidin' stills. thar's a copper worm hangin' right at ther quarterhouse door--an' trees air bloomin' with others all along ther high road." the murmur was half a growl--for the group was not without its blockader or two--and half pure tribute to prompt achievement. "nor thet hain't all by half," went on the traveler, relating with the gusto of a true climax how black tom had been bound to a hitching-rack and jake kinnard staked out by his demolished mash kettle. this was pure exploit--and whatever its motive the mountain man loves exploit. moreover, these sufferers from bear cat's wrath were men close to the hated kinnard towers. faces that had brooded yesterday grinned to-day. * * * * * kinnard's squad reached the house of dog tate while the morning was yet young, searching each cabin along the way, in the hope that last night's raider might be still hiding in their own terrain. they found joe sanders sitting on the doorstep, with the morose aspect of a man deprived of his avocation in life. the wintry hillsides were no moodier than his eyes, and the sullen skies no more darkly lowering. but dog tate himself was loquacious to a fault. he raved with a fury so unbridled that it suggested lunacy. bear cat had come to his place wounded and had been succored. twenty-four hours later he had come there again treasonably to repay that service by ripping out an unguarded still. henceforth the stacy call might remain eternally unanswered, and be relegated to perdition for all of him. "dog," suggested the leader of the squad, "we've done been askin' leave ter kinderly hev a look inter dwellin' houses--in case bear cat's still layin' concealed over hyar. i reckon ye hain't hardly got no objection, hev ye?" "does ye 'low thet i'd be hidin' out ther man thet raided me?" the host put his question with a fine irony, and the reply was apologetic. "not sca'cely. hit's jest so thet we kin tell kinnard, we didn't pass no house by, thet's all." the speaker and the ex-moonshiner were standing at the threshold of the log shack. it was a place of a single, windowless room with a lean-to kitchen--and above was the loft reached by a trap and ladder. "come right in then," acceded dog tate with disarming readiness. "i hain't got no _ex_cess of love fer kinnard--but i've got yit less fer still-busters." far back where the shingle roof dropped steeply from ridge pole to edge was a murky recess hidden behind a litter of old bedding, piled up potatoes and onions. silently listening and mercifully blotted into shadow there, bear cat stacy crouched with rifle-barrel thrust forward and his finger caressing the trigger. the squad-leader looked about the place with perfunctory eye and then, seeing the ladder, set his foot upon its lowest rung. dog tate felt a sudden commotion of hammering pulses, but his lids did not flicker nor his mouth alter its line. quite unostentatiously, however, his wife moved toward the front door and stood there blankly expressionless. also, dog laid his hand idly on the ladder as the visitor climbed upward. if the search proved embarrassing he meant to kick the support from under the towers minion, and his wife meant to bar the door for siege. but the intruder went only high enough to thrust his head into the overhead darkness while a match flared and went out. he had seen nothing, and as he stumped down again the poised finger relaxed on the rifle trigger, and the tates breathed free. "i'm obleeged ter ye," said the searching lieutenant. "ef ye wants ter start up yore still ergin, i reckon ye'll be safe. he won't be runnin' wild fer long nohow." * * * * * the quarterhouse emissaries were raking the hills with an admirable thoroughness, running like a pack in full cry on the man trail, but they did not again come so near the fringes of success as when they missed the opportunity at dog tate's house. in spite of a watchfulness that gave eyes to the hills and ears to the timber, their quarry left that house and went to his own. he had no intention of making the mad effort to remain there. the wild tangle of cliff and forest was his safest refuge now--but there were two things to be done at home. he wished to have for companionship in exile his "lincoln, master of men," and he wished to learn if out of the wholesale desertion of yesterday there had not come back to him even one or two followers. so that afternoon he slipped, undetected by his trailers, into and out of his father's house; and there followed him, though each went singly and casually to escape detection, some eight or ten men, who henceforth were to be his secret followers and, he hoped, the nucleus of a larger force. the next morning in both stacy and towers territory, hickories and walnuts and sycamores burst into copper fruitage. the hills were alive with armed search-parties, liquor-incited and vowing vengeance, yet through their cordons he moved like some invisible and soundless creature, striking and escaping while they raged. at ever-changing points of rendezvous he met and instructed his mysterious handful of faithful supporters, struck telling blows--made fresh raids and seemingly evaporated. from all that towers could learn, it appeared that bear cat stacy was operating as a lone bandit. yet the ground he seemed to cover single-handed was so wide of boundary and his success so phenomenal that already he was being hallowed, in country-side gossip, with legendary and heroic qualities. in that towers read a serious menace to his own prestige; until he ground his teeth and swore sulphurously. he organized a larger force of human hounds and fired them more hotly with the incentive of liquor and greed for promised reward. the doors of old lone stacy's house, tenanted now only by the wife of the prisoner and the mother of the refugee, were endlessly watched by unseen eyes. around the cabin where jerry henderson lay lingering with a tenuous hold on life, lounged the men posted there by joe stacy, and back in the timbered slopes that frowned down upon its roof crouched yet other shapes of butter-nut brown; shapes stationed there at the behest of the quarterhouse. going in and out among these would-be avengers and learning all their plans, by dint of a pretendedly bitter hatred of bear cat stacy, were such men as dog tate and joe sanders, spying upon the spies. old bud jason at his little tub-mill and uncle israel at his general store secretly nodded their wise old heads and chuckled. they knew that, hushed and undeclared, a strong sentiment was being born for the boy who was outwitting scores of time-seasoned murder hirelings. but they shook their heads, too--realizing the deadly odds of the game and its tragic chances. one afternoon after a day sheeted in cold rain that sometimes merged into snow, bear cat crept cautiously toward the sagging door of the abandoned cabin which had, on another night, housed ratler webb. it had been a perilously difficult day for the man upon whose head towers had set the price of a river-bottom farm. like a hard-run fox he had doubled back and forth under relentless pursuit and gone often to earth. the only things they needed with which to harry him further were bloodhounds. now in the later afternoon he came to the cabin and sought a few minutes' shelter there against the penetrating misery of rain and sloppy snow that thawed as it fell. he dared not light a fire, and must not relax the vigilance of his outlook. just before sunset bear cat saw a man edging cautiously through the timber, moving with a shadowy furtiveness--and recognized joe sanders. the newcomer slipped through the rotting lintels, bringing a face stamped with foreboding. "ye kain't stay hyar," announced the excited voice. "i don't hardly know whar ye _kin_ go to nuther, onlessen' ye kin make hit back ter dog tate's dwellin'-house by ther hill-trail." "tell me all ye knows, joe," directed stacy with a steadying calmness, and the other went on hurriedly: "they've done picked up yore trail--an' lost hit ergin--a couple of miles back. they 'lows ye hain't fur off, an' thar's two score of 'em out huntin'--all licker-crazed but yit not disabled none. some of 'em 'lows ter come by hyar. i'm with a bunch thet's travelin' a diff'rent route. they're spreadin' out like a turkey gobbler's tail feathers an' combin' this territory plumb close. above all don't go to'rds home. hit's thet way thet they's most numerous of all. i surmised i'd find ye hyar an' i slipped by ter warn ye." "i'm obleeged ter ye, joe. what's thet ye've got thar?" the last question was prompted by the gesture with which saunders, as if in afterthought, thrust his hand into his coat pocket. "hit hain't nuthin' but a letter brother fulkerson bid me give ter ye--but thar hain't no time ter read hand-write now. every minute's wuth countless letters." but turner stacy was ripping the envelope. already he had recognized the clear, precise hand which had been the fruit of blossom's arduous efforts at self-education. "don't tarry, man! i cautions ye they're already makin' ready ter celebrate yore murder," expostulated the messenger, but bear cat did not seem to hear him. in the fading light he was reading and rereading, forgetful of all else. joe sanders, fixing him with a keen and impatient scrutiny, noticed how gaunt were his cheeks and how hollow-socketed his eyes. yet as he began the letter there was a sudden and eager hopefulness in his face which faded into misery as he finished. "a famed doctor came up from louisville," wrote blossom. "he's done all that could be done. he says now that only jerry's great courage keeps life in him and that can't avail for long. he hasn't been able to talk--except for a few words. the longest speech was this: 'send word to bear cat--that i'm honester than he thinks.... i want to die with his friendship ... or i can't rest afterwards....' he looked like he wanted to tell something else and he named your father and your uncle joe stacy, but he couldn't finish. he keeps saying 'stacy, you don't understand.' what is it, that you don't understand, turney? can't you slip over just long enough to shake hands with him? he wants you to do it--and he's dying--and i love him. for my sake can't you come? your mother says you came once just to get a book--won't you do that much for me? blossom henderson." joe sanders shuffled his feet in poignant disgust for the perilous procrastination. here was a man whose life hung on instant flight, yet he stood with eyes wide and staring, holding before them a silly sheet of paper. his lips whispered, "blossom henderson--_henderson_--not fulkerson no more!" then a wave of black resentment swept bear cat's face and he licked his dry lips. "joe," he said absently, "i hates him! i kain't shake his hand. i tells ye i kain't do hit." "whose hand?--don't shake hit, then," retorted sanders irritably, and, with a sudden start as though he had been rudely awakened while prattling in his sleep, bear cat laughed bitterly. "hit don't make no difference," he added shortly. "i war kinderly talking ter myself. i reckon i'd better be leavin'." hurrying through the timber, toward dog tate's house, turner's mind was in a vexed quandary and after a little he irresolutely halted. his forehead was drawn and his lips were tight. "blossom henderson!" he muttered. "god knows i took plentiful risks thet ye mout w'ar thet name--an' yit--yit when i reads hit, seems like hit drives me plumb ravin' mad!" from the tangle of dead briars the cold rain dripped desolately. a single smear of lurid red was splashed across the west beyond the silhouetted ridges. "they're aimin' ter head me off ef i goes to'rds home," he reflected in a bitter spirit. "an' he wants thet i should fight my way through all them enemies ter shake his hand--so thet he kin die easy. i reckon hit don't make no manner of diff'rence how hard i dies myself." he covered his face with his hands and when he took them away he altered his course, setting his steps in the direction of his own house. "she said--fer _her_ sake," he repeated in a dazed voice, touched with tenderness. "i reckon i've got ter undertake hit." never before had the woods been so efficiently picketed. never had the net of relentless pursuit been so tight-drawn and close of mesh. for a long distance he eluded its entanglement though at times, as it grew dark, he saw the glimmer of lanterns whose portent he understood. but finally the clouds broke and a cold moon shone out to aid the pack and cut to a forlorn hope the chances of the quarry. as bear cat went creeping from shadow to shadow he could hear faint sounds of pursuit closing in upon him. he came at length upon a narrow road that must be crossed and for a while he bent low, listening, then stole forward, reassured. but as he reached the farther side, the black solidity of a hill-side broke not in one but in several tongues of flame and the bark of three rifles shattered the quiet. bear cat doubled back and cut again into the timber which he had left, running now to put a margin of distance between himself and the greater numbers. that fusillade and its echoes would bring other rifles and reinforcements. after a few pantingly stressful minutes he found himself standing at the lip of a steep bluff, and a roar of water beneath warned him that the creek, some twenty feet below, had been swollen from a trickling thread to a seething caldron. he gazed questioningly about, gauging his chances with swift calculation, since there was no time for indecision. "i aimed ter come, blossom," he breathed between his teeth, "but i've done failed!" he stepped out to look over the ledge and for a moment his figure was silhouetted in the open light. then again the curtain of blue-black shadow was shot through with fiery threads and a rifle barked sharply, trailing a broken wake of echoes. bear cat stacy's two hands went high above his head, his right still clutching his rifle. he swayed for the duration of a breath, rocking on his feet, then plunged forward and outward. the next morning, no worms were found hanging in the highway, but, back at the quarterhouse, kinnard towers turned in his hand a battered hat that had been retrieved from floating drift. "yes, i reckon thet's his hat," he commented after a close scrutiny. "i reecollect seein' thet raw-hide thong laced round hit, endurin' his speech over thar. wa'al, he elected ter go chargin' amuck--an' he's done reaped his harvest." chapter xxii the story of turner's death at unknown hands spread in the next few days like wild fire. whatever may have been the lack of sympathy for the young man's undertakings of reform, it was now only remembered that he was a stacy who had been "dogged to his death" by towers' minions, and ugly rumblings of threat awoke along the water courses where his kinsmen dwelt. it was voiced abroad that jerry henderson could not outlive that week: that when he died, the body of bear cat stacy would be buried with him, and that, from those two graves, the stacys would turn away to wreak a sanguinary vengeance. yet all this was the sheerest sort of rumor. no man had proof that a towers rifle had killed turner--the man to whom his clan had looked for leadership. no man had seen the body which his family was said to be holding for that dramatic consignment to the earth. but in part the report found fulfilment. on sunday afternoon blossom leaned over the quilt-covered figure of her dying husband to realize that he was no longer dying but dead. "speak ter me, jerry," she cried as she dug her nails into her palms. "speak ter me--jest one time more." she sought to call out to her father, but her lips refused the service, and as she came to her feet she stretched out her hands and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. brother fulkerson went that afternoon to the saw-mill at the back of uncle israel's store and stood by as the storekeeper himself sawed planks and knocked together the crude box which must serve jerry henderson as a casket. later across the counter he bought some yards of coarse cloth cut from a bolt of black calico, which was to be his daughter's pathetic attempt at mourning dress. the afternoon of the funeral was unspeakably sullen and dismal. clouds of leaden dreariness hung to the bristling mountains, themselves as gray as slate. cold skies promised snow and through the bleak nakedness of the forest whined the dirge-like complaint of a gusty wind. to the unkempt place of briar-choked and sunken graves, crawled a dingy procession. blossom would have preferred going with her dead unattended save by her father, but that mountain usage forebade. a wedding or a funeral could not be so monopolized in a land where there is frugally little to break daily monotony. this funeral above all others, belonged in part to the public, made pregnant with interest by the story that two bodies instead of one would be laid to rest. the question of how bear cat stacy had come to his death would be answered over his open grave, and men would know at the falling of the last clod whether they should return quietly to their homes or prepare for the sterner task of reprisal. kinnard towers must know, too, what happened there, and must know it speedily, though to go himself or to send one of his recognized lieutenants was beyond the question. yet his plans were carefully laid. those few nondescripts who bore the repute of being stacy sympathizers, while in fact they were towers informers, were to be present; and along the miles of "slavish roughs" between quarterhouse and burial-ground, like runners in a relay race, were other heralds. when the news began to come from the place it would travel fast. sitting grimly behind the closed stockade of the quarterhouse and surrounded now not only by a body-guard but by some scores of fighting men, the old intriguer anxiously awaited the outcome. long before the hour for the services had arrived men, as drab and neutral in color as the sodden skies, and women wrapped in shawls of red and blue, began to gather from hither and yon over roads mired to the prohibition even of "jolt-wagons." they came on foot or on muddied mules and horses with briar-tangled manes and tails--and having arrived, they waited, shuffling their weary feet against frost-bite and eddying in restless currents. two men were still at work with shovels and they had spread out their excavation so wide, in removing slabs of unbreakable rock, that the place might have been a single, double or even a triple grave. the wind moaned as murky clouds began to spit snow, and then on the gulch-washed road which climbed steeply, a little procession was glimpsed in the distance. the men fondled their guns, but the cortège was lost again to view behind a screen of cedars and until it turned finally on the level of the graveyard itself, its details remained invested with the suspense of expectancy. at the fore, when it arrived, was brother fulkerson astride his old mare, and on a pillion behind him rode the "widder henderson," the whiteness of her thin face startlingly accentuated by the unrelieved lines of her black calico gown. under her erstwhile vivid eyes lay dark rings of suffering, but she held her head rigid and gazed straight before her. the cortège came without the proper hush of due solemnity, for the rough coffin that held jerry henderson's body was borne on a fodder sledge and the stolid team of oxen that drew it required constant and vociferous shouts and goading as they strained unwillingly against their yokes. after the sledge trailed a dozen neighbors, afoot and mounted; all plastered with mud--but the crowd caught its breath and broke into a low murmur. there was only one casket! as the evangelist dismounted and lifted his daughter down, the men who were there as observers for kinnard towers sought places near enough to hear every syllable. yet when the elderly preacher began to speak, while his daughter stood with the dull apathy of one only half realizing, the faces of the crowd mirrored a sort of sullen disappointment. for them the burial of the man who was, after all, well-nigh a stranger, was secondary in interest. it was in every material respect touching their lives and deeper interests, bear cat's funeral they had come to attend. but on that topic the bearded shepherd meant to give them no satisfaction. so far he had made no mention of bear cat, and now he was concluding with the injunction: "let us pray." but as he bent his head, a woman standing near the foot of the grave raised a hand that trembled with all the violence of superstitious fear. from her thin lips broke a half-smothered shriek, not loud but eerie and disconcerting, and she shrilled in terrorized notes, "air thet a specter i sees thar?" many eyes followed the pointed finger and again a dismayed chorus of inarticulate sound broke from the crowd. just behind blossom--herself ghostlike in her white rigidness--had materialized a figure that had not been there before. it was a gaunt figure whose face these people had seen before only bronzed and aggressive. now the cheek-bones stood out in exaggerated prominence and the flesh was bloodlessly gray. though bear cat stacy was present in the flesh his sudden materialization there might well have startled a superstitious mind into the thought that he had come not only from a bed of illness but from one of death. ignoring the sensation he had created, he spoke in a whisper to the minister, and brother fulkerson made a quiet announcement. "hit hain't no ghost, sister. turner stacy hes been sore sick an' nigh ter death, but hit's pleased ther almighty ter spare him. let us pray." a man near the grave began quietly working his way to the outer fringes of the gathering, and when he had escaped immediate observation, he went with hot haste. kinnard must know of this. he had detected an undernote in that general murmur of astonishment, which was clearly one of satisfaction. the stacys had derived pleasure in this ocular proof that bear cat was not dead. as the preacher said "amen" bear cat bent tensely forward and caught both of blossom's hands in his own. "i kain't tarry," he said, "even fer a leetle spell, but i wanted ye ter know thet i done my best ter get hyar afore." she looked at him with dazed eyes which under the intensity of his gaze slowly began to awaken into understanding. turner went on eagerly, "i started over hyar as soon as i got yore letter, but i was set upon an' wounded. i've been insensible well nigh ever sence then." "oh, turney!" she whispered, as the grief which had held her in its thrall of unrelieved apathy suddenly broke into an overflow of tears. "oh, turney, i'm glad ye _tried_. he kept callin' fer ye. 'peared like he wanted to tell ye somethin'." the clods were falling dully on the grave. the crowd held back, fretting against the edict of decorum, as the voices rose in the miserable treble of song, to which two hounds added their anguished howls. at the last words of the verse, an instant clamor of question and discussion broke in eager storm--but bear cat had melted into the thicket at his back. with the same mystifying suddenness that had characterized his appearance, he had now disappeared. excited men rushed hither and thither, calling his name. they beat the woods and tramped the roads, but with as little result as though he had, in fact, appeared out of his grave and returned again to its hiding. the story of that funeral was going with the pervasive swiftness of wind throughout the country-side. it was being mouthed over in dark cabins where toothless grannies and white-shocked grandsires wagged their heads and recalled the manner of bear cat's birth. * * * * * when joe sanders had left bear cat that afternoon at the abandoned cabin, it had been with the impression that stacy meant to take the path which he had advised; the only path that was not certainly closed to his escape, and seek refuge at dog tate's house. he had found an immediate opportunity to report that program to dog himself, and dog sought to make use of it in bear cat's service. tate, in recognition of his grievance as an outraged distiller, had been given the leadership of one of the largest of the search parties, which it was his secret purpose to lead far afield on a blind trail. inasmuch as bear cat had been specifically cautioned against going in the direction of his own dwelling place, and yet since that would seem a logical goal, dog had maneuvered his hunters into territory between the abandoned cabin and little slippery. he himself had been in the woods across the waters of the suddenly swollen creek, when an outburst of rifle fire told him that something had gone wrong and brought him running back to the guidance of that musketry. he arrived at the edge of the swirling, drift-encumbered water in time to see the silhouetted figure on the opposite bluff totter and plunge head first into the moonlit whirlpool. dog knew that he was the only man on that side of the stream, but any effort to plunge in and try for a rescue would mean death to himself without hope of saving the man who had fallen. as he watched he made out what seemed to be the lifeless body come to the surface, to be swept in a rushing circle and, as chance would have it, to catch and hang lodged in a mass of floating dead-wood. the creek at ordinary times ran shallow and though it was gushing now beyond its normal borders it was still not wide. the deadwood swirled, raced forward, and fouled the out-jutting root of a giant sycamore. dog tate crawled out along the precarious support of the slimy rootage and slowly drew the mass of drift into shallow water. it was tedious work since any violent tugging might loosen the lightly held tangle and send the body floating away unbuoyed. the night was all a thing of blue and silver moonlight and sooty shadows, but under the muddy bulwark at the base of the overhanging sycamore the velvet denseness of impenetrable black prevailed. once dog saw figures outlined on the bluff from which bear cat had fallen, and had to lie still for the seeming of hours, trusting to the favor of the shadow. eventually he succeeded in drawing the mass of flotsam shoreward until he could wade in to the shallows, chancing the quicksands that were tricky there. then he stumbled up the bank with his burden and deposited it between two bowlders where without daylight it would hardly be found. dog was thinking fast, now. he did not yet know whether he had saved a living man or retrieved a dead body, but his eagerness for investigation on that score must wait. now he must rejoin the chase and turn it away from such dangerous nearness to its quarry. so tate ran down the bank and shouted. voices replied and figures became visible on the farther shore. "i seed him fall in," came the mendacious assurance of the man who was playing two parts. "i waded in atter him--but he went floatin' on down stream." "did he look like he mout be alive?" was the anxious query and the reply came as promptly. "he had every seemin' of bein' stone dead." for a while they searched the banks, until, having discovered the hat, they decided to go back and let the final hunt for the body wait until morning. but dog had gone home and roused joe sanders, who had come in about midnight from another group of searchers, and the two of them had slipped back and recovered the limp burden--to find it still alive. between midnight and dawn they carried bear cat to the house of bud jason. the wound this time had glanced the skull, bringing unconsciousness but no fracture. the shock and the hours of lying wet in the freezing air had resulted in something like pneumonia, and for days bear cat had lain there in fever and delirium. but the old miller had held grimly on despite the danger of discovery, and his woman had nursed with her rude knowledge of herbs, until the splendid reserve of strength, that had already been so prodigally taxed, proved itself still adequate. he had raved, they told him later, of shaking hands with someone whom he hated. "hev ye raided any more stills?" demanded bear cat when at last he had been able to talk, and dog, who had been in every day, grinned: "we 'lowed thet could wait a spell," he assured the crusader. "we had our hands right full es hit war." but the morning following jerry henderson's funeral, two more coils of copper were discovered aloft, and one of the men who had composed kinnard's relay of messengers was liberated at daybreak after spending several tedious and unsatisfactory hours lashed to a dog-wood sapling. * * * * * if kinnard towers had raged before, now he fumed. heretofore, it had been a condition of open war or one of acknowledged, even if precarious, peace. this was a mongrel situation which was neither the one nor the other, and every course was a dangerous one. the stacys held their counsel, neither sanctioning the incorrigible black sheep of their flock in open declaration, nor yet totally relinquishing their right to avenge him, if an outside hand fell upon him. meanwhile, the fiction of this young trouble-maker's charmed life was arousing the superstitious to its acceptance as a sort of powerful fetish. the very name bear cat was beginning to fall from the lips of tow-headed children, with open-mouthed awe, like a term of witchcraft, and this candid terror of children was, of course, only a reflection of the unconfessed, yet profound impression, stamped upon the minds of their elders. "what ails everybody hyarabouts?" rumbled kinnard over his evening pipe. "heretofore when a man needed killin' he's been kilt--an' thet's all thar was ter hit. this young hellion walks inter sure death traps an' walks out ergin. he falls over a clift inter a ragin' torrent--an' slips through an army of men. in satan's name, what air hit?" black tom's rejoinder was not cheering: "ef ye asks me, i think all these stories of witchcraft, backed up by his luck, hes cast a spell on folks. they thinks bear cat's in league with grave-yard spooks." kinnard knocked the ashes out of his pipe. his lips curled contemptuously. "an' es fer yoreself--does you take stock in thet damn' foolery, too?" "i hain't talkin' erbout myself," retorted tom sullenly. "ye asked erbout what folks was cogitatin' an' i'm a-tellin' ye. if ye don't believe thar's a notion thet graves opens an' ther dead fights with him, jest go out an' talk ter these benighted hill-billies yoreself. if evidence air what ye wants, ye'll git a lavish of hit." those who were in bear cat's confidence constituted a close corporation, and they were not all, like dog and joe, men who mixed also with the enemy, gaining information while they railed against their own leader. there was talk of secret and mysterious meetings held at midnight by oath-bound men--to whom flowed a tide of recruits. kinnard believed these meetings to be a part of the general myth. his crude but effective secret service could gather no tangible evidence in support of their storied sessions. one evening report drifted in to the quarterhouse that some one had seen bear cat stacy at a point not far distant, and that he had been boldly walking the open road--unaccompanied. within the hour a party was out, supplied with jugs and bottles enough to keep the vengeful fires well fueled throughout the night. it was an evil-looking squad, and its appearance was in no wise deceptive. its members, all save one, had begun their evening at the quarterhouse bar. the one exception was george kelly, a young man recently married, who had gone there to talk other business with towers. george had an instinctive tendency toward straightforwardness, but he had also an infirmity of character which caused him to follow where a more aggressive nature led--and he had fallen under kinnard's domination. his small tract of tillable land was mortgaged, and kinnard held over him the lash of financial supremacy. he could fight, but he could not argue, and when the unofficial posse was sent out that night, being in the place, he lacked the courage to refuse participation. they had found the footprints of the fugitive and had met two men who claimed to have seen him in the flesh, but bear cat himself had eluded them and near midnight they halted to rest. they threw themselves down in a small rock-walled basin which was broken at one point by a narrow gorge, through which they had come. it was a good place to revel in after labor because it was so shut-in that the bonfire they kindled could not be far seen. the jugs were opened and passed around. it had set in to rain, and though they could endure that bodily discomfort while they had white liquor, their provident souls took thought against the rusting of their firearms. the guns were accordingly placed under a ledge of rock a few feet distant, all save one. kelly lacking the buoyant courage of drunkenness, preferred to keep his weapon close at hand. he listened moodily and unresponsively to the obscene stories and ribald songs, which elicited thick peals of laughter from his companions. they had hunted hard, and now they were wassailing hard. the long march home would sober them so they need not restrain their appetites. some impulse led kelly to raise his eyes from the sordid picture in the red waver of the fire and glance toward the doorlike opening of the gorge. the eyes remained fixed--and somehow the rifle on his knees did not come up, as it should have done. a figure stood there silently, contemptuously looking on, and it was as gaunt and gray as that of a foraging wolf. it was as lean and sinewy, too, and out of the face glowed a pair of eyes dangerously narrow and glittering. then with a scornful laugh the figure stepped forward, bending lithely from the waist, with two steel-steady hands gripping two automatic pistols at its front. "war you boys a-sarchin' fer me?" demanded bear cat and the trailing voices, that had been drunkenly essaying close harmony, broke off mid-verse. "stay right whar ye're at, every mother's son of ye!" came the sharp injunction. "the man thet stirs air a dead man. this hain't no play-party thet i've done come ter." they sat suddenly silent, abruptly surly and helpless; all save one. george kelly was still armed, and sitting somewhat apart. beseechingly his companions sought by covert glance to signal him that he should avail himself of his armed advantage while they continued to distract the newcomer's attention. bear cat's pistols broke out and two treasured jugs were shattered. "jim towers," came the raspingly dictatorial order, "when ye goes back ter ther quarterhouse ye kin tell kinnard towers thet bear cat stacy hain't ter be captured by no litter of drunkards. tell him he mout es well hire sober murderers or else quit." as towers sat glowering and silent, stacy's voice continued in its stinging contempt. "you damned murder hirelings, does ye think thet i'm ter be tuck prisoner by sneakin' weasels like you?" george kelly had sat silent. now he rose to his feet, and stacy ordered curtly, "lay down thet gun, george. ye're ther only man i'm astonished ter see hyar. i 'lowed ye war better then a hired assassin." from someone came thick-tongued exhortation, "git him, kelly, you've got a gun. git ther damn' parson." in the momentary centering of bear cat's attention upon george, some one slipped with a cat-like furtiveness of motion back into the thicker darkness--toward the cached rifles. then a strange thing happened. george kelly wheeled, ignoring the order to drop his weapon, but instead of pointing it at the lone invader he leveled it across the fire-lit circle. "stop thet!" he yelled. "leave them rifle-guns be or i aims ter shoot." surprise was following on surprise, and the half-befuddled faces of the drinkers went blank with perplexity and incredulity. "what ther hell does ye mean? what did ye come out with us fer?" demanded a shrill voice, and kelly's response spat back at him viciously. "i means thet what bear cat says are true es text. i mean thet 'stid of seekin' ter kill him, i'm a-goin' along with him. i've done been a slave ter kinnard towers long enough--an' right now i aims ter quit." "shell we tell kinnard thet?" demanded jim towers dryly. "tell him any damn' thing ye likes. i'm through with him," and turning toward the astonished stacy, he added, "i reckon we've done all we needs ter do hyar. we've busted thar bottles--an' thet's ter say we've busted thar hearts. let's leave." but bear cat's face was still grim and his words came with a clear-clipped sharpness. "not yit.... they've still got some guns over thar.... i'll hold 'em where they're huddled, steady es a bird-dog. you git them guns." george kelly went circumspectly around the circumference of the fire and started back again, bearing an armful of rifles. at one point he had to pass so close to the dejectedly hulking shoulders of a seated figure that his knee brushed the coat--and at that instant the man swept out his hand and jerked violently at the passing ankle. kelly did not go down, but he lunged stumblingly, and scattered weapons broke from his grasp. even then he had the quickness of thought to throw them outward toward bear cat's feet and leaped side-wise himself, still clinging to one that had not fallen. taking advantage of the excitement jim towers sought to recover his feet--and almost succeeded. but with a readier agility bear cat leaped and his right hand, still gripping the pistol, swept outward in an arc. under a blow that dropped him unconscious and bleeding from a face laid open as if by a shod hoof, towers collapsed, scattering red embers as he fell. two others were on their feet now, but, facing stacy's twin pistols and the rifle in the hands of their deserter, they gauged the chances and without a word stretched their hands high above their heads. "now well tek up a collection--of guns--once more," directed stacy, "an' leave hyar." as two men backed through the gorge into darkness, out of which only one had come, a murder party, disarmed and mortified, shambled to its respective feet and busied itself with a figure that lay insensible with its head among the scattered embers. "george," said turner a half hour later, "ye come ter me when i needed ye right bad--but hit's mighty unfortunate thet ye hed ter do hit jest thet way. ye're ther only man i've got whose name is beknownst ter kinnard towers--an' next ter me, thar won't be a man in ther hills harder dogged. ye hain't been married long--an' ye dastn't go home now." george kelly shook his head. "i'm in hit now up ter my neck--an' thar hain't no goin' back. afore they hes ther chanst ter stop me though, i'm goin' by home ter see my woman, an' bid her fare over ter her folks in virginny." chapter xxiii bear cat stacy had gone with george kelly to the house where his wife was awaiting him that night, and though he had remained outside while the husband went in, it was not hard to guess something of what took place. the wife of only a few months came out a little later with eyes that were still wet with tears, and with what things she was going to take away with her, wrapped in a shawl. she stood by as george kelly nailed slats across the door. already she had put out the fire on the hearth, and about her ankles a lean cat stropped its arched back. bear cat had averted his face, but he heard the spasmodic sob of her farewell and the strange unmanning rattle in the husband's throat. it was a new house, of four-squared logs, recently raised by the kindly hands of neighbors, amid much merry-making and well-wishing and it had been their first home together. now it was no longer a place where they could live. for the man it would henceforth be a trap of death, and the wife could not remain there alone. it stood on ground bought from kinnard towers--and not yet paid for. kelly and his wife paused by the log foot-bridge which spanned the creek at their yard fence. in the gray cheerlessness, before dawn, the house with its stark chimney was only a patch of heavier shadow against ghostly darkness. they looked back on it, with wordless regret, and then a mile further on the path forked, and the woman clutched wildly at her husband's shoulders before she took one way and he the other. "be heedful of yoreself, george," was all she said, and the man answered with a miserable nod. so kelly became turner's companion in hiding, denied the comfort of a definite roof, and depending upon that power of concealment which could only exist in a forest-masked land, heaped into a gigantic clutter of cliffs and honey-combed with natural retreats. but two days after his wife's departure, he was drawn to the place that had been his home by an impulse that outweighed danger, and looked down as furtively as some skulking fox from the tangled elevation at its back. then in the wintry woods he rose and clenched his hands and the muscles about his strong jaw-bones tightened like leather. the chimney still stood and a few uprights licked into charred blackness by flame. his nostrils could taste the pungent reek of a recent fire upon whose débris rain had fallen. for the rest there was a pile of ashes, and that surprising sense of smallness which one receives from the skeleton of a burned house, seemingly at variance with the dignity of its inhabited size. "hit didn't take 'em long ter set hit," was his only comment, but afterward he slipped down and studied upon the frozen ground certain marks that had been made before it hardened. he found an empty kerosene can--and some characteristics, marking the tracks of feet, that seemed to have a meaning for him. so kelly wrote down on the index of his memory two names for future reference. it had occurred to mark tapper, the revenue agent, that the activities of bear cat stacy constituted a great wastage, bringing no material profit to anyone. he himself was left in the disconcerting attitude of a professional who sees his efforts fail while an amateur collects trophies. before long the fame of recent events would cease to be local. the talk would be borne on wayfaring tongues to the towns at the ends of the rails and some local newspaper correspondent, starving on space rates, would discover in it a bonanza. here ready-made was the story of an outlaw waging a successful war on outlawry. it afforded an intensity of drama which would require little embellishment. if such a story went to press there would be news editors quick to dispatch staff correspondents to the scene and from somewhere on the fringes of things these scribes would spill out columns of saffron melodrama. all these matters worked through the thoughts of mark tapper as preliminary and incidental. his part in such publicity would be unpleasant. his superiors would ask questions, difficult to answer, as to why he, backed--in theory--with the power of the government had failed where this local prodigy had made the waysides bloom with copper. decidedly he must effect a secret coalition with bear cat stacy. if he could make some such arrangement as he already had with towers, it might work out to mutual satisfaction. it might be embarrassing for bear cat to raid his kinsmen. it was equally so for tapper to raid towers' favorites. but by exchanging information they could both obtain results as harmonious as the arrangement of jack spratt and his wife. it was all a very pretty scheme for double-and-triple-crossing--but the first difficulty was in seeing bear cat himself. finally mark decided to mail a letter to his man. for all his hiding out it was quite likely that there was a secret line of communication open between his shifting sanctuary and his home. he wrote tactfully inviting turner to meet him across the virginia line where he would be safe from local enemies. he gave assurance that he had no intention of serving any kind of summons and that he would come to the meeting place unaccompanied. he held out the bait of using his influence toward a dismissal of the prosecution against bear cat's father. then he waited. in due time he received a reply in bear cat's own hand. "men that want to see me must come to me. i don't go to them," was the curt reply. "i warn you that it will be a waste of time, but if you will come to the door of the school-house at the forks of skinflint and little slippery at nine o'clock tuesday night there will be somebody to meet you, and bring you to me. if you are not alone or have spies following you, your trouble will be for naught. you won't see anybody. bear cat stacy." at the appointed time and in strict compliance with the designated conditions mark tapper stood at the indicated point. at length a shadow, unrecognizable in the night, gradually detached itself from the surrounding shadows and a low voice commanded, "come on." mark tapper followed the guide whose up-turned collar and down-drawn hat would have shielded his features even had the darker cloak of the night not done so. after fifteen minutes spent in tortuous twisting through wire-like snarls of thorn, the voice said: "stand quiet--an' wait." left alone, the revenuer realized that his guide had gone back to assure himself that no spies were following at a distance. tapper knew this country reasonably well, but at the end of an hour he confessed himself lost. finally he came out on a narrow plateau-like level and heard the roar of water far below him. he saw, too, what looked like a window cut in the solid night curtain itself. then the shadow-shape halted. "go on in thar," it directed, and with something more like trepidation than he cared to admit, tapper groped forward, felt for the doorstep with his toe and rapped. "come in," said a steady voice, and again he obeyed. he stood in an empty cabin and one which had obviously been long tenantless. a musty reek hung between the walls, but on the hearth blazed a hot fire. the wind sent great volumes of choking smoke eddying back into the room from the wide chimney and gusts buffeted in, too, through the seams of the rotting floor. bear cat stacy stood before the hearth alone and seemingly unarmed. he had thrown aside his coat and his arms were folded across a chest still strongly arched. his eyes were boring into the visitor with a gimlet-like and disconcerting penetration. "wa'al," came his crisp interrogation, "what does ye want of me?" "i wanted to talk things over with you, stacy," began the revenuer, and the younger man cut him short with an incisive interruption. "don't call me stacy. call me bear cat. folks round hyar gave me thet name in derision, but i aims ter make hit ther best knowed an' ther wust feared name in ther hills. i aims ter be knowed by hit henceforth." "all right, bear cat. you and i are doing the same thing--from different angles." the visitor paused and drew closer to the fire. he talked with a difficult assumption of ease, pointing out that since bear cat had recognized and declared war on the curse of illicit distilling, he should feel a new sympathy for the man upon whom the government imposed a kindred duty. he had hoped that bear cat would make matters easier by joining in the talk, but as he went on, he became uncomfortably aware that the conversation was a monologue--and a strained one. stacy stood gazing at him with eyes that seemed to punch holes in his sham of attitude. when the revenuer paused silence lay upon the place until he himself broke it. finally tapper reached a lame conclusion, but he had not yet dared to suggest the thing he had come to broach, the arrangement whereby the two of them were to divide territory, and swap betrayals of confidence. "air ye done talkin' now?" the question came with the restrained iciness of dammed-up anger. "well--i guess so. until you answer what i've already said." "then i'll answer ye right speedily. i'm bustin' stills like a man blasts up rock thet bars a road: ter make way fer highways an' schools. _you_ raid stills like kinnard towers' men commit murder--fer hire. i reckon thar hain't no common ground thet we two kin stand on. ye lives by treachery an' blood money. yore saint air judas iscariot an' yore god air gain. i hunts open, an'--though ye won't skeercely comprehend my meanin'--thar's a dream back of what i'm doin'--a big dream." mark tapper flushed brick red, and rose. "bear cat," he said slowly. "your father lies in jail waiting trial. i can do a heap to help him--and a heap to hurt him. you'd better think twice before you turn me away with insults." turner's voice hardened and his eyes became menacing slits. "yes--he lays in jail because kinnard towers bartered with ye ter jail him, but i hain't a-goin' ter barter with ye ter free him. ye talks of turnin' ye away with insult--but i tells ye now hit's all i kin do ter turn ye away without killin' ye." stacy was unarmed and mark's own automatic pistol was in his coat pocket. he should have known better, but the discovery that somehow bear cat stacy had learned his complicity in a murder plot blinded him with an insane fury of fear and the hand leaped, armed, from its pocket. "ef i war you," suggested bear cat, who had not moved the folded arms on his chest, "i wouldn't undertake no vi'lence--leastways tell i'd looked well about me. hev a glance at that trap overhead--an' them two doors." already the officer, with deep chagrin, recognized his folly. the open trap of the loft bristled with rifle mouths. the two doors which had a moment before been closed were now open and showed other muzzles peeping through, but who the men behind the guns might be, there was no indication--and there had been no sound. "i didn't need ter show them guns--jest fer you," said bear cat slowly. "a man don't hardly need ter call his folks tergether ter fight a skunk--but i knowed thet ye'd go back ter kinnard towers, an' i'd jest as lief hev ye name hit ter him, thet ye didn't find me hyar all by myself." he paused and then the cold contempt of his manner gave way to a more explosive anger. "i aims ter furnish ye with a lantern an' one of my men will start ye on yore road.... i wants ter see thet lantern goin' over ther hill-top plumb outen sight--an' i don't want ter see hit hesitate whilst hit goes. ef hit does pause--or ef ye ever comes back ter me ergin with any proffer of partnership, so holp me god almighty, i'll send yore scalp ter washin'ton with my regards ter ther government." he pointed a peremptory finger to the front door. "now, damn ye, begone an' go swiftly!" outside tapper saw a lantern moving, but revealing no face. he knew that it was attached to a long pole and that one side was masked--the hill device of men who need light for their footsteps yet seek to avoid becoming conspicuous--and he followed its glimmer until a voice said, "i reckon ye kin go yore own route from hyar--yon way lies ther high road. ye kin tek ther lantern with ye." * * * * * blossom who, until a few weeks ago, had been thought of as a lovely child, was now the "widder henderson" to all who spoke her name. the people she met accosted her with a lugubrious sympathy which was hard to bear, so that she hastened by with a furtive shyness and an anxiety to be left alone. every day she made her pilgrimage to the graveyard to lay freshly cut evergreens on the grave there, and the rabbit that had its nest deep under the thorns sat on its haunches regarding her with a frank curiosity devoid of fear. he seemed to recognize a kinship of shy aloofness between them which need not set even his most timorous of hearts into a flutter. yet although she was the "widder henderson," who had experienced the bitter fate of so many mountain wives, she was after all, in years and in experience, a child. until a little while ago--a very little while--she had sung with the birds and her spirits had sparkled with the sunshine that flashed back from woodland greenery. life had seemed a simple thing with the rainbow promise of romance lying somewhere ahead. then turner had awakened her to a conception of adult love--a conception which might have satisfied all her dreams had not jerry henderson come to dazzle her and alter her standards of comparison. henderson had, as even his critic at the club admitted, that "damned charm" that is seductively indefinable yet potent, and what had been "damned charm" to the clubman's sophistication was a marvelous and prodigal wonder to the mountain girl. he had wooed her passionately in the shadow of death. he had come back to her through the shadow of death, and left her to go, not only into its shadow, but its grimly mysterious reality. now he was not only her hero but also her martyr. mountain children know little of christmas, except that it is often a period of tragedy, since then men ride wildly with pistol and jug, and hilarity turns too often to homicide. but one christmas legend the children do know: that on the night and at the hour of the saviour's birth the cattle kneel in homage and the sere elder bushes, for a brief matter of miraculous minutes, break into a foam of bloom. blossom clung to that beautiful parable, even now finding comfort in its sentiment, as she stood among the untended graves. "i wonder now," she speculated, nodding her head wistfully toward the inquisitive cotton-tail that sat wriggling its diminutive nose, "i wonder now ef it would be _wrong_ to put some elder branches here christmas eve so thet--that--if they does bloom--i mean _do_ bloom--they'd be nigh him?" "howdy, blossom," accosted a voice and the girl looked up startled. lone stacy's wife stood at the thicketed edge of the burial-ground, gazing at her, with eyes less friendly than their former wont. the girl-widow came slowly forward, trying to smile, but under that unblinking stare she felt unhappy, and the older woman went on with a candid bluntness. "la! ye've done broke turrible, hain't ye? an' ye used ter be ther purtiest gal hyarabouts, too." "it's been--hard times fer me," blossom answered faintly. "hit's done been right hard times fer all of us, i reckon," came the uncompromising rejoinder, "but thet hain't no proper cause ter ketch yore death of grave-yard damp," and with that admonition, mrs. stacy went on her way. blossom stood silently looking after her, wondering vaguely why that almost resentful note of hardness had rasped in her voice. "i haven't done nothin'--anything, i mean," she murmured in distress. "why did she look at me that way, i wonder." then suddenly she understood. that was just it. she had not done anything. the old woman was alone; her husband in prison and her son hunted from hiding place to hiding place like some beast dogged to death, and she, the girl who had always been like a daughter in that house, had been too stunned by her own sorrow to take account of her neighbor's distress. mrs. stacy had always expected that blossom's children would be her grandchildren. turner had been wounded in defense of jerry henderson. into the girl's memory flashed a picture with a vivid completeness which had failed to impress her in its just proportions at the time of its reality. then her eyes had been engrossed with one figure in the group to the exclusion of all others. now in retrospect she could visualize the trio that had stumbled through the door of her house, when they brought jerry henderson in. she could see again the way bear cat had reeled and braced himself against the wall, and the stricken wretchedness of his face. slowly the tremendous self-effacement of his generosity began to dawn upon her, and to sting her with self-reproach. so long as she lived she felt that her heart was dead to any love save that for the man in the grave, but to the old comradeship--to the gratitude for such a friendship as few women had ever had--she would no longer be recreant. no wonder that turner's mother looked at her with tightly pressed lips and hostile eyes. she would go over there and do what she could to make amends and alleviate the loneliness of a house emptied of its men; a house over which hung the unlifting veil of terror, which saw in the approach of every passer-by a possible herald of tragedy. * * * * * uncle israel calvert sat alone by the small red-hot stove of his way-side store late in the afternoon. he was half dozing in his hickory-withed chair, and it was improbable that any customer would arouse him. a wild day of bellowing wind was spending itself in gusty puffs and the promise of blizzard, while a tarnished sun sank into lurid banks of cloud-threat. uncle israel's pipe had gone out, though it still hung precariously between his clean-shaven jaws and his white poll fell drowsily forward from time to time. he listened between cat-naps to the voice of the storm and mumbled to himself. "i reckon nobody won't come in ter-night--leastways nobody thet hain't hurtin' powerful bad fer some plumb needcessity." then he fell again to dozing. the rush of wind through a door suddenly opened, and closed, roused him, and seeing the figure of a man on the threshold, uncle israel came to his feet with a springy quickness of amazement. "bear cat!" he exclaimed. "hell's blazes, man, whar did ye drap from?" but at the same moment he went discreetly to the window and, since the shutters hinged from outside, hastily hung two empty jute sacks across the smeared panes. "uncle israel," bear cat spoke with the brevity of one in haste, as he tossed a wet rubber poncho and black hat to the counter, "hev ye got any black cloth on them shelves?" the storekeeper went ploddingly around the counter and began inspecting his wares, rubbing his chin as he peered through the dim lamp-light. "wa'al now," he pondered, "let's see. i've got jest what ye mout call a scant remainder of this hyar black domestic. i don't keep no great quantity because thar hain't no severe call fer hit--save fer them women-folks thet affects mournin'. ther widder henderson bought most of what i had a few days back." bear cat stacy flinched a little, but the old man had his face to his shelves and did not see that. "ye'd better lay in a stock then," said turner curtly. "henceforth thar's liable ter be _more_ demand." something in the tone made uncle israel turn sharply. "does ye mean fer mournin'?" he demanded, and the reply was enigmatical. "mebby so--but fer another kind of mournin' then what ye hev in mind, i reckon. these hills has a plenty ter mourn about. i reckon ye'll heer tell of this black cloth again." * * * * * it was a night when cabin doors were tight-barred and when families huddled indoors, drawing close to the fires that roasted their faces while their backs were cold from wind hissing through the chinks in wall and puncheon flooring. even the drag net of kinnard towers' search lay idle to-night in the icy grip of the storm. through the wildness of shrieking winds, lashing the tree-tops, some men said that they heard ghostly incantations like the chant of a great company of restless spirits. jim towers, who had been knocked sprawling into his own bonfire before the eyes of his myrmidons, was feeling somewhat appeased in spirit to-night. he dwelt in a two-story house so weatherproof that, for him, the tempest remained an external matter. to-night he had with him some half-dozen friends who had come for counsel earlier in the day and whom the storm had interned there for the night. they were all men who had been with him on the expedition that had gone awry when george kelly had deserted. now, as then, the company was defeating tedium with wassail. the drab woman who was jim's wife, and his slave, had fed them all to repletion with "side-meat" and corn pone and gravy, and had withdrawn to a chair apart, where she sat forgotten. they had been cursing bear cat stacy and george kelly until their invectives had been exhausted and the liquor had warmed them into a cheerier mood in which they planned spectacular and complete reprisal. "es fer kelly, i reckon he's got his belly full an' bustin' already," boasted jim towers with an unpleasant chuckle. "charlie reverdy, hyar, an' me hes seen ter thet right fully. in ther place whar his dwellin'-house stood thar hain't nothin' left but jest a pile of ashes. he dastn't show his face in ther open--an' in due time kinnard aims ter fo'close on ther ground hitself." "george kelly hain't ther only man thet's aidin' an' abettin' him, though," demurred a saturnine guest, whose hair grew down close to his eyebrows. "no man knows how many low-down sons of hussies he's got with him." jim towers laughed and poured from jug to tin-cup. "a single fox kin hide out whar a pack of wolves would hev ter shew themselves," he said. "i estimate thet he's got mebby a half dozen--an' afore long now we'll hev ther hides of ther outfit nailed up an' dryin' out." at length the host arose and stretched his arms sleepily. "i reckon hit's mighty nigh time ter lay down," he suggested, and as yawning lips assented he added, "be quiet a minute--i want ter listen. 'pears like ther storm's done plumb spent hitself an' abated." a silence fell upon them, and then as an uncanny and inexplicable sound came to their ears, they stood transfixed, and into their bewilderment crept an unconfessed hint of panic. their eyes dilated as though they had been confronted by an apparition, and yet none of them was accounted timorous. "hell an' tormint, what _air_ thet?" whispered jim towers in a hissing undertone. they all fell into attitudes of concentrated attention--bent forward and listening. out in the night where there had been only the lashing of wind, rose a swell of song, bursting confidently and ominously from human throats. it sounded like a mighty chorus carried on the lips of a marching host, and with its martial assurance it brought a terrifying menace. "i've heered thet song afore," quavered the woman, whose lips were ashen as she rose out of her obscurity. "hit's called ther battle hymn--my daddy l'arned hit in ther war over slavery ... hit says su'thin 'bout 'my eyes hes seed ther glory of ther comin' of ther lord!'" "shet up, woman," commanded her husband, roughly. "i'm a-listenin'." towers braced himself against a nameless foreboding and went cautiously to the door, picking up his rifle on the way. the other men, instinctively drifted toward their weapons, too, though they felt it to be as futile a defense as arming against ghosts. soon the master of the house was back, with a face of greenish pallor. he licked his lips and stammered in his effort at speech. "i kain't ... in no fashion ... make hit out--" he admitted. "thar's a host of torches comin' hither.... they're flamin' like es ef hell hitself war a-marchin' in on us!" the woman threw herself down on her knees and fell into hysterical and incoherent prayer. for a little space the men stood irresolute, divided between a wild impulse to seek hiding in the timber and a sentiment in favor of pinning their trust to the strength of solid walls and barred doors. but upon their jarred nerves the great volume of sound, crashing nearer and nearer, beat like a gathering flood. turning out the lamp and half-smothering the fire, jim towers stole noiselessly to the back door and opened it to a narrow slit. he thrust forth his head and drew it back again as precipitately as though it had been struck by a fist. "what did ye see?" came the whispered interrogation from stiff lips, and the man hoarsely gasped out his response. "thar was--a black ghost standin' thar--black as sin from head ter foot. he held a torch, an' each side of him stood another one jest like him--good god! i reckon hit's jedgment day an' nothin' less!" the woman had slipped out of sight, but now she came lurching back in wild terror. "i peeked outen a winder," she whimpered. "thar's score on' score of men--or sperrits out thar--all black as midnight. they've got torches flamin'--but they hain't got no faces--jest black skulls! oh--lord, fergive my sins!" then upon front and back doors simultaneously came a loud rapping, and the men inside fell into a rude circle, as quail hover at night with eyes out-turned against danger. "i'm bear cat stacy," came a voice of stentorian command. "open the doors--and drop yore guns. we don't seek ter harm no women ner children." still there was dead silence inside, as eye turned to eye for counsel. then against the panels they heard the solid blow of heavy timbers. chapter xxiv when the door fell in, bear cat stacy stepped across the splintered woodwork, unarmed save for the holstered pistol in his belt. he made a clear target for at his back was the red and yellow glare of blazing flambeaux. yet no finger pressed its trigger because the mad uselessness of resistance proclaimed itself. like flood-water running through a broken dyke, a black and steady stream flowed around him into the house, lining the walls with a mourning border of unidentified human figures. their funereal like had never before been seen in the hills, and they seemed to come endlessly with an uncanny silence and precision. they were not ghosts but men; men draped in rubber ponchos or slickers that fell, glinting with the sheen of melted snow, to their knees. their black felt hats were pointed into cones and under the brims their eyes looked out through masks of black cloth that betrayed no feature. except for bear cat stacy himself and george kelly, who were both unmasked, no man was recognized--and no voice sounded to distinguish its possessor. the mauling of the battering ram on the rear door ceased and a pulseless quiet followed save for the tramp-tramp of feet as yet other spectral and monotonously similar figures slipped through the door and fell into enveloping ranks along the walls, and for the woman's half-smothered hysteria of fright. angered by her disconcerting sobs, jim towers seized his wife's shoulder and shook her brutally. "damn ye, shet up afore i hurts ye," he snarled, and, as he finished, bear cat stacy's open hand smote him across the lips and brought a trickle of blood. into the eyes of the trapped man came an evil glitter of ineffectual rage, and from an upper room rose the wail of awakened children. "go up sta'rs, ma'am, an' comfort ther youngsters," turner quietly directed the woman. "no harm hain't a-goin' ter come ter you--ner them." then, wheeling, he ripped out a command to the huddled prisoners. "drap them guns!" when the surrendered arms had been gathered in, stacy drew his captives into line and nodded to george kelly, who stepped forward, his face working with a strong emotion. one could see that only the effect of acknowledged discipline stifled his longing to leap at the throat of jim towers. "kin ye identify any one man or more hyar, es them thet burned down yore dwellin' house? if ye kin, point him out." walking to a position from which he directly confronted towers, kelly raised a finger unsteady with rage and thrust it almost into the face itself. then the hand grew steady and remained accusingly poised. there was a moment of silence, tensely charged, which bear cat's voice broke with a steady precision of judicial inquiry. "what proof hev ye got ter offer us?" "make him lift up his right foot an' show ther patch thet he's got on ther sole an' ther nails on ther heel," demanded kelly eagerly, but at that stacy shook his head. "no. fust ye tell us what manner of shoe hit war--then we'll see ef ye're right." george kelly described a print made by a shoe, home-mended with a triangular patch, and with a heel from whose circle of hobs, two were missing. "now," snapped bear cat. "let's see thet shoe. tek hit off." reluctantly the man whose house had been invaded stooped and unlaced his brogan. stacy wheeled abruptly to face one of the lines against the wall. "you men thet seen them foot-prints, atter thet fire, step ter ther fore." a quartette of figures detached themselves and formed a squad facing the captives and when the shoe had been passed from hand to hand along their line turner went forward with his inquisition. from no other throat came a syllable of sound. "i wants every man thet's willin' ter take oath thet he recognizes thet sole--as ther same one thet made them prints--ter raise his right hand above his head. ef he hain't p'intedly sure, let him keep his arms down, an' ef he misdoubts hit's ther same identical shoe, let him hold up his left hand." in prompt unison four right hands came up, and, having testified, the mute witnesses fell back again to their places against the walls. "does ye _ree_cognize anybody else, thet war thar?" kelly was questioned and without a falter of doubt he again thrust an index finger forward close to the blanching face of charlie reverdy. jim towers stood bracing himself with a stiff-necked effort at defiance. he was caught by an overwhelming force of his enemies--and no help was at hand. no rescue was possible and he expected death, as in similar circumstances, he would have inflicted it. but the sneer which he forced to his lips could not out-testify the sickly green of his pallor as he awaited his sentence. when the identification of reverdy had been also corroborated by similar procedure, bear cat turned once more to confront towers. "hev ye any denial ter make? hev ye anything ter say?" "all i've got ter say," was the insolent retort, "air thet ye kin go ter hell. finish up yore murder ... ye kain't affright me none." "burnin' down dwellin' houses air a grave matter," pursued stacy with a grim calm. "hangin' hain't none too severe fer any man thet would foller hit. so we hyarby sentences ye ter death--but we suspends ther sentence. we don't aim ter hang ye--leastways not yit." after a pause freighted with deep anxiety for the accused he added, "all we aims ter do with ye air ter tie ye on bare-backed mules thet's right bony an' slavish ter ride, an' ter tek ye acrost ther line inter virginny." the tone in which the edict was pronounced bore inexorable and sincere finality. "but from thar on, both of ye air ter leave ther mountings an' never come back ter this community ergin. an' ef ye _does_ undertake ter come back, we swears afore almighty god ter kill ye both--an' onless ye both gives yore solemn oath ter faithfully obey this command--we'll kill ye now an' hyar." there was no choice. grudgingly the pair accepted exile, which after all was a more lenient punishment than they had expected or deserved. towers was permitted to take leave of his family, but it is doubtful if the woman regarded that parting as an unmixed affliction. slowly the culprits were escorted out to see in the darkness of the forests other black shapes that wavered fantastically and dreadfully under the flare and sputter of pine torches. at the middle of a long column, twisting like a huge snake along deserted roads, they were escorted into banishment. the other men in the house were held prisoners until dawn. then each, blindfolded and in custody of a separate squad, was taken to a point distant from his home--and liberated. the morning came with a crystal clarity and hills locked in a grip of ice, but the army whose marching song had startled sleeping cabins into wakefulness had dissolved as though its ghostly existence could not survive the light of day. yet behind that appearance and disappearance had been left an impression so profound that the life of the community would never again be precisely what it had been before. a new power had arisen, inexplicable and mysterious--but one that could no longer be ignored. with bated breath, around their hearth fires, the timorous and ignorant gossiped of witchcraft, and sparking swains were already singing to the accompaniment of banjo and "dulcimore" ballads of home-made minstrelsy, celebrating the unparalleled achievements of the young avenger of wrong-doings and his summary punishment of miscreants. they sang of the man who: "riz outen ther night with black specters at his back, ter ther numbers of scores upon scores, an' rid straightway ter ther dwellin' house of bad jim towers, who treemored es they battered down ther doors." more than one mountain girl bent forward listening with heightened pulses as the lad who had come "sweet-heartin'" her shrilled out his chorus. "so his debt fer thet evil jim towers hed ter pay, fer they driv him outen old kaintuck, afore ther break of day. all sich es follers burnin' down a pore man's happy home, will hev ter reck ther bear cat's wrath an' no more free ter roam." and perhaps as the lass listened, she wondered if her own home-spun cavalier might not be going straight from her door to one of those mysterious meetings where oath-bound men gathered in awful and spectral conclave. sometimes, too, it was not only a song but an actual sight as well, which made the flesh creep along the scalp. sometimes out of the distances came, first low and faint, then swelling into fulness that chorus of male voices along the breeze, and after it came the sight of a long serpent of light crawling the highways. through doors opened only to slits wondering eyes peered out into the blackness while that mysterious procession passed, seemingly an endless line of torches shining on black horsemen riding in single file. when the singing ended and the night-riders went in silence they were even more awe-inspiring and ghost-like than before--and, except by remembering that the man of the house was absent, no woman could guess who any member of the train might be, for they passed with hat brims bent low and black masks coming down to their black slickers, and even their horses were swathed in flowing coverings of the same inky disguise. they were torch-lit silhouettes riding the night, but when they passed, those who saw them knew that some task was being accomplished in which the law had failed and that somewhere black dread would deservedly strike. kinnard towers himself, racking his brain, took a less romantic view, but one of equal concern. "hit's done got beyond a hurtful pest now," he grumbled to black tom as the two of them sat over their pipes. "ther longer he goes on unchecked ther more an' more fools will flock ter him. he's gittin' ther _people_ behind him an' hit's a-spreadin' like hawg cholera amongst young shoats." "does ye 'low they're all stacys--or air thar some of our own kin mixed in with 'em?" queried tom anxiously, and because he, too, had been pondering that vexing question, the towers leader shook his head moodily. "thar hain't no possible way of tellin'. they seems ter possess a means of smellin' a man thet hain't genu-_wine_ly fer 'em an' sich-like kain't git inter no meetin's ter find out nothin'." he puffed out a cloud of smoke and sought to comfort himself with specious optimism. "i reckon folks is misled as ter numbers, though. a few folks ridin' in ther night-time with noise an' torches looks like a whole passel." "they acts like a whole passel, too," supplemented black tom, who had a blunt and unrelieved fashion of speaking his mind. "what does ye aim ter do erbout hit all?" the florid man brought his great fist down on the table and his bull-like neck swelled with anger. "i aims ter keep right on twell i gits this damned young night-rider hisself. ther minute he dies ther rest of hit'll fall in like a roof without no ridge-pole." he paused, then went on musingly: "i wouldn't be amazed none if fulkerson's gal knows whar he's at right frequent. i've done _dee_vised a means ter hev her lead somebody ter him some time when he's by hisself. ratler webb seed him walkin' alone in ther woods only yistiddy." "why didn't ratler git him then?" kinnard ground his teeth. "why don't none of 'em ever git him? he claims he hed a bad ca'tridge in his rifle-gun an' hit snapped on him. folks calls him bear cat an' hit 'pears like he's got nine lives in common with other cats. we've got ter keep right on till we puts an end ter all of em." black tom was so inconsiderate as to burst in a raucous laugh of ridicule. "hit usen't ter be so damn' hard ter kill one man," was his unfeeling comment. about that time kinnard's man-pack developed a strong disinclination to take bold chances of falling in with the black army of torches. they moved about their tasks with such constraint that their quarry had a correspondingly greater freedom and latitude. and moonshiners no longer boasted defiance, but dug in and became infinitely secretive. in spite of all these precautions, however, day after day saw new trophies hanging along way-side branches until there were few left to hunt out. one afternoon, walking alone through the woods, bear cat stacy stooped at the edge of a "spring branch" to quench his thirst, and as he knelt he saw floating past him yellow and broken grains of corn. cautiously and invisibly he followed the stream upward, worming himself along until he lay looking in upon the tiny plant of a typical illicit still. its fire was burning under the mash kettle and back far enough to escape the revealing light was a bark roofed, browse-thatched retreat in which sat an old man, reflectively smoking. as bear cat looked on, a startled surprise came into his expression and his face worked spasmodically as if in pain. he wished he might not have seen the floating evidence which had brought him here and confronted him with the hardest tug-of-war between sincerity and blood-loyalty that he had yet encountered. the man huddled there in his rabbit-warren retreat was old turner stacy, brother of bear cat's father and the uncle for whom he had himself been named. bear cat had not even suspected that this kinsman was operating such a plant. the elder turner stacy was a fierce and close-mouthed fellow whose affairs were confided to no one. bracing himself for an ordeal, bear cat emerged from his concealment and walked forward. at sight of an unannounced visitor the old man's hand went quickly out toward the rifle lying at his side, but as he recognized the face, he rose without it and stood silently glowering. "uncle turner," began the nephew seriously, "i hain't hardly willin' ter use fo'ce erginst ye--but ye knows what hit would sound like fer folks ter fling hit up erginst me thet i'm favorin' my own blood. i wants thet ye give me yore hand ter quit." for a moment the aged face worked with passion, its white beard bristling and its eyes flaming. "who do ye think ye air--god almighty?" came the angry question. "who give ye license ter come brow-beatin' yore elders? yore own paw's in jail now because somebody betrayed him.... i wonder war hit _you_!" the young man recoiled as though an unexpected blow in the face had stunned him. "my god," he exclaimed in a low voice, "i didn't never expect ter hear a kinsman charge me with sich infamy. i reckon i've got ter look over hit though. ye're my father's brother an' ye're right aged." he paused and then his voice changed to one crisp and peremptory. "i reckon ye knows i've got ther power ter compel ye as i've compelled others. does ye aim ter destroy thet thing yoreself,--now,--or does ye want thet i brings fo'ce?" there ensued a half hour of storm, but at its end the older stacy bowed to necessity. he, too, knew of the black army, and though he swore like a baffled pirate into his beard he capitulated. bear cat left a demolished place, carrying with him a fresh trophy, but he went with a heavy heart. it would have surprised him had he known that, left alone, his uncle's wrath had turned suddenly to amusement for some private joke of his own. as the old man watched the retreating figure he chuckled and mumbled to himself. "hit's right good fortune thet he came this week 'stid of next," he soliloquized as he refilled his pipe's bowl, still smiling. "i'm glad he didn't know i'd done ordered me a brand-new worm--an' thet hit's due ter get hyar right soon." as he puffed at the home grown tobacco, the elder turner stacy added: "i reckon, though, i'd better pick out a fresh spot afore i sets ther new one up." * * * * * since blossom had realized her neglect of turner's mother that day in the grave yard she had sought to make amends by many small attentions and frequent visits. one afternoon as she came into the house, she found mrs. stacy, who had been bed-ridden with a deep cold, dressing herself with weak and trembling hands. the girl's face became instantly stern. "i told ye not ter rise from yore bed ter-day," she began and the other woman dropped into a chair in pure feebleness. "i don't seem ter hev no stren'th lef' in me," she complained. "seems like i've got a thousand bones inside me--an' all on 'em achin'." "you must go back to bed, straightway. i'll brew ye somethin' hot an' kiver ye up, an' read ter ye twell ye goes ter sleep." but mrs. stacy responded with a short laugh that rasped bitterly. "turney air a hidin' out ter-night in thet small cavern whar ye tuck mr. henderson oncet. i've done carried him victuals over thar twict since he's been livin' like a varmint in the woods. i war jest makin' ready ter sot out ergin. ther riders hain't a-meetin' ter-night an' he's thar all by hisself." "whar's george kelly?" demanded blossom quickly, for she was to some degree initiated in the operating methods of turner and his followers. "he's done fared over inter virginny ter visit his wife. she's ailin'." "but i don't understand. what does turner need?" the mother trembled with a sudden access of the terror she had been fighting back. her voice rose shrilly and broke: "he needs ter be fore-warned. his enemies hev diskivered whar he's at--an' they aims ter trap him thar ter-night." the color went out of the girl's face as she questioned tensely. "how--how did ye hear tell of this?" "a leetle while back i heered a shout outside, an i riz' up an' went ter ther door. thar wasn't nobody in sight, but i found this hyar letter stuck thar with a pin. whosoever hit war thet left hit, hed done went away." she held out a clenched, talon-like hand and opened it, and on a small sheet of ruled paper, printed out unevenly, blossom read the anonymous message: "i can't be seen giving you this letter because i'm accounted to be kinnard's man. they knows where bear cat is hiding to-night and are planning according. git him warned straightway.--a friend." "thet's all i knows," moaned the mother, "but thar hain't nobody with him--an' he don't suspicion nothin'." the girl was already throwing her discarded shawl about her shoulders. "you go right back ter bed. i reckon ye kin trust me ter warn him." her eyes were full of warlike fire. "i kin go quicker then you, an' i won't pause till i've got thar an' told him." "ye'll fare right back again, won't ye?" quavered the sick woman. "an' fotch me tidin's--thet he got away safe." blossom had been a little stoop-shouldered of late with that carelessness of carriage that comes from grief, but now again she was lance-like in her straightness and vibrant with the determination of a valkyr. "i'll come back ter ye," she vowed and then she burst out: "i reckon this day i kin pay back some leetle part of ther debt i owes to turney. god knows he's done enough fer me!" she went over the steep path with the light fleetness of some wild thing--and of course she did not know that after her, unseen and silent as a shadow, followed a slouching figure, using her as a guide. she did not know either that, as she left the more traveled ways and turned abruptly into the thicketed forest, that figure was joined by two others, or that one of them, after a few whispered words, struck off to communicate with more distant members of the hidden pack. a wild haste drove her for she knew that turner trusted the secrecy of that cave, known, as he thought, only to his friends. every moment she could gain for him would mean a distance put between him and his peril. several times she paused just long enough to look about and assure herself that she was not being followed--and then went forward again, falsely reassured by the silence and seeming emptiness of the wintry woods. pantingly she came to the mouth of the cave. before it lay a small plateau, gashed across by a gulch that went down a sheer hundred feet and littered with piles of broken and gigantic rock. the opening to the grotto itself was tucked back between these great bowlders, and for that reason had remained so nearly undiscovered. just outside the fissure, she halted and gave the old signal of the owl's call. thrice she repeated it, and then as she stood with her hands pressed to her heart, she saw a face appear, and a moment later bear cat had thrust himself lengthwise out of the bottle neck, and stood at her side, his face glowing with surprised delight for her coming. "blossom!" he cried. "what brought ye?" and in his voice throbbed the rebirth of wild hope for the miracle which, he had told himself, would never come back into his life. but blossom laid a sobering hand on his arm and talked rapidly. "thar's dire need of haste an' little time fer speech. yore enemies know you're here an' ter-night they're comin' ter hem ye in--an slay ye. fer god's sake go--swiftly!" the man's face, which had softened into tenderness, stiffened. he gulped down his disappointment and said simply, "i'm obleeged ter ye, blossom," then went into the black cranny. the girl could see the dim glow of his electric torch flashing there, but as she waited she heard something from the other direction which made her heart miss its beat; the sound of furtively guarded voices somewhere in the litter of bowlders. instantly she, too, disappeared into the fissure. "they're hyar a'ready," she panted. "i've done come too late. thar hain't but ther one way out, neither, is thar?" for an instant turner stacy stood immovable, listening as his thumb slid back the hammer of his rifle. "thar hain't but one way _you_ kin go out," he told her--"ther same way ye come in." his face was grim and hurriedly he went on: "but hyar of late i diskivered a leetle hole jest big enough ter crawl through--way back at ther end of a small gulch. thar's a tree-top nigh by--but ye hes ter dive fer hit offen ther edge of ther clift--and trust god ter aid ye when ye seeks ter ketch hold of a limb. i reckon mebby i mout go out thet way--ef i war by myself." but blossom's eyes had lighted with a sudden hope. "ye've got ter try hit, then, turney," she declared staunchly. "take yore pistol an' leave me yore rifle. i'll make 'em think ye're still hyar fer a spell anyhow." "does ye reckon i'd go away an' leave ye hyar ter them wolves?" questioned the man scornfully, and with palms against his chest, as if she would push him bodily back to the one chance of escape, she spoke urgently: "in thet leetle hole thar, one gun kin hold back a whole mob an' ef ye gits away i reckon ye kin git some friends an' come back, kain't ye?" "ef i kin make pinnacle rock an' light a fire thar--i kin hev a score of men hyar in two hours' time--but two hours----" he broke off with a groan. "then do hit. i kin hold 'em back longer then thet. ef they does git in, i'll pretend ye jest left by ther backway. they won't harm me nowhow." he doubted that, but he knew that his staying meant ultimate death for both of them, and that once outside he had a chance to rally his forces for her rescue. for a little longer his reluctance to abandon her even temporarily held him in quandary, then realizing that it offered the only hope, he seized her fingers in a tight grasp and whispered: "farewell--then. god be with ye twell i gits back." he worked his way along a twisting passage hitherto known only to spiders and bats until at length he could see a yellow shred of westering sky through a narrow rent in the blackness. as he edged his body through the rift he heard a rifle shot reverberating brokenly through the twisting tunnels, followed by a dogged spatter of response--or was it only echo? he ground his teeth and poised himself precariously on a foothold, inches wide, and treacherously insecure. he measured the distance to a hickory branch that the wind rocked and between its support and himself was emptiness. the scaly bark of the limb for which he must leap was near the top of a tree whose roots were planted fifty feet lower. turner gathered his muscles into elastic readiness--and plunged outward. there was an instant of terrific uncertainty, then he swung pendulum-like, upon a support that sagged and gave under his weight as he hooked his knees about the branch and drank in a deep breath of thanksgiving. blossom, kneeling unseen and partly protected by a sandstone barricade, had been peering out at the broken gulches which were already filling with a dusky gray. she must keep those alley ways clear and there were two of them. a twilight depression gnawed at her heart. finally she saw a furtive and leering face thrust slowly and cautiously around the angle of stone. her pulses pounded, but her rifle was trained, and her hands unshaking. for the first time since henderson's murder, something like a thrill warmed her veins. now she could hit back and avenge and take a man's chance of death in doing it. then the man, bent on reconnaissance, ventured a forward step. he had not come quite far enough to see the opening itself though he knew that it must be hidden somewhere among those bowlders. he peered with lynx-like eagerness--ready to leap back if need be--and blossom pressed her trigger. without a groan the figure wilted down and lay in grotesque shapelessness between the rocks. the fusillade which came in response was random and ineffective, and the girl, nerved to battle, found the long and anxious silence which ensued a purgatory of suspense. at the end she knew they would attempt to overwhelm defense in a charge and the passing minutes ate like decay into the tissue of her courage. then what she dreaded came. they were making a rush through both alleys at once. if they succeeded in crossing the twenty feet of open danger, they could spread out on each side of the cave's mouth, themselves safe by reason of the angle, and seal the place up like a tomb. yet the first assault broke into demoralized flight under her fierce welcome of fire and two other assailants fell wounded. once more soundless minutes dragged by in interminable suspense--then as the second charge was launched, blossom's rifle jammed its mechanism and became dead in her hands. she threw it down and ran toward the passage at the back. as it narrowed until she had to go on hands and knees, she heard voices inside the cave--and then for the first time her nerves snapped and she fainted. chapter xxv when the curtain of unconsciousness rolled up again blossom was no longer in the cave, but was lying on the ground between the rocks outside. it was dark now, but a lantern was lighted near at hand, and her wrists and ankles ached with the bite of knotted ropes. although she could see no one, she had the distinct sense of eyes gazing at her from somewhere beyond the narrow circle of light and as she stirred uneasily, she heard a voice that seemed to come from behind the sandstone at her right. "she's done come ter herself. now we've need ter hasten." then from her left a sugar-loaf bowlder appeared to question her. "whar did he go to? you knows an' we knows ye know--an' we don't aim ter be trifled with neither. ef ye speaks out honest an' ready, we'll go an' git him fust an' then come back an' sot ye free afterwards." blossom writhed with a realization that she was in the hands of creatures as savagely merciless as wolves, but she set her teeth. "i hain't never a-goin' ter tell ye," she declared staunchly, "not ef ye kills me!" a satirical laugh drifted from the shadows. "all right, then, we've done made provision fer thet, too. ef ye won't tell us whar he's at we'll find out fer ourselves, but we aims ter leave one man hyar with ye when we goes. he's done been drinkin' right-smart licker--an' he natch'rally won't want ye ter go away an' tell his name ter nobody." the unseen speaker paused significantly, then added with a deliberate brutality: "i reckon ye'll have ter be mighty sweet ter thet man ef ye hopes ter go away from hyar alive." the girl lay blanched but unyielding. she did not dare to hope that the threat was empty and her single chance lay in parrying for time. bear cat had said he would come back with reinforcements in two hours--if he won through--but he, too, was facing desperate odds and already they might have overwhelmed him: he might have failed in his dive from precipice to tree-top. her heart sank into a nausea of terror. no outrage was beyond these human jackals, but she was bred to iron courage and the warlike blood in her veins welled up in defiance. "i've done already give ye my answer," she retorted, forgetting her ideals of diction. "i don't aim ter alter hit none--damn ye!" "we aims ter be plumb fa'r an' reasonable," wheedled the voice of the spokesman with an evil sneer. "deespite yore contrary muleishness, we're goin' ter tarry hyar jest precisely five minutes by ther watch ter afford ye a chanst ter study ther matter over, but don't make no mistake. we means, in sum an' substance, jest what we says ... most anythin's liable ter happen ter ye when we goes away." blossom's pulses pounded so furiously that her sanity reeled through a thousand nightmare tortures before she heard the detestable voice once more drawling, "wa'al, time's up. ef ye fo'ces us now, hit's jest plain suicide--thet's all." after that, for a while, she remembered nothing save the delusion that she was drowning--sinking down and still more deeply down through eternities. her next definite impression came when she found herself inside the cave, with her head resting against the muddied knees of a man who sat cross-legged on the ground. at the mouth of the grotto was a lantern with its dimming shield turned outward so that, inside, its light fell in a grotesque effect of ragged formlessness. as she stirred into returning consciousness, the creature who was cradling her aching head on his marrow-bones, took down the tin cup which just then obscured his face. blossom recognized ratler webb and the breath stopped in her tightened throat. the degenerate face was unshaven and bristling. its blood-shot eyes smirked at her with the brutalized leer of a satyr. the man bent over a little and with grimy fingers fondled the hair on her neck and temples. "jest tek yore time, sweetheart," he said. "don't hasten ter rouse yoreself up. we've got ther night afore us." as the girl flinched and struggled away from the beast-light of those predatory eyes, her captor only clasped her the closer so that his alcoholic breath came sickeningly close to her face. he chuckled thickly as he added, "i reckon i kin allow ye a leetle time--because we're beholden ter ye. we didn't hev no notion whar yore beau war a-hidin' at twell we left thet note over thar. then ye led us straight ter ther place." * * * * * turner stacy had clambered and slid precariously down the hickory tree without greater mishap than raw and bleeding hands. once more on the ground, he ran like a madman, bending low in the timber. the signal fire which he meant to build on the bald crest of pinnacle rock, would send out a flare visible to three states. already he was twenty-five hundred feet above sea-level, but there remained a climb of almost a thousand more, and he was taking the direct and well-nigh perpendicular route. breathless, panting, vaulting from rock to rock; gripping, on faith, root and sapling, he climbed the steep stairway--where sometimes the earth shelved away underfoot--and he clutched wildly out for fresh support. once there, with a fire blazing, he would have twenty or more of his nearest adherents riding to the rescue. they would rally on the highway just below the signal fire itself and there seek instructions--or signs. fortunately for the present need, the night-riders had developed a mysterious but thorough system of communication. their code of signals embraced a series of crude emblems, which to the initiated designated the zone into which they were called for action. with frenzied haste bear cat laid and lighted his fire on the bald summit--pausing only long enough to see its red glare leaping upward. then he plunged downward again. along the highroad, which, for a little way, he followed boldly, he placed peeled twigs bent into circles at various conspicuous places, knowing that those who were to come would read from them the course to follow. after that he disappeared into the thickets again and traveled swiftly. twice, as he hurried, soft-footed, through the woods he halted and threw himself flat while members of the pursuing party well-nigh ran over him. but eventually he reached a litter of giant rocks that stood like undisciplined sentinels guarding the cave's entrance. then he stopped and listened, and when he heard no sound he crept forward obsessed with apprehension. he could not escape the feeling that this seeming of calm was dangerously deceptive. finally as he lay flattened and listening with all his faculties razor-edged, he heard something that electrified him--a woman's scream. clawing out his pistol, he threw all caution to the winds and raced for the entrance of the cave, and as he went he heard it again, now sharp and terrified, and he recognized blossom's voice. in his haste it did not even occur to him to feel surprised that no rifles greeted him. an exaltation of wrath intoxicated him with superlative confidence. he could meet and overcome a host of enemies! his voice rose in berserker frenzy. "i'm a-comin', blossom! i'm a-comin'!" * * * * * for perhaps three-quarters of an hour after blossom had recovered consciousness the second time, it had pleased her captor to sit across the narrow way from her, gloating with a bestial satisfaction over her helplessness, while he poured white stuff from bottle to tin cup. despite the advantages of his position, ratler had thoughts which were disconcerting. at his hands lay the final opportunity to glut his long-starved hunger for revenge: to glut it fully and in a fashion of beastly brutality, and for that he had waited with a singleness of thought and purpose. but behind him to-night he must leave no witness, and as he approached his task, he found that his nerves needed the steadying of strong drink--and yet more strong drink. out of the flask he was not only drawing appeasement of thirst, but fuel for determination. for a while he had even dozed while the girl, bound hand and foot, had shudderingly watched his dissolute and depraved face. then at the end he had risen, stretched his long arms and sauntered insolently over, looking down while he phrased repulsive compliments to her beauty. tiring eventually of his cat-and-mouse deliberateness, ratler leaned down and, putting his arm about her waist, drew her up to him. then it was that with all the revulsion that was in her she had screamed not once but until his hand had choked off her breath--and at that instant she had heard the shout from beyond the cave's entrance. webb heard it, too, and hurled the woman away from him, suddenly brought back to something nearer sobriety by the shock. he wheeled and trained his pistol on the entrance. he had laid aside his rifle and there was no time now to hunt for it. bear cat would have to stoop and edge his way into the place and in the process he could be easily dispatched. but while he waited ratler's knees shook and when, instead of crawling, he saw a shape dive almost horizontally through the aperture his courage evaporated. the lantern was badly placed and it confused the man inside because it darkened the opening while it left him in plain sight. ratler's revolver was spitting venomously but ineffectually. his hand was unsteady and his eye confused. the drunkard was reeling as he fought and after a dazed moment he felt himself caught in a bone-breaking embrace while the butt of a pistol hammered the consciousness out of his skull. turner stacy was a wild man now. he stumbled blindly out of the cave dragging a limp figure behind him, and when he straightened up again and wiped his sweat-streaming face he had hurled the thing bodily outward, where the ravine dropped down a hundred feet. he came back, palsied and shaken, and as he bent over the girl and cut away her bonds, his voice struggled through dry sobs. "blossom," he pleaded brokenly, "blossom, tell me ye're only affrighted. tell me thet ye didn't come ter no harm--fer my sake." "i hain't hurt--turney," she managed to whisper. "ye came back--in time--jest barely in time." she stood leaning weakly against the rock wall with her hands pressed tightly to her face. the man stood, panting with excitement and exertion, but into his pupils came a sudden light of hope. "blossom," he whispered huskily, "blossom--ye didn't ... come over ... hyar ... because ye ... because ye keered fer me, did ye?" she took her hands away from her temples and looked at him with a white face, and in the unhappy honesty of her eyes the man read his answer. it was as if she had said, "my heart lies over there in _his_ grave," and slowly, gravely turner nodded his head. his face had gone gray, but through its misery it held a stamp of gentleness. "i understands ye," he said simply. "i won't never pester ye no more." then as some note of alarm came to his ears he wheeled, all alertness again and his hand was once more gripping his pistol. "i've only got three ca'tridges left," he said to himself. "hit's nip an' tuck now which git hyar fust." as he reached the mouth of the cave a shout came out of the darkness. "ratler, air ye in thar?" and out into the night went the defiant response. "no, ratler hain't hyar, but bear cat stacy's hyar. come on an' git me ef ye wants me." there was a silence after that, which he knew meant a parley. as he knelt waiting he felt a hand on his shoulder and with eyes still searching the ominous darkness he spoke low, in a trained effort at self-control: "blossom, hit looks like we're trapped. ye came inter this peril in an effort ter save me--an' i fears hit's goin' ter be hopeless. i hain't got but three ca'tridges left." "save one of 'em, turney," she said without a tremor in her voice. "shoot twice ef ye wants ter do hit--an' then give ther pistol ter me. i kain't bear ter fall inter their hands again." then as they counted the seconds they heard another sound. from across the nearer crests lusty voices, raised in unison, were chanting. turner even fancied he could distinguish the familiar words, "mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord." there was a clatter of gravel under dispersing footsteps and a low wake of frightened oaths--and the night had taken the attacking party to itself. * * * * * the stacys had pressing topics to discuss. the activities of their young kinsman were no longer a matter of theory but a condition, and their clan attitude toward him must be determined. was he to be regarded as a renegade or as one still entitled to recognition? at the house of joe stacy on a cold winter day a dozen of the elders gathered to discuss this matter. "bear cat's done cast off all regards fer fam'ly loyalty," cried out a turbulent spirit whose eyes and voice bespoke fellowship with the jug. "he's makin' war on everything we've ever stood fer. thet damned furriner bewitched him, i reckon. he's jest rampagin' round with a passel of wuthless stacys and towerses alike, destroyin' propitty. he's stirrin' up ther cast-offs an' woods-colts of both factions an' he hain't nuthin' more ner less then a damn' traitor." but joe stacy, steadier of balance, thrust himself into the discussion. "thet hain't no fa'r ner rightful statement," he said slowly with the weight of thoughtful force. "thar's some amongst us thet don't hold with bear cat an' some thet does--but he hain't no traitor. he told us out-spoken what he aimed ter do afore he commenced doin' hit, an' thet needed courage. myself, i thinks he's a man with a vision, an' afore we casts him out i aims ter be heered." there was a hum of discussion and while it was at its height, the elder turner stacy burst tempestuously into the midst of the gathering. the old man shook with rage and his voice quavered. "by god," he roared, "thet boy's plumb crazed. he's got ter be handled--an' checked. i suffered him ter bust up my old still 'cause i knowed ther new one was a-comin', but now he's busted up ther new one, too. hit war a beautiful piece of copper--an' right hard ter smuggle in." the group of elders regarded the old blockader with varying emotions, as he stood glaring with an ember-like ferocity which he genuinely believed to be righteous indignation. but joe stacy, his own brother, permitted his shrewd eyes to twinkle as he laid a calming hand on the anger-palsied shoulder of the new arrival. "wa'al now, turner," he suggested dryly, "by yore own showin' ye lied ter ther boy an' consented ter quit stillin'. hit's right sensibly like these-hyar other outrages thet's done been reported. he hain't nuver interfered with no man's _lawful_ business yit--an' albeit i don't know who ther fellers air thet rides with him by night, i kin discarn right well by thar way they does things thet thar hain't no licker-befuddled folks amongst 'em." suddenly the speaker's voice rose. "an', by god, i knows another thing besides thet! i knows thet some fellers roundabout, thet used ter be red-eyed an' sullen-visaged, kin look a man straight in ther face ter-day, clear-sighted an' high-headed. i've got a notion thet ye kin jest erbout identify these-hyar outlaws by ther way they carries thar chins high." "what law air thar fer a man ter sot out compellin' other men ter adopt his notions, i wants ter know?" came the fierce demand, and joe stacy smiled. "thet's a fa'r question," he admitted, "an' i'll meet hit with an answer ther minit' ye tells me what law thar air fer blockadin'." * * * * * one morning bear cat was coming along the road when he heard voices beyond the bend, and turned into the brush. looking out, he saw such a strange procession that he emerged again. a man whose back was stooped, and whose face wore a dull stamp of hopelessness, trudged along, carrying a bundle over his shoulder and a dilapidated carpet-bag in one hand. behind him trailed three small children, the largest two also staggering under rough bundles. "whar be ye a-goin', matthew blakey?" hailed stacy, and the man halted. he opened a mouth well-nigh toothless, though he was yet young, and replied in a tone of deep depression. "i'm farin' over ter thet new school, with fotched-on teachers in fletcher county. i aims ter ask 'em ter take in these-hyar chil'len." "hain't ye goin' ter house 'em an' tend 'em no longer yore own self?" was the somewhat stern interrogation, and the man's pale blue eyes filled suddenly with a suspicion of tears. "since thar mother died three y'ars back, i've done sewed an' washed all thar clothes my own self--an' gone out inter ther field an' wucked for 'em," he said humbly. "i've done raised 'em es right es i knows, but i kain't do what i ought fer 'em. when i has ter leave 'em i kain't holp but study, s'pose ther house war ter ketch fire? they're all sleepy-headed leetle shavers." "why don't ye git married again?" the voice shook a little. "young 'uns oughtn't ter hev but just one mammy--an' i couldn't nuver be content with no other woman." he paused. "hit's forty mile ter thet school, an' mebby they're full up--but i've done been over thar an' seed hit." the weary eyes lighted. "god knows i nuver 'lowed thet thar _war_ sich fine places ter raise chil'len to'rds humanity an' l'arn 'em all manner of wisdom!" "all right, go on over thar, matthew," said bear cat in a matter-of-fact voice, but in his own pupils gleamed a soft light, "an' when ye come back jine with me. i'm seekin' ter bring hit erbout thet we kin hev a school like thet over hyar--whar yore children wouldn't be so far away." the father stood twisting his broganed toe in the mud. "i heers thet ye don't tolerate licker, bear cat," he said sheepishly. "hit hain't nuver made me mean ner nuthin' like thet--but since my woman died i've done tuck ter drinkin' hit--i misdoubts ef i could plumb stop." bear cat stacy smiled. "ter-morrer drink half what ye've been usin' an' next day cut thet down a leetle. anyhow come an' hev speech with me." matthew nodded and turner watched the little procession trail out of sight behind the gray screen of the timber-line. "all sore-eyed, an' all sickly," he commented under his breath. "not one of 'em gittin' a chanst ter grow straight! mebby over thar, they will, though." chapter xxvi "take a cheer an' sit down, an' light a pipe--unless ye've got a cigar." the invitation came from the honorable william renshaw, circuit judge, seated in the same small chamber adjoining the court-room in marlin town, from which kinnard towers had issued orders on that afternoon of big-meetin' time. "co'te don't meet till two o'clock--an' i'm always glad to have the chance to chat with distinguished counsel from down below--i don't get down thar oftentimes myself." the man to whom judge renshaw spoke seemed conspicuously out of his own environment in this musty place of unwashed windows, cob-webbed walls and cracking plaster. his dress bespoke the skill of a good tailor and his fingers were manicured. he drew out a cigar case and proffered a perfecto to his honor, then deliberately snipped the end from his own. evidently he had something embarrassing to say. "judge," he began briefly, "i've been here now for upwards of a week, trying to get this business under way. you know what the results have been--or rather have not been. i've encountered total failure." "hasn't the prosecutin' attorney afforded you every facility, mr. sidney?" the inquiry was put in a tone of the utmost solicitude. "that's not the difficulty," objected the visiting lawyer. "mr. hurlburt has shown me every courtesy--in precisely the way you have. your instructions to the grand jurors were admirable. the prosecutor consented at once that i should participate in getting the evidence before them, and in assisting him to punish the guilty when indicted. it is now february. jerry henderson was murdered before the first snow flew. those subpoenas which we have sent out have for the most part come back--unserved. what witnesses we have secured might as well be mutes. the thing is inexplicable. surely the judge can do something to energize the machinery of his court out of utter lethargy. i appeal to you, sir. we all know that henderson was murdered ... we all suspect who had it done, yet we make no progress." judge renshaw nodded his head affirmatively. "it looks right considerably that way." then seeing the impatient expression on the other face, he spoke again--in a different voice, leaning forward. "mr. sidney, i reckon i know what's in your mind. you're thinkin' that both me and the prosecutin' attorney ain't much better than tools of kinnard towers.... maybe there's a grain of truth in it. i'm judge of a district that takes in several county seats and i ride the circuit. before i was elected to the bench i was a backwoods lawyer that sometimes knew the pinch of hunger. you say kinnard towers is dishonest--and worse. if i said it, i _might_ hold office till the next election--but more likely i wouldn't live that long." as the notable attorney from the city sought to disarm his smile of its satirical barb, the other proceeded: "that strikes you as a thing that's exaggerated--and a thing that a man ought to be ashamed to admit even if it was true. all right. do you know that when you took the henderson matter to the grand jury, nine men on the panel sought to be excused from service in fear of their lives? do you know that on every day they did serve all twelve got anonymous letters threatenin' them with death? they know it anyhow--and you see they haven't brought in any true bills an' i predict that no matter what evidence you put before them--they won't." "why were those letters not presented to the court? you have power to protect your panels with every company of militia in the state if need be." "so i told 'em." the reply was laconic, and it was supplemented in a slow drawl. "but you see they've known militia protection before--and that guarantee didn't satisfy them. they figure that the soldiers go away after awhile--but there's other forces that stay on all the time--and those other forces can wait months or years without forgetting or forgiving." "and this terrorization paralyzes your courts of justice?" "well, no. it lets 'em run along in a fashion--as you've seen." mr. sidney strove to repress his choler, but his manner was icy as he remarked: "that's a strange utterance for a judge on the bench." "is it?" renshaw's quiet eyes showed just a glint of repressed anger. "doesn't it work the same way in your district--or materially the same? are your judges free from the coercion of strong interests? are your jurors all willing to die for their duty?" after a brief silence he added: "why, mr. sidney, you came here yourself ostensibly in the interest of friends and relatives who were unwilling to let this murder go 'unwhipped of justice'--them were your words. yet we all know that you're the chief lawyer for a railroad that hasn't ever been famed for altruism." the visitor flushed. "while you were working up this evidence," inquired his honor, "did you go out and try to talk to bear cat stacy?" "certainly not. he's an outlaw--whom your deputies failed to bring in when i had a subpoena issued. my life wouldn't be worth tuppence if i tried to get to him." judge renshaw smiled somewhat grimly. "yes, they call him an outlaw--but he swings a power right now that this high court doesn't pretend to have. he's the one man that kinnard fears--and maybe he'd help you if the two of you could get together." "a lawyer should not have to be his own process-server," was the retort of offended dignity. "no--neither ought a judge." renshaw took the cigar from his mouth and studied it. then he spoke slowly: "mr. sidney, there's nothing further i can do, but--put it on whatever ground you like--i'll make a suggestion. i'm beginning to doubt if kinnard towers is going to remain supreme here much longer. i think his power is on the wane. if you will make a motion to swear me off the bench for the duration of these proceedin's--and can persuade the governor to send a special judge and prosecutor here--i'll gladly vacate. then you can bring your soldier boys and see what that will effect. that's the best satisfaction i can give you--but if i were you, since you have no patience with men that consider personal risks--i'd talk with this stacy first. of course, kinnard towers won't like that." mr. sidney rose, piqued at the suggestion of timidity, into a sudden announcement. "very well," he said, "i'll ride over there to little slippery to-night--to hell with this bugaboo towers!" "if i lived as far away as you do," suggested the judge, "i might allow myself to say, amen to that sentiment." mr. sidney did not, in point of fact, go that night, but he did a few days later. had he known it, he was safe enough. kinnard towers had no wish just then to hurl a challenge into the teeth of the whole state by harming a distinguished member of the metropolitan bar, but before george sidney started out, the quarterhouse leader had knowledge of his mission, and surmised that he would be sheltered at the house of joel fulkerson. when the lawyer arrived the old preacher was standing by the gate of his yard with a letter in his hand, that had arrived a little while before. it was from an anonymous writer and its message was this: "if you aid the lawyer from louisville, in any fashion whatsoever, or take him into your house, it will cost you your life." brother fulkerson had been wondering whether to confide to any one the receipt of that threat. heretofore factional bitterness had always passed him by. now he decided to dismiss the matter without alarming his friends with its mention. as he strode forward to welcome the stranger, he absently tore the crumpled sheet of paper to bits and consigned it to the winds. "i am george sidney," announced the man who was sliding from his saddle, stiff-limbed from a long ride. "i'm trying to effect the punishment of your son-in-law's murder, and i've come to your house." "ye're welcome," said the evangelist simply, and there was no riffle of visible misgiving in his eyes. "come right in an' set ye a cheer." two days later mr. sidney rode away again, but in an altered frame of mind. he had met bear cat stacy and was disposed to talk less slightingly of outlaws. he had even seen a thing that had made the flesh creep on his scalp and given to his pulses such a wild thrill as they had not known since boyhood. he had watched a long line of black horsemen, masked and riding single-file with flambeaux along a narrow road between encompassing shadows. he had heard the next day of a "blind tiger" raided, and of an undesirable citizen who had been sentenced to exile--though related by blood ties to the leader of the vigilance committee. it was sitting in the lounging-room of his louisville club a week later that he unfolded his morning paper and read the following item--and the paper dropped from his hand which had become suddenly nerveless. "joel fulkerson," he read, after the first shock of the head-lines, "a mountain evangelist, whose work had brought him into prominence even beyond the hills of marlin county, was shot to death yesterday while riding on a mission of mercy through a thickly wooded territory. since, even in the bitterest feud days, fulkerson was regarded as the friend of all men and all factions, it is presumed that the unknown assassin mistook him for some one other than himself." george sidney took an early train to frankfort, and that same day sat in conference with the governor. "it's a strange story," said the chief executive at length, "and the remedy you suggest is even stranger--but this far i will go. if you swear renshaw off the bench, i will name a temporary judge and set a special term of court, to convene at once. the rest comes later, and we will take it up as we reach it." * * * * * once more, just after that, bear cat stacy stood again with blossom by a new-made grave, but this time he came openly. those kinsmen who saw him there were of one mind, and had he spoken the word, they would have followed him through blood to vengeance. but stacy, with the hardest effort of his life, held them in check. it would mar the peaceful sleep of that gentle soul whom they were laying to rest, he thought, to punish bloody violence with other bloody violence--and in his mind a more effective plan was incubating. all that he would tell the grim men who met in conclave that night, ready to don their masks and fare forth, was that this was, above all others, an occasion for biding their time. "but i pledges ye faithful," he declared in a voice that shook with solemn feeling, "ye won't hev need ter grow wearied with waitin'...." no towers watchmen came in these days to turner's house. they contented themselves with keeping a vindictive vigil along the creeks and tributaries where they were numerically stronger. each day turner came to watch over blossom with the quiet fidelity of a great dog. there was little enough that he could do, but he came and looked at her with hungry eyes out of a hungry heart, speaking no word of his own love, but listening as she talked of her father. he sought in a hundred small ways to divert her thoughts from the grim thing that had twice scarred her life and taken the light out of her eyes. as he trudged back to his house, where he had again taken up his residence, after these visits, he walked with a set jaw and registered oaths of reprisal to take a form new to the hills. as the days passed it was reported that on the motion of the commonwealth, alleging bias and prejudice, judge renshaw had vacated the bench, and that the governor had named a pro-tem. successor from another district--and called a special term of court, to sit at marlin town. kinnard towers heard that news with a smile of derision. "let 'em bring on thar jedges an' soldiers," he said complacently. "ther law still fo'ces 'em ter put native names in ther jury wheel an' i reckon no grand jury thet dwells hyar-abouts won't hardly indict me ner no petty jury convict me." so it was something of a shock to his confidence when he heard that he, black tom carmichael and sam carlyle had been indicted for conspiracy to commit murder. even that he regarded as merely an annoyance, for as one of the grand jurors had hastened to assure him: "hit war jest a sort of a formality, kinnard. we knowed ther little jury would cl'ar you-all an' hit looked more legal-like ter let hit come up fer trial." but the bringing of those indictments was really a tribute to the dawning power of kinnard's enemies. the thing was intended as a compromise by which the grand jury should satisfy the stacys and the petit jury should mollify towers by acquitting him later. kinnard knew that sam carlyle had gone to oklahoma, and that without him any prosecution must fail--but he did not know that the prosecution had already located him there and taken steps to extradite him. then one day, bear cat received a summons by mail to meet george sidney in frankfort, and since secrecy was the essence of the plan they had already discussed in embryo, he went in a roundabout way through virginia and came back into kentucky at hagen. he was absent for a week and toward its end he found himself, under the escort of the louisville lawyer, standing in the private office of the chief executive himself. turner had never seen a city before. he had never met a man of such consequence, but the governor himself brought to the interview a dignity no more unabashed. "this is the young man of whom i spoke, governor," said sidney. "he has given his community the nearest approach it has known to placing sobriety and humanity above lawlessness. there are two men down there who run things. towers owns the courts and--maintains feudalism. this young man heads an organization of night-riders--and challenges towers. it's the young against the old: the modern spirit against the ancient habit." the governor subjected bear cat stacy to an inquisitorial scrutiny--which was met with a glance as undeviating. "i am told that it has been impossible in your country," he began, "to enforce the attendance of witnesses and even of defendants at court. i am also told that you believe you can alter this." turner nodded gravely. "i kin fetch 'em in--dead or alive," he said with bold directness. "all i needs air ter be told who ter git." "dead witnesses," remarked the chief executive, "are very little use to any tribunal. if these men are your avowed enemies and in your power, why have you held your hand?" bear cat flushed and though he spoke quietly there was the bell-like ring of ardor in his voice. "my power hain't ther law," he said. "i aims fer sich betterment as kain't come save by law: a betterment that kin last when i'm dead an' gone." "this is the case, governor," interposed the lawyer. "the courts there are a bitter jest. kinnard towers operates a stronghold which is a pest-spot and breeding-nest of crime and debauchery. there is one agency only that can drag him out of it. that agency this man represents--and heads." "then if you are sent out, during this session of court," inquired the executive, "you agree to bring in whatever men are called to attendance?" "dead or alive--yes," reiterated stacy with inflexible persistency. "unfortunately," smiled the great man, "the legislature, in its wisdom, has vested in me no power to instruct any citizen to deprive other citizens, however undesirable, of their lives. whoever undertakes such an enterprise must do so on his own responsibility--and, despite the worthiness of his motive, he faces a strong chance of the death penalty." there was a brief pause, as the lawyer and his protegé rose to depart, and the governor shook bear cat's hand. "you are a picturesque person, mr. stacy. i hope to hear more of you." then as a quizzical twinkle wrinkled the corner of his eyes he added: "i almost think it is a pity that i have no power to authorize your wading in free-handed--but it's not within my official scope." bear cat was standing straight and looking with searching gravity into the face of the governor. there seemed an odd variance between the words and the spirit back of the words, and then he saw the tall man with the distinguished face engage his glance with something intangibly subtle--and he saw one dignified eye deliberately close leaving its mate open. the governor of the commonwealth had winked at him--and he understood the perplexing variance between words and spirit. outside, in a corridor of the state building, bear cat laid a hand on sidney's arm. "when ther time comes," he said shortly, "i'll be ready. i wants thet ye should hev hit give out in marlin town, thet ye sought ter persuade me, but that i wouldn't hev nuthin' more ter do with aidin' state co'tes then i would with revenuers." and that was the message that percolated through the hills. when turner returned home he went first to blossom's cabin, his heart full of thoughts of her and sympathy for her loneliness. old days there swarmed into memory, and just to see her, even now that he counted for so little, meant a great deal to him. but in the road, at first sight of the house, he halted in astonishment--for the chimney was smokeless--and when he hurried forward his dismay grew into something like panic as he found the windows blankly shuttered and the door nailed up. hastening to his own house, he demanded in a strained voice of fright. "whar air she, maw? whar's blossom at?" the old woman rose and took from the mantel-shelf a folded sheet of paper which she handed him without a word of explanation, and with shaking fingers he opened and read it. "dear turney," she said, and her round chirography had run wild as weeds with the disturbed mood of that composition, "i can't bear it here any longer. i'm going away--for always. jerry left a little money and the lawyers have paid it to me. it's not much, but it's enough. these mountains are beautiful--but they are full of misery--and memories that haunt me day and night. you have been more than good to me and i'll always pray for you. i don't know yet where i'll go. with love, blossom." turner sagged into a chair by the hearth-stone and the paper dropped from his inert fingers. his face became very drawn and he silently licked lips which burned with a dry feverishness. * * * * * the special session of court convened in marlin town with a quiet that lacked any tang of genuine interest. these fiascos had come before and passed without result. since bear cat stacy had permitted it to be understood that he would hold aloof, no strength would challenge the sway of kinnard towers, save a "fotched on" judge and a few white-faced lawyers who wore stiff collars. they had not even brought tin soldiers this time nor dignified the occasion with a gatling gun. towers himself remained comfortably at the quarterhouse, and if he had about him a small army of men its protection of rifle-muzzles pointed toward little slippery rather than marlin town. a posse would come, of course, since even his own courts must follow the forms and pretenses of the statutes made and provided, but their coming, too, would be a formality. outside a late winter storm had turned into a blizzard and though he did not often spend his evenings at the bar, kinnard was to-night leaning with his elbow on its high counter. his blond face was suave and his manner full of friendliness, because men who were anxious to display their solicitude were coming in to denounce the farce of the trial inagurated by "furriners" and to proclaim their sympathy. it was all incense to his undiminished dominance, thought towers, and it pleased him to meet such amenities with graciousness. "any time now--any time at all," he laughed, "them turrible deputy sheriffs air liable ter come bustin' through thet door, and drag me off ter ther jail-house." as he uttered this pleasantry, the assembled cohorts shouted their laughter. it was as diverting as to hear a battle-scarred tom-cat express panic over a mouse. "howsoever, i hain't a shettin' no doors. they all stands open," added kinnard. then, even as he spoke, the telephone jangled. it was a neighborhood wire which connected only a few houses in a narrow radius, but the voice that sounded through the receiver was excited. the proprietor of the lawless stronghold listened and made some unruffled reply, then turned to his audience a smiling face on which was written amusement. "well, boys," he genially inquired, "what did i tell ye? thar's a scant handful of deputy sheriffs a-ridin' over hyar right now. they're within a measured mile of this place at ther present minute." a low hum of voices rose in apprehensive notes, but kinnard lifted his hand. "you men needn't feel no oneasiness, i don't reckon," he assured them. "they hain't got nothin' erginst ther balance of ye. hit's jest me they aims ter drag off ter ther calaboose--an' es i said afore, i'm leavin' my doors wide open." as an indication of his confidence he ordered his bartender to fill all glasses, and beamed benignly on the recipients of his hospitality, while he awaited the minions of the law. "they hed ought ter be hyar by now, them turrible fellers," he suggested at length, and as if in answer to his speech a sound of heavy steps sounded just outside the door. a small posse stamped into the room, and the excellent jest of the entire situation became more pointed as men noted with what a shamefaced bearing they presented themselves. "kinnard," began the chief-deputy in an embarrassment which almost choked him, "i've got ter put ye under arrest. you an' tom carmichael thar, both. ye're charged with murder." the crowd wanted to laugh again, but because of their curiosity they desisted. towers himself stepped back two paces. "gentlemen," he said blandly, "ye'll hev ter git papers fust from ther governor of virginny." he swept his hand toward the white line on the floor. "ye hain't hardly got no license ter foller me outen old kaintuck. thar's ther leetle matter of a state line lyin' atween us." they had all known that towers would handle the situation with a triumph of resource, and a subdued murmur of applause and adulation rose from many bewhiskered lips, as the posse withdrew slowly to the threshold over which it had entered. then they became deadly quiet, for a voice had spoken from the virginia door. "hold on!" they wheeled and saw a single figure there, unarmed, and hands began going to holsters. "virginny and kaintuck looks right-smart alike ter me," said bear cat stacy with the level voice of one who has long waited his moment and finds it at hand. "will ye all lay down yore arms, and surrender ther men we wants--or will ye stand siege an' have this pest-house burnt down over yore heads? i'll wait outside for an answer." the amazement of the moment had held them gripped in tableau as he spoke, but when he stepped swiftly back, a dozen pistols spat and barked at him, and then, louder than the firing, they heard a circle of song--compassing the stockaded building on all sides--a giant chorus that swelled in the frosty air: "mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord." kinnard towers' self-assurance fell away from him. his hand was unsteady as he raised it and said huskily; "boys, we needs must fight." chapter xxvii the volume of the singing out there and the flare of the ruddy torches, left no doubt as to the substantial strength of the force which had swept aside such legal technicalities as state jurisdiction. when bear cat had trusted himself so recklessly on the threshold while the opposite door still stood open, the spectral figures with masked faces could have streamed in, wave on wave, to smother out any up-flaming spirit of resistance, but in doing that there would have been hand-to-hand conflict, in which the innocent must pay as heavy and ultimate a penalty as the guilty. so turner had withdrawn, and permitted the barring of the doors--though he knew that the structure had the solid strength of square-sawed oak and that the besieged scores were fully armed. now from the outside he hammered on the massive panels with a rifle butt. "ef ye wants ter send a man out hyar ter parley with me," he shouted through the heavy barrier, "i gives ye my pledge that he kin go back safe. ef ye don't see fit ter do thet, we've got ter believe thet ye're all one stripe, resistin' arrest, and we aims ter set this hell-house ter ther torch." "let me have five minutes ter study erbout hit," towers gave answer, then he turned to the men inside. "go upsta'rs, tom," he directed swiftly, "an' look out. let me know how many thar seems ter be of 'em." carmichael, peering out of dark windows above, saw against the snow, innumerable sable figures bulking formidably in the red flare of blazing pine fagots. other torches burned with a menacing assurance of power beyond them along the road, and far up the distant slopes glittered reinforcements of scattered tongues of flame. the figures nearest at hand stood steady with an ominous and spectral stillness, and their ghostliness was enhanced by the fitful torch-light in which the whole picture leaped and subsided with a phantom uncertainty of line and mass. black tom came back and shook his head. "hit hain't no manner of use," he announced. "we mout es well give up. i reckon we kin still come cl'ar in co'te." but the old lion, whose jaws and fangs had always proved strong enough to crush, was of no mind to be caged now. "come cl'ar! hell's blazes!" he roared with a livid face. "don't ye see what's done come ter pass? he'll take these damn' outlaws over thar an' no jury won't dast ter cl'ar us. if we quits now we're done." towers leaped, with an astonishing agility to the counter of the bar and raised his clenched fists high above his head. "men!" he thundered, "hearken ter me! don't make no mistake in thinkin' thet ef ye goes out thar, ye'll hev any mercy showed ye. this is ther finish fight betwixt all ther customs of yore blood--an' this damn' outlaw's new-fangled tyranny! he don't aim jest ter jail me an' tom--he aims ter wipe out every mother's son thet's ever been a friend ter me. "we've got solid walls around us now--but any man thet goes out thar, goes straight ter murder. es fer me i don't aim ter be took alive--air ye of ther same mind? will ye fight?" his flaming utterance found credence in their befuddled minds. they could not conceive of merciful treatment from the man they had hounded and sought for months to murder from ambush. inside at least they could die fighting, and nods of grim assent gave their answer. "ther stockade hain't no good now," towers reminded them. "they're already inside hit, but from them upsta'r winders we kin still rake 'em severe an' plentiful whilst they're waitin' fer our answer. let them winders be filled with men, but don't let no man shoot till he heers my pistol--then all tergether--an' give 'em unshirted hell." so, answering the reprieve with deceit, the block house, which had, for a generation, been an infamous seat of power, remained silent until a pistol snapped out and then from every window leaped spiteful jets of powder lightning and the solid roar of a united volley. that was the answer and as a light clatter of sliding breech bolts followed the crescendo, its defenders went on shooting, more raggedly now, as fast as each man could work his repeater. a chorused bellow of defiance was hurled outward as they fired. yet from out there came no response of musketry and, after all, the deceitful effort to convert the period of parley into a paralyzing blow had failed. few flambeaux had been blazing in the space between the stockade and the house itself, and the ponderous eight-foot wall of logs built to make the place a fortress had become a protection for the besiegers so that only a few scattered figures fell. then, with amazing unanimity of action, the torches were thrust down and quenched in the snow. but bear cat stacy himself had remained flattened against the door, too close to be seen from any window, and at his feet was a can of kerosene. the glow from a match-end became first a slender filament of flame which widened to a greedy blanket as it lapped at the oil and spread crackling up the woodwork of the door's frame. then, gathering a swift and mighty force, it laid a frenzied and roaring mantle of destruction upon the integrity of the walls themselves. from inside came a chorused howl of bitter wrath and despair, and as bear cat turned and ran for it, crossing the space between door and stockade, he went through a hail of lead--and went with the old charm still holding him safe. the quarterhouse was strong enough to laugh at rifles, but to flame it was tinder-like food. the roar and crackle of its glutting soon drowned the howls of its imprisoned victims. maddened with the thought that, having refused parley, their lives were forfeit unless they could cut their way out, they raved like dying maniacs. the glare reddened and inflamed the skies and sent out a rain of soaring sparks that was seen from many miles away. the virginia door was obliterated in a blanket of flame, but abruptly the kentucky door vomited a stream of desperate men, running and shooting as they came. then, for the first time, the cordon of rifles that held them in its grip gave voice. between the house-door and the stockade, figures fell, grotesque in the glare, and those that did not fall wheeled and rushed back within the blazing walls. but in there was an unendurable furnace. they shouted and raved, choking with the suffocation of foul smoke waves like the demoralized shapes of madmen in some lurid inferno. then standing at the one door which still afforded a chance of exit, kinnard towers for the last time raised his arms. "throw down yore guns, men, an' go out with yore hands up," he yelled, seeking to be heard above the din of conflagration. "myself, i aims ter stay hyar!" a few caught the words and plunged precipitately out, unarmed, with hands high in surrender; and others, seeing that they did not fall, followed with a sheep-like imitation--but some, already struggling with the asphyxiation that clawed at their throats, writhed uneasily on the floor--and then lay motionless. kinnard towers, with a bitter despair in his eyes, and yet with the leonine glare of defiance unquenched, stood watching that final retreat. he saw that at the stockade gate, they were being passed out and put under guard. it was in his own mind, when he had been left quite alone to walk deliberately out, fighting until he fell. about him the skies were red and angry. his death would come with a full and pyrotechnic illumination, seen of all men, and it would at least be said of him that he had never yielded. so picking up a rifle from the floor, he deliberately examined its magazine and efficiency. after that he stepped out, paused on the doorstep, and fired defiantly at the open gate of the stockade. there was a spatter of bullets against the walls at his back, but he stood uninjured and defiantly laughing. without haste he walked forward. then a tall figure, with masked face came running toward him and he leveled the rifle at its breast. but he was close to the gate now, and the man plunged in, in time to strike his barrel up and bear him to the ground. outside the stockade stood, herded, the prisoners, and at their front, the posse of deputies brooded over kinnard towers and tom carmichael, both shamefully hand-cuffed. bear cat stacy looked over his captives who, taking their cue from towers himself, remained doggedly silent. "you men," he said crisply, "all save these two kin go home now--but when ther co'te needs ye ye've got ter answer--an ye've got ter speak ther truth." as they listened in surprised silence turner's voice became sterner: "ef ye lies ter ther high co'te thar's another co'te thet ye kain't lie ter. now begone." then bear cat turned to the tall figure that had defeated kinnard's determination to die uncaptured. "we've done seed ther manner of yore fightin'," he said in the voice of one who would confer the accolade. "now let's see what manner of face ye w'ars. i reckon we don't need ter go masked no longer, anyhow." the mountaineer ripped off his hat and the black cloth which had covered his face--and turner stacy stood looking into the eyes of lone stacy, his father. for an instant he leaned forward incredulously, and his voice was strangely unsteady. "how did ye git hyar," he demanded. "they kept puttin' off my trial--ontil i reckon they wearied of hit," was the grave response. "day before yistiddy ther jedge dismissed my case." "but no man hain't nuver been with us afore without he was oath-bound--how did ye contrive hit?" the old man smiled. "dog tate 'lowed i could take ther oath an' all ther rest of ther formalities in due time. he fixed me up an' brought me along. this hyar war a matter thet i was right interested in." "i 'lowed," turner's voice fell to a more confidential note, "i 'lowed ye mout be right wrathful at all i've been doin' since ye went away. ye used ter berate me fer not lovin' blockadin'." there was a momentary silence. the bearded man, somewhat thinner and more bent than when he had gone away to prison, and the son with a face more matured by these weeks and months, stood gazing into each other's eyes. to the reserve of each, outspoken sentiment came hard and even now both felt an intangible barrier of diffidence. then lone stacy answered gruffly, but there was an unsteadiness of feeling under his laconic reply. "i've done showed ye how wrathful i air. i'm tolable old--but i reckon i kin still l'arn." * * * * * even when kinnard towers sat a prisoner in the courtroom which he had dominated, and heard sam carlyle, seeking to save his own neck by turning traitor, tell the lurid story of all his iniquities, an unbending doggedness characterized his attitude. as his eyes dwelt on the henchman who was swearing away his life, they burned so scornfully that the witness twisted and fidgeted and glanced sidewise with hangdog shame. when the jury trooped in and stood lined solemnly before the bench, he gazed out of the window where the hills were beginning to soften their slaty monotone with a hint of tender green. he did not need to hear them respond to the droning inquiries of the clerk, because he had read the verdict in their faces long before. but when they had, for greater security, removed him to the louisville jail and had put him in that row of cells reserved for those whose lives are forfeit to the law, it is doubtful whether that masklike inexpressiveness truly mirrored an inward phlegm. there was an electric lamp fixed against the iron bars of the death corridor, turned inward like a spot-light of shame which was never dimmed either day or night--and there was a warden who paced the place, never leaving him unwatched--and kinnard towers had lived in places where eagles breed and where the air is wild and bites the lungs with its tang of freedom. * * * * * it was june again--june full-bosomed and tuneful with the over-spilling melody of birds. over the tall peaks arched a sky of such a pure and colorful blue that it, too, seemed to sing--and the little clouds that drifted placidly along were like the lazy sails of pleasure craft, floating in high currents. along the dimmest and most distant ridges lay a violet mist that was all ash-of-dreams--but near at hand, whether on the upper levels of high hills or down in the shadowed recesses, where the small waters trickled, everything was color--color, bloom and song. the rhododendron, which the mountaineer calls laurel, was abloom. the laurel, which is known in hill parlance as ivy, was gay with pink-hearted blossom. the mountain magnolia flaunted its great petals of waxen while and the wild rose nodded its frail face everywhere. but these were details. over the silver tinkle of happy little brooks was the low but infinite harping of the breeze, and over the glint of golden flecks on mossy rock, was the sweep of sunlight and shadow across the majesty of towering peaks and the league-wide spread of valleys. the hills were all singing of summer and rebirth, but as bear cat stacy went riding across them his eyes were brooding with the thought of dreams that had not come true. many of them had come true, he told himself, in their larger aspects--even though he found himself miserably unsatisfied. there was a large reward in the manner of men and women who paused in their tasks of "drappin' an' kiverin'" along the sloping cornfields to wave their hats or their hands at him and to shout cheery words. those simple folk looked upon him as one who had led them out of bondage to a wider freedom, instilling into them a spirit of enterprise. one farmer halted his plow and came to the fence as bear cat was riding by. "i heers tell," he began, "thet ther whole world, pretty nigh, air at war an' thet corn's goin' ter be wuth money enough, this crop, ter pay fer haulin' hit." stacy nodded. "i reckon that's right," he said. "an' i heers thet, deespite all contrary accounts, ther railroad aims ter come in hyar--an' pay fa'r prices." turner smiled. "they had ter come round to it," he answered. "there are more tons of coal in marlin county than there are dollars in jefferson county, and jefferson county is the richest in the state." the farmer rested his fore-arms on the top rail of the fence and gazed at the young man on horseback. "i reckon us folks are right-smart beholden ter ye, bear cat," he suggested diffidently. "with a chief like you, we'll see prosperity yit." "we don't have no chiefs here," declared the young man with a determined setting of his jaw. "we're all free and equal. the last chief was kinnard towers--and he's passed on." "none-the-less, hit wouldn't amaze me none ter see ye git ter be the president of this hull world," declared the other with simple hero-worship. "whar are ye ridin' ter?" "i'm going over into fletcher county to see that school there. i'm hopin' that we can have one like it over here." the farmer nodded. "i reckon we kin manage hit," he affirmed. turner had heard much of that school to which matthew blakey had taken his three children--so much that all of it could hardly be true. now he was going to see for himself. but his thoughts, as he rode, were beyond his control and memories of blossom crowded out the more impersonal things. at last he came to a high backbone of ridge. from there he ought to be able to catch his first glimpse of the tract which the school had redeemed from overgrown raggedness into a model farm, but as yet the dense leafage along the way cut off the view of the valley. then he came to a more open space and reined in his horse, and as he looked out his eyes widened in astonishment. spreading below him, he saw such even and gracious spaces of cultivation as were elsewhere unknown to the hills. down there the fences were even and the fields smooth, but what astonished him most were the buildings. clustered over a generous expanse of hill and valley, of field and garden all laid out as though some landscape gardener had made it a labor of love, were houses such as he had dreamed of--houses with dignity of line and proportion, with architectural beauty of design. everything, even at that distance, could be seen to be substantially designed for usefulness, and yet everything combined with that prime object of service the quality of art. he was looking down on a tiny village, uncrowded and nestling on the varied levels of an undulating valley, and he counted out a dozen houses, recognizing some of them--the tiny hospital on its hill--the model dairies at one edge--the saw-mill sending out its fragrance--the dormitories with sleeping porches and the school-buildings themselves. this was what he had visioned--and yet he realized how cramped had been his dream as he urged his tired horse forward and listened to the whistle of a bob-white in the stubble. "ef blossom could know that we're goin' ter have a school like this over there!" he breathed to himself. then as he rode along the twisting descent of road, between park-like forest trees and masses of rhododendron, and dismounted before a large house he saw a broad porch with a concrete foundation, and easy chairs and tables littered with magazines and books. from the door came a lady, smiling to greet him. it was miss pendleton, the woman who from small beginnings had built here in the wilderness such an achievement, and as she came to the stairs she held out her hand. "i've been greatly interested in your letters, mr. stacy," she said, "and i don't see why we can't repeat over there what we have done here. we have grown from very small beginnings--and now i want to show you around our premises--unless you are too tired." with wonderment that grew, he followed her, and a swarm of happy-faced children went with them; children keen of eye and rosy of cheek, and when they had inspected together the buildings where the pupils were taught from books, and the dairies and gardens where they were taught by practice, the lady showed him into a log house as artistic and charming as a swiss chalet and said: "this will be your abiding place while you're here. i'll send one of the boys to see that you have everything you need--and later on i'll introduce you to a lady who is much interested in your plans for a school on little slippery and who can discuss the details." left alone on the porch of his "pole-house," bear cat sat gazing upward to the american flag that floated from a tall staff before his door, and as he did so a small boy with clear and intelligent eyes came and said: "i've done been named ter look atter ye." in the young face was none of that somber shyness which shadows the faces of many mountain children. turner put his hand on the boy's head. "thank you, son," he said slowly. "haven't i seen you before somewhar?" the boy laughed. "i remembers _you_" he asserted. "i seed ye when my paw was fotchin' me an' my brother an' sister over hyar. i'm matthew blakey's boy." "you had right-sore eyes then, didn't you?" the child laughed. "i did then--but i hain't now." after a moment's pause he added with a note of pride: "see thet flag? hit's ther american flag an' hit's my job ter put hit up every day at sun-up an' take hit down at sun-set. i aims ter show ye right now how i does hit." bear cat met young women from eastern colleges who had come here to aid in the work. in their presence he felt very uncouth and ignorant, but they did not suspect that inner admission. they saw a young man who reminded them of a bronze athlete, with clear and fearless eyes, touched with a dreamer's zeal, and in his manner they recognized a simple dignity and an inherent chivalry. chapter xxviii on the porch of miss pendleton's house that night, guitars were tinkling. from inside came the glow of shaded lamps softly amber--and outside along the hillsides where the whippoorwills called plaintively, slept a silver wash of moonlight. the stars were large and low-hanging and a pale mist tempered the slopes that rose in a nocturne of majesty and peace. bear cat stacy sat there immersed in reverie. he was seeing such a school grow up on the spot where he had hoped to build a house for blossom and himself--then that vision faded and his face grew set because the other and more personal picture had intervened--the picture of the dwelling-house to which he had looked forward. he did not notice that the guitars and the singing voices had come to silence, and that the white patches of the women's dresses had vanished from the shaded porch--he was looking out into the summer mists--and thinking his own thoughts. then he heard miss pendleton's voice, and came out of his abstraction with a start, looking about to realize for the first time that the two of them stood alone out there. "now you must talk business," smiled the lady. "i haven't introduced you yet to the person who is best of all fitted to discuss the details. she knows just what we seek to do here and how we do it. she knows the needs of mountain children, too--because she is a mountain girl herself. she came here really as a pupil--but she's much more than that now. she teaches the younger children while she studies herself--and she has developed a positive genius for this work." miss pendleton paused and then added: "i'm going to let the two of you talk together first--and then i'll join you." bear cat rose and stood courteously acquiescent, then his hostess left him and he saw another figure appear to stand framed in the door. his heart rose out of his breast into the throat and choked him, for he believed that his dreaming had unsettled his mind. there stood blossom with the amber light kindling her soft hair into a nimbus of radiance, and in her cheeks was the old color like the heart of the laurel's flower. she stood slim and straight, no longer pallid or thin, and in her eyes danced a light of welcome. "blossom," he stammered--and she left her frame and its amber background to come forward--with her hands extended. "turney," was all she said. "how came you here?" he demanded, forgetting to release her slim hands. "how did this come to pass?" she looked out over the blue and silver leagues of the june night, and said simply. "there's lots to tell you--let's go out there and talk." they were standing on a great bowlder where the moss and ferns grew, and about them twinkled myriads of fireflies. they had been silent for a long time and turner's voice had a strained note as he said slowly. "i promised ye ... thet i wouldn't ever pester ye again with ... love-making ... but to-night it's right hard ter keep thet pledge." the breeze was stirring her hair and her own eyes were deep as she gazed away, but suddenly she turned and her long lashes were raised as she met his gaze. "i don't want ... that you should keep it," she whispered. "i give you back your pledge." as in those old days the hills seemed to rock about him and the arms that came forward and paused were unsteady. "ye means ... thet...." "i means thet i loved ye first, turney." the words came tremulously, almost whispered, and in them was something of self-accusation. "maybe i ought to be ashamed--but somehow i can't. all of what happened seems to me like a dream that doesn't really belong in my life. it seems to me that i was dazzled and couldn't tell the true from the seeming.... it seems as i look back that a little piece of my life was torn loose from the rest--but that the real me has always been yours." she laid her hands on his shoulders, and as he caught her in his arms, the light breath of the night breeze brought the fragrance of honeysuckle to them both. she rested for a moment in his embrace with the serene feeling that she was at home. between them fell a silence but in the bath of silvery light through the fragrant stillness of dove gray night-tones and cobalt shadows the girl's eyes were brightly eloquent. yet after a moment a shade of troubling thought came into them and the lips moved into the tremulousness of a self-searching and somewhat self-accusing whisper. "turney," she said, "there's one thing that i've got to say--and i guess it had better be now." "if it's any fault you're finding with yourself--don't say it," he protested as his hands closed over her slender fingers. "there ain't anything that i need to have explained. i reckon i understand what happiness means and that's enough." but blossom shook her head. "if i'd been straight loyal--like you've been, turney, i reckon i couldn't ever have made any mistake. there wouldn't ever have been room for anybody but you." she paused and then went falteringly ahead. "from now on there won't ever be. you've known me always and yet even you can't realize how young and foolish and _plumb_ ignorant i was a year ago. if i'd been just a _little_ more experienced, it couldn't have happened. if things hadn't come with such a rush after they began, that i was just swept along like a log in a spring-tide--it couldn't have happened." it seemed difficult for her to force the words, but she obeyed the mandate of her conscience with the candor of the confessional. "i never had the chance to think--until i came over here and began looking back. a person like i was doesn't think very clear in the midst of cyclones and confusions, and i didn't see that the real bigness was in you--more than in--him. i didn't see it until later. i'd grown up with you, and i took you too much for granted, i reckon, and everything he said or did seemed like a scrap out of a fairy story to my foolish mind." there was one thing she did not tell him, even now; that she had learned at last through the lawyers what her husband's connection with the railroad plans had been. back of all his fascination there had been a tarnished honesty, but that secret she still kept to herself. but she lifted eyes to turner that were wide open for his reading, and gravely she said: "i lost my way once--but i've found it again and if you can forget what a little fool i was at sixteen, you won't ever have need to doubt me any more." "all thet's happened was worth goin' through--if it led to this," he declared in a husky whisper, and as she raised her lips to his her eyes were sparkling, and her words fell whimsically into dialect. "thet piece of bottom land down thar, turney--i reckon we kin raise a dwellin'-house on hit now--a dwellin'-house an' a school-house, too." the end. the raid of the guerilla and other stories by charles egbert craddock author of "the fair mississippian," "the prophet of the great smoky mountains," etc. _with illustrations by_ w. herbert dunton and remington schuyler philadelphia & london j. b. lippincott company copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company published may, printed by j. b. lippincott company at the washington square press philadelphia, u.s.a. [illustration: he insisted that they should shake hands as on a solemn compact] contents the raid of the guerilla who crosses storm mountain? the crucial moment una of the hill country the lost guidon wolf's head his unquiet ghost a chilhowee lily the phantom of bogue holauba the christmas miracle illustrations he insisted that they should shake hands as on a solemn compact he came up like a whirlwind the united weight and impetus of the onset burst the flimsy doors into fragments with one hand holding back her dense yellow hair ... she looked up at him the raid of the guerilla judgment day was coming to tanglefoot cove--somewhat in advance of the expectation of the rest of the world. immediate doom impended. a certain noted guerilla, commanding a reckless troop, had declared a stern intention of raiding this secluded nook among the great smoky mountains, and its denizens could but tremble at the menace. few and feeble folk were they. the volunteering spirit rife in the early days of the civil war had wrought the first depletion in the number. then came, as time wore on, the rigors of the conscription, with an extension of the limits of age from the very young to the verge of the venerable, thus robbing, as was said, both the cradle and the grave. now only the ancient weaklings and the frail callow remained of the male population among the women and girls, who seemed mere supernumeraries in the scheme of creation, rated by the fitness to bear arms. so feeble a community of non-combatants might hardly compass a warlike affront calculated to warrant reprisal, but the predominant union spirit of east tennessee was all a-pulse in the cove, and the deed was no trifle. "'t war ethelindy's deed," her grandfather mumbled, his quivering lips close to the knob of his stick, on which his palsied, veinous hands trembled as he sat in his arm-chair on the broad hearth of the main room in his little log cabin. ethelinda brusie glanced quickly, furtively, at his pondering, wrinkled old face under the broad brim of his white wool hat, which he still wore, though indoors and with the night well advanced. then she fixed her anxious, excited blue eyes once more on the flare of the fire. "lawd! ye jes' now f'und that out, dad?" exclaimed her widowed mother, busied in her evening task of carding wool on one side of the deep chimney, built of clay and sticks, and seeming always the imminent prey of destruction. but there it had stood for a hundred years, dispensing light and warmth and cheer, itself more inflammable than the great hickory logs that had summer still among their fibres and dripped sap odorously as they sluggishly burned. ethelinda cast a like agitated glance on the speaker, then her gaze reverted to the fire. she had the air of being perched up, as if to escape the clutching waves of calamity, as she sat on a high, inverted splint basket, her feet not touching the puncheons of the rude floor, one hand drawing close about her the red woollen skirt of her dress. she seemed shrunken even from her normal small size, and she listened to the reproachful recital of her political activity with a shrinking dismay on her soft, roseate face. "nuthin' would do ethelindy," her granny lifted an accusatory voice, still knitting briskly, though she looked rebukingly over her spectacles at the cowering girl, "when that thar union _dee_-tachmint rid into tanglefoot cove like a rat into a trap----" "yes," interposed mrs. brusie, "through mistakin' it fur greenbrier cove." "nuthin' would do ethelindy but she mus' up an' offer to show the officer the way out by that thar cave what tunnels through the spur of the mounting down todes the bluffs, what sca'cely one o' the boys left in the cove would know now." "else he'd hev been capshured," ethelinda humbly submitted. "yes"--the ruffles of her grandmother's cap were terrible to view as they wagged at her with the nodding vehemence of her prelection--"an' _you_ will be capshured now." the girl visibly winced, and one of the three small boys lying about the hearth, sharing the warm flags with half a dozen dogs, whimpered aloud in sympathetic fright. the others preserved a breathless, anxious silence. "you-uns mus' be powerful keerful ter say nuthin' 'bout ethelindy's hand in that escape of the fed'ral cavalry"--the old grandfather roused himself to a politic monition. "mebbe the raiders won't find it out--an' the folks in the cove dun'no' who done it, nuther." "yes, bes' be keerful, sure," the gran-dame rejoined. "fur they puts wimmin folks in jail out yander in the flat woods;" still glibly knitting, she jerked her head toward the western world outside the limits of the great ranges. "whenst i war a gal i war acquainted with a woman what pizened her husband, an' they kep' her in jail a consider'ble time--a senseless thing ter do, ter jail her, ter my mind, fur he war a shif'less no-'count fool, an' nobody but her would hev put up with him ez long ez she did. the jedge an' jury thunk the same, fur they 'lowed ez she war crazy--an' so she war, ter hev ever married him! they turned her loose, but she never got another husband--i never knowed a man-person but what was skittish 'bout any onhealthy meddlin' with his vittles." she paused to count the stitches on her needles, the big shadow of her cap-ruffles bobbing on the daubed and chinked log walls in antic mimicry, while down ethelinda's pink cheeks the slow tears coursed at the prospect of such immurement. "jes' kase i showed a stranger his path----" "an' two hundred an' fifty mo'--spry, good-lookin' youngsters, able to do the rebs a power o' damage." "i war 'feared they'd git capshured. that man, the leader, he stopped me down on the bank o' the creek whar i war a-huntin' of the cow, an' he axed 'bout the roads out'n the cove. an' i tole him thar war no way out 'ceptin' by the road he had jes' come, an' a path through a sorter cave or tunnel what the creek had washed out in the spur o' the mounting, ez could be travelled whenst the channel war dry or toler'ble low. an' he axed me ter show him that underground way." "an' ye war full willin'," said mrs. brusie, in irritation, "though ye knowed that thar guerilla, ackert, hed been movin' heaven an' earth ter overhaul tolhurst's command before they could reach the main body. an' hyar they war cotched like a rat in a trap." "i was sure that the cornfeds, ez hed seen them lope down inter the cove, would be waitin' ter capshur them when they kem up the road agin--i jes' showed him how ter crope out through the cave," ethelinda sobbed. "how in perdition did they find thar way through that thar dark hole?--i can't sense that!" the old man suddenly mumbled. "they had lanterns an' some pine-knots, grandad, what they lighted, an' the leader sent a squad ter 'reconnoitre,' ez he called it. an' whilst he waited he stood an' talked ter me about the roads in greenbrier an' the lay o' the land over thar. he war full perlite an' genteel." "i'll be bound ye looked like a 'crazy jane,'" cried the grandmother, with sudden exasperation. "yer white sun-bonnet plumb off an' a-hangin' down on yer shoulders, an' yer yaller hair all a-blowsin' at loose eends, stiddier bein' plaited up stiff an' tight an' personable, an' yer face burned pink in the sun, stiddier like yer skin ginerally looks, fine an' white ez a pan o' fraish milk, an' the flabby, slinksy skirt o' that yaller calico dress 'thout no starch in it, a-flappin' an' whirlin' in the wind--shucks! i dun'no' _whut_ the man could hev thought o' you-uns, dressed out that-a-way." "he war toler'ble well pleased with me now, sure!" retorted ethelinda, stung to a blunt self-assertion. "he keered mo' about a good-lookin' road than a good-lookin' gal then. whenst the squad kem back an' reported the passage full safe for man an' beastis the leader tuk a purse o' money out'n his pocket an' held it out to me--though he said it 'couldn't express his thanks.' but i held my hands behind me an' wouldn't take it. then he called up another man an' made him open a bag, an' he snatched up my empty milk-piggin' an' poured it nigh full o' green coffee in the bean--it be skeerce ez gold an' nigh ez precious." "an' _what_ did you do with it, ethelindy?" her mother asked, significantly--not for information, but for the renewal of discussion and to justify the repetition of rebukes. these had not been few. "you know," the girl returned, sullenly. "_i_ do," the glib grandmother interposed. "ye jes' gin we-uns a sniff an' a sup, an' then ye tuk the kittle that leaks an' shook the rest of the coffee beans from out yer milk-piggin inter it, an' sot out an' marched yerself through the laurel--i wonder nuthin' didn't ketch ye! howsomever naught is never in danger--an' went ter that horspital camp o' the rebels on big injun mounting--smallpox horspital it is--an' gin that precious coffee away to the enemies o' yer kentry." "nobody comes nor goes ter that place--hell itself ain't so avoided," said mrs. brusie, her forehead corrugated with sudden recurrence of anxiety. "nobody else in this world would have resked it, 'ceptin' that headin' contrairy gal, ethelindy brusie." "i never resked nuthin'," protested ethelinda. "i stopped at the head of a bluff far off, an' hollered down ter 'em in the clearin' an' held up the kittle. an' two or three rebs war out of thar tents in the clearin'--thar be a good sight o' new graves up thar!--an' them men war hollerin' an' wavin' me away, till they seen what i war doin'; jes' settin' down the kittle an' startin' off." she gazed meditatively into the fire, of set purpose avoiding the eyes fixed upon her, and sought to justify her course. "i knowed ez we-uns hed got used ter doin' 'thout coffee, an' don't feel the need of it now. we-uns air well an' stout, an' live in our good home an' beside our own h'a'th-stone; an' they air sick, an' pore, an' cast out, an' i reckon they ain't ever been remembered before in gifts. an' i 'lowed the coffee, bein' onexpected an' a sorter extry, mought put some fraish heart an' hope in 'em--leastwise show 'em ez god don't 'low 'em ter be plumb furgot." she still gazed meditatively at the fire as if it held a scroll of her recollections, which she gradually interpreted anew. "i looked back wunst, an one o' them rebs had sot down on a log an war sobbin' ez ef his heart would bust. an' another of 'em war signin' at me agin an' agin, like he was drawin' a cross in the air--one pass down an' then one across--an' the other reb war jes' laffin' fur joy, and wunst in a while he yelled out: 'blessin's on ye! blessin's! blessin's!' i dun'no' how fur i hearn that sayin'. the rocks round the creek war repeatin' it, whenst i crossed the foot-bredge. i dun'no what the feller meant--mought hev been crazy." a tricksy gust stirred at the door as if a mischievous hand twitched the latch-string, but it hung within. there was a pause. the listening children on the hearth sighed and shifted their posture; one of the hounds snored sonorously in the silence. "nuthin' crazy thar 'ceptin' you-uns!--one fool gal--that's all!" said her grandmother, with her knitting-needles and her spectacles glittering in the fire-light. "that is a pest camp. ye mought hev cotch the smallpox. i be lookin' fur ye ter break out with it any day. when the war is over an' the men come back to the cove, none of 'em will so much as look at ye, with yer skin all pock-marked--fair an' fine as it is now, like a pan of fraish milk." "but, granny, it won't be sp'ilt! the camp war too fur off--an' thar warn't a breath o' wind. i never went a-nigh 'em." "i dun'no' how fur smallpox kin travel--an' it jes' mulls and mulls in ye afore it breaks out--don't it, s'briny?" "don't ax me," said mrs. brusie, with a worried air. "i ain't no yerb doctor, nor nurse tender, nuther. ethelindy is beyond my understandin'." she was beyond her own understanding, as she sat weeping slowly, silently. the aspect of those forlorn graves, that recorded the final ebbing of hope and life at the pest camp, had struck her recollection with a most poignant appeal. strangers, wretches, dying alone, desolate outcasts, the terror of their kind, the epitome of repulsion--they were naught to her! yet they represented humanity in its helplessness, its suffering, its isolated woe, and its great and final mystery; she felt vaguely grieved for their sake, and she gave the clay that covered them, still crude red clods with not yet a blade of grass, the fellowship of her tears. a thrill of masculine logic stirred uneasily in the old man's disused brain. "tell me _one_ thing, ethelindy," he said, lifting his bleared eyes as he clasped his tremulous hands more firmly on the head of his stick--"tell me this--which side air you-uns on, ennyhow, ethelindy?" "i'm fur the union," said ethelinda, still weeping, and now and then wiping her sapphire eyes with the back of her hand, hard and tanned, but small in proportion to her size. "i'm fur the union--fust an' last an' all the time." the old man wagged his head solemnly with a blight of forecast on his wrinkled, aged face. "that thar sayin' is goin' ter be mighty hard ter live up to whilst jerome ackert's critter company is a-raidin' of tanglefoot cove." the presence of the "critter company" was indeed calculated to inspire a most obsequious awe. it was an expression of arbitrary power which one might ardently wish directed elsewhere. from the moment that the echoes of the cove caught the first elusive strain of the trumpet, infinitely sweet and clear and compelling, yet somehow ethereal, unreal, as if blown down from the daylight moon, a filmy lunar semblance in the bland blue sky, the denizens of tanglefoot began to tremulously confer together, and to skitter like frightened rabbits from house to house. tanglefoot cove is some four miles long, and its average breadth is little more than a mile. on all sides the great smoky mountains rise about the cuplike hollow, and their dense gigantic growths of hickory and poplar, maple and gum, were aglow, red and golden, with the largesse of the generous october. the underbrush or the jungles of laurel that covered the steeps rendered outlet through the forests impracticable, and indeed the only road was invisible save for a vague line among the dense pines of a precipitous slope, where on approach it would materialize under one's feet as a wheel track on either side of a line of frosted weeds, which the infrequent passing of wagon-beds had bent and stunted, yet had not sufficed to break. the blacksmith's shop, the centre of the primitive civilization, had soon an expectant group in its widely flaring doors, for the smith had had enough of the war, and had come back to wistfully, hopelessly haunt his anvil like some uneasy ghost visiting familiar scenes in which he no more bears a part;--a minié-ball had shattered his stanch hammer-arm, and his duties were now merely advisory to a clumsy apprentice. this was a half-witted fellow, a giant in strength, but not to be trusted with firearms. in these days of makeweights his utility had been discovered, and now with the smith's hammer in his hand he joined the group, his bulging eyes all a-stare and his loose lips hanging apart. the old justice of the peace, whose office was a sinecure, since the war had run the law out of the cove, came with a punctilious step, though with a sense of futility and abated dignity, and at every successive note of the distant trumpet these wights experienced a tense bracing of the nerves to await helplessly the inevitable and, alas! the inexorable. "they say that he is a turrible, turrible man," the blacksmith averred, ever and anon rubbing the stump of his amputated hammer-arm, in which, though bundled in its jeans sleeve, he had the illusion of the sensation of its hand and fingers. he suddenly shaded his brow with his broad palm to eye that significant line which marked the road among the pines on the eastern slope, beyond the indian corn that stood tall and rank of growth in the rich bottom-lands. ethelinda's heart sank. all unprescient of the day's impending event, she had come to the forge with the sley of her loom to be mended, and she now stood holding the long shaft in her mechanical clasp, while she listened spell-bound to the agitated talk of the group. the boughs of a great yellow hickory waved above her head; near by was the trough, and here a horse, brought to be shod, was utilizing the interval by a draught; he had ceased to draw in the clear, cold spring water, but still stood with his muzzle close to the surface, his lips dripping, gazing with unimagined thoughts at the reflection of his big equine eyes, the blue sky inverted, the dappling yellow leaves, more golden even than the sunshine, and the glimmering flight of birds, with a stellular light upon their wings. "a turrible man?--w-w-well," stuttered the idiot, who had of late assumed all the port of coherence; he snatched and held a part in the colloquy, so did the dignity of labor annul the realization of his infirmity, "then i'd be obleeged ter him ef--ef--ef he'd stay out'n tanglefoot cove." "so would i." the miller laughed uneasily. but for the corrugations of time, one might not have known if it were flour or age that had so whitened his long beard, which hung quivering down over the breast of his jeans coat, of an indeterminate hue under its frosting from the hopper. "he hev tuk up a turrible spite at tanglefoot cove." the blacksmith nodded. "they say that he 'lowed ez traitors orter be treated like traitors. but _i_ be a-goin' ter tell him that the confederacy hev got one arm off'n me more'n its entitled to, an' i'm willin' ter call it quits at that." "'tain't goin' ter do him no good ter raid the cove," an ancient farmer averred; "an' it's agin' the rebel rule, ennyhows, ter devastate the kentry they live off'n--it's like sawin' off the bough ye air sittin' on." his eyes dwelt with a fearful affection on the laden fields; his old stoop-shouldered back had bent yet more under the toil that had brought his crop to this perfection, with the aid of the children whose labor was scarcely worth the strenuosity requisite to control their callow wiles. "shucks! he's a guerilla--he is!" retorted the blacksmith. "accountable ter nobody! hyar ter-day an' thar ter-morrer. rides light. two leetle parrott guns is the most weight he carries." the idiot's eyes began to widen with slow and baffled speculation. "whut--w-whut ails him ter take arter tanglefoot? w-w--" his great loose lips trembled with unformed words as he gazed his eager inquiry from one to another. under normal circumstances it would have remained contemptuously unanswered, but in these days in tanglefoot cove a man, though a simpleton, was yet a man, and inherently commanded respect. "a bird o' the air mus' hev carried the matter that tolhurst's troops hed rid inter tanglefoot cove by mistake fur greenbrier, whar they war ter cross ter jine the fed'rals nigh the cohuttas. an' that guerilla, ackert, hed been ridin' a hundred mile at a hand-gallop ter overhaul him, an' knowin' thar warn't but one outlet to tanglefoot cove, he expected ter capshur the feds as they kem out agin. so he sot himself ter ambush tolhurst, an' waited fur him up thar amongst the pines an' the laurel--an' he _waited_--an' _waited_! but tolhurst never came! so whenst the guerilla war sure he hed escaped by ways unknownst he set out ter race him down ter the cohutty mountings. but tolhurst had j'ined the main body o' the federal army, an' now ackert is showing a clean pair o' heels comin' back. but he be goin' ter take time ter raid the cove--his hurry will wait fur that! somebody in tanglefoot--the lord only knows who--showed tolhurst that underground way out ter greenbrier cove, through a sorter cave or tunnel in the mountings." "now--now--neighbor--_that's_ guesswork," remonstrated the miller, in behalf of tanglefoot cove repudiating the responsibility. perhaps the semi-mercantile occupation of measuring toll sharpens the faculties beyond natural endowments, and he began to perceive a certain connection between cause and effect inimical to personal interest. "waal, that is the way they went, sartain sure," protested the blacksmith. "i tracked 'em, the ground bein' moist, kase i wanted ter view the marks o' their horses' hoofs. they hev got some powerful triflin' blacksmiths in the army--farriers, they call 'em. i los' the trail amongst the rocks an' ledges down todes the cave--though it's more like one o' them tunnels we-uns used ter go through in the railroads in the army, but this one was never made with hands; jes' hollowed out by sinking creek. so i got jube thar ter crope through, an' view ef thar war any hoofmarks on t'other side whar the cave opens out in greenbrier cove." "an' a body would think fur sure ez the armies o' hell had been spewed out'n that black hole," said a lean man whom the glance of the blacksmith had indicated as jube, and who spoke in the intervals of a racking cough that seemed as if it might dislocate his bones in its violence. "hoofmarks hyar--hoofmarks thar--as if they didn't rightly know which way ter go in the marshy ground 'bout sinking creek. but at last they 'peared ter git tergether, an' off they tracked ter the west----" a paroxysm of coughs intervened, and the attention of the group failed to follow the words that they interspersed. "they tuk a short cut through the cove--they warn't in it a haffen hour," stipulated the prudent miller. "they came an' went like a flash. nobody seen 'em 'cept the brusies, kase they went by thar house--an' ef they hed hed a guide, old randal brusie would hev named it." "ackert 'lows he'll hang the guide ef he ketches him," said the blacksmith, in a tone of awe. "leastwise that's the word that's 'goin'." poor ethelinda! the clutch of cold horror about her heart seemed to stop its pulsations for a moment. she saw the still mountains whirl about the horizon as if in some weird bewitchment. her nerveless hands loosened their clasp upon the sley and it fell to the ground, clattering on the protruding roots of the trees. the sound attracted the miller's attention. he fixed his eyes warily upon her, a sudden thought looking out from their network of wrinkles. "you didn't see no guide whenst they slipped past you-uns' house, did ye?" poor, unwilling casuist! she had an instinct for the truth in its purest sense, the innate impulse toward the verities unspoiled by the taint of sophistication. perhaps in the restricted conditions of her life she had never before had adequate temptation to a subterfuge. even now, consciously reddening, her eyes drooping before the combined gaze of her little world, she had an inward protest of the literal exactness of her phrase. "naw sir--i never seen thar guide." "thar now, what did i tell you!" the miller exclaimed, triumphantly. the blacksmith seemed convinced. "mought hev hed a map," he speculated. "them fellers in the army _do_ hev maps. i f'und that out whenst i war in the service." the group listened respectfully. the blacksmith's practical knowledge of the art of war had given him the prestige of a military authority. doubtless some of the acquiescent wights entertained a vague wonder how the army contrived to fare onward bereft of his advice. and, indeed, despite his maimed estate, his heart was the stoutest that thrilled to the iteration of the trumpet. nearer now it was, and once more echoing down the sunset glen. "right wheel, trot--_march_," he muttered, interpreting the sound of the horses' hoofs. "it's a critter company, fur sure!" there was no splendor of pageant in the raid of the guerilla into the cove. the pines closing above the cleft in the woods masked the entrance of the "critter company." once a gleam of scarlet from the guidon flashed on the sight. and again a detached horseman was visible in a barren interval, reining in his steed on the almost vertical slant, looking the centaur in literal presentation. the dull thud of hoofs made itself felt as a continuous undertone to the clatter of stirrup and sabre, and now and again rose the stirring mandate of the trumpet, with that majestic, sweet sweep of sound which so thrills the senses. they were coming indubitably, the troop of the dreaded guerilla--indeed, they were already here. for while the sun still glinted on carbine and sabre among the scarlet and golden tints of the deciduous growths and the sombre green of the pines on the loftier slopes, the vanguard in column of fours were among the gray shadows at the mountains' base and speeding into the cove at a hand-gallop, for the roads were fairly good when once the level was reached. though so military a presentment, for they were all veterans in the service, despite the youth of many, they were not in uniform. some wore the brown jeans of the region, girt with sword-belt and canteen, with great spurs and cavalry boots, and broad-brimmed hats, which now and again flaunted cords or feathers. others had attained the confederate gray, occasionally accented with a glimmer of gold where a shoulder-strap or a chevron graced the garb. and yet there was a certain homogeneity in their aspect. all rode after the manner of the section, with the "long stirrup" at the extreme length of the limb, and the immovable pose in the saddle, the man being absolutely stationary, while the horse bounded at agile speed. there was the similarity of facial expression, in infinite dissimilarity of feature, which marks a common sentiment, origin, and habitat. then, too, they shared something recklessly haphazard, gay, defiantly dangerous, that, elusive as it might be to describe, was as definitely perceived as the guidon, riding apart at the left, the long lance of his pennant planted on his stirrup, bearing himself with a certain stately pride of port, distinctly official. the whole effect was concentrated in the face of the leader, obviously the inspiration of the organization, the vital spark by which it lived; a fierce face, intent, commanding. it was burned to a brick-red, and had an aquiline nose and a keen gray-green eagle-like eye; on either side auburn hair, thick and slightly curling, hung, after the fashion of the time, to his coat collar. and this collar and his shoulders were decorated with gold lace and the insignia of rank; the uniform was of fine confederate gray, which seemed to contradict the general impression that he was but a free-lance or a bushwhacker and operated on his own responsibility. the impression increased the terror his name excited throughout the country-side with his high-handed and eccentric methods of warfare, and perhaps he would not have resented it if he were cognizant of its general acceptance. [illustration: he came up like a whirlwind] it was a look calculated to inspire awe which he flung upon the cowering figures before the door of the forge as he suddenly perceived them; and detaching himself from the advancing troop, he spurred his horse toward them. he came up like a whirlwind. that impetuous gallop could scarcely have carried his charger over the building itself, yet there is nothing so overwhelming to the nerves as the approaching rush of a speedy horse, and the group flattened themselves against the wall; but he drew rein before he reached the door, and whirling in the saddle, with one hand on the horse's back, he demanded: "where is he? bring him out!" as if all the world knew the object of his search and the righteous reason of his enmity. "bring him out! i'll have a drumhead court martial--and he'll swing before sunset!" "good evenin', cap'n," the old miller sought what influence might appertain to polite address and the social graces. "evenin' be damned!" cried ackert, angrily. "if you folks in the coves want the immunity of non-combatants, by gawd! you gotter preserve the neutrality of non-combatants!" "yessir--that's reason--that's jestice," said the old squire, hastily, whose capacities of ratiocination had been cultivated by the exercise of the judicial functions of his modest _piepoudre_ court. ackert unwillingly cast his eagle eye down upon the cringing old man, as if he would rather welcome contradiction than assent. "it's accordin' to the articles o' war and the law of nations," he averred. "people take advantage of age and disability"--he glanced at the blacksmith, whose left hand mechanically grasped the stump of his right arm--"as if that could protect 'em in acts o' treason an' treachery;" then with a blast of impatience, "where's the man?" to remonstrate with a whirlwind, to explain to a flash of lightning, to soothe and propitiate the fury of a conflagration--the task before the primitive and inexpert cove-dwellers seemed to partake of this nature. "cap'n--ef ye'd listen ter what i gotter say," began the miller. "i'll listen arterward!" exclaimed ackert, in his clarion voice. he had never heard of jedburgh justice, but he had all the sentiment of that famous tribunal who hanged the prisoners first and tried them afterward. "cap'n," remonstrated the blacksmith, breaking in with hot haste, hurried by the commander's gusts of impatience, forgetful that he had no need to be precipitate, since he could not produce the recusant if he would. "cap'n--cap'n--bear with us--we-uns don't know!" ackert stared in snorting amaze, a flush of anger dyeing his red cheeks a yet deeper red. of all the subterfuges that he had expected, he had never divined this. he shifted front face in his saddle, placed his gauntleted right hand on his right side, and held his head erect, looking over the wide, rich expanse of the cove, the corn in the field, and the fodder in the shock set amid the barbaric splendors of the wooded autumn mountains glowing in the sunset above. he seemed scenting his vengeance with some keen sense as he looked, his thin nostrils dilating as sensitively as the nostrils of his high-couraged charger now throwing up his head to sniff the air, now bending it down as he pawed the ground. "well, gentlemen, you have got a mighty pretty piece o' country here, and good crops, too--which is a credit to you, seeing that the conscription has in and about drafted all the able-bodied mountaineers that wouldn't volunteer--damn 'em! but i swear by the right hand of jehovah, i'll burn every cabin in the cove an' every blade o' forage in the fields if you don't produce the man who guided tolhurst's cavalry out'n the trap i'd chased 'em into, or give me a true and satisfactory account of him." he raised his gauntleted right hand and shook it in the air. "so help me god!" there was all the solemnity of intention vibrating in this fierce asseveration, and it brought the aged non-combatants forward in eager protestation. the old justice made as if to catch at the bridle rein, then desisted. a certain _noli me tangere_ influence about the fierce guerilla affected even supplication, and the "squair" resorted to logic as the more potent weapon of the two. "cap'n, cap'n," he urged, with a tremulous, aged jaw, "be pleased to consider my words. i'm a magistrate sir, or i was before the war run the law clean out o' the kentry. we dun'no' the guide--we never seen the troops." then, in reply to an impatient snort of negation: "if ye'll cast yer eye on the lay of the land, ye'll view how it happened. thar's the road"--he waved his hand toward that vague indentation in the foliage that marked the descent into the vale--"an' down this e-end o' the cove thar's nex' ter nobody livin'." the spirited equestrian figure was standing as still as a statue; only the movement of the full pupils of his eyes, the dilation of the nostrils, showed how nearly the matter touched his tense nerves. "some folks in the upper e-end of the cove 'lowed afterward they hearn a hawn; some folks spoke of a shakin' of the ground like the trompin' of horses--but them troops mus' hev passed from the foot o' the mounting acrost the aidge of the cove." "scant haffen mile," put in the blacksmith, "down to a sort of cave, or tunnel, that runs under the mounting--yander--that lets 'em out into greenbrier cove." "gawd!" exclaimed the guerilla, striking his breast with his clenched, gauntleted hand as his eyes followed with the vivacity of actual sight the course of the march of the squadron of horse to the point of their triumphant vanishment. despite the vehemence of the phrase the intonation was a very bleat of desperation. for it was a rich and rare opportunity thus wrested from him by an untoward fate. in all the chaotic chances of the civil war he could hardly hope for its repetition. it was part of a crack body of regulars--tolhurst's squadron--that he had contrived to drive into this trap, this _cul-de-sac_, surrounded by the infinite fastnesses of the great smoky mountains. it had been a running fight, for tolhurst had orders, as ackert had found means of knowing, to join the main body without delay, and his chief aim was to shake off this persistent pursuit with which a far inferior force had harassed his march. but for his fortuitous discovery of the underground exit from the basin of tanglefoot cove, ackert, ambushed without, would have encountered and defeated the regulars in detail as they clambered in detachments up the unaccustomed steeps of the mountain road, the woods elsewhere being almost impassable jungles of laurel. success would have meant more to ackert than the value of the service to the cause, than the tumultuous afflatus of victory, than the spirit of strife to the born soldier. there had been kindled in his heart a great and fiery ambition; he was one of the examples of an untaught military genius of which the civil war elicited a few notable and amazing instances. there had been naught in his career heretofore to suggest this unaccountable gift, to foster its development. he was the son of a small farmer, only moderately well-to-do; he had the very limited education which a restricted and remote rural region afforded its youth; he had entered the confederate army as a private soldier, with no sense of special fitness, no expectation of personal advancement, only carried on the wave of popular enthusiasm. but from the beginning his quality had been felt; he had risen from grade to grade, and now with a detached body of horse and flying artillery his exploits were beginning to attract the attention of corps commanders on both sides, to the gratulation of friends and the growing respect of foes. he seemed endowed with the wings of the wind; to-day he was tearing up railroad tracks in the low-lands to impede the reinforcements of an army; to-morrow the force sent with the express intention of placing a period to those mischievous activities heard of his feats in burning bridges and cutting trestles in remote sections of the mountains. the probabilities could keep no terms with him, and he baffled prophecy. he had a quick invention--a talent for expedients. he appeared suddenly when least expected and where his presence seemed impossible. he had a gift of military intuition. he seemed to know the enemy's plans before they were matured; and ere a move was made to put them into execution he was on the ground with troublous obstacles to forestall the event in its very inception. he maintained a discipline to many commanders impossible. his troops had a unity of spirit that might well animate an individual. they endured long fasts, made wonderful forced marches on occasion--all day in the saddle and nodding to the pommel all night; it was even said they fought to such exhaustion that when dismounted the front rank, lying in line of battle prone upon the ground, would fall asleep between volleys, and that the second rank, kneeling to fire above them, had orders to stir them with their carbines to insure regularity of the musketry. he had the humbler yet even more necessary equipment for military success. he could forage his troops in barren opportunities; they somehow kept clothed and armed at the minimum of expense. did he lack ammunition--he made shift to capture a supply for his little parrott guns that barked like fierce dogs at the rear-guard of an enemy or protected his own retreat when it jumped with his plans to compass a speedy withdrawal himself. his horses were well groomed, well fed, fine travellers, and many showed the brand u.s., for he could mount his troop when need required from the corrals of an unsuspecting encampment. he was the ideal guerilla, of infinite service to his faction in small, significant operations of disproportioned importance. what wonder that his name was rife in rumors which flew about the country; that soon it was not only "the grapevine telegraph" that vibrated with the sound, but he was mentioned in official despatches; nay, on one signal occasion the importance of his dashing exploit was recognized by the commander of the army corps in a general order published to specially commend it. naturally his spirit rose to meet these expanding liberties of achievement. he looked for further promotion--for eminence. in a vague glimmer, growing ever stronger and clearer, he could see himself in the astral splendor of the official stars of a major-general--for in the far day of the anticipated success of the confederacy he looked to be an officer of the line. and now suddenly this light was dimmed; his laurels were wilting. what prestige would the capture of tolhurst have conferred! never had a golden opportunity like this been lost--by what uncovenanted chance had tolhurst escaped? "he must have had a guide! right here in the cove!" ackert exclaimed. "nobody outside would know a hole in the ground, a cave, a water-gap, a tunnel like that! where's the man?" "naw, sir--naw, cap'n! nobody viewed the troop but one gal person an' she 'lowed she never seen no guide." the charger whirled under the touch of the hand on the rein, and ackert's eyes scanned with a searching intentness the group. "where's this girl--you?" as the old squire with most unwelcome officiousness seized ethelinda's arm and hurried her forward, her heart sank within her. for one moment the guerilla's fiery, piercing eyes dwelt upon her as she stood looking on, her delicately white face grown deathly pallid, her golden hair frivolously blowsed in the wind, which tossed the full skirts of her lilac-hued calico gown till she seemed poised on the very wings of flight. her sapphire eyes, bluer than ever azure skies could seem, sought to gaze upward, but ever and anon their long-lashed lids fluttered and fell. he was quick of perception. "_you_ have no call to be afraid," he remarked--a sort of gruff upbraiding, as if her evident trepidation impugned his justice in reprisal. "come, you can guide me. show me just where they came in, and just where they got out--damn 'em!" she could scarcely control her terror when she saw that he intended her to ride with him to the spot, yet she feared even more to draw back, to refuse. he held out one great spurred boot. her little low-cut shoe looked tiny upon it as she stepped up. he swung her to the saddle behind him, and the great warhorse sprang forward so suddenly, with such long, swift strides, that she swayed precariously for a moment and was glad to catch the guerilla's belt--to seize, too, with an agitated clutch, his right gauntlet that he held backward against his side. his fingers promptly closed with a reassuring grasp on hers, and thus skimming the red sunset-tide they left behind them the staring group about the blacksmith shop, which the cavalrymen had now approached, watering their horses at the trough and lifting the saddles to rest the animals from the constriction of the pressure of the girths. soon the guerilla and the girl disappeared in the distance; the fences flew by; the shocks of corn seemed all a-trooping down the fields; the evening star in the red haze above the purple western mountains had spread its invisible pinions, and was a-wing above their heads. presently the heavy shadows of the looming wooded range, darkening now, showing only blurred effects of red and brown and orange, fell upon them, and the guerilla checked the pace, for the horse was among boulders and rough ledges that betokened the dry bed of a stream. great crags had begun to line the way, first only on one marge of the channel; then the clifty banks appeared on the other side, and at length a deep, black-arched opening yawned beneath the mountains, glooming with sepulchral shadows; in the silence one might hear drops trickling vaguely and the sudden hooting of an owl from within. he drew up his horse abruptly, and contemplated the grim aperture. "so they came into tanglefoot down the road, and went out of the cove by this tunnel?" "yessir!" she piped. what had befallen her voice? what appalled eerie squeak was this! she cleared her throat timorously. "they couldn't hev done it later in the fall season. tanglefoot creek gits ter runnin' with the fust rains." "an' tolhurst knew that too! he must have had a guide--a guide that knows the cove like i know the palm of my hand! well, i'll catch him yet, sometime. i'll hang him! i'll hang him--if i have to grow a tree a-purpose." what strange influence had betided the landscape? around and around circled the great stationary mountains anchored in the foundations of the earth. it was a long moment before they were still again--perhaps, indeed, it was the necessity of guarding her balance on the fiery steed, a new cause of apprehension, that paradoxically steadied ethelinda's nerves. ackert had dismounted, throwing the reins over his arm. he had caught sight of the hoofmarks along the moist sandy spaces of the channel, mute witness in point of number, and a guaranty of the truth of her story. a sudden glitter arrested his eyes. he stooped and picked up a broken belt-buckle with the significant initials u.s. yet showing upon it. "i'll hang that guide yet," he muttered, his eyes dark with angry conviction, his face lowering with fury. "i'll hang him--i won't expect to prove it p'int blank. jes' let me git a mite o' suspicion, an' i'll guarantee the slipknot!" she could never understand her motive, her choice of the moment. "cap'n ackert," she trembled forth. there was so much significance in her tone that, standing at her side, he looked up in sudden expectation. "i tole ye the truth whenst i say i _seen_ no guide"--he made a gesture of impatience; he had no time for twice-told tales--"kase--kase the guide war--war--myself." the clear twilight fell full on his amazed, upturned face and the storm of fury it concentrated. "what did you do it fur?" he thundered, "you limb o' perdition!" "jes' ter help him some. he--he--he--would hev been capshured." he would indeed! the guerilla was very terrible to look upon as his brow corrugated, and his upturned eyes, with the light of the sky within them, flashed ominously. "you little she-devil!" he cried, and then speech seemed to fail him. she had begun to shiver and shed tears and emit little gusts of quaking sobs. "oh, i be so feared----" she whimpered. "but--but--you mustn't hang--_nobody else_ on s'picion!" there was a vague change in the expression of his face. he still stood beside the saddle, with the reins over his arm, while the horse threw his head almost to the ground and again tossed it aloft in his impatient weariness of the delay. "an' now you are captured yourself," he said, sternly. "you are accountable fur your actions." she burst into a paroxysm of sobs. "i never went ter tell! i meant ter keep the secret! the folks in the cove dun'no' nuthin'. but--oh, ye _mustn't_ s'picion nobody else--ye _mustn't_ hang nobody else!" once more that indescribable change upon his face. "you showed him the way to this pass yourself? tell the truth!" "he war ridin' his horse-critter--'tain't ez fast, nor fine, nor fat ez yourn." he stroked the glossy mane with a sort of mechanical pride. "and so he went plumb through the cave?" "an' all the troop--they kindled pine-knots fur torches." he glanced about him at the convenient growths. "and they came out all safe in greenbrier?" he winced. how the lost opportunity hurt him! "yessir. in greenbrier cove." "did he pay you in gold?" sneered ackert. "or in greenbacks? or mebbe in cornfed money?" "i wouldn't hev his gold." she drew herself up proudly, though the tears were still coursing down her cheeks. "so he gin me a present--a whole passel o' coffee in my milk-piggin." then to complete a candid confession she detailed the disposition she had made of this rare and precious luxury at the rebel smallpox camp. his eyes seemed to dilate as they gazed up at her. "jesus gawd!" he exclaimed, with uncouth profanity. but the phrase was unfamiliar to her, and she caught at it with a meaning all her own. "that's jes' it! folks in gineral don't think o' _them_,'cept ter git out o' thar way; an' nobody keers fur _them_, but kase jesus _is_ gawd he makes _somebody_ remember them wunst in a while! an' they did seem passable glad." a vague sweet fragrance was on the vesperal air; some subtle distillation of asters or jewel-weed or "mountain-snow," and the leafage of crimson sumac and purple sweet-gum and yellow hickory and the late ripening frost-grapes--all in the culmination of autumnal perfection; more than one star gleamed whitely palpitant in a sky that was yet blue and roseate with a reminiscence of sunset; a restful sentiment, a brief truce stilled the guerilla's tempestuous pulse as he continued to stand beside his horse's head while the girl waited, seated on the saddle blanket. suddenly he spoke to an unexpected intent. "ye took a power o' risk in goin' nigh that confederate pest-camp--an' yit ye're fur the union an' saved a squadron from capture!" he upbraided the inconsistency in a soft incidental drawl. "yes, i be fur the union," she trembled forth the dread avowal. "but somehows i can't keep from holpin' any i kin. they war rebs--an' it war yankee coffee--an' i dun'no'--i jes' dun'no'----" as she hesitated he looked long at her with that untranslated gaze. then he fell ponderingly silent. perhaps the revelation of the sanctities of a sweet humanity for a holy sake, blessing and blessed, had illumined his path, had lifted his eyes, had wrought a change in his moral atmosphere spiritually suffusive, potent, revivifying, complete. "she is as good as the saints in the bible--an' plumb beautiful besides," he muttered beneath his fierce mustachios. once more he gazed wonderingly at her. "i expect to do some courtin' in this kentry when the war is over," the guerilla said, soberly, reaching down to readjust the reins. "i haven't got time now. will _you_ be waiting fur me here in tanglefoot cove--if i promise not to hang you fur your misdeeds right off now?" he glanced up with a sudden arch jocularity. she burst out laughing gleefuly in the tumult of her joyous reassurance, as she laid her tremulous fingers in his big gauntlet when he insisted that they should shake hands as on a solemn compact. forthwith he mounted again, and the great charger galloped back, carrying double, in the red after-glow of the sunset, to the waiting group before the flaring doors of the forge. the fine flower of romance had blossomed incongruously in that eager heart in those fierce moments of the bitterness of defeat. life suddenly had a new meaning, a fair and fragrant promise, and often and again he looked over his shoulder at the receding scene when the trumpets sang "to horse," and in the light of the moon the guerilla rode out of tanglefoot cove. but ethelinda saw him never again. all the storms of fate overwhelmed the confederacy with many a rootless hope and many a plan and pride. in lieu of the materialization of the stalwart ambition of distinction that had come to dominate his life, responsive to the discovery of his peculiar and inherent gifts, his destiny was chronicled in scarce a line of the printed details of a day freighted with the monstrous disaster of a great battle; in common with others of the "missing" his bones were picked by the vultures till shoved into a trench, where a monument rises to-day to commemorate an event and not a commander. nevertheless, for many years the flare of the first red leaves in the cleft among the pines on the eastern slope of tanglefoot cove brought to ethelinda's mind the gay flutter of the guidon, and in certain sonorous blasts of the mountain wind she could hear martial echoes of the trumpets of the guerilla. who crosses storm mountain? the wind stirred in the weighted pines; the snow lay on the ground. here and there on its smooth, white expanse footprints betokened the woodland gentry abroad. in the pallid glister of the moon, even amid the sparse, bluish shadows of the leafless trees, one might discriminate the impression of the pronged claw of the wild turkey, the short, swift paces of the mink, the padded, doglike paw of the wolf. a progress of a yet more ravening suggestion was intimated in great hoofmarks leading to the door of a little log cabin all a-crouch in the grim grip of winter and loneliness and poverty on the slope of the mountain, among heavy, outcropping ledges of rock and beetling, overhanging crags. with icy ranges all around as far as the eye could reach, with the vast, instarred, dark sky above, it might seem as if sorrow, the world, the law could hardly take account of so slight a thing, so remote. but smoke was slowly stealing up from its stick-and-clay chimney, and its clapboarded roof sheltered a group with scarcely the heart to mend the fire. two women shivered on the broad hearth before the dispirited embers. one had wept so profusely that she had much ado to find a dry spot in her blue-checked apron, thrown over her head, wherewith to mop her tears. the other, much younger, her fair face reddened, her blue eyes swollen, her auburn curling hair all tangled on her shoulders, her voice half-choked with sobs, addressed herself to the narration of their woes, her cold, listless hands clasped about her knees as she sat on an inverted bushel-basket, for there was not a whole chair in the room. "an' then he jes' tuk an' leveled!" she faltered. a young hunter standing on the threshold, leaning on his rifle, a brace of wild turkeys hanging over his shoulders, half a dozen rabbits dangling from his belt, stared at her through the dull, red glow of the fading fire in amazed agitation. "what did he level, medory--a gun?" "wuss'n that!" replied the younger woman. "he leveled the weepon o' the law!" the man turned to look again at the curious disarray of the room. "the law don't allow him to do sech ez this!" he blurted out in rising anger. "why, everything hyar is bodaciously broke an' busted! war it the sheriff himself ez levied?" "'twar jes' the dep'ty critter, clem tweed," explained medora, "mighty jokified, an' he 'peared ter be middlin' drunk, an' though he said su'thin' 'bout exemptions he 'lowed ez we-uns lived at the eend o' the world." her mother-in-law suddenly lowered the apron from her face. "'the jumpin'-off place,' war what clem tweed called it!" she interpolated with a fiery eye of indignant reminiscence. "he did! he did!" medora bitterly resented this fling at the remoteness of their poor home. "an' he said whilst hyar he'd level on everything in sight, ez he hoped never ter travel sech roads agin--everything in sight, even the baby an' the cat!" "shucks, medory, ye know the dep'ty man war funnin' whenst he said that about the baby an' the cat! ye know ez clem admitted he hed christmas in his bones!" the elder objected. "waal, war clem tweed funnin' whenst he done sech ez that, in levyin' an execution?" bruce gilhooley pointed with his ramrod at the wreck of the furniture. the two women burst into lugubrious sobs and rocked themselves back and forth in unison. "'twar _dad_!" medora moaned, in smothered accents. a pause of bewilderment ensued. then the young man's face took on an expression of dismay so ominous that medora's tears were checked in the ghastly fear of disasters yet to come to her father-in-law. now and again she glanced anxiously over her shoulder at an oblong black aperture in the dusk which betokened the open door of the shed-room. some one lurked there, evidently cherishing all aloof a grief, an anger, a despair too poignant to share. "dad warn't hyar whenst the dep'ty leveled," she said. "an' mighty glad we war--kase somebody mought hev got hurt. but whenst dad kem home an' larnt the news he jes'--he jes'--he jes' lept about like a painter." "he did! he did!" asseverated a voice from the veiled head, all muffled in the checked apron. "dad 'lowed," continued medora, "ez peter petrie hev persecuted and druv him ter the wall. fust he tricked dad out'n some unoccupied lan' what dad hed begun ter clear, an' petrie got it entered fust an' tuk out a grant an' holds the title! an' whenst dad lay claim ter it peter petrie declared ef enny gilhooley dared ter cross storm mounting he'd break every bone in his body!" "a true word--the insurance of the critter!" came from the blue-checked veil. a stir in the shed-room--a half-suppressed cough and a clearing of the throat. "an' then dad fell on pete petrie at the crossroads' store, whar the critter hed stopped with his mail-pouch, an' dad trounced him well afore all the crowd o' loafers thar!" "bless the lord, he did!" the checked apron voiced a melancholy triumph. "an' then, ye remember whenst dad set out fire in the woods las' fall ter burn off the trash on his own lan', the flames run jes' a leetle over his line an' on ter them woods on storm mounting, doin' no harm ter nobody, nor nuthin'!" "not a mite--not a mite," asseverated the apron. "an' ez sech appears ter be agin the law petrie gin information an' dad war fined five dollars!" "an' paid it!" cried jane gilhooley. "ye know that!" "an' then, ez it 'pears ter be the law ez one hundred dollars fur sech an offense is ter be forfeited ter ennybody ez will sue fur it," medora resumed, "petrie seen his chance ter git even fur bein' beat in a reg'lar knock-down-an'-drag-out fight, an'," with the rising inflection of a climax, "he hev sued and got jedgmint!" "an' so what that half-drunk dep'ty, clem tweed, calls an execution war leveled!" exclaimed jane gilhooley, her veiled head swaying forlornly as she sobbed invisibly. "but dad 'lowed ez peter petrie shouldn't hev none o' his gear," medora's eyes flashed with a responsive sentiment. "his gran'mam's warpin' bars!" suggested the elder woman. "the spinnin'-wheels she brung from no'th carliny," enumerated medora, "the loom an' the candle-moulds." "the cheers his dad made fur his mam whenst they begun housekeepin'," said jane gilhooley's muffled voice. "the press an' the safe," medora continued. "the pot an' the oven," chokingly responded the apron. "the churn an' the piggins!" "the skillet an' the trivet!" medora, fairly flinching from the inventory of all the household goods, so desecrated and "leveled on," returned to the salient incident of the day. "dad jes' tuk an axe an' bust up every yearthly thing in the house!" "an' now we-uns ain't got nuthin'." the elder woman looked about in stunned dismay, her little black eyes a mere gleam of a pupil in the midst of their swollen lids and network of wrinkles. one of the miseries of the very ignorant is, paradoxically, the partial character of their privation. if the unknown were to them practically non-existent they might find solace in sluggish and secure content. but even the smallest circle of being touches continually the periphery of wider spheres. the air is freighted with echoes of undistinguished sounds. powers, illimitable, absolute, uncomprehended, seem to hold an inimical sway over their lives and of these the most dreaded is the benign law, framed for their protection, spreading above them an unperceived, unimagined aegis. thus there was hardly an article in the house which was not exempt by statute from execution, and the house itself and land worth only a hundred or two dollars were protected by the homestead law. the facetious deputy, clem tweed, with "christmas in his bones," would have committed a misdemeanor in seriously levying upon them. he had held the affair as a capital farce--even affecting with wild, appropriating gambols to seize the baby and the cat--and fully realized that malice only had prompted the whole proceeding, to humiliate ross gilhooley and illustrate the completeness of the victory which peter petrie had won over his enemy. the younger gilhooley, however, quaked as his limited intelligence laid hold on the fact that if the law had permitted a levy on the household goods to satisfy the judgment of peter petrie their destruction was in itself a balking of the process, resistance to the law, and with an unimagined penalty. "we-uns hev got ter git away from hyar somehows!" he said with decision. the idea of bluff ross gilhooley in the clutches of the law because of one fierce moment of goaded and petulant despair, with the ignominy of a criminal accusation, with all the sordid concomitants of arrest and the jail, was infinitely terrible to his unaccustomed imagination. he revolted from its contemplation with a personal application. for an honest man, however poor, feels all the high prerogatives of honor. there was a step in the shed-room where ross gilhooley had lurked and listened. his wrath now spent, his mind had traveled the obvious course to his son's conclusion. he stood a gigantic, bearded shadow in the doorway, half ashamed, wholly repentant, dimly, vaguely fearful, and all responsive and quivering to the idea of flight. "i been studyin' some 'bout goin' ter minervy sue's in georgy," he said creakingly, as if his voice had suffered from its unwonted disuse. "an' none too soon," said bruce doggedly. "the oxen is medory's, bein' lef' ter her whenst her dad died, an' the wagin is mine! quit foolin' along o' that thar fire, medory!" for with her bright hair hanging curling over her cheeks his young wife had leaned forward to start it anew. "never ter kindle it agin on this ha'th-stone!" she cried with a poignant realization of the significance of the uprooting of the roof-tree and the wide, vague world without. and still once more the two women fell to bemoaning their fate of exile beside the expiring embers, while the elder gilhooley's voice sounded bluffly outside calling the oxen, and his son was rattling their heavy yoke in the corner. they were well advanced on their journey ere yet the snowy christmas dawn was in the sky. so slow a progress was ill-associated with the idea of flight. it was almost noiseless--the great hoofs of the oxen fell all muffled on the deep snow still whitely a-glitter with the moon, hanging dense and opaque in the western sky, and flecked with the dendroidal images of the overshadowing trees. the immense bovine heads swayed to and fro, cadenced to the deliberate pace, and more than once a muttered low of distaste and protest rose with the vapor curling upward from lip and nostril into the icy air. on the front seat of the cumbrous, white, canvas-covered vehicle was medora, her bright hair blowing out from the folds of a red shawl worn hood-wise; she held a cord attached to the horns of one of the oxen by which she sought to guide the yoke in those intervals when her husband, who walked by their side with a goad, must needs fall to the rear to drive up a cow and calf. inside the wagon ross gilhooley did naught but bow his head between his hands as if he could not face the coming day charged with he knew not what destiny for him. his wife was adjusting and readjusting the limited gear they had dared to bring off with them--their forlorn rags of clothing and bedding, all in shapeless bundles; sundry gourds full of soft soap, salt, tobacco, and a scanty store of provisions, which she feared would not last them all the way to georgia to the home of minervy sue, their daughter. no one touched a space deeply filled with straw, but now and again medora glanced back at it with the dawning of a smile in her grief-stricken face that cold, nor fear, nor despair could wholly overcast. three small heads, all golden and curly, all pink-cheeked and fair, all blissfully slumbering, rested there as if they had been so many dolls packed away thus for fear of breaking. but they had no other couch than the straw, for ross gilhooley had not spared the feather-beds, and the little cabin at the notch was now half full of the fluff ripped out by his sharp knife from the split ticks. down the mountain the fugitives went, as silent as their shadows; and at last, when one might hardly know if it were the sheen of the moon that still illuminated the wan and wintry scene, or the reflection from the snow, or the dawning of the dark-gray day, the river came in sight, all a rippling, steely expanse under the chill wind between its ice-girt crags and snowy banks. the oxen went down to the ford in a lumbering run. bruce sprang upon the tailboard to ride, the dogs chased the cow and calf to the crossing. the wheels grated ominously against great submerged boulders; the surging waves rose almost to the wagon-bed; the wind struck aslant the immense, cumbrous cover, threatening to capsize it; and, suddenly, in the midst of the transit, a sound, as clear as a bugle in the rare icy air, as searchingly sweet! all were motionless for an instant, doubtful, anxious, listening--only the wintry wind with its keen sibilance; only the dash of the swift current; only the grating of the wheels on the sand as the oxen reached the opposite margin! but hark, again! a clear tenor voice in the fag end of an old song: "an' my bigges' bottle war my bes' friend, an' my week's work was all at an end!" it issued from beyond the right fork of the road in advance, and an instant panic ensued. discovery was hard upon them. their laborious device was brought to naught should any eye espy them in their hasty flight to the state line. it had not seemed impossible that ere the day should dawn they might be far away in those impenetrable forests where one may journey many a league, meeting naught more inimical or speculative than bear or deer. it still was worth the effort. with a sudden spring from the tailboard of the wagon bruce gilhooley reached the yoke, fiercely goading the oxen onward. with an abrupt lurch, in which the vehicle swayed precariously and ponderously from side to side, they started up the steep, snowy bank, and breaking into their ungainly run were guided into the left fork of the road. it was a level stretch and fringed about with pines, and soon all sight of the pilgrims was lost amidst the heavy snow-laden boughs. the river bank was silent and solitary; and after a considerable interval a man rode down from the right fork to the ford. more than once his horse refused the passage. a sort of parrot-faced man he was, known as tank dysart, young, red-haired, with a long, bent nose and a preposterous air of knowingness and turbulent inquiry. he cocked his head on one side with a snort of surprised indignation, and beat with both heels, but again the horse, sidling about the drifts, declined the direct passage and essayed to cross elsewhere. all at once a bundle of red flannel, lying in the drift close to the water's edge, caught his attention, and suddenly there issued forth a lusty bawl. the horseman would have turned pale but for the whisky which had permanently incarnadined the bend of his nose. as it was, however, he looked far more dismayed than the facts might seem to warrant. "it's the booze--i got 'em again fur sartain!" he quavered in plaintive helplessness, his terrified eyes fixed on the squirming bundle. then, drunk as he was, he perceived the rift in his logic. "gol-darn ye!" he exclaimed, violently kicking the horse, "you-uns ain't got no call ter view visions an' see sights--ye old water-bibber!" as the horse continued to snort and back away from the object tank dysart became convinced of its reality. still mounted, he passed close enough alongside for a grasp at it. the old red-flannel cape and hood disclosed a plump infant about ten months of age, whimpering and cruelly rubbing his eyes with his fists, and now bawling outright with rage; as he chanced to meet the gaze of his rescuer he paused to laugh in a one-sided way, displaying two pearly teeth and a very beguiling red tongue, but again stiffening himself he yelled as behooves a self-respecting baby so obviously misplaced. tank dysart held him out at arm's length in his strong grasp, surveying him in mingled astonishment and delight. "why, bless my soul, christmas gift!" he addressed him. "i'm powerful obligated fur yer company!" for the genial infant giggled and sputtered and gurgled inconsistently in the midst of his bawling, and banteringly kicked out one soft foot in a snug, red sock, taking tank full in the chest; then he stiffened, swayed backward and screamed again as if in agonies of grief. "sufferin' moses!" grinned the drunkard. "i wouldn't take nuthin' fur ye! ye air a find, an' no mistake!" the word suggested illusion. "ye ain't no snake, now--nary toad--nary green rabbit--no sort'n jim-jam?" he stipulated apprehensively. the baby babbled gleefully, and, as if attesting its reality, delivered half a dozen strong kicks with those active plump feet, encased in the smart red socks. it suddenly occurred to the drunkard that here was a duty owing--to seek out the child's parents. even to his befuddled brain that fact was plain enough. the little creature had been lost evidently from some family of travelers who would presently retrace their way seeking him. when bruce gilhooley had sprung from the tailboard of the wagon in that moment of tumultuous panic he had not noticed the bundle of straw dislodged. falling with it softly into the deep snowdrift the child had continued to slumber quietly till awakened by the cold to silence and loneliness, and then this strange rencontre. with a half-discriminated idea of overtaking the supposed travelers, tank dysart briskly forded the river, and, pressing his horse to a canter, made off in the opposite direction. gayly they fared along for a time, tank frequently refreshing himself from a "tickler," facetiously so-called, which he carried in his pocket. occasionally he generously offered the baby the stopper to suck, and as the child smacked his lips with evident relish tank roared out again in his fine and flexible tenor: "for my bigges' bottle war my bes' friend, an' my week's work war all at an end!" the horse, by far the nobler animal of the two, stood still ever and anon when the drunken creature swayed back and forth in his saddle, imperiling his equilibrium. even to his besotted mind, as he grew more intoxicated, the danger to the child in his erratic grasp became apparent. "i got ter put him in a safe place--a christmas gift," he now and then stuttered. when he came at last within reach of a human habitation he had been for some time consciously on the point of falling from the saddle with the infant, who was now quietly asleep. he noted, as in a dream, the crossroads' store, which was also the post-office; standing in front of the log cabin was a horse already saddled hanging down a dull, dispirited head as he awaited the mail-rider through a long, cold interval, and bearing a united states mail-pouch, mouldy, flabby, nearly empty. the door of the store was closed against the cold; the blacksmith's shop was far down the road; the two or three scattered dwellings showed no sign of life but the wreaths of blue smoke curling up from the clay-and-stick chimneys. perhaps it was the impunity of the moment that suggested the idea to dysart's whimsical drunken fancy. he never knew. he suddenly tried the mouth of the pouch. it was locked. nothing daunted, a stroke of a keen knife slit the upper part of the side seam, the sleeping baby was slipped into the aperture, and tank dysart rode off chuckling with glee to think of the dismay of the mail-rider when the mail-pouch should break forth with squeals and quiver with kicks, which embarrassment would probably not befall him until far away in the wilderness with his perplexity, for there had been something stronger on that stopper than milk or cambric tea. as tank went he muttered something about the security of the united states mail, wherein he had had the forethought to deposit his christmas gift, and forthwith he flung himself into the shuck-pen, where he fell asleep, and was not found till half-frozen, his whereabouts being at last disclosed to the storekeeper by the persistent presence of his faithful steed standing hard by. tank was humanely cared for by this functionary, but several days elapsed before he altogether recovered consciousness; it was naturally a confused, disconnected train of impressions which his mind retained. at first, in a maudlin state, he demanded of the storekeeper, in his capacity as postmaster also, a package, a christmas gift, which he averred he should receive by mail. albeit this was esteemed merely an inebriated fancy, such is the sensitiveness of the united states postal service on the subject of missing mail matter that the postmaster, half-irritated, half-nervous, detailed it to the mail-rider. "tank 'lows ez he put it into the mail hyar himself!" peter petrie, a lowering-eyed, severe-visaged, square-jawed man, gave tank dysart only a glance of ire from under his hat-brim, as if the matter were not worth the waste of a word. dysart, wreck though he was, had not yet lost all conscience. he was in an agony of remorse and doubt. it kept him sober longer than he had been for five years, for he was a professed drunkard and idler, scarcely considered responsible. he could not be sure that he had experienced aught which he seemed to remember--he hoped it was all only his drunken fancy, for what could have been the fate of the child subject to the freaks of his imbecile folly? he was reassured to hear no rumors of a lost child, and yet so definite were the images of his recollection that they must needs constrain his credulity. he felt it in the nature of a rescue one day when, as he chanced to join a group of gossips loitering around the fire of the forge, he heard the smith ask casually: "who is that thar baby visitin' at peter petrie's over yander acrost storm mounting?" "gran'child, i reckon," suggested his big-boned, bare-armed, soot-grimed striker. "peter petrie hain't got nare gran'-child," said one of the loungers. tank, sober for once, held his breath to listen. "behaves powerful like a gran'dad," observed the smith, holding a horseshoe with the tongs in the fire while the striker laid hold on the bellows and the sighing sound surged to and fro and the white blaze flared forth, showing the interested faces of the group in the dusky smithy, and among them the horse whose shoe was making, while another stood at the open door defined against the snow. "behaves like he ain't got a mite o' sense. i war goin' by thar one day las' week an' i stepped up on the porch ter pass the time o' day with pete an' his wife, an' the door war open. an' what d'ye s'pose i seen? old peter petrie a-goin' round the floor on all fours, an' a-settin' on his back war a baby--powerful peart youngster--jes' a-grinnin' an' a-whoopin' an' a-poundin' old peter with a whip! an' pete galloped, he did! didn't seem beset with them rheumatics he used ter talk about--peartest leetle 'possum of a baby!" tank dysart lost no time in his investigations and he had the courage of his convictions. he did not scruple to call peter petrie to his face a mail-robber. "ye tuk a package deposited in the united states' mail and converted it to your own use," he vociferated. "'twar neither stamped nor addressed," old petrie gruffly contended, albeit obviously disconcerted. dysart even sought to induce the postmaster to send a complaint of the rider to the postal authorities. "i got too much respec' fur my job," replied that worthy, jocosely eying tank across the counter of the store. "i ain't goin' ter let on ter the folks in washington that we send babies about in the mail-bags hyar in the mountings." the social acquaintance of the little man had necessarily been rather limited, but one day a neighbor, attracted to the petrie cabin by idle curiosity concerning the waif robbed from the mails, gazed upon him for one astonished instant and then proclaimed his identity. "nare gilhooley should ever cross storm mounting, 'cordin' ter yer sayin', petey, an' hyar ye hev been totin' ross gilhooley's gran'son back an' forth across old stormy, an' all yer spare time ye spend on yer hands an' knees barkin' like a dog jes' ter pleasure him." peter petrie changed countenance suddenly. his square, bristly, grim jaw hardened and stiffened, so dear to him were all his stubborn convictions and grizzly, ancient feuds. but he bestirred himself to cause information to be conveyed to bruce gilhooley of his son's whereabouts for he readily suspected that the family had fled to minervy sue's in georgia. peter petrie sustained in this act of conscience a grievous wrench, for it foreshadowed parting with the choice missive filched from the mail-bag, but he was not unmindful of the anguish and bereavement of the mother, and somehow the thought was peculiarly coercive at this season. "i don't want ter even up with king herod, now, sure!" he averred to himself one night as he sat late over the embers, reviewing his plans all made. he thought much in these lone hours as he heard the wind speed past, the trees crack under their weight of snow, and noted through the tiny window the glister of a great star of a supernal lustre, high above the pines, what a freight of joy the tidings of this child would bear to the bleeding hearts of his kindred. albeit so humble, the parallel must needs arise suggesting the everlasting joy the existence of another child had brought to the souls of all kindreds, all peoples. "peace, peace," he reiterated, as the red coals crumbled and the gray ash spread; "peace an' good-will!" the words seemed to epitomize all religion, all value, all hope, and somehow they so dwelt in his mind that the next day he was moved to add a personal message to old ross gilhooley in sending the more important information to bruce. "let on ter ross," he charged the envoy, "ez--ez--that thar jedgmint an' execution issued war jes' formal--ye mought say--jes' ter hev all the papers reg'lar." by virtue of more attrition with the world the mail-rider was more sophisticated than his enemy, and sooth to say, more sophistical. "ross is writ-proof, the old fool, though he war minded ter cut me out'n my levy if he could! but waal, jes' tell him from me ez we-uns hev hed a heap o' pleasure in the baby's company in the chris'mus, an' we-uns expec' ter borry him some whenst they all gits home!" * * * * * to the child's kindred the news was as if he had risen from the dead, and the gratitude of the gilhooleys to petrie knew no bounds. they had accounted the baby drowned when, missing him, they had retraced their way, finding naught but a bit of old blanket on which he had lain, close to the verge of the cruel river. ross gilhooley, softened and rendered tractable by exile and sorrow, upon his return lent himself to an affected warmth toward peter petrie which gradually assumed all the fervors of sincerity. the neighbors indeed were moved to say that the two friends and ancient enemies, when both on all fours and barking for the delight of the baby, were never so little like dogs in all their lives. thus a child shall lead them. the crucial moment a mere moment seems an inconsiderable factor in life--only its multiplication attaining importance and signifying time. it could never have occurred to walter hoxer that all his years of labor, the aggregation of the material values of industry, experience, skill, integrity, could be nullified by this minimum unit of space--as sudden, as potent, as destructive, as a stroke of lightning. but after the fact it did not remind him of any agency of the angry skies; to him it was like one of the obstructions of the river engineers to divert the course of the great mississippi, a mattress-spur, a thing insignificant in itself, a mere trifle of woven willow wands, set up at a crafty angle, against the tumultuous current. yet he had seen the swirling waves, in their oncoming like innumerable herds of wild horses, hesitate at the impact, turn aside, and go racing by, scouring out a new channel, leaving the old bank bereft, thrown inland, no longer the margin of the stream. the river was much in his mind that afternoon as he trudged along the county road at the base of the levee, on his way, all unprescient, to meet this signal, potential moment. outside, he knew that the water was standing higher than his head, rippling against the thick turf of bermuda grass with which the great earthwork was covered. for the river was bank-full and still rising--indeed, it was feared that an overflow impended. however, there was as yet no break; advices from up the river and down the river told only of extra precautions and constant work to keep the barriers intact against the increasing volume of the stream. the favorable chances were reinforced by the fact of a singularly dry winter, that had so far eliminated the danger from back-water, which, if aggregated from rain-fall in low-lying swamps, would move up slowly to inundate the arable lands. these were already ploughed to bed up for cotton, and an overflow now would mean the loss of many thousands of dollars to the submerged communities. the february rains had begun in the upper country, with a persistency and volume that bade fair to compensate for the long-continued drought, and thus the river was already booming; the bayous that drew off a vast surplusage of its waters were over-charged, and gradually would spread out in murky shallows, heavily laden with river detritus, over the low grounds bordering their course. "this jeffrey levee will hold," hoxer said to himself, as once he paused, his hands in his pockets, his cap on the back of his red head, his freckled, commonplace, square face lifted into a sort of dignity by the light of expert capacity and intelligence in his bluff blue eyes. he had been muttering to himself the details of its construction: so many feet across the base in proportion to its height, the width of the summit, the angle of the incline of its interior slope--the exterior being invisible, having the mississippi river standing against it. "a fairly good levee, though an old one," he muttered. "i'll bet, though, major jeffrey feels mightily like noah when he looks at all that water out there tearing through the country." his face clouded at the mention of the name, and as he took the short pipe from his mouth and stuck it into the pocket of his loose sack-coat his tread lost a certain free elasticity that had characterized it hitherto, and he trudged on doggedly. he had passed many acres of ploughed lands, the road running between the fields and the levee. the scene was all solitary; the sun had set, and night would presently be coming on. as he turned in at the big white gate that opened on a long avenue of oaks leading to the mansion house, he began to fear that his visit might be ill-timed, and that a man of his station could not hope for an audience so near the major's dinner-hour. it was with definite relief that he heard the gentle impact of ivory balls in the absolute quiet, and he remembered that a certain little octagonal structure with a conical red roof, in the grounds, was a billiard-room, for the sound betokened that he might find the owner of the place here. he expected to see a group of the major's "quality friends" in the building but as he ascended the steps leading directly to the door, he perceived that the man he sought was alone. major jeffrey was engaged in idly knocking the balls about in some skilful fancy shots, his cigar in his mouth, and a black velvet smoking-jacket setting off to special advantage his dense, snowy hair, prematurely white, his long mustache, and his pointed imperial. his heavy white eyebrows drew frowningly together over arrogant dark eyes as he noted the man at the entrance. despite hoxer's oft-reiterated sentiment that he was "as good as anybody and would take nothing off nobody, and cared for no old duck just because he was rich," he could not speak for a moment as he felt major jeffrey's inimical eyes upon him. he lost the advantage in losing the salutation. "did you get my check?" major jeffrey asked curtly. "yes," hoxer admitted; "but----" "the amount was according to contract." hoxer felt indignant with himself that he should have allowed this interpretation to be placed on his presence here; then he still more resented the conjecture. "i have not come for extra money," he said. "that point of the transaction is closed." "all the points of the transaction are closed," said major jeffrey, ungraciously. there was more than the flush of the waning western sky on his face. he had already dined, and he was one of those wine-bibbers whom drink does not render genial. "i want to hear no more about it." he turned to the table, and with a skilful cue sent one ball caroming against two others. "but you must hear what i have got to say, major jeffrey," protested hoxer. "i built that cross-levee for you to join your main levee, and done it well." "and have been well paid." "but you go and say at the store that i deviated from the line of survey and saved one furlong, seven poles, and five feet of levee." "and so you did." "but you know, major, that burbeck lake had shrunk in the drought at the time of the survey, and if i'd followed the calls for the south of the lake, i'd had to build in four feet of water, so i drew back a mite--you bein' in orleans, where i couldn't consult you, an' no time to be lost nohow, the river bein' then on the rise, an'----" "look here, fellow," exclaimed major jeffrey, bringing the cue down on the table with a force that must have cut the cloth, "do you suppose that i have nothing better to do than to stand here to listen to your fool harangue?" the anger and the drink and perhaps the consciousness of being in the wrong were all ablaze in the major's eyes. the two were alone; only the darkling shadows stood at tiptoe at the open windows, and still the flushed sky sent down a pervasive glow from above. hoxer swallowed hard, gulping down his own wrath and sense of injury. "major," he said blandly, trying a new deal, "i don't think you quite understand me." "such a complicated proposition you are, to be sure!" hoxer disregarded the sarcasm, the contempt in the tone. "i am not trying to rip up an old score, but you said at winfield's store--at the store--that i did not build the cross levee on the surveyor's line; that i shortened it----" "so you did." "but as if i had shortened the levee for my own profit, when, as you know, it was paid for by the pole----" "you tax me with making a false impression?" an extreme revulsion of expectation harassed hoxer. he had always known that jeffrey was an exception to the general rule of the few large land-owners in the community, who were wont to conserve and, in fact, to deserve the pose of kindly patron as well as wealthy magnate. but even jeffrey, he thought, would not grudge a word to set a matter straight that could cost him nothing and would mean much to the levee-contractor. though of large experience in levee-building, hoxer was new to the position of contractor, having been graduated into it, so to speak, from the station of foreman of a construction-gang of irishmen. he had hoped for further employ in this neighborhood, in building private levees that, in addition to the main levees along the banks of the mississippi, would aid riparian protection by turning off overflow from surcharged bayous and encroaching lakes in the interior. but, unluckily, the employer of the first enterprise he had essayed on his own responsibility had declared that he had deviated from the line of survey, usually essential to the validity of the construction, thereby much shortening the work; and had made this statement at winfield's store--at the store! whatever was said at the store was as if proclaimed through the resounding trump of fame. the store in a mississippi neighborhood, frequented by the surrounding planters, great and small, was the focus of civilization, the dispenser of all the wares of the world, from a spool of thread to a two-horse wagon, the post-office, in a manner the club. here, sooner or later, everybody came, and hence was the news of the bend noised abroad. hoxer's business could scarcely recover from this disparagement, and he had not doubted that jeffrey would declare that he had said nothing to justify this impression, and that he would forthwith take occasion to clear it up. for were not mr. tompkins and judge claris, both with a severe case of "high-water scare," ready to contract for a joint cross levee for mutual protection from an unruly bayou! therefore, with a sedulous effort, hoxer maintained his composure when the major thundered again, "you tax me with making a false impression?" "not intentionally, major, but----" "and who are you to judge of my motives? told a lie by accident, did i? begone, sir, or i'll break your head with this billiard cue!" he had reached the limit as he brandished the cue. he was still agile, vigorous, and it was scarcely possible that hoxer could escape the blow. he dreaded the indignity indeed more than the hurt. "if you strike me," he declared in a single breath, between his set teeth, "before god, i'll shoot you with your own pistol!" it seemed a fatality that a pair in their open case should have been lying on the sill of the window, where their owner had just been cleaning and oiling them. hoxer, of course, had no certainty that they were loaded, but the change in jeffrey's expression proclaimed it. he was sober enough now--the shock was all sufficient--as he sprang to the case. the younger man was the quicker. he had one of the pistols in his hand before jeffrey could level the other that he had snatched. quicker to fire, too, for the weapon in jeffrey's hand was discharged in his latest impulse of action after he fell to the floor, the blood gushing from a wound that crimsoned all the delicate whiteness of his shirt-front and bedabbled his snowy hair and beard. this was the moment, the signal, fatal, final moment, that the levee contractor had come to meet, that placed the period to his own existence. he lived no longer, hoxer felt. he did not recognize as his own a single action hereafter, a single mental impulse. it was something else, standing here in the red gloaming--some foreign entity, cogently reasoning, swiftly acting. self-defense--was it? and who would believe that? had he found justice so alert to redress his wrongs, even in a little matter, that he must needs risk his neck upon it? this thing that was not himself--no, never more!--had the theory of alibi in his mind as he stripped off his low-cut shoes and socks, thrusting them into his pockets, leaping from the door, and flying among the dusky shadows down the glooming grove, and through the gate. dusk here, too, on the lonely county road, the vague open expanse of the ploughed fields glimmering to the instarred sky of a still, chill night of early february. he did not even wonder that there should be no hue and cry on his tracks--the thing was logical! jeffrey had doubtless had his pistols carried down from the mansion to him in his den in the billiard-room, for the avowed purpose of putting the weapons in order. if the shots were heard at all at the dwelling, the sound was reasonably ascribed to the supposed testing of the weapons. hoxer was conscious that a sentiment of gratulation, of sly triumph, pervaded his mental processes as he sped along barefoot, like some tramp or outcast, or other creature of a low station. he had laid his plans well in this curious, involuntary cerebration. those big, bare footprints were ample disguise for a well-clad, well-groomed, well-shod middle-class man of a skilful and lucrative employ. the next moment his heart sank like lead. he was followed! he heard the pursuit in the dark! swift, unerring, leaping along the dusty road, leaving its own footprints as a testimony against him. for he had recognized its nature at last! it was his own dog--a little, worthless cur, that had a hide like a doormat and a heart as big as the united states--a waif, a stray, that had attached himself to the contractor at the shanties of the construction gang, and slept by his bed, and followed at his heel, and lived on the glance of his eye. he was off again, the dog fairly winging his way to match his master's speed. hoxer could not kill him here, for the carcass would tell the story. but was it not told already in those tracks in the dusty road? what vengeance was there not written in the eccentric script of those queer little padded imprints of the creature's paws. fie, fool! was this the only cur-dog in the bend? he asked himself, impatient of his fears. was not the whole neighborhood swarming with canine dependents? despite his reasoning, this endowment that was once himself had been affrighted by the shock. the presence of the little cur-dog had destroyed the complacence of his boasted ratiocination. he had only the instincts of flight as he struck off through the woods when the great expanse of cultivated lands had given way to lower ground and the wide liberties of the "open swamp," as it was called. this dense wilderness stretched out on every side; the gigantic growth of gum trees was leafless at this season, and without a suggestion of underbrush. the ground was as level as a floor. generally during the winter the open swamp is covered with shallow water, but in this singularly droughty season it had remained "with dry feet," according to the phrase of that country. the southern moon, rising far along its levels, began to cast burnished golden shafts of light adown its unobstructed vistas. it might seem some magnificent park, with its innumerable splendid trees, its great expanse, and ever and anon in the distance the silver sheen of the waters of a lake, shining responsive to the lunar lustre as with an inherent lustre of its own. on and on he went, his noiseless tread falling as regularly as machinery, leaving miles behind him, the distance only to be conjectured by the lapse of time, and, after so long, his flagging strength. he began to notice that the open swamp was giving way in the vicinity of one of the lakes to the characteristics of the swamp proper, although the ground was still dry and the going good. he had traversed now and then a higher ridge on which switch-cane grew somewhat sparsely, but near the lake on a bluff bank a dense brake of the heavier cane filled the umbrageous shadows, so tall and rank and impenetrable a growth that once the fugitive paused to contemplate it with the theory that a secret intrusted to its sombre seclusions might be held intact forever. as he stood thus motionless in the absolute stillness, a sudden thought came to his mind--a sudden and terrible thought. he could not be sure whether he had heard aught, or whether the sight of the water suggested the idea. he knew that he could little longer sustain his flight, despite his vigor and strength. quivering in every fibre from his long exertions, he set his course straight for that glimmering sheen of water. encircling it were heavy shadows. tall trees pressed close to the verge, where lay here a fallen branch, and there a rotten log, half sunken in mud and ooze, and again a great tangle of vines that had grown smiling to the summer sun, but now, with the slow expansion of the lake which was fed by a surcharged bayou, quite submerged in a fretwork of miry strands. the margin was fringed with saw-grass, thick and prickly, and his practised eye could discern where the original banks lay by the spears thrust up above the surface a score of feet away. thus he was sure of his depth as he waded out staunchly, despite the cruel pricks to his sensitive naked feet. the little dog had scant philosophy; he squeaked and wheezed and wailed with the pain until the man, who had no time to kill him now--for had he heard aught or naught?--picked him up and carried him in his arms, the creature licking hoxer's hands in an ecstasy of gratitude, and even standing on his hind-legs on his master's arm to snatch a lick upon his cheek. in the darksome shadows, further and further from the spot where he had entered the lake, hoxer toiled along the margin, sometimes pausing to listen--for had he heard aught or naught?--as long as his strength would suffice. then amidst the miry débris of last summer's growths beneath the recent inundation he sank down in the darkness, the dog exhausted in his arms. this was one of those frequent crescent-shaped lakes peculiar to the region; sometimes, miles in extent, the lacustrine contour is not discernible to the glance; here the broad expanse seemed as if the body of water were circular and perhaps three miles in diameter. suddenly hoxer heard the sound that had baffled him hitherto--heard it again and--oh, horrible!--recognized it at last! the baying of bloodhounds it was, the triumphant cry that showed that the brutes had caught the trail and were keeping it. on and on came the iteration, ever louder, ever nearer, waking the echoes till wood and brake and midnight waters seemed to rock and sway with the sound, and the stars in the sky to quake in unison with the vibrations. never at fault, never a moment's cessation, and presently the shouts of men and the tramp of horses blended with that deep, tumultuous note of blood crying to heaven for vengeance. far, far, down the lake it was. hoxer could see nothing of the frantic rout when the hounds paused baffled at the water-side. he was quick to note the changed tone of the brutes' pursuit, plaintive, anxious, consciously thwarted. they ran hither and thither, patrolling the banks, and with all their boasted instinct they could only protest that the fugitive took to water at this spot. but how? they could not say, and the men argued in vain. the lake was too broad to swim--there was no island, no point of vantage. a boat might have taken him off, and, if so, the craft would now be lying on the opposite bank. a party set off to skirt the edge of the lake and explore the further shores by order of the sheriff, for this officer, summoned by telephone, had come swiftly from the county town in an automobile, to the verge of the swamp, there accommodated with a horse by a neighboring planter. and then, hoxer, lying on the elastic submerged brush, with only a portion of his face above the surface of the water, watched in a speechless ecstasy of terror the hue and cry progress on the hither side, his dog, half dead from exhaustion, unconscious in his arms. the moon, unmoved as ever, looked calmly down on the turmoil in the midst of the dense woods. the soft brilliance illumined the long, open vistas and gave to the sylvan intricacies an effect as of silver arabesques, a glittering tracery amidst the shadows. but the lunar light did not suffice. great torches of pine knots, with a red and yellow flare and streaming pennants of smoke, darted hither and thither as the officer's posse searched the bosky recesses without avail. presently a new sound!--a crashing iteration--assailed the air. a frantic crowd was beating the bushes about the margin of the lake and the verges of the almost impenetrable cane-brake. here, however, there could be no hope of discovery, and suddenly a cry arose, unanimously iterated the next instant, "fire the cane-brake! fire the cane-brake!" for so late had come the rise of the river, so persistent had been the winter's drought, so delayed the usual inundation of the swamp, that the vegetation, dry as tinder, caught the sparks instantly, and the fierce expedient to force the fugitive to leave his supposed shelter in the brake, a vast woodland conflagration, was added to the terror of the scene. the flames flared frantically upward from the cane, itself twenty feet in height, and along its dense columns issued forth jets like the volleyings of musketry from serried ranks of troops, the illusion enhanced by continuous sharp, rifle-like reports, the joints of the growth exploding as the air within was liberated by the heat of the fire. all around this blazing gehenna were swiftly running figures of men applying with demoniac suggestion torches here and there, that a new area might be involved. others were mounted, carrying flaming torches aloft, the restive horses plunging in frantic terror of the fiery furnace in the depths of the brake, the leaping sheets of flame, the tumultuous clouds of smoke. oh, a terrible fate, had the forlorn fugitive sought refuge here! let us hope that no poor denizen of the brake, bear or panther or fox, dazed by the tumult and the terror, forgot which way to flee! but human energies must needs fail as time wears on. nerves of steel collapse at last. the relinquishment of the quest came gradually; the crowd thinned; now and again the sound of rapid hoof-beats told of homeward-bound horsemen; languid groups stood and talked dully here and there, dispersing to follow a new suggestion for a space, then ultimately disappearing; even the fire began to die out, and the site of the cane-break had become a dense, charred mass, as far as eye could reach, with here and there a vague blue flicker where some bed of coals could yet send up a jet, when at length the pale day, slow and aghast, came peering along the levels to view the relics of the strange events that had betided in the watches of the night. hoxer had not waited for the light. deriving a certain strength, a certain triumph, from the obvious fact that the end was not yet, he contrived in that darkest hour before the dawn to pull himself into a sitting posture, then to creep out to the shore. the little dog had seemed to be dying, but he too experienced a sort of resuscitation, and while he followed at first but feebly, it was not long before he was at heel again, although hoxer was swift of foot, making all the speed he might toward his temporary home, the shacks that had been occupied by the construction gang. as he came within view of the poor little tenements, so recently vacated by the irish ditchers, all awry and askew, stretching in a wavering row along the river-bank near the junction of the levee that he had built with the main line, his eyes filled. oh, why had he not gone with the rest of the camp? he demanded of an untoward fate; why must he have stayed a day longer to bespeak the correction of an injurious error from that proud, hard man, who, however, had wrought his last injury on earth? hoxer was sorry, but chiefly for his own plight. he felt that his deed was in self-defense, and but that he had no proof he would not fear to offer the plea at the bar of justice. as it was, however, he was sanguine of escaping without this jeopardy. no one had cause to suspect him. no one had seen him enter the jeffrey grounds that fatal evening. there had been noised abroad no intimation of his grievance against the man. he had all the calm assurance of invisibility as he came to his abode, for a fog lay thick on the surface of the river and hung over all the land. he did not issue forth again freshly dressed till the sun was out once more, dispelling the vapors and conjuring the world back to sight and life. nevertheless, he made no secret of having been abroad when an acquaintance came up the road and paused for an exchange of the news of the day. "but what makes ye look so durned peaked?" he broke off, gazing at hoxer in surprise. hoxer was astonished at his own composure as he replied: "out all night. i was in the swamp with the posse." "see the fire? they tell me 't wuz more'n dangerous to fire the brake when the woods is so uncommon dry. i dunno what we would do here in the bottom with a forest fire." "pretty big blaze now, sure's ye're born," hoxer replied casually, and so the matter passed. later in the day another gossip, whose acquaintance he had made during his levee-building venture, loitered up to talk over the absorbing sensation, and, sitting down on the door-step of the shack, grew suddenly attentive to the little dog. "what makes him limp?" he demanded abruptly. but hoxer had not observed that he did limp. the acquaintance had taken the little animal up on his knee and was examining into his condition. "gee! how did he get so footsore?" "following me around, i reckon," hoxer hazarded. but he saw, or thought he saw, a change on the stolid face of the visitor, who was unpleasantly impressed with the fact that the officers investigating the case had made inquiries concerning a small dog that, to judge by the prints in the road, had evidently followed the big, barefooted man who had fled from the jeffrey precincts after the shooting. a rumor, too, was going the rounds that a detective, reputed preternaturally sharp, who had accompanied the sheriff to the scene of action, had examined these tracks in the road, and declared that the foot-print was neither that of a negro nor a tramp, but of a white man used to wearing shoes something too tightly fitting. the visitor glanced down at the substantial foot-gear of the contractor, fitting somewhat snugly, and thereafter he became more out of countenance than before and manifested some haste to get away. hoxer said to himself that his anxiety whetted his apprehension. he had given his visitor no cause for suspicion, and doubtless the man had evolved none. hoxer was glad that he was due and overdue to be gone from the locality. he felt that he could scarcely breathe freely again till he had joined the gang of irish ditchers now establishing themselves in a new camp in the adjoining county, where the high stage of the river gave him employment in fighting water. he made up his mind, however, that he would not take the train thither. he dreaded to be among men, to encounter question and speculation, till he had time to regain control of his nerves, his facial expression, the tones of his voice. he resolved that he would quietly drift down the river in a rowboat that had been at his disposal during his employment here, and join his force already settled at their destination, without running the gauntlet of inspection by the neighborhood in a more formal departure. he had already bidden farewell to those few denizens of the bend with whom his associations had been most genial. "and i'll clear out now, as i would have done if nothing had happened." he said no more of his intention of departure, but when night had come he fastened the door of the little shanty, in which were still some of the rude belongings of his camping outfit, with the grim determination that it should not soon be opened again. how long the padlock should beat the summons of the wind on the resounding battens he did not dream! it was close on midnight when he climbed the steep interior slope of the levee and stood for a moment gazing cautiously about him. the rowboat lay close by, for one might embark from the summit of the levee. it was a cloudy night, without a star. a mist clung to the face of the waters on the arkansas side, but on the hither shore the atmosphere was clear, for he could see at a considerable distance up the river the fire of a "levee-watch," the stage of the water being so menacing that a guard must needs be on duty throughout the night. the leaping flames of the fire cast long lines of red and yellow and a sort of luminous brown far into the river, where the reflection seemed to palpitate in the pulsations of the current. no other sign of life was in the night scene, save in the opposite direction, amidst the white vapors, the gem-like gleam of a steamer's chimney-lights, all ruby and emerald, as a packet was slowly rounding the neighboring point. hoxer could hear the impact of her paddles on the water, the night being so still. he had seated himself in the middle of the rowboat and laid hold on the oars when his foot struck against something soft on the bottom of the craft, partly under the seat in the stern. it was his bundle, he thought, containing the spoiled clothing that he had worn in the swamp, and which he intended to sink in mid-stream. his nerve was shaken, however; he could not restrain a sudden exclamation--this must have seemed discovery rather than agitation. it was as a signal for premature action. he was suddenly seized from behind, his arms held down against his sides, his hands close together. the bundle in the stern rose all at once to the stature of a man. the touch of cold metal, a sharp, quick click,--and he was captured and handcuffed within the space of ten seconds. a terrible struggle ensued, which his great strength but sufficed to prolong. his wild, hoarse cries of rage and desperation seemed to beat against the sky; back and forth the dark riparian forests repeated them with the effect of varying distance in the echoes, till all the sombre woods seemed full of mad, frantic creatures, shrieking out their helpless frenzy. more than once his superior muscle sufficed to throw off both the officers for a moment, but to what avail? thus manacled, he could not escape. suddenly a wild, new clamor resounded from the shore. in the dusky uncertainty, a group of men were running down the bank, shouting out to the barely descried boatmen imperative warnings that they would break the levee in their commotion, coupled with violent threats if they did not desist. for the force with which the rowboat dashed against the summit of the levee, rebounding again and again, laden with the weight of three ponderous men, and endowed with all the impetus of their struggle, so eroded the earth that the waves had gained an entrance, the initial step to a crevasse that would flood the country with a disastrous overflow. as there was no abatement of the blows of the boat against the embankment, no reply nor explanation, a shot from the gun of one of the levee-watch came skipping lightsomely over the water as hoxer was borne exhausted to the bottom of the skiff. then, indeed, the sheriff of the county bethought himself to shout out his name and official station to the astonished group on shore, and thus, bullet-proof under the aegis of the law, the boat pulled out toward the steamer, lying in mid-stream, silently awaiting the coming of the officer and his prisoner, a great, towering, castellated object, half seen in the night, her broadside of cabin lights, and their reflection in the ripples, sparkling through the darkness like a chain of golden stars. they left no stress of curiosity behind them; naught in the delta can compete in interest with the threatened collapse of a levee in times of high water. before the rowboat had reached the steamer's side, its occupants could hear the great plantation-bell ringing like mad to summon forth into the midnight all available hands to save the levee, and, looking back presently, a hundred lanterns were seen flickering hither and thither, far down in the dusk--no illusion this, for all deltaic rivers are higher in the centre than their banks--where the busy laborers, with thousands of gunny-sacks filled with sand, were fighting the mississippi, building a barricade to fence it from the rich spoils it coveted. the packet, which, as it happened, was already overdue, had been telephoned by the officers at her last landing, and a number of men stood on the guards expectant. hoxer had ceased to struggle. he looked up at the steamer, his pallid face and wide, distended eyes showing in the cabin lights, as the rowboat pulled alongside. then as the sheriff directed him to rise, he stood up at his full height, stretched his manacled hands high above his head, and suddenly dived into deep water, leaving the boat rocking violently, and in danger of capsizing with the officers. a desperate effort was made to recover the prisoner, alive or dead--all in vain. a roustabout on the deck declared that in the glare of the steamer's search-light, thrown over the murky waters, he was seen to come to the surface once, but if he rose a second time it must have been beneath the great bulk of the packet, to go down again to the death awaiting him in the deeps. on the bank a little dog sat through sunshine and shadow in front of the door of the shack of the contractor of the levee-construction gang, and awaited his return with the patient devotion of his kind. sometimes, as the padlock wavered in the wind, he would cock his head briskly askew, forecasting from the sound a step within. sometimes the grief of absence and hope deferred would wring his humble heart, and he would whimper in an access of misery and limp about a bit. but presently he would be seated again, alertly upright, his eyes on the door, for the earliest glimpse of the face that he loved. when the overflow came at last the shacks of the construction gang were swept away, and the little dog was seen no more. una of the hill country the old sawmill on headlong creek at the water-gap of chilhowee mountain was silent and still one day, its habit of industry suggested only in the ample expanse of sawdust spread thickly over a level open space in the woods hard by, to serve as footing for the "bran dance" that had been so long heralded and that was destined to end so strangely. a barbecue had added its attractions, unrivalled in the estimation of the rustic epicure, but even while the shoats, with the delectable flavor imparted by underground roasting and browned to a turn, were under discussion by the elder men and the sun-bonneted matrons on a shady slope near the mill, where tablecloths had been spread beside a crystal spring, the dance went ceaselessly on, as if the flying figures were insensible of fatigue, impervious to hunger, immune from heat. indeed the youths and maidens of the contiguous coves and ridges had rarely so eligible an opportunity, for it is one of the accepted tenets of the rural religionist that dancing in itself is a deadly sin, and all the pulpits of the country-side had joined in fulminations against it. nothing less than a political necessity had compassed this joyous occasion. it was said to have been devised by the "machine" to draw together the largest possible crowd, that certain candidates might present their views on burning questions of more than local importance, in order to secure vigorous and concerted action at the polls in the luke-warm rural districts when these measures should go before the people, in the person of their advocates, at the approaching primary elections. however, even the wisdom of a political boss is not infallible, and despite the succulent graces of the barbecue numbers of the ascetic and jeans-clad elder worthies, though fed to repletion, collogued unhappily together among the ox-teams and canvas-hooded wagons on the slope, commenting sourly on the frivolity of the dance. these might be relied on to cast no ballots in the interest of its promoters, with whose views they were to be favored between the close of the feast and the final dance before sunset. the trees waved full-foliaged branches above the circle of sawdust and dappled the sunny expanse with flickering shade, and as they swayed apart in the wind they gave evanescent glimpses of tiers on tiers of the faint blue mountains of the great smoky range in the distance, seeming ethereal, luminous, seen from between the dark, steep, wooded slopes of the narrow water-gap hard by, through which headlong creek plunged and roared. the principal musician, perched with his fellows on a hastily erected stand, was burly, red-faced, and of a jovial aspect. he had a brace of fiddlers, one on each side, but with his own violin under his double-chin he alone "called the figures" of the old-fashioned contradances. now and again, with a wide, melodious, sonorous voice, he burst into a snatch of song: "shanghai chicken he grew so tall, in a few days--few days, cannot hear him crow at all----" sometimes he would intersperse jocund personal remarks in his terpsichorean commands: "gents, forward to the centre--back--swing the lady ye love the best." then in alternation, "ladies, forward to the centre--back----" and as the mountain damsels teetered in expectation of the usual supplement of this mandate he called out in apparent expostulation, "_don't_ swing him, miss--he don't wuth a turn." suddenly the tune changed and with great gusto he chanted forth: "when fust i did a-courtin' go, says she 'now, _don't_ be foolish, joe,'" the _tempo rubato_ giving fresh impetus to the kaleidoscopic whirl of the dancers. the young men were of indomitable endurance and manifested a crude agility as they sprang about clumsily in time to the scraping of the fiddles, while their partners shuffled bouncingly or sidled mincingly according to their individual persuasion of the most apt expression of elegance. considered from a critical point of view the dance was singularly devoid of grace--only one couple illustrating the exception to the rule. the youth it was who was obviously beautiful, of a type as old as the fabled endymion. his long brown hair hung in heavy curls to the collar of his butternut jeans coat; his eyes were blue and large and finely set; his face was fair and bespoke none of the mid-day toil at the plow-handles that had tanned the complexion of his compeers, for brent kayle had little affinity for labor of any sort. he danced with a light firm step, every muscle supplely responsive to the strongly marked pulse of the music, and he had a lithe, erect carriage which imparted a certain picturesque effect to his presence, despite his much creased boots, drawn over his trousers to the knee, and his big black hat which he wore on the back of his head. the face of his partner had a more subtle appeal, and so light and willowy was her figure as she danced that it suggested a degree of slenderness that bordered on attenuation. her unbonneted hair of a rich blonde hue had a golden lustre in the sun; her complexion was of an exquisite whiteness and with a delicate flush; the chiseling of her features was peculiarly fine, in clear, sharp lines--she was called "hatchet-faced" by her undiscriminating friends. she wore a coarse, flimsy, pink muslin dress which showed a repetitious pattern of vague green leaves, and as she flitted, lissome and swaying, through the throng, with the wind a-flutter in her full draperies, she might have suggested to a spectator the semblance of a pink flower--of the humbler varieties, perhaps, but still a wild rose is a rose. even the longest dance must have an end; even the stanchest mountain fiddler will reach at last his limit of endurance and must needs be refreshed and fed. there was a sudden significant flourish of frisky bowing, now up and again down, enlisting every resonant capacity of horsehair and catgut; the violins quavered to a final long-drawn scrape and silence descended. dullness ensued; the flavor of the day seemed to pall; the dancers scattered and were presently following the crowd that began to slowly gather about the vacated stand of the musicians, from which elevation the speakers of the occasion were about to address their fellow-citizens. one of the disaffected old farmers, gruff and averse, could not refrain from administering a rebuke to brent kayle as crossing the expanse of sawdust on his way to join the audience he encountered the youth in company with valeria clee, his recent partner. "ai-yi, brent," the old man said, "the last time i seen you uns i remember well ez ye war a-settin' on the mourner's bench." for there had been a great religious revival the previous year and many had been pricked in conscience. "ye ain't so tuk up now in contemplatin' the goodness o' god an' yer sins agin same," he pursued caustically. brent retorted with obvious acrimony. "i don't see no 'casion ter doubt the goodness o' god--i never war so ongrateful nohow as that comes to." he resented being thus publicly reproached, as if he were individually responsible for the iniquity of the bran dance--the scape-goat for the sins of all this merry company. many of the whilom dancers had pressed forward, crowding up behind the old mountaineer and facing the flushed brent and the flower-like valeria, the faint green leaves of her muslin dress fluttering about her as her skirts swayed in the wind. "ye ain't so powerful afeard of the devil _now_ ez ye uster was on the mourner's bench," the old man argued. "i never war so mighty afeard of the devil," the goaded brent broke forth angrily, for the crowd was laughing in great relish of his predicament--they, who had shared all the enormity of "shaking a foot" on this festive day. brent flinched from the obvious injustice of their ridicule. he felt an eager impulse for reprisal. "i know ez sech dancin' ez i hev done ain't no sin," he blustered. "i ain't afeared o' the devil fur sech ez that. i wouldn't be skeered a mite ef he war ter--ter--ter speak right out now agin it, an' i'll be bound ez all o' you uns would. i--i--look yander--_look_!" he had thrown himself into a posture of amazed intentness and was pointing upward at the overhanging boughs of a tree above their heads. a squirrel was poised thereon, gazing down motionless. then, suddenly--a frightful thing happened. the creature seemed to speak. a strange falsetto voice, such as might befit so eerie a chance, sounded on the air--loud, distinct, heard far up the slope, and electrifying the assemblage near at hand that was gathering about the stand and awaiting the political candidates. "quit yer foolin'--quit yer foolin'," the strange voice iterated. "i'll larn ye ter be afeared o' the devil. long legs now is special grace." so wild a cry broke from the startled group below the tree that the squirrel, with a sudden, alert, about-face movement, turned and swiftly ran along the bough and up the bole. it paused once and looked back to cry out again in distinct iteration, "quit yer foolin'! quit yer foolin'!" but none had stayed to listen. a general frantic rout ensued. the possibility of ventriloquism was unknown to their limited experience. all had heard the voice and those who had distinguished the words and their seeming source needed no argument. in either case the result was the same. within ten minutes the grounds of the famous barbecue and bran dance were deserted. the cumbrous wagons, all too slow, were wending with such speed as their drivers could coerce the ox-teams to make along the woodland road homeward, while happier wights on horseback galloped past, leaving clouds of dust in the rear and a grewsome premonition of being hindmost in a flight that to the simple minds of the mountaineers had a pursuer of direful reality. the state of a candidate is rarely enviable until the event is cast and the postulant is merged into the elect, but on the day signalized by the barbecue, the bran dance, and the rout the unfortunate aspirants for public favor felt that they had experienced the extremest spite of fate; for although they realized in their superior education and sophistication that the panic-stricken rural crowd had been tricked by some clever ventriloquist, the political orators were left with only the winds and waters and wilderness on which to waste their eloquence, and the wisdom of their exclusive method of saving the country. * * * * * brent kayle's talent for eluding the common doom of man to eat his bread in the sweat of his face was peculiarly marked. he was the eldest of seven sons, ranging in age from eleven to twenty years, including one pair of twins. the parents had been greatly pitied for the exorbitant exactions of rearing this large family during its immaturity, but now, the labor of farm, barnyard and woodpile, distributed among so many stalwart fellows of the same home and interest was light and the result ample. perhaps none of them realized how little of this abundance was compassed by brent's exertions--how many days he spent dawdling on the river bank idly experimenting with the echoes--how often, even when he affected to work, he left the plow in the furrow while he followed till sunset the flight of successive birds through the adjacent pastures, imitating as he went the fresh mid-air cry, whistling in so vibrant a bird-voice, so signally clear and dulcet, yet so keen despite its sweetness, that his brothers at the plow-handles sought in vain to distinguish between the calls of the earthling and the winged voyager of the empyreal air. none of them had ever heard of ventriloquism, so limited had been their education and experience, so sequestered was their home amidst the wilderness of the mountains. only very gradually to brent himself came the consciousness of his unique gift, as from imitation he progressed to causing a silent bird to seem to sing. the strangeness of the experience frightened him at first, but with each experiment he had grown more confident, more skilled, until at length he found that he could throw a singularly articulate voice into the jaws of the old plow-horse, while his brothers, accustomed to his queer vocal tricks, were convulsed with laughter at the bizarre quadrupedal views of life thus elicited. this development of proficiency, however, was recent, and until the incident at the bran dance it had not been exercised beyond the limits of their secluded home. it had revealed new possibilities to the young ventriloquist and he looked at once agitated, excited, and triumphant when late that afternoon he appeared suddenly at the rail fence about the door-yard of valeria clee's home on one of the spurs of chilhowee mountain. it was no such home as his--lacking all the evidence of rude comfort and coarse plenty that reigned there--and in its tumble-down disrepair it had an aspect of dispirited helplessness. here valeria, an orphan from her infancy, dwelt with her father's parents, who always of small means had become yearly a more precarious support. the ancient grandmother was sunken in many infirmities, and the household tasks had all fallen to the lot of valeria. latterly a stroke of paralysis had given old man clee an awful annotation on the chapter of age and poverty upon which he was entering, and his little farm was fast growing up in brambles. "but 't ain't no differ, gran'dad," valeria often sought to reassure him. "_i'll_ work some way out." and when he would irritably flout the possibility that she could do aught to materially avert disaster she was wont to protest: "you jes' watch _me_. _i'll_ find out some way. i be ez knowin' ez any old _owel_." despite her slender physique and her recurrent heavy tasks the drear doom of poverty with its multiform menace had cast no shadow on her ethereal face, and her pensive dark gray eyes were full of serene light as she met the visitor at the bars. a glimmer of mirth began to scintillate beneath her long brown lashes, and she spoke first. "the folks in the mountings air mighty nigh skeered out'n thar boots by yer foolishness, brent"--she sought to conserve a mien of reproof. "they 'low ez it war a manifestation of the evil one." brent laughed delightedly. "warn't it prime?" he said. "but i never expected ter work sech a scatteration of the crowd. thar skeer plumb tarrified _me_. i jes' set out with the nimblest, an' run from the devil myself." "won't them candidates fur office be mighty mad if they find out what it war sure enough?" she queried anxiously. "they gin the crowd a barbecue an' bran dance, an' arter all, the folks got quit of hevin' ter hear them speak an' jaw about thar old politics an' sech." "them candidates air hoppin' mad fur true," he admitted. "i been down yander at gilfillan's store in the cove an' i hearn the loafers thar talkin' powerful 'bout the strange happening. an' them candidates war thar gittin' ready ter start out fur town in thar buggy. an' that thar gay one--though now he seems ez sober ez that sour one--he said 't warn't no devil. 'twar jes' a ventriloquisk from somewhar--that's jes' what that town man called it. but _i_ never said nuthin'. i kep' powerful quiet." brent kayle was as vain a man as ever stood in shoe leather--even in the midst of his absorption in his disclosure he could not refrain from a pause to reflect on the signal success of his prank and laugh and plume himself. "but old gilfillan he loves ter believe ez the devil air hotfoot arter other folks with a pitchfork, an' he axed how then did sech a man happen ter be in the mountings 'thout none knowin' of it. an' that candidate, the gay one, he say he reckon the feller kem from that circus what is goin' ter show in shaftesville ter-morrer--mebbe he hearn 'bout the bran dance an' wanted ter hev some fun out'n the country folks. that candidate say he hed hearn dozens o' ventriloquisks in shows in the big towns--though this war about the bes' one he could remember. he said he hed no doubt this feller is paid good money in the show, fur jes' sech fool tricks with his voice--_good money_!" valeria had listened in motionless amazement. but he had now paused, almost choking with his rush of emotion, his excitement, his sense of triumph, and straight ensued a certain reluctance, a dull negation, a prophetic recoil from responsibility that clogged his resolve. his eyes roved uncertainly about the familiar domestic scene, darkening now, duskily purple beneath the luminous pearly and roseate tints of the twilight sky. the old woman was a-drowse on the porch of the rickety little log-cabin beneath the gourd vines, the paralytic grandfather came hirpling unsteadily through the doorway on his supporting crutch, his pipe shaking in his shaking hand, while he muttered and mumbled to himself--who knows what?--whether of terror of the future, or regret for the past, or doubt and despair of to-day. the place was obviously so meagre, so poverty-bitten, so eloquent of the hard struggle for mere existence. if it had been necessary for brent kayle to put his hand to the plow in its behalf the words would never have been spoken--but "good money" for this idle trade, these facile pranks! "vallie," he said impulsively, "i'm going ter try it--ef ye'll go with me. ef ye war along i'd feel heartened ter stand up an' face the crowd in a strange place. i always loved ye better than any of the other gals--shucks!--whenst _ye_ war about i never knowed ez they war alive." perhaps it was the after-glow of the sunset in the sky, but a crimson flush sprang into her delicate cheek; her eyes were evasive, quickly glancing here and there with an affectation of indifference, and she had no mind to talk of love, she declared. but she should think of her gran'dad and gran'mam, he persisted. how had she the heart to deprive them of his willing aid? he declared he had intended to ask her to marry him anyhow, for she had always seemed to like him--she could not deny this--but now was the auspicious time--to-morrow--while the circus was in shaftesville, and "good money" was to be had to provide for the wants of her old grandparents. though valeria had flouted the talk of love she seemed his partisan when she confided the matter to the two old people and their consent was accorded rather for her sake than their own. they felt a revivifying impetus in the thought that after their death valeria would have a good husband to care for her, for to them the chief grief of their loosening hold on life was her inheritance of their helplessness and poverty. the courthouse in shaftesville seemed a very imposing edifice to people unaccustomed to the giddy heights of a second story. when the two staring young rustics left the desk of the county court clerk and repaired to the dwelling of the minister of the methodist church near by, with the marriage license just procured safely stowed away in brent's capacious hat, their anxieties were roused for a moment lest some delay ensue, as they discovered that the minister was on the point of sitting down to his dinner. he courteously deferred the meal, however, and as the bride apologetically remarked after the ceremony that they might have awaited his convenience were it not for the circus, he imagined that the youthful couple had designed to utilize a round of the menagerie as a wedding tour. the same thought was in the minds of the metropolitan managers of the organization when presently the two young wildings from the mountain fastness were ushered into their presence, having secured an audience by dint of extreme persistence, aided by a mien of mysterious importance. they found two men standing just within the great empty tent, for the crowd had not as yet begun to gather. the most authoritative, who was tall and portly, had the manner of swiftly disposing of the incident by asking in a peremptory voice what he could do for them. the other, lean and languid, looked up from a newspaper, in which he had been scanning a flaming circus advertisement, as he stood smoking a cigar. he said nothing, but concentrated an intent speculative gaze on the face of valeria, who had pulled off her faint green sun-bonnet and in a flush of eager hopefulness fanned with the slats. "ventriloquist?" the portly man repeated with a note of surprise, as brent made known his gifts and his desire for an engagement. "oh, well--ventriloquism is a chestnut." then with a qualm of pity, perhaps, for the blank despair that settled down on the two young faces he explained: "nothing goes in the circus business but novelty. the public is tired out with ventriloquism. no mystery about it now--kind of thing, too, that a clever amateur can compass." brent, hurled from the giddy heights of imminent achievement to the depths of nullity, could not at once relinquish the glowing prospects that had allured him. he offered to give a sample of his powers. he would like to bark a few, he said; you couldn't tell him from a sure enough dog; he could imitate the different breeds--hound-dog, bull-pup, terrier--but the manager was definitely shaking his head. suddenly his partner spoke. "the girl might take a turn!" "in the show?" the portly man said in surprise. "the company's una weighs two hundred pounds and has a face as broad as a barn-door. she shows she is afraid of the lion when she stands beside him in the street parade, and--curse him--he is so clever that he knows it, no matter how he is doped. it incites him to growl at her all through the pageant, and that simply queers the sweet peace of the idea." "and you think this untrained girl could take her place?" "why not? she couldn't do worse--and she _could_ look the part. see," he continued, in as business-like way as if valeria were merely a bale of goods or deaf, "ethereal figure, poetic type of beauty, fine expression of candor and serene courage. she has a look of open-eyed innocence--i don't mean _ignorance_." he made a subtle distinction in the untutored aspect of the two countenances before him. "would you be afraid of the lion, child?" the stout man asked valeria. "he is chained--and drugged, too--in the pageant." it was difficult for the astonished valeria to find her voice. "a lion?" she murmured. "i never seen a lion." "no? honest?" they both cried in amazement that such a thing could be. the portly man's rollicking laughter rang out through the thin walls of canvas to such effect that some savage caged beast within reach of the elastic buoyant sound was roused to anger and supplemented it with a rancorous snarl. valeria listened apprehensively, with dilated eyes. she thought of the lion, the ferocious creature that she had never seen. she thought of the massive strong woman who knew and feared him. then she remembered the desolate old grandparents and their hopeless, helpless poverty. "i'll resk the lion," she said with a tremulous bated voice. "that's a brave girl," cried the manager. "i hev read 'bout daniel's lions an' him in the den," she explained. "an' daniel hed consid'ble trust an' warn't afeard--an' mebbe i won't be afeard nuther." "daniel's lions? daniel's lions?" the portly manager repeated attentively. "i don't know the show--perhaps in some combination now." for if he had ever heard of that signal leonine incident recorded in scripture he had forgotten it. "yes, yes," as valeria eagerly appealed to him in behalf of brent, "we must try to give hubby some little stunt to do in the performance--but _you_ are the ticket--a sure winner." of course the public knew, if it chose to reflect, that though apparently free the lion was muzzled with a strong steel ring, and every ponderous paw was chained down securely to the exhibition car; it may even have suspected that the savage proclivities of the great beast were dulled by drugs. but there is always the imminent chance of some failure of precaution, and the multitude must needs thrill to the spectacle of intrepidity and danger. naught could exceed the enthusiasm that greeted this slim, graceful una a few days later in the streets of a distant city, as clad in long draperies of fleecy white she reclined against a splendid leonine specimen, her shining golden hair hanging on her shoulders, or mingling with his tawny mane as now and again she let her soft cheek rest on his head, her luminous dark gray eyes smiling down at the cheering crowds. this speedily became the favorite feature of the pageant, and the billboards flamed with her portrait, leaning against the lion, hundreds of miles in advance of her triumphal progress. all this unexpected success presently awoke brent's emulation--so far he had not even "barked a few." a liberal advance on his wife's salary had quieted him for a time, but when the wonders of this new life began to grow stale--the steam-cars, the great cities, the vast country the company traversed--he became importunate for the opportunity of display. he "barked a few" so cleverly at a concert after the performance one evening that the manager gave him a chance to throw the very considerable volume of sound he could command into the jaws of one of the lions. "let emperor speak to the people," he said. forthwith he wrote a bit of rodomontade which he bade brent memorize and had the satisfaction soon to hear from the lion-trainer, to whom was intrusted all that pertained to the exhibition of these kings of beasts, that the rehearsal was altogether satisfactory. an immense audience was assembled in the great tent. the soaring dome of white canvas reflected the electric light with a moony lustre. the display of the three rings was in full swing. that magic atmosphere of the circus, the sense of simple festivity, the crises of thrilling expectancy, the revelation of successive wonders, the diffusive delight of a multitude not difficult to entertain--all were in evidence. suddenly a ponderous cage was rolled in; the band was playing liltingly; the largest of the lions within the bars, a tawny monster, roused up and with head depressed and switching tail paced back and forth within the restricted limits of the cage, while the others looked out with motionless curiosity at the tiers of people. presently with a long supple stride the gigantic, blond norwegian trainer came lightly across the arena--a hercules, with broad bare chest and arms, arrayed in spangled blue satin and white tights that forbade all suspicion of protective armor. at a single bound he sprang into the cage, while brent, garbed in carnation and white, stood unheralded and unremarked close by outside among the armed attendants. there seemed no need of precaution, however, so lightly the trainer frolicked with the savage creatures. he performed wonderful acrobatic feats with them in which one hardly knew which most to admire, the agility and intrepidity of the man or the supple strength and curious intelligence of the beasts. he wrestled with them; he leaped and rolled among them; he put his head into their terrible full-fanged jaws--but before springing forth he fired his pistols loaded with blank cartridges full in their faces; for the instant the coercion of his eye was pretermitted every one treacherously bounded toward him, seeking to seize him before he could reach the door. then emperor, as was his wont, flung himself in baffled fury against the bars and stood erect and shook them in his wrath. all at once, to the astonishment of the people, he spoke, voicing a plaintive panegyric on liberty and protesting his willingness to barter all the luxury of his captivity for one free hour on the desert sands. surprise, absolute, unqualified, reigned for one moment. but a circus-going crowd is uncannily quick. the audience perceived a certain involuntary element of the entertainment. a storm of cat-calls ensued, hisses, roars of laughter. for the place was the city of glaston, the company being once more in east tennessee, and the lion spoke the old familiar mountain dialect so easily recognizable in this locality. even a _lapsus linguae_, "you uns," was unmistakable amidst the high-flown periods. although the ventriloquism was appreciated, the incongruity of this countrified jargon, held in great contempt by the townfolks, discounted emperor's majesty and he was in ludicrous eclipse. behind the screening canvas the portly manager raged; "how dare you make that fine lion talk like a 'hill-billy' such as yourself--as if he were fresh caught in the great smoky mountains!" he stormed at the indignant ventriloquist. the other partners in the management interfered in brent's behalf; they feared that the proud mountaineer, resenting the contemptuous designation "hill-billy" might withdraw from the company, taking his wife with him, and the loss of valeria from the pageant would be well nigh irreparable, for her ethereal and fragile beauty as una with her lion had a perennial charm for the public. the management therefore assumed the responsibility for the linguistic disaster, having confided the rehearsal to a foreigner, for the norwegian lion-trainer naively explained that to him it seemed that all americans talked alike. a course in elocution was recommended to brent by the managers, and he fell in with this plan delightedly, but after two or three elementary bouts with the vowel sounds, long and short, consonants, sonant and surd, he concluded that mere articulation could be made as laborious as sawing wood, and he discovered that it was incompatible with his dignity to be a pupil in an art in which he had professed proficiency. thereafter his accomplishment rusted--to the relief of the management--although he required that valeria should be described in the advertisements as the wife of "the _celebrated ventriloquist_, mr. brent kayle," thus seeking by faked notoriety to secure the sweets of fame, without the labor of achievement. valeria had welcomed the pacific settlement of the difficulty, because her "good money" earned in the show so brightened and beautified the evening of life for the venerable grandparents at home. for their sake she had conquered her dread of the lion in the pageant. indeed she had found other lions in her path that she feared more--the glitter and gauds of her tinsel world, the enervating love of ease, the influence of sordid surroundings and ignoble ideals. but not one could withstand the simple goodness of the unsophisticated girl. they retreated before the power of her fireside traditions of right thinking and true living which she had learned in her humble mountain home. it had come to be a dwelling of comfortable aspect, cared for in the absence of the young couple by a thrifty hired housekeeper, a widowed cousin, and here they spent the off-seasons when the circus company went into winter quarters. repairs had been instituted, several rooms were added, and a wide veranda replaced the rickety little porch and gave upon a noble prospect of mountain and valley and river. here on sunshiny noons in the good saint martin's summer the old gran'dad loved to sit, blithe and hearty, chirping away the soft unseasonable december days. sometimes in the plenitude of content he would give valeria a meaning glance and mutter "oh, leetle _owel_! oh, leetle _owel_!" and then break into laughter that must needs pause to let him wipe his eyes. "yes, vallie 'pears ter hev right good sense an' makes out toler'ble well, considerin'," her husband would affably remark, "though of course it war _me_ ez interduced her ter the managers, an' she gits her main chance in the show through my bein' a celebrated ventriloquisk." the lost guidon night came early. it might well seem that day had fled affrighted. the heavy masses of clouds, glooming low, which had gathered thicker and thicker, as if crowding to witness the catastrophe, had finally shaken asunder in the concussions of the air at the discharges of artillery, and now the direful rain, always sequence of the shock of battle, was steadily falling, falling, on the stricken field. many a soldier who might have survived his wounds would succumb to exposure to the elements during the night, debarred the tardy succor that must needs await his turn. one of the surgeons at their hasty work at the field hospital, under the shelter of the cliffs on the slope, paused to note the presage of doom and death, and to draw a long breath before he adjusted himself anew to the grim duties of the scalpel in his hand. his face was set and haggard, less with a realization of the significance of the scene--for he was used to its recurrence--than simply with a physical reflection of horror, as if it were glassed in a mirror. a phenomenon that had earlier caught his attention in the landscape appealed again to his notice, perhaps because the symptom was not in his line. "looks like a case of dementia," he observed to the senior surgeon, standing near at hand. the superior officer adjusted his field-glass. "looks like 'death on the white horse'!" he responded. down the highway, at a slow pace, rode a cavalryman wearing a gray uniform, with a sergeant's chevrons, and mounted on a steed good in his day, but whose day was gone. a great clot of blood had gathered on his broad white chest, where a bayonet had thrust him deep. despite his exhaustion, he moved forward at the urgency of his rider's heel and hand. the soldier held a long, heavy staff planted on one stirrup, from the top of which drooped in the dull air the once gay guidon, battle-rent and sodden with rain, and as he went he shouted at intervals, "dovinger's rangers! rally on the guidon!" now and again his strident boyish voice varied the appeal, "hyar's yer dovinger's rangers! rally, boys! rally on the reserve!" indeed, despite his stalwart, tall, broad-shouldered frame, he was scarcely more than a boy. his bare head had flaxen curls like a child's; his pallid, though sunburned face was broad and soft and beardless; his large blue eyes were languid and spiritless, though now and then as he turned an intent gaze over the field they flared anew with hope, as if he expected to see rise up from that desolate expanse, from among the stiffening carcasses of horses and the stark corpses of the troopers, that gallant squadron wont to follow, so dashing and debonair, wherever the guidons might mark the way. but there was naught astir save the darkness slipping down by slow degrees--and perchance under its cloak, already stealthily afoot, the ghoulish robbers of the dead that haunt the track of battle. they were the human forerunners of the vulture breed, with even a keener scent for prey, for as yet the feathered carrion-seekers held aloof; two or three only were descried from the field hospital, perched on the boughs of a dead tree near the river, presently joined by another, its splendid sustained flight impeded somewhat by the rain, battling with its big, strong wings against the downpour of the torrents and the heavy air. and still through all echoed the cry, "rally on the guidon! dovinger's rangers! rally on the reserve!" the bridge that crossed the river, which was running full and foaming, had been burnt; but a span, charred and broken, still swung from the central pier. over toward the dun-tinted west a house was blazing, fired by some stray bomb, perhaps, or by official design, to hinder the enemy from utilizing the shelter, and its red rage of destruction bepainted the clouds that hung so low above the chimneys and dormer-windows. to the east, the woods on the steeps had been shelled, and a myriad boughs and boles riven and rent, lay in fantastic confusion. through the mournful chaos the wind had begun to sweep; it sounded in unison with the battle clamors, and shrieked and wailed and roared as it surged adown the defiles. now and then there came on the blast the fusillade of dropping shots from the south, where the skirmish line of one faction engaged the rear-guard of the other, or the pickets fell within rifle-range. once the sullen, melancholy boom of distant cannon shook the clouds, and then was still, and ever and again sounded that tireless cry, "dovinger's rangers. hyar's yer guidon! rally, boys! rally on the guidon! rally on the reserve!" the senior surgeon, as the road wound near, stepped down toward it when the horseman, still holding himself proudly erect, passed by. "sergeant," he hailed the guidon, "where is captain dovinger?" the hand mechanically went to the boy's forehead in the usual military salute. "killed, sir." "where are the other officers of the squadron--the junior captain, the lieutenants?" "killed, sir." "what has become of the troopers?" "killed, sir, in the last charge." there was a pause. then dr. trent broke forth: "are you a fool, boy? if your command is annihilated, why do you keep up this commotion?" the young fellow looked blank for a moment. then, as if he had not reasoned on the catastrophe: "i thought at first they mought be scattered--some of 'em. but ef--ef--they _war_ dead, but could once _see_ the guidon, sure 't would call 'em to life. they _couldn't_ be so dead but they would rally to the guidon! guide right!" he shouted suddenly. "dovinger's rangers! rally on the guidon, boys! rally on the reserve!" it was a time that hardened men's hearts. the young soldier had no physical hurt that might appeal to the professional sympathies of the senior surgeon, and he turned away with a half laugh. "let him go along! he can't rally dovinger's rangers this side of the river styx, it seems." but an old chaplain who had been hovering about the field hospital, whispering a word here and there to stimulate the fortitude of the wounded and solace the fears of the dying, recognized moral symptoms alien to any diagnosis of which the senior surgeon was capable. the latter did not deplore the diversion of interest, for the old man's presence was not highly esteemed by the hospital corps at this scene of hasty and terrible work, although, having taken a course in medicine in early life, he was permitted to aid in certain ways. but the surgeons were wont to declare that the men began to bleat at the very sight of the chaplain. so gentle, so sympathetic, so paternal, was he that they made the more of their wretched woes, seeing them so deeply deplored. the senior surgeon, moreover, was not an ardent religionist. "this is no time for a revival, mr. whitmel," he would insist. "jack, there, never spoke the name of god in his life, except to swear by it. he is too late for prayers, and if _i_ can't pull him through, he is a goner!" but the chaplain was fond of quoting: "between the stirrup and the ground he mercy sought and mercy found----" and sometimes the scene was irreverently called a "love feast" when some hard-riding, hard-swearing, hard-fighting, unthinking sinner went joyfully out of this world from the fatherly arms of the chaplain into the paternal embrace of an eternal and merciful father, as the man of god firmly believed. he stood now, staring after the guidon borne through the rain and the mist, flaunting red as the last leaves of autumn against the dun-tinted dusk, that the dead might view the gallant and honored pennant and rise again to its leading! no one followed but the tall, thin figure of the gaunt old chaplain, unless indeed the trooping shadows that kept him company had mysteriously roused at the stirring summons. lanterns were now visible, dimly flickering in one quarter where the fighting had been furious and the slain lay six deep on the ground. their aspirations, their valor, their patriotism, had all exhaled--volatile essences, these incomparable values!--and now their bodies, weighted with death, cumbered the earth. they must be hurried out of sight, out of remembrance soon, and the burial parties were urged to diligence at the trenches where these cast-off semblances were to lie undistinguished together. and still the reflection of the burning house reddened the gloomy west, and still the cry, "rally on the guidon! dovinger's rangers!" smote the thick air. suddenly it was silent. the white horse that had been visible in the flare from the flaming house, now and again flung athwart the landscape, no longer loomed in the vista of the shadowy road. he had given way at last, sinking down with that martial figure still in the saddle, and, with no struggle save a mere galvanic shiver, passing away from the scene of his faithful devoirs. fatigue, agitation, anguish, his agonized obsession of the possibility of rallying the squadron, had served to prostrate the soldier's physical powers of resistance. he could not constrain his muscles to rise from the recumbent position against the carcass. he started up, then sank back, and in another moment triumphant nature conquered, and he was asleep--a dull, dreamless sleep of absolute exhaustion, that perchance rescued his reason as well as saved his life. the old chaplain was a man of infinite prejudice, steeped in all the infirmities and fantasies of dogma; a lover of harmony, and essentially an apostle of peace. nevertheless, it would not have been physically safe to call him a jesuit. but indeed he scarcely hesitated; he stepped over the great inert bulk of the dead horse, unclenched the muscular grasp of the soldier, as if it had been a baby's clasp, slipped the staff, technically the lance, of the guidon from its socket, and stood with it in his own hand, looking suspiciously to and fro to descry if perchance he were observed. the coast clear, he turned to the wall of rock beside the road, for this was near the mountain sandstone formation, fissured, splintered, with the erosions of water and weather; and into one of the cellular, tunnel-like apertures he ran the guidon, lance and all,--lost forever from human sight. in those days one might speak indeed of the march of events. each seemed hard on the heels of its precursor. change ran riot in the ordering of the world, and its aspect was utterly transformed when casper girard, no longer bearing the guidon of dovinger's rangers, came out of the war with a captain's shoulder-straps, won by personal fitness often proved, the habit of command, and a great and growing opinion of himself. he was a changeling, so to speak. no longer he felt a native of the mountain cove where he had been born and reared. he had had a glimpse of the world from a different standpoint, and it lured him. a dreary, disaffected life he led for a time. "'minds me of a wild tur-r-key in a trap," his mother was wont to comment. "always stretchin' his neck an' lookin' up an' away--when he mought git out by lookin' down." and the simile was so apt that it stayed in his mind--looking up and away! of all dull inventions, in his estimation the art of printing exceeded. he had made but indifferent progress in education during his early youth; he was a slow and inexpert reader, and a writer whose chirography shrank from exhibition. now, however, a book in the hand gave him a cherished sentiment of touch with the larger world beyond those blue ranges that limited his sphere, and he spent much time in sedulously reading certain volumes which he had brought home with him. "spent _money_ fur 'em!" his mother would ejaculate, contemplating this extreme audacity of extravagance. as she often observed, "the plough-handles seemed red-hot," and as soon as political conditions favored he ran for office. on the strength of his war record, a potent lever in those days, he was elected register of the county. true, there was only a population of about fifty souls in the county town, and the houses were log-cabins, except the temple of justice itself, which was a two-story frame building. but his success was a step on the road to political preferment, and his ambitious eyes were on the future. into the midst of his quiet incumbency as register came fate, all intrusive, and found him through the infrequent medium of a weekly mail. it was at the beginning of the retrospective enthusiasm that has served to revive the memories of the war, and he received a letter from an old comrade-in-arms, giving the details of a brigade reunion shortly to be held at no great distance, and, being of the committee, inviting him to be present. girard had participated in great military crises; he had marshalled his troop in line of battle; as a mere boy, he had ridden with the guidon lance planted on his stirrup, with the pennant flying above his head, as the marker to lead the fierce and famous dovinger rangers into the thickest of the fight; yet he had never felt such palpitant tremors of excitement as when he stood on the hotel piazza of the new helvetia springs, where the banqueters had gathered, and suffered the ordeal of introduction to sundry groups of fashionable ladies. he had earlier seen specimens of the species in the course of military transitions through the cities of the low-lands, and he watched them narrowly to detect if they discerned perchance a difference between him and the men of education and social station with whom his advancement in the army had associated him. he did not reflect that they were too well-bred to reveal any appreciation of such incongruity, but he had never experienced a more ardent glow of gratification than upon overhearing a friend's remark: "girard is great! anybody would imagine he was used to all this!" no strategist was ever more wary. he would not undertake to dance, for he readily perceived that the gyrations in the ball-room were utterly dissimilar to the clumsy capering to which he had been accustomed on the puncheon floor of a mountain cabin. he had the less reason for regret since he was privileged instead to stroll up and down the veranda,--"promenade" was the technical term,--a slender hand, delicately gloved, on the sleeve of his gray uniform, the old regimentals being _de rigueur_ at these reunions. a white ball-gown, such as he had never before seen, fashioned of tissue over lustrous white silk, swayed in diaphanous folds against him, for these were the days of voluminous draperies; a head of auburn hair elaborately dressed gleamed in the moonlight near his shoulder. miss alicia duval thought him tremendously handsome; she adored his record, as she would have said--unaware how little of it she knew--and she did not so much intend to flirt as to draw him out, for there was something about him different from the men of her set, and it stimulated her interest. "isn't the moon heavenly?" she observed, gazing at the brilliant orb, now near the full, swinging in the sky, which became a definite blue in its light above the massive dark mountains and the misty valley below; for the building was as near the brink as safety permitted--nearer, the cautious opined. "heavenly? not more'n it's got a right to be. it's a heavenly body, ain't it?" he rejoined. "oh, how sarcastic!" she exclaimed. "in what school did you acquire your trenchant style?" he thought of the tiny district school where he had acquired the very little he knew of aught, and said nothing, laughing constrainedly in lieu of response. the music of the orchestra came to them from the ball-room, and the rhythmic beat of dancing feet; the wind lifted her hair gently and brought to them the fragrance of flowering plants and the pungent aroma of mint down in the depths of the ravine hard by, where lurked a chalybeate spring; but for the noisy rout of the dance, and now and again the flimsy chatter of a passing couple on the piazza, promenading like themselves, they might have heard the waters of the fountain rise and bubble and break and sigh as the pulsating impulse beat like heart-throbs, and perchance on its rocky marge an oread a-singing. "but you don't answer me," she pouted with an affectation of pettishness. "do you know that you trouble yourself to talk very little, captain girard?" "i think the more," he declared. "think? oh, dear me! i didn't know that anybody does anything so unfashionable nowadays as to _think_! and what do you think about, pray?" "about you!" and that began it: he was a gallant man, and he had been a brave one. he was not aware how far he was going on so short an acquaintance, but his temerity was not displeasing to the lady. she liked his manner of storming the citadel, and she did not realize that he merely spoke at random, as best he might. he was in his uniform a splendid and martial presentment of military youth, and indeed he was much the junior of his compeers. "who are captain girard's people, papa?" she asked colonel duval next morning, as the family party sat at breakfast in quasi seclusion at one of the small round tables in the crowded dining-room, full of the chatter of people and the clatter of dishes. "girard?" colonel duval repeated thoughtfully. "i really don't know. i have an impression they live somewhere in east tennessee. i never met him till just about the end of the war." "oh, papa! how unsatisfactory you are! you never know anything about anybody." "i should think his people must be very plain," said mrs. duval. her social discrimination was extremely acute and in constant practice. "i don't know why. he is very much of a gentleman," the colonel contended. his heart was warm to-day with much fraternizing, and it was not kind to brush the bloom off his peach. "oh, trifles suggest the fact. he is not at all _au fait_." he was, however, experienced in ways of the world unimagined in her philosophy. the reunion had drawn to a close, ending in a flare of jollity and tender reminiscence and good-fellowship. the old soldiers were all gone save a few regular patrons of the hotel, who with their families were completing their summer sojourn. captain girard lingered, too, fascinated by this glimpse of the frivolous world, hitherto unimagined, rather than by the incense to his vanity offered by his facile acceptance as a squire of dames. for the first time in his life he felt the grinding lack of money. being a man of resource, he set about swiftly supplying this need. in the dull days of inaction, when the armies lay supine and only occasionally the monotony was broken by the engagement of distant skirmishers or a picket line was driven in on the main body, he had learned to play a game at cards much in vogue at that period, though for no greater hazards than grains of corn or confederate money, almost as worthless. in the realization now that the same principles held good with stakes of value, he seemed to enter upon the possession of a veritable gold mine. the peculiar traits that his one unique experience of the world had developed--his coolness, his courage, his discernment of strategic resources--stood him in good stead, and long after the microcosm of the hotel lay fast asleep the cards were dealt and play ran high in the little building called the casino, ostensibly devoted to the milder delights of billiards and cigars. either luck favored him or he had rare discrimination of relative chances in the run of the cards, or the phenomenally bold hand he played disconcerted his adversaries, but his almost invariable winning began to affect injuriously his character. indeed, he was said to be a rook of unrivalled rapacity. colonel duval was in the frame of mind that his wife called "bearish" one morning as his family gathered for breakfast in the limited privacy of their circle about the round table in the dining-room. "i want you to avoid that fellow, alicia," he growled _sotto voce_, as he intercepted a bright matutinal smile that the fair alicia sent as a morning greeting to girard, who had just entered and taken his seat at a distance. "we know nothing under heaven about his people, and he himself has the repute of being a desperate gambler." his wife raised significant eyebrows. "if that is true, why should he stay in this quiet place?" colonel duval experienced a momentary embarrassment. "oh, the place is right enough. he stays, no doubt, because he likes it. you might as well ask why old mr. whitmel stays here." "the idea of mentioning a clergyman in this connection!" "mr. whitmel is professionally busy," cried alicia. "he told me that he is studying 'the disintegration of a soul.' i hope it is not _my_ soul." the phrase probably interested alicia in her idleness, for she was certainly actuated by no view of a moral uplift in the character of girard, the handsome gambler. she did not recognize a subtle cruelty in her system of universal fascination, but her vanity demanded constant tribute, and she was peculiarly absorbed in the effort to bring to her feet this man of iron, her knight in armor, as she was wont to call him, to control him with her influence, to bend this unmalleable material like the proverbial wax in her hands. she had great faith in the coercive power of her hazel eyes, and she brought their batteries to bear on girard on the first occasion when she had him at her mercy. "i have heard something about you which is very painful," she said one day as they sat together beside the chalybeate spring. the crag, all discolored in rust-red streaks by the dripping of the mineral water through its interstices, towered above their heads; the ferns, exquisite and of subtle fragrance, tufted the niches; the trees were close about them, and below, on the precipitous slope; sometimes the lush green boughs parted, revealing a distant landscape of azure ranges, far stretching against a sky as blue, and in the valley of the foreground long bars of golden hue, where fields, denuded of the harvested wheat, took the sun. girard lounged, languid, taciturn, and quiescent as ever, on the opposite side of the circular rock basin wherein the clear water fell. "i will tell you what it is," alicia went on, after a pause, for, though he looked attentive, he gave not even a glance of question. "i hear that you gamble." his gaze concentrated as he knitted his brows, but he said nothing. she pulled her broad straw hat forward on her auburn hair and readjusted the flounces of her white morning dress, saying while thus engaged, "yes, indeed; that you gamble--like--like fury!" "why, don't you know that's against the law?" he demanded unexpectedly. "i know that it is very wrong and sinful," she said solemnly. "thanky. i'll put that in my pipe an' smoke it! i'm very wrong and sinful, i am given to understand." "why, i didn't mean _you_ so much," she faltered, perturbed by this sudden charge of the enemy. "i meant the practice." "oh, i know that i'm a sinner in more ways 'n one; but i _didn't_ know that you were a lady-preacher." "you mean that it is none of my business----" "you ought to be so glad of that," he retorted. she maintained a silence that might have suggested a degree of offended pride, and she was truly humiliated that her vaunted hazel eyes had so signally failed to work their wonted charm. as they strolled back together up the steep path to the hotel he seemed either unobservant or uncaring, so impassive were his manners, and she was aware that her demonstration had resulted in giving him information which he could not otherwise have gained. later, she was nettled to notice that he had utilized it in prosaic fashion, for that night no lights flared late from the casino. the gamesters, informed that rumors were a-wing, had betaken themselves elsewhere. a small smoking-room in the hotel proper seemed less obnoxious to suspicion in the depleted condition of the guest-list, since autumn was now approaching. after eleven o'clock the coterie would scarcely be subject to interruption, and there they gathered as the hour waxed late. the cards were duly dealt, the draw was on, when suddenly the door opened and old mr. whitmel, his favorite meerschaum in his hand and a sheaf of newly arrived journals, entered with the evident intention of a prolonged stay. a "standpatter" seemed hardly so assured as before he encountered the dim, surprised gaze, but the old clergyman was esteemed a good sort, and he ventured on a reminder: "you have been here before, haven't you, mr. whitmel? saw a deal of this sort of thing in the army!" and he rattled the chips significantly. "used to see that sort of thing in the army? yes, yes, indeed--more than i wanted to see--very much more!" colonel duval took schooling much amiss. he turned up his florid face with its auburn mustachios and burnside whiskers from its bending over the cards and showed a broad arch of glittering white teeth in an ungenial laugh. "remember, mr. whitmel, at that fight we had in the hills not far from the ocoee, how you rebuked two artillerymen for swearing? something was wrong with the vent-hole of the piece, and one of the gunners asked what business you had with their language; and you said, 'i am a minister of the lord,' and the fellow gave it back very patly, 'i ain't carin' ef you was a minister of state!' then you said, 'no, you would doubtless swear in the presence of an angel.' and the fellow with the sponge-staff declared, 'say, mister, ef you are _that_, you are an angel off your feed certain'--you were worn to skin and bone then--'an' the rations of manna must be ez skimpy in heaven ez the rations o' bacon down here in dixie.' ha, ha, ha!" mr. whitmel had taken a seat in an easy-chair; he had struck a match and was composedly kindling his pipe. "i felt nearer a higher communion that day than often since," he said. the coterie of gentlemen looked at one another in disconsolate uncertainty, and one turned his cards face downward and laid them resignedly on the table. the party was evidently in for one of the old chaplain's long stories, with a few words by way of application, and there was no decent opportunity to demur. they were the intruders in the smoking-room--not he! here with his pipe and his paper, he was within the accommodation assigned him. they must hie them back to the casino to be at ease, and this would they do when he should reach the end of his story--if indeed it had an end. for with the prolixity of the eye-witness he was detailing the points of the battle; what troops were engaged; how the flank was turned; how the reserve was delayed; how the guns were planted; how the cavalry was ordered to charge over impracticable ground, and how in consequence he saw a squadron literally annihilated; how for hours after the fight was over a sergeant of the dovinger rangers pervaded the field with the guidon, calling on them by name to rally. "and, gentlemen," he continued, turning in his chair, the fire kindling in his eyes as it died in the bowl of his pipe, "not one man responded, for none could rise from that horrid slaughter." there was a moment of tense silence. then, "back and forth the guidon flaunted, and the rain began to fall, and the night came on, and still the dusk echoed the cry, 'guide right! dovinger's rangers! rally on the guidon! rally on the reserve!'" the old chaplain stuck his pipe into his mouth and brought it aflare again with two or three strong indrawing respirations. "the surgeons said it would end in a case of dementia. i was sorry, for i had seen much that day that hurt me, and more than all was this. for i could picture that valiant young spirit going through life, spared by god's mercy; and it seemed to me that when the enemy, in whatever guise, should press him hard and defeat should bear him down he would have the courage and the ardor and the moral strength to rally on the reserve. he would rally on the guidon." the old chaplain pulled strongly at his pipe, setting the blue wreaths of smoke circling about his head. "i should know that young fellow again wherever i might chance to see him." "did he collapse at last and verify the surgeon's prophecy?" asked the dealer. "well," drawled the chaplain, with a little flattered laugh, "i myself took care of that. many years ago i studied medicine, before i was favored with a higher call. neurology was my line. when the boy's horse sank exhausted beneath him, and he fell into a sleep or stupor on the carcass, i removed the object of the obsession. i slipped the flag-staff, guidon and all, into a crevice of the rocks, where it will remain till the end of our time, be sure." he laughed in relish of his arbitrary intervention. "there was a fine healthy clamor in camp the next morning about the lost guidon. but i did the soldier no damage, for he had been promoted to a lieutenancy for special gallantry on the field, and he therefore could no longer have carried the guidon if he had had both the flag and the troop." the stories of camp and field, thus begun, swiftly multiplied; they wore the fire to embers, and the oil sank low in the lamps. there was a chill sense of dawn in the blue-gray mist when the group, separating at last, issued upon the veranda; the moon, so long hovering over the sombre massive mountains, was slowly sinking in the west. among the shadows of the pillars a tall, martial figure lurked in ambush for the old chaplain, as he rounded the corner of the veranda on his way to his own quarters. "pa'son," a husky voice spoke from out the dim comminglement of the mist and the moon, "'twas me that carried that guidon in dovinger's rangers." "i know it," declared the triumphant tactician. "i recognized you as soon as i saw you again." "i'm through with this," the young mountaineer exclaimed abruptly, with an eloquent gesture of renunciation toward the deserted card-table visible through the vista of open doors. "i'm going home--to work! i'll never forget that i was marker in dovinger's rangers. i carried the guidon! and that last day i marked their way to glory! there's nothing left of them except honor and duty, but i'll rally on that, chaplain. never fear for me, again. i'll rally on the reserve!" wolf's head it might well be called the country of the outlaw, this vast tract of dense mountain forests and craggy ravines, this congeries of swirling torrents and cataracts and rapids. here wild beasts lurked out their savage lives, subsisting by fang and prey,--the panther, the bear, the catamount, the wolf,--and like unto them, ferocious and fugitive, both fearsome and afraid, the man with a "wolf's head," on which was set a price, even as the state's bounty for the scalps of the ravening brutes. one gloomy october afternoon, the zest of a group of sportsmen, who had pitched their camp in this sequestered wilderness, suffered an abatement on the discovery of the repute of the region and the possibility of being summoned to serve on a sheriff's posse in the discharge of the grimmest of duties. "but he is no outlaw in the proper sense of the term. the phrase has survived, but the fact is obsolete," said seymour, who was both a prig and a purist, a man of leisure, and bookish, but a good shot, and vain of his sylvan accomplishments. "our law places no man beyond the pale of its protection. he has a constitutional right to plead his case in court." "what is the reward offered to hale him forth and force him to enjoy that privilege--five hundred dollars?" asked bygrave, who was a newspaper man and had a habit of easy satire. "of course he would never suffer himself to be taken alive." purcell's vocation was that of a broker, and he was given to the discrimination of chances and relative values. "therefore he is as definitely _caput lupinum_ as any outlaw of old. nobody would be held accountable for cracking his 'wolf's head' off, in the effort to arrest him for the sake of the five hundred dollars. but, meantime, how does the fellow contrive to live?" "jes by his rifle, i reckon," replied the rural gossip whom intrusive curiosity occasionally lured to their camp-fire. "though sence that thar big reward hev been n'ised abroad, i'd think he'd be plumb afraid ter fire a shot. the echoes be mighty peart these dumb, damp fall days." the old jeans-clad mountaineer had a certain keen spryness of aspect, despite his bent knees and stooped shoulders. his deeply grooved, narrow, thin face was yet more elongated by the extension of a high forehead into a bald crown, for he wore his broad wool hat on the back of his head. there was something in his countenance not dissimilar to the facial contour of a grasshopper, and the suggestion was heightened by his persistent, rasping chirp. "that's what frets meddy; she can't abide the idee of huntin' a human with sech special coursers ez money reward. she 'lows it mought tempt a' evil man or a' ignorunt one ter swear a miser'ble wretch's life away. let the law strengthen its own hands--that's what meddy say. don't kindle the sperit of cain in every brother's breast. oh, meddy is plumb comical whenst she fairly gits ter goin', though it's all on account of that thar man what war growed up in a tree." the dryadic suggestions of a dendroidal captivity flashed into seymour's mind with the phrase, and stimulated his curiosity as to some quaint rural perversion of the legend. but it was grim fact that the old mountaineer detailed in answer to the question, as he sat on a log by the fire, while the sportsmen lay on the ground about it and idly listened. "one day--'t war 'bout two year' ago--thar war a valley-man up hyar a-huntin' in the mountings with some other fellers, an' toward sunset he war a-waitin' at a stand on a deer-path up thar nigh headlong creek, hopin' ter git a shot whenst the deer went down to drink. waal, i reckon luck war ag'in' him, fer he got nuthin' but durned tired. so, ez he waited, he grounded his rifle, an' leaned himself ag'in' a great big tree ter rest his bones. and presently he jes happened ter turn his head, an', folks! he seen a sight! fer thar, right close ter his cheek, he looked into a skellington's eye-sockets. thar war a skellington's grisly face peerin' at him through a crack in the bark." the raconteur suddenly stopped short, while the group remained silent in expectancy. the camp-fire, with its elastic, leaping flames, had bepainted the darkening avenues of the russet woods with long, fibrous strokes of red and yellow, as with a brush scant of color. the autumnal air was dank, with subtle shivers. a precipice was not far distant on the western side, and there the darksome forest fell away, showing above the massive, purple mountains a section of sky in a heightened clarity of tint, a suave, saffron hue, with one horizontal bar of vivid vermilion that lured the eye. the old mountaineer gazed retrospectively at it as he resumed: "waal, sirs, that town-man had never consorted with sech ez skellingtons. he lit out straight! he made tracks! he never stopped till he reached colbury, an' thar he told his tale. then the sheriff he tuk a hand in the game. skellingtons, he said, didn't grow on trees spontaneous, an' he hed an official interes' in human relics out o' place. so he kem,--the tree is 'twixt hyar an' my house thar on the rise,--an', folks! the tale war plain. some man chased off'n the face of the yearth, hid out from the law,--that's the way meddy takes it,--he hed clomb the tree, an' it bein' holler, he drapped down inside it, thinkin' o' course he could git out the way he went in. but, no! it mought hev been deeper 'n he calculated, or mo' narrow, but he couldn't make the rise. he died still strugglin', fer his long, bony fingers war gripped in the wood--it's rotted a deal sence then." "who was the man?" asked seymour. "nobody knows,--nobody keers 'cept' meddy. she hev wep' a bushel o' tears about him. the cor'ner 'lowed from the old-fashioned flint-lock rifle he bed with him that it mus' hev happened nigh a hunderd years ago. meddy she will git ter studyin' on that of a winter night, an' how the woman that keered fer him mus' hev watched an' waited fer him, an' 'lowed he war deceitful an' desertin', an' mebbe held a gredge agin him, whilst he war dyin' so pitiful an' helpless, walled up in that tree. then meddy will tune up agin, an' mighty nigh cry her eyes out. he warn't even graced with a death-bed ter breathe his last; meddy air partic'lar afflicted that he hed ter die afoot." old kettison glanced about the circle, consciously facetious, his heavily grooved face distended in a mocking grin. "a horrible fate!" exclaimed seymour, with a half-shudder. "edzac'ly," the old mountaineer assented easily. "what's her name--meggy?" asked the journalist, with a mechanical aptitude for detail, no definite curiosity. "naw; meddy--short fer meddlesome. her right name is clementina haddox; but i reckon every livin' soul hev forgot' it but me. she is jes meddlesome by name, an' meddlesome by natur'." he suddenly turned, gazing up the steep, wooded slope with an expectant mien, for the gentle rustling amidst the dense, red leaves of the sumac-bushes heralded an approach. "that mus' be meddy now," he commented, "with her salt-risin' bread. she 'lowed she war goin' ter fetch you-uns some whenst i tol' her you-uns war lackin'." for the camp-hunt had already been signalized by divers disasters: the store of loaves in the wagon had been soaked by an inopportune shower; the young mountaineer who had combined the offices of guide and cook was the victim of an accidental discharge of a fowling-piece, receiving a load of bird-shot full in his face. though his injury was slight, he had returned home, promising to supply his place by sending his brother, who had not yet arrived. purcell's boast that he could bake ash-cake proved a bluff, and although the party could and did broil bacon and even birds on the coals, they were reduced to the extremity of need for the staff of life. hence they were predisposed in the ministrant's favor as she appeared, and were surprised to find that meddlesome, instead of masterful and middle-aged, was a girl of eighteen, looking very shy and appealing as she paused on the verge of the flaring sumac copse, one hand lifted to a swaying bough, the other arm sustaining a basket. even her coarse gown lent itself to pleasing effect, since its dull-brown hue composed well with the red and russet glow of the leaves about her, and its short waist, close sleeves, and scant skirt, reaching to the instep, the immemorial fashion of the hills, were less of a grotesque rusticity since there was prevalent elsewhere a vogue of quasi-empire modes, of which the cut of her garb was reminiscent. a saffron kerchief about her throat had in its folds a necklace of over-cup acorns in three strands, and her hair, meekly parted on her forehead, was of a lustrous brown, and fell in heavy undulations on her shoulders. there was a delicate but distinct tracery of blue veins in her milky-white complexion, and she might have seemed eminently calculated for meddling disastrously with the peace of mind of the mountain youth were it not for the preoccupied expression of her eyes. though large, brown and long-lashed, they were full of care and perplexity, and a frowning, disconcerted line between her eyebrows was so marked as almost to throw her face out of drawing. troubled about many things, evidently, was meddlesome. she could not even delegate the opening of a basket that her little brother had brought and placed beside the camp-fire. "don't, gran'dad," she exclaimed suddenly, stepping alertly forward--"_don't_ put that loaf in that thar bread-box; the box 'pears ter be damp. leave the loaf in the big basket till ter-morrer. it'll eat shorter then, bein' fraish-baked. they kin hev these biscuits fer supper,"--dropping on one knee and setting forth on the cloth, from the basket on her arm, some thick soggy-looking lumps of dough,--"i baked some dodgers, too--four, six, eight, ten,"--she was counting a dozen golden-brown cates of delectable aspect--"knowin' they would hone fer cornmeal arter huntin' an' nuthin' else nohow air fitten ter eat with feesh or aigs. hev you-uns got any aigs?" she sprang up, and, standing on agile tiptoe, peered without ceremony into their wagon. instantly she recoiled with a cry of horrified reproach. "thar's ants in yer short-sweetenin'! how _could_ you-uns let sech ez that happen?" "oh, surely not," exclaimed purcell, hastening to her side. but the fact could not be gain-said; the neglected sugar was spoiled. meddlesome's unwarranted intrusion into the arcana of their domestic concerns disclosed other shortcomings. "why n't ye keep the top on yer coffee-can? don't ye know the coffee will lose heart, settin' open?" she repaired this oversight with a deft touch, and then proceeded: "we-uns ain't got no short-sweetenin' at our house, but i'll send my leetle brother ter fetch some long-sweetenin' fer yer coffee ter night. hyar, sol,"--addressing the small, limber, tow-headed, barefooted boy, a ludicrous miniature of a man in long, loose, brown-jeans trousers supported by a single suspender over an unbleached cotton shirt,--"run ter the house an' fetch the sorghum-jug." as sol started off with the alertness of a scurrying rabbit, she shrilly called out in a frenzy of warning: "go the other way, sol--up through the pawpaws! them cherty rocks will cut yer feet like a knife." sol had nerves of his own. her sharp cry had caused him to spring precipitately backward, frightened, but uncomprehending his danger. being unhurt, he was resentful. "they ain't none o' _yer_ feet, nohow," he grumbled, making a fresh start at less speed. "oh, yes, sol," said the old grandfather, enjoying the contretemps and the sentiment of revolt against meddlesome's iron rule. "everything belongs ter meddlesome one way or another, 'ca'se she jes makes it hern. so take keer of _yer_ feet for _her_ sake." he turned toward her jocosely as the small emissary disappeared among the undergrowth. "i jes been tellin' these hunter-men, meddy, 'bout how ye sets yerself even ter meddle with other folkses' mournin',--what they got through with a hunderd year' ago--tormentatin' 'bout that thar man what war starved in the tree." she heard him, doubtless, for a rising flush betokened her deprecation of this ridicule in the presence of these strangers. but it was rather that she remembered his words afterward than heeded them now. it would seem that certain incidents, insignificant in themselves, are the pivots on which turns the scheme of fate. she could not imagine that upon her action in the next few seconds depended grave potentialities in more lives than one. on the contrary, her deliberations were of a trivial subject, even ludicrous in any other estimation than her own. sol was small, she argued within herself, the jug was large and sticky. he might be tempted to lighten it, for sol had saccharine predilections, and the helpless jug was at his mercy. sol had scant judgment and one suit of clothes available; the other, sopping wet from the wash, now swayed in the process of drying on an elder-bush in the door-yard. should his integrity succumb, and the jug tilt too far, the stream of sorghum might inundate his raiment, and the catastrophe would place him beyond the pale of polite society. the seclusion of bed would be the only place for sol till such time as the elder-bush should bear the fruit of dry clothes. "poor sol!" she exclaimed, her prophetic sympathy bridging the chasm between possibility and accomplished fact. "i'll fetch the jug myself. i'll take the short cut an' head him." thus she set her feet in the path of her future. it led her into dense, tangled woods, clambering over outcropping ledges and boulders. by the flare of the west she guided her progress straight to the east till she reached the banks of headlong creek on its tumultuous course down the mountain-side. in her hasty enterprise she had not counted on crossing it, but meddlesome rarely turned back. she was strong and active, and after a moment's hesitation, she was springing from one to another of the great, half-submerged boulders amidst the whirl of the transparent crystal-brown water, with its fleck and fringe of white foam. more than once, to evade the dizzying effect of the sinuous motion and the continuous roar, she stood still in mid-stream and gazed upward or at the opposite bank. the woods were dense on the slope. all in red and yellow and variant russet and brown tints, the canopy of the forest foliage was impenetrable. the great, dark boles of oak and gum and spruce contrasted sharply with the white and greenish-gray trunks of beeches and sycamore and poplar, and, thus breaking the monotony, gave long, almost illimitable avenues of sylvan vistas. she noted amidst a growth of willows on the opposite bank, at the water's-edge, a spring, a circular, rock-bound reservoir; in the marshy margin she could see the imprints of the cleft hoofs of deer, and thence ran the indefinite trail known as a deer-path. the dense covert along the steep slope was a famous "deer-stand," and there many a fine buck had been killed. all at once she was reminded of the storied tree hard by, the tragedy of which she had often bewept. there it stood, dead itself, weird, phantasmal, as befitted the housing of so drear a fate. its branches now bore no leaves. the lightnings of a last-year's storm had scorched out its vital force and riven the fibre of the wood. here and there, too, the tooth of decay had gnawed fissures that the bark had not earlier known; and from one of these--she thought herself in a dream--a ghastly, white face looked out suddenly, and as suddenly vanished! her heart gave one wild plunge, then it seemed to cease to beat. she wondered afterward that she did not collapse, and sink into the plunging rapids to drown, beaten and bruised against the rocks. it was a muscular instinct that sustained her rather than a conscious impulse of self-preservation. motionless, horrified, amazed, she could only gaze at the empty fissure of the tree on the slope. she could not then discriminate the wild, spectral imaginations that assailed her untutored mind. she could not remember these fantasies later. it was a relief so great that the anguish of the physical reaction was scarcely less poignant than the original shock when she realized that this face was not the grisly skeleton lineaments that had looked out thence heretofore, but was clothed with flesh, though gaunt, pallid, furtive. once more, as she gazed, it appeared in a mere glimpse at the fissure, and in that instant a glance was interchanged. the next moment a hand appeared,--beckoning her to approach. it was a gruesome mandate. she had scant choice. she did not doubt that this was the fugitive, the "wolf's head," and should she turn to flee, he could stop her progress with a pistol-ball, for doubtless he would fancy her alert to disclose the discovery and share in the reward. perhaps feminine curiosity aided fear; perhaps only her proclivity to find an employ in the management of others influenced her decision; though trembling in every fibre, she crossed the interval of water, and made her way up the slope. but when she reached the fateful tree it was she who spoke first. he cast so ravenous a glance at the basket on her arm that all his story of want and woe was revealed. starvation had induced his disclosure of his identity. "it's empty," she said, inverting the basket. she watched him flinch, and asked wonderingly, "is game skeerce?" his eyes were at once forlorn and fierce. "oh, yes, powerful skeerce," he replied with a bitter laugh. there was an enigma in the rejoinder; she did not stay to read the riddle, but went on to possess the situation, according to her wont. "ye hev tuk a powerful pore place ter hide," she admonished him. "this tree is a plumb cur'osity. gran'dad kettison war tellin' some camp-hunters 'bout'n it jes this evenin'. like ez not they'll kem ter view it." his eyes dilated with a sudden accession of terror that seemed always a-smoulder. "lawd, lawd, lawd!" he moaned wretchedly. meddlesome was true to her name and tradition. "ye oughter hev remembered the lawd 'fore ye done it," she said, with a repellent impulse; then she would have given much to recall the reproach. the man was desperate; his safety lay in her silence. a pistol-shot would secure it, and anger would limber the trigger. but he did not seem indignant. his eyes, intelligent and feverishly bright, gazed down at her only in obvious dismay and surprise. "done what?" he asked, and as, prudence prevailing for once, she did not reply, he spoke for her. "the murder, ye mean? why, gal, i warn't even thar. i knowed nuthin' 'bout it till later. ez god is my helper and my hope, i warn't even thar." she stood astounded. "then why n't ye leave it ter men?" "i can't _prove_ it ag'in' the murderers' oaths. i had been consarned in the moon-shinin' that ended in murder, but _i_ hed not been nigh the still fer a month,--i war out a-huntin'--when the revenuers made the raid. there war a scrimmage 'twixt the raiders an' the distillers, an' an outsider that hed nuthin' ter do with the federal law--he war the constable o' the deestrick, an' jes rid with the gang ter see the fun or ter show them the way--he war killed. an' account o' _him_, the state law kem into the game. them other moonshiners war captured, an' they swore ag'in' me 'bout the shootin' ter save tharselves, but i hearn thar false oaths hev done them no good, they being held as accessory. an' i be so ez i can't prove an alibi--i can't _prove_ it, though it's god's truth. but before high heaven"--he lifted his gaunt right hand--"i am innercent, i am innercent." she could not have said why,--perhaps she realized afterward,--but she believed him absolutely, implicitly. a fervor of sympathy for his plight, of commiseration, surged up in her heart. "i wisht it war so i could gin ye some pervisions," she sighed, "though ye do 'pear toler'ble triflin' ter lack game." then the dread secret was told. "gal,"--he used the word as a polite form of address, the equivalent of the more sophisticated "lady,"--"ef ye will believe me, all my ammunition is spent. not a ca'tridge lef', not a dust of powder." meddy caught both her hands to her lips to intercept and smother a cry of dismay. "i snared a rabbit two days ago in a dead-fall. my knife-blade is bruk, but i reckon thar is enough lef' ter split my jugular whenst the eend is kem at last." the girl suddenly caught her faculties together. "what sorter fool talk is that?" she demanded sternly. "ye do my bid, ef ye knows what's good fer ye. git out'n this trap of a tree an' hide 'mongst the crevices of the rocks till seben o'clock ter-night. then kem up ter gran'dad kettison's whenst it is cleverly dark an' tap on the glass winder--not on the batten shutter. an' i'll hev ca'tridges an' powder an' ball for ye, an' some victuals ready, too." but the fugitive, despite his straits, demurred. "i don't want ter git old man kettison into trouble for lendin' ter me." "'t ain't his'n. 't is my dad's old buck-shot ca'tridges an' powder an' ball. they belong ter _me_. the other childern is my half-brothers, bein' my mother war married twice. ye kin _steal_ this gear from me, ef that will make ye feel easier." "but what will yer gran'dad say ter me?" "he won't know who ye be; he will jes 'low ye air one o' the boys who air always foolin' away thar time visitin' me an' makin' tallow-dips skeerce." the sudden gleam of mirth on her face was like an illuminating burst of sunshine, and somehow it cast an irradiation into the heart of the fugitive, for, after she was gone out of sight, he pondered upon it. but the early dusk fell from a lowering sky, and the night came on beclouded and dark. some turbulent spirit was loosed in the air, and the wind was wild. great, surging masses of purple vapor came in a mad rout from the dank west and gathered above the massive and looming mountains. the woods bent and tossed and clashed their boughs in the riot of gusts, the sere leaves were flying in clouds, and presently rain began to fall. the steady downpour increased in volume to torrents; then the broad, pervasive flashes of lightning showed, in lieu of myriad lines, an unbroken veil of steely gray swinging from the zenith, the white foam rebounding as the masses of water struck the earth. the camp equipage, tents and wagons succumbed beneath the fury of the tempest, and, indeed, the hunters had much ado to saddle their horses and grope their way along the bridle-path that led to old kettison's house. the rude comfort of the interior had a heightened emphasis by reason of the elemental turmoils without. true, the rain beat in a deafening fusillade upon the roof, and the ostentation of the one glass window, a source of special pride to its owner, was at a temporary disadvantage in admitting the fierce and ghastly electric glare, so recurrent as to seem unintermittent. but the more genial illumination of hickory flames, red and yellow, was streaming from the great chimney-place, and before the broad hearth the guests were ensconced, their out-stretched boots steaming in the heat. strings of scarlet peppers, bunches of dried herbs, gourds of varied quaint shapes, hung swaying from the rafters. the old man's gay, senile chirp of welcome was echoed by his wife, a type of comely rustic age, who made much of the fact that, though house-bound from "rheumatics," she had reared her dead daughter's "two orphin famblies," the said daughter having married twice, neither man "bein' of a lastin' quality," as she seriously phrased it. meddy, "the eldest fambly," had been guide, philosopher, and friend to the swarm of youngsters, and even now, in the interests of peace and space and hearing, was seeking to herd them into an adjoining room, when a sudden stentorian hail from without rang through the splashing of the rain from the eaves, the crash of thunder among the "balds" of the mountains, with its lofty echoes, and the sonorous surging of the wind. "light a tallow-dip, meddy," cried old kettison, excitedly. "an' fetch the candle on the porch so ez we-uns kin view who rides so late in sech a night 'fore we bid 'em ter light an' hitch." but these were travelers not to be gain-said--the sheriff of the county and four stout fellows from the town of colbury, summoned to his aid as a posse, all trooping in as if they owned the little premises. however, the officer permitted himself to unbend a trifle under the influence of a hospitable tender of home-made cherry-bounce, "strong enough to walk from here to colbury," according to the sheriff's appreciative phrase. he was a portly man, with a rolling, explanatory cant of his burly head and figure toward his interlocutor as he talked. his hair stood up in two tufts above his forehead, one on each side, and he had large, round, grayish eyes and a solemn, pondering expression. to meddy, staring horror-stricken, he seemed as owlishly wise as he looked while he explained the object of his expedition. "this district have got a poor reputation with the law, mr. kettison. here is this fellow, royston mcgurny, been about here two years, and a reward for five hundred dollars out for his arrest." "that's roy's fault, sher'ff, not our'n," leered the glib old man. he, too, had had a sip of the stalwart cherry-bounce. "roy's in no wise sociable." "it's plumb flying in the face of the law," declared the officer. "if i had a guide, i'd not wait a minute, or if i could recognize the man whenst i viewed him. the constable promised to send a fellow to meet me here,--what's his name?--yes, smith, barton smith,--who will guide us to where he was last glimpsed. i hope to take him alive," he added with an inflection of doubt. certainly this was a dreary camp-hunt, with all its distasteful sequelae. purcell, who had no more imagination than a promissory note, silently sulked under the officer's intimation that, being able-bodied men, he would expect the hunters also to ride with him. they were not of his county, and doubted their obligation, but they would not refuse to aid the law. bygrave, however, realized a "story" in the air, and seymour was interested in the impending developments; for being a close observer, he had perceived that the girl was in the clutch of some tumultuous though covert agitation. her blood blazed at fever-heat in her cheeks; her eyes were on fire; every muscle was tense; and her brain whirled. to her the crisis was tremendous. this was the result of her unwarranted interference. who was she, indeed, that she should seek to command the march of events and deploy sequences? her foolish manoeuvering had lured this innocent man to ruin, capture, anguish, and death. no warning could he have; the window was opaque with the corrugations of the rain-fall on the streaming panes, and set too high to afford him a glimpse from without. and, oh, how he would despise the traitor that she must needs seem to be! she had not a moment for reflection, for counsel, for action. already the signal,--he was prompt at the tryst,--the sharp, crystalline vibration of the tap on the glass! the sheriff rose instantly with that cumbrous agility sometimes characterizing portly men. "there he is now!" he exclaimed. but meddy, with a little hysterical cry, had sprung first to the opening door. "barton smith!" she exclaimed, with shrill significance. "hyar is yer guide, sher'ff, wet ez a drownded rat." the pale face in the dark aperture of the doorway, as the fire-light flashed on it, grew ghastly white with terror and lean with amazement. for a moment the man seemed petrified. seymour, vaguely fumbling with his suspicions, began to disintegrate the plot of the play, and to discriminate the powers of the dramatis personae. "now, my man, step lively," said the officer in his big, husky voice. "do you know this royston mcgurny?" to be sure, seymour had no cause for suspicion but his own intuition and the intangible evidence of tone and look all as obvious to the others as to him. but he was at once doubtful and relieved when the haggard wretch at the door, mustering his courage, replied: "know royston mcgurny? none better. knowed him all my life." "got pretty good horse?" "got none at all; expect ter borry mr. kettison's." "i'll go show ye whar the saddle be," exclaimed meddy, with her wonted officiousness, and glibly picking up the bits of her shattered scheme. seymour fully expected they would not return from the gloom without, whither they had disappeared, but embrace the immediate chance of escape before the inopportune arrival of the real barton smith should balk the possibility. but, no,--and he doubted anew all his suspicions,--in a trice here they both were again, a new courage, a new hope in that pallid, furtive face, and another horse stood saddled among the equine group at the door. meddlesome was pinning up the brown skirt of her gown, showing a red petticoat that had harmonies with a coarse, red plaid shawl adjusted over her head and shoulders. "gran'dad," she observed, never looking up, and speaking with her mouth full of pins, "barton smith say he kin set me down at aunt drusina's house. ye know she be ailin', an' sent for me this evenin'; but i hed no way ter go." the sheriff looked sour enough at this intrusion; but he doubtless imagined that this relative was no distant neighbor, and as he had need of hearty aid and popular support, he offered no protest. there was a clearing sky without, and the wind was laid. the frenzy of the storm was over, although rain was still falling. the little cavalcade got to horse deliberately enough amid the transparent dun shadows and dim yellow flare of light from open door and window. one of the mounts had burst a girth, and a strap must be procured from the plow-gear in the shed. another, a steed of some spirit, reared and plunged at the lights, and could not be induced to cross the illuminated bar thrown athwart the yard from the open door. the official impatience of the delay was expressed in irritable comments and muttered oaths; but throughout the interval the guide, with his pallid, strained face, sat motionless in his saddle, his rifle across its pommel, an apt presentment of indifference, while, perched behind him, meddy was continually busy in readjusting her skirts or shawl or a small bundle that presumably contained her rustic finery, but which, to a close approach, would have disclosed the sulphurous odor of gunpowder. when the cluster of horsemen was fairly on the march, however, she sat quite still, and more than once seymour noted that, with her face close to the shoulder of the guide, she was whispering in his ear. what was their game? he marvelled, having once projected the idea that this late comer was, himself, the "wolf's head" whom they were to chase down for a rich reward, incongruously hunting amidst his own hue and cry. or, seymour again doubted, had he merely constructed a figment of a scheme from his own imaginings and these attenuations of suggestion? for there seemed, after all, scant communication between the two, and this was even less when the moon was unveiled, the shifting shimmer of the clouds falling away from the great sphere of pearl, gemming the night with an incomparable splendor. it had grown almost as light as day, and the sheriff ordered the pace quickened. along a definite cattle-trail they went at first, but presently they were following through bosky recesses a deer-path, winding sinuously at will on the way to water. the thinning foliage let in the fair, ethereal light, and all the sylvan aisles stood in sheeny silver illumination. the drops of moisture glittered jewel-wise on the dark boughs of fir and pine, and one could even discriminate the red glow of sour-wood and the golden flare of hickory, so well were the chromatic harmonies asserted in this refined and refulgent glamour. "barton smith!" called the sheriff, suddenly from the rear of the party. there was no answer, and seymour felt his prophetic blood run cold. his conscience began to stir. had he, indeed, no foundation for his suspicion? "smith! _smith_" cried the irascible officer. "hey, there! is the man deaf?" "not deef, edzac'ly," meddlesome's voice sounded reproachfully; "jes a leetle hard o' hearin'." she had administered a warning nudge. "hey? what ye want?" said the "wolf's head," suddenly checking his horse. "have you any idea of where you are going, or how far?" demanded the officer, sternly. "just acrost the gorge," the guide answered easily. "i heard he had been glimpsed in a hollow tree. that word was telephoned from the cross-roads to town. it was the tree the skeleton was in." "that tree? it's away back yander," observed one of the posse, reluctant and disaffected. "oh, he has quit that tree; he is bound for up the gorge now," said the guide. "well, i suppose you know, from what i was told," said the sheriff, discontentedly; "but this is a long ja'nt. ride up! ride up!" onward they fared through the perfumed woods. the wild asters were blooming, and sweet and subtile distillations of the autumnal growths were diffused on the air. the deer are but ill at road-making,--such tangled coverts, such clifty ledges, such wild leaps; for now the path threaded the jagged verge of precipices. the valley, a black abyss above which massive, purplish mountains loomed against a sky of pearly tints, was visibly narrowing. they all knew that presently it would become a mere gorge, a vast indentation in the mountain-side. the weird vistas across the gorge were visible now, craggy steeps, and deep woods filled with moonlight, with that peculiar untranslated intendment which differentiates its luminosity in the wilderness from the lunar glamour of cultivated scenes--something weird, melancholy, eloquent of a meaning addressed to the soul, but which the senses cannot entertain or words express. with a sudden halt, the guide dismounted. the girl still sat on the saddle-blanket, and the horse bowed his head and pawed. the posse were gazing dubiously, reluctantly, at a foot-bridge across a deep abyss. it was only a log, the upper side hewn, with a shaking hand-rail held by slight standards. "have we got to cross this?" asked the officer, still in the saddle and gazing downward. "ef ye foller me," said the guide, indifferently. but he was ahead of his orders. he visibly braced his nerves for the effort, and holding his rifle as a balancing-pole, he sped along the light span with a tread as deft as a fox or a wolf. in a moment he had gained the farther side. they scarcely knew how it happened. so unexpected was the event that, though it occurred before their eyes, they did not seem to see it. they remembered, rather than perceived, that he stooped suddenly; with one single great effort of muscular force he dislodged the end of the log, heaved it up in the air, strongly flung it aside, whence it went crashing down into the black depths below, its own weight, as it fell, sufficing to wrench out the other end, carrying with it a mass of earth and rock from the verge of the precipice. the horses sprang back snorting and frightened; the officer's, being a fine animal in prime condition, tried to bolt. before he had him well in hand again, the man on the opposite brink had vanished. the sheriff's suspicions were barely astir when a hallooing voice in the rear made itself heard, and a horseman, breathless with haste, his steed flecked with foam, rode up, indignant, flushed, and eager. "whyn't ye wait for me, sher'ff? ye air all on the wrong track," he cried. "royston mcgurny be hid in the skellington's tree. i glimpsed him thar myself, an' gin information." the sheriff gazed down with averse and suspicious eyes. "what's all this?" he said sternly. "give an account of yourself." "me?" exclaimed the man in amazement. "why, i'm barton smith, yer guide, that's who. an' i'm good for five hundred dollars' reward." but the sheriff called off the pursuit for the time, as he had no means of replacing the bridge or of crossing the chasm. meddlesome's share in the escape was not detected, and for a while she had no incentive to the foolhardiness of boasting. but her prudence diminished when the reward for the apprehension of royston mcgurny was suddenly withdrawn. the confession of one of the distillers, dying of tuberculosis contracted in prison, who had himself fired the fatal shot, had established the alibi that mcgurny claimed, and served to relieve him of all suspicion. he eventually became a "herder" of cattle on the bald of the mountain and a farmer in a small way, and in these placid pursuits he found a contented existence. but, occasionally, a crony of his olden time would contrast the profits of this tame industry at a disadvantage with the quick and large returns of the "wild cat," when he would "confess and avoid." "that's true, that's all true; but a man can't holp it no ways in the world whenst he hev got a wife that is so out-an'-out meddlesome that she won't let him run ag'in' the law, nohow he kin fix it." his unquiet ghost the moon was high in the sky. the wind was laid. so silent was the vast stretch of mountain wilderness, aglint with the dew, that the tinkle of a rill far below in the black abyss seemed less a sound than an evidence of the pervasive quietude, since so slight a thing, so distant, could compass so keen a vibration. for an hour or more the three men who lurked in the shadow of a crag in the narrow mountain-pass, heard nothing else. when at last they caught the dull reverberation of a slow wheel and the occasional metallic clank of a tire against a stone, the vehicle was fully three miles distant by the winding road in the valley. time lagged. only by imperceptible degrees the sound of deliberate approach grew louder on the air as the interval of space lessened. at length, above their ambush at the summit of the mountain's brow the heads of horses came into view, distinct in the moonlight between the fibrous pines and the vast expanse of the sky above the valley. even then there was renewed delay. the driver of the wagon paused to rest the team. the three lurking men did not move; they scarcely ventured to breathe. only when there was no retrograde possible, no chance of escape, when the vehicle was fairly on the steep declivity of the road, the precipice sheer on one side, the wall of the ridge rising perpendicularly on the other, did two of them, both revenue-raiders disguised as mountaineers, step forth from the shadow. the other, the informer, a genuine mountaineer, still skulked motionless in the darkness. the "revenuers," ascending the road, maintained a slow, lunging gait, as if they had toiled from far. their abrupt appearance had the effect of a galvanic shock to the man handling the reins, a stalwart, rubicund fellow, who visibly paled. he drew up so suddenly as almost to throw the horses from their feet. "g'evenin'," ventured browdie, the elder of the raiders, in a husky voice affecting an untutored accent. he had some special ability as a mimic, and, being familiar with the dialect and manners of the people, this gift greatly facilitated the rustic impersonation he had essayed. "ye're haulin' late," he added, for the hour was close to midnight. "yes, stranger; haulin' late, from eskaqua--a needcessity." "what's yer cargo?" asked browdie, seeming only ordinarily inquisitive. a sepulchral cadence was in the driver's voice, and the disguised raiders noted that the three other men on the wagon had preserved, throughout, a solemn silence. "what we-uns mus' all be one day, stranger--a corpus." browdie was stultified for a moment. then, sustaining his assumed character, he said: "i hope it be nobody i know. i be fairly well acquainted in eskaqua, though i hail from down in lonesome cove. who be dead?" there was palpably a moment's hesitation before the spokesman replied: "watt wyatt; died day 'fore yestiddy." at the words, one of the silent men in the wagon turned his face suddenly, with such obvious amazement depicted upon it that it arrested the attention of the "revenuers." this face was so individual that it was not likely to be easily mistaken or forgotten. a wild, breezy look it had, and a tricksy, incorporeal expression that might well befit some fantastic, fabled thing of the woods. it was full of fine script of elusive meanings, not registered in the lineaments of the prosaic man of the day, though perchance of scant utility, not worth interpretation. his full gray eyes were touched to glancing brilliancy by a moonbeam; his long, fibrously floating brown hair was thrown backward; his receding chin was peculiarly delicate; and though his well-knit frame bespoke a hardy vigor, his pale cheek was soft and thin. all the rustic grotesquery of garb and posture was cancelled by the deep shadow of a bough, and his delicate face showed isolated in the moonlight. browdie silently pondered his vague suspicions for a moment. "whar did he die at?" he then demanded at a venture. "at his daddy's house, fur sure. whar else?" responded the driver. "i hev got what's lef' of him hyar in the coffin-box. we expected ter make it ter shiloh buryin'-ground 'fore dark; but the road is middlin' heavy, an' 'bout five mile' back ben cast a shoe. the funeral warn't over much 'fore noon." "whyn't they bury him in eskaqua, whar he died?" persisted browdie. "waal, they planned ter bury him alongside his mother an' gran'dad, what used ter live in tanglefoot cove. but we air wastin' time hyar, an' we hev got none ter spare. gee, ben! git up, john!" the wagon gave a lurch; the horses, holding back in bracing attitudes far from the pole, went teetering down the steep slant, the locked wheel dragging heavily; the four men sat silent, two in slouching postures at the head of the coffin; the third, with the driver, was at its foot. it seemed drearily suggestive, the last journey of this humble mortality, in all the splendid environment of the mountains, under the vast expansions of the aloof skies, in the mystic light of the unnoting moon. "is this bona-fide?" asked browdie, with a questioning glance at the informer, who had at length crept forth. "i dunno," sullenly responded the mountaineer. he had acquainted the two officers, who were of a posse of revenue-raiders hovering in the vicinity, with the mysterious circumstance that a freighted wagon now and then made a midnight transit across these lonely ranges. he himself had heard only occasionally in a wakeful hour the roll of heavy wheels, but he interpreted this as the secret transportation of brush whisky from the still to its market. he had thought to fix the transgression on an old enemy of his own, long suspected of moonshining; but he was acquainted with none of the youngsters on the wagon, at whom he had peered cautiously from behind the rocks. his actuating motive in giving information to the emissaries of the government had been the rancor of an old feud, and his detection meant certain death. he had not expected the revenue-raiders to be outnumbered by the supposed moonshiners, and he would not fight in the open. he had no sentiment of fealty to the law, and the officers glanced at each other in uncertainty. "this evidently is not the wagon in question," said browdie, disappointed. "i'll follow them a bit," volunteered ronan, the younger and the more active of the two officers. "seems to me they'll bear watching." indeed, as the melancholy cortège fared down and down the steep road, dwindling in the sheeny distance, the covert and half-suppressed laughter of the sepulchral escort was of so keen a relish that it was well that the scraping of the locked wheel aided the distance to mask the incongruous sound. "what ailed you-uns ter name _me_ as the corpus, 'gene barker?" demanded walter wyatt, when he had regained the capacity of coherent speech. "oh, i hed ter do suddint murder on somebody," declared the driver, all bluff and reassured and red-faced again, "an' i couldn't think quick of nobody else. besides, i belt a grudge ag'in' you fer not stuffin' mo' straw 'twixt them jimmyjohns in the coffin-box." "that's a fac'. ye air too triflin' ter be let ter live, watt," cried one of their comrades. "i hearn them jugs clash tergether in the coffin-box when 'gene checked the team up suddint, i tell you. an' them men sure 'peared ter me powerful suspectin'." "_i_ hearn the clash of them jimmyjohns," chimed in the driver. "i really thunk my hour war come. some informer must hev set them men ter spyin' round fer moonshine." "oh, surely nobody wouldn't dare," urged one of the group, uneasily; for the identity of an informer was masked in secrecy, and his fate, when discovered, was often gruesome. "they couldn't hev noticed the clash of them jimmyjohns, nohow," declared the negligent watt, nonchalantly. "but namin' _me_ fur the dead one! supposin' they air revenuers fur true, an' hed somebody along, hid out in the bresh, ez war acquainted with me by sight----" "then they'd hev been skeered out'n thar boots, that's all," interrupted the self-sufficient 'gene. "they would hev 'lowed they hed viewed yer brazen ghost, bold ez brass, standin' at the head of yer own coffin-box." "or mebbe they mought hev recognized the wyatt favor, ef they warn't acquainted with _me_," persisted watt, with his unique sense of injury. eugene barker defended the temerity of his inspiration. "they would hev jes thought ye war kin ter the deceased, an' attendin' him ter his long home." "'gene don't keer much fur ye ter be alive nohow, watt wyatt," one of the others suggested tactlessly, "'count o' minta elladine riggs." eugene barker's off-hand phrase was incongruous with his sudden gravity and his evident rancor as he declared: "_i_ ain't carin' fur sech ez watt wyatt. an' they _do_ say in the cove that minta elladine riggs hev gin him the mitten, anyhow, on account of his gamesome ways, playin' kyerds, a-bettin' his money, drinkin' apple-jack, an' sech." the newly constituted ghost roused himself with great vitality as if to retort floutingly; but as he turned, his jaw suddenly fell; his eyes widened with a ghastly distension. with an unsteady arm extended he pointed silently. distinctly outlined on the lid of the coffin was the simulacrum of the figure of a man. one of his comrades, seated on the tailboard of the wagon, had discerned a significance in the abrupt silence. as he turned, he, too, caught a fleeting glimpse of that weird image on the coffin-lid. but he was of a more mundane pulse. the apparition roused in him only a wonder whence could come this shadow in the midst of the moon-flooded road. he lifted his eyes to the verge of the bluff above, and there he descried an indistinct human form, which suddenly disappeared as he looked, and at that moment the simulacrum vanished from the lid of the box. the mystery was of instant elucidation. they were suspected, followed. the number of their pursuers of course they could not divine, but at least one of the revenue-officers had trailed the wagon between the precipice and the great wall of the ascent on the right, which had gradually dwindled to a diminished height. deep gullies were here and there washed out by recent rains, and one of these indentations might have afforded an active man access to the summit. thus the pursuer had evidently kept abreast of them, speeding along in great leaps through the lush growth of huckleberry bushes, wild grasses, pawpaw thickets, silvered by the moon, all fringing the great forests that had given way on the shelving verge of the steeps where the road ran. had he overheard their unguarded, significant words? who could divine, so silent were the windless mountains, so deep a-dream the darksome woods, so spell-bound the mute and mystic moonlight? the group maintained a cautious reticence now, each revolving the problematic disclosure of their secret, each canvassing the question whether the pursuer himself was aware of his betrayal of his stealthy proximity. not till they had reached the ford of the river did they venture on a low-toned colloquy. the driver paused in mid-stream and stepped out on the pole between the horses to let down the check-reins, as the team manifested an inclination to drink in transit; and thence, as he stood thus perched, he gazed to and fro, the stretch of dark and lustrous ripples baffling all approach within ear-shot, the watering of the horses justifying the pause and cloaking its significance to any distant observer. but the interval was indeed limited; the mental processes of such men are devoid of complexity, and their decisions prompt. they advanced few alternatives; their prime object was to be swiftly rid of the coffin and its inculpating contents, and with the "revenuer" so hard on their heels this might seem a troublous problem enough. "put it whar a coffin b'longs--in the churchyard," said wyatt; for at a considerable distance beyond the rise of the opposite bank could be seen a barren clearing in which stood a gaunt, bare, little white frame building that served all the country-side for its infrequent religious services. "we couldn't dig a grave before that spy--ef he be a revenuer sure enough--could overhaul us," eugene barker objected. "we could turn the yearth right smart, though," persisted wyatt, for pickax and shovel had been brought in the wagon for the sake of an aspect of verisimilitude and to mask their true intent. eugene barker acceded to this view. "that's the dinctum--dig a few jes fer a blind. we kin slip the coffin-box under the church-house 'fore he gits in sight,--he'll be feared ter follow too close,--an' leave it thar till the other boys kin wagon it ter the cross-roads' store ter-morrer night." the horses, hitherto held to the sober gait of funeral travel, were now put to a speedy trot, unmindful of whatever impression of flight the pace might give to the revenue-raider in pursuit. the men were soon engrossed in their deceptive enterprise in the churchyard, plying pickax and shovel for dear life; now and again they paused to listen vainly for the sound of stealthy approach. they knew that there was the most precarious and primitive of foot-bridges across the deep stream, to traverse which would cost an unaccustomed wayfarer both time and pains; thus the interval was considerable before the resonance of rapid foot-falls gave token that their pursuer had found himself obliged to sprint smartly along the country road to keep any hope of ever again viewing the wagon which the intervening water-course had withdrawn from his sight. that this hope had grown tenuous was evident in his relinquishment of his former caution, for when they again caught a glimpse of him he was forging along in the middle of the road without any effort at concealment. but as the wagon appeared in the perspective, stationary, hitched to the hedge of the graveyard, he recurred to his previous methods. the four men still within the inclosure, now busied in shovelling the earth back again into the excavation they had so swiftly made, covertly watched him as he skulked into the shadow of the wayside. the little "church-house," with all its windows whitely aglare in the moonlight, reflected the pervasive sheen, and silent, spectral, remote, it seemed as if it might well harbor at times its ghastly neighbors from the quiet cemetery without, dimly ranging themselves once more in the shadowy ranks of its pews or grimly stalking down the drear and deserted aisles. the fact that the rising ground toward the rear of the building necessitated a series of steps at the entrance, enabled the officer to mask behind this tall flight his crouching approach, and thus he ensconced himself in the angle between the wall and the steps, and looked forth in fancied security. the shadows multiplied the tale of the dead that the head-boards kept, each similitude askew in the moonlight on the turf below the slanting monument. to judge by the motions of the men engaged in the burial and the mocking antics of their silhouettes on the ground, it must have been obvious to the spectator that they were already filling in the earth. the interment may have seemed to him suspiciously swift, but the possibility was obvious that the grave might have been previously dug in anticipation of their arrival. it was plain that he was altogether unprepared for the event when they came slouching forth to the wagon, and the stalwart and red-faced driver, with no manifestation of surprise, hailed him as he still crouched in his lurking-place. "hello, stranger! warn't that you-uns runnin' arter the wagon a piece back yonder jes a while ago?" the officer rose to his feet, with an intent look both dismayed and embarrassed. he did not venture on speech; he merely acceded with a nod. "ye want a lift, i reckon." the stranger was hampered by the incongruity between his rustic garb, common to the coves, and his cultivated intonation; for, unlike his comrade browdie, he had no mimetic faculties whatever. nevertheless, he was now constrained to "face the music." "i didn't want to interrupt you," he said, seeking such excuse as due consideration for the circumstances might afford; "but i'd like to ask where i could get lodging for the night." "what's yer name?" demanded barker, unceremoniously. "francis ronan," the raider replied, with more assurance. then he added, by way of explaining his necessity, "i'm a stranger hereabouts." "ye air so," assented the sarcastic 'gene. "ye ain't even acquainted with yer own clothes. ye be a town man." "well, i'm not the first man who has had to hide out," ronan parried, seeking to justify his obvious disguise. "shot somebody?" asked 'gene, with an apparent accession of interest. "it's best for me not to tell." "so be." 'gene acquiesced easily. "waal, ef ye kin put up with sech accommodations ez our'n, i'll take ye home with me." ronan stood aghast. but there was no door of retreat open. he was alone and helpless. he could not conceal the fact that the turn affairs had taken was equally unexpected and terrifying to him, and the moonshiners, keenly watchful, were correspondingly elated to discern that he had surely no reinforcements within reach to nerve him to resistance or to menace their liberty. he had evidently followed them too far, too recklessly; perhaps without the consent and against the counsel of his comrades, perhaps even without their knowledge of his movements and intention. now and again as the wagon jogged on and on toward their distant haven, the moonlight gradually dulling to dawn, wyatt gave the stranger a wondering, covert glance, vaguely, shrinkingly curious as to the sentiments of a man vacillating between the suspicion of capture and the recognition of a simple hospitality without significance or danger. the man's face appealed to him, young, alert, intelligent, earnest, and the anguish of doubt and anxiety it expressed went to his heart. in the experience of his sylvan life as a hunter wyatt's peculiar and subtle temperament evolved certain fine-spun distinctions which were unique; a trapped thing had a special appeal to his commiseration that a creature ruthlessly slaughtered in the open was not privileged to claim. he did not accurately and in words discriminate the differences, but he felt that the captive had sounded all the gamut of hope and despair, shared the gradations of an appreciated sorrow that makes all souls akin and that even lifts the beast to the plane of brotherhood, the bond of emotional woe. he had often with no other or better reason liberated the trophy of his snare, calling after the amazed and franticly fleeing creature, "bye-bye, buddy!" with peals of his whimsical, joyous laughter. he was experiencing now a similar sequence of sentiments in noting the wild-eyed eagerness with which the captured raider took obvious heed of every minor point of worthiness that might mask the true character of his entertainers. but, indeed, these deceptive hopes might have been easily maintained by one not so desirous of reassurance when, in the darkest hour before the dawn, they reached a large log-cabin sequestered in dense woods, and he found himself an inmate of a simple, typical mountain household. it held an exceedingly venerable grandfather, wielding his infirmities as a rod of iron; a father and mother, hearty, hospitable, subservient to the aged tyrant, but keeping in filial check a family of sons and daughters-in-law, with an underfoot delegation of grandchildren, who seemed to spend their time in a bewildering manoeuver of dashing out at one door to dash in at another. a tumultuous rain had set in shortly after dawn, with lightning and wind,--"the tail of a harricane," as the host called it,--and a terrible bird the actual storm must have been to have a tail of such dimensions. there was no getting forth, no living creature of free will "took water" in this elemental crisis. the numerous dogs crowded the children away from the hearth, and the hens strolled about the large living-room, clucking to scurrying broods. even one of the horses tramped up on the porch and looked in ever and anon, solicitous of human company. "i brung ben up by hand, like a bottle-fed baby," the hostess apologized, "an' he ain't never f'und out fur sure that he ain't folks." there seemed no possible intimation of moonshine in this entourage, and the coffin filled with jugs, a-wagoning from some distillers' den in the range to the cross-roads' store, might well have been accounted only the vain phantasm of an overtired brain surcharged with the vexed problems of the revenue service. the disguised revenue-raider was literally overcome with drowsiness, the result of his exertions and his vigils, and observing this, his host gave him one of the big feather beds under the low slant of the eaves in the roof-room, where the other men, who had been out all night, also slept the greater portion of the day. in fact, it was dark when wyatt wakened, and, leaving the rest still torpid with slumber and fatigue, descended to the large main room of the cabin. the callow members of the household had retired to rest, but the elders of the band of moonshiners were up and still actively astir, and wyatt experienced a prescient vicarious qualm to note their lack of heed or secrecy--the noisy shifting of heavy weights (barrels, kegs, bags of apples, and peaches for pomace), the loud voices and unguarded words. when a door in the floor was lifted, the whiff of chill, subterranean air that pervaded the whole house was heavily freighted with spirituous odors, and gave token to the meanest intelligence, to the most unobservant inmate, that the still was operated in a cellar, peculiarly immune to suspicion, for a cellar is never an adjunct to the ordinary mountain cabin. thus the infraction of the revenue law went on securely and continuously beneath the placid, simple, domestic life, with its reverent care for the very aged and its tender nurture of the very young. it was significant, indeed, that the industry should not be pretermitted, however, when a stranger was within the gates. the reason to wyatt, familiar with the moonshiners' methods and habits of thought, was only too plain. they intended that the "revenuer" should never go forth to tell the tale. his comrades had evidently failed to follow his trail, either losing it in the wilderness or from ignorance of his intention. he had put himself hopelessly into the power of these desperate men, whom his escape or liberation would menace with incarceration for a long term as federal prisoners in distant penitentiaries, if, indeed, they were not already answerable to the law for some worse crime than illicit distilling. his murder would be the extreme of brutal craft, so devised as to seem an accident, against the possibility of future investigation. the reflection turned wyatt deathly cold, he who could not bear unmoved the plea of a wild thing's eye. he sturdily sought to pull himself together. it was none of his decree; it was none of his deed, he argued. the older moonshiners, who managed all the details of the enterprise, would direct the event with absolute authority and the immutability of fate. but whatever should be done, he revolted from any knowledge of it, as from any share in the act. he had risen to leave the place, all strange of aspect now, metamorphosed,--various disorderly details of the prohibited industry ever and anon surging up from the still-room below,--when a hoarse voice took cognizance of his intention with a remonstrance. "why, watt wyatt, _ye_ can't go out in the cove. ye air dead! ye will let that t'other revenue-raider ye seen into the secret o' the bresh whisky in our wagon ef ye air viewed about whenst 'gene hev spread the report that ye air dead. wait till them raiders hev cleared out of the kentry." the effort at detention, to interfere with his liberty, added redoubled impetus to wyatt's desire to be gone. he suddenly devised a cogent necessity. "i be feared my dad mought hear that fool tale. i ain't much loss, but dad would feel it." "oh, i sent jack thar ter tell him better whenst he drove ter mill ter-day ter git the meal fer the mash. jack made yer dad onderstand 'bout yer sudden demise." "oh, yeh," interposed the glib jack; "an' he said ez _he_ couldn't abide sech jokes." "shucks!" cried the filial wyatt. "dad war full fresky himself in his young days; i hev hearn his old frien's say so." "i tried ter slick things over," said the diplomatic jack. "i 'lowed young folks war giddy by nature. i 'lowed 't war jes a flash o' fun. an' he say: 'flash o' fun be consarned! my son is more like a flash o' lightning; ez suddint an' mischeevious an' totally ondesirable.'" the reproach obviously struck home, for wyatt maintained a disconsolate silence for a time. at length, apparently goaded by his thoughts to attempt a defense, he remonstrated: "nobody ever war dead less of his own free will. i never elected ter be a harnt. 'gene barker hed no right ter nominate _me_ fer the dear departed, nohow." one of the uncouth younger fellows, his shoulders laden with a sack of meal, paused on his way from the porch to the trap-door to look up from beneath his burden with a sly grin as he said, "'gene war wishin' it war true, that's why." "'count o' minta elladine riggs," gaily chimed in another. "but 'gene needn't gredge watt foot-hold on this yearth fer sech; _she_ ain't keerin' whether watt lives or dies," another contributed to the rough, rallying fun. but wyatt was of sensitive fibre. he had flushed angrily; his eyes were alight; a bitter retort was trembling on his lips when one of the elder barkers, discriminating the elements of an uncontrollable fracas, seized on the alternative. "could you-uns _sure_ be back hyar by day-break, watt?" he asked, fixing the young fellow with a stern eye. "no 'spectable ghost roams around arter sun-up," cried wyatt, fairly jovial at the prospect of liberation. "ye mus' be heedful not ter be viewed," the senior admonished him. "i be goin' ter slip about keerful like a reg'lar, stiddy-goin' harnt, an' eavesdrop a bit. it's worth livin' a hard life ter view how a feller's friends will take his demise." "i reckon ye kin make out ter meet the wagin kemin' back from the cross-roads' store. it went out this evenin' with that coffin full of jugs that ye lef' las' night under the church-house, whenst 'gene seen you-uns war suspicioned. they will hev time ter git ter the cross-roads with the whisky on' back little arter midnight, special' ez we-uns hev got the raider that spied out the job hyar fast by the leg." the mere mention of the young prisoner rendered wyatt the more eager to be gone, to be out of sight and sound. but he had no agency in the disaster, he urged against some inward clamor of protest; the catastrophe was the logical result of the foolhardiness of the officer in following these desperate men with no backing, with no power to apprehend or hold, relying on his flimsy disguise, and risking delivering himself into their hands, fettered as he was with the knowledge of his discovery of their secret. "it's nothin' ter _me_, nohow," wyatt was continually repeating to himself, though when he sprang through the door he could scarcely draw his breath because of some mysterious, invisible clutch at his throat. he sought to ascribe this symptom to the density of the pervasive fog without, that impenetrably cloaked all the world; one might wonder how a man could find his way through the opaque white vapor. it was, however, an accustomed medium to the young mountaineer, and his feet, too, had something of that unclassified muscular instinct, apart from reason, which guides in an oft-trodden path. once he came to a halt, from no uncertainty of locality, but to gaze apprehensively through the blank, white mists over a shuddering shoulder. "i wonder ef thar be any other harnts aloose ter-night, a-boguing through the fog an' the moon," he speculated. presently he went on again, shaking his head sagely. "i ain't wantin' ter collogue with sech," he averred cautiously. occasionally the moonlight fell in expansive splendor through a rift in the white vapor; amidst the silver glintings a vague, illusory panorama of promontory and island, bay and inlet, far ripplings of gleaming deeps, was presented like some magic reminiscence, some ethereal replica of the past, the simulacrum of the seas of these ancient coves, long since ebbed away and vanished. the sailing moon visibly rocked, as the pulsing tides of the cloud-ocean rose and fell, and ever and anon this supernal craft was whelmed in its surgings, and once more came majestically into view, freighted with fancies and heading for the haven of the purple western shores. in one of these clearances of the mists a light of an alien type caught the eye of the wandering spectre--a light, red, mundane, of prosaic suggestion. it filtered through the crevice of a small batten shutter. the ghost paused, his head speculatively askew. "who sits so late at the forge?" he marvelled, for he was now near the base of the mountain, and he recognized the low, dark building looming through the mists, its roof aslant, its chimney cold, the big doors closed, the shutter fast. as he neared the place a sudden shrill guffaw smote the air, followed by a deep, gruff tone of disconcerted remonstrance. certain cabalistic words made the matter plain. "high, low, jack, _and_ game! fork! fork!" once more there arose a high falsetto shriek of jubilant laughter. walter wyatt crept noiselessly down the steep slant toward the shutter. he had no sense of intrusion, for he was often one of the merry blades wont to congregate at the forge at night and take a hand at cards, despite the adverse sentiment of the cove and the vigilance of the constable of the district, bent on enforcing the laws prohibiting gaming. as wyatt stood at the crevice of the shutter the whole interior was distinct before him--the disabled wagon-wheels against the walls, the horse-shoes on a rod across the window, the great hood of the forge, the silent bellows, with its long, motionless handle. a kerosene lamp, perched on the elevated hearth of the forge, illumined the group of wild young mountaineers clustered about a barrel on the head of which the cards were dealt. there were no chairs; one of the gamesters sat on a keg of nails; another on an inverted splint basket; two on a rude bench that was wont to be placed outside the door for the accommodation of customers waiting for a horse to be shod or a plow to be laid. an onlooker, not yet so proficient as to attain his ambition of admission to the play, had mounted the anvil, and from this coign of vantage beheld all the outspread landscape of the "hands." more than once his indiscreet, inadvertent betrayal of some incident of his survey of the cards menaced him with a broken head. more innocuous to the interests of the play was a wight humbly ensconced on the shoeing-stool, which barely brought his head to the level of the board; but as he was densely ignorant of the game, he took no disadvantage from his lowly posture. his head was red, and as it moved erratically about in the gloom, watt wyatt thought for a moment that it was the smith's red setter. he grinned as he resolved that some day he would tell the fellow this as a pleasing gibe; but the thought was arrested by the sound of his own name. "waal, sir," said the dealer, pausing in shuffling the cards, "i s'pose ye hev all hearn 'bout walter wyatt's takin' off." "an' none too soon, sartain." a sour visage was glimpsed beneath the wide brim of the speaker's hat. "waal," drawled the semblance of the setter from deep in the clare-obscure, "watt war jes a fool from lack o' sense." "that kind o' fool can't be cured," said another of the players. then he sharply adjured the dealer. "look out what ye be doin'! ye hev gimme _two_ kyerds." "'gene barker will git ter marry minta elladine riggs now, i reckon," suggested the man on the anvil. "an' i'll dance at the weddin' with right good will an' a nimble toe," declared the dealer, vivaciously. "i'll be glad ter see that couple settled. that gal couldn't make up her mind ter let walter wyatt go, an' yit no woman in her senses would hev been willin' ter marry him. he war ez onresponsible ez--ez--fox-fire." "an' ez onstiddy ez a harricane," commented another. "an' no more account than a mole in the yearth," said a third. the ghost at the window listened in aghast dismay and became pale in sober truth, for these boon companions he had accounted the best friends he had in the world. they had no word of regret, no simple human pity; even that facile meed of casual praise that he was "powerful pleasant company" was withheld. and for these and such as these he had bartered the esteem of the community at large and his filial duty and obedience; had spurned the claims of good citizenship and placed himself in jeopardy of the law; had forfeited the hand of the woman he loved. "minta elladine riggs ain't keerin' nohow fer sech ez watt," said the semblance of the setter, with a knowing nod of his red head. "i war up thar at the mill whenst the news kem ter-day, an' she war thar ter git some seconds. i hev hearn women go off in high-strikes fer a lovyer's death--even mis' simton, though hern was jes her husband, an 'a mighty pore one at that. but minta elladine jes listened quiet an' composed, an' never said one word." the batten shutter was trembling in the ghost's hand. in fact, so convulsive was his grasp that it shook the hook from the staple, and the shutter slowly opened as he stood at gaze. perhaps it was the motion that attracted the attention of the dealer, perhaps the influx of a current of fresh air. he lifted his casual glance and beheld, distinct in the light from the kerosene lamp and imposed on the white background of the mist, that familiar and individual face, pallid, fixed, strange, with an expression that he had never seen it wear hitherto. one moment of suspended faculties, and he sprang up with a wild cry that filled the little shanty with its shrill terror. the others gazed astounded upon him, then followed the direction of his starting eyes, and echoed his frantic fright. there was a wild scurry toward the door. the overturning of the lamp was imminent, but it still burned calmly on the elevated hearth, while the shoeing-stool capsized in the rush, and the red head of its lowly occupant was lowlier still, rolling on the dirt floor. even with this disadvantage, however, he was not the hindmost, and reached the exit unhurt. the only specific damage wrought by the panic was to the big barn-like doors of the place. they had been stanchly barred against the possible intrusion of the constable of the district, and the fastenings in so critical an emergency could not be readily loosed. the united weight and impetus of the onset burst the flimsy doors into fragments, and as the party fled in devious directions in the misty moonlight, the calm radiance entered at the wide-spread portal and illuminated the vacant place where late had been so merry a crew. [illustration: the united weight and impetus of the onset burst the flimsy doors into fragments] walter wyatt had known the time when the incident would have held an incomparable relish for him. but now he gazed all forlorn into the empty building with a single thought in his mind. "not one of 'em keered a mite! nare good word, nare sigh, not even, 'fare ye well, old mate!'" his breast heaved, his eyes flashed. "an' i hev loant money ter jim, whenst i hed need myself; an' holped george in the mill, when his wrist war sprained, without a cent o' pay; an' took the blame when 'dolphus war faulted by his dad fur lamin' the horse-critter; an' stood back an' let pete git the meat whenst we-uns shot fur beef, bein' he hev got a wife an' chil'ren ter feed. all _leetle_ favors, but nare _leetle_ word." he had turned from the window and was tramping absently down the road, all unmindful of the skulking methods of the spectral gentry. if he had chanced to be observed, his little farce, that had yet an element of tragedy in its presentation, must soon have reached its close. but the fog hung about him like a cloak, and when the moon cast aside the vapors, it was in a distant silver sheen illumining the far reaches of the valley. only when its light summoned forth a brilliant and glancing reflection on a lower level, as if a thousand sabers were unsheathed at a word, he recognized the proximity of the river and came to a sudden halt. "whar is this fool goin'?" he demanded angrily of space. "to the graveyard, i declar', ez ef i war a harnt fur true, an' buried sure enough. an' i wish i war. i wish i war." he realized, after a moment's consideration, that he had been unconsciously actuated by the chance of meeting the wagon, returning by this route from the cross-roads' store. he was tired, disheartened; his spirit was spent; he would be glad of the lift. he reflected, however, that he must needs wait some time, for this was the date of a revival-meeting at the little church, and the distillers' wagon would lag, that its belated night journey might not be subjected to the scrutiny and comment of the church-goers. indeed, even now walter wyatt saw in the distance the glimmer of a lantern, intimating homeward-bound worshipers not yet out of sight. "the saints kep' it up late ter-night," he commented. he resolved to wait till the roll of wheels should tell of the return of the moonshiners' empty wagon. he crossed the river on the little foot-bridge and took his way languidly along the road toward the deserted church. he was close to the hedge that grew thick and rank about the little inclosure when he suddenly heard the sound of lamentation from within. he drew back precipitately, with a sense of sacrilege, but the branches of the unpruned growth had caught in his sleeve, and he sought to disengage the cloth without such rustling stir as might disturb or alarm the mourner, who had evidently lingered here, after the dispersal of the congregation, for a moment's indulgence of grief and despair. he had a glimpse through the shaking boughs and the flickering mist of a woman's figure kneeling on the crude red clods of a new-made grave. a vague, anxious wonder as to the deceased visited him, for in the sparsely settled districts a strong community sense prevails. suddenly in a choking gust of sobs and burst of tears he recognized his own name in a voice of which every inflection was familiar. for a moment his heart seemed to stand still. his brain whirled with a realization of this unforeseen result of the fantastic story of his death in eskaqua cove, which the moonshiners, on the verge of detection and arrest, had circulated in tanglefoot as a measure of safety. they had fancied that when the truth was developed it would be easy enough to declare the men drunk or mistaken. the "revenuers" by that time would be far away, and the pervasive security, always the sequence of a raid, successful or otherwise, would once more promote the manufacture of the brush whisky. the managers of the moonshining interest had taken measures to guard wyatt's aged father from this fantasy of woe, but they had not dreamed that the mountain coquette might care. he himself stood appalled that this ghastly fable should delude his heart's beloved, amazed that it should cost her one sigh, one sob. her racking paroxysms of grief over this gruesome figment of a grave he was humiliated to hear, he was woeful to see. he felt that he was not worth one tear of the floods with which she bewept his name, uttered in every cadence of tender regret that her melancholy voice could compass. it must cease, she must know the truth at whatever cost. he broke through the hedge and stood in the flicker of the moonlight before her, pale, agitated, all unlike his wonted self. she did not hear, amid the tumult of her weeping, the rustling of the boughs, but some subtle sense took cognizance of his presence. she half rose, and with one hand holding back her dense yellow hair, which had fallen forward on her forehead, she looked up at him fearfully, tremulously, with all the revolt of the corporeal creature for the essence of the mysterious incorporeal. for a moment he could not speak. so much he must needs explain. the next instant he was whelmed in the avalanche of her words. [illustration: with one hand holding back her dense yellow hair ... she looked up at him] "ye hev kem!" she exclaimed in a sort of shrill ecstasy. "ye hev kem so far ter hear the word that i would give my life ter hev said before. ye knowed it in heaven! an' how like ye ter kem ter gin me the chanst ter say it at last! how like the good heart of ye, worth all the hearts on yearth--an' _buried hyar_!" with her open palm she smote the insensate clods with a gesture of despair. then she went on in a rising tide of tumultuous emotion. "i love ye! oh, i _always_ loved ye! i never keered fur nobody else! an' i war tongue-tied, an' full of fool pride, an' faultin' ye fur yer ways; an' i wouldn't gin ye the word i knowed ye war wantin' ter hear. but now i kin tell the pore ghost of ye--i kin tell the pore, pore ghost!" she buried her swollen, tear-stained face in her hands, and shook her head to and fro with the realization of the futility of late repentance. as she once more lifted her eyes, she was obviously surprised to see him still standing there, and the crisis seemed to restore to him the faculty of speech. "minta elladine," he said huskily and prosaically, "i ain't dead!" she sprang to her feet and stood gazing at him, intent and quivering. "i be truly alive an' kickin', an' ez worthless ez ever," he went on. she said not a word, but bent and pallid, and, quaking in every muscle, stood peering beneath her hand, which still held back her hair. "it's all a mistake," he urged. "this ain't no grave. the top war dug a leetle ter turn off a revenuer's suspicions o' the moonshiners. they put that tale out." still, evidently on the verge of collapse, she did not speak. "ye needn't be afeared ez i be goin' ter take fur true all i hearn ye say; folks air gin ter vauntin' the dead," he paused for a moment, remembering the caustic comments over the deal of the cards, then added, "though i reckon _i_ hev hed some cur'ous 'speriences ez a harnt." she suddenly threw up both arms with a shrill scream, half nervous exhaustion, half inexpressible delight. she swayed to and fro, almost fainting, her balance failing. he caught her in his arms, and she leaned sobbing against his breast. "i stand ter every word of it," she cried, her voice broken and lapsed from control. "i love ye, an' i despise all the rest!" "i be powerful wild," he suggested contritely. "_i_ ain't keerin' ef ye be ez wild ez a deer." "but i'm goin' to quit gamesome company an' playin' kyerds an' sech. i expec' ter mend my ways now," he promised eagerly. "ye kin mend 'em or let 'em stay tore, jes ez ye please," she declared recklessly. "i ain't snatched my lovyer from the jaws o' death ter want him otherwise; ye be plumb true-hearted, _i know_." "i mought ez well hev been buried in this grave fer the last ten year' fer all the use i hev been," he protested solemnly; "but i hev learnt a lesson through bein' a harnt fer a while--i hev jes kem ter life. i'm goin' ter _live_ now. i'll make myself some use in the world, an' fust off i be goin' ter hinder the murder of a man what they hev got trapped up yander at the still." this initial devoir of his reformation, however, wyatt found no easy matter. the event had been craftily planned to seem an accident, a fall from a cliff in pursuing the wagon, and only the most ardent and cogent urgency on wyatt's part prevailed at length. he argued that this interpretation of the disaster would not satisfy the authorities. to take the raider's life insured discovery, retribution. but as he had been brought to the still in the night, it was obvious that if he were conveyed under cover of darkness and by roundabout trails within striking distance of the settlements, he could never again find his way to the locality in the dense wilderness. in his detention he had necessarily learned nothing fresh, for the only names he could have overheard had long been obnoxious to suspicion of moonshining, and afforded no proof. thus humanity, masquerading as caution, finally triumphed, and the officer, blindfolded, was conducted through devious and winding ways many miles distant, and released within a day's travel of the county town. walter wyatt was scarcely welcomed back to life by the denizens of the cove generally with the enthusiasm attendant on the first moments of his resuscitation, so to speak. he never forgot the solemn ecstasy of that experience, and in later years he was wont to annul any menace of discord with his wife by the warning, half jocose, half tender: "ye hed better mind; ye'll be sorry some day fur treatin' me so mean. remember, i hev viewed ye a-weepin' over my grave before now." a reformation, however complete and salutary, works no change of identity, and although he developed into an orderly, industrious, law-abiding citizen, his prankish temperament remained recognizable in the fantastic fables which he delighted to recount at some genial fireside of what he had seen and heard as a ghost. "'pears like, watt, ye hed more experiences whenst dead than living'," said an auditor, as these stories multiplied. "i did, fur a fack," watt protested. "i war a powerful onchancy, onquiet ghost. i even did my courtin' whilst in my reg'lar line o' business a-harntin' a graveyard." a chilhowee lily tall, delicate, and stately, with all the finished symmetry and distinction that might appertain to a cultivated plant, yet sharing that fragility of texture and peculiar suggestion of evanescence characteristic of the unheeded weed as it flowers, the chilhowee lily caught his eye. albeit long familiar, the bloom was now invested with a special significance and the sight of it brought him to a sudden pause. the cluster grew in a niche on the rocky verge of a precipice beetling over the windings of the rugged primitive road on the slope of the ridge. the great pure white bloom, trumpet-shaped and crowned with its flaring and many-cleft paracorolla, distinct against the densely blue sky, seemed the more ethereal because of the delicacy of its stalk, so erect, so inflexibly upright. about it the rocks were at intervals green with moss, and showed here and there heavy ocherous water stain. the luxuriant ferns and pendant vines in the densely umbrageous tangle of verdure served to heighten by contrast the keen whiteness of the flower and the isolation of its situation. ozias crann sighed with perplexity as he looked, and then his eye wandered down the great bosky slope of the wooded mountain where in marshy spots, here and there, a sudden white flare in the shadows betokened the chilhowee lily, flowering in myraids, holding out lures bewildering in their multitude. "they air bloomin' bodaciously all over the mounting," he remarked rancorously, as he leaned heavily on a pickaxe; "but we uns hed better try it ter-night ennyhows." it was late in august; a moon of exceeding lustre was in the sky, while still the sun was going down. all the western clouds were aflare with gorgeous reflections; the long reaches of the great smoky range had grown densely purple; and those dim cumberland heights that, viewed from this precipice of chilhowee, were wont to show so softly blue in the distance, had now a variant amethystine hue, hard and translucent of effect as the jewel itself. the face of one of his companions expressed an adverse doubt, as he, too, gazed at the illuminated wilderness, all solitary, silent, remote. "'pears like ter me it mought be powerful public," pete swofford objected. he had a tall, heavy, lumpish, frame, a lackluster eye, a broad, dimpled, babyish face incongruously decorated with a tuft of dark beard at the chin. the suit of brown jeans which he wore bore token variously of the storms it had weathered, and his coarse cow-hide boots were drawn over the trousers to the knee. his attention was now and again diverted from the conversation by the necessity of aiding a young bear, which he led by a chain, to repel the unwelcome demonstrations of two hounds belonging to one of his interlocutors. snuffling and nosing about in an affectation of curiosity the dogs could not forbear growling outright, as their muzzles approached their shrinking hereditary enemy, while the cub nestled close to his master and whimpered like a child. "jes' so, jes' so, honey. i'll make 'em cl'ar out!" swofford replied to the animal's appeal with ready sympathy. then, "i wish ter gawd, rufe, ye'd call yer dogs off," he added in a sort of aside to the youngest of the three mountaineers, who stood among the already reddening sumac fringing the road, beside his horse, athwart which lay a buck all gray and antlered, his recently cut throat still dripping blood. the party had been here long enough for it to collect in a tiny pool in a crevice in the rocky road, and the hounds constrained to cease their harassments of the bear now began to eagerly lap it up. the rifle with which rufe kinnicutt had killed the deer was still in his hands and he leaned upon it; he was a tall, finely formed, athletic young fellow with dark hair, keen, darkly greenish eyes, full of quickly glancing lights, and as he, too, scanned the sky, his attitude of mind also seemed dissuasive. "'pears like thar won't be no night, ez ye mought call night, till this moon goes down," he suggested. "'pears nigh ez bright ez day!" ozias crann's lank, angular frame; his narrow, bony face; his nose, long yet not large, sharp, pinched; his light grey eyes, set very closely together; his straggling reddish beard, all were fitting concomitants to accent the degree of caustic contempt he expressed. "oh, to be sure!" he drawled. "it'll be powerful public up hyar in the mounting in the midnight,--that's a fac'!--an' moonlight is mighty illconvenient to them ez wants ter git spied on through totin' a lantern in cur'ous places." this sarcasm left the two remonstrants out of countenance. pete swofford found a certain resource in the agitations of his bear, once more shrinking and protesting because of the dogs. "call off yer hound-dogs, rufe," he cried irritably, "or i'll gin 'em a bullet ter swallow." "ye air a plumb fool about that thar bar, pete," kinnicutt said sourly, calling off the hounds nevertheless. "that thar bar?" exclaimed swofford. "why, thar never war sech a bar! that thar bar goes ter mill, an' kin fetch home grist,--ef i starts him out in the woods whar he won't meet no dogs nor contrairy cattle o' men he kin go ter mill all by his lone!--same ez folks an' the bes' kind o' folks, too!" in fact the bear was even now begirt with a meal-bag, well filled, which although adding to his uncouth appearance and perhaps unduly afflicting the sensibilities of the horse, who snorted and reared at the sight of him, saved his master the labor of "packing" the heavy weight. swofford had his genial instincts and in return was willing to put up with the cubbishness of the transport,--would wait in the illimitable patience of the utterly idle for the bear to climb a tree if he liked and pleasantly share with him the persimmons of his quest;--would never interfere when the bear flung himself down and wallowed with the bag on his back, and would reply to the censorious at home, objecting to the dust and sand thus sifting in with the meal, with the time honored reminder that we are all destined "to eat a peck of dirt" in this world. "whenst ye fust spoke o' diggin'," said kinnicutt, interrupting a lengthening account of the bear's mental and moral graces, "i 'lowed ez ye mought be sayin' ez they air layin' off ter work agin in the tanglefoot mine." ozias crann lifted a scornful chin. "i reckon the last disasters thar hev interrupted the company so ez they hain't got much heart todes diggin' fur silver agin over in tanglefoot cove. fust," he checked off these misfortunes, by laying the fingers of one hand successively in the palm of the other, "the timbers o' one o' the cross cuts fell an' the roof caved in an' them two men war kilt, an' thar famblies sued the company an' got mo' damages 'n the men war bodaciously wuth. then the nex' thing the pay agent, ez war sent from glaston, war held up in tanglefoot an' robbed--some say by the miners. he got hyar whenst they war out on a strike, an' they robbed him 'cause they warn't paid cordin' ter thar lights, an' they did shoot him up cornsider'ble. that happened jes' about a year ago. then sence, thar hev been a awful cavin' in that deep shaft they hed sunk in the tunnel, an' the mine war flooded an' the machinery ruint--i reckon the company in glaston ain't a-layin' off ter fly in the face o' providence and begin agin, arter all them leadin's ter quit." "some believe he warn't robbed at all," kinnicutt said slowly. he had turned listlessly away, evidently meditating departure, his hand on his horse's mane, one foot in the stirrup. "ye know that gal named loralindy byars?" crann said craftily. kinnicutt paused abruptly. then as the schemer remained silent he demanded, frowning darkly, "what's loralindy byars got ter do with it?" "mighty nigh all!" crann exclaimed, triumphantly. it was a moment of tense suspense. but it was not crann's policy to tantalize him further, however much the process might address itself to his peculiar interpretation of pleasure. "that thar pay agent o' the mining company," he explained, "he hed some sort'n comical name--oh, i remember now, renfrow--paul renfrow--waal--ye know he war shot in the knee when the miners way-laid him." "i disremember now ef it war in the knee or the thigh," swofford interposed, heavily pondering. kinnicutt's brow contracted angrily, and crann broke into open wrath: "an' i ain't carin', ye fool--what d' ye interrupt fur like that?" "wall," protested swofford, indignantly, "ye said 'ye know' an' i didn't _know_." "an' i aint carin'--the main p'int war that he could neither ride nor walk. so the critter crawled! nobody knows how he gin the strikers the slip, but he got through ter old man byars's house. an' thar he staid till loralindy an' the old 'oman byars nussed him up so ez he could bear the pain o' bein' moved. an' he got old man byars ter wagin him down ter colb'ry, a-layin' on two feather beds 'count o' the rocky roads, an' thar he got on the steam kyars an' he rid on them back ter whar he kem from." kinnicutt seemed unable to longer restrain his impatience. he advanced a pace. "ye appear ter 'low ez ye air tellin' news--i knowed all that whenst it happened a full year ago!" "i reckon ye know, too, ez loralindy hed no eyes nor ears fur ennybody else whilst he war hyar--but then _he war_ good-lookin' an' saaft-spoken fur true! an' now he hev writ a letter ter her!" crann grinned as kinnicutt inadvertently gasped. "how do you uns know that?" the young man hoarsely demanded, with a challenging accent of doubt, yet prescient despair. "'kase, bubby, that's the way the story 'bout the lily got out. i was at the mill this actial day. the miller hed got the letter--hevin' been ter the post-office at the crossroads--an' he read it ter her, bein' ez loralindy can't read writin'. she warn't expectin' it. he writ of his own accord." a sense of shadows impended vaguely over all the illuminated world, and now and again a flicker of wings through the upper atmosphere betokened the flight of homing birds. crann gazed about him absently while he permitted the statement he had made to sink deep into the jealous, shrinking heart of the young mountaineer, and he repeated it as he resumed. "she warnt' expectin' of the letter. she jes' stood thar by the mill-door straight an' slim an' white an' still, like she always be--ter my mind like she war some sort'n sperit, stiddier a sure enough gal--with her yaller hair slick an' plain, an' that old, faded, green cotton dress she mos' always wears, an' lookin' quiet out at the water o' the mill-dam ter one side, with the trees a-wavin' behind her at the open door--jes' like she always be! an' arter awhile she speaks slow an' saaft an axes the miller ter read it aloud ter her. an' lo! old man bates war rej'iced an' glorified ter the bone ter be able ter git a peek inter that letter! he jes' shet down the gates and stopped the mill from runnin' in a jiffy, an' tole all them loafers, ez hangs round thar mos'ly, ter quit thar noise. an' then he propped hisself up on a pile o' grist, an' thar he read all the sayin's ez war writ in that letter. an' a power o' time it tuk, an' a power o' spellin' an' bodaciously wrastlin' with the alphabit." he laughed lazily, as he turned his quid of tobacco in his mouth, recollecting the turbulence of these linguistic turmoils. "this hyar feller--this renfrow--he called her in the letter 'my dear friend'--he did--an' 'lowed he hed a right ter the word, fur ef ever a man war befriended he hed been. he 'lowed ez he could never furget her. an' lord! how it tickled old man bates ter read them sentiments--the prideful old peacock! he would jes' stop an' push his spectacles back on his slick bald head an' say, 'ye hear me, loralindy! he 'lows he'll never furget the keer ye tuk o' him whenst he war shot an' ailin' an' nigh ter death. an' no mo' he ought, nuther. but some do furget sech ez that, loralindy--some do!' an' them fellers at the mill, listenin' ter the letter, could sca'cely git thar consent ter wait fur old man bates ter git through his talk ter loralindy, that he kin talk ter every day in the year! but arter awhile he settled his spectacles agin, an' tuk another tussle with the spellin,' an' then he rips out the main p'int o' the letter. this stranger-man he 'lowed he war bold enough ter ax another favior. the cuss tried ter be funny. 'one good turn desarves another,' he said. 'an' ez ye hev done me one good turn, i want ye ter do me another.' an' old man bates hed the insurance ter waste the time a-laffin' an' a-laffin' at sech a good joke. them fellers at the mill could hev fund it in thar hearts ter grind him up in his own hopper, ef it wouldn't hev ground up with him thar chance o' ever hearin' the e-end o' that thar interestin' letter. so thar comes the favior. would she dig up that box he treasured from whar he told her he hed buried it, arter he escaped from the attack o' the miners? an' would she take the box ter colb'ry in her grandad's wagin, an' send it ter him by express. he hed tole her once whar he hed placed it--an' ter mark the spot mo' percisely he hed noticed one chilhowee lily bulb right beside it. an' then says the letter, "good bye, chilhowee lily!' an' all them fellers stood staring." a light wind was under way from the west. delicate flakes of red and glistening white were detached from the clouds. sails--sails were unfurling in the vast floods of the skies. with flaunting banners and swelling canvas a splendid fleet reached half way to the zenith. but a more multitudinous shipping still swung at anchor low in the west, though the promise of a fair night as yet held fast. "an' now," said ozias crann in conclusion, "all them fellers is a-diggin'." "whut's in the box?" demanded swofford, his big baby-face all in a pucker of doubt. "the gold an' silver he ought ter hev paid the miners, of course. they always 'lowed they never tuk a dollar off him; they jes' got a long range shot at him! how i wish," ozias crann broke off fervently, "how i wish i could jes' git my hands on that money once!" he held out his hands, long and sinewy, and opened and shut them very fast. "why, that would be stealin'!" exclaimed kinnicutt with repulsion. "how so? 't ain't his'n now, sure--he war jes' the agent ter pay it out," argued crann, volubly. "it belongs ter the mine owners, then--the company." there was a suggestion of inquiry in the younger man's tone. "'pears not--they sent it hyar fur the percise purpose ter be paid out!" the specious crann replied. "then it belongs ter the miners." "they hedn't yearned it--an' ef some o' them hed they warn't thar ter receive it, bein' out on a strike. they hed burnt down the company's office over yander at the mine in tanglefoot cove, with all the books an' accounts, an' now nobody knows what's owin' ter who." kinnicutt's moral protests were silenced, not satisfied. he looked up moodily at the moon now alone in the sky, for only a vanishing segment of the great vermilion sphere of the sun was visible above the western mountains, when suddenly he felt one of those long grasping claws on his arm. "now, rufe, bubby," a most insinuating tone, crann had summoned, "all them fool fellers air diggin' up the face of the yearth, wharever they kin find a chilhowee lily--like sarchin' fur a needle in a haystack. but we uns will do a better thing than that. i drawed the idee ez soon ez i seen you an' pete hyar this evenin' so onexpected. 'them's my pardners,' i sez ter myself. 'pete ter holp dig an' tote ef the box be heavy. an' you ter find out edzac'ly whar it be hid.' you uns an' loralindy hev been keepin' company right smart, an' ye kin toll loralindy along till she lets slip jes' whar that lily air growin'. i'll be bound ez she likes ye a sight better 'n that renfrow--leastwise ef 't warn't fur his letter, honeyin' her up with complimints, an' she hevin' the chance o' tollin' him on through doin' him sech faviors, savin' his life, an' now his money--shucks it's mo' _our_ money 'n his'n; 't ain't his'n! gol-darn the insurance o' this renfrow! his idee is ter keep the money his own self, an' make her sen' it ter him. then 'good-bye, chilhowee lily!'" the night had come at last, albeit almost as bright as day, but with so ethereal, so chastened a splendor that naught of day seemed real. a world of dreams it was, of gracious illusions, of far vague distances that lured with fair promises that the eye might not seek to measure. the gorgeous tints were gone, and in their stead were soft grays and indefinite blurring browns, and every suggestion of silver that metal can show flashed in variant glitter in the moon. the mountains were majestically sombre, with a mysterious sense of awe in their great height. there were few stars; only here and there the intense lustre of a still planet might withstand the annihilating magnificence of the moon. its glamour did not disdain the embellishment of humbler objects. as rufe kinnicutt approached a little log cabin nestling in a sheltered cove he realized that a year had gone by since renfrow had seen it first, and that thus it must have appeared when he beheld it. the dew was bright on the slanting roof, and the shadow of oak trees wavered over it. the mountain loomed above. the zigzag lines of the rail fence, the bee-gums all awry ranged against it, the rickety barn and fowl-house, the gourd vines draping the porch of the dwelling, all had a glimmer of dew and a picturesque symmetry, while the spinning wheel as loralinda sat in the white effulgent glow seemed to revolve with flashes of light in lieu of spokes, and the thread she drew forth was as silver. its murmuring rune was hardly distinguishable from the chant of the cicada or the long droning in strophe and antistrophe of the water-side frogs far away, but such was the whir or her absorption that she did not perceive his approach till his shadow fell athwart the threshold, and she looked up with a start. "ye 'pear powerful busy a-workin' hyar so late in the night," he exclaimed with a jocose intonation. she smiled, a trifle abashed; then evidently conscious of the bizarre suggestions of so much ill-timed industry, she explained, softly drawling: "waal, ye know, granny, she be so harried with her rheumatics ez she gits along powerful poor with her wheel, an' by night she be plumb out'n heart an' mad fur true. so arter she goes ter bed i jes' spins a passel fur her, an' nex' mornin' she 'lows she done a toler'ble stint o' work an' air consider'ble s'prised ez she war so easy put out." she laughed a little, but he did not respond. with his sensibilities all jarred by the perfidious insinuation of ozias crann, and his jealousy all on the alert, he noted and resented the fact that at first her attention had come back reluctantly to him, and that he, standing before her, had been for a moment a less definitely realized presence than the thought in her mind--this thought had naught to do with him, and of that he was sure. "loralindy," he said with a turbulent impulse of rage and grief; "whenst ye promised to marry me ye an' me war agreed that we would never hev one thought hid from one another--ain't that a true word?" the wheel had stopped suddenly--the silver thread was broken; she was looking up at him, the moonlight full on the straight delicate lineaments of her pale face, and the smooth glister of her golden hair. "not o' my own," she stipulated. and he remembered, and wondered that it should come to him so late, that she had stood upon this reservation and that he--poor fool--had conceded it, thinking it concerned the distilling of whisky in defiance of the revenue law, in which some of her relatives were suspected to be engaged, and of which he wished to know as little as possible. the discovery of his fatuity was not of soothing effect. "'t war that man renfrow's secret--i hearn about his letter what war read down ter the mill." she nodded acquiescently, her expression once more abstracted, her thoughts far afield. he had one moment of triumph as he brought himself tensely erect, shouldering his gun--his shadow behind him in the moonlight duplicated the gesture with a sharp promptness as at a word of command. "all the mounting's a-diggin' by this time!" he laughed with ready scorn, then experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling. her face had changed. her expression was unfamiliar. she had caught together the two ends of the broken thread, and was knotting them with a steady hand, and a look of composed security on her face, that was itself a flout to the inopportune search of the mountaineers and boded ill to his hope to discover from her the secret of the _cache_. he recovered himself suddenly. "ye 'lowed ter me ez ye never keered nuthin' fur that man, renfrow," he said with a plaintive appeal, far more powerful with her than scorn. she looked up at him with candid reassuring eyes. "i never keered none fur him," she protested. "he kem hyar all shot up, with the miners an' mounting boys hot foot arter him--an' we done what we could fur him. gran'daddy 'lowed ez _he_ warn't 'sponsible fur whut the owners done, or hedn't done at the mine, an' he seen no sense in shootin' one man ter git even with another." "but ye kep' his secret!" kinnicutt persisted. "what fur should i tell it--'t ain't mine?" "that thar money in that box he buried ain't _his'n_, nuther!" he argued. there was an inscrutable look in her clear eyes. she had risen, and was standing in the moonlight opposite him. the shadows of the vines falling over her straight skirt left her face and hair the fairer in the silver glister. "'pears like ter me," he broke the silence with his plaintive cadence, "ez ye ought ter hev tole me. i ain't keerin' ter know 'ceptin' ye hev shet me out. it hev hurt my feelin's powerful ter be treated that-a-way. tell me now--or lemme go forever!" she was suddenly trembling from head to foot. pale she was always. now she was ghastly. "rufe kinnicutt," she said with the solemnity of an adjuration, "ye don't keer fur sech ez this, fur _nuthin'_. an' i promised!" he noted her agitation. he felt the clue in his grasp. he sought to wield his power, "choose a-twixt us! choose a-twixt the promise ye made ter that man--or the word ye deny ter me! an' when i'm gone--i'm gone!" she stood seemingly irresolute. "it's nuthin' ter me," he protested once more. "i kin keep it an' gyard it ez well ez you uns. but i won't be shet out, an' doubted, an' denied, like ez ef _i_ wan't fitten ter be trested with nuthin'!" he stood a moment longer, watching her trembling agitation, and feeling that tingling exasperation that might have preceded a blow. "i'm goin'," he threatened. as she still stood motionless he turned away as if to make good his threat. he heard a vague stir among the leaves, and turning back he saw that the porch was vacant. he had overshot the mark. in swift repentance he retraced his steps. he called her name. no response save the echoes. the house dogs, roused to a fresh excitement, were gathering about the door, barking in affected alarm, save one, to whom kinnicutt was a stranger, that came, silent and ominous, dragging a block and chain from under the house. kinnicutt heard the sudden drowsy plaints of the old rheumatic grandmother, as she was rudely awakened by the clamors, and presently a heavy footfall smote upon the puncheons that floored the porch. old byars himself, with his cracked voice and long gray hair, had left his pipe on the mantel-piece to investigate the disorder without. "hy're rufe!" he swung uneasily posed on his crutch stick in the doorway, and mechanically shaded his eyes with one hand, as from the sun, as he gazed dubiously at the young man, "hain't ye in an' about finished yer visit?--or yer visitation, ez the pa'son calls it. he, he, he! wall, loralindy hev gone up steers ter the roof-room, an it's about time ter bar up the doors. waal, joy go with ye, he, he, he! come off, tige, _ye_ bose, hyar! cur'ous i can't l'arn them dogs no manners." a dreary morrow ensued on the splendid night. the world was full of mists; the clouds were resolved into drizzling rain; every perspective of expectation was restricted by the limited purlieus of the present. the treasure-seekers digging here and there throughout the forest in every nook in low ground, wherever a drift of the snowy blossoms might glimmer, began to lose hope and faith. now and again some iconoclastic soul sought to stigmatize the whole rumor as a fable. more than one visited the byars cabin in the desperate hope that some chance word might fall from the girl, giving a clue to the mystery. by daylight the dreary little hut had no longer poetic or picturesque suggestion. bereft of the sheen and shimmer of the moonlight its aspect had collapsed like a dream into the dullest realities. the door-yard was muddy and littered; here the razor-back hogs rooted unrebuked; the rail fence had fallen on one side, and it would seem that only their attachment to home prevented them from wandering forth to be lost in the wilderness; the clap-boards of the shiny roof were oozing and steaming with dampness, and showed all awry and uneven; the clay and stick chimney, hopelessly out of plumb, leaned far from the wall. within it was not more cheerful; the fire smoked gustily into the dim little room, illumined only by the flicker of the blaze and the discouraged daylight from the open door, for the batten shutters of the unglazed window were closed. the puncheon floor was grimy--the feet that curiosity had led hither brought much red clay mire upon them. the poultry, all wet and dispirited, ventured within and stood about the door, now scuttling in sudden panic and with peevish squawks upon the unexpected approach of a heavy foot. loralinda, sitting at her spinning wheel, was paler than ever, all her dearest illusions dashed into hopeless fragments, and a promise which she did not value to one whom she did not love quite perfect and intact. the venerable grandmother sat propped with pillows in her arm-chair, and now and again adjured the girl to "show some manners an' tell the neighbors what they so honed to know." with the vehemence of her insistence her small wizened face would suddenly contract; the tortures of the rheumatism, particularly rife in such weather, would seize upon her, and she would cry aloud with anguish, and clutch her stick and smite her granddaughter to expedite the search for the primitive remedies of dried "yarbs" on which her comfort depended. "oh, lord!" she would wail as she fell back among the pillows. "i'm a-losin' all my religion amongst these hyar rheumatics. i wish i war a man jes' ter say 'damn 'em' once! an' come good weather i'll sca'cely be able ter look loralindy in the face, considerin' how i hector her whilst i be in the grip o' this misery." "jes' pound away, granny, ef it makes ye feel ennywise better," cried loralinda, furtively rubbing the weales on her arm. "it don't hurt me wuth talkin' 'bout. ye jes' pound away, an' welcome!" perhaps it was her slender, elastic strength and erect grace, with her shining hair and ethereal calm pallor in the midst of the storm that evoked the comparison, for ozias crann was suddenly reminded of the happy similitude suggested by the letter that he had heard read and had repeated yesterday to his cronies as he stood in the road. the place was before him for one illumined moment--the niche in the cliff, with its ferns and vines, the delicate stately dignity of the lilies outlined against the intense blue of the sky. the reminiscence struck him like a discovery. where else could the flower have been so naturally noticed by this man, a stranger, and remembered as a mark in the expectation of finding it once more when the bulb should flower again--as beside the county road? he would have been hopelessly lost a furlong from the path. crann stood for a moment irresolute, then silently grasped his pickaxe and slunk out among the mists on the porch. he berated his slow mind as he hurried invisible through the vast clouds in which the world seemed lost. why should the laggard inspiration come so late if it had come at all? why should he, with the clue lying half developed in his own mental impressions, have lost all the vacant hours of the long, bright night, have given the rumor time to pervade the mountains, and set all the idlers astir before he should strike the decisive blow? there, at last, was the cliff, beetling far over the mist-filled valley below. a slant of sunshine fell on the surging vapor, and it gleamed opalescent. there was the niche, with the lilies all a-bloom. he came panting up the slope under the dripping trees, with a dash of wind in his face and the odor of damp leafage and mold on the freshening air. he struck the decisive blow with a will. the lilies shivered and fell apart. the echoes multiplied the stroke with a ringing metallic iteration. the loiterers were indeed abroad. the sound lured them from their own devious points of search, and a half dozen of the treasure-seekers burst from the invisibilities of the mists as ozias crann's pickaxe cleaving the mold struck upon the edge of a small japanned box hidden securely between the rocks, a scant foot below the surface. a dangerous spot for a struggle, the verge of a precipice, but the greed for gain is a passion that blunts the sense of peril. the wrestling figures, heedless of the abyss, swayed hither and thither, the precious box among them; now it was captured by a stronger grasp, now secured anew by sheer sleight-of-hand. more than once it dropped to the ground, and at last in falling the lock gave way, and scattered to the wind were numberless orderly vouchers for money already paid, inventories of fixtures, bills for repairs, reports of departments--various details of value in settling the accounts of the mine, and therefore to be transmitted to the main office of the mining company at glaston. "ef i hed tole ye ez the money warn't thar, ye wouldn't hev believed me," loralinda byars said drearily, when certain disappointed wights, who had sought elsewhere and far afield, repaired to the cabin laughing at their own plight and upbraiding her with the paucity of the _cache_. "i knowed all the time what war in that box. the man lef' it thar in the niche arter he war shot, it bein' heavy ter tote an' not wuth much. but he brung the money with him, an' tuk it off, bein', he said, without orders from the owners, the miners hevin' burnt down the offices, an' bruk open the safe an' destroyed all the papers, ceptin' that leetle box. i sewed up the man's money myself in them feather beds what he lay on whenst he war wagined down 'ter colb'ry ter take the kyars. he 'lowed the compn'y mought want them papers whenst they went into liquidation, ez he called it, an' tole me how he hed hid 'em." rufe kinnicutt wondered that she should have been so unyielding. she did not speculate on the significance of her promise. she did not appraise its relative value with other interests, and seek to qualify it. once given she simply kept it. she held herself no free agent. it was not hers. the discovery that the lure was gold revealed the incentive of her lover's jealous demand to share the custody of the secret. his intention was substituted for the deed in her rigid interpretation of integrity. it cost her many tears. but she seemed thereafter to him still more unyielding, as erect, fragile, ethereally pure and pale she noted his passing no more than the lily might. he often thought of the cheap lure of the sophisms that had so deluded him, the simple obvious significance of the letter, and the phrase, "good-bye, chilhowee lily," had also an echo of finality for him. the phantom of bogue holauba gordon never forgot the sensation he experienced on first beholding it. there was no mist in the midnight. the moon was large and low. the darkness of the dense, towering forests on either hand impinged in no wise on the melancholy realm of wan light in which the mississippi lay, unshadowed, solitary, silent as always, its channel here a mile or more in breadth. he had been observing how the mighty water-course was sending out its currents into a bayou, called bogue holauba, as if the larger stream were a tributary of the lesser. this peculiarity of the river in the deltaic region, to throw off volume instead of continually receiving affluents, was unaccustomed to him, being a stranger to the locality, and for a moment it focussed his interest. the next, his every faculty was concentrated on a singular phenomenon on the bank of the bogue. he caught his breath with a gasp; then, without conscious volition, he sought to explain it to his own shocked senses, to realize it as some illusion, some combination of natural causes, the hour, the pallor pervading the air, the distance, for his boat was near the middle of the stream,--but the definiteness of the vision annulled his efforts. there on the broad, low margin, distinct, yet with a coercive conviction of unreality, the figure of a man drawn in lines of vague light paced slowly to and fro; an old man, he would have said, bent and wizened, swaying back and forth, in expressive contortions, a very pantomime of woe, wringing gaunt hands and arms above his head, and now and again bowing low in recurrent paroxysms of despair. the wind held its breath, and the river, mute as ever, made no sign, and the encompassing alluvial wilderness stood for a type of solitude. only the splashing of the paddle of the "dug-out" gave token of the presence of life in all the land. gordon could not restrain his wonder. "what--what--is--that thing--over there on the bank of the bogue?" he called out to the negro servant who was paddling the canoe. he was all unprepared for the effect of his words. indeed, he was fain to hold hard to the gunwales. for the negro, with a sudden galvanic start, let slip the paddle from his hand, recovering it only by a mighty lunge in a mechanical impulse of self-preservation. the dug-out, the most tricksy craft afloat, rocked violently in the commotion and threatened to capsize. then, as it finally righted, its course was hastily changed, and under the impetus of panic terror it went shooting down the river at a tremendous speed. "why, what does all this mean?" demanded gordon. "don't ye talk ter me, boss!" the boatman, with chattering teeth, adjured his passenger. "don't ye talk ter me, boss! don't tell me ye seed somepin over dar on bogue holauba--'kase ef ye _do_ i'se gwine ter turn dis dug-out upside down an' swim out ter de arkansas side. i ain't gwine ter paddle dis boat fur no ghost-seer, sure's ye are born. i ain't gwine ter have no traffickin' wid ghosts nur ghost-seers nuther. i'd die 'fore de year's out, sure!" the sincerity of the servant's fright was attested by the change in his manner. he had been hitherto all cheerful, though respectful, affability, evidently bidding high for a tip. now he crouched disconsolate and sullen in his place, wielding the paddle with all his might, and sedulously holding down his head, avoiding the stranger's eye. gordon felt the whole situation in some sort an affront to his dignity, and the apparition being withdrawn from view by the changed direction, he was in better case to take account of this,--to revolt at the uncouth character of the craft and guide sent for him; the absence of any member of his entertainer's family to welcome the visitor, here at their instance and invitation; the hour of the night; the uncanny incident of the inexplicable apparition,--but when that thought recurred to him he sheered off precipitately from the recollection. it had the salutary effect of predisposing him to make the best of the situation. being to a degree a man of the world and of a somewhat large experience, he began to argue within himself that he could scarcely have expected a different reception in these conditions. the great river being at the stage known as "dead low water," steamboat travel was practically suspended for the season, or he could have reached his destination more directly than by rail. an accident had delayed the train some seven hours, and although the gasoline launch sent to meet him at the nearest way-station had been withdrawn at nightfall, since he did not arrive, as his sable attendant informed him, the dug-out had been substituted, with instructions to wait all night, on the remote chance that he might come, after all. nevertheless, it was with an averse, disaffected gaze that he silently watched the summit-line of foliage on either bank of the river glide slowly along the sky, responsive to the motion of the boat. it seemed a long monotony of this experience, as he sat listless in the canoe, before a dim whiteness began to appear in a great, unbroken expanse in the gradually enlarging riparian view--the glister of the moon on the open cotton-bolls in the fields. the forests were giving way, the region of swamp and bayou. the habitations of man were at hand, and when at last the dug-out was run into a plantation landing, and kenneth gordon was released from his cramped posture in that plebeian craft, he felt so averse to his mission, such a frivolous, reluctant distaste that he marvelled how he was to go through with it at all, as he took his way along the serpentine curves of the "dirt road," preceded by his guide, still with eyes averted and sullen mien, silently bearing his suit-case. a few turns, and suddenly a large house came into view, rearing its white facade to the moonlight in the midst of a grove of magnolia trees, immense of growth, the glossy leaves seeming a-drip with lustre as with dew. the flight of steps and the wide veranda were here cumbered with potted ferns and foliage plants as elsewhere, and gave the first suggestion of conformity to the ways of the world that the adventure had yet borne. the long, broad, silent hall into which he was ushered, lighted only by a kerosene hand-lamp which the servant carried as he led the way, the stairs which the guest ascended in a mansion of unconscious strangers, all had eerie intimations, and the comfort and seclusion of the room assigned to gordon was welcome indeed to him; for, argue as he might, he was conscious of a continuous and acute nervous strain. he had had a shock, he was irritably aware, and he would be glad of rest and quiet. it was a large, square, comfortable room in one of the wings, overlooking a garden, which sent up a delectable blend of fragrance and dew through the white muslin curtains at the long, broad windows, standing open to the night. on a table, draped with the inevitable "drawn-work" of civilization, stood a lamp of finer fashion, but no better illuminating facilities, than the one carried off by the darky, who had made great haste to leave the room, and who had not lifted his eyes toward the ill-omened "ghost-seer" nor spoken a word since gordon had blurted out his vision on bogue holauba. this table also bore a tray with crackers and sandwiches and a decanter of sherry, which genially intimated hospitable forethought. the bed was a big four-poster, which no bedizenment could bring within the fashion of the day. gordon had a moment's poignant recoil from the darkness, the strangeness, the recollection of the inexplicable apparition he had witnessed, as his head sank on the pillow, embroidered after the latest fads. he could see through the open window that the moon was down at last and the world abandoned to gloom. he heard from out some neighboring swamp the wild lamenting cry of the crane; and then, listen as he might, the night had lapsed to silence, and the human hearts in this house, all unknown to him, were as unimagined, as unrelated, as unresponsive, as if instead of a living, breathing home he lay in some mute city of the dead. the next moment, as it seemed, a sky as richly azure as the boasted heavens of italy filled his vision as he lifted himself on his elbow. a splendid, creamy, magnolia bloom was swaying in the breeze, almost touching the window-sill. there was a subdued, respectful knocking at the door, which gordon had a vague idea that he had heard before this morning, preceding the announcement that breakfast was waiting. tardily mindful of his obligations as guest, he made all the speed possible in his toilet, and soon issued into the hall, following the sound of voices through the open doors, which led him presently to the threshold of the breakfast-room. there were two ladies at the table, one of venerable aspect, with short, white curls, held from her face by side-combs, a modish breakfast-cap, and a morning-gown of thin gray silk. the other was young enough to be her daughter, as indeed she was, dressed in deep mourning. rising instantly from her place as hostess behind the silver service, she extended her hand to the stranger. "mr. gordon, is it not? i was afraid you would arrive during the night. mercy! so uncomfortable! how good of you to come--yes, indeed." she sank into her chair again, pressing her black-bordered handkerchief to her dark eyes, which seemed to gordon singularly dry, round, and glossy--suggestive of chestnuts, in fact. "so good of you to come," she repeated, "to the house of mourning! very few people have any talent for woe, mr. gordon. these rooms have housed many guests, but not to weep with us. the stricken deer must weep alone." she fell to hysterical sobbing, which her mother interrupted by a remonstrant "my dear, my dear!" a blond young man with a florid cheek and a laughing blue eye, who sat in an easy posture at the foot of the table, aided the diversion of interest. "won't you introduce me, mrs. keene?--or must i take the opportunity to tell mr. gordon that i am dr. rigdon, very much at his service." "mercy! yes, yes, indeed!" mrs. keene acceded as the two young men shook hands; then, evidently perturbed by her lack of ceremony, she exclaimed pettishly, "where is geraldine? she always sees to it that everybody knows everybody, and that everybody is served at a reception or a tea. i never have to think of such things if _she_ is in the house." the allusions seemed to gordon a bit incongruous with the recent heavy affliction of the household. the accuracy with which the waves of red hair, of a rich tint that suggested chemicals, undulated about the brow of the widow, the art with which the mourning-gown brought out all the best points and subdued the defects of a somewhat clumsy figure, the suspicion of a cosmetic's aid in a dark line, scarcely perceptible yet amply effective, under the prominent eyes, all contributed to the determination of a lady of forty-five years of age to look thirty. "geraldine is always late for breakfast, but surely she ought to be down by this time," mrs. brinn said, with as much acrimony as a mild old lady could well compass. "oh, geraldine reads half the night," explained mrs. keene. "such an injurious habit! don't you think so, mr. gordon?" "oh, _she_ is all right," expostulated the young physician. "geraldine has a constitution of iron, i know," mrs. keene admitted. "but, mercy!--to live in books, mr. gordon. now, _i_ always wanted to live in life,--in the world! i used to tell mr. keene"--even she stumbled a trifle in naming the so recent dead. "i used to tell him that he had buried the best years of my life down here in the swamp on the plantation." "pleasant for mr. keene," gordon thought. "i wanted to live in life," reiterated mrs. keene. "what is a glimpse of new orleans or the white sulphur springs once in a great while!" "'this world is but a fleeting show,'" quoted rigdon, with a palpable effort to laugh off the inappropriate subject. "oh, that is what people always tell the restricted, especially when they are themselves drinking the wine-cup to the bottom." "and finding the lees bitter," said rigdon. the widow gave an off-hand gesture. "you learned that argument from geraldine--he is nothing but an echo of geraldine, mr. gordon--now, isn't he, mamma?" she appealed directly to mrs. brinn. "he seems to have a great respect for geraldine's opinion," said mrs. brinn primly. "if i may ask, who is this lady who seems to give the law to the community?" inquired gordon, thinking it appropriate to show, and really beginning to feel, an interest in the personnel of the entourage. "am i related to her, as well as to mr. keene?" "no; geraldine is one of the norris family--intimate friends of ours, but not relatives. she often visits here, and in my affliction and loneliness i begged her to come and stay for several weeks." not to be related to the all-powerful geraldine was something of a disappointment, for although gordon had little sentiment or ideality in his mental and moral system, one of his few emotional susceptibilities lay in his family pride and clannish spirit. he felt for his own, and he was touched in his chief altruistic possibility in the appeal that had brought him hither. to his amazement, mr. keene, a second cousin whom he had seldom even seen, had named him executor of his will, without bond, and in a letter written in the last illness, reaching its destination indeed after the writer's death, had besought that gordon would be gracious enough to act, striking a crafty note in urging the ties of consanguinity. but for this plea gordon would have doubtless declined on the score of pressure of business of his own. there were no nearer relatives, however, and with a sense of obligation at war with a restive indisposition, gordon had come in person to this remote region to offer the will for probate, and to take charge of the important papers and personal property of the deceased. a simple matter it would prove, he fancied. there was no great estate, and probably but few business complications. "going home, dr. george?" his hostess asked as the young physician made his excuses for quitting the table before the conclusion of the meal. "dr. rigdon is not staying in the house, then?" gordon queried as the door closed upon him, addressing the remark to the old lady by way of politely including her in the conversation. "no, he is a neighbor of ours--a close and constant friend to us." mrs. brinn spoke as with grateful appreciation. mrs. keene took a different view. "he just hangs about here on geraldine's account," she said. "he happens to be here to-day because last night she took a notion that he must go all the way to bogue holauba to meet you, if the train should stop at the station above; but he was called off to attend a severe case of ptomaine poisoning." "and did the man die?" mrs. brinn asked, with a sort of soft awe. "mercy! i declare i forgot to ask him if the man died or not," exclaimed mrs. keene. "but that was the reason that only a servant was sent to meet you, mr. gordon. the doctor looked in this morning to learn if you had arrived safely, and we made him stay to breakfast with us." gordon was regretting that he had let him depart so suddenly. "i thought perhaps, as he seems so familiar with the place he might show me where mr. keene kept his papers. i ought to have them in hand at once." mrs. keene remembered to press her handkerchief to her eyes, and gordon hastily added, "since dr. rigdon is gone, perhaps this lady--what is her name?--geraldine--could save you the trouble." "mercy, yes!" she declared emphatically. "for i really do not know where to begin to look. geraldine will know or guess. i'll go straight and rouse geraldine out of bed." she preceded gordon into the hall, and, flinging over her shoulder the admonition, "make yourself at home, i beg," ran lightly up the stairs. meantime gordon strolled to the broad front door that stood open from morning to night, winter and summer, and paused there to light his cigar. all his characteristics were accented in the lustre of the vivid day, albeit for the most part they were of a null, negative tendency, for he had an inexpressive, impersonal manner and a sort of aloof, reserved dignity. his outward aspect seemed rather the affair of his up-to-date metropolitan tailor and barber than any exponent of his character and mind. he was not much beyond thirty years of age, and his straight, fine, dark hair was worn at the temples more by the fluctuations of stocks than the ravages of time. he was pale, of medium height, and slight of build; he listened with a grave, deliberate attention and an inscrutable gray eye, very steady, coolly observant, an appreciable asset in the brokerage business. he was all unaccustomed to the waste of time, and it was with no slight degree of impatience that he looked about him. the magnolia grove filled the space to the half-seen gate in front of the house, but away on either side were long vistas. to the right the river was visible, and, being one of the great bends of the stream, it seemed to run directly to the west, the prospect only limited by the horizon line. on the other side, a glare, dazzlingly white in the sun, proclaimed the cotton-fields. afar the gin-house showed, with its smoke-stack, like an obeliscal column, from which issued heavy coils of vapor, and occasionally came the raucous grating of a screw, telling that the baler was at work. interspersed throughout the fields were the busy cotton-pickers, and now and again rose snatches of song as they heaped the great baskets in the turn-rows. within the purlieus of the inclosure about the mansion there was no stir of industry, no sign of life, save indeed an old hound lying on the veranda steps, looking up with great, liquid, sherry-tinted eyes at the stranger, and, though wheezing a wish to lick his hand, unable to muster the energy to rise. after an interval of a few moments gordon turned within. he felt that he must forthwith get at the papers and set this little matter in order. he paused baffled at the door of the parlor, where satin damask and rosewood furniture, lace curtains and drawn shades, held out no promise of repositories of business papers. on the opposite side of the hall was a sitting-room that bore evidence of constant use. here was a desk of the old-fashioned kind, with a bookcase as a superstructure, and a writing-table stood in the centre of the floor, equipped with a number of drawers which were all locked, as a tentative touch soon told. he had not concluded its examination when a step and rustle behind him betokened a sudden entrance. "miss geraldine norris!" a voice broke upon the air,--a voice that he had not before heard, and he turned abruptly to greet the lady as she formally introduced herself. a veritable titania she seemed as she swayed in the doorway. she was a little thing, delicately built, slender yet not thin, with lustrous golden hair, large, well-opened, dark blue eyes, a complexion daintily white and roseate,--a fairy-like presence indeed, but with a prosaic, matter-of-fact manner and a dogmatic pose of laying down the law. gordon could never have imagined himself so disconcerted as when she advanced upon him with the caustic query, "why did you not ask mrs. keene for her husband's keys? surely that is simple enough!" she flung a bunch of keys on a steel ring down upon the table. "heavens! to be roused from my well-earned slumbers at day-break to solve this problem! 'hurry! hurry! hurry!'" she mimicked mrs. keene's urgency, then broke out laughing. "now," she demanded, all unaffected by his mien of surprised and offended dignity, "do you think yourself equal to the task of fitting these keys,--or shall i lend you my strong right arm?" it is to be doubted if gordon had ever experienced such open ridicule as when she came smiling up to the table, drawing back the sleeve of her gown from her delicate dimpled wrist. she wore a white dress, such as one never sees save in that southern country, so softly sheer, falling in such graceful, floating lines, with a deep, plain hem and no touch of garniture save, perhaps, an edge of old lace on the surplice neck. the cut of the dress showed a triangular section of her soft white chest and all the firm modelling of her throat and chin. it was evidently not a new gown, for a rent in one of the sleeves had been sewed up somewhat too obviously, and there was a darn on the shoulder where a rose-bush had snagged the fabric. a belt of black velvet, with long, floating sash-ends, was about her waist, and a band of black velvet held in place her shining hair. "i am sorry to have been the occasion of disturbing you," he said with stiff formality, "and i am very much obliged, certainly," he added, as he took up the keys. "i may consider myself dismissed from the presence?" she asked saucily. "then, i will permit myself a cup of chocolate and a roll, and be ready for any further commands." she frisked out of the door, and, frowning heavily, he sat down to the table and opened the top-drawer, which yielded instantly to the first key that he selected. the first paper, too, on which he laid his hand was the will, signed and witnessed, regularly executed, all its provisions seeming, as he glanced through it, reasonable and feasible. as he laid it aside, he experienced the business man's satisfaction with a document duly capable of the ends desired. then he opened with a sudden flicker of curiosity a bulky envelope placed with the will and addressed to himself. he read it through, the natural interest on his face succeeded by amazement, increasing gradually to fear, the chill drops starting from every pore. he had grown ghastly white before he had concluded the perusal, and for a long time he sat as motionless as if turned to stone. the september day glowed outside in sumptuous splendor. a glad wind sprang up and sped afield. geraldine, her breakfast finished, a broad hat canted down over her eyes, rushed through the hall as noisily as a boy, prodded up the old hound, and ran him a race around the semicircle of the drive. a trained hound he had been in his youth, and he was wont to conceal and deny certain ancient accomplishments. but even he realized that it was waste of breath to say nay to the persistent geraldine. he resigned himself to go through all his repertoire,--was a dead dog, begged, leaped a stick back and forth, went lame, and in his newly awakened interest performed several tricks of which she had been unaware. her joyful cries of commendation--"played an encore! _an encore!_ he did, he did! cutest old dog in the united states!" caught mrs. keene's attention. "geraldine," she screamed from an upper window, "come in out of the sun! you will have a sun-stroke--and ruin your complexion besides! you know you ought to be helping that man with those papers,--he won't be able to do anything without you!" her voice quavered on the last words, as if she suddenly realized "that man" might overhear her,--as indeed he did. but he made no sign. he sat still, stultified and stony, silently gazing at the paper in his hands. when luncheon was announced, gordon asked to have something light sent in to him, as he wished not to be disturbed in his investigation of the documents. he had scant need to apprehend interruption, however, while the long afternoon wore gradually away. the universal southern siesta was on, and the somnolent mansion was like the castle of sleeping beauty. the ladies had sought their apartments and the downy couches; the cook, on a shady bench under the trellis, nodded as she seeded the raisins for the frozen pudding of the six-o'clock dinner; the waiter had succumbed in clearing the lunch-table and made mesmeric passes with the dish-rag in a fantasy of washing the plates; the stable-boy slumbered in the hay, high in the loft, while the fat old coachman, with a chamois-skin in his hand, dozed as he sat on the step of the surrey, between the fenders; the old dog snored on the veranda floor, and mrs. keene's special attendant, who was really more a seamstress than a ladies' maid, dreamed that for some mysterious reason she could not thread a needle to fashion in a vast hurry the second mourning of her employer, who she imagined would call for it within a week! outside the charmed precincts of this castle indolence, the busy cotton-pickers knew no pause nor stay. the steam-engine at the gin panted throughout all the long hot hours, the baler squealed and rasped and groaned, as it bound up the product into marketable compass, but there was no one waking near enough to note how the guest of the mansion was pacing the floor in a stress of nervous excitement, and to comment on the fact. toward sunset, a sudden commotion roused the slumbrous place. there had been an accident at the gin,--a boy had been caught in the machinery and variously mangled. dr. george rigdon had been called and had promptly sewed up the wounds. a runner had been sent to the mansion for bandages, brandy, fresh clothing, and sundry other collateral necessities of the surgery, and the news had thrown the house into unwonted excitement. "the boy won't die, then?" geraldine asked of a second messenger, as he stood by the steps of the veranda, waiting for the desired commodities. "lawdy,--_no_, ma'am! he is as good as new! doc' george, _he_ fix him up." gordon, whom the tumult had summoned forth from his absorptions, noted geraldine's triumphant laugh as she received this report, the toss of her spirited little head, the light in her dark blue eyes, deepening to sapphire richness, her obvious pride in the skill, the humanitarian achievement, of her lover. dr. george must be due here this evening, he fancied. for she was all freshly bedight; her gown was embellished with delicate laces, and its faint green hue gave her the aspect of some water-sprite, posed against that broad expanse of the mississippi river, that was itself of a jade tint reflected from a green and amber sky; at the low horizon line the vermilion sun was sinking into its swirling depths. gordon perceived a personal opportunity in the prospect of this guest for the evening. he must have counsel, he was thinking. he could not act on his own responsibility in this emergency that had suddenly confronted him. he was still too overwhelmed by the strange experience he had encountered, too shaken. this physician was a man of intelligence, of skill in his chosen profession, necessarily a man worth while in many ways. he was an intimate friend of the keene family, and might the more heartily lend a helping hand. the thought, the hope, cleared gordon's brow, but still the impress of the stress of the afternoon was so marked that the girl was moved to comment in her brusque way as they stood together on the cool, fern-embowered veranda. "why, mr. gordon," she exclaimed in surprise, "you have no idea how strange you look! you must have overworked awfully this afternoon. why, you look as if you had seen a ghost!" to her amazement, he recoiled abruptly. involuntarily, he passed his hand over his face, as if seeking to obliterate the traces she had deciphered. then, with an obvious effort, he recovered a show of equanimity; he declared that it was only because he was so tousled in contrast with her fresh finery that she thought he looked supernaturally horrible! he would go upstairs forthwith and array himself anew. gordon proved himself a true prophet, for rigdon came to dine. with the postprandial cigars, the two gentlemen, at gordon's suggestion, repaired to the sitting-room to smoke, instead of joining their hostess on the veranda, where tobacco was never interdicted. indeed, they did not come forth thence for nearly two hours, and were palpably embarrassed when geraldine declared in bewilderment, gazing at them in the lamplight that fell from within, through one of the great windows, that now _both_ looked as if they had seen a ghost! despite their efforts to sustain the interest of the conversation, they were obviously distrait, and had a proclivity to fall into sudden silences, and mrs. keene found them amazingly unresponsive and dull. thus it was that she rose as if to retire for the night while the hour was still early. in fact, she intended to utilize the opportunity to have some dresses of the first mourning outfit tried on, for which the patient maid was now awaiting her. "i leave you a charming substitute," she said in making her excuses. "geraldine need not come in yet--it is not late." her withdrawal seemed to give a fresh impetus to some impulse with which rigdon had been temporizing. he recurred to it at once. "you contemplate giving it to the public," he said to gordon; "why not try its effect on a disinterested listener first, and judge from that?" gordon assented with an extreme gravity that surprised geraldine; then rigdon hesitated, evidently scarcely knowing how to begin. he looked vaguely at the moon riding high in the heavens above the long, broad expanse of the mississippi and the darkling forests on either hand. sometimes a shaft of light, a sudden luminous glister, betokened the motion of the currents gliding in the sheen. "last night," he said in a tense, bated voice--"last night mr. gordon saw the phantom of bogue holauba. stop! hush!"--for the girl had sprung half screaming from her chair. "this is important." he laid his hand on her arm to detain her. "we want you to help us!" "help you! why, you scare me to death!" she had paused, but stood trembling from head to foot. "there is something explained in one of mr. keene's papers,--addressed to mr. gordon; and we have been much startled by the coincidence of his--his vision." "did he see--really----?" geraldine had sunk back in her chair, her face ghastly pale. "of course it must be some illusion," said rigdon. "the effect of the mist, perhaps----" "only, there was no mist," said gordon. "perhaps a snag waving in the wind." "only, there was no wind." "perhaps a snag tossing in the motion of the water,--at all events, you can't say there was no water." dr. rigdon glanced at gordon with a genial smile. "mighty little water for the mississippi," gordon sought to respond in the same key. "you know the record of these apparitions." leaning forward, one arm on his knee, the document in question in his hand, rigdon looked up into geraldine's pale face. "in the old days there used to be a sort of water-gypsy, with a queer little trading-boat that plied the region of the bends-a queer little old man, too--polish, i think, foreign certainly--and the butt of all the wags alongshore, at the stores and the wood-yards, the cotton-sheds and the wharf-boats. by some accident, it was thought, the boat got away when he was befuddled with drink in a wood-chopper's cabin--a stout, trig little craft it was! when he found it was gone, he was wild, for although he saw it afloat at a considerable distance down the mississippi, it suddenly disappeared near bogue holauba, cargo and all. no trace of its fate was ever discovered. he haunted these banks then--whatever he may have done since--screaming out his woes for his losses, and his rage and curses on the miscreants who had set the craft adrift--for he fully believed it was done in malice--beating his breast and tearing his hair. the civil war came on presently, and the man was lost sight of in the national commotions. no one thought of him again till suddenly something--an apparition, an illusion, the semblance of a man--began to patrol the banks of bogue holauba, and beat its breast and tear its hair and bewail its woes in pantomime, and set the whole country-side aghast, for always disasters follow its return." "and how do you account for that phase?" asked gordon, obviously steadying his voice by an effort of the will. "the apparition always shows up at low water,--the disasters are usually typhoid," replied the physician. "mr. keene died from malaria," geraldine murmured musingly. the two men glanced significantly at each other. then rigdon resumed: "i mustered the hardihood on one occasion to row up to the bank of bogue holauba for a closer survey. the thing vanished on my approach. there was a snag hard by, fast anchored in the bottom of the bogue. it played slackly to and fro with the current, but i could not see any way by which it or its shadow could have produced the illusion." "is this what you had to tell me?" demanded geraldine pertinently. "i knew all that already." "no, no," replied the doctor reluctantly. "will you tell it, mr. gordon, or shall i?" "you, by all means, if you will," said gordon gloomily. "god knows i should be glad never to speak of it." "well," rigdon began slowly, "mr. gordon was made by his cousin jasper keene not only the executor of his will, but the repository of a certain confession, which he may destroy or make public as he sees proper. it seems that in mr. keene's gay young days, running wild in his vacation from college on a secluded plantation, he often lacked congenial companionship, and he fell in with an uncouth fellow of a lower social grade, who led him into much detrimental adventure. among other incidents of very poor fun, the two were notable in hectoring and guying the old polish trader, who, when drunk on mean whisky as he often was, grew violent and antagonistic. he went very far in his denunciations one fatal night, and by way of playing him a trick in return, they set his boat adrift by cutting the rope that tied the craft to a tree on the bank. the confession states that they supposed the owner was then aboard and would suffer no greater hardship than having to use the sweeps with considerable energy to row her in to a landing again. they were genuinely horrified when he came running down the bank, both arms out-stretched, crying out that his all, _his all_ was floating away on that tumultuous, merciless tide. before any skiff could be launched, before any effort could be made to reach the trading-boat, she suddenly disappeared. the mississippi was at flood height, and it was thought that the boat struck some drifting obstruction, swamped, and went down in deep water. the agents in this disaster were never suspected, but as soon as jasper keene had come of age, and had command of any means of his own, his first act was to have an exhaustive search made for the old fellow, with a view of financial restitution. but the owner of the trading-boat had died, spending his last years in the futile effort to obtain the insurance money. as the little he had left was never claimed, no representative could profit by the restitution that jasper keene had planned, and he found what satisfaction he could in giving it secretly to an old man's charity. then the phantom began to take his revenge. he appeared on the banks of bogue holauba, and straightway the only child of the mansion sickened and died. mr. keene's first wife died after the second apparition. either it was the fancy of an ailing man, or perhaps the general report, but he notes that the spectre was bewailing its woes along the banks of bogue holauba when jasper keene himself was stricken by an illness which from the first he felt was fatal." "i remember--i remember it was said at the time," geraldine barely whispered. "and now to the question: he leaves it to mr. gordon as his kinsman, solicitous of the family repute, to judge whether this confession should be made public or destroyed." "does he state any reasons for making it public?" demanded geraldine, taking the document and glancing through its pages. "yes; as an expiation of his early misdeeds toward this man and, if any such thing there be, to placate the spirit of his old enemy; and lastly better to secure his peace with his maker." "and which do you say?" geraldine turned an eager, spirited face toward gordon, his dejected attitude and countenance distinctly seen in the light from the lamp within the parlor, on a table close to the window. "i frankly admit that the publication of that confession would humiliate me to the ground, but i fear that it _ought_ to be given to the public, as he obviously desires!" "and which do _you_ say?" geraldine was standing now, and swiftly whirled around toward dr. rigdon. "i agree with mr. gordon--much against my will--but an honest confession is good for the soul!" he replied ruefully. "you infidels!" she exclaimed tumultuously. "you have not one atom of christian faith between you! to imagine that _you_ can strike a bargain with the good god by letting a sick theory of expiation of a dying, fever-distraught creature besmirch his repute as a man and a gentleman, make his whole life seem like a whited sepulchre, and bring his name into odium,--as kind a man as ever lived,--and you know it!--as honest, and generous, and whole-souled, to be held up to scorn and humiliation because of a boyish prank forty years ago, that precipitated a disaster never intended,--bad enough, silly enough, even wicked enough, but not half so bad and silly and wicked as _you_, with your morbid shrinking from moral responsibility, and your ready contributive defamation of character. tell me, you men, is this a testamentary paper, and you think it against the law to destroy it?" "no, no, not that," said rigdon. "no, it is wholly optional," declared gordon. "then, i will settle the question for you once for all, you wobblers!" she suddenly thrust the paper into the chimney of the lamp on the table just within the open window, and as it flared up she flung the document forth, blazing in every fibre, on the bare driveway below the veranda. "and now you may find, as best you can, some other means of exorcising the phantom of bogue holauba!" his christmas miracle he yearned for a sign from the heavens. could one intimation be vouchsafed him, how it would confirm his faltering faith! jubal kennedy was of the temperament impervious to spiritual subtleties, fain to reach conclusions with the line and rule of mathematical demonstration. thus, all unreceptive, he looked through the mountain gap, as through some stupendous gateway, on the splendors of autumn; the vast landscape glamorous in a transparent amethystine haze; the foliage of the dense primeval wilderness in the october richness of red and russet; the "hunter's moon," a full sphere of illuminated pearl, high in the blue east while yet the dull vermilion sun swung westering above the massive purple heights. he knew how the sap was sinking; that the growths of the year had now failed; presently all would be shrouded in snow, but only to rise again in the reassurance of vernal quickening, to glow anew in the fullness of bloom, to attain eventually the perfection of fruition. and still he was deaf to the reiterated analogy of death, and blind to the immanent obvious prophecy of resurrection and the life to come. his thoughts, as he stood on this jutting crag in sunrise gap, were with a recent "experience meeting" at which he had sought to canvass his spiritual needs. his demand of a sign from the heavens as evidence of the existence of the god of revelation, as assurance of the awakening of divine grace in the human heart, as actual proof that wistful mortality is inherently endowed with immortality, had electrified this symposium. though it was fashionable, so to speak, in this remote cove among the great smoky mountains, to be repentant in rhetorical involutions and a self-accuser in fine-spun interpretations of sin, doubt, or more properly an eager questioning, a desire to possess the sacred mysteries of religion, was unprecedented. kennedy was a proud man, reticent, reserved. although the old parson, visibly surprised and startled, had gently invited his full confidence, kennedy had hastily swallowed his words, as best he might, perceiving that the congregation had wholly misinterpreted their true intent and that certain gossips had an unholy relish of the sensation they had caused. thereafter he indulged his poignant longings for the elucidation of the veiled truths only when, as now, he wandered deep in the woods with his rifle on his shoulder. he could not have said to-day that he was nearer an inspiration, a hope, a "leading," than heretofore, but as he stood on the crag it was with the effect of a dislocation that he was torn from the solemn theme by an interruption at a vital crisis. the faint vibrations of a violin stirred the reverent hush of the landscape in the blended light of the setting sun and the "hunter's moon." presently the musician came into view, advancing slowly through the aisles of the red autumn forest. a rapt figure it was, swaying in responsive ecstasy with the rhythmic cadence. the head, with its long, blowsy yellow hair, was bowed over the dark polished wood of the instrument; the eyes were half closed; the right arm, despite the eccentric patches on the sleeve of the old brown-jeans coat, moved with free, elastic gestures in all the liberties of a practiced bowing. if he saw the hunter motionless on the brink of the crag, the fiddler gave no intimation. his every faculty was as if enthralled by the swinging iteration of the sweet melancholy melody, rendered with a breadth of effect, an inspiration, it might almost have seemed, incongruous with the infirmities of the crazy old fiddle. he was like a creature under the sway of a spell, and apparently drawn by this dulcet lure of the enchantment of sound was the odd procession that trailed silently after him through these deep mountain fastnesses. a woman came first, arrayed in a ragged purple skirt and a yellow blouse open at the throat, displaying a slender white neck which upheld a face of pensive, inert beauty. she clasped in her arms a delicate infant, ethereal of aspect with its flaxen hair, transparently pallid complexion, and wide blue eyes. it was absolutely quiescent, save that now and then it turned feebly in its waxen hands a little striped red-and-yellow pomegranate. a sturdy blond toddler trudged behind, in a checked blue cotton frock, short enough to disclose cherubic pink feet and legs bare to the knee; he carried that treasure of rural juveniles, a cornstalk violin. an old hound, his tail suavely wagging, padded along the narrow path; and last of all came, with frequent pause to crop the wayside herbage, a large cow, brindled red and white. "the whole fambly!" muttered kennedy. then, aloud, "why don't you uns kerry the baby, basil bedell, an' give yer wife a rest?" at the prosaic suggestion the crystal realm of dreams was shattered. the bow, with a quavering discordant scrape upon the strings, paused. then bedell slowly mastered the meaning of the interruption. "kerry the baby? why, aurely won't let none but herself tech that baby." he laughed as he tossed the tousled yellow hair from his face, and looked over his shoulder to speak to the infant. "it air sech a plumb special delightsome peach, it air,--it air!" the pale face of the child lighted up with a smile of recognition and a faint gleam of mirth. "i jes' kem out ennyhows ter drive up the cow," basil added. "big job," sneered kennedy. "'pears-like it takes the whole fambly to do it." such slothful mismanagement was calculated to affront an energetic spirit. obviously, at this hour the woman should be at home cooking the supper. "i follered along ter listen ter the fiddle,--ef ye hev enny call ter know." mrs. bedell replied to his unspoken thought, as if by divination. but indeed such strictures were not heard for the first time. they were in some sort the penalty of the disinterested friendship which kennedy had harbored for basil since their childhood. he wished that his compeer might prosper in such simple wise as his own experience had proved to be amply possible. kennedy's earlier incentive to industry had been his intention to marry, but the object of his affections had found him "too mortal solemn," and without a word of warning had married another man in a distant cove. the element of treachery in this event had gone far to reconcile the jilted lover to his future, bereft of her companionship, but the habit of industry thus formed had continued of its own momentum. it had resulted in forehanded thrift; he now possessed a comfortable holding,--cattle, house, ample land; and he had all the intolerance of the ant for the cricket. as bedell lifted the bow once more, every wincing nerve was enlisted in arresting it in mid-air. "mighty long tramp fur bobbie, thar,--whyn't ye kerry him?" the imperturbable calm still held fast on the musician's face. "bob," he addressed the toddler, "will you uns let daddy kerry ye like a baby?" he swooped down as if to lift, the child, the violin and bow in his left hand. the hardy youngster backed off precipitately. "don't ye _dare_ ter do it!" he virulently admonished his parent, a resentful light in his blue eyes. then, as bedell sang a stave in a full rich voice, "bye-oh, baby!" bob vociferated anew, "don't you _begin_ ter dare do it!" every inch a man though a little one. "that's the kind of a fambly i hev got," basil commented easily. "wife an' boy an' baby all walk over me,--plumb stomp on me! jes' enough lef of me ter play the fiddle a leetle once in a while." "mighty nigh all the while, i be afeared," kennedy corrected the phrase. "how did yer corn crap turn out?" he asked, as he too fell into line and the procession moved on once more along the narrow path. "well enough," said basil; "we uns hev got a sufficiency." then, as if afraid of seeming boastful he qualified, "ye know i hain't got but one muel ter feed, an' the cow thar. my sheep gits thar pastur' on the volunteer grass 'mongst the rocks, an' i hev jes' got a few head ennyhows." "but _why_ hain't ye got more, basil? whyn't ye work more and quit wastin' yer time on that old fool fiddle?" the limits of patience were reached. the musician fired up. "'kase," he retorted, "i make enough. i hev got grace enough ter be thankful fur sech ez be vouchsafed ter me. _i_ ain't wantin' no meracle." kennedy flushed, following in silence while the musician annotated his triumph by a series of gay little harmonics, and young hopeful, trudging in the rear, executed a soundless fantasia on the cornstalk fiddle with great brilliancy of technique. "you uns air talkin' 'bout whut i said at the meetin' las' month," kennedy observed at length. "an' so be all the mounting," aurelia interpolated with a sudden fierce joy of reproof. kennedy winced visibly. "the folks all 'low ez ye be no better than an onbeliever." aurelia was bent on driving the blade home. "the idee of axin' fur a meracle at this late day,--so ez _ye_ kin be satisfied in yer mind ez ye hev got grace! providence, though merciful, air _obleeged_, ter know ez sech air plumb scandalous an' redic'lous." "why, aurely, hesh up," exclaimed her husband, startled from his wonted leniency. "i hev never hearn ye talk in sech a key,--yer voice sounds plumb out o' tune. i be plumb sorry, jube, ez i spoke ter you uns 'bout a meracle at all. but i war consider'ble nettled by yer words, ye see,--'kase i know i be a powerful, lazy, shif'less cuss----" "ye know a lie, then," his helpmate interrupted promptly. "why, aurely, hesh up,--ye--ye--_woman_, ye!" he concluded injuriously. then resuming his remarks to kennedy, "i know i _do_ fool away a deal of my time with the fiddle----" "the sound of it is like bread ter me,--i couldn't live without it," interposed the unconquered aurelia. "sometimes it minds me o' the singin' o' runnin' water in a lonesome place. then agin it minds me o' seein' sunshine in a dream. an' sometimes it be sweet an' high an' fur off, like a voice from the sky, tellin' what no mortial ever knowed before,--an' _then_ it minds me o' the tune them angels sung ter the shepherds abidin' in the fields. i _couldn't_ live without it." "woman, hold yer jaw!" basil proclaimed comprehensively. then, renewing his explanation to kennedy, "i kin see that i don't purvide fur my fambly ez i ought ter do, through hatin' work and lovin' to play the fiddle." "i ain't goin' ter hear my home an' hearth reviled." aurelia laid an imperative hand on her husband's arm. "ye know ye couldn't make more out'n sech ground,--though i ain't faultin' our land, neither. we uns hev enough an' ter spare, all we need an' more than we deserve. we don't need ter ax a meracle from the skies ter stay our souls on faith, nor a sign ter prove our grace." "now, now, _stop_, aurely!--i declar', jube i dunno what made me lay my tongue ter sech a word ez that thar miser'ble benighted meracle! i be powerful sorry i hurt yer feelin's, jube; folks seekin' salvation git mightily mis-put sometimes, an'----" "i don't want ter hear none o' yer views on religion," kennedy interrupted gruffly. an apology often augments the sense of injury. in this instance it also annulled the provocation, for his own admission put bedell hopelessly in the wrong. "ez a friend i war argufyin' with ye agin' yer waste o' time with that old fool fiddle. ye hev got wife an' children, an' yit not so well off in this world's gear ez me, a single man. i misdoubts ef ye hev hunted a day since the craps war laid by, or hev got a pound o' jerked venison stored up fer winter. but this air yer home,"--he pointed upward at a little clearing beginning, as they approached, to be visible amidst the forest,--"an' ef ye air satisfied with sech ez it be, that comes from laziness stiddier a contented sperit." with this caustic saying he suddenly left them, the procession standing silently staring after him as he took his way through the woods in the dusky red shadows of the autumnal gloaming. aurelia's vaunted home was indeed a poor place,--not even the rude though substantial log-cabin common to the region. it was a flimsy shanty of boards, and except for its rickety porch was more like a box than a house. it had its perch on a jutting eminence, where it seemed the familiar of the skies, so did the clouds and winds circle about it. through the great gateway of sunrise gap it commanded a landscape of a scope that might typify a world, in its multitude of mountain ranges, in the intricacies of its intervening valleys, in the glittering coils of its water-courses. basil would sometimes sink into deep silences, overpowered by the majesty of nature in this place. after a long hiatus the bow would tremble and falter on the strings as if overawed for a time; presently the theme would strengthen, expand, resound with large meaning, and then he would send forth melodies that he had never before played or heard, his own dream, the reflection of that mighty mood of nature in the limpid pool of his receptive mind. around were rocks, crags, chasms,--the fields which nourished the family lay well from the verge, within the purlieus of the limited mountain plateau. he had sought to persuade himself that it was to save all the arable land for tillage that he had placed his house and door-yard here, but both he and aurelia were secretly aware of the subterfuge; he would fain be always within the glamour of the prospect through sunrise gap! their interlocutor had truly deemed that the woman should have been earlier at home cooking the supper. dusk had deepened to darkness long before the meal smoked upon the board. the spinning-wheel had begun to whir for her evening stint when other hill-folks had betaken themselves to bed. basil puffed his pipe before the fire; the flicker and flare pervaded every nook of the bright little house. strings of red-pepper-pods flaunted in festoons from the beams; the baby slumbered under a gay quilt in his rude cradle, never far from his mother's hand, but the bluff little boy was still up and about, although his aspect, round and burly, in a scanty nightgown, gave token of recognition of the fact that bed was his appropriate place. his shrill plaintive voice rose ever and anon wakefully. "i wanter hear a bear tale,--i wanter hear a bear tale." thus basil must needs knock the ashes from his pipe the better to devote himself to the narration,--a prince of raconteurs, to judge by the spell-bound interest of the youngster who stood at his knee and hung on his words. even aurelia checked the whir of her wheel to listen smilingly. she broke out laughing in appreciative pleasure when basil took up the violin to show how a jovial old bear, who intruded into this very house one day when all the family were away at the church in the cove, and who mistook the instrument for a banjo, addressed himself to picking out this tune, singing the while a quaint and ursine lay. basil embellished the imitation with a masterly effect of realistic growls. "ef ye keep goin' at that gait, basil," aurelia admonished him, "daylight will ketch us all wide awake around the fire,--no wonder the child won't go to bed." she seemed suddenly impressed with the pervasive cheer. "what a fool that man, jube kennedy, must be! how _could_ ennybody hev a sweeter, darlinger home than we uns hev got hyar in sunrise gap!" on the languorous autumn a fierce winter ensued. the cold came early. the deciduous growths of the forests were leafless ere november waned, rifled by the riotous marauding winds. december set in with the gusty snow flying fast. drear were the gray skies; ghastly the sheeted ranges. drifts piled high in bleak ravines, and the grim gneissoid crags were begirt with gigantic icicles. but about the little house in sunrise gap that kept so warm a heart, the holly trees showed their glad green leaves and the red berries glowed with a mystic significance. as the weeks wore on, the place was often in kennedy's mind, although he had not seen it since that autumn afternoon when he had bestirred himself to rebuke its owner concerning the inadequacies of the domestic provision. his admonition had been kindly meant and had not deserved the retort, the flippant ridicule of his spiritual yearnings. though he still winced from the recollection, he was sorry that he had resisted the importunacy of basil's apology. he realized that aurelia had persisted to the limit of her power in the embitterment of the controversy, but even aurelia he was disposed to forgive as time passed on. when christmas day dawned, the vague sentiment began to assume the definiteness of a purpose, and noontide found him on his way to sunrise gap. there was now no path through the woods; the snow lay deep over all, unbroken save at long intervals when queer footprints gave token of the stirring abroad of the sylvan denizens, and he felt an idle interest in distinguishing the steps of wolf and fox, of opossum and weasel. in the intricacies of the forest aisles, amid laden boughs of pine and fir, there was a suggestion of darkness, but all the sky held not enough light to cast the shadow of a bole on the white blank spaces of the snow-covered ground. a vague blue haze clothed the air; yet as he drew near the mountain brink, all was distinct in the vast landscape, the massive ranges and alternating valleys in infinite repetition. he wondered when near the house that he had not heard the familiar barking of the old hound; then he remembered that the sound of his horse's hoofs was muffled by the snow. he was glad to be unheralded. he would like to surprise aurelia into geniality before her vicarious rancor for basil's sake should be roused anew. as he emerged from the thick growths of the holly, with the icy scintillations of its clustering green leaves and red berries, he drew rein so suddenly that the horse was thrown back on his haunches. the rider sat as if petrified in the presence of an awful disaster. the house was gone! even the site had vanished! kennedy stared bewildered. slowly the realization of what had chanced here began to creep through his brain. evidently there had been a gigantic landslide. the cliff-like projection was broken sheer off,--hurled into the depths of the valley. some action of subterranean waters, throughout ages, doubtless, had been undermining the great crags till the rocky crust of the earth had collapsed. he could see even now how the freeze had fractured outcropping ledges where the ice had gathered in the fissures. a deep abyss that he remembered as being at a considerable distance from the mountain's brink, once spanned by a foot-bridge, now showed the remnant of its jagged, shattered walls at the extreme verge of the precipice. a cold chill of horror benumbed his senses. basil, the wife, the children,--where were they? a terrible death, surely, to be torn from the warm securities of the hearth-stone, without a moment's warning, and hurled into the midst of this frantic turmoil of nature, down to the depths of the gap,--a thousand feet below! and at what time had this dread fate befallen his friend? he remembered that at the cross-roads' store, when he had paused on his way to warm himself that morning, some gossip was detailing the phenomenon of unseasonable thunder during the previous night, while others protested that it must have been only the clamors of "christmas guns" firing all along the country-side. "a turrible clap, it was," the raconteur had persisted. "sounded ez ef all creation hed split apart." perhaps, therefore, the catastrophe might be recent. kennedy could scarcely command his muscles as he dismounted and made his way slowly and cautiously to the verge. any deviation from the accustomed routine of nature has an unnerving effect, unparalleled by disaster in other sort; no individual danger or doom, the aspect of death by drowning, or gunshot, or disease, can so abash the reason and stultify normal expectation. kennedy was scarcely conscious that he saw the vast disorder of the landslide, scattered from the precipice on the mountain's brink to the depths of the gap--inverted roots of great pines thrust out in mid-air, foundations of crags riven asunder and hurled in monstrous fragments along the steep slant, unknown streams newly liberated from the caverns of the range and cascading from the crevices of the rocks. in effect he could not believe his own eyes. his mind realized the perception of his senses only when his heart suddenly plunged with a wild hope,--he had discerned amongst the turmoil a shape of line and rule, the little box-like hut! caught as it was in the boughs of a cluster of pines and firs, uprooted and thrust out at an incline a little less than vertical, the inmates might have been spared such shock of the fall as would otherwise have proved fatal. had the house been one of the substantial log-cabins of the region its timbers must have been torn one from another, the daubing and chinking scattered as mere atoms. but the more flimsy character of the little dwelling had thus far served to save it,--the interdependent "framing" of its structure held fast; the upright studding and boards, nailed stoutly on, rendered it indeed the box that it looked. it was, so to speak, built in one piece, and no part was subjected to greater strain than another. but should the earth cave anew, should the tough fibres of one of those gigantic roots tear out from the loosened friable soil, should the elastic supporting branches barely sway in some errant gust of wind, the little box would fall hundreds of feet, cracked like a nut, shattering against the rocks of the levels below. he wondered if the inmates yet lived,--he pitied them still more if they only existed to realize their peril, to await in an anguish of fear their ultimate doom. perhaps--he felt he was but trifling with despair--some rescue might be devised. such a weird cry he set up on the brink of the mountain!--full of horror, grief, and that poignant hope. the echoes of the gap seemed reluctant to repeat the tones, dull, slow, muffled in snow. but a sturdy halloo responded from the window, uppermost now, for the house lay on its side amongst the boughs. kennedy thought he saw the pallid simulacrum of a face. "this be jube kennedy," he cried, reassuringly. "i be goin' ter fetch help,--men, ropes, and a windlass." "make haste then,--we uns be nigh friz." "ye air in no danger of fire, then?" asked the practical man. "we hev hed none,--before we war flunged off'n the bluff we hed squinched the fire ter pledjure bob, ez he war afeard santy claus would scorch his feet comin' down the chimbley,--powerful lucky fur we uns; the fire would hev burnt the house bodaciously." kennedy hardly stayed to hear. he was off in a moment, galloping at frantic speed along the snowy trail scarcely traceable in the sad light of the gray day; taking short cuts through the densities of the laurel; torn by jagged rocks and tangles of thorny growths and broken branches of great trees; plunging now and again into deep drifts above concealed icy chasms, and rescuing with inexpressible difficulty the floundering, struggling horse; reaching again the open sheeted roadway, bruised, bleeding, exhausted, yet furiously plunging forward, rousing the sparsely settled country-side with imperative insistence for help in this matter of life or death! death, indeed, only,--for the enterprise was pronounced impossible by those more experienced than kennedy. among the men now on the bluff were several who had been employed in the silver mines of this region, and they demonstrated conclusively that a rope could not be worked clear of the obstructions of the face of the rugged and shattered cliffs; that a human being, drawn from the cabin, strapped in a chair, must needs be torn from it and flung into the abyss below, or beaten to a frightful death against the jagged rocks in the transit. "but not ef the chair war ter be steadied by a guy-rope from--say--from that thar old pine tree over thar," kennedy insisted, indicating the long bole of a partially uprooted and inverted tree on the steeps. "the chair would swing cl'ar of the bluff then." "but, jube, it is onpossible ter git a guy-rope over ter that tree,--more than a man's life is wuth ter try it." a moment ensued of absolute silence,--space, however, for a hard-fought battle. the aspect of that mad world below, with every condition of creation reversed; a mistake in the adjustment of the winch and gear by the excited, reluctant, disapproving men; an overstrain on the fibres of the long-used rope; a slip on the treacherous ice; the dizzy whirl of the senses that even a glance downward at those drear depths set astir in the brain,--all were canvassed within his mental processes, all were duly realized in their entirety ere he said with a spare dull voice and dry lips,-- "fix ter let me down ter that thar leanin' pine, boys,--i'll kerry a guy-rope over thar." at one side the crag beetled, and although it was impossible thence to reach the cabin with a rope it would swing clear of obstructions here, and might bring the rescuer within touch of the pine, where could be fastened the guy-rope; the other end would be affixed to the chair which could be lowered to the cabin only from the rugged face of the cliff. kennedy harbored no self-deception; he more than doubted the outcome of the enterprise. he quaked and turned pale with dread as with the great rope knotted about his arm-pits and around his waist he was swung over the brink at the point where the crag jutted forth,--lower and lower still; now nearing the slanting inverted pine, caught amidst the débris of earth and rock; now failing to reach its boughs; once more swinging back to a great distance, so did the length of the rope increase the scope of the pendulum; now nearing the pine again, and at last fairly lodged on the icy bole, knotting and coiling about it the end of the guy-rope, on which he had come and on which he must needs return. it seemed, through the inexpert handling of the little group, a long time before the stout arm-chair was secured to the cables, slowly lowered, and landed at last on the outside of the hut. many an anxious glance was cast at the slate-gray sky. an inopportune flurry of snow, a flaw of wind,--and even now all would be lost. dusk too impended, and as the rope began to coil on the windlass at the signal to hoist every eye was strained to discern the identity of the first voyagers in this aërial journey,--the two children, securely lashed to the chair. this was well,--all felt that both parents might best wait, might risk the added delay. the chair came swinging easily, swiftly, along the gradations of the rise, the guy-rope holding it well from the chances of contact with the jagged projections of the face of the cliff, and the first shout of triumph rang sonorously from the summit. when next the chair rested on the cabin beside the window, a thrill of anxiety and anger went through kennedy's heart to note, from his perch on the leaning pine, a struggle between husband and wife as to who should go first. each was eager to take the many risks incident to the long wait in this precarious lodgment. the man was the stronger. aurelia was forced into the chair, tied fast, pushed off, waving her hand to her husband, shedding floods of tears, looking at him for the last time, as she fancied, and calling out dismally, "far'well, basil, far'well." even this lugubrious demonstration could not damp the spirits of the men working like mad at the windlass. they were jovial enough for bursts of laughter when it became apparent that basil had utilized the ensuing interval to tie together, in preparation for the ascent with himself, the two objects which he next most treasured, his violin and his old hound. the trusty chair bore all aloft, and basil was received with welcoming acclamations. before the rope was wound anew and for the last time, the aspect of the group on the cliff had changed. it had grown eerie, indistinct. the pines and firs showed no longer their sempervirent green, but were black amid the white tufted lines on their branches, that still served to accentuate their symmetry. the vale had disappeared in a sinister abyss of gloom, though kennedy would not look down at its menace, but upward, always upward. thus he saw, like some radiant and splendid star, the first torch whitely aglow on the brink of the precipice. it opened long avenues of light adown the snowy landscape,--soft blue shadows trailed after it, like half-descried draperies of elusive hovering beings. soon the torch was duplicated; another and then another began to glow. now several drew together, and like a constellation glimmered crown-like on the brow of the night, as he felt the rope stir with the signal to hoist. upward, always upward, his eyes on that radiant stellular coronal, as it shone white and splendid in the snowy night. and now it had lost its mystic glamour,--disintegrated by gradual approach he could see the long handles of the pine-knots; the red verges of the flame; the blue and yellow tones of the focus; the trailing wreaths of dun-tinted smoke that rose from them. then became visible the faces of the men who held them, all crowding eagerly to the verge. but it was in a solemn silence that he was received; a drear cold darkness, every torch being struck downward into the snow; a frantic haste in unharnessing him from the ropes, for he was almost frozen. he was hardly apt enough to interpret this as an emotion too deep for words, but now and again, as he was disentangled, he felt about his shoulders a furtive hug, and more than one pair of the ministering hands must needs pause to wring his own hands hard. they practically carried him to a fire that had been built in a sheltered place in one of those grottoes of the region, locally called "rock-houses." its cavernous portal gave upon a dark interior, and not until they had turned a corner in a tunnel-like passage was revealed an arched space in a rayonnant suffusion of light, the fire itself obscured by the figures about it. his eyes were caught first by the aspect of a youthful mother with a golden-haired babe on her breast; close by showed the head and horns of a cow; the mule was mercifully sheltered too, and stood near, munching his fodder; a cluster of sheep pressed after the steps of half a dozen men, that somehow in the clare-obscure reminded him of the shepherds of old summoned by good tidings of great joy. a sudden figure started up with streaming white hair and patriarchal beard. "will ye deny ez ye hev hed a sign from the heavens, jubal kennedy?" the old circuit-rider straitly demanded. "how could ye hev strengthened yer heart fur sech a deed onless the grace o' god prevailed mightily within ye? inasmuch as ye hev done it unto one o' the least o' these my brethern, ye hev done it unto me." "that ain't the _kind_ o' sign, parson," kennedy faltered. "i be lookin' fur a meracle in the yearth or in the air, that i kin view or hear." "the kingdom o' christ is a spiritual kingdom," said the parson solemnly. "the kingdom o' christ is a _spiritual_ kingdom, an' great are the wonders that are wrought therein." by caroline lockhart _a novel of the real west_ "me--smith" miss lockhart is a true daughter of the west, her father being a large ranch-owner and she has had much experience in the saddle and among the people who figure in her novel. "smith" is one type of western "bad man," an unusually powerful and appealing character who grips and holds the reader through all his deeds, whether good or bad. it is a story with red blood in it. there is the cry of the coyote, the deadly thirst for revenge as it exists in the wronged indian toward the white man, the thrill of the gaming table, and the gentlenesss of pure, true love. to the very end the tense dramatism of the tale is maintained without relaxation. "gripping, vigorous story."--_chicago record-herald._ "this is a real novel, a big novel."--_indianapolis news._ "not since the publication of 'the virginian' has so powerful a cowboy story been told."--_philadelphia public ledger._ "a remarkable book in its strength of portrayal and its directness of development. it cannot be read without being remembered."--_the world to-day._ file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) the law of hemlock mountain by hugh lundsford frontispiece by douglas duer new york w. j. watt & company publishers copyright, , by w. j. watt & company press of braunworth & co. book manufacturers brooklyn, n.y. [illustration: "i am sorry," declared spurrier, humbly. "i didn't know they were pets. they behaved very much like wild birds."] chapter i the officer whose collar ornaments were the winged staff and serpents of the medical branch, held what was left of the deck in his right hand and moistened the tip of his thumb against the tip of his tongue. "reënforcements, major?" he inquired with a glance to the man at his left, and the poker face of the gentleman so addressed remained impervious to expression as the answer was given back: "no, i'll stand by what i've got here." if the utterance hung on a quarter second of indecision it was a circumstance that went unnoted, save possibly by a young man with the single bars of a lieutenant on his shoulder straps--and spurrier gave no flicker of recognition of what had escaped the others. between the whitewashed walls of the room where the little group of officers sat at cards the philippine night breeze stirred faintly with a fevered breath that scarcely disturbed the jalousies. the pile of poker chips had grown to a bulkiness and value out of just proportion to the means of army officers below field rank--and except for the battalion, commander and the surgeon none there held higher grade than a captaincy. this jungle-hot weather made men irresponsible. one or two of the faces were excitedly flushed; several others were morosely dark. the lights guttered with a jaundiced yellow and sweat beaded the temples of the players. sweat, too, made slippery the enameled surfaces of the pasteboards. sweat seemed to ooze and simmer in their brains like the oil from overheated asphalt. these men had been forced into a companionship of monotony in a climate of unhealth until their studied politeness, even their forced jocularity was rather the effort of toleration than the easy play of comradeship. their arduously wooed excitement of draw-poker, which had run improvidently out of bounds, was not a pleasure so much as an expedient against the boredom that had rubbed their tempers threadbare and put an edgy sharpness on their nerves. captain comyn, upon whose call for cards the dealer now waited, was thinking of private grant out there under guard in the improvised hospital. the islands had "gotten to" private grant and "locoed" him, and he had breathed sulphurous maledictions against captain comyn's life--but it was not those threats that now disturbed the company commander. of late captain comyn had been lying awake at night and wondering if he, too, were not going the same way as the unfortunate file. horribly quiet fears had been stealing poisonously into his mind--a mind not given to timidities--and the word "melancholia" had assumed for him a morbid and irresistible compulsion. no one save the captain's self knew of these secret hauntings, born of climate and smoldering fever, and he would not have revealed them on the torture rack. for them he entertained the same shame as that of a boy grown too large for such weakness, who shudders with an unconfessed fear of the dark. but he could no more shake them loose and be free of them than could the ancient mariner rid himself of the bird of ill-omen tied about his neck. now he pulled himself together and tossed away a single card. "i'll take one in the place of that," he commented with studied carelessness, and lieutenant john spurrier, with that infectious smile which came readily to his lips, pointed a contrast with the captain's abstraction by the snappy quickness of his announcement: "if i'm going to trail along, i'll need three. yes, three, please, major." "when spurrier sits in the game," commented a player who, with a dolorous glance at the booty before him, threw down his hands, "we at least get action. myself, i'm out of it." the battalion commander studied the ceiling with a troubled furrow between his brows which was not brought there by the hazards of luck. he was reflecting that whenever a game was organized it was spurrier who quickened its tempo from innocuous amusement to reckless extravagance. spurrier, fitted for his life with so many soldierly qualities, was still, above all else, a plunger. that spirit seemed a passion that filled and overflowed him. temperate in other habits, he played like a nabob. the major remembered hearing that even at west point jack spurrier had narrowly, escaped dismissal for gambling in quarters, though his class standing had been distinguished and his gridiron record had become a tradition. this sort of game with "the roof off and deuces wild," was not good for the _morale_ of his junior officers, mused the major. it was like spiking whisky with absinthe. yes, to-morrow he would have spurrier at his quarters and talk to him like a dutch uncle. there were three left battling for the often sweetened pot now, with three more who had dropped out, looking on, and a tensity enveloped the long-drawn climax of the evening's session. captain comyn's cheek bones had reddened and his irascible frown lines deepened. for the moment his fears of melancholia had been swallowed up in a fitful fury against spurrier and his smiling face. at last came the decisive moment of the final call and the show-down, and through the dead silence of the moment sounded the distant sing-song of a sentry: "corporal of the guard, number one, relief!" over the window sill a tiny green lizard slithered quietly and hesitated, pressing itself flat against the whitewash. then the major's cards came down face upward--and showed a queen-high straight. "not quite good enough, major," announced comyn brusquely as his breath broke from him with a sort of gasp and he spread out a heart flush. but spurrier, who had drawn three cards, echoed the captain's words: "not quite good enough." he laid down two aces and two deuces, which under the cutthroat rule of "deuces wild" he was privileged to call four aces. comyn came to his feet and pushed back his chair, but he stood unsteadily. the fever in his bones was playing queer pranks with his brain. he, whose courtesy had always been marked in its punctilio, blazed volcano-fashion into the eruption that had been gathering through these abnormal days and nights. yet even now the long habit of decorum held waveringly for a little before its breaking, and he began with a queer strain in his voice: "you'll have to take my iou. i've lost more than i can pay on the peg." "that's all right, comyn," began the victor, "pay when----" but before he could finish the other interrupted with a frenzy of anger: "no, by god, it's not all right! it's all wrong, and this is the last game i sit in where they deal a hand to you." spurrier's smiling lips tightened instantly out of their infectious amiability into a forbidding straightness. he pushed aside the chips he had been stacking and rose stiffly. "that's a statement, captain comyn," he said with a warning note in his level voice, "which requires some explaining." the abrupt bursting of the tempest had left the others in a tableau of amazement, but now the authoritative voice of major withers broke in upon the dialogue. "gentlemen, this is an army post, and i am in command here. i will tolerate no quarrels." without shifting the gaze of eyes that held those of the captain, spurrier answered insistently: "i have every respect, major, for the requirements of discipline--but captain comyn must finish telling why he will no longer play cards with me." "and i'll tell you _pronto_," came the truculent response. "i won't play with you because you are too damned lucky." "oh!" spurrier's tensity of expression relaxed into something like amusement for the anticlimax. "that accusation can be stomached, i suppose." "too damned lucky," went on the other with a gathering momentum of rancor, "and too continuously lucky for a game that's not professional. when a man is so proficient--or lucky if you prefer--that the card table pays him more than the government thinks he's worth, it's time----" spurrier stepped forward. "it's time for you to stop," he cautioned sharply. "i give you the fairest warning!" but comyn, riding the flood tide of his passion--a passion of distempered nerves--was beyond the reach of warnings and his words came in a bitter outpouring: "i dare say it was only luck that let you bankrupt young tillsdale, but it was as fatal to him as if it bore an uglier name." the sound in spurrier's throat was incoherent and his bodily impulse swift beyond interference. his flat palm smote captain comyn's cheek, to come away leaving a red welt behind it, and as the others swept forward to intervene the two men grappled. they were torn apart, still struggling, as major withers, unaccustomed to the brooking of such mutinies, interposed between them the bulk of his body and the moral force of his indignantly blazing eyes. "i will have no more of this," he thundered. "i am not a prize-fight referee, that i must break my officers out of clinches! go to your quarters, comyn! you, too, spurrier. you are under arrest. i shall prefer charges against you both. i mean to make an example of this matter." but with a strange abruptness the fury died out of comyn's face. it left his passion-distorted features so instantly that the effect of transformation was uncanny. in a breathing space he seemed older and his eyes held the dark dejection of utter misery. his anger had flared and died before that grimmer emotion which secretly haunted him--the fear that he was going the way of climate-crazed private grant. when they released him he turned dispiritedly and left the room in docile silence. he was not thinking of the charges to be preferred. they belonged to to-morrow. to-night was nearer, and to-night he must face those hours of sleeplessness that he dreaded more than all the penalties enunciated by the articles of war. spurrier, too, bowed stiffly and left the room. though it was late when captain comyn entered his own quarters, he did not at once throw himself on the army cot that stood against the whitewashed wall. for him the cot held no invitation--only the threat of insomnia and tossing. his taut nerves had lost the gracious art of relaxation, and before his thoughts paraded hideously grotesque memories of the few faces he had ever seen marred by the dethronement of reason. already he had forgotten the violent and discreditable scene with spurrier, and presently he dropped himself inertly into the camp chair beside the table at the room's center and opened its drawer. slowly his hand came out clutching a service revolver, and his eyes smoldered unnaturally as they dwelt on it. but after a little he resolutely shook his head and thrust the thing aside. he sat in a cold sweat, surrounded by the silence of the eastern night, a comprehensive silence which weighed upon him and oppressed him. in the thatching of the single-storied adobe building he heard the rustling of a house snake, and from without, where moonlight seemed to gush and spill against the cobalt shadows, shrilled the small voice from a lizard's inflated, crimson throat. it was all crazing him, and his nails bit into his palms as he sat there, silent and heavy-breathed. then he heard footsteps nearer and louder than those of the pacing sentries, followed by a low rapping of knuckles on his own door. perhaps it was doctor james. he had the kindly habit of besetting men who looked fagged with the offer of some innocuous bromide. as if bromides could soothe a brain in which something had gone _malo_! "come in," he growled, and into the room stepped not major james, but lieutenant spurrier. slowly and with an infinite weight of weariness, comyn rose to his feet. he might be afraid of lunacy, but not of lieutenants, and his lips smiled sneeringly. "if you've come to ask a retraction," he declared ungraciously, "i've none to offer. i meant all i said." the visitor stood inside the door calmly eyeing the man who was his own company commander. "i didn't come to insist on apologies," he replied after a moment's silence with an off-hand easiness of tone. "that can wait till you've gotten over your tantrum. it was another thing that brought me." "i want to be left alone." "aside from the uncomplimentary features of your tirade," went on spurrier placidly and he strolled around the table and seated himself on the window sill, "there was a germ of truth in what you said. we've been playing too steep a game." he paused and the other man who remained standing by his table, as though he did not wish to encourage his visitor by seating himself, responded only with a short, ironic laugh. "see here, comyn," spurrier's voice labored now with evident embarrassment. "what i'm getting at is this: i don't want your iou for that game. i simply want you to forget it." but the captain took an angry step forward. "do you think i'm a charity patient?" he demanded, as his temper again mounted to storm pressure. "why, damn your impertinence, i don't want to talk to you. i don't want you in my quarters!" spurrier slipped from his seat and an angry flush spread to his cheek bones. "you're the hell of a--gentleman!" he exclaimed. the two stood for a few moments without words, facing each other, while the lieutenant could hear the captain's breath rising and falling in a panting thickness. surgeon james returning from a visit to a colic sufferer was trudging sleepily along the empty _calle_ when he noted the light still burning in the captain's window, and with an exclamation of remembrance for the officer's dark-ringed and sleepless eyes, he wheeled toward the door. just as he neared it, a staccato and heated interchange of voices was borne out to him, and he hurried his step, but at the same instant a pistol shot bellowed blatantly in the quiet air and into his nostrils stole the acrid savor of burned powder. the door, thrown open, gave him the startling picture of comyn sagged across his own table and lying grotesque in the yellow light; and of spurrier standing, wide-eyed by the window, with the green and cobalt background of the tropic night beyond his shoulders. while he gazed the lieutenant wheeled and thrust his head through the raised sash, under the jalousy. "halt!" cried james excitedly, leaping forward to possess himself of the pistol which comyn had taken from his drawer and thrust aside. "halt, spurrier, or i'll have to fire!" the other turned back and faced his captor with an expression which it was hard to read. then he shook his shoulders as though to disentangle himself from an evil dream and in a cool voice demanded: "do you mean to intimate, james, that you suspect me of killing comyn?" "do you mean to deny it?" countered the other incredulously. "great god! i oughtn't to have to. that shot was fired through the window. the bullet whined past my ear while my back was turned. that was why i looked out just now. moreover, i am, as you see, unarmed." "god grant that you can prove these things, spurrier, but they will need proof." the doctor turned to bend over the prostrate figure, and as he did so voices rose from the _calle_ where already had sounded the alarm and response of running feet. "or, perhaps," added the doctor with stubborn suggestiveness, "you acted in self-defense." presently the door opened and the corporal of the guard entered and saluted. his eyes traveled rapidly about the room and he addressed spurrier, since james was not a line officer. "i picked this revolver up, sir, just outside the window," he said, holding out a service pistol. "it was lying in the moonlight and one chamber is empty." spurrier took the weapon, but when the man had gone james suggested in an even voice: "don't you think you had better hand that gun to me?" "to you? why?" "because this looks like a case for g. c. m. it will have a better aspect if i can testify that, after the gun was brought in, it wasn't handled by you except while i saw you?" "it seems to me"--a belligerent flash darted in the lieutenant's eyes--"that you are singularly set on hanging this affair around my neck." "you were with him and no one else was. if i were you, i'd go direct to the major and make a statement of facts. he'll be getting reports from other sources by now." "perhaps you are right. is _he_ dead?" the surgeon nodded, and spurrier turned and closed the door softly behind him. chapter ii the situation of john spurrier, who was jack spurrier to every man in that command, standing under the monstrous presumption of having murdered a brother officer, called for a reaccommodation of the battalion's whole habit of thought. it demanded a new and unwelcome word in their vocabulary of ideas, and against it argued, with the hot advocacy of tested acquaintance, every characteristic of the man himself, and every law of probability. for its acceptance spoke only one forceful plea--evidence which unpleasantly skirted the actuality of demonstration. short of seeing spurrier shoot his captain down and toss his pistol through the open window, major james could hardly have witnessed a more damaging picture than the hurriedly opened door had framed to his vision. within the close-drawn cordon of a post, held to military accountability, facts were as traceable as entries on a card index--and these facts began building to the lieutenant's undoing. they seemed to bring out like acid on sympathetic ink the miracle of a mr. hyde where his comrades had known only a doctor jekyll. the one man out of the two skeleton companies of infantry stationed in the interior town who remained seemingly impervious to the strangulating force of the tightening net was spurrier himself. in another man that insulated and steady-eyed confidence might have served as a manifest of innocence and a proclamation of clean conscience. but spurrier wore a nick-name, until now lightly considered, to which new conditions had added importance. they had called him "the plunger," and now they could not forget the nickeled and chrome-hardened gambling nerve which had won for him the sobriquet. there had been the _coup_ at oakland, for example, when a stretch finish had stood to ruin him or suddenly enrich him--an incident that had gone down in racing history and made café talk. through a smother of concealing dust and a thunder of hoofs, the field had struggled into the stretch that afternoon, tight-bunched, with its snapping silks too closely tangled for easy distinguishing--but the cerise cap that proclaimed spurrier's choice was nowhere in sight. the bookmakers pedestalled on their high stools with field glasses glued to their eyes had been more excited than the young officer on the club-house lawn, who put away his binoculars while the horses were still in the back stretch and turned to chat with a girl. three lengths from the finish a pair of distended nostrils had thrust themselves ahead of the other muzzles to catch the judges' eyes, and bending over steaming withers had nodded a cerise cap. but the lieutenant who had escaped financial disaster and won a miniature fortune had gone on talking to the girl. might it not be suspected in these circumstances that "plunger" spurrier's refusal to treat his accusation seriously was only an attitude? he was sitting in a game now with his neck at stake and the cards running against him. perhaps he was only bluffing as he had never bluffed before. possibly he was brazening it out. it was not until the battalion had hiked back through bosque and over mountains to manila that the lieutenant faced his tribunal: a court whose simplified methods cut away the maze of technicalities at which a man may grasp before a civilian jury of his peers. if, when he actually sat in the room where the evidence was heard, his assurance that he was to emerge clean-shriven began to reel under blows more powerful than he had expected, at least his face continued to testify for him with an outward serenity of confidence. doctor james told his story with an admirable restraint and an absolute absence of coloring. he had meant to go to comyn, because he read in his eyes the signs of nerve waste and insomnia; the same things that had caused too many suicides among the men whose nervous constitutions failed to adapt themselves to the climate. before he had carried his purpose to fulfillment--perhaps a half hour before--he had gone to look in on the case of private grant, who was suffering from just such a malady, though in a more serious degree. that private, a mountaineer from the cumberland hills of kentucky, had been to all appearances merely a lunatic, although it was a case which would yield to treatment or perhaps come to recovery even if left to itself. on this night he had gone to see if grant needed an opiate, but had found the patient apparently sleeping without restlessness, and had not roused him. at the door of the place where grant was under guard, he had paused for a word with private severance who stood there on sentry duty. it had been a sticky night following a hot day, and in the _calle_ upon which lay the command in billets of nipa-thatched houses, no one but himself and the sentries were astir during the twenty minutes he had spent strolling in the moonlight. on rounding a corner he had seen a light in comyn's window, and he had gone around the angle of the adobe house, since the door was on the farther side, to offer the captain a sleeping potion, too. that was how he chanced on the scene of the tragedy, just a moment too late for service. "you say," began spurrier's counsel, on cross-examination, "that you visited private grant about half an hour before captain comyn was killed and found him apparently resting naturally, although on previous nights you had thought morphia necessary to quiet his delirium?" the major nodded, then qualified slowly: "grant had not, of course, been continuously out of his head nor had he always slept brokenly. there had been lucid periods alternating with exhausting storm." "you are not prepared to swear, though, that this seeming sleep might not have been feigned?" "i am prepared to testify that it is most unlikely." "yet that same night he did make his escape and deserted. that is true, is it not?" the major bowed. "he had sought to escape before. that was symptomatic of his condition." "and since then he has not been recaptured, though he was in your opinion too ill and deranged to have deceived you by feigning sleep?" "quite true." "have you ever heard grant threaten captain comyn's life?" "never." "whether he had made such threats to your knowledge or not, he did come from that hill county of the kentucky mountains commonly called bloody brackton, did he not?" "i believe so. his enlistment record will answer that." "you do know, though, that the man on guard duty--the man with whom you spoke outside--was private severance, also from the so-called kentucky feud belt and a friend of the sick man?" "i can testify of my own knowledge only that he was private severance and that he and grant were of the same platoon--lieutenant spurrier's." the defense advocate paused and carefully framed a hypothetical question to be answered by the witness as a medical expert. "i will now ask you to speak from your knowledge of blood tendencies as affected or distorted by mental abnormalities. suppose a man to have been born and raised under a code which still adheres to feudal violence and the private avenging of personal grievances both real and fancied. suppose such a man to have conceived a bitter hatred against his commanding officer and to have brooded over that hatred until it had become a fixed idea--a monomania--a determination to kill; suppose such a man to have known only the fierce influences of his retarded hills until he came into the army and to have encountered there a discipline which seemed to him a tyranny. i will ask you whether such a man might not be apt to react to a homicidal mania under nervous derangement, and whether such a homicidal mania might not develop its own craftiness of method?" "such," testified the medical officer, "is a conceivable but a highly imaginative possibility." then private severance was called and came into the room, where he stood smartly at attention until instructed to take the witness chair. this dark-haired private from the cumberlands looked the soldier from crown to sole leather, yet his features seemed to hold under their present repose an ancient stamp of sullenness. it was an intangible quality rather than an expression, as though it bore less relation to his present than to some unconquerable survival from generations that had passed on; generations that had been always peering into shadows and searching them for lurking perils. in his speech lingered quaintly remnants of dialect from the laureled hills that army life had failed to eradicate, and in his manner one could note a wariness of extreme caution. that was easy to understand, because private severance, too, stood under the charge of having permitted a prisoner to escape, and his evidence would confront him later when he in turn occupied the dock. "i didn't have no speech with bud grant that night," he testified, "but i'd looked in some several times through the window. it was a barred window, an' every time i peeked through it i could see bud layin' there asleep. the moon fell acrost his cot so i could see him plain." "when did you see him last?" "after major james had been in and come out--a full fifteen minutes later. i'm able to swear to that, because i noticed the moon just as the major went out, and, when i looked in through the window the last time, the moon was a full quarter hour lower down to'rds settin'." after a moment's pause the witness volunteered in amplification: "where i come from we don't have many clocks or watches. we goes by the sun and moon." "then you can swear that if private grant fired the shot that killed captain comyn, he must have escaped and eluded your sight; armed himself, crossed the plaza; turned the corner; accomplished the act and gotten clean away, all within the brief period of five minutes?" "i can swear to more than that. he didn't get past me till _after_ the pistol went off. there wasn't no way out but by the one door, and i was right at that door all the time until i left it." "when did you leave?" the witness gave response without hesitation, yet with the same serious weighing of his words. "i was standing there, sorter peerin' up at the stars an' beginning to feel right smart tired when i heard the shot. i heard the shout of the corporal of the guard, too, an' then it was that i made my mistake." he paused and went on evenly. "i hadn't ought to have stirred away from my post, but it seemed like a sort of a general alarm, an' i went runnin' to'rds it. that was the first chanst bud had to get away. when i got back he was gone." "you are sure he was still there when the shot sounded?" "as god looks down, i can swear he was!" then the defense took the witness. "when does your enlistment expire?" "two months, come sunday." "you know to the day, don't you? you are keenly anxious for that day to come, aren't you?" "why wouldn't i be? i've got folks at home." "haven't you and grant both been malcontents throughout your entire period of service?" "it's news to me, if it's true." "haven't you often heard private grant swear vengeance against captain comyn?" "not no more than to belly-ache some little." "is it not a fact that since you and grant ran amuck on the transport coming over, and comyn put you both in irons, the two of you had sworn vengeance against him; that you had both taken the blood oath to get him?" severance looked blankly at his questioner and blankly shook his head. "that's all new tidings ter me," he asserted with entire calmness. "don't you know that you deliberately let grant out immediately after the visit of major james and slipped him the pistol with which he fired the shot? didn't you do that, knowing that when the report sounded you could make it your excuse for leaving your post, and then perjure yourself as to the time?" "i know full well," asserted the witness with an unshaken composure, "that nothing like that didn't happen." fact built on fact until even the defendant's counsel found himself arguing against a growing and ugly conviction. the pistol had been identified as spurrier's, and his explanation that he had left it hanging in his holster at his quarters, whence some unknown person might have abstracted it, lacked persuasiveness. the defense built a structure of hypothesis based upon the fact that the open door of spurrier's room was visible from the house where grant had been tossing on his cot. the claim was urgently advanced that a skulking lunatic might easily have seen the glint of blued steel, and have been spurred in his madness by the temptation of such an implement ready to his hand. but that, too, was held to be a fantastic claim. so the verdict was guilty and the sentence life imprisonment. it must have been death, had the case, for all its warp of presumption and woof of logic, been other than circumstantial. the defendant felt that this mitigation of the extreme penalty was a misplaced mercy. the disgrace could be no blacker and death would at least have brought to its period the hideousness of the nightmare which must now stretch endlessly into the future. it was to a prisoner, sentenced and branded, that major withers came one afternoon when the court-martial of lieutenant spurrier had run its course as topic-in-chief for the officers' club at manila. other matters were already crowding it out of the minds it had profoundly shocked. "i want to talk to you, jack," began the major bluntly. "i want to talk to you with a candor that grows out of the affection we all felt for you--before this damnable thing upset our little world. my god, boy, you had life in your sling. you had every quality that makes the soldier; you had every social requisite except wealth. this besetting passion for gambling has brought the whole train of disaster--as logically as if you had killed him at the card table itself." "you are overlooking the fact, major," interrupted the prisoner dryly, "that i didn't kill him. moreover, it's too late now for the warning to benefit me. i dare say in leavenworth i shall have no trouble curbing my passion for gaming." he paused and added with an irony of despairing bitterness: "but i suppose i should thank you and say, like the negro standing on the gallows, 'dis hyar is surely g'wine to be a great lesson ter me.'" suddenly the voice broke and the young man wheeled to avert his face. "my god," he cried out, "why didn't you let them hang me or shoot me? any man can stiffen his legs and his spine for five minutes of dying--even public dying--but back of those walls with a convict's number instead of a name----" there he broke off and the battalion commander laid a hand on his heaving shoulder. "i didn't come to rub in preachments while you stood at the edge of the scaffold or the jail, jack. my warning may not be too late, after all. we've passed the matter up to the war department with a strong recommendation for clemency. we mean to pull every wire that can honorably be pulled. we're making the most of your good record heretofore and of the conviction being based on circumstantial evidence." he paused a moment and then went on with a trifle of embarrassment in his voice: "you know that senator beverly is at the governor general's palace--and that his daughter is with him." spurrier wheeled at that and stood facing his visitor with eyes that had kindled, but in which the light at once faded as he commented shortly: "neither the senator nor augusta has made any effort to see me since i was brought to manila." "perhaps the senator thought that was best, jack," argued withers. "for the daughter, of course, i'm not prepared to speak--but i know that beverly has been keeping the cable hot in your behalf. your name has become so familiar to the operators between here and washington that they don't spell it out any more: they only need to rap out sp. now--and if i needed a voice to speak for me on pennsylvania avenue or on capitol hill, there's no man i'd pick before the senator." when he had gone spurrier sat alone and to his ears came the distant playing of a band in the plaza. somewhere in that ancient town was the girl who had not been to see him, nor written to him, even though, just before his battalion had gone into the bosques across the mountains, she had let him slip a ring on her finger, and had answered "yes" to his question--the most personal question in the world. chapter iii there was a more assured light in major withers' eyes when he next came as a visitor into the prison quarters, and the heartiness of his hand clasp was in itself a congratulation. "the thing was carried up to the president himself," he declared. "washington is sick of you, spurrier. because of you miles of red tape have been snarled up. departments have worked overtime until the single hope of the united states government is that it may never hear of you again. you don't go to prison, after all, my boy." "you mean i am pardoned?" then, remembering that the rose of his bringing carried a sharp thorn the senior proceeded with a note of concern sobering his voice. "the red tape has not only been tangled because of you--but it has tangled you in its meshes, too, spurrier. yes, you are pardoned. you are as free as i am--but 'in view of the gravely convincing evidence, et cetera, et cetera'--it seems that some sort of compromise was deemed necessary." spurrier stood where he had risen from his seat and his eyes held those of his informant with a blending of inquiry and suspense. "what sort of compromise, major?" "you leave the army with a dishonorable discharge. the world is open to you and you've got an equipment for success--but you might as well recognize from the start that you're riding with a heavy impost in your saddle clothes, my boy." he paused a moment and then, dropping his race-track metaphor, went hurriedly on: "for myself, i think you're guilty or innocent and you ought to be hanged or clean-shriven. i don't get this dubious middle ground of freedom with a tarnished name. it's going to crop up to crab things for you just when they hang in the balance, and i'm damned if i can see its fairness! it will cause men to look askance and to say 'he was saved from rope-stretching only by wire-pulling.'" the major ended somewhat savagely and spurrier made no answer. he was gazing out at the patch of blue that blazed hotly through the high, barred window and, seeing there reminders of the bars sinister that would henceforth stand between himself and the sky. the battalion chief interrupted the long pause to suggest: "the _empress_ sails on tuesday. if i were you i'd take passage on her. i suppose you will, won't you?" "that depends," answered the liberated man hesitantly. "i've got to thank the senator--and, though she hasn't sent me any message, there's a question to ask a girl." "it's none of my business, of course, spurrier," came the advising voice quietly. "but the beverlys have engaged passage on the _empress_. if i were you, i'd drop a formal note of gratitude and leave the rest until you meet them aboard." after a moment's thought the other nodded. "i'll follow that suggestion. it may be less embarrassing for--them." "the other fellows are going to send a sort of a hamper down to the boat. there won't be any cards, but you'll know that a spirit of godspeed goes with the stirrup cup." for an instant spurrier looked puzzled and the major, whose note of embarrassment had been growing until it seemed to choke him, now spluttered and sought to bury his confusion under a forced paroxysm of coughing. then impulsively he thrust out his hand and gripped that of the man of whom just now he could remember only gallant things; soldierly qualities and gently bred charm. "in a fashion, jack, you must shake hands with all of them through me. i come as their proxy. they can't give you a blowout, you know. they can't even come to see you off. i can say what i like now. the papers aren't signed up yet, but afterward--well, you know! damn it, i forget the exact words that the articles of war employ--about an officer who goes out--this way." "don't bother, major. i get your meaning." spurrier took the proffered hand in both his own. "no officer can give me social recognition. i believe the official words are that i shall be 'deemed ignominious.' tell the boys i understand." on the sailing day john spurrier, whose engagingly bold eyes had not yet learned to evade the challenge of any glance, timed his arrival on board almost as surreptitiously as a stowaway. it was from behind the closed door of his own stateroom that he listened to the deck commotion of laughter and leave-taking and heard, when the whistle had shrieked its warning to shore-going visitors, the grind of anchor chain on winch and windlass. that evening he dined in an inconspicuous corner by arrangement with the dining-saloon steward, and bolted his meal with nervous haste. from afar, as he had stood in a companionway, he had glimpsed a panama-hatted girl--a girl who did not see him, and who had shown only between the shifting heads and shoulders of the crowd. he could not have told even had he been closer whether her gloved left hand still wore upon its third finger the ring that he had put there--before things had happened. he must face the issue of questioning her and being questioned, and he hoped that he might have his first meeting with her alone--free from the gaze of other eyes that would torture him, and perhaps mortify her. so when the moon had risen and the band had begun its evening concert he slipped out on deck and took up his station alone at the stern rail. it was not entirely dark even here, but the light was mercifully tempered, and upon the promenaders he turned his back, remaining in a seclusion from which, with sidewise glances, he appraised each figure that drifted by. once his eyes encountered those of a tall and elderly gentleman in uniform upon whose shoulder straps glittered the brigadier's single star. for an instant spurrier forgot the sadly altered color of his status and his hand, answering to instinct, rose in salute, while his lips parted in a smile. but the older man, who fortunately was alone, after an embarrassed instant went on, pretending an absent-mindedness that ignored the salutation. spurrier could feel that the general was scarcely more comfortable than himself. slowly, at length, he left his outlook over the phosphorescent wake and drifted isolatedly about the decks, giving preference to the spots where the shadows lay heaviest. but when his wandering brought him again to the place he had abandoned at the stern, he found that it had been preëmpted by another. a figure stood there alone and so quiet that at first he hardly distinguished it as separate from the black contour of a capstan. but with the realization he recognized a panama hat, from under whose brim escaped a breeze-stirred strand of dark hair, and promptly he stepped to the rail, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound. the girl did not hear him, nor did she, as he found himself reflecting, feel his presence as lovers do in romances, and turn to greet him before he announced himself. but as she stood there in the shadow, with moonlight and starlight around her, his pulses quickened with an insupportable commotion of mingled hope and fear. her beauty was that of the aristocrat. it was this patrician quality which had first challenged his interest in her and answered to his own inordinate pride of self-confidence. he had liked the lightness with which her small feet trod the earth and the prideful tilt of her exquisitely modeled chin. after all, he had known her only a short time--and now he realized that he did not know her well: certainly not well enough to estimate with any surety how they would meet again, after an interval which had tarnished the name that had come to him from two generations of accrued distinction. he bent forward, and, in a low voice, spoke her name, and she turned without a start so that she stood looking into his eyes. "i suppose you know," he began, and for once he spoke without self-assurance, "that i didn't hunt you out sooner because i wanted to spare you embarrassment. i knew you were sailing by this boat--and so i took it, too." she nodded her head, but remained silent. her eyes met his and lingered, but they were like curtained windows and told him nothing. it was as if she wished to let him pitch the plane of their meeting without interference, and he was grateful. "i don't suppose," he began, forcing himself to speak with forthright directness, "i need protest my innocence to you--and i don't suppose i need confess that the stigma will stick to me--that in--some quarters--it will mean ostracism. i wanted to meet you the first time alone as much for your sake as my own." "i know----" she agreed faintly, but there was no rush of confidence, of sympathy that thought only of the black situation in which he stood. "i know, too," he went on with the same steadiness, "that but for your father's efforts i should have had to spend the rest of my life in prison. above all, i know that your father made those efforts because you ordained it." "it was too horrible," she whispered with a little shudder. "it was inconceivable." "it still is," he reminded her. "there is a question, then, to be asked--a question for you to answer." the girl's hands dropped on the rail and her fingers tightened as her eyes, deeply pained, went off across the wake. she seemed unable to help him, unable to do more than give back monosyllabic responses to the things he said. "of course, i can't assume that the promise you gave me--before all this--still stands, unless you can ratify it. i'm the same man, yet quite a different man." at last she turned, and he saw that her lashes were wet with tears. "some day," she suggested almost pleadingly, "some day surely you will be able to clear your name--now that you're free to give yourself to it." he shook his head, "that is going to be the purpose of my life," he answered. "but god only knows----" "when you have done that," she impetuously exclaimed, "come back to me. i'll wait." but spurrier shook his head and stiffened a little, not indignantly, but painfully, and his face grew paler than it had yet been. "that is generous of you," he said slowly. "that is the best i had the right to hope for--but it's not enough. it would be a false position for you--with a mortgage of doubt on your future. i've got to face this thing nakedly. i've got to depend only on those people who don't need proof--who simply know that i must be innocent of--of _this_ because it would be impossible for me to be guilty of it--people," he added, his voice rising with just a moment's betrayal of boyish passion, "who will take the seeming facts, just as they are, and still say, 'damn the facts!'" "can i do that?" she asked the question honestly, with eyes in which sincere tears glistened, and at last words came in freshet volume. "can i ignore the fact that father is in public life, where his affairs and those of his family are public property? you know he is talked of as presidential timber. can i ask him to move heaven and earth to give you back your liberty--and then have his critics say that it was all for a member of his own family--a private use of public power?" "then you want your promise back?" he demanded quietly. suddenly the girl carried her hands to her face, a face all the lovelier for its distress. "i don't--know what--i want," she gasped. her lover stood looking down at her, and his temples grew coldly moist where the veins stood out. "if you don't know what you want, dear, i know one thing that you can't do," he said. "under these circumstances, your only chance of happiness would lie in your wanting one thing so much that the rest wouldn't count." he paused, and then he, too, moved aside and stood with her, leaning on the rail while in the phosphorescent play of the water and the broken reflections of the low-hung stars he seemed to find a sort of anodyne. "i said that what you offered was the most i had the right to hope for. that was true. your father's objections are legitimate. i owe you both more than i can ever pay--but i won't add to that debt." "i thought," said the girl miserably, "that i loved you--enough for anything. the shock of all this--has made my mind swirl so that now--i'm not sure of anything." "yes," he said dully, "i understand." yet perhaps what he understood, or thought he understood, just then was either more or less than implied in the deferential compliance of his voice. this girl had given her promise to an officer and a gentleman with two generations of gallant army record behind him and a promising future ahead. she was talking now to one who, in the words of the articles of war was neither an officer nor a gentleman and who had been saved from life imprisonment only by influence of her own importuning. her own distress of mind and incertitude were so palpable and pathetic that the man had spoken with apology in his voice, because through him she had been forced into her dilemma. yet, until now, he had been young enough and naïve enough to believe in certain tenets of romance--and, in romance, a woman who really loved a man would not be weighing at such a time her father's aspirations toward the white house. in romance, even had he been as guilty as perdition, he would have stood in her eyes, incapable of crime. palpably life and romance followed variant laws and, for a bitter moment, spurrier wished that the senator had kept hands off, and left him to his fate. he had heard the senator himself characterized as a man cold-bloodedly ambitious and contemptuous of others and, having seen only the genial side of that prominent gentleman, he had resentfully denied such statements and made mental comment of the calumny that attaches to celebrity. yet, spurrier argued to himself, the girl was right. quite probably if he had a sister similarly placed, he would be seeking to show her the need of curbing impulse with common sense. from a steamer chair off somewhere at their backs came a low peal of laughter, and the orchestra was busy with a fox trot. for perhaps five minutes neither of them spoke again, but at last the girl twisted the ring from her finger. at least her loyalty had kept it there until she could remove it in his presence. she handed it to him and he turned it this way and that. the moonlight teased from its setting a jet of cold radiance. then spurrier tossed it outward and watched the white arc of its bright vanishing. he heard a muffled sob and saw the girl turn and start toward the companionway door. instinctively he took a step forward following, then halted and stood where he was. later, spurrier forced himself toward the smoke room where already under cigar and cigarette smoke, poker and bridge games were in progress, and where in little groups those men who were not playing discussed the topics of east and west. he was following no urge of personal fancy in entering that place, but rather obeying a resolution he had made out there on deck. now that he had asked his question and had his answer there was nothing from which he could afford to hide. he knew that he came heralded by the advance agency of gossip and that it behooved him from the start to meet and give back glance for glance: to declare by his bearing that he had no intention of skulking, and no apologies to make. yet, having reached the entrance from the deck, he hesitated, and while he still stood, with his back to the lighted door of the smoke room, he reeled under a sudden impact and was thrown against the rail. recovering himself with an exclamation of anger, spurrier found himself confronting a man rising from his knees, whose awkwardness had caused the collision. but the stumbling person having regained his feet, stood seemingly shaken by his fall, and after a moment, during which spurrier eyed him with hostile silence, exclaimed: "plunger spurrier!" "that is not my name, sir," retorted the ex-officer hotly. "and it's not one that i care to have strangers employ." the man drew back a step, and the light from the doorway fell across a face a little beyond middle age; showing a broad forehead and strongly chiseled features upon which sat an expression of directness and force. "my apology is, at least, as ready as was my exclamation," declared the stranger in a pleasant voice that disarmed hostility. "the term was not meant offensively. i saw you at oakland one day when a race was run, and i've heard certain qualities of yours yarned about at mess tables in the east. i ask your pardon." "it's granted," acceded spurrier of necessity. "and since you've heard of me, you doubtless know enough to make allowances for my short temper and excuse it." "i _have_ heard your story," admitted the other man frankly. "my name is snowdon. it's just possible you may have heard of me, too." "you're not snowdon the engineer: the panama canal man, the chinese railway builder, are you?" "i had a hand in those enterprises," was the answer, and with a slight bow the gentleman went his way. the spot where the two men had stood talking was far enough aft to look down on the space one deck lower and one degree farther astern, where, as through a well space, showed the meaner life of the steerage. there was a light third-class list on this voyage, and when spurrier moved out of the obscurity which had been thrown over him by the life boat's shadow, he stood gazing idly down on an empty prospect. he gazed with an interest too moodily self-centered for easy inciting. he himself stood now clear shown under the frosted globe of an overhead light and, after a little, roused to a tepid curiosity, he fancied he could make out what seemed to be a human figure that clung to the blackest of the shadows below him. he even fancied that in that lower darkness he caught the momentary dull glint of metal reflecting some half light, and an impression of furtive movement struck in upon him. but after a moment's scrutiny, which failed to clarify the picture, he decided that his imagination had invented the vague shape out of nothing more tangible than shadow. if there had been a man there he seemed to have dissolved now. so spurrier turned away. had his eyes possessed a nearer kinship to those of the cat, which can read the dark, he would have altered his course of action from that instant forward. he would, first, have gone to the captain and demanded permission to search the steerage for an ex-private of the infantry company that had lately been his own; a private against whose name on the muster roll stood the entry: "dead or deserted." yet when he turned on his heel and passed from the lighted area he unconsciously walked out of range of a revolver aimed at his breast--thereby temporarily settling for the man who fingered the trigger his question, "to shoot or not to shoot." for private grant, a fleeing deserter, convalescent from fever and lunacy, had been casting up the chances of his own life just then and debating the dangers and advantages of letting spurrier live. recognizing his former officer as he himself looked out of his hiding, his first impulse had been one of panic terror and in spurrier he had seen a pursuer. the finger had twitched nervously on the trigger--then while he wavered in decision the other had calmly walked out of range. now, if he kept out of sight until they reached frisco, the deserter told himself, a larger territory would spread itself for his escape than the confines of a steamer, and he belonged to a race that can bide its time. chapter iv spurrier entered the smoke room and stood for a moment in its threshold. there were uniforms there, and some men in them whom he had known, though now these other-time acquaintances avoided his eye and the necessity of an embarrassment which must have come from meeting it. but from an alcove seat near the door rose a stocky gentleman, well groomed and indubitably distinguished of guise, who had been tearing the covering from a bridge deck. "spurrier, my boy," he exclaimed cordially, "i'm glad to see you. i read your name on the list. won't you join us?" this was the man who had rolled away the mountains of official inertia and saved him from prison; who had stipulated with his daughter that she should not write to him in his cell; and who now embraced the first opportunity to greet him publicly with cordial words. here, reflected the cashiered soldier, was poise more calculated than his own, and he smiled as he shook his head, giving the answer which he knew to be expected of him. "no, thank you, senator." then he added a request: "but if these gentlemen can spare you for a few minutes i would appreciate a word with you." "certainly, my boy." with a glance about the little company which made his excuses, beverly rose and linked his arm through spurrier's, but when they stood alone on deck that graciousness stiffened immediately into manner more austere. "i've seen augusta," began the younger man briefly, "and told her i wouldn't seek to hold her to her promise. i suppose that meets with your approval?" the public man, whom rumor credited with presidential aspirations, nodded. "under the circumstances it is necessary. i may as well be candid. i tried vainly to persuade her to throw you over entirely, but i had to end in a compromise. she agreed not to communicate with you in any manner until your trial came to its conclusion." the cashiered officer felt his temples hammering with the surge of indignant blood to his forehead. this man who had so studiedly and successfully feigned genuine pleasure at seeing him, when other eyes were looking on, was telling him now with salamander coolness that he had urged upon his daughter the policy of callous desertion. the impulse toward resentful retort was almost overpowering, but with it came the galling recognition that, except for beverly's bull-dog pertinacity, spurrier himself would have been a life-termer, and that now humility became him better than anger. "did you seek to have augusta throw me over, without even a farewell--because you believed me guilty, sir?" his inquiry came quietly and the older man shook a noncommittal head. "it's not so much what i think as what the world will think," he made even response. "to put it in the kindest words, spurrier, you rest under a cloud." "senator," said the other in measured syllables, "i rest, also, under a great weight of obligation to you, but, there were times, sir, when for a note from her i'd willingly have accepted the death penalty." "i won't pretend that i fail to understand--even to sympathize with you," came the answer. "you must see none the less that i had no alternative. augusta's husband must be--well, like cæsar's wife." "there is nothing more to be said, i think," admitted spurrier, and the senator held out his hand. "in every other matter, i feel only as your friend. it will be better if to other eyes our relations remain cordial. otherwise my efforts on your behalf would give the busy-bodies food for gossip. that's what we are both seeking to avoid." spurrier bowed and watched the well-groomed figure disappear. the cloudless days and the brilliant nights of low-hung stars and phosphor waters were times of memorable opportunity and paradise for other lovers on that steamer. for spurrier they were purgatorial and when he realized augusta beverly's clearly indicated wish that he should leave her free from the embarrassment of any tete-a-tete, he knew definitely that her silence was as final as words could have made it. the familiar panama hat seen at intervals and the curve of the cheek that he had once been privileged to kiss seemed now to belong to an orbit of life remote from his own with an utterness of distance no less actual because intangible. the young soldier's nature, which had been prodigally generous, began to harden into a new and unlovely bitterness. once he passed her as she leaned on the rail with a young lieutenant who was going to the states on his first leave from island duty, and when the girl met his eyes and nodded, the cub of an officer looked up--and cut him dead with needless ostentation. for the old general, who had pretended not to see him, jack spurrier had felt only the sympathy due to a man bound and embarrassed by a severe code of etiquette, but with this cocksure young martinet, his hands itched for chastisement. throughout the trying voyage spurrier felt that snowdon, the engineer, was holding him under an interested sort of observation, and this surveillance he mildly resented, though the entire politeness of the other left him helpless to make his feeling outspoken. but when they had stood off from honolulu and brought near to completion the last leg of the pacific voyage, snowdon invited him into his own stateroom and with candid directness spoke his mind. "spurrier," he began, "i'd like to have a straight talk with you if you will accept my assurance of the most friendly motive." spurrier was not immediately receptive. he sat eying the other for a little while with a slight frown between his eyes, but in the end he nodded. "i should dislike to seem churlish," he answered slowly. "but i've had my nerves rubbed raw of late, and they haven't yet grown callous." "you see, it's rather in my line," suggested snowdon by way of preface, "to assay the minerals of character in men and to gauge the percentage of pay-dirt that lies in the lodes of their natures. so i've watched you, and if you care to have the results of my superficial research, i'm ready to report. no man knows himself until introduced to himself by another, because one can't see one's self at sufficient distance to gain perspective." spurrier smiled. "so you're like the announcer at a boxing match," he suggested. "you're ready to say, 'plunger spurrier, shake hands with jack spurrier--both members of this club.'" "precisely," assented snowdon as naturally as though there had been no element of facetiousness in the suggestion. "and now in the first place, what do you mean to do with yourself?" "i have no idea." "i suppose you have thought of the possibilities open to a west point man--as a soldier of fortune?" "yes," the answer was unenthusiastic. "thought of them and discarded them." "why?" the voice laughed and then spoke contemptuously. "a man's sword belongs to his flag. it can no more be honorably hired out than a woman's love. i can see in either only a form of prostitution." "good!" exclaimed snowdon heartily. "i couldn't have coached you to a better answer. are you financially independent?" "on the contrary, i have nothing. until now there was my pay and----" he paused there but went on again with a dogged self-forcing. "i might as well confess that the gaming table has always left a balance on my side of the ledger." "i haven't seen you playing since you came aboard." "no. i've cut that out----" "good again--and that brings us to where i stop eliciting information about yourself and begin giving it. i had heard of your gambling exploits before i saw you. i found that you had that cold quality of nerve which a few gamblers have, fewer than are credited with it, by far! incidentally, it's precisely the same quality that makes notable generals--and adroit diplomats--if they have the other qualities to support it. it's sublimated self-control and boldness. you were using it badly, but it was because you were seeking an outlet through the wrong channels. so i studied you, quite impersonally. your situation on board wasn't easy or enviable. you knew that eyes followed you and tongues wagged about you with a morbid interest. you saw chatting groups fall abruptly silent when you approached them and officers you had once fraternized with look hurriedly elsewhere. in short, my young friend, you have faced an acid test of ordeal, and you have borne yourself with neither the defiance of braggadocio, nor the visible hint of flinching. if i were looking for a certain type of specialized ability, i should say you had qualified." a flush spread on the face of the listener. "you are indeed introducing me to some one i haven't known," he said. "i know, too," went on snowdon, "that there has been a girl--and," he hastened to add as his companion stiffened, "i mention her only to show you that my observations have not been _too_ superficial. those qualities which i have catalogued have engaged my attention, because they are rare--rare enough to be profitably capitalized." "all this is parable to me, sir." "quite probably. i mean to construe it. there are men who originate or discover great opportunities of industry--and they need capital to bring their plans to fruition--but capital can be approached only through envoys and will receive only ambassadors who can compel recognition. the man who can hope to be successfully accredited to the court of big money must possess uncommon attributes. pinch-beck promoters and plausible charlatans have made cynics of our lords of wealth." "what would such a man accomplish," inquired spurrier, "aside from a sort of non-resident membership in the association of plutocrats?" "he would," declared snowdon promptly, "help bridge the chasm between the world's unfinanced achievers, and its unachieving finances." "that," conceded the ex-soldier, "would be worth the doing." "john law at twenty-one built a scheme of finance for great britain," the engineer reminded him. "he could come into the presence of a king and in five minutes the king would urge him to stay. force and presence can make such an ambassador, and those things are the veins of human ore i've assayed in you in paying quantities." spurrier looked across at the strange companion whom chance had thrown across his path with a commotion of pulses which his face in no wise mirrored into outward expression. it had begun to occur to him that if a man is born for an adventurous life even the articles of war cannot cancel his destiny. "it would seem," he suggested casually enough, "that this need of which you speak is for fellows, in finance, who can carry the message to garcia, as it were. isn't that it?" "that's it, and messengers to garcia don't tramp on each other's heels. yet i have spoken of only one phase of the career i'm outlining. it has another side to it as well, if one man is going to unite in himself the whole of the possibility." snowdon broke off there a moment and seemed to be distracted by some thought of his own, but presently he began again. "my hypothetical man would act largely as a free lance, knocking about the world on a sort of constantly renewed exploration. he would be the prospector hunting gold and the explorer searching for new continents of industrial development, only instead of being just the one or the other he would be a sort of sublimation. his job would sometimes call him into the wildernesses, but more often, i think, his discoveries would lie under the noses of crowds, passed by every day by clever folk who never saw them--clever folk who are not quite clever enough." "it would seem to me that those discoveries," demurred spurrier thoughtfully, "would come each time to some highly trained technician in some particular line." snowdon shook his head again. "that's why they have come slowly heretofore," he declared with conviction. "that man i have in mind is one with a sure nose for the trail and a power of absorbing readily and rapidly what he requires of the other man's technical knowledge. it's the policy that japan has followed as a nation. they let others work the problems out over there--then they appropriate the results. i'm not commending it as a national trait, but for this work it's the first essential. having made his discovery, this new type of business man will enlist for it the needful financial support." he paused again and spurrier, lighting a fresh cigarette, regarded him through eyes slit-narrowed against the flare of the match. "he must be a sort of opportunity hound," continued snowdon smilingly. "he would go baying across the world in full cry and come back to the kennel at the end of each chase." spurrier laughed. "if you'll pardon me, sir," he hazarded, "you make a very bad metaphor. i should fancy that the opportunity hound would do the stillest sort of still hunting." the older man smiled and bowed his head affirmatively. "i accept the amendment. the point is, do i give you the concept of the work?" "in a broad, extremely sketchy way, i think i get the picture," replied spurrier. "but could you give me some sort of illustration that would make it a shade more concrete?" his companion sat considering the question for a while and at last inquired: "do you know anything about oil? i mean about its production?" "i've been on the pennsylvania railroad, coming west," testified the former lieutenant. "and i've run through ragged hills where on every side, stood clumsy, timber affairs like overgrown windmills from which some victorious don quizote had knocked off the whirligigs. then i've read a little of ida tarbell." "even that will serve for a sort of background. now, people in general think of striking oil as they might think of finding money on the sidewalk or of lightning striking a particular spire--as a matter of purest chance. to some extent that idea is correct enough, but the brains of oil production are less haphazard. in the office of a few gentlemen who hold dominion over oil and gas hangs a map drawn by the intelligence department of their general staff. on that map are traced lines not unlike those showing ocean currents, but their arrows point instead to currents far under ground, where runs the crude petroleum, discovered--and undiscovered." "undiscovered?" spurrier's brows were lifted in polite incredulity, but his companion nodded decisively. "discovered and undiscovered," he repeated. "geological surveys told the mapmakers how certain lines and structures ran in tendency. where went a particular formation of nature's masonry, there in probability would go oil. the method was not absolute, i grant you, but neither was it haphazard. sitting in an office in pittsburgh a certain man drew on his chart what has since been recognized as the line of the forty-second degree, running definitely from the pennsylvania fields down through ohio and into the appalachian hills of kentucky--thence west and south. study your fields in oklahoma, in old mexico, and you will find that, widely separated as they are, each of them is marked by a cross on that map, and that each of them lies along the current trend which the pittsburgh man traced before many of them were touched by a drill." "that, surely," argued spurrier, "testifies for the highly skilled technician, doesn't it?" "so far. i now come to the chance of the opportunity hound. the present fields are spots of production here and there. between them lie others, virgin to pump or rig. much of that ground is, of course, barren territory, for even on an acre of proven location dry holes may lie close to gushers; one man's farm may be a 'duster' while his neighbor's spouts black wealth. but along that charted line run the probabilities." into spurrier's eyes stole the gleam of the adventuring spirit that was strong in him. "it sounds like robert louis stevenson and buried treasure," he declared with unconcealed enthusiasm, but snowdon only smiled. "remember," he cautioned, "i'm illustrating--nothing more. now in the foothills of the kentucky cumberlands, for example, some years ago men began finding oil. it lay for the most part in a country where the roads were creek beds--remote from railway facilities. it was an expensive sort of proposition to develop, but the cry of 'oil! oil!' has never failed to set the pack a-running, and it ran." "i don't remember hearing of that rush," admitted spurrier. "no, i dare say you didn't. it was a flare-up and a die-down. the men who rushed in, plodded dejectedly out again, poorer by the time they had spent." "then the boom collapsed?" "it collapsed--but why? because the gentlemen who hold dominion over oil and gas caucussed and so ordained. they gathered around their map and stuck pins here and there. they said, 'this oil can come out in two ways only: by pipe line or tank cars. we will stand aloof and develop where the cost is less and the profit greater--and without us, it cannot succeed.'" "were there no independent concerns to bring the stuff to market?" snowdon laughed. "the gentlemen who hold dominion have their own defenses against competition. you may have heard of a certain dog in the manger? well, they said as they sat about their table on which the map was spread, 'some day other fields may run out. some day something may set oil soaring until even this yield may be well worth our attention. we will therefore hold this card in reserve against that day and that contingency.' so quietly, inconspicuously, yet with a power that strangled competition, lobbies operated in state legislatures. the independents failed to secure needful charters--the lines were never laid. those particular fields starved, and now the ignorant mountaineers who woke for a while to dreams of wealth, laugh at the man who says 'oil' to them. yet at some properly, or improperly designated day, those failure fields will flash on the astonished world as something risen from the dead, and fortunes will blossom for the lucky." "yes?" prompted the listener. "now let us suppose our opportunity hound as willing to go unostentatiously into that country; as willing to spend part of each year there for a term of years; nipping options here and there, waiting patiently and watching his chance to slip a charter through one of those bound and gagged legislatures in some moment of relaxed vigilance. such a man might find himself ultimately standing with the key to the situation in his own hand. it's just a story, but perhaps it serves to give you my meaning." "did i understand you to suggest," inquired spurrier with a forced calmness, "that you fancy you see in me the qualities of your opportunity hound?" "our own concern," said snowdon quietly, "is fortunate enough to have passed through the period of cooling its heels in the anterooms of capital, but we can still use a man such as i have described. there's a place for you with us if you want it." "when do i go to work?" demanded the former lieutenant rising from his seat, and snowdon countered: "when will you be ready to begin?" "when we dock at 'frisco," came the immediate response, "provided i be allowed time for an affair of my own, two months from now. a certain private in my old company will be discharged from the service then. i fancy he'll land there, and i want to be waiting for him when he steps ashore." "a reprisal?" inquired snowdon in a disappointed tone, but the other shook his head. "he is the one man through whom there's a chance of clearing my name," spurrier said slowly. "i hope it won't call for violence." chapter v private grant had been bred of the blood of hatred and suckled in vindictiveness. he had come into being out of the heritage of feud fighting "foreparents," and he thought in the terms of his ancestry. when he had fled into the jungle beyond the island village, though he had been demented and enfeebled, the instinct of a race that had often "hidden out" guided him. that instinct and chance had led him to a native house where his disloyalty gave him a welcome, and there he had found sanctuary until his fever subsided and he emerged cadaverous, but free. word had filtered through to him there of spurrier's court-martial and its result. in the course of time, fever-wasted yet restored out of his semi-lunacy, he had made his way furtively but successfully toward manila and there he had supplemented the sketchy fragments of information with which his disloyal native friends had been able to provide him. he knew now that the accused officer had pitched his defense upon an accusation of the deserter and the refugee's eyes smoldered as he learned that he himself had been charged with prefacing his flight with murder. he knew what that meant. the disgraced officer would move heaven and earth to clear his smirched name, and the condition precedent would be the capture of private grant and the placing of him in the prisoner's dock. to be wanted for desertion was grave enough. to be wanted both for desertion and the assassination of his company commander was infinitely worse, and to stand in that position and face, as he believed he would have to, a conspiracy of class feeling, was intolerable. haunting the shadowy places about manila, grant had been almost crazed by his fears but with the lifting of the steamer's anchor, a great spirit of hope had brightened in him, feeding on the solace of the thought that, once more in the states, he could lose himself from pursuit and vigilance. then he had seen, on the same ship, the face of the man whom, above all others, he had occasion to fear! for their joint lives the world was not large enough. one of them must die, and in the passion that swept over him with the dread of discovery. grant had skirted a relapse into his recent mania. at that moment when spurrier had looked down and he had looked up, the deserter had seen only one way out, and that was to kill. but when the other had moved away, seemingly without recognition, his thoughts had moved more lucidly again. until he had tried soldiering he had known only the isolated life of forested mountains and here on a ship at sea he felt surrounded and helpless--almost timid. when he landed at san francisco, if his luck held him undiscovered that long, he would have dry land under him and space into which to flee. the refugee had hated comyn. now comyn was dead and grant transferred his hatred from the dead captain to the living lieutenant, resolving that he also must die. the moment to which he looked forward with the most harrowing apprehension was that when the vessel docked and put her passengers ashore. here at sea a comforting isolation lay between first and third cabin passengers and one could remain unseen from those deck levels that lay forward and above. but with the arrangements for disembarkation, he was unfamiliar, and for all he knew, the steerage people might be herded along under the eyes of those who traveled more luxuriously. he might have to march in such a procession, willy-nilly, over a gang-plank swept by a watchful eye. so private grant brooded deeply and his thoughts were not pretty. also he kept his pistol near him and when the hour for debarkation arrived he was ripe for trouble. it happened that a group of steerage passengers, including himself, were gathered together much as he had feared they might be, and grant's face paled and hardened as he saw, leaning with his elbows on a rail above him and a pipe in his mouth, the officer whom he dreaded. grant's hand slipped unobtrusively under his coat and his eyes narrowed as his heart tightened and became resolved. spurrier had not yet seen him but at any moment he might do so. there was nothing to prevent the wandering and casual glance from alighting on the spot where the deserter stood, and when it did so the mountaineer would draw and fire. but as the ex-officer's eyes went absently here and there a girl passed at his back and perhaps she spoke as she passed. at all events the officer straightened and stiffened. across his face flashed swiftly such an expression as might have come from a sudden and stinging blow, and then, losing all interest in the bustle of the lower decks, the man turned on his heel and walked rapidly away. the deserter's hand stole away from the pistol grip and his breath ran out in a long, sibilant gasp of relief and reaction. when later he had landed safely and unmolested, he turned in flight toward the mountains that he knew over there across the continent--mountains where only bloodhounds could run him to earth. beyond the rims of those forest-tangled peaks he had never looked out until he had joined the army, and once back in them, though he dare not go, for a while, to his own home county, he could shake off his palsy of fear. he traveled as a hobo, moneyless, ignorant, and unprepossessing of appearance, yet before the leaves began to fall he was at last tramping slopes where the air tasted sweeter to his nostrils, and the speech of mankind fell on his ear with the music of the accustomed. the name of bud grant no longer went with him. that, since it carried certain unfulfilled duties to an oath of allegiance, he generously ceded to the united states army, and contented himself with the random substitute of sim colby. now he tramped swingingly along a bowlder-broken creek bed which by local euphemism was called a road. when his way led him over the backbone of a ridge he could see, almost merged with the blue of the horizon, the smoky purple of a sugar loaf peak, which marked his objective. when he passed that he would be in territory where his journeying might end. to reach it he must transverse the present vicinity in which a collateral branch of his large family still dwelt, and where he himself preferred to walk softly, wary of possible recognition. to the man whose terror had seen in every casual eye that rested on him while he crossed a continent, a gleam of accusation, it was as though he had reached sanctuary. the shoulders that he had forced into a hang-dog slough to disguise the soldierly bearing which had become habitual in uniform, came back into a more buoyant and upright swing. the face that had been sullen with fear now looked out with something of the bravado of earlier days, and the whole experience of the immediate past; of months and even years, took on the unreality of a nightmare from which he was waking. the utmost of caution was still required, but the long flight was reaching a goal where substantial safety lay like a land of promise. it was a land of promise broken with ragged ranges and it was fiercely austere; the cumberland mountains reared themselves like a colossal and inhospitable wall of isolation between the abundant richness of lowland kentucky to the west, and virginia's slope seaward to the east. but isolation spelled refuge and the taciturn silences of the men who dwelt there, asking few questions and answering fewer, gave promise of unmolested days. these hills were a world in themselves; a world that had stood, marking time for a hundred and fifty years, while to east and west life had changed and developed and marched with the march of the years. sequestered by broken steeps of granite and sand stone, the human life that had come to the coves and valleys in days when the pioneers pushed westward, had stagnated and remained unaltered. illiteracy and ignorance had sprung chokingly into weed-like prevalence. the blood-feud still survived among men who fiercely insisted upon being laws unto themselves. speech fell in quaint uncouthness that belonged to another century, and the tides of progress that had risen on either hand, left untouched and uninfluenced the men and women of mountain blood, who called their lowland brethren "furriners" and who distrusted all that was "new-fangled" or "fotched-on." habitations were widely separated cabins. roads were creekbeds. life was meager and stern, and in the labyrinths of honeycombed and forest-tangled wilds, men who were "hidin' out" from sheriffs, from revenuers, from personal enemies, had a sentimental claim on the sympathy of the native-born. this was the life from which the deserter had sprung. it was the life to which with eager impatience he was returning; a life of countless hiding places and of no undue disposition to goad a man with questioning. through the billowing richness of the bluegrass lowlands, he had hurried with a homing throb in his pulses. as the foothills began to break out of the fallow meadows and the brush to tangle at the fringe of the smoothness, his breath had come deeper and more satisfying. when the foothills rose in steepness until low, wet streamers of cloud trailed their slopes like shrapnel smoke, and the timber thickened and he saw an eagle on the wing, something like song broke into being in his heart. he was home. home in the wild mountains where air and the water had zest and life instead of the staleness that had made him sick in the flat world from which he came. he was home in the mountains where others were like him and he was not a barbarian any longer among contemptuous strangers. he plodded along the shale-bottomed water course for a little way and halted. as his woodsman's eye took bearings he muttered to himself: "hit's a right slavish way through them la'rel hills, but hit's a cut-off," and, suiting his course to his decision, he turned upward into the thickets and began to climb. an hour later he had covered the "hitherside" and "yon side" of a small mountain, and when he came to the highway again he found himself confronted by a half dozen armed horsemen whose appearance gave him apprehensive pause, because at once he recognized in them the officialdom of the law. the mounted travelers drew rein, and he halted at the roadside, nodding his greeting in affected unconcern. the man who had been riding at the fore held in his left hand the halter line of a led horse, and now he looked down at the pedestrian and spoke in the familiar phrase of wayside amenity. "howdy, stranger, what mout yore name be?" "sim colby from acrost hemlock mountain ways, but i've done been west fer a year gone by, though, an' i'm jest broguein' along to'rds home." the questioner, a long, gaunt man with a face that had been scarred, but never altered out of its obstinate set, eyed him for a moment, then shot out the question: "did ye ever hear tell of sam mosebury over thet-away?" it was lucky that the fugitive had given as his home a territory with which he had some familiarity. now his reply came promptly. "yes, i knows him when i sees him. some folks used ter give him a right hard name over thar, but i reckon he's all right ef a man don't aim ter crowd him too fur." "i don't know how fur he mout of been crowded," brusquely replied the man with the extra horse, "but he kilt a man in rattletown yestiddy noon an' tuck ter ther woods. i'm after him." the foot traveler expressed an appropriate interest, then added: "howsomever, hit ain't none of my affair, an' seein' thet i've got a right far journey ahead of me, i'll hike along." but the leader of the mounted group shook his head. "one of my men got horse flung back thar an' broke a bone inside him. i'm ther high sheriff of this hyar county, an' i hereby summons ye ter go along with me an' ack as a member of my possy." under his tan private grant paled a little. this mischance carried a triple menace to his safety. it involved riding back to the county seat where some man might remember his face, and recall that two years ago he had gone away on a three years' enlistment. but even if he escaped that contingency, it meant tarrying in this neighborhood through which he had meant to pass inconspicuously and rapidly. to be attached to a _posse comitatus_ riding the hills on a man hunt meant to challenge every passing eye with an interest beyond the casual. finally, though he might well have forgotten him, the man whose trail he was now called to take in pursuit had once known him slightly, and if they met under such hostile auspices, might recognize and denounce him. but the sheriff sat enthroned in his saddle and robed in the color of authority. at his back sat five other men with rifles across their pommels, and with such a situation there was no argument. the law's officer threw the bridle rein of the empty-saddled mount to the man in the road. "get up on this critter," he commanded tersely, "and don't let him git his head down too low. he follers buck-jumpin'." when grant, alias colby, found that the men riding with him were more disposed to somber silence than to inquisitiveness or loquacity, he breathed easier. he even made a shrewd guess that there were others in that small group who answered the call of the law as reluctantly as he. sam mosebury was accounted as dangerous as a rattlesnake, and bud doubted whether even the high sheriff himself would make more than a perfunctory effort to come to grips with him in his present desperation. when the posse had ridden several hours, and had come to a spot in the forest where the trail forked diversely, a halt was called. they had traveled steep ways and floundered through many belly-deep fords. dust lay gray upon them and spattered mud overlaid the dust. "we've done come ter a pass, now," declared the sheriff, "where hit ain't goin' ter profit us no longer ter go trailin' in one bunch. we hev need ter split up an' turkey tail out along different routes." the sun had long crossed the meridian and dyed the steep horizon with burning orange and violet when bud grant and mose biggerstaff, with whom he had been paired off, drew rein to let their horses blow in a gorge between beetling walls of cliff. "me, i ain't got no master relish for this task, no-how," declared mose morosely as he spat at the black loam of rotting leaves. "no man ain't jedgmatically proved ter me, yit, thet ther feller sam kilt didn't need killin'." bud nodded a solemn concurrence in the sentiment. then abruptly the two of them started as though at the intrusion of a ghost and, of instinct, their hands swept holsterward, but stopped halfway. this sudden galvanizing of their apathy into life was effected by the sight of a figure which had materialized without warning and in uncanny silence in a fissure where the rocks dripped from reeking moss on either side. it stood with a cocked repeating rifle held easily at the ready, and it was a figure that required no heralding of its identity or menace. "were ye lookin' fer me, boys?" drawled sam mosebury with a palpable enjoyment of the situation, not unlike that which brightens the eyes of a cat as it plays with a mouse already crippled. with swift apprehension the eyes of the two deputies met and effected an understanding. mose biggerstaff licked his bearded lips until their stiffness relaxed enough for speech. "me an' sim colby hyar," he protested, "got summoned by ther high sheriff. we didn't hev no rather erbout hit one way ner t'other. all we've got ter go on air ther _dee_scription thet war give ter us--an' we don't see no resemblance atween ye an' ther feller we're atter." the murderer stood eying them with an amused contempt, and one could recognize the qualities of dominance which, despite his infamies, had won him both fear and admiration. "ef ye thinks ye'd ought ter take me along an' show me ter yore high sheriff," he suggested, and the finger toyed with the trigger, "i'm right hyar." "afore god, no!" it was bud who spoke now contradicting his colleague. "i've seed sam mosebury often times--an' ye don't no fashion faver him." sam laughed. "i've seed ye afore, too, i reckon," he commented dryly. "but ef ye don't know me, i reckon i don't need ter know _you_, nuther." the two sat atremble in their saddles until the apparition had disappeared in the laurel. * * * * * gray-templed and seamed of face, dyke cappeze entered the courthouse at carnettsville one day a few months later and paused for a moment, his battered law books under his threadbare elbow, to gaze around the murky hall of which his memory needed no refreshing. about the stained walls hung fly-specked notices of sheriff's sales, and between them stamped long-haired, lean-visaged men drawn in by litigation or jury service from branchwater and remote valley. out where the sun lay mellow on the town square was the brick pavement, on which cappeze's law partner had fallen dead ten years ago, because he dared to prosecute too vigorously. across the way stood the general store upon which one could still see the pock-marking of bullets reminiscent of that day when the heatons and the blacks made war, and terrorized the county seat. dyke cappeze looked over it all with a deep melancholy in his eyes. he knew his mountains and loved his people whose virtues were more numerous, if less conspicuous, than their sins. in his heart burned a militant insurgency. these hills cried out for development, and development demanded a conception of law broader gauged and more serious than obtained. it needed fearless courts, unterrified juries, intrepid lawyers. he had been such a lawyer, and when he had applied for life insurance he had been adjudged a prohibitive risk. to-day the career of three decades was to end, and as the bell in the teetering cupola began to clang its summons he shook his head--and pressed tight the straight lips that slashed his rugged face. on the bench sat the circuit-riding judge of that district; a man to whom, save when he addressed him as "your honor," dyke cappeze had not spoken in three years. they were implacable enemies, because too often the lawyer had complained that justice waited here on expediency. cappeze looked at the windows bleared with their residue of dust and out through them at the hills mantling to an autumnal glory. then he heard that suave--to himself he said hypocritical--voice from the bench. "gentlemen of the bar, any motions?" wearily the thin, tall-framed lawyer came to his feet and stood erect and silent for a moment in his long, black coat, corroding into the green of dilapidation. "may it please your honor," he grimly declared. "i hardly know whether my statement may be properly called a motion or not. it's more a valedictory." he drew from his breast pocket a bit of coarse, lined writing paper and waved it in his talon-like hand. "i was retained by the widow sales, whose husband was shot down by sam mosebury, to assist the prosecution in bringing the assassin to punishment. the grand jury has failed to indict this defendant. the sheriff has failed to arrest him. the court has failed to produce those witnesses whom i have subpoenaed. the machinery of the law which is created for the sole purpose of protecting the weak against the encroachments of the malevolent has failed." he paused, and through the crowded room the shuffling feet fell silent and heads bent excitedly forward. then cappeze lifted the paper in his hand and went on: "i hold here an unsigned letter that threatens me with death if i persist with this prosecution. it came to me two weeks ago, and since receiving it i have redoubled my energy. when this grand jury was impaneled and charged, such a note also reached each of its members. i know not what temper of soul actuates those men who have sworn to perform the duties of grand jurors. i know not whether these threats have affected their deliberations, but i know that they have failed to return a true bill against sam mosebury!" the judge fingering his gavel frowned gravely. "does counsel mean to charge that the court has proven lax?" "i mean to say," declared the lawyer in a voice that suddenly mounted and rung like a trumpeted challenge, "that in these hills of kentucky the militant spirit of the law seems paralyzed! i mean to say that terrorism towers higher than the people's safeguards! for a lifetime i have battled here to put the law above the feud--and i have failed. in this courthouse my partner fought for a recognition of justice and at its door he paid the penalty with his life. i wish to make no charges other than to state the facts. i am growing old, and i have lost heart in a vain fight. i wish to withdraw from this case as associate commonwealth counsel, because i can do nothing more than i have done, and that is enough. i wish to state publicly that to-day i shall take down my shingle and withdraw from the practice of law, because law among us seems to me a misnomer and a futile semblance." in a dead silence the elderly attorney came to his period and gathered up again under his threadbare elbow his two or three battered books. turning, he walked down the center aisle toward the door, and as he went his head sagged dejectedly forward on his chest. he heard the instruction of his enemy on the bench, still suave: "mr. clerk, let the order be entered striking the name of mr. cappeze from the record as associate counsel for the commonwealth." it was early forenoon when the elderly attorney left the dingy law office which he was closing, and the sunset fires were dying when he swung himself down from the saddle at his own stile in the hills and walked between the bee-gums and bird boxes to his door. but before he reached it the stern pain in his eyes yielded to a brightening thought, and as if responsive to that thought the door swung open and in it stood a slim girl with eyes violet deep, and a beauty so alluring and so wildly natural that her father felt as if youth had met him again, when he had begun to think of all life as musty and decrepit with age. chapter vi except in that narrow circle of american life which follows the doings and interests of the army and navy, the world had forgotten, in the several years since its happening, the court-martial and disgrace of john spurrier--but spurrier himself had not been able to forget. his name had become forcefully identified with other things and, in the employ of snowdon's company, he had been into those parts of the world which call to a man of energy and constructive ability of major calibre. but the joy of seeing mine fields open to the rush where there had been only desert before: of seeing chasms bridged into roadways had not been enough to banish the brooding which sprung from the old stigma. in remote places he had encountered occasional army men to remind him that he was no longer one of them and, though he was often doing worthier things than they, they were bound by regulations which branded him. so spurrier had hardened, not into outward crustiness of admitted chagrin, but with an inner congealing of spirit which made him look on life as a somewhat merciless fight and what he could wrest from life as the booty of conquest. one day, in snowdon's office after a more than usually difficult task had reached accomplishment, the chief candidly proclaimed justification for his first estimate of his aide, and spurrier smiled. "it's generous of you to speak so, sir," he said slowly, "and i'm glad to leave you with that impression--because with many regrets i _am_ leaving you." the older man raised his brows in surprise. "i had hoped our association would be permanent," he responded. "i suppose, though, you have an opening to a broader horizon. if so it comes as recognition well earned." "it's an offer from martin harrison, sir," came the reply in slowly weighed words. "there are objections, of course, but the man who gains harrison's confidence stands in the temple of big money." "yes. of course harrison's name needs no amplification." the man who had opened a door for spurrier in what had seemed a blank wall, sat for a moment silent then broke out with more than his customary emphasis of expression. "objection from me may seem self-interested because i am losing a valuable assistant. but--damn it all, harrison is a pirate!" spurrier's tanned cheeks flushed a shade darker but he nodded his head. his fine eyes took on that glint of hardness which, in former times, had never marred their engaging candor. "i'd like to have you understand me, sir. i owe you that much and a great deal more. i know that harrison and his ilk of big money operators are none too scrupulous--but they have power and opportunity and those are things i must gain." "i had supposed," suggested snowdon deliberately, "that you wanted two things above all else. first to establish your innocence to the world, and secondly, even if you failed in that, to make your name so substantially respected that you could bear--the other." "until recently i had no other thought." the young man rose and stood with his fine body erect and as full of disciplined strength as that of a praxiteles athlete. then he took several restless turns across the floor and halted tensely before his benefactor. "i have let no grass grow under my feet. you know how i have run down every conceivable clue and how i stand as uncleared as the day the verdict was brought at manila. i've begun to despair of vindication.... i am not by nature a beast of prey.... i prefer fair play and the courtesies of sportsmanlike conflict." he paused, then went forward again in a hardening voice: "but in this land of ours there are two aristocracies and only two--and i want to be an aristocrat of sorts." "i didn't realize we had even so much variety as that," observed snowdon and the younger man continued. "the real aristocracy is that of gentle blood and ideals. our little army is its true nucleus and there a man doesn't have to be rich. i was born to that and reared to it as to a deep religion--but i've been cast out, unfrocked, cashiered. i can't go back. one class is still open to me; the brazen, arrogant circles of wealth into which a double-fisted achiever can bruise his way. i don't love them. i don't revere them, but they offer power and i mean to take my place on their tawdry eminence. it's all that's left." "i'm not preaching humility," persisted snowdon quietly. "i started you along the paths of financial combat and i see no fault in your continuing, but may i be candid to the point of bluntness?" he paused for permission and spurrier prompted: "yes, please go on." "then," finished snowdon, "since you've been with me i've watched you grow--and you _have_ grown. but i've also seen a fine chivalric sense gradually blunting; a generous predisposition hardening out of flexibility into something more implacable, less gracious. it's a pity--and martin harrison won't soften you." for a while spurrier stood meditatively silent, then he smiled and once more nodded his head. "there isn't a thing you've said that isn't true, mr. snowdon, and you're the one man who could say it without any touch of offensiveness. i've counted the costs. god knows if i could go back to the army to-morrow with a shriven record, i'd rather have my lieutenant's pay than all the success that could ever come from moneyed buccaneers! but i can't do that. i can't think of myself as a fighting man under my own flag whose largest pay is his contentment and his honor. very well, i have accepted hobson's choice. i will join that group which fights with power, for power; the group that's strong enough to defy the approval they can't successfully court. i _have_ hardened but i've needed to. i hope i shan't become so flagrant, however, that you'll have to regret sponsoring me." snowdon laughed. "i'm not afraid of that," he made hasty assurance. "and my friendliest wishes go with you." since that day john spurrier had come to a place of confidence in the counsels over which harrison presided with despotic authority. the man in the street, deriving his information from news print, would have accorded martin harrison a place on the steering committee of the country's wealth and affairs, and in such a classification he would have been both right and wrong. there were exclusive coteries of money manipulation to which harrison was denied an entree. these combinations were few but mighty, and until he won the sesame of admission to their supreme circle his ambition must chafe, unsatisfied: his power, greater than that of many kings, must seem to himself too weak. it must not be inferred that harrison was embittered by the wormwood of failure. his trophies of success were numerous and tangible enough for every purpose except his own contentment. to-night he was smiling with baronial graciousness while he stood welcoming a group of dinner guests in his own house, and as his butler passed the tray of canapes and cocktail glasses the latest arrival presented himself. the host nodded. "spurrier," he said, "i think you know every one here, don't you?" the young man who had just come was perfectly tailored and self-confident of bearing, and as vigorous of bodily strength as a wrestler in training. the time that had passed over him since he had left snowdon's company for wider and more independent fields had wrought changes in him, and in so far as the observer could estimate values from the externals of life, every development had been upward toward improvement. yet, between the man's impressive surface and his soul lay an acquired coat of cynicism and a shell of cultivated selfishness. john spurrier, who had renounced the gaming table, was more passionately and coldly than ever the plunger, dedicated to the single religion of ambition. he had failed to remove the blot of the court-martial from his name, and, denied the soldier's ethical place, he had become a sort of moss-trooper of finance. backed only by his personal qualifications, he had won his way into a circle of active wealth, and though he seemed no more a stranger there than a duckling in a pool, he himself knew that another simile would more truly describe his status. he was like an exhibition skater whose eye-filling feats are watched with admiration and bated breath. his evolutions and dizzy pirouettings were performed with an adroit ease and grace, but he could feel the swaying of the thin ice under him and could never forget that only the swift smoothness of his flight stood between himself and disaster. he must live on a lavish scale or lose step with the fast-moving procession. he must maintain appearances in keeping with his associations--or drop downscale to meaner opportunities and paltrier prizes. the wealth which would establish him firmly seemed always just a shade farther away than the reach of his outstretched grasp. "we were just talking about trabue, spurrier," his host enlightened him as he looked across the rim of his lifted glass, with eyes hardening at the mention of that name. spurrier did not ask what had been said about trabue, but he guessed that it savored of anathema. for trabue, whose name rarely appeared in the public announcements of american oil and gas, was none the less the white-hot power and genius of that organization--its unheralded chief of staff. just as a. o. and g. dominated the world of finance, so he dominated a. o. and g. harrison laughed. "i'm not a vindictive man," he declared in humorous self-defense, "but i want his scalp as salome wanted the head of john the baptist." the newly arrived guest smiled quietly. "that's a large order, mr. harrison," he suggested, "and yet it's in line with a matter i want to take up with you. my conspiracy won't exactly separate o. h. trabue from his scalp lock, but it may pull some pet feathers out of his war bonnet. i'm leaving to-morrow on a mission of reconnaissance--and when i come back----" the eyes of the elder and younger engaged with a quiet interchange of understanding, and spurrier knew that into martin's mind, as crowded with activities as a busy harbor, an idea had fallen which would grow into interest. when dinner was announced, the adventurer de luxe--for it was so that he recognized himself in the confessional of his own mind--took in the daughter of his host, and this mark of distinction did not escape the notice of several men. spurrier himself was gravely listening to some low-voiced aside from the girl who nibbled at an olive, and who merited his attention. she was tall and undeniably handsome, and if her mentality sparkled with a cool and brilliant light rather than a warm and appealing glow, that was because she had inherited the pattern of her father's mind. if, notwithstanding her wealth and position, she was still unmarried three seasons after her coming-out, it was her own affair and possibly his good fortune. for when the jack spurrier of these days contemplated marriage at all, he thought of it as an aid to his career rather than a sentimental adventure. "i'm leaving in the morning," he was saying in a low voice, "for the kentucky cumberlands, where i'm told life hasn't changed much since the pioneers crossed over their divide. it's the land of do-without." "the land of do-without?" she repeated after him. "it's an expressive phrase, jack. is it your own or should there be quotation marks?" spurrier laughed as he admitted: "i claim no credit; i merely quote, but the land down there in the steeps is one, from all i hear, to stir the imagination into terms more or less poetic." he leaned forward a little and his engaging face mirrored his own interest so that the girl found herself murmuring: "tell me something about it, then." "it is," he assured her, "a stretch of unaltered mediævalism entirely surrounded by modernity--yet holding aloof. though the country has spread to the pacific and it lies within three hundred miles of atlantic tidewater, it is still our one frontier where pioneers live under the conditions that obtained in the days of the indian." "that seems difficult to grasp," she demurred, and he nodded his head, abstractedly sketching lines on the damask cloth with his oyster fork. "when the nation was born," he enlightened, "and the questing spirit of the overland voyagers asserted itself, the bulk of its human tide flowed west along the wilderness road. through cumberland gap lay their one discovered gate in the wall that nature had built to the sky across their path. it was a wall more ancient than that of the alps and between the ridges many of them were stranded." "how?" she demanded, arrested by the vibrant interest of his own voice, and he continued with a shrug of the shoulder. "many reasons. a pack mule fallen lame--a broken wagon-wheel; small things were enough in such times of hardship to make a family settle where it found itself balked. the more fortunate won through to 'take the west with the axe and hold it with the rifle.' then came railroads and steamboats, going other ways, and the ridges were swallowed again by the wilderness. the stranded brethren remained stranded and they did not alter or progress. they remained self-willed, fiercely independent and dedicated to the creed 'leave us alone.' their life to-day is the life of two centuries ago." the girl lifted the brows that were dark enough to require no penciling. "that was the speech of a dreamer and a poet, jack, and i thought you the most practical of men. what calls you into a land of poverty? i didn't know you ever ran on cold trails." she spoke with a delicately shaded irony, as though for the materialism of his own viewpoint, yet he knew that her interest in him would survive no failure of worldly attainment. he did not repeat to her the story told him so long ago by snowdon, the engineer, nor confide to her that ever since then his mind had harked back insistently to that topic and its possibilities. now he only smiled with diplomatic suavity. "pearls," he said, "don't feed oysters into robustness. they make 'em most uncomfortable. the poverty-stricken illiterates in these hills, where i'm going, might starve for centuries over buried treasure--which some one else might find." the girl nodded. "in the stories," she answered, though she did not seem disturbed at the thought, "the stranger in the cumberlands always arouses the ire of some whiskered moonshiner and falls in a creek bed pierced by a shot from the laurel." spurrier grinned. "or he falls in love with a barefoot diana and teaches her to adore him in return." miss harrison made a satirical little grimace. "at least teach her to eat with a fork, too, jack," she begged him. "it will contribute to your fastidious comfort when you come back here to sell your pearls at tiffany's or in maiden lane, or wherever it is that one wholesales his treasure-trove." * * * * * if john spurrier had presented the picture of a man to the manner born as he sat with martin harrison's daughter at martin harrison's table, he fitted into the ensemble, too, a week later, as he crossed the hard-tramped dirt of the street from the railway station at waterfall and entered the shabby tavern over the way--for the opportunity hound must be adaptable. here he would leave the end of the rails and travel by mule into a wilder country, for on the geological survey maps that he carried with him he had made tracings of underground currents which it had not been easy to procure. these red-inkings were exact miniatures of a huge wall chart in the headquarters of american oil and gas, and to others than a trusted few they were not readily accessible. how spurrier had achieved his purpose is a separate story and one over which he smiled inwardly, though it may have involved features that were not nicely ethical. the tavern had been built in the days when waterfall had attracted men answering the challenge of oil discovery. now it had fallen wretchedly into decay, and over it brooded the depression of hopes and dreams long dead. gladly spurrier had left that town behind him. now, on a crisp afternoon, when the hill slopes were all garbed in the rugged splendor of the autumn's high color, he was tramping with a shotgun on his elbow and a borrowed dog at his heels. he had crossed hemlock mountain and struck into the hinterland at its back. until now he had thought of hemlock mountain as a single peak, but he had discovered it to be, instead, an unbroken range beginning at hell's door and ending at praise the lord, which zigzagged for a hundred miles and arched its bristling backbone two thousand feet into the sky. along this entire length it offered only a few passes over which a traveler could cross except on foot or horseback. he had found entertainment overnight at a clay-chinked log-cabin, where he had shared the single room with six human beings and two dogs. this census takes no account of a razor-back pig which was segregated in a box under the dining table, where its feeding with scraps simplified the problem of stock raising. his present objective was the house of dyke cappeze, the retired lawyer, whose name had drifted into talk at every town in which he had stopped along the railroad. cappeze was a "queer fellow," a recluse who had quit the villages and drawn far back into the hills themselves. he was one who could neither win nor stop fighting; who wanted to change the unalterable, and, having failed, sulked like achilles in his tent. but whoever spoke of cappeze credited him with being a positive and unique personality, and spurrier meant to know him. so he pretended to hunt quail--in a country where a covey rose and scattered beyond gorges over which neither dog nor man could follow. one excuse served as well as another so long as he seemed sufficiently careless of the things which were really the core and center of his interest. and now cappeze's place ought to be near by. off to one side of the ragged way stretched a brown patch of stubble, and suddenly the dog stopped at its edge, lifted his muzzle with distended nostrils delicately aquiver, and then went streaking away into the rattling weed stalks, eagerly quartering the bare field. spurrier followed, growling skeptically to himself: "he's made a stand on a rabbit. that dog's a liar and the truth is not in him!" but the setter had come to a halt and held motionless, his statuesque pose with one foreleg uplifted as rigid as a piece of bronze save for the black muzzle sensitively alert and tremulous. then as the man walked in there came that startling little thunder of whirring wings with which quail break cover. the ground seemed to burst with a tiny drumming eruption of up-surging feathery shapes, and spurrier's gun spoke rapidly from both barrels. save for the two he had downed, the covey crossed a little rise beyond a thicket of blackberry brier where he marked them by the tips of a few gnarled trees, and the man nodded his head in satisfaction as the dog he had libeled neatly retrieved his dead birds and cast off again toward the hummock's ridge. spurrier, following more slowly, lost sight of his setter and, before he had caught up, he heard a whimpering of fright and pain. puzzled, he hastened forward until from a slight elevation, which commanded a burial ground, choked with a tangle of brambles and twisted fox grapes, he found himself looking on a picture for which he was entirely unprepared. his dog was crouching and crawling in supplication, while above him, with eyes that snapped lightning jets of fury, stood a slender girl with a hickory switch tightly clenched in a small but merciless hand. as the gunner came into sight she stood her ground, a little startled but obdurately determined, and her expression appeared to transfer her anger from the animal she had whipped to the master, until he almost wondered whether she might not likewise use the hickory upon him. he tried not to let the vivid and unexpected beauty of the apparition cloud his just indignation, and his voice was stern with offended dignity as he demanded: "would you mind telling me why you're mistreating my dog? he's the gentlest beast i ever knew." the girl was straight and slim and as colorful as the landscape which the autumn had painted with crimson and violet, but in her eyes flamed a war fire. "what's that a-bulgin' out yore coat pocket, thar?" she demanded breathlessly. "you an' yore dog air both murderers! ye've been shootin' into my gang of pet pa'tridges." "pet--partridges?" he repeated the words in a mystified manner, as under the compulsion of her gaze he drew out the incriminating bodies of the lifeless victims. the girl snatched the dead birds from him and laid their soft breasts against her cheek, crooning sorrowfully over them. "they trusted me ter hold 'em safe," she declared in a grief-stricken tone. "i'd kept all the gunners from harmin' 'em--an' now they've done been betrayed--an' murdered." "i'm sorry," declared spurrier humbly. "i didn't know they were pets. they behaved very much like wild birds." the dog rose from his cowering position and came over to shelter himself behind spurrier, who just then heard the underbrush stir at his back and wheeled to find himself facing an elderly man with a ruggedly chiseled face and a mane of gray hair. it was a face that one could not see without feeling a spirit force behind it, and when the man spoke his sonorous voice, too, carried a quality of impressiveness. "he didn't have no way of knowin', glory," he said placatingly to the girl. "bob whites are mostly wild, you know." then turning back to the man again he courteously explained: "she fed this gang through last winter when the snows were heavy. they'd come up to the door yard an' peck 'round with the chickens. she's gifted with the knack of gentlin' wild things." he paused, then added with a grim touch of irony. "it's a lesson that it would have profited me to learn--but i never could master it. you're a furriner hereabouts, ain't you?" "my name is john spurrier," said the stranger. "i was looking for dyke cappeze." "i'm dyke cappeze," said the elderly man, "an' this is my daughter, glory. come inside. yore welcome needs some mendin', i reckon." chapter vii as john spurrier followed his host between rhododendron thickets that rose above their heads, he found himself wondering what had become of the girl, but when they drew near to an old house whose stamp of orderly neatness proclaimed its contrast to the scattering hovels of widely separated neighbors, he caught a flash of blue gingham by the open door and realized that the valkyrie had taken a short cut. the dog, too, had arrived there ahead of its master and was fawning now on the girl, who leaned impulsively over to take the gentle-pointed muzzle between her palms. "i'm sorry i whopped ye," she declared in a silver-voiced contrition that made the man think of thrush notes. "hit wasn't _yore_ fault no-how. hit was thet--thet stuck-up furriner. i _hates_ him!" the setter waved its plumed tail in forgiveness and contentment, and the girl, discovering with an upward glance that she had been overheard, rose and stood for a moment defiantly facing the object of her denunciation, then, as embarrassment flooded her cheeks with color, fled into the house. the sense of having stepped back into an older century had been growing on john spurrier ever since he had turned away from the town of waterfall, and now it possessed him with a singular fascination. here was a different world, somber under its shadow of frugality, and breathing out the heavy atmosphere of isolation. the spirit of this strange life looked out from the wearied eyes of dyke cappeze as he sat filling his pipe across the hearth, a little later, and it sounded in his voice when he announced slowly: "it's not for me to withhold hospitality in a land where a ready welcome is about all we have to offer, and yet you could hardly have picked a worse house to come to between the virginia border and the kaintuck ridges." spurrier raised his brows interrogatively, and at the same moment he noticed matters hitherto overlooked. the windows were heavily shuttered and his host sat beyond the line of vision from the open door--with a rifle leaning an arm's length away. "coming as a stranger," continued cappeze, "you start without enmities--with a clean page. you might spend your life here and find a sincere welcome everywhere--so long as you avoided other men's controversies. but you come to me and that, sir, is a bad beginning--a very bad beginning." a contemplative cloud of smoke went up from the pipe, and the voice finished in a tone of bitterness. "i'm the most hated man in this region where hatreds grow like weeds." "you mean because you have stood out for the enforcement of law?" the other nodded, "it has taken me a lifetime," he observed, "to learn that the mountains are stronger, if not more obstinate, than i." "is that the only reason they hate you?" inquired the visitor, and the lawyer, removing the pipe stem from his teeth, regarded him for a space in silence. then he commented quietly: "if you knew this country better, you wouldn't have to ask that question. in athens, i believe, they ostracized aristides because he was 'too just a man.'" "nonetheless, i'm glad i came to you." cappeze smiled gravely. he had a rude sort of dignity which spurrier found beguiling; a politeness that sprang from a deeper rooting than mere formula. "merely coming to see me--once in a while--won't damn you, i reckon. a man has a license to be interested in freaks. but take my advice, and i sha'n't be offended. tell every one that you hold no brief for me and listen with an open mind when they blackguard me." spurrier laughed. "in a place where assassination is said to come cheap, you have at least been able to take care of yourself, sir." "that," said the other slowly, "is as it happens. my partner was less lucky. my own luck may break some day." "and yet you go on living here when you'd be safe enough anywhere else." "yes, i go on living here. it's a land where a man's mind starves and where the great marching song of the world's progress is silent--and yet----" again he paused to draw in and exhale a cloud of pipe smoke. "yet there's something in the winds that blow here, in the air one breathes, that 'is native to my blood.' elsewhere i should be miserable, sir, and my daughter----" he came to an abrupt stop and spurrier took him up quickly. "she seems young and vital enough to crave all of life's variety." "but she is contented, sir." the elderly man spoke eagerly as though to convince himself and quiet troubling doubts. "she, too, would rather be here. we know this life and take it as we find it." spurrier felt that the conversation was tending into channels too personal for the participation of a chance acquaintance, and he guided it to a less intimate subject. "i understand, mr. cappeze, that in the campaign just ended, you stumped this district whole-heartedly in behalf of one of the candidates for the circuit judgeship." again the hawk-keen blaze flared in the eyes of his host. "you are mistaken, sir," he declared with heated emphasis. "it was less _for_ a candidate than _against_ one that i worked. the man whom circumstances compelled me to support was a poor thing, but he was better than his adversary." "was it party spirit that prompted you, then?" inquired the guest, feeling that politeness called for some show of interest. "sometimes i think," said the lawyer with a grim smile, "that from some men god withholds the blessed power of riding life's waves. all they can do is to buffet and fight and wear themselves out. perhaps i'm that sort. the man who won--who succeeded himself on the bench--is an expedientist. so long as he presides, timid juries will return timid verdicts and the law will falter. i took the stump to brand him before the people as an apostate to his oath. i knew he would win, but i meant to make him wear his trade-mark of cowardice along with his smirk of self-righteousness!" as spurrier listened, not to a feudist but to a man who had worn himself out fighting feudism, there came to him like a revelation an appreciation of the bitterness which runs in the grim undertow of this blood. "i believe," he suggested, glancing sidewise at the door beyond which he heard the thrushlike voice of the girl, "that you made an issue of a murder case which collapsed--a case in which you had been employed to prosecute." "yes," cappeze told him. "because i believe it to be one in which the officers of the court lay down and quit like dogs. the defendant was a red-handed bully, generally feared--and the law was in timid keeping. i am still trying to have the grand jury call before it the prosecutor, the sheriff, and every deputy who served on that posse. i want to make them tell, on oath, just how hard they sought to apprehend the assassin--who still walks boldly and freely among us--unwhipped of justice." spurrier rose, deeply impressed by the headstrong, willful courage of this old insurgent, whose daughter's eyes were so full of spring gentleness. * * * * * far up the dwindling thread of a small water course, where the forest was jungle-thick, a log cabin hung perched to a rocky cornfield that tilted like a steep roof, and under its shingles sim colby dwelt alone. since his coming here he had been assimilated into the commonplace life of the neighborhood and the question of his origin was no longer discussed. the time had gone by when even an acquaintance of other days would be apt to calculate that his term of enlistment in the army had not run its full course. moreover, there were no such acquaintances here; none who had known him before he changed his name from grant to colby. the shadow of dread which had once obsessed him had gradually and imperceptibly lightened until for weeks together he forgot how poignantly it had once haunted him. he had painstakingly established a reputation exemplary beyond the tendencies of his nature in this new habitat--since trouble might cause closed pages to reopen. now on a november afternoon a deputy sheriff, serving summonses in that neighborhood dismounted at the door where sim stood with his hand resting on the jamb, and the two mulled over what sparse gossip the uneventful neighborhood afforded. "old cappeze, he's a-seekin' ter rake up hell afresh an' brew more pestilence fer everybody," announced the deputy glumly. "what's he projeckin' at now?" asked sim. "he's seekin' ter warm over thet ancient sam mosebury case afore ther grand jury. come ter think of hit, sim, ye rid with ther high sheriff yoreself thet time, didn't ye?" moodily the other nodded. that was a matter he preferred to leave buried. "waal, cappeze is claimin' now thet ther possy didn't make no master effort ter lay hands on sam. he aims ter hev all ye boys tell ther grand jury what ye knows erbout ther matter." the deputy turned away, but in afterthought he paused, thrashing idly with his switch at the weed stalks, as he retailed an almost forgotten item of news. "a furriner come ter town yistidday, an' sot out straightway acrost hemlock mountain fer old cappeze's dwellin' house." "what manner of man war he, joe?" sim's interest was perfunctory. had he been haled into the grand-jury room in those earlier days, the prospect would have bristled with apprehensions, but now he had behind him the background of respectability and mose biggerstaff, who alone knew of his craven behavior as a member of the posse, was dead. sim felt secure in his mantle of virtue. "he war a right upstandin' sort of feller--ther furriner," enlightened the deputy. "he goes under ther name of spurrier--john spurrier." as though an electric wire of high tension had broken and brushed him in falling, sim colby's attitude stiffened and every muscle grew taut from neck to ankles as his jaw sagged. the deputy, with his foot already in the stirrup, missed the terror spasms of the face gone suddenly putty gray. he missed the gasp that contracted the throat and caused its breath to wheeze, and when he glanced back again from his saddle, the other had, with an effort of sheer desperation, regained his outward semblance of composure. he still leaned indolently against the door frame, but now he needed its support, because all his nerves jumped and a confusion like the swarming of angry bees filled his brain. afterward he groped his way inside and dropped down into a low chair by the hearth. for a long time he sat there breathing stertorously while the untended fire died away to ashen dreariness. the sun went down beyond the pine tops and still he sat dully with his hands hanging over his knees, their fingers twitching in panic aimlessness. out of a past that he had cut away from the present had arisen a ghost of hideous menace. here into the laurel which had promised sanctuary his nemesis had pursued him. two men with the guilt of a murder standing between them had come into a radius too small to contain them both. it was as if they had met on a narrow log spanning a chasm where only one could pass and the other must fall. if old cappeze dragged him to the courthouse now, he would be delivered over to spurrier, waiting there to identify him, as a fox in a trap is delivered to the skinning knife. that must be the meaning of the stranger's visit to the lawyer. sim colby went to an ancient and dilapidated bureau and from a creaking drawer took out a memento which, for some reason, he had preserved from times not treasured in memory. he carried it to the open door and stood looking at it as it lay on the palm of his hand with the light glinting upon it. it was a sharpshooter's medal, for, whatever his military shortcomings, private grant had been an efficient rifleman, and as he looked at it now his lips twisted into a grim smile. then he took his rifle from its corner and, sitting on the doorstep, polished it with a fond particularity, oiling its mechanism and burnishing its bore. already spurrier had made arrangements to ensconce himself under the roof of a house he had rented. already the faces that he met in the road were, for the most part, familiar, and without exception they were friendly. quick on the heels of his first disgust for the squalor of this lapsed and retarded life, had succeeded an exhilaration born of the wine-like sparkle of the air and the majestic breadth of vistas across ridge and valley. as he watched mile-wide shadows creep between sky-high lines of peaks, his dreams borrowed something of their vastness. through half-closed lids imagination looked out until the range-broken spaces altered to its vision. spurrier saw white roads and the glitter of rails running off into gossamer webs of distance. where now stood virgin forests of hard wood he visualized the shaftings of oil derricks, the red iron sheeting of tanks, the belching stacks of refineries, and in that defaced landscape he read the triumph of conquest; the guerdon of wealth; the satisfaction of power. one afternoon spurrier started over to the house he had rented, but into which he had not yet moved. the way lay for a furlong or more through a gorge deeply and somberly shaded. even now, at midday, the sunlight of the upper places left it cloistered and the bowlders trooped along in ferny dampness, where the little waters whispered. beside a bulky hummock of green-corroded sandstone the man halted and stood musingly, with eyes downcast and thoughts uplifted--uplifted to the worship of his one god: ambition. at his feet was an oily sediment along the water's edge and the gravel was thick with "sand blossom"--tiny fossil formations that are prima facie evidence of oil. then, without warning, he felt a light sting along his cheek and the rock-walled fissure reverberated under what seemed a volley of musketry. but the magnified and crumbling effect of the echo struck him with a less poignant realization than a slighter sound and a sharper one. as if a taut piano wire had been sharply struck, came the clear whang that he recognized as the flight song of a rifle bullet, and, whatever its origin it called for a prompt taking of cover. spurrier side-stepped as quickly as a boxer, and stood, for the moment at least, bulwarked behind the rock that was so providentially close. "i'm john spurrier--a stranger in these parts," he sung out in a confident voice of forced boldness and cheerfulness. "i reckon you've made a mistake in your man." there was no answer and spurrier cautiously raised his hat on the end of a stick with the same deliberation that might have marked his action had it been his own head emerging from cover. instantly the hidden rifle spoke again and the hat came down pierced through its band, while the rocks once more reverberated to multiplied detonations. "it would seem," the man told himself grimly, "that after all there was no mistake." he was unarmed and in no position to pursue investigations of the mystery, but by crawling along on his belly he could keep his body shielded behind the litter of broken stone that edged the brook until he reached the end of the gorge itself and came to safer territory. slowly, spurrier traveled out of his precarious position, flattening himself when he paused to rest and listen, as he had made his men flatten themselves over there in the islands when they were going forward without cover under the fire of snipers. chapter viii spurrier was not frightened, but he was deeply mystified, and when he reached the cabin which he was preparing for occupancy he sat down on the old millstone that served as a doorstep and sought enlightenment from reflection and the companionship of an ancient pipe. in an hour or two "uncle jimmy" litchfield, under whose smoky roof he was being temporarily sheltered, would arrive with a jolt wagon and yoke of oxen, teaming over the household goods that spurrier meant to install. already the new tenant had swept and whitewashed his cabin interior and had let the clear winds rake away the mildew of its long vacancy. now he sat smoking with a perplexity-drawn brow, while a tuneful sky seemed to laugh mockingly at the absurd idea of riflemen in ambush. every neighbor had manifested a spirit of cordiality toward him. to many of them he was indebted for small and voluntary kindnesses, and he had maintained a diplomatic neutrality in all local affairs that bore a controversial aspect. certainly, he could not flatter himself that as yet any premonition of danger had percolated to those distant centers of industry against which he was devising a campaign of surprise. one explanation only presented itself with any color of plausibility. that trickle of water might come to the gorge from a spot back in the laurel where, under the shelter of a felled hemlock top, some one tended a small "blockade" distillery; some one who resented an invasion of his privacy. yet even that inference was not satisfactory. only yesterday a man had offered him moonshine whisky, declaring quite unsuspiciously: "ef ye're vouched fer by uncle jimmy, i ain't a'skeered of ye none. i made thet licker myself--drink hearty." of the real truth no ghostly glimmer of suspicion came in even the most shadowy fashion to his mind. his efforts to trace to definite result some filament of fact that might prove the court-martial to have reached a conclusion at variance with the truth, had all ended in failure. that the matter was hopeless was an admission which he could not afford to make and which he doggedly denied, but with waning confidence. this state of mind prevented him from suspecting any connection between this present and mysterious enmity and those things which had happened across the pacific. he had kept himself informed as to the movements of private severance and when that time-expired man had stepped ashore at san francisco, john spurrier had been waiting to confront him, even though it involved facing men who had once been brother officers and who could no longer speak to him as an equal. from the former soldier, who brought a flush to his cheeks by saluting him and calling him "lieutenant," he had learned nothing. there had been no reason to hope for much. it was unlikely that he would be able to shake into a damaging admission of complicity--and any statement of value must have amounted to that--the witness who had come unscathed out of the cross-examination of two courts-martial. indeed spurrier had expected to encounter unveiled hostility in the attitude of the mountaineer, who had been doing sentry duty at the door through which the prisoner, grant, had escaped. it might have followed logically upon the officer's defense, which had sought to involve that sentinel as an accomplice in the fugitive's flight, and even in the murder itself. but severance had greeted him without rancor and with the disarming guise of candid friendliness. "i'd be full willin' ter help ye, lieutenant--ef so be i could," he had protested. "i knows full well yore lawyers was plum obliged ter seek ter hang ther blame wharsoever they was able, an' i ain't harborin' no grudge because i happened ter be one they sought ter hurt. but i don't know nothin' that kin aid ye." "do you think grant escaped alive?" demanded spurrier, and the other shook his head. "i feels so plum, dead sartain he died," came the prompt response, "thet when i gits back home i'm goin' ter tell his folks he did. bud grant was a friend of mine, but when he went out inter thet jungle he was too weakly ter keer fer hisself an' ef he'd lived they would hev done found him an' brought him back." spurrier had come to embrace that belief himself. the one man whose admission, wrung from him by persuasion or compulsion, could give him back his clean name, must have perished there in the _bijuca_ tangles. the hope of meeting the runaway in life had died in the ex-officer's heart and consequently it did not now occur to him to think of the deserter as a living menace. at length he rose and stood against the shadowy background of his door, which was an oblong of darkness behind the golden outer clarity. off in the tangle of oak and poplar and pine a ruffed grouse drummed and a "cock of the woods" rapped its tattoo on a sycamore top. once he fancied he heard a stirring in the rhododendron where its large waxen leaves banked themselves thickly a hundred yards distant, and his eyes turned that way seeking to pierce the impenetrable screen--but unavailingly. perhaps some small, wild thing had moved there. then, as had happened before that afternoon, the stillness broke to a rifle shot--this time clean and sharp, unclogged by echoes. spurrier stood for an instant while a surprised expression showed in his out-staring eyes, then he swayed on his feet. his hands came up and clutched spasmodically at his left breast, and with a sudden collapse he dropped heavily backward, and lay full length, swallowed in the darkness that hung beyond the door. over the rhododendron thicket quiet settled drowsily again, but through the toughness of interlaced branches stole upward and outward an acrid powder smell and a barely perceptible trickle of smoke. crouched there, his neutral-hued clothing merging into the earth tones about him, a man peered out, but he did not rise to go forward and inspect his work. instead, he opened the breech block of his piece and with unhurried care blew through the barrel--cleansing it of its vapors. "i reckon thar ain't no needcessity to go over thar an' look at him," he reflected. "when they draps down _thet_-away, they don't git up no more--an' some person from afar mout spy me crossin' ther dooryard." so he edged backward into the tangle, moving like a crawfish and noiselessly took up his homeward journey. when the slow plodding ox team came at last to the dooryard and uncle billy stood shouting outside the house, sim colby, holding to tangles where he would meet no chance wayfarer, was already miles away and hurrying to establish his alibi against suspicion, in his own neighborhood--where no one knew he had been absent. though it be an evil thing and shameful to confess, ex-private bud grant, alias sim colby, traveled light-heartedly, roweled by no tortures of conscience, but blithe in the assurance of a ghost laid, and a peril averted. he would have been both amazed and chagrined had he remained peering from his ambuscade, for when uncle billy's shadow fell through the open door the man to whom he had come rose from a chair to meet him, and he presented no mangled or blood-stained breast to the eyes of his visitors. "ye ain't jest a-quippin' with me, be ye?" demanded the old mountaineer incredulously when he had heard the story in all its detail. "this hyar's a right serious-soundin' matter--an' ye ain't got no enemies amongst us thet i've heered tell of." spurrier pointed out the spot in the newly whitewashed wall where the bullet lay imbedded with its glint of freshly flattened lead. "after the first experience," he explained, "i'd had some time to think. i was standing in the door so i fell down--and played dead." he added after a pause quietly: "i've seen men shot to death, and i happened to know how a man drops when it's a heart hit. i fell inside where i'd be out of sight, because i was unarmed, and all i could do was to wait for you. i watched through the door, but the fellow never showed himself." "come on, boys," commanded the old mountaineer in a determined voice. "let's beat thet la'rel while ther tracks is still fresh. mebby we mout l'arn somethin' of this hyar monstrous matter." but they learned nothing. sim colby had spent painstaking thought upon his effort and he had left no evidence written in the mold of the forest. "hit beats all hell," declared the nonplussed uncle billy at last. "i ain't got ther power ter fathom hit. ef i war you i wouldn't talk erbout this ter no man save only me an' old dyke cappeze. still-huntin' lands more game then blowin' a fox horn." and spurrier nodded his head. though spurrier for a few days after that slipped through the gorge with the stealth of a sharpshooter, covering himself behind rocks as he went, he heard no sound there more alarming than the chatter of squirrels or the grunt of a strayed razor-back rooting among the acorns. gradually he relaxed his vigilance as a man will if his nature is bold and his dreams too sweeping to be forever hobbled by petty precautions. the purpose which he privately served called for ranging the country with a trained eye, and with him went the contour maps upon which were traced red lines. one day he came, somewhat winded from a stiff climb, to an eminence that spread the earth below him and made of it a panorama. the bright carnival of the autumn was spending itself to its end, but among trees already naked stood others that clung to a gorgeousness of color the more brilliant in the face of death. overhead was flawless blue, and there was a dreamy violet where it merged mistily with the skyline ridges. "all that it needs," mused the man whimsically and aloud, "is the music of pan's pipes--and perhaps a small chorus of dryads." then he heard a laugh and, wheeling suddenly, discovered glory cappeze regarding him from the cap of a towering rock where, until he had reached this level, she had been hidden from view. now she flushed shyly as the man strode over and confronted her. "do you still hate me?" he inquired. "i reckon thet don't make no master differ ter ye, does hit?" the musical voice was painfully diffident, and he remembered that she had always been shy with him except on that first meeting when the leaping anger in her eyes had burned away self-consciousness. "you know," he gravely reminded her, "when i first saw you, you were on the point of thrashing me. you had me cowed and timid. since then i've come to think of you as the shooting star." he paused, waiting for her to demand an elucidation of that somewhat obscure statement, but she said nothing. she only sat gazing over his head toward the horizon, and her cheeks were excitedly flushed from the delicate pink of apple bloom to the warmer color of peach blossom. "since you don't ask what i mean," he continued easily, "i shall tell you. i've been to your house perhaps four or five times. from afar, each time, i've seen a scrap of color. sometimes it has been blue, sometimes red, but always it has vanished with the swiftness of a shooting star. it is a flash and it is gone. sometimes from beyond a door i also hear a voice singing." he leaned his elbows on the rock at her feet and stood gazing into the eyes that would not meet his own, and still she favored him with no response. after a little silence the man altered his tone and spoke argumentatively: "you forgave the dog, you know--why not the man?" that question carried her thoughts back to the murdered quail and a gusty back-flash of resentment conquered her diffidence. her sternness of tone and the thrushlike softness of her voice, mingled with the piquancy of paradox. "a dawg don't know no better." "some dogs are very wise," he assured her. "and some men very foolish." "the dawg," she went on still unplacated, "got right down on his stomach and asked my pardon. i _hed_ ter fergive him, when he humbled hisself like that." "i'm willing," john spurrier amiably assured her, "to get right down on my stomach, too." then she laughed, and though she sought to retreat again into her aloofness, the spell was broken. "am i forgiven?" he demanded, and she shook her head doubtfully though no longer with conviction. "no," she told him; then she added with a startlingly exact mimicry of her father's most legalistic manner: "no. the co'te will take the case under advisement an' defer jedgment." "i forgot," he said, "that you are a lawyer's daughter. what were you looking at across there--so fascinatedly?" "them hills," she enlightened succinctly. spurrier studied her. her deep eyes had held a glow of almost prayerful enchantment for which her laconic words seemed inadequate. watching her out of the tail of his eye he fell into borrowed phrases: "'violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air.'" she shot a glance at him suddenly, eagerly; then at once the lids lowered, masking the eyes again as she inquired: "thet thar's poetry, ain't hit?" "i'm prepared to go to the mat with any critic who holds the contrary," he assured her. "hit's comin' on ter be night. i've got ter start home," she irrelevantly announced, as she slid from her rough throne, and the man fell boldly in step at her side. "when your honor rules on the matter under advisement," he said humbly before their paths separated, "please remember that the defendant was a poor wretch who didn't know he was breaking the law." for the first time their glances engaged fully and without avoidance, and a twinkle flashed in the girl's pupils. "_ignorantia legis neminem excusat_," she serenely responded, and spurrier gasped. here was a girl who could not steer her english around the shoals of illiteracy, giving him his retort in latin: "ignorance of the law excuses no one." of course, it meant only that her quick memory had appropriated and was parroting legal phrases learned from her father, but it struck the chord of contrasts, and to the man's imagination it dramatized her so that when she had gone on with the lissome grace of her light stride, he stood looking after her. rather abruptly after that the autumn fires of splendor burned out to the ashes of coming winter, and then it was that spurrier went north. as his train carried him seaward he had the feeling that it was also transporting him from an older to a younger century, and that while his mind dwelt on the stalwart and unsophisticated folk with whom he had been brushing shoulders, the life resolved itself into an austere picture against which the image of glory stood out with the quick vividness of a red cardinal flitting among somber pine branches. because she was so far removed from his own orbit he could think of her impersonally and enjoy the thought as though it were of a new type of flower or bird, recognizing her attractive qualities in a detached fashion. as spurrier gave himself up to the relaxation of reminiscence with that abandon of train travel which admits of no sustained effort, he began comparing this life, left over from another era, with that he had known against more cultivated and complex backgrounds. then in analytical mood he reviewed his own past, looking with a lengthening of perspective on the love affair that had been broken by his court-martial. his adoration of the beverly girl had been youthful enough to surround itself with young illusions. that was why it had all hurt so bitterly, perhaps, with its ripping away of his faith in romantic conceptions of love-loyalty. he wondered now if he had not borne himself with the quixotic martyrdom of callowness. he had sought to shield the girl from even the realization that her lack of confidence was ungenerous. he had sought to take all the pain and spare her from sharing it. but she had solaced herself with a swift recovery and a new lover, and had he been guilty she could not have abandoned him more cavalierly. well, that softness belonged to an out-grown stage of development. he had seen himself then as obeying the dictates of chivalry. he thought of it now as inexperienced folly--perhaps, so far as she was concerned, as a lucky escape. his amours of the present were not so naively conducted. to vivian he had paid his attentions with an eye watchful of material advantages. they belonged to a sophisticated circle which seasoned life's fare rather with the salt of cynicism than with the sugar of romanticism. yet the thought of vivian caused no pulse to flutter excitedly. the glimpse of glory had been refreshing because she was so honest and sincere that she disquieted one's acquired cynicism of viewpoint. one might as well spout world-wisdom to a lilac bush as to glory! yet there was a sureness about her which argued for her creed of wholesome, simple things and old half-forgotten faiths which one would like to keep alive--if one could. snow drifted in the air and made a nimbus about each arc light as spurrier's taxi, turning between the collonade pillars of the pennsylvania station, gave him his first returning glimpse of new york. he had come east in obedience to a wired summons from martin harrison, brief to curtness as were all business messages from that man of few and trenchant words. the telegram had been slow crossing the mountain, but spurrier had been prompt in his response. a tempered glare hung mistily above the longacre square district through the snow flurries to the north, and the rumbled voice of the town, after these months in quiet places, was to the returned pilgrim like the heavy breathing of a monster sleeping out a fever. at the room that he kept at his club in fifth avenue--for that was a part of the pretentious display of affluence made necessary by his ambitious scheme of things--he called up a number from memory. it was a number not included in the telephone directory, and, recognizing the voice that answered him, he said briefly: "manners, this is mr. spurrier. will you tell mr. harrison i'm on the wire?" "hello, spurrier," boomed a deep voice after an interval. "we're dining out this evening and we go to the opera afterward, but i want a word with you to-night. in fact, i want you to start for russia on wednesday. drop into our box, and drive home with me for a few minutes afterward." russia on wednesday! spurrier's unoccupied hand clenched in irritation, but his voice was as unruffled as if he had been asked to make ready for a journey to hoboken. he knew enough of harrison's methods to ask no questions. if they could have been answered over the phone harrison could have found many men to send to russia. it was because they were for his ear alone that he had been called to new york. that evening he listened to "otello" with thoughts that wandered from the voices of the singers. they refused even to be chained by the novelty of a slender tenor as a new russian star held the spotlight. he was studying the almost too regular beauty of vivian harrison's profile as she sat serene and self-confident with the horseshoe of the metropolitan beyond her. at midnight spurrier sat with harrison in his study and listened to a crisp summarizing of the russian scheme. it proved to be a project boldly conceived on a broad scale and requiring an ambassador dependable enough and resourceful enough to decide large matters as they arose, without cabling for instructions. in turn spurrier talked of his own past doings, and through their cigar smoke the seeming idleness of those weeks assayed a wealth of exact information and stood revealed as the incubation period of a large conception. keenly formulated plans emerged from his recitals so simply and convincingly that the greater financier leaned forward and let his cigar die. then harrison rose and paced the room. "you know something about me, spurrier," he began. "when i came east they laughed at me--if they deigned to notice me at all. they said: 'here comes a bushleaguer who thinks he's good enough for the big game. it's one more lamb to the shearing shed.' that's the east, spurrier! that's cocksure new york! they sneer at a western-bred horse--or a western-trained prize fighter--and when the newcomer licks the best they've got they straightway let out a holler that they taught him all he knows. why, new york would die of lassitude and anæmia if it wasn't for blood infusions from the provinces!" spurrier gazed interestedly at the tall figure of the man with the sandy red mustache, and the snapping eyes, who for all his impeccability of evening dress, might have taken a shovel or pick from a section hand and taught him how to level a road bed. harrison laughed shortly. "they haven't inhaled me so far. i brought only a million with me to this town, and i've got--well, i've got plenty, but i can't call it a day quite yet. there's one buccaneer to be settled with first! he's got to go to the mat with me and come up bloody enough to admit that he's been in a ruction. he chooses to pretend that i'm nonexistent, and i won't stand being ignored! i want to leave my mark on that man, and with god's help--and yours--i'm going to do it!" "you mean trabue?" asked spurrier, and harrison's head gave a decisive jerk of affirmation while the hot glow of his eyes made his companion think of smelting furnaces. "that's why this thing of yours interests me. that's why i'm willing to get behind you and back you to the hilt," the big fellow of finance went on. "a. o. and g. are trying to hold others out of this kentucky field. that proves that they think enough of it to be hurt by having it torn from their teeth. all i need to know is what will hurt them! if you can take some teeth along with the bone, so much the better." he paused, then in a voice that had altered to cold steadiness, commanded: "now, give me your facts." "at present prices of oil," summarized spurrier, "the development back of hemlock mountain wouldn't pay. with higher market values, it _would_ pay, but less handsomely than other fields a. o. and g. can work. once the initial cost is laid out, the profit will be constant. the a. o. and g. idea is to hold it in reserve and await developments--meanwhile keeping up the 'no trespass' sign." "doesn't the range practically prohibit railroading?" "possibly--but it doesn't prohibit pipe lines." spurrier opened the packet he had brought in his overcoat pocket and spread a map under the flooding light of a table lamp. "i have traced there what seems to me a practical piping route," he explained. "i call it the neck of the bottle. there is a sort of gap through the hills and a porous formation caused by a chain of caverns. nature is willing to help with some ready-made tunnels." "why haven't they discovered that?" "the oil development of fifteen years ago never crossed hemlock mountain. it came the other way." harrison stood thinking for a time, then demanded tersely: "have you secured any land or options?" "not an acre, nor an inch," laughed spurrier. "this is a waiting game. i don't mean to appear interested. if any man offered to give me a farm i should say it wasn't worth state taxes." "how do we get the property into our hands then?" "the buying must be gradual and through men with whom we appear to have no connection." "and the state charter--how about that?" "there lies the chief problem," admitted spurrier. "the charter must come from a legislature that a. o. and g. can, at present, control." "what," harrison shot the question out like a cross-examiner, "is the present attitude of the natives toward oil and oil men?" "indifference and skepticism." the reply was prompt but the amplification more deliberate. "once they saw wealth ahead--then the boom collapsed, and they have no longer any faith in the magic of the word 'oil.'" "i presume," suggested harrison, "you are encouraging that disbelief?" spurrier's face clouded, but only for a moment. "i am the most skeptical of all the skeptics," he assented, "and yet i'm sorry that they can't be gainers. they are an honest, upstanding folk and they have always felt the pinch of privation. after all they are the rightful owners and development of their country ought to benefit them. of course, though, to forecast the possibilities would kill the game. we can't take them into our confidence without sounding a warning to the enemy." "growing sentimental?" queried harrison dryly, and the younger man shook his head. "no," he responded slowly, "i can't afford that--yet." "and see that you don't," admonished the chief sharply. "bear in mind, as you have in the past, that we don't want to depend on men of brittle resolution and temperamental squeamishness. we are in this thing toward a definite end and not as humanitarian dreamers. however----" he broke off abruptly and added in a milder voice, "i don't have to caution you. you understand the proposition." for some minutes the cigar smoke floated in a silent room, while martin harrison sat with the knitted brows of concentrated thought. spurrier did not interrupt the mental process which he knew had the heat and power of an ore smelter, reducing to fluid amenability the hard metal of a stubborn proposition. he knew, too, that the fuel which fed the fire was his principal's animosity against trabue, rather than the possibilities or extent of the loot. this, no less than the mountain vendetta, was, in last analysis, a personal feud and in the parlance of the cumberlands a "war was in ther b'ilin'." at last harrison straightened up and tossed away his cigar. "you are ambitious, spurrier," he said. "put this thing over and i should say that all your ambitions can come to realization." while he sat waiting spurrier had lifted from the table a photograph of vivien, appropriately framed in silver. he had taken it up idly because it was a new portrait and one that he had not before seen, but into the gesture the father read a deeper significance. it was as if spurrier had asked "all my ambitions?" and had emphasized his question by laying his hands on the picture of the girl. that, thought harrison, was an audacious suggestion, but it was spurrier's audacity that recommended him. slowly the capitalist's eyes lighted into an amused smile as their glance traveled from the younger face to the framed photograph, and slowly he nodded his head. "_all_ your ambitions," he repeated meaningly, then with the electric snap of warning in his voice he added an admonition: "but don't underestimate the difficulties of your undertaking. you are bucking the strongest and most relentless piracy in finance. you will incur enmities that will stop nowhere, and you must operate in a country where murderers are for 'hire.'" the threat of personal danger just at that moment disquieted john spurrier less than the other curtailment of freedom implied in harrison's words; the tacit acceptance of him as vivien's suitor. it came to him abruptly that he did not love vivien; that he wished to remain untrammeled. heretofore, he had always postponed matrimonial thoughts for the misty future. now they became embarrassingly near and tangible. but quick on this realization followed another. here was an offered alliance of tremendous advantage and one not to be ignored. to be vivien's husband might fail of rapture, but to be martin harrison's son-in-law meant triumph. it meant his own nomination as heir apparent and successor in that position of cardinal importance to which he had looked upward as to a throne. there was no trace of dubiety in his voice as he answered: "i have counted the handicaps, sir. i'm taking my chance with open eyes." chapter ix sim colby, after that day when he had slipped through the laurel, had gone back to his own house and waited for the talk of john spurrier's mysterious death to drift along the waterways where news is the only speedy traveler. there had been no such gossip and he had dared betray his interest by no inquiry, but he knew it could have only one meaning; that he had failed. spurrier was alive, and obviously he was holding his counsel concerning his narrow escape. this silence seemed to sim colby an ominous thing indicative of some crafty purpose--as if the intended victim were stalking grimly as well as being stalked. sim came of a race that knows how to bide its time and that can keep bright the edge of hatred against long-delayed reprisals. it was certainly to be presumed that spurrier had taken some of his friends into his confidence and that under the mantle of silence over on little turkey tail, these friends were now watchfully alert. the enterprise that had once failed could not be reundertaken at once. sim must wait for the vigilance to "blow over," and while he waited the rancor of his hatred must fester with the thorn-prickings of a thousand doubts and apprehensions. then he heard one day that spurrier had left the mountains, and on another day the news was brought that the grand jury had declined to reopen the old issues of the murder case in which mosebury had escaped justice. both these things were comforting in themselves, but they failed of complete reassurance for the deserter. men said that spurrier was coming back again, so the day of reckoning was only deferred--not escaped. the determination with which sim had set out on his mission of death had largely preëmpted his field of thought. now, after weeks and months of brooding reflection, he himself had become only a sort of human garment worn by the sinister spirit of resolve. so all that winter while john spurrier was away as the ambassador, practicing in moscow and odessa the adroit arts of financial diplomacy, the fixed idea of his assassination was festering in the mind of the man who lived, under an assumed name, at the head of little quicksand. that obsession took fantastic shapes and wove webs of grotesque patterns of hate as colby, who had been grant, sat brooding before his untidy hearth while the winter winds wailed about the eaves and lashed the mountain world into forlorn bleakness. and while colby meditated unendingly on the absentee and built ugly plans against his return, so in another house and in another spirit, the ex-officer was also remembered. winter in these well-nigh roadless hills meant a blockade and a siege with loneliness and stagnation as the impregnably intrenched attackers. the victims could only wait and endure until the rescue forces of spring should come to raise the chill and sodden barricade, with a flaunting of blossom-banners and the whispered song of warm victory. glory cappeze, for the first time in her life, suffered from loneliness. she had thought herself too used to it to mind it much, but john spurrier had brought a new element to her existence and left behind him a void. she had been hardly more than an onlooker to his occasional visits with her father, but she had been a very interested onlooker. when he talked a vigorous mind had spoken and had brought the greater, unknown, outer world to her door. the striking face with its square jaw; the ingrained graces and courtesies of his bearing; the quickness of his understanding--all these things had been a light in the gray mediocrity of uneventful days and a flame that had fired her imagination to a splendid disquiet. the infectious smile and force of personality that had been a challenge to more critical women, had been almost dazzling qualities to the mountain girl of strangled opportunities. but it was that last meeting in which he had thawed her shyness into friendliness that glory remembered most eagerly. that had seemed to make of spurrier not only a hero admired from a distance but a hero who was also a friend, and she was hungry for friends. so it came to pass that to these two widely variant welcomes, neither of which he suspected, john spurrier was returning from russia when spring had lightly brushed the cumberland slopes with delicate fragrance and the color of blossoming. in louisville, in frankfort, and in other kentucky towns along his way the returning man had made stops and investigations, to the end that he came primed with certain information of an ex-cathedra sort. the fruits of this research included an abstract of the personnel of the legislature and the trend of oil influences in state politics, and he studied his notebook as he traveled from the rolling, almost voluptuous fertility of the bluegrass section to the piedmont where the foothills began to break the sky. on the porch of the dilapidated hotel at waterfall a sparse crowd centered about a seated figure, and when he had reached the spot spurrier paused, challenged by a sense of the medieval, that gripped him as tangibly as a hand clapped upon his shoulder. the seated man was blind and shabby, with a beggar's cup strapped to his knee, and a "fiddle" nestling close to the stubbled chin of a disfigured face. he sang in a weird falsetto, with minors that rose thin and dolorous, but he was in every essential the ballad singer who improvised his lays upon topical themes, as did scott's last minstrel--a survival of antiquity. now he was whining out a personal plaint in the words of his "song ballet." "i used ter hev ther sight ter see ther hills so high an' green, i used ter work a standard rig an' drill fer kero_sene_." the singer's lugubrious pathos appeared to be received with attentive and uncritical interest. beyond doubt he took himself seriously and sadly. "i used ter know a woman's love, an' read a woman's eyes, an' look into my baby's face an' dwell in paradise, until a comp'ny foreman, plum' heedless in his mind let nitroglycer_een_ explode an' made me go stone blind." spurrier, half-turning, saw a traveling salesman standing at his elbow with a repressed grin of amusement struggling in his glance. "queer card, that," whispered the drummer. "i've seen him before; one of the wrecks left over from the oil-boom days. a 'go-devil' let loose too soon and blinded him." he paused, then added as though by way of apology for his seeming callousness: "some people say the old boy is a sort of a miser and has a snug pile salted away." spurrier nodded and went on into the office, but later in the day he sought out the blind fiddler and engaged him in conversation. the man's blinding had left him a legacy of hate for all oil operators, and from such relics as this of the active days spurrier knew how to evoke scraps of available information. it was not until later that it occurred to him that he had answered questions as well as asked them--but, of course, he had not been indiscreet. with john spurrier, riding across hills afoam with dogwood blossom and tenderly vivid with young green, went persistently the thought of the blind beggar who seemed almost epic in his symbolism of human wreckage adrift in the wake of the boom. yet he was honest enough to admit inwardly that should victory fall to his banners there would be flotsam in the wake of his triumph, too; simple folk despoiled of their birthright. he came as no altruist to fight for the native born. he, no less than a. o. and g., sought to exploit them. when he went to the house of dyke cappeze he did not admit the curiosity, amounting to positive anxiety, to see again the little barbarian, who slurred consonants, doubled her negatives, split her infinitives and retorted in the latin of blackstone. yet when glory did not at once appear, he found himself unaccountably disappointed. "there's been another stranger in here since you went away," the old man smilingly told him. "what is he doing here? that's the one burning question debated along the highways when men 'meet and make their manners.'" "well," laughed spurrier, "what _is_ he doing here?" cappeze shrugged his bent shoulders as he knocked the rubble from his pipe and a quizzical twinkle came into his eyes. "so far as i can make out, sir, he's as much a gentleman of leisure as you are yourself." spurrier knew what an excellent subterfuge may sometimes lie in frankness, and now he had recourse to its concealment. "good heavens, mr. cappeze, i'm no idler!" he declared. "i'm associated with capitalists who work me like a mule. since i saw you, for example, i've been in russia and i've been hard-driven. that's why i come here. if i couldn't get absolutely away from it all now and then, i'd soon be ready for a madhouse. here i can forget all that and keep fit." cappeze nodded. "that's just about the way i sized you up. at first, folks pondered about you, too, but now they take you on faith." "i hope so--and this new man? has he stepped on anybody's toes?" "not yet. he hasn't even bought any land, but there have been some several transfers of property, in other names, since he came. he _may_ be some man's silent partner." "what sort of partnership would it be?" "god knows." for an instant the shrewd eyes leaped into a glint of feeling. "these poor benighted devils suspect the greeks bearing gifts. civilization has always come here only to leave its scar. they have been stung once--over oil. god pity the man who seeks to sting them again." "you think," spurrier responded lightly, as one without personal interest, "they wouldn't take it kindly?" once again the sonorous and kindly voice mounted abruptly to vehemence. "as kindly, sir, as a wolf bitch robbed, the second time, of her whelps. it's all a wolf bitch has." that evening as he walked slowly homeward with a neighbor whom he had met by the way, spurrier came face to face with wharton, the other stranger, and the mountaineer performed the offices of introduction. the two men from the outer world eyed each other incuriously and parted after an exchange of commonplaces. when spurrier separated from his chance companion, the hillsman drawled: "folks _says_ thet feller's buyin' land. god knows what fer he wants hit, but ef he _does_ hone fer hit, hit's kinderly probable thet hit's wuth holdin' on to." when the brook trout began to leap and flash cappeze delegated glory to act for him as spurrier's guide, and as the girl led the way to the likeliest pools, the young, straight-growing trees were not more gracefully slender. the fragrance from the pink-hearted laurel and the locust bloom had no delicacy more subtle or provocative than that of her cheeks and hair. the breeze in the nodding poplar tops seemed scarcely freer or lighter than her movements. like the season she was young and in blossom and like the hills she was wild of beauty. spurrier admitted to himself that, were he free to respond to the pagan and vital promptings of impulse, instead of standing pledged to rigid and austere purposes, this girl would have made something ring within him as a tuning fork rings to its note. since the days of augusta beverly's ascendency, he had never felt the need of raising any sort of defense between himself and a woman. at first he had believed himself, with youthful resentment, a woman-hater and more latterly he had become in this, as in other affairs, an expedientist. augusta had proven weak in loyalty, under stress, and vivian had been indifferent to the ostracism of his former comrades so long as her own aristocracy of money accepted him. both had been snobs in a sense, and in a sense he too was a snob. but because this girl was of a simplicity that regarded all things in their primary colors and nothing in the shaded half-tones of politer usage, it was needful to guard against her mistaking his proffered comradeship for the attitude of the lover--and that would have been most disastrous. it would have made necessary awkward explanations that would wound her, embarrass him and arouse the old man's just ire. for people, he was learning, may be elementally uncouth and yet prouder than lucifer, and except when he was here on their own ground there was no common meeting place between their standards of living. yet glory's presence was like a gypsy-song to his senses; rich and lyrical with a touch of the plaintive. glory, he knew, would have believed in him when augusta beverly had doubted, and would have stood fast when augusta had cut loose. this was the sort of thought with which it was dangerous to dally--and perhaps that was precisely why, under this tuneful sky, it pleased him to humor it. certainly, whatever the cause, the sight of her made him step more elastically as she went on ahead. when they had whipped the streams for trout until hunger clamored, spurrier sat, with a sandwich in his hand in grass that waved knee-high, and through half closed lids watched glory as she moved about crooning an old ballad, and seemingly unconscious of himself, herself and all but the sunlit spirit of the early summer day. "glory," he said suddenly, calling her by her given name for the first time and in a mood of experiment. as naturally as though she had not noted his lapsed formality, she turned toward him and answered in kind. "what air hit, jack?" "thank you." "what fer?" "for calling me jack." then her cheeks colored deeply and she wheeled to her work again. but after a little she faced him once more to say half angrily: "i called ye jack because ye called me glory. you've always put a miss afore hit till now, an' i 'lowed ye'd done made up yore mind ter be friendly at last." "i've always wanted to be friendly," he assured her. "it was you who began with a hickory switch and went on with hard words in latin." the girl laughed, and the peal of her mirth transmuted their status and dispelled her self-consciousness. she came over and stood looking down at him with violet eyes mischievously a-sparkle. "the co'te," she announced, "hes carefully weighed there evidence in ther case of jack spurrier, charged with ther willful murder of bob white, and is ready to enter jedgment. jack spurrier, stand up ter be sentenced!" the man rose to his feet and stood with such well-feigned abjectness of suspense that she had to fight back the laughter from her eyes to preserve her own pose of judicial gravity. "it is well established by the evidence befo' ther co'te," she went solemnly on, "thet ther defendant is guilty on every count contained in the indictment." she checked off upon the fingers of the left hand the roster of his crime as she summarized it. "he entered inter an unlawful conspiracy with the codefendant rover, a setter dawg. he made a felonious assault without provocation. he committed murder in the first degree with malice prepense." spurrier's head sank low in mock despair, until glory came to her peroration and sentence. "yet since the defendant is amply proved to be a poor, ignorant wanderer upon the face of the earth, unpossessed of ordinary knowledge, the court is constrained to hold him incapable of discrimination between right an' wrong. hence he is not fully responsible for his acts of violence. mercy as well as justice lies in the province of the law, twins of a sacred parentage and equal before the throne." she broke off in a laugh, and so sudden was the transition from absolute mimicry that the man forgot to laugh with her. "glory," he demanded somewhat breathlessly, "have you ever been to a theater in your life? have you ever seen a real actress?" "no. why?" "because you _are_ one. does this life satisfy you? isn't there anything off there beyond the hills that ever calls you?" the dancing eyes grew abruptly grave, almost pained, and the response came slowly. "_everything_ down thar calls ter me. i craves hit all!" spurrier suddenly recalled old cappeze's half-frightened vehemence when the recluse had inveighed against the awakening of vain longings in his daughter. now he changed his manner as he asked: "i wonder if i'd offend you if i put a question. i don't want to." "ye mout try an' see. i ain't got no power ter answer twell i hears hit." "all right. i'll risk it. your father doesn't talk mountain dialect. his english is pure--and you were raised close to him. why do _you_ use--the other kind?" she did not at once reply and, when she did, the astonishingly adaptable creature no longer employed vernacular, though she spoke slowly and guardedly as one might who ventured into a foreign tongue. "my father has lived down below as well as here. he's a gentleman, but he aims--i mean he intends--to live here now till he dies." as she paused spurrier prompted her. "yes--and you?" "my father thinks that while i _do_ live here, i'd better fit into the life and talk in the phrases that don't seem high-falutin' to my neighbors." "i dare say," he assured her with forced conviction, "that your father is right." there was a brief silence between them while the warm stillness of the woods breathed its incense and its langour, then the girl broke out impulsively: "i want to see and hear and taste everything, out there!" her hands swept outward with an all-embracing gesture toward the whole of the unknown. "there aren't any words to tell how i want it! what do you want more than anything else, jack?" the man remained silent for a little, studying her under half-lowered lids while a smile hovered at the corners of his lips. but the smile died abruptly and it was with deep seriousness that he answered. "i think, more than anything else, i want a clean name and a vindicated reputation." glory's eyes widened so that their violet depths became pools of wondering color and her lips parted in surprise. "a clean name!" she echoed incredulously. "what blight have you got on it, jack?" then catching herself up abruptly she flushed crimson and said apologetically: "that's a question i haven't any license to put to you, though. only you broached the subject yourself." "and having broached it, i am willing to pursue it," he assured her evenly. "i was an army officer until i was charged with unprovoked murder--and court-martialed; dishonorably discharged from the service in which my father and grandfather had lived and died." for a moment or two she made no answer but her quick expressiveness of lip and eye did not, even for a startled interval, betray any shock of horror. when she did speak it was in a voice so soft and compassionate that the man thought of its quality before he realized its words. "did the man that--that was _really_ guilty go scot free, whilst you had to shoulder his blame?" there had been no question of evidence; no waiting for any denial of guilt. she had assumed his innocence with the same certainty that her eye assumed the flawlessness of the overheard blue. her interest was all for his wronging and not at all for his alleged wrong. the man started with surprise; the surprise of one who had trained himself into an unnatural callousness as a defense against what had seemed a universal proneness to convict. he had told himself that glory would see with a straighter and more intuitive eye. he had told her baldly of the thing which he seldom mentioned out of an inquisitiveness to test her reaction to the revelation, but he was unprepared for such unhesitant belief. "i think you are the first human being, glory," he said quietly but with unaccustomed feeling in his voice, "who ever heard that much and gave me a clean bill of health without hearing a good bit more. why didn't you ask whether or not i was guilty?" "i didn't have to," she said slowly. "some men could be murderers and some couldn't. you couldn't. you might have to _kill_ a man--but not murder him. you might do lots of things that wouldn't be right. i don't know about that--but those people that convicted you were fools!" "thank you," he said soberly. "you're right, glory. i was as innocent of that assassination as you are, yet they proved me guilty. it was only through influence that i escaped ending my days in prison." then he gave her the story, which he had already told her father and no one else in the mountains. she listened, thinking not at all of the damaging circumstances, but secretly triumphant that she had been chosen as a confidant. but that night spurrier looked up from a letter he was reading and let his eyes wander to the rafters and his thoughts to the trout stream. it was a letter, too, which should have held his attention. it contained, on a separate sheet of paper, a list of names which was typed and headed: "confidential memorandum." below that appeared the notation: "members of the general assembly, under american oil and gas influence. also names of candidates who oppose them at the next election, and who may be reached by us." spurrier lighted his pipe and his face became studious, but presently he looked up frowning. "i must speak to old cappeze," he said aloud and musingly. "he's being unfair to her." and that did not seem a relevant comment upon the paper he held in his hand. then spurrier started a little as from outside a human voice sounded above the chorus of the frogs and whippoorwills. "hallo," it sung out. "hit's blind joe givins. kin i come in?" a few minutes later into the lamplight of the room shambled the beggar of the disfigured face, whom spurrier had last seen at the town of waterfall, led by a small, brattish boy. his violin case was tightly grasped under his arm, and his free hand was groping. "i'd done sot out ter visit a kinsman over at ther head of big wolfpen branch," explained the blind man, "but ther boy hyar's got a stone bruise on his heel an' he kain't handily go on, ter-night. we wonder could we sleep hyar?" spurrier bowed to the law of the mountains, which does not deny shelter to the wayfarer, but he shivered fastidiously at the unkempt raggedness of his tramp-like visitor, and he slipped into his pocket the papers in his hand. that night before spurrier's hearth, as in elder times before the roaring logs of some feudal castle, the wandering minstrel paid his board with song and music; his voice rising high and tremulous in quaint tales set to measure. but on the next morning the boy set out on some mission in the neighborhood and left his charge to await his return, seated in a low chair, and gazing emptily ahead. spurrier went out to the road in response to the shout of a passing neighbor, and left his papers lying on the table top, forgetful of the presence of the sightless guest, who sat so negligibly quiet in the chimney corner. when he entered the room again the blind man had risen from his seat and moved across to the hearth. on the threshold the householder halted and stood keenly eyeing him while he groped along the mantel shelf as if searching with wavering fingers for something that his eyes could not discover--and the thought of the papers which he had left exposed caused an uneasy suspicion to dart into spurrier's mind. any eye that fell on that list would have gained the key to his whole strategy and intent, but, of course, this man could not see. still spurrier cursed himself for a careless fool. "i was jest seekin' fer a match," said joe givins as a slight sound from the other attracted his attention. "i aimed ter smoke for a leetle spell." the host struck a match and held it while the broken guest kindled his pipe, then he hurriedly glanced through his papers to assure himself that nothing had been disturbed--and though each sheet seemed as he had left it, the uneasiness in spurrier's mind refused to be stilled. presumably this bat-blind ragamuffin was no greater menace to the secrecy of his plans than a bat itself would have been, yet a glimpse of this letter would have been so fatal that he asked himself anxiously, "how do i know he's not faking?" the far-fetched apprehension gathered weight like a snowslide until suddenly out of it was born a grim determination. he would make a test. noiselessly, while the ugly face that had been mutilated by a blasting charge gazed straight and sightlessly at him, spurrier opened the table drawer and took from it a heavy calibered automatic pistol. it was a deadly looking thing and it needed no cocking; only the silent slipping forward of a safety catch. in this experiment spurrier must not startle his guest by any ominous sound, but he must satisfy himself that his sight was genuinely dead. "i thought," said the host in a matter-of-fact voice as he searchingly studied the other face through narrowed lids, "that when sight went, the enjoyment of tobacco went with it." as he spoke he raised and leveled the cocked pistol until its muzzle was pointed full into the staring face. deliberately he set his own features into the baleful stamp of deadly threat, until his expression was as wicked and ugly as a gargoyle of hatred. if the man were by any possibility shamming it would take cold nerve to sit there without any hint of confession as this unwarned demonstration was made against him--a demonstration that seemed genuine and murderous. for an instant spurrier fancied that he heard the breath rasp in the other's throat, but that, he realized, must have been fancy. the face itself altered no line of expression, flickered no eyelid. it remained as it had been, stolid and blank, so that the man with the pistol felt ashamed of his suspicion. but spurrier rose and leaned across the table slowly advancing the muzzle until it almost touched the bridge of the nose, just between the eyes he was so severely testing. still no hint of realization came from the threatened guest. then the voice of the blind man sounded phlegmatically: "that's what folks say erbout terbaccy an' blind men--but, by crickety, hit _ain't so_." john spurrier withdrew his pistol and put it back in the drawer. "i guess," he said to himself, "he didn't read my letters." chapter x across a tree-shaded public square from the courthouse and "jail house" at carnettsville stood a building that wore the dejected guise of uncomforted old age, and among the business signs nailed about its entrance was the shingle bearing the name of "creed faggott, atty. at law." the way to this oracle's sanctum lay up a creaking stairway, and on a brilliant summer day not long after spurrier had entertained his blind guest it was climbed by that guest in person, led by the impish boy whose young mouth was stained with chewing-tobacco. this precocious child opened the door and led his charge in and, from a deal table, creed faggott removed his broganned feet and turned sly eyes upon the visitors, out of a cadaverous and furtive face. "you don't let no grass grow under your feet, do you, joe?" inquired the lawyer shortly. "when the day rolls round, you show up without default or miscarriage." he paused as the boy led the blind man to a chair and then facetiously capped his interrogation. "i reckon i don't err in surmisin' that you've come to collect your pension?" the blind man gazed vacantly ahead. "who, me?" he inquired with half-witted dullness. "yes, you. who else would i mean?" "hit's due, ain't hit--my money?" "due at noon to-day and noon is still ten minutes off. i'm not sure the company didn't make a mistake in allowing you such a generous compensation for your accident." there was a pause, then faggott added argumentatively: "your damage suit would have come to naught, most likely." "thet ain't ther way ye talked when i lawed ther comp'ny," whined the blind man. "ye 'peared to be right ambitious ter settle outen co'te in them days, mr. faggott." "the company didn't want the thing hanging on. they got cold feet. well, i'll give you your check." "i'd ruther have hit in cash money--silver money," stipulated the recipient of the compromise settlement. "i kin count _thet_ over by ther feel of hit." faggott snorted his disgust but he deposited in the outstretched palm the amount that fell due on each quarterly pay day, and the visitor thumbed over every coin and tested the edges of all with his teeth. after that, instead of rising to go, he sat silently reflective. "that's all, ain't it," demanded the attorney, and something like a pallid grin lifted the lip corners in the blind man's ugly face. "not quite all," replied joe givins as he shook his head. "no, thar's one other leetle matter yit. i'd love ter hev ye write me a letter ter ther comp'ny's boss-man in looeyville. i kinderly aims ter go thar an' see him." this time it was the attorney who, with an incredulity-freighted voice, demanded: "who, you?" "yes, sir. me." "the louisville manager," announced faggott loftily, "is a man of affairs. the company conducts its business here through its local counsel--that's me." "nevertheless an' notwithstandin', i reckon hit'll kinderly pleasure ther boss-man ter talk ter _me_--when he hears what i've got ter tell him." a light of greed quickened in the shyster's narrow eyes. it was possible that blind joe had come by some scrap of salable information. it had been stipulated when his damage suit was settled, that he should, paradoxically speaking, keep his blind eyes open. "see here, joe," the attorney, no longer condescending of bearing, spoke now with a wheedling insistence, "if you've got any tidings, tell 'em to me. i'm your friend and i can get the matter before the parties that hold the purse strings." joe givins stretched out a wavering hand and groped before him. "lead me on outen hyar, boy," he gave laconic command to his youthful varlet. "i'm tarryin' overlong an' wastin' daylight." "what's daylight to you, joe?" snapped faggott brutally, but recognizing his mistake he, at once, softened his manner to a mollifying tone. "set still a spell an' let's have speech tergether--an' a little dram of licker." ten minutes of nimble-witted fencing ensued between the two sons of avarice, and at their end the blind man stumped out, carrying in his breast pocket a note of introduction to a business man in louisville--whose real business was lobbying and directing underground investigations--but the lawyer was no wiser than he had been. and when eventually from the murky lobby of the farmers' haven hotel, which sits between distillery warehouses in louisville, the shabby mountaineer was led to the office building he sought, he was received while more presentable beings waited in an anteroom. it chanced that on the same day john spurrier spoke to dyke cappeze of glory. "when we went fishing," he said, "i asked her whether she never felt a curiosity for the things beyond the ridges--and her eagerness startled me." an abrupt seriousness overspread the older face and the answering voice was sternly pitched. "i should be profoundly distressed, sir," said cappeze, "to have discontent brought home to her. i should resent it as unfriendly and disloyal." "and yet," spurrier's own voice was quickened into a more argumentative timber, "she has a splendid vitality that it's a pity to crush." "she has," came the swift retort, "a contented heart which it's a pity to unsettle." the elder eyes hardened and looked out over the wall of obstinacy that had immured dyke cappeze's life, but his words quivered to a tremor of deep feeling. "i've given her an education of sorts. she knows more law than some judges, and if she's ignorant of the world of to-day she's got a bowing acquaintance with the classics. i'm not wholly selfish. if there was some one--down below that i could send her to--some one who would love her enough because she needs to be loved--i'd stay here alone, and willingly, despite the fact that it would well-nigh kill me." he paused there and his eyes were broodingly somber, then almost fiercely he went on: "i would trust her in no society where she might be affronted or belittled. i would rather see her live and die here, talking the honest, old crudities of the pioneers, than have her venture into a life where she could not make her own terms." "perhaps she could make her own terms," hazarded spurrier, and the other snapped his head up indignantly. "perhaps--yes--and perhaps not. you yourself are a man of the world, sir. what would--one of your own sort--have to offer her out there?" under that challenging gaze the man from the east found himself flushing. it was almost as though under the hypothetical form of the question, the father had bluntly warned him off from any interference unless he came as an avowed suitor. he had no answer and again the lawyer spoke with the compelling force of an ultimatum. "she must stay here with me, who would die for her, until she goes to some man who offers her everything he has to offer; some man who would die for her, too." his voice had fallen into tenderness, but a stern ring went with his final words. "meanwhile, i stand guard over her like a faithful dog. i may be old and scarred but, by god, sir, i am vigilant and devoted!" he waved his thin hand with a gesture of dismissal for a closed subject, and in a changed tone added: "i've recently heard of two other travelers riding through--and they have taken up several land options." "what meaning do you read into it, mr. cappeze?" the lawyer shrugged his shoulders. if he had no explanation to offer, it was plain that he did not regard the coming of the strangers as meaningless. "i'm going," said spurrier casually, "to make a trip up snake fork to the head of little quicksand. is there any one up there i can call on for lodging and information?" the lawyer shook his head. "it's a mighty rough country and sparsely settled. you'll find a lavish of rattlesnakes--and a few unlettered humans. there's a fellow up there named sim colby who might shelter you overnight. he lives by himself, and has a roof that sheds the rain. it's about all you can ask." "it's enough," smiled spurrier, and a few days later he found himself climbing a stiff ascent toward a point where over the tree-tops a thread of smoke proclaimed a human habitation. he was coming unannounced to the house of sim colby, but if he had expected his visit to be an entire surprise he was mistaken, and if he had known the agitation that went a little way ahead of him, he would have made a wide detour and passed the place by. sim was hoeing in his steeply pitched field when he saw and recognized the figure which was yet a half-hour's walk distant, by the meanderings of the trail. the hoe fell from his hand and his posture stiffened so inimically that the hound at his feet rose and bristled, a low growl running half smothered in its throat. doubtless, colby reasoned, spurrier was coming to his lonely house with a purpose of venom and punishment, yet he walked boldly and to the outward glance he seemed unarmed. hence it must be that in the former army officer's plan lay some intent more complex than mere open-and-shut meeting and slaying: some carefully planned and guileful climax to be approached by indirection. very well, he would also play the game out, burying his suspicion under a guise of artlessness, but watching every move--and when the moment came striking first. at a brook, as he hastened toward his house by a short cut, he knelt to drink, for his throat was damnably dry, and in the clear water the pasty pallor and terror of his face was given back to him, and warned him. but also the mirroring brought another thought and the thought fathered swift action. in the army he had been spare and clean-shaven and a scar had marked his chin. now he was bearded. he carried a beefier bulk and an altered appearance. could there be any possibility of spurrier's failing to recognize him--of his having been, after all, ignorant of his presence here? yet his eyes would be recognizable. they were arrestingly distinctive, for one of them was pale-blue and the other noticeably grayish. by the path he was following, stalks of jimson weed grew rank, and sim, rising from his knees, pulled off a handful of leaves and crushed them between his palms. when he had reached the house his first action was to force from this bruised leafage a few drops of liquid into a saucer and this juice he carefully injected into his eyes. then he went to the door and squinted up at the sun. it would be fifteen minutes before spurrier would arrive and fifteen minutes might be enough. he half closed his eyes, because they were stinging painfully, and sat waiting, to all appearances indolent and thoughtless. spurrier plodded on, measuring the distance to the smoke thread until he came in view of the cabin itself, then he approached slowly since the stiff climb had winded him. now he could see the shingle roof and the log walls, trailed over with morning-glory vines, and in the door the slouching figure of a man. he came on and the native rose lazily. "my name's john spurrier," called out the traveler, "and lawyer cappeze cited you to me as a man who might shelter me overnight." the man who had deserted chewed nonchalantly on a grass straw and regarded the other incuriously--which was a master bit of dissembling. between them, it seemed to sim colby who had once been private grant, lay the body of a murdered captain. between them, too, lay the guilt of his assassination. to the easterner's appraisal this heavy-set mountaineer with unkempt hair and ragged beard was merely a local type and yet in one respect he was unforgettable. it was his eyes. they were arrestingly uncommon eyes and, once seen, they must be remembered. what was the quality that made one notice them so instantly, spurrier questioned himself. then he realized. they were inkily black eyes, but that was not all. there seemed to be in them no line of demarcation between iris and pupil--only liquid pools of jet. the two men sat there as the shadows lengthened and talked "plumb friendly" as colby later admitted to himself. they smoked spurrier's "fotched-on" tobacco and drank native distillation from the demijohn that colby took down from its place on a rafter. yet the host was filling each tranquilly flowing minute with the intensive planning of a hospitality that was, like macbeth's, to end in murder. spurrier would sleep in an alcovelike room which could be locked from the outside. back through the brush was a spot of quicksand where a body would leave no trace. one thing only troubled the planning brain. he wished he could learn just who knew of his guest's coming here; just what precautions that guest had taken before embarking on such a venture. from outside came a shout, interrupting these reflections, and sim was at once on his feet facing the front door, with a surreptitious hand inside his shirt, and one eye covertly watching spurrier, even as he looked out. a snarl, too, drew his lips into an unpleasant twist. the easterner put down to mountain caution the amazing swiftness with which the other had come from his hulking proneness to upstanding alertness. but with equal rapidity, sim's pose relaxed into ease and he shouted a welcome as the door darkened with a figure physically splendid in its spare strength and commanding height. spurrier rose and found himself looking into a face with most engaging eyes and teeth that flashed white in smiling. for a moment as the newcomer gazed at sim colby his expression mirrored some sort of surprise and his lips moved as if to speak, but spurrier could not see, because colby's back was turned, the warning glance that shot between the two, and the big fellow's lips closed again without giving utterance to whatever he had been on the point of saying--something to do with eyes that had mystifyingly changed their color. "mister spurrier, this hyar's sam mosebury," announced the host. "mebby ye mout of heered tell of him." spurrier nodded. so this was the outlaw against whose terrorism old cappeze had broken his quixote lances, the windmill that had unhorsed him; the man with a criminal record at which a wild region trembled. "i've heered tell of mr. spurrier, too," vouchsafed the murderer equably. "he's a friend of old dyke cappeze's." the "furriner" made no denial. though he had been sitting with his head in the jaws of death ever since he entered this door, it had been without any presentiment of danger. now he felt the menace of this terrorist's presence, and that menace was totally fictitious. "mr. cappeze has befriended me," he answered stiffly. "i reckon that's not a recommendation to you, is it?" the man who had newly entered laughed. he drew a chair forward and seated himself. "i reckon, mr. spurrier, hit ain't none of my business one way ner t'other," he said. "anyhow, hit ain't no reason why you an' me kain't be friends, is hit?" "it doesn't make any difficulty with me," laughed spurrier in relief, "if it doesn't with you." sam mosebury looked at him, then his voice came with a dry chuckle of humor. "over at my dwellin' house," he announced with a pleasant drawl, "i've got me a pet mockin'-bird--an' i've got me a pet cat, too. ther three of us meks up ther fam'ly over thar." spurrier looked at the strong-featured face as he prompted, "yes?" "waal," sam mosebury waved his hand, and even his gestures had a spacious bigness about them, "ef god almighty didn't see fit fer thet thar bird an' thet thar cat ter love one another--i don't seek ter alter his plan. nonetheless i sets a passel of store by both of 'em." he filled his pipe, then his words became musing, possibly allegorical. "mebby some day i'll _ree_lax a leetle mite too much in watchin' an' then i reckon ther cat'll kill ther bird--but thet's accordin' ter nature, too, an' deespite i'll grieve some, i won't disgust ther cat none." that night spurrier lay on the same shuck-filled mattress with the man whom the law had not been strong enough to hang, and for a while he remained wakeful, reflecting on the strangeness of his bed-fellowship. but, had he known it, his life was saved that night because the murderer had arrived and provided an interfering presence when the plans on foot required solitude. chapter xi perhaps old cappeze had spoken too late when he sounded his sharp warning to the newcomer against unsettling the simple contentment of his daughter's mind. always realizing his transient status in the aloofness of this life, spurrier had scrupulously guarded his contact with the girl who belonged to it and who had no prospect of escaping it. he had sought to behave to her as he might have behaved to a child, with grave or gay friendliness untouched by those gallantries that might have been misunderstood, yet treating her intelligence with full and adult equality. but his inclination to see more of her than formerly was one that he indulged because it gave him pleasure and because a failure to do so would have had the aspect of churlishness. those self-confessed traces of snobbery that adhered to this courtier at the throne of wealth, were attributes of which the girl saw nothing. neither did she see the shell of cynicism which spurrier had cultivated and this was not because her insight failed of keenness, but because in these surroundings they were dormant qualities. the self that he displayed here was the self of the infectious smile, of the frank boldness and good humor that had made him beloved among his army mess-mates before these more gracious qualities had been winter-killed by misfortune. so he was the picturesque and charming version of himself, and he became to glory an object of hero worship, whose presence made the day eventful and whose intervals of absence were filled with dreams of his next coming. it was about this time that john spurrier, the "opportunity hound," made a disquieting discovery. it came upon him one night as he sat on the porch of dyke cappeze's log house at twilight, with pipes glowing and seductive influences stealing into the senses. daylight color had faded to the mistiness of tarnished silver except for a lemon afterglow above western ridges that were violet-gray, and the evening star was a single lantern hanging softly luminous, where soon there would be many others. cadenced and melodious as a lullaby fraught with the magic of the solitudes, the night song of frog and whippoorwill rose stealingly out of silence, and the materialist who had been city bound so much since conviction of crime had shadowed his life discovered the thing which threatened danger. it came to him as his eyes met those of glory, who sat in the doorway itself--since she, at least, need not fear to show her face to any lurking rifleman. the yellow lamplight from within outlined the lovely contour of her rounded cheek and throat and livened her hair, but it was not only her undeniable beauty that caused spurrier sudden anxiety. it was the eyes and what he read in them. instantly as their gazes engaged she dropped her glance but, in the moment before she had masked her expression, spurrier knew that she had fallen in love with him. the eyes had said it in that instant when he had surprised them. they had immediately seized back their secret and hidden it away, but not in time. the opportunity hound rose and knocked the ash from his pipe. he wondered whether old dyke cappeze, sitting there inscrutable and dimly shaped in the shadows, had shared his discovery--that grizzled old watchdog who was not too far gone to fight for his own with the strength of his yellowed fangs. the visitor shook hands and walked moodily home, and as he went he sought to dismiss the matter from his mind. it was all a delusion, he assured himself; some weird psychological quirk born of a man's innate vanity; incited by a girl's physical allurement. he would go to sleep and to-morrow he would laugh at the moonshine problem. but he did not find it so easy to sleep. he remembered one of those men in the islands who had become a melancholiac. the fellow had been normal at one moment; then without warning something like an impenetrable shadow had struck across him. he had never come out of the shadow. so this disquiet--though it was abnormal elation rather than melancholy, had suddenly become a fact with himself, and instead of dismissing it spurrier found himself reacting to it. not only was glory cappeze in love with him but--absurdity of absurdities--he was in love with glory! it was as irreconcilable with all the logic of his own nature as any conceivable thing could be, yet it was undeniably true. but spurrier had been there in the hills when summer had overcome winter. he had seen trickles of water grow into freshets and feed rivers. he had seen clouds as large as one's hand swell abruptly into tempests that cannonaded mightily through the peaks, with the lashing of torrents, the sting of lightnings, and the onsweep of hurricanes. he had seen the pink flower of laurel and rhododendron make fragrant magic over wastes of chocolate and slag-gray mountain sides, and in himself something akin to these elemental forces had declared itself. he found himself two men, and though he swore resolutely that his brain should dominate and govern, he also recognized in himself the man of new-born impulses who drew the high air into his chest with a keen elation, and who wanted to laugh at the artificial things that life has wrought into its structure of accepted civilization. that insurgent part of himself found a truer congeniality in the company of grizzled old dyke cappeze than that of martin harrison; a stronger comradeship in the frank laugh of glory than in the cool intelligence of vivien's smile. glory's brain was as alert as quicksilver, and her heart as high and clean as the hills. yet in his own world these two would be as unplaced as gypsies strayed from their dilapidated caravan. moreover, it was ordained that he was to win his game and upon him was to be conferred an accolade--the hand, in marriage, of his principal's daughter. spurrier laughed a little grimly to himself. of the woman whose hand had been half-promised him he could think dispassionately and of this other, whom he could not take with him into his world of artificial values, he could not think at all without a pounding of pulses and a tumult which he thought he had left behind him with his early youth. in character and genuine metal of mind, glory was the superior of most of those women he knew, yet because she was country bred and trained to a code that did not obtain elsewhere, she could no more be removed from her setting than a blooming eidelweiss could be successfully transplanted in a conservatory. he himself was fixed into a certain place which he had attained by fighting his way, in the figurative sense at least, over the bodies of the less successful and the less enduring. it was too late for him to transplant himself, and he and she were plants of differing soil, as though one were a snow flower and one a tropic growth. also there were immediate things of which to think, such as an unexpired threat upon his life. already he had escaped the assassin's first effort, and he had no guess where the enmity lay which had actuated that attack. that it still existed and would strike again he had a full realization. he was not walking in the shadow of dread but, because he knew of the menace lurking where all the faces were friendly, he had begun to feel that companionship of suspense: that nearness of something in hiding under which men lived here; and under which women grew old in their twenties. and it is not given to a man to live under such conditions, and remain the man who fights only across mahogany tabletops in offices. yet john spurrier scornfully reasoned that if he could not remain himself even in a new and altered habitat, he was a weakling, and he had no intention of proving a weakling. his hand had grasped the plow-haft and, for the present, at least, his loyalty belonged to his undertaking. this inward conflict went with him as he rode across the singing hills to gather up his mail at the nearest post office and he told himself, "i am a fool to ponder it." then his thoughts ran on: "it is dwelling on factitious things that gives them force. life presents a janus aspect of the double-faced at times, but a man must choose his way and ignore the turnings. glory has pure charm. she has a quick mind and a captivating beauty, but so far as i'm concerned, she is simply out of the picture. i could be mad about her, if i let myself--but presumably i am not adrift on a gulf stream of emotionalism." when he had spent an hour in the dusty little town and turned again into the coolness of the hills, he dismounted under the shade of a "cucumber tree" and glanced through those letters that were still unopened. one envelope was addressed in a hand that tantalized memory with a half sense of the familiar, and spurrier's brow contracted in perplexity. then his face grew abruptly grave. "by heavens!" he exclaimed. "it's withers--major withers! what can he be writing about?" he opened it and drew out the sheet of paper, and, as he read, his expression went through the gamut of surprise and incredulity to a settled sternness of purpose that made his face stony. "if it's true," he exclaimed, "the man is mine to kill! no, not to kill, either, but to take alive at all costs." he stood for a moment, his sinewy body answering to a tremor of deeply shaken emotion. had he been mountain-bred and feud-nurtured, the sinister glitter of his eyes could have been no more relentless. he was for that moment a man dedicating himself to the blood oath of vengeance. then he composed his features and smoothed out the letter that his clenched fingers had unconsciously crumpled. again he read what major withers had to say: i am writing because though i infer that you have succeeded in material ways, i have heard nothing of your progress in clearing your name and i know that until that is accomplished, no success will be complete for you. quite recently i have had as my striker a fellow named wiley, who used to be in your platoon--and i have talked with him a good bit. not long ago he declared to me his belief that private grant who is listed as officially dead, did _not_ die in the islands. he seems to think that grant made a clean getaway and went back to the kentucky mountains from which he came. he confesses that he gets this idea from nothing more tangible than casual hints dropped by private severance, whose discharge came shortly after you left us, yet his impression is so strong as to amount to conviction. possibly if you could trace severance you might learn something. it's a vague clew, i admit, but i pass it along to you for whatever it may be worth. slowly, as though his tireless limbs had grown suddenly old, spurrier mounted and rode on with reins hanging. he was so deep in thought that he forgot the other unopened letters in his pocket. grant might be in these same hills with himself; grant upon whom his counsel had sought to place the blame for the murder of captain comyn. if they could meet alone for the period of a brief interview, either that question would be finally answered or in the reckoning one of them would have to die. but how to trace him in this ragged territory covering a great and broken area--a territory which god had seemed to build, as a haven and a hiding place for men who sought concealment? grant would in all likelihood see him first and--he entertained no illusions as to the result--the deserter would kill him on sight. on the other hand, it would do spurrier no good to kill grant. if grant were to serve him it must be with a confession wrung from living lips, and on oath. of course, too, the years would have changed grant so that if they came face to face he would probably fail to recognize the man he had known only in khaki. the scarred chin? a beard would obliterate that. the stature? added weight or lost weight would make it seem another man's. by processes of elimination spurrier culled over the possibilities until at length his glance brightened. in one particular private grant could scarcely disguise himself. his eyes were in a fashion mismated. one was light gray and one pale blue. yes, if ever they met he would have his clew in that. and that memory reminded him that he had recently been impressed to an unusual degree by a pair of eyes. whose were they? oh, yes, he remembered now. it was the man at whose house he had met sam mosebury--sim colby who dwelt over beyond clubfoot branch. but colby's eyes had been noticeable by reason of their extraordinary blackness. so that only helped him in so far as it enabled him to eliminate from all the thousands of possible men the one man, sim colby. the afternoon had spent itself toward sunset as he dismounted and stabled his horse, and it was with a face still somberly thoughtful that he fitted his key into the padlock which held his door and entered. the interior was dusky in contrast with the outer light, but from one window a shaft of golden radiance slanted inward and in it the dust motes danced. spurrier paused and glanced about him, but before he had thrown down the hat he had taken from his perspiring forehead, a sound hideously unmistakable caused his heartbeat to miss its rhythm and pound in commotion. every man has his one terror, or, at least, one antipathy which he is unable to treat with customary calmness. with spurrier it was everything reptilian. in the islands he had dreaded the snake menace more than fever or head hunters. now, from the darkened floor near his feet came the vicious whir of rattles, and as his eyes flashed toward the sound he saw coiled there a huge snake with its flat, arrow-shaped head sinuously waving from side to side. with an agility made lightning-quick by necessity, he leaped aside and, at the same instant, the snake launched itself with such venomous force that the sound of its striking and falling on the puncheon floor was like the lashing of a mule whip. the man had felt the disturbed air of its passing as of a sword stroke that had narrowly missed him. but he had no leisure to regain the breath that had caught startled in his throat, before, from his left, he heard again the ominous note of warning, and felt his scalp creep with horror. the place which he had left locked and believed to be mosquito proof, now seemed alive with the loathsome trespassers. as spurrier leaped for his couch he heard again the sound of a living coil released and its hawserlike lashing of the floor. now he could see more plainly and, calculating his distance, he jumped for the table from which he could reach the loaded shotgun that hung on his wall. if he fell short, he would come down at their mercy--but he landed securely and without capsizing his support. his elevation gave him a precarious sort of safety, but on the floor below him he counted three rattlesnakes, crawling and recoiling; their cold-blooded eyes following his movements with baleful intentness. spurrier was conscious of his trembling hands as he leveled the weapon, and of a crawling sensation of loathing along his spine. twice the gun roared, splintering the flooring and spattering its ricochetting pellets, and two of the rattlers twisted in convulsive but harmless writhings. but the third head--and it seemed the largest of the three--had withdrawn under the cot. he was not even sure that these three made up the total. there might be others. with painstaking care spurrier came down and armed himself with a stout hickory flail which had been used in other days by some housewife in her primitive laundry work as a "battling stick." then he advanced to the battle, swinging one end of the cot wide and shiftily sidestepping. the rattler which lay in piled circles of coppery length regarded him with steely venom, turning its swaying head deliberately as its enemy circled. with the startling abruptness of an electric buzzer it warned and sprang. he escaped by an uncomfortable margin and attacked it with the flail before it could rearrange its coils. finally he stood panting with exertion over the scene of slaughter. as he searched the place with profoundest particularity his mind was analyzing the strange invasion. his house was as tight as he had thought it. there was no cranny that would have let in three large rattlers. how had they come there? spurrier went out and studied his door. the hasps that held his padlock were in place, but the woodwork about them had been recently scarred. the lock fastenings had been pulled out and replaced. with a nervous moisture on his brow the man recognized the fiendish ingenuity of his mysterious enemy. these slithering creatures had come here by human agency as brute accomplices in the murder that had failed from the rifle muzzle. the pertinacity and cunning of the scheme's anonymous author gave promise of eventfulness hereafter. had he been struck, according to the evident intention, as he entered his house, he would probably have died there, unsuccored, leaving the door open. the rattlers would either have found their way out after that, or, when his body was discovered, the open door would have explained their presence inside, and no suspicion of a man's conspiracy would have remained. one thing stood out clear in spurrier's summing-up. whatever the source of the enmity which pursued him, it had its nerve center in an ingenious brain and it threw about itself that element of mystery which a timid man would have found terrifying and unendurable. also it operated with a patience which was a manifest of its unswerving determination. effort might be expected to follow effort until success came--or the unknown plotter were discovered and disposed of. yet the author of these malignant attempts worked with an unflurried deliberation, allowing passive intervals to elapse between activities, like the volcano that rests in the quiet of false security between fatal eruptions. of course, the letter with the mention of private grant might be a clew of identity, yet calm reflection discounted that assumption as a wild and unconfirmed grasping out after something tangible. perhaps spurrier as nearly approached the absolute in physical fearlessness as it is given to man to come--but the mystery of a pursuing hatred which could not be openly faced, filled him with a sense of futility, and the futility inspired rage which was unsettling and must be combated. that night he lay long awake, and after he had fallen asleep he came often to a sudden and wide-eyed wakefulness again at the sound of an owl's call or the creaking of a tree limb. the next morning found him restless of spirit, and it occurred to him that his secret enemy might be lurking near to inspect the results of his handiwork, so he went down to the road and hung the three dead rattlesnakes along the fence where no passer-by could miss seeing their twisted and mutilated lengths. that should be his retort to any inquiring and hostile eye, that he was alive and the creatures put there to destroy him had paid with their lives. from a place screened from view he meant to watch that gruesome exhibit and mark its effect upon any one who paused to inspect it. possibly in that way a clew might be vouchsafed--but he did not at once take cover in the thickets. it was a glorious morning. the sun had ripped away the mists that, in the mountains, always hang damp and veillike between gray dawning and colorful day. the cool forest recesses were vocal with the twitterings and song from feathered throats. spurrier sat down by the road and gave himself up to thoughts that it was safer to banish: thoughts that came with those sights and sounds and that made long-stilled pulses awaken and throb in him. this morning made him feel glory's presence and gave him a fine recklessness as to responsibility and consequence. suddenly he came to himself and seemed to hear the cool cynicism of martin harrison's voice inquiring, as it had once actually inquired: "growing sentimental?" he pulled himself together and stiffened his expression into one more suitable upon the face of a man who has taken the severe vows of service to a cold ambition. but a little later he heard a sound and looked up sidewise to see glory herself standing near him in the road; a materialization of the truant dreams he had been entertaining. she wore a dress whose simplicity accentuated the slender erectness of her young body and the litheness of her carriage. her hair hung in braids and the sunbonnet had fallen back from the brightness of her hair. in her eyes played the violet lights of a merriment that lifted and curved her lips beguilingly. spurrier came to his feet, and perhaps glory, who had succumbed to her moment of self-revelation there on the twilight porch, had her revenge now. for that first startled moment as their glances met, the eyes that looked into hers were lover's eyes, and their unspoken message was courtship. if he maintained the stoic's silence forever, as to words, at least his heart had spoken. "before heaven," said the man slowly, and the tremor of his voice was out of keeping with the ingrained poise of his usual self-command, "when they called you glory, they didn't misname you!" the girl flushed pink, and he took a step toward her with the absorbed intensity of a sleep-walker. glory stood there--watched him coming and did not move. to her, though she had sought to hide it, he had become the one man. her unconfessed love had magnified and deified him--and now his own eyes were blazing responsively with love for her! suddenly she was shaken by a rapturous tremor that seemed almost like swooning or being lifted on some powerful wave that swept her clear of the earth, so that she made no effort at disguise, but let the laughing light in her eyes become softer, yet more glowingly intense. it was as if they had met in the free realm of dreams where there are no hamperings of impossibility. as he drew near her, his arms came out, and he halted so that, under that same delightful sense of irresponsibility, it seemed to her quite natural to step into their welcome. possibly the happenings of yesterday and the sleepless hours of last night had left spurrier momentarily light-headed. certainly had one of the rattlers stung him and poisoned his reason, he could not be doing a thing more foreign to his program of intention. he felt his arms close about her; felt the fragrance of her breath, found himself pressing his kisses on lips that welcomed them, and forgot everything except that this was a moment of ecstasy and passion. chapter xii for a while they stood there together in the narrow road to whose edges the dense greenery came down massed and dewy. their breath was quick with the excitement of that moment when the hills and the rocks that upheld them seemed to them palpitant and gloriously shaken. then they heard the lumbering of wheels, and with one impulse that needed no expression in words they turned through a gorge which ran at right angles into the stillness of the woods--and away from interruption. spurrier had, it seemed to him, stepped through a curtain in life and found beyond it a door of which he had not known. it seemed natural that he and glory should be going hand in hand into that place of dreams like children at play and hearing joyous voices that were mute and nonexistent in the world of commonplace and fact. he did not even pause to reflect that this was a continuation of the same ravine in which an assassin's bullet had once so narrowly missed him. yesterday, too, was forgotten. just now he was young in his heart again, and had love for his talisman. actuality had been dethroned by some dream wizardry and left him free of obligation to reason. then he heard glory's voice low-pitched and a little frightened. "it kain't--can't--be true. it's just a dream!" a flash of sanity, like the shock of a cold plunge, brought the thought that, from her lips, had sounded a warning. this was the moment, if ever, to draw back and take counsel of common sense. now it would be easier than later to abase himself and confess that in this midsummer's madness was no substance or color of reality--that he stood unalterably pledged to her renunciation. but the earthquake does not still itself at the height of its tremor and the cyclone does not stop dead with its momentum unspent. years of calculated and nerve-trying self-command were exacting their toll in the satisfaction of outbreak. spurrier's emotional self was in volcanic eruption, the more molten and lava-hot for the prolonged dormancy of a sealed crater. he caught the girl again and pressed her so close that the commotion of her heart came throbbing against him through the yielding softness of her breast; and the agitation of her breath on his face was a little tempest of acquiescent sweetness. "doesn't it seem real, now?" he challenged as he released her enough to let her breathe, yet held her imprisoned, and she nodded, radiant-eyed, and answered in a voice half bewildered and more than half burdened with self-reproach. "i didn't even hang back," she made confession. "i just walked right into your arms the minute you held them out. i didn't seem able to help myself." suddenly her eyes, impenitent once more, danced with mischief and her smile broke like a sun flash over her face. "if i'd had the power of witchcraft, i'd have put the spell on you, jack," she declared. "i had to make you love me. i just _had_ to do it." "i rather think you had--that power, dear." he laughed contentedly as a man may who shifts all responsibility for an indiscretion to a force stronger than his own volition. "you see," she went on as if seeking to make illogic seem logical. "from the first--i couldn't think of you except with storm thoughts. i couldn't keep my heart quiet, when i was with you." "at first," he reminded her, "you wanted to kill me. i heard you confiding to rover." her eyes grew seriously deep and undefensive in their frankness. it was the candor of a woman's pride in conquest. "i'm not sure yet," she said almost fiercely, "that i wouldn't almost rather kill you than--lose you to any other girl." vaguely and as yet remotely, spurrier's consciousness was pricked with a forecast of reality's veto, but the present spoke in passion and the future whispered weakly in platitudes. "you won't lose me," he protested. "i'm yours." "and yet," went on glory, "you seemed a long way off. you were the man who did big things in the world outside. you were--always cool and--calculating." "glory," his words came with the rush of impetuosity for already the whispers of warning were gaining in volume, and impulse was struggling for its new freedom, "the man you've seen to-day is one i haven't known myself before. chilled calculation and self-repression have been the articles of my creed. i've been crusted with those obsessions like a ship's hull with barnacles. did you know that when vessels pass through the panama canal, the barnacles drop off?" she shook her head. "no," she said, and her lips twisted into something like wistfulness as she dropped unconsciously into vernacular. "there's a lavish of things i don't know. you've got to learn 'em all to me--i mean teach them to me." "well," he went on slowly, "steamers that pass through the fresh water, from salt to salt, automatically cleanse their plates. you've been fresh water to me, glory." "jack," she declared with tempestuous anxiety, "you say i've changed you. i'll try to change myself, too, all the ways i can--all the ways you want." "i don't want you changed," he objected. "if you were changed, it wouldn't be you." "maybe," she persisted, "you'd like me better if i were taller or had black eyes." "i wonder now," he teased with the whimsey of the moment, "what you would look like with black eyes? i can't imagine it. will you do that for me?" "come to our house to-night," she irrelevantly commanded. "won't you?" "yes," he said, "i'd come to-night if i had to swim the hellespont." but when he had left her an hour later at the crossroads and started back, his eyes fell on the ugly shapes of the three rattlesnakes, over which he had forgotten to keep watch and which she had not even seen, and yesterday came back with the impact of undisguised realization. yesterday and to-morrow stood out again in their own solid proportions and to-day stood like a slender wisp of heart's desire shouldered between uncompromising giants of fact. spurrier could no longer deny that his personal world centered about glory; that away from her would be only the unspeakable bleakness of lonely heart hunger. but it was equally certain that he could not abandon everything upon which he had underpinned his future, and in that structure was no niche which she could occupy. sitting alone in his house with a chill ache at his heart and facing a dilemma that seemed without solution, he knew for once the tortures of terror. for once he could not face the future intrepidly. he had recognized when the army had stigmatized him and cast him out, that only by iron force and aggression could he break his way through to success. he was enlisted in a warfare captained by financiers of major caliber and committed to a struggle out of which victory would bring him not only wealth, but a place of his own among such financiers--a place which glory could not share. he and his principals alike were fighting for the prizes of the looting victor in a battle without chivalry, and whether he won or was crushed by american oil and gas, the native landholder must be ground and bruised between the impact of clashing forces. in the trail of his victory, no less than theirs, would be human wreckage. sitting before his dead hearth while the afternoon shadows slanted and lengthened, spurrier wondered what agonies had wracked the heart of napoleon when he was called upon to choose between josephine and a dynasty. for even in his travail the egoist thought of himself and his ambitions in napoleonic terms. as he sat there alone with silences about his lonely cabin that seemed speaking in still voices of vastness, the poignant personality of his thoughts brought him, by the strange anomaly of life, to realizations that were not merely personal. glory had won his heart and it was as though in doing so she had also made his feelings quicken for her people: these people from whose poverty, hospitality and kindness had been poured out to him: these people who had taken him at first with reserve and then accepted him with faith. he had eaten their bread and salt. he had drunk their illicit whiskey, given to him with no fear that he would betray them even in the lawlessness which to them seemed honorable and fair. and yet his purpose here, was the single one of enabling a certain group of money-grabbing financiers to triumph over another group at the cost of the mountaineer land-holders. it was not because, if he succeeded, there would not be enough of legitimate profit to enrich all, but because in a campaign of secrecy he could make a confidant of no one. if the enterprise were carried through at all he must have secured, for principals who would abate nothing and give back nothing, the necessary property bought on the basis of barren farming land. were it his own endeavor he could first plunder and develop and then make restitution, but acting as an agent he could no more do that than the soldier who has unconditionally surrendered, can subsequently demand terms. the man who had been a plunger at gaming table and race track, who had succeeded as an imitator of schemes that attracted major capital, was of necessity one of imagination. perhaps had life dealt him different cards, spurrier would have been a novelist or even a poet, for that imagination which he had put into heavy harness was also capable of flights into phantasy and endowed with something almost mystic. now under the stress of this conflict in his mind, as he sat before his hearth in shadows that were vague of light and shape, that unaccustomed surrender to imagination possessed him, peopling the dimness with shapes that seemed actual. his eye fell upon the empty three-legged stool that stood on the opposite side of the hearth, and as though he were looking at one of those motion picture effects which show, in double negative one character confronting his dual and separate self, he seemed to see a figure sitting there and regarding him out of contemptuous eyes. it was the figure of a very young man clad in the tunic of a graduating west point cadet and it was a figure that bore itself with the prideful erectness of one who regards his right to wear his uniform as a privilege of knighthood. for spurrier was fancying himself confronted by the man he had been in those days of eager forward-looking, and of almost religious resolve to make of himself a soldier in the best meaning of the word. then as his eyes closed for a moment under the vividness of the fancy, the figure dissolved into its surroundings of shadow and near the stool with folded arms and a bitterer scorn stood a lieutenant in khaki. "so this is what you have come to be," said the imaginary spurrier blightingly to the actual spurrier. "a looter and brigand no better than the false _amigos_ that i fought over there. i was a gentleman and you are a cad!" had the man been dreaming in sleep instead of wakefulness, his vision could hardly have worn habiliments of greater actuality, and he found himself retorting in hot defensiveness. "whatever i am you made me. it was you who was disgraced. it is because i was once you that i am now i. you left me no choice but to fight with the weapons that came to hand, and those weapons were predatory.... if i have deliberately hardened myself it is only as soldiers of other days put on coats of mail--because soft flesh could not survive the mace and broadsword." "and when you win your prizes, if you ever win them," the accusing vision appeared to retort, "you will have paid for them by spending all that was honorable in yourself; all that was generous and soldierly. when you were i, you led a charge across rice paddies without cover and under a withering fire. for that you were mentioned in dispatches and you had a paragraph in the army and navy journal. have you ever won a prize since then, that meant as much to you?" john spurrier came to his feet, with a groan in his throat. his temples were moist and marked with a tracery of outstanding veins and his hands were clenched. "good god!" he exclaimed aloud. "give me back the name and the uniform i had then, and see how gladly i'll tell these new masters to go to hell!" startled at the sound of his own voice arguing with a fantasy as with a fact, the man sank back again into his chair and covered his face with his spread hands. but shutting out sight did not serve to shut out the images of his fancy. he saw himself hired out to "practical" overlords and sent to prey on friends, then he rose and stood confronting the empty stool where the dream-accuser in uniform had stood and once more he spoke aloud. as he did so it seemed that the figure returned and stood waiting, stern and noncommittal, while he addressed it. "give me the success i need, and the independence it carries, and i'll spend my life exonerating my name. i'll go back to the islands and live among the natives till i find a man who will tell the truth. i'll move heaven and earth--but that takes money. i've always stood, in this business, with wealth just beyond my grasp--always promised, never realized. let me realize it and be equipped to fight for vindication. these men i serve have the prizes to dispense, but i am bound hand and foot to them. they take their pay in advance. once victorious i can break with them." "and these people who have befriended you," questioned the mentor voice, "what of them?" "i love them. they are her people. i shall seem to plunder them, but if my plans succeed i shall be in a position to make terms--and my terms shall be theirs. until i succeed i must seem false to them. god knows i'm paying for that too. i love glory!" suddenly spurrier wiped a hand across a clammy forehead and stood looking about his room, empty save for himself. he seemed a man who had been through a delirium. but he reached no conclusion, and when twilight found him tramping toward the cappeze house it was with a heart that beat with anticipation--while it sought refuge in postponed decision. when glory received him in the lamp-lighted room he halted in amazement, for the girl who stood there with a mischievous smile on her lips no longer looked at him out of eyes violet-blue, but black as liquid jet. "how did you do that?" he demanded in a voice blank with astonishment. "it's a sheer impossibility!" "maybe it's witchcraft, jack," she mocked him. "can you change them back?" he asked a little anxiously, and she shook her head. "no, but they'll change of themselves in a day or two." "i reckon," commented dyke cappeze, looking up from his book by the table, "i oughtn't to give away feminine secrets, but it's a right simple matter, after all. she just put some jimson-weed juice in her eyes and the trick was done." "jimson weed," echoed the visitor, and the elder nodded. "if you happen to remember your botany, you'll recall that its longer name is _datura stramonium_--and it's a strong mydriatic. it swells the pupil and obliterates the iris." it was walking homeward with a low moon overhead that evening that spurrier's thoughts found time to wrestle with other problems than those affecting himself and glory. the incident of the black eyes had at first interested him only because they were _her_ eyes, but now he thought also of the episode of the rattlesnakes and the letter from major withers. in his first analysis of what that letter might mean to him he had decided that his man would be recognizable by his mismated eyes. he had recalled sim colby's black ones while thinking of unusual eyes in general and had, in passing, set him down as one who stood alibied. now, in the light of this jimson-weed discovery, those black eyes took on a new interest. presumably it was a trick commonly known in these hills. _if_ colby's eyes had been so altered--and they had seemed unnatural in their tense blackness--it must have been with a deliberate and sufficient motive. sim colby was not making his pupils smart and sting as a matter of vanity. a man resorting to disguises seeks first to change the most salient notes of his appearance. spurrier recalled, with the force of added importance, the surprised look on sam mosebury's face when that genial murderer, upon his arrival, had stifled some impulse of utterance. suspicion of colby was perhaps far-fetched, but it took a powerful hold on spurrier, and one from which he could not free himself. at all events, he must see this sim colby when colby did not know he was coming--and look at his eyes again. so he made a second trip across the hills to the head of little quicksand, and for the sake of safeguarding against any warning going ahead of him, he spoke to no one of his intention. this time he went armed with an automatic pistol and a very grim purpose. when they met--if the mountaineer's eyes were no longer black--he would probably need both. but once again the opportunity hound encountered disappointment. he found a chimney with no smoke issuing from it and a door barred. the horse had been taken out of the stable and from many evidences about the untenanted place he judged that the man who lived alone there had been absent for several days. to make inquiries would be to proclaim his interest and prejudice his future chances of success, so he slipped back again as surreptitiously as he had come, and the determination which he had keyed to the concert pitch of climax had to be laid by. at home again he found that the love which he could neither accept nor conquer was demoralizing his moral and mental equipoise. he could no longer fix and hold his attention on the problems of his work. his spirit was in equinox. the only solution was to go to glory and tell her the truth, for if he let matters run uncontrolled their momentum would become unmanageable. it was the simple matter of choosing failure with her or success without her, and he had at last reached his decision. it remained only to tell her so. it had pleased john spurrier to find a house upon an isolated site from which he could work unobserved, while he maintained his careful semblance of idleness. his nearest neighbor was a mile away as the crow flew, and dyke cappeze almost two miles. even the deep-rutted highroad, itself, lay beyond a gorge which native parlance called a "master shut-in." now that remoteness pleased his enemies as well. former efforts toward his undoing had been balked by accidents. one must be made that could have no chance to fail and an isolated setting made for success. matters that required deft handling could be conducted by daylight instead of under a tricky moon. it was a good spot for a "rat-killing" and spurrier was to be the rat. it was well before sunset on a thursday afternoon that rifle-armed men, holding to the concealment of the "laurel hells," began approaching the high place above and behind spurrier's house. they came from varying directions and one by one. no one had seen any gathering, for the plans had been made elsewhere and the details of liaison perfected in advance. now they trickled noiselessly into their designated posts and slowly drew inward toward the common center of the house itself. spurrier who rode in at mid-afternoon from some neighborhood mission commented with pleasure upon the cheery "bob whites" of the quail whistling back in the timber. they were glory's birds, and this winter he would know better than to shoot them! but they were not glory's birds. they were not birds at all, and those pipings came from human throats, establishing touch as the murder squad advanced upon him to kill him. the man opened a package which had come by mail and drew from its wrappings the portrait of a girl in evening dress with a rope of pearls at her throat. its silver frame was a counterpart of the one which had stood on martin harrison's desk that night when spurrier had lifted it and vivien's father had so meaningly said: "make good in this and _all_ your ambitions can be fulfilled." now spurrier set the framed picture on the table at the center of the room and it seemed to look out from that point of vantage with the amused indulgence of well-bred condescension upon the spartan simplicity of his house--the rough table and hickory-withed chairs, the cot spread with its gray army blanket. the man gave back to the pictured glance as little fire of eagerness as was given out from it. just now vivien seemed to him the deity and personification of a creed that was growing hateful, yet one to which he stood still bound. he was like the priest whose vows are irrevocable but whose faith in his dogma has died, and to himself he murmured ironically, "'the idols are broke in the temple of baal'--and yet i've got to go on bending the knee to the debris!" but when he turned on his heel and looked through the door his face brightened, for there, coming over the short-cut between aunt erie toppit's and her own home, was glory, carrying a basket over which was tied a bit of jute sacking. she came on lightly and halted outside his threshold. "i'm not comin' visitin' you, mr. john spurrier," she announced gravely despite the twinkle in her eyes. "i'm bent on a more seemly matter, but i'm crossin' your property an' i hope you'll forgive the trespass." "since it's you," he acceded in the same mock seriousness, "i'll grant you the right of way. you paid the toll when you let me have a glimpse of you." "and this is your house," she went on musingly. "and i've never seen inside its door. it seems strange, somehow, doesn't it?" spurrier laughed. "now that you're here," he suggested, "you might as well hold an inspection. it's daylight and we can dispense with a chaperon for ten minutes." she nodded and laughed too. "i guess the granny-folk would go tongue wagging if they found it out. anyhow, i'm going to peek in for just a minute." she stepped lightly up to the threshold and looked inside, and the slanting shaft from the window fell full on the new photograph of vivien martin, so that it stood out in the dim interior emphasized by the flash of its silver frame. glory went over and studied the face with a somewhat cryptic expression, but she made no comment and at the door she announced: "i'll be goin' on. you can have three guesses what i've got in this basket." but spurrier, catching sight of a bronze tail-quill glinting between the bars of the container, spoke with prompt certainty. "one guess will be enough. it's one of those carrier pigeons that uncle jimmy litchfield gave you." "you peeped before you guessed," she accused. "i'm going to leave it with aunt erie and let her take it to carnettsville with her to-morrow and set it free." "compare your watches," advised the man, "and get her to note the time when she opens the basket. then you can time the flight." glory shook her head and laughed. "i don't own any watch," she reminded him. "and even if i did i misdoubt if aunt erie would have anything to compare it with--unless she carried her alarm clock along with her." "wait a minute," admonished the man, as he loosened the strap of his wrist watch, "i've two as it happens--and a clock besides. you keep this one and give aunt erie my other. i'll get it for you and set it so that they'll be together to the second." he wheeled then and went into the room at the back and for a few minutes, bachelor-like he rummaged and searched for the time-piece upon which he had supposed he could lay his fingers in the dark. yet spurrier's thought was not wholly and singly upon the adventure of timing the flight of a carrier pigeon. in it there lurked a sense of half-guilty uneasiness, which would have been lighter had glory asked some question when she gazed on the picture which sat in a seeming place of honor at the center of his room. her silence on the subject had seemed casual and unimportant, yet his intuition told him that had it been genuinely so, she would have demanded with child-like interest to be told who the woman might be with the high tilted chin and the rope of pearls on her throat. the taciturnity had sprung, he fancied, less from indifference than from a fear of questioning, and when he came quietly to the door, he stood there for a moment, then drew back where he would not be so plainly visible. for glory had returned to the table and stood with her eyes riveted on the framed portrait. unconscious of being observed her face was no longer guarded of betrayal, and in the swift expressiveness of her delicate features the man read a gamut and vortex of emotion as eloquent as words. the jealousy which her pride sought to veto, the doubt which her faith strove to deny, the realization of her own self-confessed inferiority in parallel with this woman's aristocratic poise and cynical smile, flitted in succession across the face of the mountain girl and declared themselves in her eyes. for an instant the small hands clenched and the lips stirred and the pupils blazed with hot fires, so that the man could almost read the words that she shaped without sound: "he's mine--he ain't your'n--an' i ain't goin' ter give him up ter ye!" spurrier remembered how she had declared she would almost rather see him die than surrender him to another girl. then out of the face the passion faded and the deep eyes widened to a suffering like that of despair. the sweetly curved lips drooped in an ineffable wistfulness and the smooth throat worked spasmodically, while the hands went up and covered the face. spurrier drew back into the room into which glory could not see, and then in warning of his coming spoke aloud in a matter-of-fact voice. "i've found it," he declared. "it was hiding out from me--that watch." when, after that preface, he came back, glory was standing again in the doorway and as she turned, she presented a face from which had been banished the storm of her recent agitation. he handed her the watch which she took with a steady hand, and a brief but cheery, "farewell." as she started away spurrier braced himself with a strong effort and inquired: "glory, didn't you have any question to ask me--about the girl--in the frame?" she halted in the path and stood looking down. her lowered lids hid her eyes, but he thought her cheeks paled a shade. then she shook her head. "not unless it's something--you want to tell--without my asking," she announced steadfastly. for over a week he had struggled to bring himself to his confession and had failed. now a sudden impulse assured him that it would never be easier; that every delay would make it harder and blacken him with a heavier seeming of treason. vivien's portrait served as a fortuitous cue, and he must avail himself of it. this was the logical time and place, when silence would be only an unuttered lie and when procrastination would strip him of even his residue of self-respect. to wait for an easy occasion was to hope for the impossible and to act with as craven a spirit as to falter when the bugle sounded a charge. yet he remained so long silent that glory, looking up and reading the hard-wrung misery on his face and the stiff movement of the lips that made nothing of their efforts, knew, in advance, the tenor of the unspoken message. she closed her eyes as if to shut out some sudden glare too painful to be borne, and then in a quietly courageous voice she helped him out. "you _do_ want to tell me, jack. you want to take back--what you said--over there--don't you?" spurrier moistened his lips, with his tongue. "god knows," he burst out vehemently, "i don't want to take back one syllable of what i said--about loving you." "what is it, then?" "come inside, please," he pleaded. "i'll try to explain." he went stumblingly ahead of her and set a chair beside the table and then he leaned toward her and sought for words. "i love you, glory," he fervently declared. "i love you as i didn't suppose i could love any one. to me you are music and starlight--but i guess i'm almost engaged to her." he jerked his head rebelliously toward the portrait. glory was numb except for a dull, very present ache that started in her heart and filled her to her finger tips, and she made no answer. "her father," spurrier forced himself on, "is a great financier. i'm his man. i'm a little cog in a big machine. it's been practically understood that i was to become his son-in-law--his successor. i'm too deep in, to pull out. it's like a soldier in the thick of a campaign. i've got to go through." that seemed an easier and kinder thing to say than that she herself was not qualified for full admittance into the world of his larger life. "you knew this--the other day--as well as now," she reminded him, speaking in a stunned voice, yet without anger. "so help me god, glory--i had forgotten--everything but--you." "and now," she half whispered in a dulled monotone, "you remember all the rest." she sat there with the basket on the puncheon floor at her feet, and her fingers twisted themselves tautly together. her lips, parted and drooping, gave her delicate face a stamp of dumb suffering, and spurrier's arms ached to go comfortingly around her, but he held himself rigid while the silence lengthened. the old clock on the mantel ticked clamorously and outside the calls of the bobwhites seemed to grow louder and nearer until, half-consciously, spurrier noted their insistence. then faintly, glory said: "you didn't make me any promise. if you had--i'd give it back to you." she rose unsteadily and stood gathering her strength, and spurrier, struggling against the impulse which assailed him like a madness to throw down the whole structure of his past and designed future and sweep her into his arms, stood with a metal-like rigidity of posture. whatever his ultimate decision might be, he kept telling himself, no decision reached by surrender to such tidal emotion at a moment of equinox could be trusted. glory herself would not trust it long. so while the room remained voiceless and the minds of the man and the girl were rocking in the swirl of their feelings, the physical senses themselves seemed, instead of inert, preternaturally keen--and something came to spurrier's ears which forced its way to his attention through the barrier of his abstraction. never had the calls of the quail been so frequent and incessant before, but this sound was different, as though some one in the nearby tangle had stumbled and in the effort to catch himself had caught and shaken the leafage. so the man went to the door and stood looking out. for a moment he remained there framed and exposed as if painted upon a target, and--so close that they seemed to come together--two rifles spoke, and two bullets came whining into the house. one imbedded itself with a soggy thud in the squared logs of the rear wall but one, more viciously directed by the chances of its course, struck full in the center of the glass that covered the pictured face of vivien harrison and sent the portrait clattering and shattered to the floor. in an instant spurrier had leaped back, once more miraculously saved, and slammed the door, but while he was dropping the stanch bar into its sockets, a crash of glass and fresh roars from another direction told him that he was also being fired upon through the window. that meant that the house was surrounded. "who are they, jack?" gasped the girl, shocked by that unwarned fusillade into momentary forgetfulness of everything, except that her lover was beset by enemies, and the man who was reaching for his rifle, and whose eyes had hardened into points of flint, shook his head. "whoever they are," he answered, "they want me--only me--but it would be death for you to go out through the door." he drew her to a shadowed corner out of line with both door and window, and seized her passionately in his arms. "if we--can't have each other----" he declared tensely, "i don't want life. you said you'd almost rather see me killed than lose me to another woman. now, listen!" holding her close to his breast, he drew a deep breath and his narrowed eyes softened into something like contentment. "if you tried to go out first, you'd die before they recognized you. they think i'm alone here and they'll shoot at the first movement. but if _i_ go out first and fight as long as i can then they'll be satisfied and the way will be clear for you." she threw back her head and her hysterical laugh was scornful. "clear for me after _you're_ dead!" she exclaimed. "hev ye got two guns? we'll both go out alive or else neither one of us." then suddenly she drew away from him, and he saw her hurriedly scribbling on a scrap of paper. outside it was quiet again. glory folded the small sheet and took the pigeon from its basket and then, for the first time, spurrier, who had forgotten the bird, divined her intent. he was busying himself with laying out cartridges, and preparing for a siege, and when he looked up again she stood with the bird against her cheek, just as she had held the dead quail on that first day. but before he could interfere she had drawn near the window and he saw that to reach the broken pane and liberate the pigeon she must, for a moment, stand exposed. he leaped for her with a shout of warning, but she had straightened and thrust the bird out, and then to the accompaniment of a horrible uproar of musketry that drowned his own outcry he saw her fall back. spurrier was instantly on his knees lifting the drooping head, and as her lids flickered down she whispered with a pallid smile: "the bird's free. he'll carry word home--if ye kin jest hold 'em back fer a spell and----" chapter xiii the window through whose broken pane glory had dispatched her feathered messenger could not be seen into from the exterior. that was a temporary handicap for the besiegers and one upon which, in all their forethought, they had not calculated. it happened that at this hour of the afternoon the slanting sun struck blindingly upon the glass that still remained unbroken and confused the ambushed eyes that raked the place from advantageous points along the upper slopes. so when glory had risen there for an instant, against the window itself, the vigilant assassins had been able to make out only the unidentified shadow of a figure moving there, and upon that figure, at point-blank range, they had loosed their volley. whose figure it was they could not tell, and since they believed their intended victim to be alone they did not question. in the confusion of the instant, with the glare on windowpanes, they missed the spot of light that rose phoenixlike as the pigeon took flight. the frightened bird mounted skyward unnoted and flustered by the bellowing of so much gunnery. but spurrier's shout of horror was heard by the besiegers and misinterpreted as a cry wrung from him under a mortal wound. the assailants had not seen nor suspected glory's approach because she had come from the front, and had arrived before they, drawing in from the rear and sides, had reached their stations commanding a complete outlook. they had assumed their victim to be in solitary possession and now they also assumed him to be helpless--perhaps already dead. yet they waited, following long-revered precepts of wariness, before going onward across the open stretch of the dooryard for an ultimate investigation. he might die slowly--and hard. he might have left in him enough fight to take a vengeful toll of the oncoming attackers--and they could afford to make haste slowly. so they settled down in their several hiding places and remained as inconspicuous as grass burrowing field mice. the forest cathedral which they defiled seemed lifeless in the hushed stillness of the afternoon as the sun rode down toward its setting. john spurrier, inside the house, living where he was supposed to be dead, at first made no sound that carried out to them across the little interval of space. he was kneeling on the floor with the girl's head cradled on his knees and in his throat sounded only smothering gasps of inarticulate despair. these low utterances were animal-like and wrung him with the agonies of heartbreak. he thought that she must have died just after the whisper and the smile with which she had announced her success in her effort to save him. kneeling there with the bright head inert on his corduroy-clad knee, he fancied that the smile still lingered on her lips even after she had laid down her life for him five minutes from the time he had forsworn her. now that she was gone and he about to go, he could recognize her as a serene and splendid star shining briefly above the lurid shoddiness of his own grasping life--and the star had set. at first a profoundly stunned and torpid feeling held him numb; a blunt agony of loss and guilt, but slowly out of that wretched paralysis emerged another thought. he was helpless to bring her back and that futility would drive him mad unless out of it could come some motive of action. she was not only dead, but dead by the hands of murderers who had come after him--and all that remained was the effort to avenge her. like waters moving slowly at first but swelling into freshet power, wrath and insatiable thirst for vengeance swept him to a sort of madness. here he was kneeling over the unstirring woman he had loved while out there were the murder hirelings who had brought about the tragedy. her closed and unaccusing eyes, exhorting him as passionate utterances could not have done, incited him to a frenzy. at least some of these culprits must go unshriven, and by his own hand to the death that inevitably awaited himself. and as spurrier's flux of molten emotions seethed about that determination a solidifying transition came over him and his brain cleared of the blind spots of fury into the coherency of a plan. out there they would wait for a while to test the completeness of their success. if he gave way to his passion and challenged them as inclination clamored to do, they would dispatch him at leisure. just now he was willing enough to die, but entirely unwilling to die alone. he craved company and a red journey for that final crossing. so once more he looked down into the face on which there was no stir of animation, then very gently bent and kissed the quiet lips. "if you could come back to me," he chokingly whispered, "i'd unsay everything, except that i love you. but if there's a meeting place beyond, i'll join you soon--when i've made them pay for you." he lifted her tenderly and, through his agitation, came a sudden realization of how light she was as he laid her gently on his army cot. after that he picked up his rifle and bulged out his pockets with cartridges. the cockloft above his room, which was reached by a ladder, had windows which were really only loopholes and from there he could better see into the tangle that sheltered his enemies. he entertained no vain hope of rescue. he asked for no deliverance. the story drew to its ending and he meant to cap it with the one climax to which the last half hour had left anything of significance. since small things become vastly portentous when written into the margin between life and death, he hoped that before he died he might recognize the face of at least one of the men whom he meant to take with him across the river of eternity. so, dedicating himself to that motive, he climbed the ladder. peering out through first one and then the other of the loopholes of the cockloft, he waited, and it seemed to him that he waited eternally. he began to fear that his self-sure attackers would content themselves with an inactive vigil and that after all he was to be cheated. the sun was westering. the shadows were elongating. the sounds through the woods were subtly changing from the voices of day to those of approaching night. still he waited. outside also they were waiting; waiting to make sure that it was safe to go in and confirm their presumption that he had fallen. but when spurrier had, in a little time as the watch recorded it, served out his purgatorial sentence, he sensed a stir in the massed banks of the laurel and thrust his rifle barrel outward in preparation for welcome. a moment afterward he saw a hat with a downturned brim--a coat with an upturned collar--a pair of shoulders that hunched slowly forward with almost imperceptible movement. his mind had become a calculating machine now, functioning with deliberate surety. the unrecognizable figure out there was a hundred yards away and the rifle he held would bore through the head under the hat crown at that range as a gimlet bores through a marked spot on soft pine. but a single shot would end the show. no one else would appear and even the dead man would be hauled back by his heels--unidentified. he would wait until he could make his bag of game more worth dying for--more worth _her_ dying for! other ages seemed to elapse before the butternut figure showed stretched at length in the tall grass outside the thicket and a second hat appeared. still spurrier held his fire until three hats were visible and the first man, having crawled to a tree trunk, had half risen. he realized that he could not much longer hold it. at any moment they might rush the place in force of numbers, and from more than one side, smothering his defense--and once in contact with the walls they would need only a lighted torch. so he sighted with target-range precision and fired, following the initial effort with snap-shots at the second and third visible heads. he had the brief satisfaction of seeing the first man plunge forward, clawing at the earth with hands that dropped their weapon. he saw the second stumble, recover himself, stumble again and then start crawling backward with a disabled, crablike locomotion, while the third figure turned, unharmed, and ran to cover. but at the same moment he heard shouts and shots from the other side which called him instantly to the opposite loophole and, once there, kept him pumping his rifle against what appeared to be a charge of confused figures that he had no leisure to inspect. they, too, fell back under the vigor of his punishment, and spurrier found himself reloading in a silence that had come as suddenly as the noise of the onrush. he had shot down two assailants, but both had been retrieved beyond sight by their confederates, and the besieged man groaned with a realization of defeated purpose. the sun was low now and soon it would be too dark to see. then the trappers would close in and take the rat out of the trap. what he failed to do while daylight lasted, he would never do. in only one respect did his judgment fail him as he sought to forecast the immediate future. it seemed to him that he had spent hours there in the cockloft, whereas perhaps thirty minutes had elapsed. he had been thinking of the pigeon, but had put aside hope as to succor from that agency. old cappeze was not interested in pigeons. the bird would go to roost in its dovecote and sit all night with its head tucked placidly under its wing--and the plea for help unread on its leg--and the lawyer would never think of looking into the dovecote. now, since he had failed and must die unavenged--for the wounding of two unidentified enemies failed of satisfaction--he must utilize what was left of life intensively. once more before he died, he wanted to see the face of the woman whom he had forsworn; the woman who was worth infinitely more than the tawdry regards for which he had given her up. so he went down the ladder and knelt beside the cot. he laid his ear close to the bosom and could have sworn that it fluttered to a half heartbeat. suddenly spurrier closed his hands over his face and for the first time in years he prayed. "almighty father," he pleaded, "give her back to me! give me one other chance--and exact whatever price thy wisdom designates." * * * * * to toby austin's meager farm, which abutted on that of dyke cappeze, that afternoon had trudged bud hawkins. in all the mountain region thereabout his name was well known and any man of whom you had asked information would have told you that bud was "the poorest and the righteousest man that ever rode circuit." for bud was among other things a preacher. to use his own words, "i farms some, i heals bodies some, an' i gospels some." and in each of his avocations he followed faithfully the lights of his conscience. his own farm lay a long way off, and now he was here as a visitor. this afternoon he fared over to the house of dyke cappeze as was his custom when in that neighborhood. he regarded cappeze as a righteous man and a "wrastler with all evil," and he came bearing the greetings of a brotherhood of effort. the sun was low when he arrived, and the old lawyer confessed to a mild anxiety because of glory's failure to return before the hour which her clean-cut regularity fixed as the time of starting the supper preparations. "she took a carrier pigeon over to aunt erie toppit's," explained dyke, "and i looked for her back before now." "i sometimes 'lows, brother cappeze," asserted the visitor with an enthusiasm of interest, "thet in these hyar days of sin when god don't show hisself in signs an' miracles no more, erbout ther clostest thing ter a miracle we've got left, air ther fashion one of them birds kin go up in ther air from any place ye sots hit free at an' foller ther almighty's finger pointin' home." cappeze told him that there was just now only one pigeon in the dovecote, where the pair belonged, but that one he offered to show, and idly be led the way to the place back above the henroosts. it is, however, difficult for any man to sink his own absorptions in those of another, and so it fell about that on the way cappeze stopped at the barn he was building and which was not yet quite complete. "brother hawkins," he said, "as we go along i want to show you the barn i've been planning for years--and at last have nearly realized." in the crude, unfinished life of the hills, lean-tos and even rock ledges are pressed into service as barns, but the man who has erected an ample and sound structure for such a purpose, stamps himself as one who "has things hung up," which is the mountain equivalent for wealth. "that barn," explained cappeze, pausing before it in expansiveness of mood, "is a thing i've wanted ever since i moved over here. a good barn stands for a farm run without sloven make-shift--and that one cost me well-nigh as much money as my dwelling house. i reckon it sounds foolish, but to me that building means a dream come true after long waiting. i've skimped myself saving to build it, and it's the apple of my eye. if i saw harm come to it, i almost think it would hurt me more than to lose the house i live in." "i reckon no harm won't come ter hit, brother cappeze," reassured the other. "yit hit mout be right foresighted to insure hit erginst fire an' tempest." "of course i will--when it's finished," said the other as he led the way inside, and then as he played guide, he forgot the pigeons and swelled with the pride of the builder, while time that meant life and death went by, so that it was quite a space later that they emerged again and went on to the destination which had first called them. but having arrived there, the elder man halted and his face shadowed to a disturbed perplexity. "that's strange," he murmured. "one pigeon's inside--the hen--and there's the cock _trying_ to get in. it's the bird glory took with her. it must have gotten away from her." "'pears like ter me," volunteered the preacher, "hit's got some fashion of paper hitched on ter one leg. don't ye dis'arn hit, brother cappeze?" cappeze started as his eyes confirmed the suggestion. hurriedly he ran up the ladder to the resting plank where the bird crooned and preened itself, plainly asking for admittance to its closed place of habitation. perhaps his excited manner alarmed the pigeon, which would alight on glory's shoulder without a qualm, for as the man reached out his hand for it, it flutteringly eluded him and took again to the air. but now his curiosity was aroused. possibly glory meant to stay the night at aunt erie's and had sent him her announcement in this form. he went for grain and scattered it, and after repeated efforts succeeded in capturing the messenger. but when he loosened the paper and read it his face went abruptly white and from his lips escaped an excited "great god!" he thrust the note into the preacher's hand and rushed indoors, emerging after a few minutes with eyes wildly lit and a rifle in his hands. bud hawkins understood, for he had read in the interval the scribbled words: stopped at jack spurrier's house. it's surrounded. men are shooting at us on all sides. dyke cappeze was the one man to whom spurrier had confided both the circumstances of his mysterious waylaying and the matter of the rattlesnakes and now the father was not discounting the peril into which his daughter had strayed. "i'm going on ahead, brother hawkins," he announced. "i want you to send out a general alarm and to follow me with all the armed men you can round up." there he halted in momentary bewilderment. in that sparsely peopled territory the hurried mustering of an adequate force on such short order was in itself almost an impossibility. there were no means of communication. abruptly, the old lawyer wheeled and pointed a thin and quivering index finger toward his beloved barn. "there's just one way," he declared with stoical directness. "all my neighbors will come to fight a fire. i've got to set my own barn to get them here!" five minutes later the structure sent up its black massed summons of smoke, shot with vermilion, as the shingles snapped and showed glowingly against the black background of vapor, even in the brightness of the afternoon. dyke cappeze himself was on his way, and the preacher remaining behind was meeting and dispatching each hurried arrival. as he did so his voice leaped as it sometimes leaped in the zealot's fervor of exhortation, and he sent the men out into the fight with rifle and shotgun as trenchantly as he expounded peace from the pulpit. when a dozen men had ridden away, scattering gravel from galloping hoofs, he rode behind the saddle cantle of the last, for it was not his doctrine to hold his hand when he sent others into battle. also he might be needed there as a minister, a doctor, or both. as sunset began to wane to twilight the attackers who lay circled about spurrier's cabin found themselves growing restive. and inside john spurrier was a man reanimated by the faint signs of life which he had discovered in glory. a pulse still fluttered in her heart, but it throbbed flickeringly and its life spark was pallid. every moment this malevolent pack held its cordon close was as surely a moment of strangling her faint chance as if their fingers had been physically gripping her soft throat. and he could only kneel futilely beside her and wait! from his loopholes upstairs he saw once more two hats and gave their wearers shot for shot, but when they kept their rifles popping he suspected their purpose and dashed across the floor in time to send three rapidly successive bullets into a little group that had detached itself from the timber on that side and was creeping toward the house. one crawling body collapsed and lay sprawling without motion. two others ran back crouching low and were lost to sight. so he swung pendulumlike from side to side, firing and changing base, and when his second turn brought him to the window through which he had shot his man, he saw that the body had already been removed from sight. chapter xiv it was a hopeless game and a grim one. he could not cover all the defenses long in single-handed effort, and the best he could hope for was to die in ample companionship. now, two men had reached broad-girthed oaks, halfway between thicket and house. there they were safe for the next rush. so this was the end of the matter! spurrier reloaded his rifle and went down the ladder. hastily he carried glory into the room at the back and overturned his heavy table to serve as a final barricade. he elected to die here when they swarmed the door from which he could no longer keep them, crowning the battle with a finale of punishment as they crowded through the breach. but the minutes dragged with irksome tension. he was keyed up now, wire-tight, for the finish, and yet silence fell again and denied him the relief of action. to spurrier it was like a long and cruel delay imposed upon a man standing blindfolded and noosed on the scaffold trap. then the quiet was ripped with a totally wasteful fusillade, as though every attacker outside were pumping his gun in a contest of speed rather than effect. spurrier smiled grimly. let them burn their powder--he would have his till they massed in front of his muzzle and the barrier fell. "when the barrier fell!" crouched there behind the table where he meant to sell his life in that brief space that seemed long, the words brought with them the memory of one of the few poems that had ever meant much to him--and while he awaited death his mind seized upon the lines--a funeral address in soliloquy! "for the journey is done and the summit attained, and the barriers fall----" he strained his ears to his listening and then through his head ran other verses: "i was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, the best and the last! i would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forebore and bade me creep past----" was that a battering-ram against timber that he heard? he fingered the trigger. "then a light, then thy breast, o thou soul of my soul! i shall clasp thee again, and with god be the rest!" but the door did not fall. the rifle cracking became interspersed with alarmed outcries of warning and confusion. he could even hear the brush torn with the hurried tramping of running feet, and then the pandemonium abruptly stopped dead, and after a long period of inheld breath there followed a loud rapping on the door and a voice of agonized anxiety shouted: "in god's name open if ye're still alive. it's cappeze--and friends!" the psychological effect of that recognized voice upon john spurrier, and of its incredible meaning, was strange to the point of grotesquerie. its sound carried a complete reversal of everything to which his mind had been focussed with a tensity which had keyed itself to the acceptance of a violent death, and with the reversal came reaction. there was no interim of preparation for the altered aspect of affairs. it was precisely as though a runaway train furiously speeding to the overhang of an unbridged chasm had suddenly begun dashing in the contrary direction with no shade of lessening velocity, and no grinding of breaks to a halt between time. spurrier had taken no thought of physical strain. he had not known that he was wearied with nerve wrack and pell-mell dashing from firing point to firing point. he knew nothing of the picture he made with clothing torn from his scrambling rushes up-ladder and down-ladder and his crouching and shifting among the rough nail-studded spaces of the cockloft. of the face, sweat-reeking and dust-smeared, he had no realization, but when that voice called out and he knew that rescuers were clamoring where assassins had laid siege, the stout knees under him buckled weakly, and the fingers that had fitted his rifle as steadily as part of its own metallic mechanism became so inert that they could scarcely maintain their grip upon the weapon. john spurrier, emotionally stirred and agitated as he had never been in battle, because of the limp figure that lay under that roof, stood gulping and struggling for a lost voice with which to give back a reply. he rocked on his feet and then, like a drunken man went slowly and unsteadily forward to lift the bar of the door. when he had thrown it wide the rush of anxious men halted, backing up instinctively, as their eyes were confused by the inner murk and their nostrils assailed by the acrid stench of nitrate, from the vapors of burnt powder that hung stiflingly between the walls and ceiling rafters. old cappeze was at their front and when he saw before him the battle begrimed and drawn visage of the man, he looked wildly beyond it for the other face that he did not see, and his voice broke and rose in a high, thin note that was almost falsetto as he demanded: "where is she? where's glory?" john spurrier sought to speak but the best he could do was to indicate with a gesture half appealing and half despairing to the door of the other room, where she lay on his army cot. the father crossed its threshold ahead of him and dropped to his knees there with agonized eyes, and bud hawkins, the preacher and physician, not sure yet in which capacity he must act, was bent at his shoulder, while spurrier exhorted him with a recovered but tortured voice, "in god's name, make haste. there's only a spark of life left." from the crowd which had followed and stood massed about the door came a low but unmistakable smother of fury, as they saw the unmoving figure of the girl, and those at the edge wheeled and ran outward again with the summary resoluteness that one sees in hounds cast off at the start of the chase. upon those who remained brother hawkins wheeled and swept out his hands in a gesture of imperative dismissal. "leave us alone, men," he commanded. "i needs ter work alone hyar--with ther holp of almighty god." but he worked kneeling, tearing away the clothing over the wounded breast, and while he did so he prayed with a fervor that was fiercely elemental, yet abating no whit of his doctor's efficiency with his surprisingly deft hands, while his lips and heart were those of the religionist. "almighty father in heaven," he pleaded, "spare this hyar child of thine ef so be thy wisdom suffers hit." there he broke off and as though a different man were speaking, shot over his shoulder the curt command: "fotch me water speedily--because almighty father, she's done fell a victim of evil men thet fears thee not in th'ar hearts!" after a little brother hawkins dismissed even the father and spurrier from the room and worked on alone, the voice of his praying sounding over his activity. ten minutes later, in a crowded room, bud hawkins, preacher and physician, laid one hand on spurrier's shoulder and the other on cappeze's. "men," he said in a hushed voice, "i fears me ther shot thet hit her was a deadener. yit i kain't quite fathom hit nuther. she's back in her rightful senses ergin--but she don't seem ter _want_ to live, somehow. she won't put for'ard no effort." spurrier wheeled to face them both and his voice came with tense, gasping earnestness. "before she dies, brother hawkins," he pleaded, "you're a minister of the gospel--i want you to marry us." he wheeled then on the rescuers, who stood breathing heavily from exertion and fight. "two of you men stay here as wedding witnesses," he commanded. "one of you ride hell-for-leather to the nearest telephone and call up lexington. have a man start with bloodhounds on a special train. the rest of you get into the timber and finecomb it for some scrap of cloth--or anything that will give the dogs a chance when they get here." once more spurrier was the officer in command, and snappily his hearers sprang to obedience, but when the place had almost emptied, the three turned and went into the back room, and, kneeling there beside the wounded girl, spurrier whispered: "dearest, the preacher has come--to wed us." glory's eyes with their deeps of color were startlingly vivid as they looked out of the pallid face upon which a little while ago john spurrier had believed the white stamp of death to be fixed. the features themselves, except the eyes, seemed to have shrunken from weakness into wistful smallness, and if the girl had returned, in the phrases of the preacher, "to her rightful senses" it had been as one coming out of a dream who realizes that she wakes to heartburnings which death had promised to smooth away. now, as the man stretched out his hand to take hers and drew a ring from his own little finger, the violet eyes on the rough pillow became transfigured with a luminous and incredulous happiness. but at once they clouded again with gravity and pain. spurrier was offering to marry her out of pity and gratitude. he was seeking to pay a debt, and his authoritative words were spoken from his conscience and not from his heart. so the lips stirred in an effort to speak, failed in that and drooped, and weakly but with determination glory shook her head. she had been willing to die for him. she could not argue with him, but neither would she accept the perfunctory amends that he now came proffering. spurrier rose, pale, and with a tremor of voice as he said to the others: "please leave us alone--for a few moments." then when no one was left in the room but the girl on the bed and the man on his knees beside it, he bent forward until his eyes were close to hers and his words came with a still intensity. "glory, dearest, though i don't deserve it, you've confessed that you love me. now i claim the life you were willing to lay down for me--and you can't refuse." there was wistfulness in her smile, but through her feebleness her resolution stood fast and the movement of her head was meant for a shake of refusal. "but why, dear," he argued desperately, "why do you deny me when we know there's only one wish in both our hearts?" his hands had stolen over one of hers and her weak fingers stirred caressingly against his own. her lips stirred too, without sound, then she lay in a deathlike quiet for a moment or two summoning strength for an effort at speech, and he, bending close, caught the ghost of a whisper. "i don't seek payment ... fer what i done." a gasp caught her breath and silenced her for a little but she overcame it and finished almost inaudibly. "it was ... a free-will gift." john spurrier rose and sat on the side of the bed. his voice was electrified by the thrill of his feeling; a feeling purged of all artificiality by the rough shoulder touch of death. "i'm asking another gift, now, glory; the greatest gift of all. i'm asking yourself. don't try to talk--only listen to me because i need you desperately. except for you they would have killed me to-day--but my life's not worth saving if i lose you after all. i'm two men, dearest, rolled into one--and one of those men perhaps doesn't deserve much consideration, but there's some good in the other and that good can't prevail without you any more than a plant can grow without sun." with full realization, he was pitching his whole argument to the note of his own selfish needs and wishes, and yet he was guided by a sure insight into her heart. brother hawkins had said she had no wish to live and would make no fight, and he knew that he might plead endlessly and in vain unless he overcame her belief that he was actuated merely by pity for her. if she could be convinced that it was genuinely he who needed her more than she needed him, her woman quality of enveloping in supporting love the man who leaned on her, would bring consent. "i sought to strengthen myself for success in life," he went on, "by strangling out every human emotion that stood in the way of material results. i serve men who sneer at everything on god's earth except the practical, and i had come to the point where i let those men shape me and govern even my character." she had been listening with lowered lids and as he paused, she raised them and smiled wanly, yet without any sign of yielding to his supplications. "the picture that you saw," he swept on torrentially, "was that of a girl whose father employs me. he's a leader in big affairs and to be his son-in-law meant, in a business sense, to be raised to royalty. vivien is a splendid woman and yet i doubt if either of us has----" he fumbled a bit for his next words and then floundered on with self-conscious awkwardness, "has thought of the other with real sentiment. until now, i haven't known what real sentiment meant. until now i haven't appreciated the true values. i discovered them out there in the road when you came into my arms--and into my heart. from now on my arms will always ache for you--and my heart will be empty without you.'" "but--," glory's eyes were deeper than ever as she whispered laboriously, "but if you're plighted to her----" "i'm not," he protested hotly. "there is no engagement except a sort of understanding with her father: a sort of condescending and tacit willingness on his part to let his successor be his son-in-law as well." she lay for a space with the heavy masses of her hair on the rough pillow framing the pale and exquisite oval of her face, and her vivid eyes troubled with the longing to be convinced. then her lips shaped themselves in a rather pitiful smile that lifted them only at one corner. "maybe ye don't ... know it jack," she murmured, "but ye're jest seekin' ... ter let me ... die ... easy in my mind ... and happy." "before god i am _not_," he vehemently contradicted her. "i'm not trying to give but to take. whether you get well or not, glory, i want to fight for your life and your love. we've faced death, together. we've seen things nakedly--together. for neither of us can there ever be any true life--except together." his breath was coming with the swift intensity that was almost a sob and, in the eyes that bent over her, glory read the hunger that could not be counterfeited. "anyhow," she faltered, "we've had--this minute." spurrier rose at last and called the others back. he himself did not know when once more he took her hand and the preacher stood over them, whether her responses to the services would be affirmative or negative. to spurrier marriage had always seemed an opportunity. it was a thing in which an ambitious man could no more afford yielding to uncalculating impulses than in the forming of a major business connection. marriage must carry a man upward toward the peak of his destiny, and his wife must bring as her dowry, social reënforcements and distinction. now, in the darkening room of a log house, with figures clad in patches and hodden-gray, he held the hand that was too weak to close responsively upon his own, and listened to the words of a shaggy-headed preacher, whose beard was a stubble and whose lips moved over yellow and fanglike teeth. confusedly he heard the questions and his own firm responses to the simple service of marriage as rendered by the backwoods preacher, then his heart seemed to stop and stand as the words were uttered to which glory must make her answer. "will you, glory, have this man, john spurrier----" what would her answer be--assent or negation? the pause seemed to last interminably as he bent with supplication in his glance over her, and the breath came from his lips with an unconscious sibilance, like escaping steam from a strained boiler, when at last the head on the pillow gave the ghost of a nod. even at that moment there lurked in the back of his mind, though not admitted as important, the ghost of realization that he was doing precisely the sort of thing which, in his own world, would not only unclass him but make him appear ludicrous as well. as for that world of lifted eye-brows he felt just now only a withering contempt and a scalding hatred. almost as soon as the simple ceremony ended, glory sank again into unconsciousness, and the father and preacher, sitting silent in the next room, were unable to forget that though there had been a wedding, they were also awaiting the coming of death. the night fell with the soft brightness of moon and stars, and through the tangled woods the searchers were following hard on the flight of the assailants--doggedly and grimly, with the burning indignation of men bent on vindicating the good name of their people and community. yet, so far, the fugitive squad had succeeded not only in eluding capture or recognition, but also in carrying with them their wounded. from lexington, where spurrier had formed strong connections, a deputy sheriff was riding in a caboose behind a special engine as fast as the roadbeds would permit. the smokestack trailed a flat line of hurrying smoke and the whistle screamed startlingly through the night. at the officer's knees, gazing up at him out of gentle eyes that belied their profession, crouched two tawny dogs with long ears--the bloodhounds that were to start from the cabin and give voice in the laurel. waiting for them was a torn scrap of blue denim such as rough overalls are made of. it had been found in a brier patch where some fleeing wearer had snarled himself. yet two days later the deputy returned from his quest in the timber, shaking his head. "i'm sorry," he reported. "i've done my best, but it's not been good enough." "what's the trouble?" inquired cappeze shortly, and the officer answered regretfully: "this country is zigzagged and criss-crossed with watercourses--and water throws the dogs off. the fugitives probably made their way by wading wherever they could. the longest run we made was up toward wolf pen branch." that was the direction, spurrier silently reflected, of sim colby's house, but he made no comment. brother hawkins, who was leaving that afternoon, laid a kindly hand on spurrier's shoulder. "thet's bad news," he said. "but i kin give ye better. i kin almost give ye my gorrantee thet ther gal's goin' ter come through. hit's _wantin'_ ter live thet does hit." spurrier's eyes brightened out of the misery that had dulled them, and as to the failure of the chase he reassured himself with the thought that the dogs had started toward sim colby's house, and that he himself could finish what they had begun. those tawny beasts had coursed at the behest of a master who was bound by the limitations of the law, but he, john spurrier, was his own master and could deal less formally and more condignly with an enemy to whom suspicion pointed--and there was time enough. chapter xv and yet on that day when the bobwhites had sounded and the blow had fallen, sim colby was nowhere near the opportunity hound's house. he sat tippling in a mining town two days' journey away, and he had no knowledge of what went on at home. his companion was ex-private severance--once his comrade in arms. the town was one of those places which discredit the march of industry by the mongrelized character of its outposts. the wild aloofness of the hills and valleys was marred there by the shacks of the camp and its sky soiled by a black reek of coke furnaces. filth physical and moral brooded along the unkempt streets where the foul buzz of swarming flies sounded over refuse piles, and that spirit of degradation lay no less upon the unclean tavern, where the two men who had once worn the uniform sat with a bottle of cheap whisky between them. colby, who had need to maintain his reputation for probity at home, made an occasional pilgrimage hither to foregather with his former comrade and loosen the galling rein of restraint. just about the time when the attack on spurrier's house had begun, he had leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his face heavy and his eyes inflamed, pursuing some topic of conversation which had already gained headway. "these hyar fellers that seeks ter git rid of spurrier," he confided, "kinderly hinted 'round thet they'd like ter git me ter do ther job for 'em, but i pretended like i didn't onderstand what they war drivin' at, no fashion at all." "why didn't ye hearken ter 'em?" questioned severance practically. "hit hain't every day a man kin git paid fer doin' what he seeks ter do on his own hook." but colby grinned with a crafty gleam in his eye and poured another drink. "what fer would i risk ther penitenshery ter do a killin' fer them fellers when, ef i jest sets still on my hunkers they'll do _mine_ fer me," he countered. for a time after that whatever enemies spurrier had seemed to have lost their spirit of eagerness. one might have presumed that to the rule of amity which apparently surrounded him, there was no exception--and so the mystery remained unsolved. even blind joe givins made a detour in a journey to stop at spurrier's house and sing a ballad of his own composition anent the mysterious siege and to express his indignation at the "pizen meanness" of men who would father and carry forward such infamies. and glory, who had penetrated so deeply into the shadow that life had seemed ended for her, was recovering. into her pale cheeks came a new blossoming and into the smile of her lips and eyes a new light that was serene and triumphant. she had been too happy to die. while the summer waned and the beauties of autumn began to kindle, the young wife grew strong, and her husband, seemingly, had nothing to do except to wander about the hills with her and discover in her new charms. neighborly saws and hammers were ringing now as his place was transformed from its simple condition to the "hugest log house on seven creeks." in some respects he wished that his factitious indolence were real, for he felt no pride in the occult fashion in which he was directing the activities of his henchmen. and yet a few months ago this progress would have been food for satisfaction--almost triumph. his plans, as outlined to martin harrison were by no means at a standstill. they were going forward with an adroit drawing in and knitting together of scattered strands, and the warp and woof of this weaving were coming into definite order and pattern. the dual necessity was: first to slip through a legislature which was supposedly under the domination of american oil and gas, a charter which should wrest from that concern the sweet fruits of monopoly, and secondly, to secure at paltry prices the land options that would give the prospective pipe line its right of way. as this campaign had been originally mapped and devised it had not been simple, but now it was complicated by a new and difficult element. in those first dreams of conquest the native had been no more considered than the red indian was considered in the minds of the new world settlers. spurrier himself had brushed lightly aside this aspect of the affair. every game has and must have its "suckers." and their sorry destiny it is to be despoiled. now the very term that he had used in his thoughts, brought with it an amendment. it is not every game that must have its suckers but every bunco game. martin harrison did not know it, but his lieutenant had redrawn his plans, and redrawn them in a fashion which the chief would have regarded as insubordinate, impractical and sentimental. spurrier intended that when the smoke cleared from the field upon which the forces of harrison and those of trabue had been embattled, the harrison banners should be victoriously afloat and the trabue standards dust trailed. but also he intended that the native land-holders, upon whom both combatants had looked as mere unfortunate onlookers raked by the cross fire of opposing artillery, should emerge as real and substantial gainers. of late the man had not escaped the penalty of one who faces responsibility and wields power. he had abandoned as puerile his first impulse, after his marriage, to throw up his whole stewardship to the wall street masters. that would have amounted only to an ostentation of virtue which would have surrendered the situation into the merciless hands of a. o. and g., and would have left the mountain folk unprotected. yet he could not escape the realization that he would stand with all the seeming of a traitor and a plunderer to any of his simple friends who learned of his activities--for as yet he could confide to no one the plans he was maturing. it was when the refurnished and enlarged place had been completed that the neighbors came from valley, slope, and cove to give their blessing at the housewarming which was also, belatedly, the "infaring." that homely, pioneer observance with which the groom brings home his bride, had not been possible after the wedding, but now aunt erie toppitt had come over and prepared entertainment on a lavish if homely scale since glory was not yet well. to the husband as he stood greeting the guests who arrived in jeans and hodden-gray, in bright shawls and calicoes, came the feeling of contrast and unreality, as though this were all part of some play quaintly and exaggeratedly staged to reflect a medieval period. in the drawing rooms of martin harrison and his confreres he had moved through a social atmosphere, quiet, contained, and reflecting such a life as the dramatist uses for background in a comedy of manners. closing his eyes now he could see himself as he had been when, starting out for such an entertainment, he had paused before the cheval glass in his club bedroom, adding a straightening touch to his white tie, adjusting the set of his waistcoat and casting a critical eye over the impeccable black and white of his evening dress. here, flannel shirted and booted, corduroy breeched and tanned brown, he stood by the door watching the arrival of guests who seemed to have stepped out of pioneer america or elizabethan england. there were women riding mules or tramping long roads on foot and trailing processions of children who could not be left at home; men feeling overdressed and uncomfortable because they had donned coats and brushed their hats; even wagons plodding slowly behind yokes of oxen and one man riding a steer in lieu of a horse! so they came to give godspeed to his marriage--and they were the only people on god's green earth who thought of him in any terms of regard save that regard which sprung from self-interest in his ability to serve beyond others! men who were blood enemies met here as friends, because his roof covered a zone of common friendship and under its protection their hatreds could no more intrude on such a day than could pursuit in the middle ages follow beyond the sanctuary gates of a cathedral. inside sounded the minors of the native fiddlers and the scrape of feet "running the sets" of quaint square dances. the labors of preparation had been onerous. aunt erie stood at the open door constituting, with spurrier and his wife, a "receiving line" of three, and her wrinkled old face bore an affectation of morose exhaustion as to each guest she made the same declaration: "i hopes an' prays ye all enjoys this hyar party--gawd knows _my_ back's broke." but spurrier had not in his letters to harrison mentioned his marriage, and to vivien he had not written at all. he thought they would hardly understand, and he preferred to make his announcement when he stood face to face with them, relying on the force of his own personality to challenge any criticism and proclaim his own independence of action. just now there was no virtue in needlessly antagonizing his chief. among the guests who came to that housewarming was one chance visitor who was not expected. he came because the people under whose roof he was being sheltered, had "fetched him along," and he was wharton, the man whose purpose hereabouts had set gossip winging aforetime. it seemed to some of the local visitors that despite his entire courtesy, spurrier did not evince any profound liking for this other "furriner," and since they had come to accept their host as a trustworthy oracle, they took the tip and were prepared to dislike wharton, too. that evening, while blind joe givins fiddled, and dancers "ran their sets" on the smooth, new floor, a group of men gathered on the porch outside and smoked. among them for a time were both spurrier and wharton. the latter raised something of a laugh when he confidently predicted that the oil prosperity, for all its former collapse and present paralysis, was not permanently dead. "the world needs oil and there's oil here," he declared with unctuous conviction. "men who are willing to gamble on that proposition will win out in the end." "stranger," responded uncle jimmy litchfield, taking his pipestem from between his teeth and spitting contemptuously at the earth, "ye sees, settin' right hyar before ye a man that 'lowed he was a millionaire one time, 'count of this hyar same oil ye're discoursin' so hopeful about. thet man's me. i'd been dirt-pore all my days, oftentimes hurtin' fer ther plum' needcessities of life. i'm mighty nigh thet pore still." "did you strike oil in the boom days?" demanded wharton as he bent eagerly forward. "i owned me a farm, them days, on t'other side ther mounting," went on the narrator, "an' them oil men came along an' wanted ter buy ther rights offen me." "did you sell?" uncle billy chuckled. "they up an' offered me a royalty of one-eighth of ther whole production. they proved hit up ter me by 'rithmetic an' algebry how hit would make me rich over an' above all avarice--but i said no, i wouldn't take no eighth. i stud out fer a _sixteenth_ by crickety!" both spurrier and wharton smothered their laughter as the latter inquired gravely: "did they play one of them royalty games." "they done better'n thet. they said, 'we'll give ye two sixteenths,' an' thet's when i 'lowed i was es good es a pierpont morgan. i wouldn't nuver hurt fer no needcessity no more." "and what was the outcome of it all?" asked wharton. uncle jimmy's face darkened. "the come-uppance of ther whole blame business war thet a lot of pore devils what hed done been content with poverty found hit twice as hard ter go on bein' pore because they'd got to entertainin' crazy dreams ther same as me. any man thet talks oil ter me now's got ter buy outright an' pay me spot cash. i ain't playin' no more of them royalty games." "that's fair enough," said wharton. "but it seems to me that you people are taking the wrong tack. because the boom collapsed once, you are shutting the door against the possibility of its coming again--and it's going to come again." "a man kin git stung once," volunteered another native, "an' hit's jest tough luck or bewitchment. ef he gits stung twicet on ther same trumpery, he ain't no more then a plum', daft fool." wharton lighted a fresh cigar and turned toward spurrier. "mr. spurrier here, is a man you all know and trust----" he hazarded. "i understand that he's seen oil fields in the west and mexico. i wonder what he thinks about it all." on the dark porch spurrier looked at his visitor for a few minutes in silence and his first reply was a quiet question. "did i tell you i'd seen oil fields in operation?" he inquired, and wharton stammered a little. "i was under that impression," he said. "possibly i am wrong." "no--you are right enough," answered the other evenly. "i just didn't remember mentioning it. what is your question exactly?" "if i have a hunch that oil holds a future here and am willing to back that hunch, don't you think i am acting wisely to do it?" the host sat silent while he seemed to weigh the question with judicial deliberation, and during the pause he realized that the little group of men were waiting intently for his utterance as for the voice of the delphic oracle. "i have seen oil operation and oil development," he said at last. "i have lived here for some time and know the history of the former boom, but i have not bought a foot of ground. that ought to make my opinion clear." "then you don't believe in the future?" "don't you think, mr. wharton," inquired spurrier coolly and, his listeners thought, with a shaded note of contempt, "that what i've already said, answers your question? if i _did_ believe in it, wouldn't i be likely to seek investment at the present stage of land prices?" john spurrier was glad that it was dark out there. he knew that the mountain men awaited his judgment as something carrying the sanction of finality and he felt like a judas. he himself knew that back of his seeming betrayal was a determination to safeguard their rights, but the whole game of maneuvering and dissembling was as impossible to play proudly as it would have been to undertake the duties of a spy. "i'll admit," observed wharton modestly, "that if i lost some money, it wouldn't break me--and i'm a stubborn man when i get a hunch. well, i'm going in to watch them dance." he rose and went indoors and uncle jimmy, when he put a question acted, in effect, as spokesman for them all. "what does ye think of thet feller, mr. spurrier?" "i think," said the opportunity hound crisply, "that he's a fool, and scripture says, 'a fool and his money are soon parted.'" "an' ef he seeks ter buy?" "sell--by all means--if the price is right!" the next day when they were alone glory said: "i don't like that man wharton. he's got sneaky eyes." her husband laughed. "i can't say that he struck me pleasantly," he admitted. "we talked oil out on the porch. he was the optimist and i the pessimist." and it was to happen that the first rift in glory's lute of happiness was to come out of wharton's agency, though she did not recognize it as his. for in these times, despite a happiness that made her sing through the days, something like the panic of stage fright was settling over her: a thing yet of the future, but some day to be faced. so long as life ran quietly, like the shaded streams that went down until they made the rivers of the greater and outer world, she was confident mistress of her life and had no forebodings. spurrier loved her and she worshiped him--but out there beyond the ridges, the activities of his larger life were calling--or would call. then they must leave here and she began to dread the thousand little mistakes and the humiliations that might come to him because of her unfamiliarity with that life. since the bearings of achievement are delicate, she even feared that she might throw out of gear and poise the whole machinery of his success, and in secret glory was poring over absurd books on etiquette and deportment. that these stereotyped instructions would only hamper her own naturally plastic spirit, she did not know when she read and reread chapters headed, "how to enter a drawing-room" and "hints upon refined conversation." that spurrier would suggest going without her to any field into which his work called him, she did not dream. that he would leave her to wait for him here, as the companion only of his backwoods hours, her pride never contemplated. yet in the fall spurrier did just that thing, and to the letter which induced its doing was signed the name of george wharton. the latter wrote: "we must begin to lay out lines for work with the next legislature. there are people in louisville and lexington whom you should meet and talk with. i think you had better make your headquarters at one of the louisville clubs, and when you get here i will put you in touch with the proper bearings." that much might have puzzled any of the mountaineers who had taken their own cues from spurrier's thinly concealed manner of hostility to wharton, but the last part of the letter would have explained that, too: "the little game down at your house was nothing short of masterly. your acting was superb, and though you were the star, i think i may claim to have played up to you well. the device of gaining their confidence so that, of their own accord, they turned to you for counsel--and then seeming to gloom on me when i talked oil, was pretty subtle. i could openly preach buying and instead of turning away from me in suspicion, they fell on me for a sucker. i--and others acting for me--have, as the result, secured a good part of the options we need--and you appear to be of all men, the least interested." spurrier read the thing twice, then crushed it savagely in his clenched hand and cursed under his breath. "the damned jackals," he muttered. "that's the pack i'm running with--or rather i'm running with them and against them at once." but when spurrier had kissed glory good-by and she had waved a smiling farewell, she turned back into her house and covered her face with her hands. "i don't want to believe it," she declared. "i won't believe it--but it looks like he's ashamed to take me with him. not that i blame him--only--only i've got to make myself over. he's _got_ to be proud of me!" chapter xvi when he came back for a short stay in the hills between periods of quiet but strenuous affairs in louisville, he brought gifts that delighted glory and a devotion that made her forget her misgivings. she had him back, and he found the house expressing in many small ways a taste and discrimination which brought to him a flush of pleasurable surprise. glory knew the menace that hung over spurrier. she knew of the malevolent and elusive enmities to which her own life had so nearly become forfeit, and the old terror of the mountain woman for her man became the cross that she must carry with her. because of her militant father's antagonisms she had been inured from childhood to the taut moment of suspense that came with every voice raised at the gate and every knock sounding on the door. there was an element of possible threat in each arrival. she had become, as one has need to be, under such circumstances, somewhat fatalistic as to the old dangers. now that the fear embraced her husband as well as her father, the philosophy which she had cultivated failed her. yet their happiness was so strong that it threw off these things and drew upon the treasury of the present. spurrier, who talked little of his own dangers, was far from forgetting. his suspicion of colby strengthened, and he looked forward to the day as inevitable when there must be a reckoning between them, which would not be a final reckoning unless one of them died, and for that encounter he went grimly prepared. one thing puzzled him. of sim colby he had thought as a somewhat solitary character, whose relations with his neighbors, though amicable, were yet rather detached. he had seemed to have few intimates, yet if he had led this attack, he was palpably able to muster at his back a considerable force of men for a desperate project. that meant that the infection of hatred against himself had spread from a single enmity to the number, at least, of the men who had joined in the battle, and it had been a battle in which more than one had fallen. before, he had recognized a single enemy. henceforth he must acknowledge plural enmities. and along that line of reasoning the next step followed logically. who would suggest himself as so natural a leader for a murder enterprise as sam mosebury, whose record was established in such matters? certainly if this suspicion were well-founded it would be safest to know. spurrier, despite all he had heard of sam mosebury, was reluctant to entertain the thought. the man might be, as cappeze painted him, the head and front of an infamously vicious system, yet there was something engaging and likable about him, which made it hard to believe that for hire or any motive not nearly personal he would have conspired to do murder. so among the many claims upon spurrier's attention was the effort to find out where sam mosebury stood, and it was while he was thinking of that problem that he encountered the object of his thoughts in person. the spot was one distant from his own house. indeed it was near colby's cabin--still apparently empty--that the meeting took place. the opportunity hound had made several trips over there of late, because he required to know something of colby's activities, and, of course, when he came he observed a surreptitious caution which sought to guard against any hint leaking through to colby of his own surveillance. he firmly believed that sim was "hiding out," and that despite the seeming emptiness of his habitation he was not far away. so it was spurrier, the law-abiding man, who was skulking in the laurel while the notorious mosebury walked the highway "upstanding" and openly--and the man in the thicket stooped low to escape discovery. but his foot slipped in the tangle and a rotting branch cracked under it, giving out a sound which brought mosebury to an abrupt halt with his head warily raised and his rifle poised. he, too, had enemies and must walk in caution. there had been times when sam's life had hinged on just such trivial things as the snapping of a twig, and now, peering through the thickets spurrier saw a flinty hardness come into his eyes. sam stepped quietly but swiftly to the roadside and sheltered himself behind a rock. he said no word, but he waited, and spurrier could feel that his eyes were boring into his own place of concealment with a scrutiny that went over it studiously and keenly, foot by foot. he hurriedly considered what plan to pursue. if mosebury was in league with colby, to show himself would be almost as undesirable a thing as to show himself to colby direct. yet if he stayed there with the guilty seeming of one in hiding, mosebury would end by locating him--and might assume that the hiding was itself a proof of enmity. he decided to declare himself so he shouted boldly: "it's john spurrier," and rose a moment later into view. then he came forward, thinking fast, and when the two met in the road, mendaciously said: "i guess it looks queer for a man with a clear conscience to take to the timber that way, mr. mosebury--but you may remember that i was recently attacked, and i don't know who did it." mosebury nodded. "i'd be ther last man ter fault ye fer thet," he concurred. "i was doin' nigh erbout ther same thing myself, but i didn't know ye often fared over this way, mr. spurrier." "no, it's off my beat." spurrier was now lying fluently in what he fancied was to be a game of wits with a man who might have led the siege upon his house. "i was just going over to stamp carter's place. he wanted me to advise him about a property deal." for a space sam stood gravely thoughtful, and when he spoke his words astonished the other. "seein' we _hev_ met up, accidental-like, i've got hit in head ter tell ye somethin' deespite hit ain't rightly none of my business." again he paused, and it was plain that he was laboring under embarrassment, so spurrier inquired: "what is it?" "of course, i've done heered ther talk erbout yore bein' attacked. don't ye really suspicion no special man?" "suspicion is one thing, mr. mosebury, and knowledge is another." "yes, thet's bible truth, an' yit i wouldn't marvel none yore suspicions went over thet-away--an' came up not fur off from hyar." he nodded his head toward sim colby's house, and spurrier, who was steeled to fence, gave no indication of astonishment. he only inquired: "why should mr. colby hold a grudge against me?" "i ain't got no power of knowin' thet." mosebury spoke dryly. "an' es i said afore, hit ain't none of my business nohow--still i does know thet ye've been over hyar some sev'ral times, an' every time ye came, ye came quietlike es ef ye sought ter see sim afore sim seed _you_." "you think i've been here before?" "no, sir, i don't think hit. i knows hit. i seed ye." "saw me!" "yes, sir, seed ye. hit's my business to keep a peeled eye in my face." so spurrier's careful secrecy had been transparent after all, and if this man was an ally of colby's, colby already shared his knowledge. more than ever spurrier felt sure that his suspicions of the man whose eyes had changed color, were grounded in truth. "howsomever," went on mosebury quietly, "i ain't nuver drapped no hint ter sim erbout hit. i ain't, gin'rally speakin', no meddler, but ef so be i kin forewarn ye ergainst harm, hit would pleasure me ter do hit." there was a cordial ring of sincerity in the manner and voice, which it was hard to doubt, so the other said gravely: "thank you. i did suspect colby, but i have no proof." "i don't know whether sim grudges ye or not," continued mosebury. "he ain't nuver named ther matter ter me nowise, guise, ner fashion--but sim _wasn't with ther crowd thet went atter ye_. he didn't even know nothin' erbout hit. sometimes a man comes to grief by barkin' up ther wrong tree." again suspicion came to the front. this savored strongly of an attempt to alibi a confederate, and spurrier inquired bluntly: "since you broached this subject, i think it's fair to ask you another question. you tell me who _didn't_ come. do you know who _did_?" for a moment mosebury's face remained blank, then he spoke stiffly. "i said i'd be glad ter warn ye--but i didn't say i war willin' ter name no names. thet would be mighty nigh ther same thing es takin' yore quarrel onto myself." "then that's all you can tell me--that it wasn't colby?" "mr. spurrier," rejoined the mountaineer seriously, "ye _knows_ jedgmatically an' p'intedly thet ye've got enemies that means business. i ain't nuver seed a man yet in these hills what belittled a peril sich as yourn thet didn't pay fer hit--with his life." "i don't belittle it, but what can i do?" sam mosebury stood with a gaze that wandered off over the broken sky line. so grave was his demeanor that when his words came they carried the shock of inconsistent absurdity. "thar's a witch woman, thet dwells nigh hyar. ef i war in youre stid, i'd git her ter read ther signs fer me an' tell me what i had need guard ergainst most." "i'm afraid," answered spurrier, repressing his contempt with difficulty, "i'm too skeptical to pin my faith to signs and omens." again the mountain man was looking gravely across the hills, but for a moment the eyes had flashed humorously. "i reckon we don't need ter cavil over thet, mr. spurrier. i don't sot no master store by witchcraft foolery my ownself. mebby ye recalls thet oncet i told ye a leetle story erbout my cat an' my mockin' bird." "yes," spurrier began to understand now. "you sometimes speak in allegory. but this time i don't get the meaning." "waal, hit's this fashion. i _don't_ know who ther men war thet tried ter kill ye. thet's god's truth, but i've got my own notions an' mebby they ain't fur wrong. i ain't goin' ter name no names--but ef so be ye wants ter talk ter ther witch woman, _i'll_ hev speech with her fust. what comes outen magic kain't hardly make me no enemies--but mebby hit _mout_ enable ye ter discern somethin' thet would profit ye to a master degree." spurrier stood looking into the face of the other and then impulsively he thrust out his hand. "mr. mosebury," he said, "i'll be honest with you. i half suspected you--because i'd met you at colby's and i knew you hated cappeze. i owe you an apology, and i'm glad to know i was wrong." "mr. spurrier," replied the other, "ef i _hed_ attempted yore life i wouldn't hev failed, an', moreover, i don't hate old cappeze. ther man thet wins out don't hev no need ter harbor hatreds. he hates me because he sought ter penitentiary me--an' failed." "when shall we go to consult the oracle?" asked spurrier, and mosebury shook his head. "i reckon mebby i mout seem over cautious--even timorouslike ter ye, in bein' so heedful erbout keepin' outen sight in this matter," he said. "but them thet knows my record, knows i _ain't_, jest ter say easy skeered. you go home an' wait an' afore long i'll write ye a letter, tellin' ye when ter go an' how ter go. then ye kin make ther journey by yoreself." "that looks like common sense to me," declared the other, and he went home, forgetting the witch woman on the way, because of the other and lovelier witchcraft that he knew awaited him in his own house. spurrier, despite his dangers, responsibilities, and conflict of purposes, was happy. he was happy in a simpler and less complicated way than he had ever been before, because his heart was in the ascendancy, and glory, he thought, was "livin' up to her name." if he could have thrust some other things into the same dark cupboard of half-contemptuous philosophy to which he relegated his own dangers, he might have been even happier. but a mentor who had rarely troubled him in past years became insistent and audible through the silences--speaking with the voice of conscience. he remembered telling vivian harrison, over the consommé, that pearls did not make oysters happy and that these illiterates of the hills might have hidden wealth in the shells of their isolation and gain nothing more than the oyster. indeed, he had thought of them no more than the pearl fisherman thinks of the low form of life whose diseased state gives birth to treasure. they inhabited a terrain over which he and the forces of american oil and gas were to do battle, and like birds nesting on a battlefield, they must take their chances. it was no longer possible to maintain that callous indifference. these men, to whom he could not, without disclosing his strategy and defeating his purpose, tell the truth, had befriended him. they were human and in many ways lovable. if he succeeded, they would, upon his own advice, have sold their birthrights. however, he gave an anodyne to his conscience with the thought that if victory came to him there would be wealth enough for all to share. having won his conquest, he could be generous, rendering back as a gift a part of what should have been theirs by right. the means of doing this he had worked out but he could confide to no one. he had embarked as cold bloodedly as martin harrison had ever started on any of the enterprises that had made him a money baron. indeed it had been spurrier who had fired the chief with interest in the scheme, and if the thing were culpable the culpability had been his own. then he had come to realize that in the human equation was a factor that he had ignored: the rights of the ignorant native. he had fought down that recognition as the voice of sentimentality until at last he had no longer been able to fight it down. between those two states of mind had been a war of mental agony and conflict, of doubt, of vacillation. the conclusion had not been easily reached. now he meant to carry on the war he had undertaken unaltered as to its objective of winning a victory for harrison over trabue and the myrmidons of a. o. and g., but he meant to bring in that victory in such a guise that the native would share in the division of the spoils. he knew that harrison, if he had an intimation of such an amendment of plan, would sharply veto it, but when the thing was done it would be too late to object--and meanwhile spurrier regarded himself no less the trustee of the mountain-land holder than the servant of martin harrison. he was willing to shoulder, out of his own stipulated profits, the chief burden of this division, and in the end he would have driven a better bargain for his simple friends than they could have hoped to attain for themselves. yet in him was being reborn an element of character, which had long been repressed. and there in the other section of the state where political connections had to be established and the skids of intrigue greased, much stood waiting to be done. already most of what could be accomplished here on the ground had progressed to a point from which the end could be seen. john spurrier, the seeming idler, could control almost all the territory needful for his right of way--all except a tract belonging to brother bud hawkins, cautiously left for the last because he wished to handle that himself and did not yet wish to appear in the negotiations. in the intricate workings of such a project by a campaign of secrecy, the matter was not only one of acquiring a certain expanse of a definite sort of property in a given region, but of acquiring holdings that commanded the only practicable route through passable gaps. this special lie and trend of ground he thought of and spoke of, in his business correspondence, as "the neck of the bottle." when he held it, it mattered little who else had liquid in the bottle. it could come out only through his neck and, therefore, under his terms. yet even when that was achieved, there remained the need of the corkscrew without which he himself could make no use of his range-wide jug of crude petroleum. that corkscrew was the charter to be had from a legislature where american oil and gas was supposed to have sentinels at the door. he could not take glory with him on these trips, because glory was of the hills, and loyal to the hills--and he could not yet take the natives into his confidence. for the same reason he could give her only business reasons of the most general and evasive character for leaving her behind. but the work that spurrier had done so far was only the primary section of a broader design. what he had accomplished affected the oil field on the remote side of hemlock mountain, the part of the field that the earlier boom had never touched, and his entire project looked to a totality embracing also the "nigh" side, where his operations still existed only in projection. it was while this situation stood that there came to him one day two letters calling upon him for two irreconcilable courses of action. one was from louisville, urging him to return there at once to busy himself with political plannings; the other was a rude scrawl from sam mosebury setting an appointment with the "witch woman." spurrier was reluctant to go to louisville. it meant laying aside the little paradise of the present for the putting on of heavy harness. it necessitated another excuse to glory, and more than that, being away from glory. yet that was the bugle call of his mission, and he fancied that whatever threatened him here in the hills was a menace of local effect. if that were true he would not need the warning which the unaccountable desperado, sam mosebury, meant to relay to him through channels of alleged magic, until he came back. therefore, the witch could wait. but in that detail spurrier erred, and when he answered the summons that called him to town without his occult consultation, he unwittingly discarded a warning which he needed there no less than in the hills. he was called upon to choose a turning without pause, and he followed his business instincts. it happened that instinct misled him. chapter xvii one afternoon trabue, the unadvertised dictator of american oil and gas, sat with several of his close subordinates in a conference that had to do with martin harrison, the man he assumed to ignore. "unless some unforeseen thing sends oil soaring," ventured oliver morris, "this fellow spurrier is having his trouble for his pains. my idea is that he's seeking to tease us into counter activity--and trail after us in the profits." "and if something _should_ send oil soaring," crisply countered cosgrove, "he'd have us distanced with a runaway start." "who is this man spurrier?" demanded trabue himself. "what does our research department report?" "he's a protégé of martin harrison's." trabue appeared to find the words illuminating, and a shrewd irony glinted in his brief smile. "if he's harrison's man, he's out to knife me--and he has resources at his back. tell me more about him." cosgrove took from his portfolio a neatly typed memorandum, and read from it aloud: former army officer who gained the sobriquet of "plunger" spurrier: court-martialed and convicted upon charge of murder, and pardoned through efforts of senator beverly. associated with various enterprises as a general investigator and initiative expert. rumor has it that harrison is grooming him as his own successor. "if his reputation is that of a plunger," argued morris, "my guess is that he's playing a long-shot bet for a killing." "and you guess wrong. if harrison has picked this fellow to wear his own mantle, the man is more than a gambling tout. it is only lunacy to underestimate him or dismiss him with contempt." cosgrove nodded his concurrence and amplified it. "in my judgment he's something of a genius with a chrome-nickeled nerve, but he's adroit as well as bold. he has operated only through others and has kept himself inconspicuous. except for an accident, we should have had no warning of his activities." "if he were to get bitten by a rattlesnake," growled morris savagely, "it would be a lucky thing for us. of course, we might beguile him into our own camp." trabue shook his head in a decisive negation. "that would only notify him that we recognize his effort and fear it. if the game's big enough, we don't want him." he paused, then added with a grim facetiousness: "as for your other suggestion, we have no rattlesnakes in our equipment." the dynamic-minded master of strategy sat balancing a pen-holder on his extended forefinger for a few moments, then he inquired as if in afterthought: "by the way, i feel curious as to how the tip came to us that this conspiracy was on foot. you say that except for an accident we should not have known it." cosgrove smiled. "it came to this office through the regular channels of our local agencies--and i didn't inquire searchingly into the details. i gathered, though, that the trail was picked up by a sort of information tout--a fellow who was hurt and compromised a damage suit against us. it seems that he is supposed to be blind--but he could nonetheless see well enough to read some memoranda that chanced to come his way." the gentleman cleared his throat almost apologetically as he added: "as i remarked i didn't learn the particulars. i merely took the information for what it might be worth, and set our men to watching." "i see," trabue made dry acknowledgment. "and what is being done toward watching him?" "i understand we have a man there who is assuming an enmity toward us and who is ostensibly helping spurrier to build up political influence." "i see," said trabue once more, with even a shade more dryness in his voice. that conversation had taken place quite a long while before the present, but it set into quiet motion the wheels of a large and powerful organization. the knowledge that john spurrier was objectionable to a. o. and g. had filtered through to more local, yet confidential, officials, and through them to "men in the field," and it is characteristic of such delegations of authority, that each department suits the case referred to it to the practical workings of its own environment. gentlemen of high business standing in lower broadway could permit themselves no violence of language, beyond the intimation that this upstart was a nuisance. translated into the more candid brutality of camp-following parasites in the wildness of the hills, that mild declaration became: "the man needs killin'. let's git him!" now, spurrier found that the visit to louisville and lexington, which had promised to be the matter of weeks, must stretch itself into months, and that until the convening and adjournment of the assembly itself, his presence would be as requisite as that of a ship's officer on the bridge. in one respect he was gratified. american oil and gas seemed serenely unsuspicious of any danger. vigilance seemed lapsed. those men whose duty it was to watch the corporation's interest and to hold in line the needed lawmakers, appeared to regard legislative protection as a thing bought and paid for and safe from trespass. and spurrier, knowing better, was secretly triumphant, but without glory he was far from happy. had he known what influences were at work with cancerlike corrosions upon her loyalty, what food was nourishing her anxiety, he would have stolen the time to go to her. hers was an anxiety which she did not acknowledge. even to herself she denied its existence and against any outside suggestion of inner hurt pride would have risen in valiant resentment. but in her heart it talked on in whispers that she could not hush. at night she would waken suddenly, wide-eyed with apprehension and seek to reassure herself by the emphasis of her avowals: "he's _not_ ashamed of me. he's not leaving me because of that! he's a big man with big business, and some day he'll take me with him, everywhere!" when old cappeze, a man not given to unreflecting or careless speech, flatly questioned: "glory--why doesn't john ever take you with him?" she flinched and fell into exculpations that limped. the old man was quick to note the pained rawness of the nerve he had touched, and he began talking of something else, but when he was alone once more his old eyes took on that fanatic absorption that came of his deep love for his daughter, and he shook his head dubiously over her future. one day a neighborhood woman came by glory's house and found her standing at the door. tassie plumford neither claimed nor was credited with powers of magic, but she, too, might have been called a "witch woman." in curdled disposition and shrewishness of tongue, she merited the title. "waal, waal, glory cappeze," she drawled in her rasping, nasal voice. "yore man hes done built ye a right monstrous fine house, hyar, ain't he?" "come in and see it, mrs. plumford," invited the young wife. "but my name's glory spurrier now--not cappeze." in the gesture with which the woman drew her shawl tighter about her lean shoulders, she contrived to convey the affront of suspicion and disbelief. "no, i reckon i ain't got ther power ter tarry now," she declined. "i don't git much time fer gaddin', an' be yore name whatsoever hit may, there's them hyar-abouts es 'lows yore man lavishes everything on ye but his own self. he's away from ye most of his time, albeit i reckon he's got car fare aplenty fer two." glory stiffened, and without a word turned her back on her ungracious visitor. she went into the house with the tilted chin of one who disdains to answer insolent slanders, but in the tenderness of her heart the barb had nonetheless sunk deep. so people were saying that! over at aunt erie toppitt's the shrew again halted--and there it seemed that she did have time to "tarry," and roll the morsel of gossip under tongue. "mebby she's ther furriner's lawful wife an' then ergin mebby she ain't nuthin' but his woman," opined tassie plumford. "hit ain't none of my business nohow, but a godly woman hes call ter be heedful whar she visits at." "a godly woman!" aunt erie's tone stung like a hornet attack. "what has godliness got ter do with _you_, anyhow, tassie plumford? the records of ther high cote over at carnettsville hes got _yore_ record fer a witness thet swears ter perjury." mrs. plumford trembled with rage but, prudently, she elected to ignore the reference to her legal status. "ef they was rightfully married," she retorted, "hit didn't come ter pass twell old man cappeze diskivered her alone with him--in his house--jest ther two of 'em--an' they wouldn't nuver hev _been_ diskivered savin' an' exceptin' fer ther attack on ther furriner." in the self-satisfaction of one who has scored, she added: "i'll be farin' on now, i reckon." "an' don't nuver come back," stormed aunt erie, whose occasional tantrums were as famous as her usual good humor. "unless ye seeks ter hev ther dawgs sot on ye." while the spiteful and forked little tongues of gossip were doing their serpent best to poison what had promised to be an eden for glory at home in the hills, the husband who was charged with neglecting her was miserable in town. his work had been the breath of life to him until now, bringing the zestful delight of prevailing over stubborn difficulties, and building bridges that should carry him across to his goal of financial power. now he found it a necessity that exiled him from a place to which he had come half-contemptuously and to which his converted thoughts turned as the prayers of the true believer turn toward mecca. he who had been urban in habit and taste found nothing in the city to satisfy him. the smoke-filled air seemed to stifle him and fill him with a yearning for the clean, spirited sweep of the winds across the slopes. he knew that these physical aspects were trivial things he would have swept aside had they not stood as emblems for a longing of the heart itself--a nostalgia born of his new life and love. but all the plans that had built one on the other toward a definite end of making an oil field of the barren hills were drawing to a focus that could not be neglected. he could no more leave these things undone than could his idol napoleon have abandoned his headquarters before austerlitz, and the sitting of the legislature could not be changed to suit his wishes. neither could the lining up of forces that were to guide his legislation to its passage be left unwatched. so the absence that he had thought would be brief, or at worst a series of short trips away from home, was prolonging itself into a winter in louisville and frankfort. he found himself as warily busy as a collie herding a panicky flock, and as soon as one danger was met and averted, a new one called upon him from a new and unsuspected quarter. much of the deviousness of playing underground politics disgusted him, and yet he knew he would have regarded it only as an amusing game for high stakes before his change of heart. but now that it was to be a battle for the mountain men as well as for martin harrison and for himself, it could be better stomached. the effort to pick out men who could be trusted in an enterprise where they had to be bought, was one which taxed both his insight into human nature and his self-esteem. senator chew, himself a mountaineer, who had come from a ragged district to the state assembly and who seemed to harbor a hatred against a. o. and g. of utter malevolence, was almost as his other self, furnishing him with eyes with which to see and ears with which to hear, and familiarity with all the devious, unlovely tricks of lobby processes. but senator chew, a countryman, who had capitalized his shifty wits and hard-won education, bent his knee to the brazen gods of cupidity and ambition. "i don't just see," he demurred petulantly to spurrier, "why you go about this thing the way you do. you've got unlimited capital behind you and yet in going after these options you ain't hardly got hold of any more land than just enough to let your pipe line through. you could get all a man's property just as cheap per acre as part of it--and when i've sweated blood to give you your charter and you've sweated blood to grab your right-of-way, that god-forsaken land will be a klondike." "i hope so," smiled spurrier, and his ally went on. "all right, but why have nothing out of it except a pipe-line? why not have the whole damn business to split three ways, among harrison's crowd, yourself--and the crowd i've got to handle?" "you're a mountain man, senator," the opportunity hound reminded him. "you know that in every other section of the hills to which development has come, the native has reaped only a heart-ache and an empty belly. i am purposely taking only a part of each man's holding, so that when the oil flows there what he has left will be worth more to him than all of it was before." "hell," growled the politician. "the men you ought to think about making money for, are the men you need--like me, and the men who back you, like harrison. these local fellows won't thank you, and in my opinion you're a fool, if you'll permit me to talk plain." "talk as plain as you like, senator," smiled the other. "but i think i'm acting with right sound sense. our field can be more profitably developed among friends than among enemies--even if no consideration other than the practical enters into the problem." it was not until christmas time that spurrier broke away from his activities in louisville, and then he came bearing gifts and with a heart full of eagerness. he came elated, too, at the fair promise of his prospects, and confident of victory. so glory hid the fears that had been growing in her heart and, because of the tidal power of personal fascination and contact, she found it an easy task. while spurrier was with her, those fears seemed to lose their substance and to stand out as absurdities. they were delirious miasmas dissipated by the sun and daylight of companionship. spurrier kept most of his valuable papers in a safety vault in louisville, but for purposes of reference here, he maintained a complete system of carbon copies, and these must be stored in some place where he could feel sure they were immune from any prying eye. the entire record of his proceedings would be clear to any reader of those memoranda. while glory was away one day, he removed a section of the living-room wall and fashioned something in the nature of a secret cabinet, upon which he could rely for these purposes. before he went away again he shared that secret with her, since in certain exigencies it might be needful that some one should be able to act on wired instructions. he showed her the bit of molding that was removable and which gave entrance to the hidden recess. "in that strong box," he told her, "are papers of vital importance. if i haven't taken you entirely into my confidence about them all, dear, it's because they concern other people more closely than myself. all my own affairs are yours--but in the service of others, i must obey instructions and those instructions are rigid." he took out one envelope, though, plainly marked. "this," he said, "is a paper to be used only in case of extreme emergency. it is an order on the safety-deposit people in louisville to open my vault to the bearer. in the event of my death, or if i should wire you from a distance, i would want you to use it." even that admittance into the veiled sanctum of his business life pleased glory, and she nodded her head gravely. she did not tell him, and he did not guess, that tongues were wagging in his absence, and that people said she was good enough only for that part of his life in which he shed his white collar and his "fine manners" and donned the rougher habiliments of the backwoods. even when she learned that his coming back had been only to spend the holidays with her and that he must leave again to be gone for weeks, at least, she let none of the disquiet that smouldered in her find an utterance in words. * * * * * on a fine old blue grass estate, which exhaled the elegance and ease of the old south, lived colonel merriwell, a life-long friend of dyke cappeze. in years long gone he had more than once sought to have cappeze transfer his activities to a wider field. now, timber interests called him to the mountains, and though the cold weather had set in, his daughter chose to come with him. she had heard much of the strange and retarded life of the mountains, and because it was so different from the refinements with which she had always been surrounded, she wanted to see it. when they arrived after traveling conditions that warranted every conception of quaintness, but violated every demand of comfort, the girl from the bluegrass found glory a discovery. at once she recognized that into any drawing-room this wilderness-bred girl could be safely dropped, and that even though she stood in a corner, she would soon become its center. helen merriwell was fascinated by the anomaly of an inherent aristocracy in an encompassing life which was almost squalid, and a bond of sympathy sprang into instant being. the bluegrass woman knew by instinct, though through no utterance from the loyal lips, that the other was lonely, and when colonel merriwell announced his intention of returning home, the daughter decided to continue her visit and its companionship. to spurrier's house, too, during the crisp, clear weather of late winter came, without announcement or expectation another visitor. they were two other visitors to be exact, but one so overshadowed his companion in importance that the second became negligible. at the carnettsville station the daily train drew up one morning and uncoupled, on a siding, the first private car that had ever run over that piece of roadbed. its chef and valet gazed superciliously down upon the assembled loungers, but the two gentlemen who alighted and gave their names as martin harrison and his secretary, mr. spooner, were to all appearances "jest ordinary folks." glory was housecleaning on the day of harrison's coming, and, in neatly patched gingham and dust-protected crown, she came nearer seeming the typical mountain woman than she had for many days before. her fresh beauty was hard to eclipse, but she was less presentable than she wished to be when her husband's great patron saw her for the first time and contrasted her with such women as his own daughter. when she heard the name, without previous warning, a sort of panic possessed her and for once she became tongue-tied and awkward, so that after the first, helen merriwell stepped into the breach and did the talking. "my name is martin harrison," said the great man with simple cordiality. "i thought john spurrier lived here--but i seem to be mistaken." "he--he does live here," stammered glory, catching the swiftly stifled amazement of the magnate's disapproving eyes. "here?" he put the question blankly as if only politeness prevented a greater vehemence of surprise. "but i expected to find a bachelor establishment. there are ladies here." glory fell back a step as if in retreat under attack. if this statement were true, spurrier had never acknowledged her to the employer with whom his relations were intimately close. in her own eyes, she stood as one who had lost caste and been repudiated--and all self-confidence abandoned her, giving way to trepidation. harrison stood bewilderedly looking at this country girl who had turned tremulous and pale, and helen merriwell stepped forward. "then you didn't know that mr. spurrier was married?" she smilingly inquired. the money baron transferred his glance to her as his shadowed face lightened into relief. this young woman had the poise and ease of his own world, which made communication facile. if spurrier had not been candid with him, at all events he had, perhaps, not unclassed himself. the other was presumably a local servant of whom he need think no more. "mr. spurrier," he answered easily, "had not mentioned his marriage, probably because our recent correspondence has all related to business. however, i hold it unhandsome of him not to have done so." he paused, then added deferentially: "of course, i am better prepared now to felicitate him--since i have seen you." but helen merriwell laughed and laid a hand on glory's shoulder. "you do me too much honor, mr. harrison," she assured him. "_this_ is mrs. spurrier." the financier's ingrained politeness for once failed him. it was not for long, but in the breached instant he stiffened arrogantly as his eyes went back to glory, and betrayed themselves in half-contemptuous hostility. the lieutenant whom he had chosen as his own successor in the world of lofty affairs had not only deceived him but had thrown himself wantonly away upon a stammering daughter of illiterates! martin harrison bowed again, but this time with a precise formality. "i didn't notify mr. spurrier of my coming, since i felt sure i would find him here," he explained briefly, directing himself pointedly to helen merriwell. "i am on my way south, so now i'll defer seeing him until another time--unless you expect him back shortly?" helen turned inquiringly to glory and glory shook her head. the episode, confirming her own anxieties, had unnerved her steadfast courage into collapse. had any warning come to her in advance of the event her bearing toward this stranger would have been a different one. the pride that bowed submissively to no one except in love, would have sustained her. the natural dignity which was the gift of her blood would have been the thing that any observer must have first and last recognized. with a chance to have shaped her attitude, glory would have received harrison as a barbarian princess might have met an ambassador from rome, but no such chance had been afforded her and she stood as distraught and as panicky as a stage-struck child whose speech fails. she even slid back into the rough-hewn vernacular that had been so completely banished from her lips and custom. "i ain't got ther power ter say," she faltered, "when he'll git back. he's goin' ter frankfort first." "i'll write to him there," said the capitalist. harrison departed with the stiff dignity of an affronted sachem, and helen merriwell, looking after him, smiled with amusement for the incident which she so well understood, until she turned and saw glory. the girl had wilted back against the wall and stood there as if she had been stricken. her great, violet eyes were brimming with the spirit of tragedy and held the despair of one who has blithely returned home--to find his house in ruin and ashes. glory stole away to her own room, escaping the embrace of sympathetic arms, as soon as she could. "he's done denied me ter his friends," she told herself wildly. "he dast'n't acknowledge me ter fine folks!" then through the first, torpid misery of hurt pride, crept a more terrifying thought. spurrier had been practically engaged to this man's daughter. he had been diverted from his purpose by motives of pity, and now that harrison knew, he might be ruined--probably would be ruined. if so disaster would come to him because of her--and at last she rose from the chair where she had dropped down, collapsed, with a light of new resolution in her eyes. "if that's all i'm good for," she declared tempestuously, "he's got to be rid of me." chapter xviii during the sitting of the legislature john spurrier was a sporadic onlooker, and his agents were as vigilant as sentinels in a danger zone. the last day of the term drew to a wintry sunset, and when the clock registered midnight the body would stand automatically adjourned until gavel fall two years hence. spurrier, outwardly a picture of serenity, but inwardly tensed for the final issue, sat in the visitors' gallery of the senate chamber. the charter upon which all his hopes hung as upon a fulcrum was all but in his grasp. seemingly the enemy slept on. presumably in those last tired hours the authorizing bill would slip through to passage with the frictionless ease of well-oiled bearings. the needed men had been won over. carping critics might prate, here and there, of ugly means that savored of bribery, but that was academic. the promise of forth-coming victory remained. methods may be questionable. results are not, and spurrier was interested in results. a. o. and g. had corrupted and suborned certain public servants. he had discovered their practice and played their own cards to their undoing. his ostensible clients were perhaps little cleaner-handed than their adversaries, but certainly, those other clients who did not even know themselves to be represented stood with no stain on their claims. those native men and women had not asked him to safeguard them, and had they been able to see what he was doing they would have guessed only that, after winning their faith, he was bent on swindling them. but spurrier knew not only the seeming facts but those which lay beneath and he fought with a definite sense of stewardship. first the _coup_ must succeed, since that success was the foundation of all the rest, and the moment was at hand. for this he had slaved, faced dangers and deprived himself of the contentment of home and the society of his wife. now it was about to end in victory. the enemy had been caught napping, and the victory would be his. certainly he had been as fair as the foe. what now remained was a perfunctory confirmation by the senate, and in these final wearied hours it would slip through easily in the general wind-up of uncontested affairs. spurrier had not slept for two days--or had slept little. when this ended he would go to his bed and lie there in sunken hours of restoration the clock around--and after that back to glory. already he carried in his pocket the brief message which he meant to put upon the wires to harrison, at the moment of midnight and success. characteristically it read: "complete victory. spurrier." now as the clerk droned through the mass of unfinished matters that burdened the schedule, the clock stood at ten in the evening, and a spirit of disordered peevishness proclaimed itself in the chamber. seats were vacated. voices rose in unparliamentary clamor. from the desk where a mountain senator sat in touseled disarray, a flask was drawn and tipped with scant regard to senatorial dignity. then the chairman of the committee which had the steering of spurrier's affairs arose and handed a paper to the clerk. spurrier himself maintained the same unemotional cast of countenance with which, years before, he had watched a horse in the stretch battling for more than he could afford to lose, but wharton, who sat at his side, chewed nervously on an unlighted cigar. sleepy reporters yawned at the press tables as the clerk droned out his sing-song, "an act entitled an act conferring charter rights upon the hemlock pipe line company of kentucky." the reading of the measure seemed devoid of interest or attention. it went forward in confusion, yet when it was ended the mountain man who had taken the swig out of his flask, came slowly to his feet. "mr. president of the senate," he drawled, "i want to address a few incongruvial remarks to the senators in regards to this here proposed measure." with a sudden sense of premonition spurrier found himself sitting electrically upright. that man was senator chew who had sat in council with him and advised him; his right hand in action and his fox-brain in planning, yet now, with every moment invaluable he was burning up time! he was a pygmy among small men, and as he drooled on he seemed to urge no pertinent objection. yet before he had been five minutes on his feet his intent was clear and his success assured. out of the hands of their recognized lieutenants a. o. and g. had taken the matter of serving them. into the hands of this obscure and loutish solon who was ostensibly pledged to their enemies, they had thrust their commission, and now with the clock creeping forward toward adjournment, he meant to talk the charter measure to death by holding the floor until the opportunity for a vote had elapsed. tediously and inanely he meandered along, and no one knew what he was talking about. in extravagant metaphor and florid simile he indulged himself--and the clock worked industriously, an ally not to be unduly hurried. "gentlemen of the senate--" he drooled, "most of us have been raised in a land that knows little of the primitive features that make up life with us, and though it may not at first seem germane or pertinent, i want you to go with me as your guide, while i try to make you see the life of those steep counties that are affected by the measure before you; counties that lie behind the barriers and sleep the ancient sleep of the forgotten." men yawned while his tediousness spun itself into a tawdry flow of slow words, but the honorable mr. chew talked on. "many the day, as a lad, have i lain by a rushing brook," he declaimed, "where the water gushes with the sparkle of sunlit crystal and watched the deer come down on gingerly lifted feet to drink his fill. now i reckon mighty few of you gentlemen have seen a deer come down to drink----" the minute hand of the clock, in comparison with this windy deliberation seemed to be racing between the dial characters. "in god's name," exclaimed spurrier, "isn't there any way to shut that fool up? he's ruining us. get some of our leaders up here, wharton. we've got to stop him." "how?" demanded wharton with a fallen jaw. "i don't give a damn how! kill him--buy him. anything!" "it's too late," responded wharton grimly. "he's already bought. we've walked into their trap. we might as well go home." spurrier sent for his whip, but he had come to the end of his resourcefulness and shook a dejected head. "if you want to shoot him down as he stands there," said the gentleman testily, "i dare say it would stop him short. i know no other way. he is having resort to the senatorial privilege of filibuster. we have let them slip up on us. a. o. and g. has outbid you, that's all." "but how in god's name did they get wise?" the other laughed grimly. "wise?" he snorted. "my guess is that they've been wise all the time and that hayseed iscariot has been playing us along for suckers." held by a deadly fascination, spurrier sank back into his seat. the clock over the speaker's desk traveled once, almost twice around the dial, and yet that nasal voice wandered on in an endless stream of grotesque bombast--talking the charter to a slow death by strangulation. now, reflected spurrier bitterly, his connection with the enterprise must seem to any eye that viewed it that only of harrison's jackal and lobbyist, who had signally failed in his attempt to raid a. o. and g. to the mountain folk themselves, if the facts ever percolated into the hills, his seeming would be far from heroic and with nothing tangible accomplished, it would do no good to tell them that he had made his fight with their interests at heart. such a claim would only stamp him in the face of contrary evidence as taking a coward's refuge in lies. then when it seemed to him that he could no longer restrain himself, spurrier heard the gavel fall. it was a light sound, but it crashed on his brain with thunders of destruction. "gentlemen," declared the presiding officer, "the senate stands adjourned, _sine die_." had john spurrier gone to see the "witch woman" when mosebury advised it, his course from that point on would have brought him to a different ending. in looking back on that night, he could never quite remember it with consecutive distinctness. gaps of forgetfulness were fitfully shot through with disconnected scraps of recollection. when events began to marshal themselves into orderly sequence, the windowpanes of his hotel room were turning a dirty gray with the coming of dawn, and he was sitting in a straight-backed chair. his bed had not been touched. back of that lay a chaotic sense of irremediable disaster and despair. at last he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and that picture of disheveled wildness startled him and brought him back to realization. then self-contempt swept in on him. he had been called a man of iron nerve; a plunger who never turned a hair under reversals of fortune--and now he stood looking through the glass at a broken gambler with frenzied eyes. it was such a face as one might see in the circle before the casino at monte carlo--the place of suicides. the man who had seemed to come from nowhere and who had talked last night with such destructive volubility, had been a pure shyster. to be outwitted by such a clown carried the sting of chagrin, quite apart from the material disaster. yet into his disordered thoughts came the realization that the senator had been only a puppet. his actuating wires had been pulled by the fingers of a. o. and g. and the men who sat as overlords of a. o. and g. were only shysters of a greater caliber. the men whom he, himself, served were no better. compared to this backwoods statesman he, john spurrier, was as a smooth and sophisticated confidence man paralleled with a pickpocket. ethically, they were cut from the same cloth, though to differing patterns--one rustic and the other urban. he had been engaged in a tawdry game, for all its gilding of rich prospects, but in the face of defeat a man cannot change his colors. had he been able to undertake this fight as his own man and choose his own methods--changing them as he grew in stature--there might have been a man's zest in the game. now, less than ever, could he speak open truth to these simple friends who had trusted him. now he must fight out a damaged campaign to the end along the lines to which he stood committed, and until the end there was nothing to say. perhaps if he could avert total ruin, he might yet have opportunity to reclaim the confidence of these esaus who had traded for a mess of pottage. certainly they had nothing to hope for from the myrmidons of trabue. john spurrier forced his shoulders back into military erectness. he compelled his lips into the stiff and counterfeited curvature of a smile. not only had every resource he could muster gone into the scrapped enterprise, leaving him worse than bankrupt, but through him martin harrison had been led into the sinking of a fortune. harrison would, in all likelihood, be less bitter about the money loss, than the thought of the triumphant smile on trabue's thin lips, but it was quite in the cards that, with his contempt for failure, he would wash his hands of spurrier. that, of course, spelled ruin. the exhibition skater had gone through the thin ice. harrison could, if he chose, do more than dismiss john spurrier. he had seen to it that his lieutenant was bound to his standards by debts he could not pay, save out of some future enrichment contingent on success. if he chose to call those loans he would leave his employee shattered beyond hope of recovery. but when spurrier went down to the hotel dining room at breakfast time, a cold bath and a superhuman exertion of will power had transformed him. his bearing was a nice blending of the debonair and the dignified. to no eye of observation was there any trace of collapse or reversal. he seemed the man who demanded the best from life and who got it. at a table not far from his own sat senator chew with a companion whom spurrier did not know. the traitor glanced up and his eye met that of the man he had betrayed, then fell flinching. perhaps the mountaineer expected the dining room to stage such a scene of recrimination and violence as it had in the past on more than one occasion, for his crafty face went brick red, then darkened into truculence as he half pushed back his chair and his hand swept tentatively toward his hip. but the plunger had still his pride left, or its remnant, and it was no part of his plan to stand the self-confessed and vanquished victim, by any patent demonstration of wrath. he met the eyes of the politician who had played on both sides of the same game, and smiled, and if there was contempt in the expression, it was recognized only by the man who knew its cause. later he wrote a telegram to harrison. it was not the thing he had expected to say, yet in it went no whine of despair: have suffered a temporary reversal. those were the words that the capitalist read when the message, after being decoded from its cipher, was laid on his desk. harrison, recently returned from his southern trip, thought truculently of that nearby office in which trabue was also receiving telegraphic information, and he writhed in the wormwood of chagrin. the curtness of his response scorched the wires: explain in person if you can. otherwise we separate. so john spurrier packed his bag and caught the first train for the mountains. he must say good-by to glory, before facing this final ordeal, and he believed that in that clarifying air he could brace himself for the encounter that awaited him in new york. as he turned into the yard of his own house he paused, and something about his heart tightened until it unsteadied him. here alone, in all the world, he had known what home meant, and in his heart and veins rose an intoxicating tumult like that of wine. back of that emotional wave though lurked a misery of self-reproach. glory had made the magic of his brief happiness, but there was a background, too, of kindly souls and a ruggedly genuine welcome. he had learned to know these people and to revise his first, false views of them. in them dwelt the stout honesty and real strength of oak and hickory. first he had striven to plunder them, then sought to lift the yoke of poverty from their long-bowed shoulders. in both efforts he had failed. but had he failed, after all? certainly he stood under the black shadow of a major disaster, but had not others retrieved disasters and made final victory only the brighter for its contrast with lurid misfortune? he had been the plunger who seemed strongest when he was weakest, and these enduring hills spoke their message of steadfastness to him as he stood surrounded by their lofty crests of spruce and pine. then he had reached the door and flung it open and glory was in his arms, but unaccountably she had burst into a tempest of tears. before he had had time to speak of the necessity that called him east she was telling of the visit of martin harrison and his indignant departure. despite his all-consuming absorption of a moment before, spurrier drew away, chilled by that announcement, and glory read in his eyes a momentary agony of apprehension. "in god's name," he demanded in a numbed voice, "why didn't you write me about that?" "he said," responded the wife simply, "that _he_ would write to you at frankfort. i thought you knew." "but i should have thought you'd have spoken of his coming and going--like that." her head came up with a brief little flash of hurt pride. "you hadn't ever told him--about me," she said, though without accusation. "i didn't want to talk to you about it until you were ready to suggest it. it might have seemed--disloyal." spurrier again braced his shoulders. after a moment he took her in his arms. "glory, my sweetheart, i've been playing a game for big stakes. i've had to do some things i didn't relish. i've got to do another now. i'm summoned to harrison's office in new york, at once--and i have no choice." glory drew away and looked with challenging directness into his eyes. "i suppose--you'll go alone?" "i must. business affairs are at a crisis, and i need a free hand. but, god granting me a safe return, it's to be our last separation. i swear that. i am always wretched without you." always before when disappointment or disquiet had riffled the deeps of her eyes, it had taken only a word and a smile from this man to dispel them and bring back the serenity of content. her moments of panic when she had seemed to drop down, down into pits of foreboding until she had plumbed the depth of despair, had been moments to which she had surrendered in his absence and of which he had been given no hint. now with a gravity that was bafflingly unreadable she stood silent and looked about the room, and the man's eyes followed hers. why was it, he almost fiercely demanded of himself, that this cottage set in remote hills shed about him a feeling of soul-satisfaction that he had never encountered in more luxurious places? now as he looked at it the thought of leaving it cramped his heart with a sort of breathless agony. yet, of course, there was no question after all. it was because in everything it was reflection of glory's own spirit and to him glory stood for the only love that had ever been bigger to him than himself. the simplicity and good taste of the small house, standing in a land of squalid cabins like a disciple of quiet elegance among beggars, had been the result of their collaboration. glory had had the instinct of artistic perception and true values and he had been able to guide her from his sybarite experience. the stone fireplace with its ingle-nook, built by their own hands from rocks they had selected and gathered together, seemed to him a beautiful thing. the natural wood of the paneling, picked out at the saw-mill with a critical eye for graining and figuration, satisfied the eye, and the few pictures that he had brought from the east were all landscapes that meant something to each of them--lyric bits of canvas with singing skies. to every object a memory had attached itself; a memory that had also a tendril in their hearts. but now glory, too, was looking at all these things as though she as well as himself were leaving them. there was something of farewell in the glance that lingered on them and caressed them, as if of leave-taking and into spurrier's heart crept the intuition that despite his declaration just made that this should be their last separation, she was seeing in it a threat of permanence. and that was the thought that was chilling glory's heart and muting the song of happiness which his coming had awakened. this place which had been founded with all the promise of home and companionship was beginning to hold for her the foreboding of loneliness and something like abandonment. he knew it only when they were together here, but she had been in it alone and frightened more than in times of shared happiness. and why was this true? why could it be either true or necessary unless, as she had told herself in panic moments and denied so persistently, she was a misfit in his broader life and a woman whom he could enjoy in solitude but dared not trust to comparison with others? chapter xix at last she turned abruptly away, in order that the misery which would no longer submit to concealment might not show itself in her eyes, and stood looking out of the window. spurrier crossed with anxious swiftness and took her again into his arms. "when i have finished this business trip," he declared fervently, "our separations shall end. they have been too many and too long--but i've paid for them in loneliness, dear. this call, that i'm answering now, is unexpected but it's imperative and i can't disobey it." she turned then, slowly and gravely, but with no lightening of the burdened anxiety in her eyes. "it's not just that you have to go away, jack," she told him. "it's a great deal more than that." "what else is there, dearest?" his question was intoned with surprise. "when we are together, i have nothing else to ask of life. have you?" "the place has been changed--mightily changed," she went on musingly as though talking to herself rather than to him. "and yet the walls are the same as they were that day--when we both thought we had to die here together." "they are the dearer for that," he exclaimed fervently. "that was what made us see things truly." "i wonder," she questioned, then meeting his eyes steadily she went on as though determined to say what must be said. "when you called brother hawkins in to marry us, i was afraid. i was afraid because i thought you were only doing it out of kindness, and that afterward you'd be ashamed of me." "ashamed of you," he echoed with indignant incredulity. "in god's name how could i be?" "or if not ashamed of me that you couldn't help knowing that i was--what i am--all right here in the hills but that outside--i wouldn't do." "if you were ever afraid of that, it was only because you were undervaluing yourself. you surely haven't any ghost of such a fear left now." for a little she stood silent again torn between the loyalty that hesitated to question him and the pride that was hurt. finally she said simply: "it's a bigger fear now. unless i'm unpresentable, why do you--never take me anywhere with you?" john spurrier laughed, vastly relieved that the mountain of her anxiety had resolved itself, as he thought, into a mole-hill. he could laugh because he had no suspicion of the chronic soreness of her heart and his answer was lightly made. "these trips have all been in connection with the sort of business, glory, that would have meant keeping me away from you whether you had gone to town or not. when we travel together--and i want that we shall travel a great deal--i must be free to devote myself to you. i want to show the world to you and i want to show you to the world." that declaration he fancied ought to resolve her fears of his being ashamed of her. "if you were afraid i'd seem out of place," she assured him, "i might be right sorry--and yet i think i'd understand. i'm not a fool and i know i'd make mistakes, but i was raised a lawyer's daughter and i've got a pretty good business head--yet you've never told me anything of what this business is that calls you away. you always treat me as if there were no use in even trying to make me understand it." the man no longer laughed. he could not explain that it was rather because she might understand too well than not well enough. even to her, until he was ready to prove his intent by his actual deeds, it seemed impossible to give that story without the seeming of the plunderer of her people. "when the time comes that releases me from my pledge of absolute secrecy, dear," he told her earnestly, "i mean to tell you all about my business--and i think you'll approve, then. now i don't talk because i have no right to." again there was silence, after which glory said in a voice of still resolution which he had never heard from her before: "i'm ignorant and uncultivated, jack, but to me marriage is a full partnership--or it isn't anything. when mr. harrison came, i saw for the first time just how i looked to men like him. i was just 'pore white trash.'" "did he----" spurrier broke off and his face went abruptly white with passion. had harrison been there at that moment he would have stood in danger at the hands of his employee, but glory shook her head and hastened to quiet him. "he wasn't impolite, jack. it wasn't that--only i read in his eyes what he tried to hide. i only told you that because i wanted you to understand me. people here say that you give me everything but yourself; that i'm not good enough for you except right here where there's nothing better." "that is a damned lie," he expostulated. "who says it?" "only women-folks and gossipy grannies that you can't fight with, jack," she answered steadily. "but i've thought about it lots. i've come to think, dear, that maybe you ought to be free--and if you ought," she paused, then the final assertion broke from her with an agonized voice, "then, i love you enough to set you free." spurrier seized her in his arms and his words came choked with vehement feeling. "i want you, glory. i want you always and i couldn't live without you. when i have to go away i endure it only by thinking of coming back to you. if you ever set me free as you call it, it will be only because _you_ don't want _me_. i suppose in that case i'd try to take my medicine--but i think it would about kill me." "there's no danger of that, dear," she declared. the man drew away for a moment and fumbled for words. his aptness of speech had deserted him and at last he spoke clumsily: "it's hard to explain just now, when you've accused me of not taking you into my confidence, but i stand at a point, glory, where i've got the hardest fight ahead of me i ever made. i stand to be ruined or to make good. i've got to use every minute and every thought in competition with quick brains and enormous power. until its over i must be a machine with one idea ... and i'll fail, dear, unless i can take with me the knowledge that you trust me." she looked up into his face and the misery in her eyes gave place to confidence. "go ahead, jack," she said. "i believe in you and i'm not even afraid of your failing." after a moment she clasped her arms tightly about him and added vehemently: "but whether you succeed or fail, come back to me, dear, because, except for your sake, it won't make any difference to me." that same afternoon spurrier found time to visit the "witch woman." it had dawned upon him since that night in the senate chamber that, after all, sim colby might have been the least dangerous of his enemies, and the thought made him inquisitive. the old crone made her magic with abundant grotesquerie, but at its end she peered shrewdly into his eyes, and said: "i reads hyar in the omends thet mebby ye comes too late." spurrier smiled grimly. he thought that himself. "i dis'arns," went on the hag portentously, "thet a blind man impereled ye mightily--a blind man thet plays a fiddle--but thars others beside him thet dwells fur away an' holds a mighty power of wealth." a blind man! spurrier's remembrance flashed back to the visit of blind joe givins and the papers incautiously left on his table. yet if he was genuinely blind they could have meant nothing to him--and if he was not genuinely blind it was hard to conceive of human nerves enduring without wincing that test of the gun thrust against the temple. spurrier rose and paid his fee. had he seen her in time, this warning would have averted disaster. now it was something of a post-mortem. at the door of martin harrison's office several days later spurrier drew back his shoulders and braced himself. it was impossible to ignore the fact that he stood on the brink of total ruin; that his sole hope lay in persuading his principal that with more time and more money he would yet be able to succeed--and harrison was as plastic to persuasion as a brass buddha. but he had steeled himself for the interview--and now he turned the knob and swung back the mahogany door. spurrier was familiar enough with the atmosphere of that office to read the signs correctly. the hushed air of nervousness that hung over it now betokened a chief in a mood which no one sought to stir to further irritation. always in the past spurrier had been deferentially ushered into a private office and treated as the future chief. now, as though he were already a disinherited heir, he was left in the general waiting room, and he was left there for an hour. that cooling of the heel, he recognized as a warning of the cold reception to come--and an augury of ruin. at last he was called in, but he went with an unruffled demeanor which hid from the principal's eye how near to breaking his inward confidence was strained. "i wired you to come at once," began harrison curtly, and spurrier smiled as he nodded. "i came at once, sir, except that i hadn't been home for some time, and it was necessary to make a stop there." "home," martin's brows lifted a trifle. "you mean the mountains." "certainly--for the time being, i'm located there." "we may as well be honest with each other," asserted the magnate. "i consider that under the circumstances you behaved with serious discourtesy and without candor." for a casual moment his glance dwelt on the portrait of vivien which stood on his table. "i disagree with you, sir. i preferred relating the full circumstances, which were unusual, when there was an opportunity to do so in person. i was kept there by your interests as well as my own." "that recital," said the older man dryly, "is your concern. now that i know the facts i find myself uninterested in the details. you have chosen your way. the question is whether we can travel it together." "and i presume that the first point of that question demands a full report upon the business operations." "so far as i can see, they have collapsed." "they have by no means collapsed." suddenly the wrath that had been smoldering in harrison's eyes burst into tempest. he brought his clenched fist down upon his desk until inkwells and accessories rattled. this man's moments of equinox were terrifying to those who must bow to his will--and his will held sway over broad horizons. if john spurrier had not been intrepid he must have collapsed under the withering violence of the passion that rained on him. "before god," cried harrison, pacing his floor like a lion that lashes itself to frenzy, "you undertook to avenge me on trabue. you have drawn on me with carte-blanche liberties and spent fortunes like a prodigal! you have assured me that you had, at all times, the situation well in hand. then, through some damned blunder, you failed. let the money loss slide. damn the money! i'm the laughingstock of the business world. i'm delivered over to trabue's enjoyment as a boob who failed. i'm an absurdity, and you're responsible!" "when you've finished, sir," said spurrier quietly, "i shall endeavor to show you that none of those things have happened--that our failure is temporary and that when you undertook this enterprise you were in no impetuous haste as to the time of its accomplishment." "the legislature doesn't meet for two years," harrison barked back at him. "that will be two years of preparation for trabue. now he's fully warned, where do we get off?" "at our original point of destination, sir." the opportunity hound began his argument. his demeanor of unruffled calm and entire confidence began to exercise its persuasive force. harrison cooled somewhat, but spurrier was fighting, beneath his pose, as a man who has cramps in deep water fights for his life. these few minutes would determine his fate, and he was totally at the mercy of this single arbiter. "i have now all the options we need on the far side of hemlock mountain," spurrier summarized at last. "all except one tract which belongs to bud hawkins, who is a preacher and a friend of mine. he must have more generous terms, but i will be able to do business with him." "you talk of the options on the far side of the ridge," harrison broke in belligerently. "that is the minor field." "i'll be able to repeat that performance on the near side." "you will not! a repetition of your performance is the last thing we crave. any movement now would be only a piling up of warnings. for the present you will give every indication of having abandoned the project." "that is my idea, sir. i was not speaking of immediate but future activities. also----" in spite of his desperation of plight the younger man's bearing flashed into a challenging undernote of its old audacity, "when i used the word 'repeat' i referred to the successful portion of my effort. there was no failure on the land end. it was the charter that went wrong--through the deceit of a man we had to trust." "a man whom you selected," harrison caught him up. "you understood, in advance, the chances of your game. it was agreed upon your own insistence that your hand should be absolutely free--and freedom of method carries exclusiveness of responsibility. traitors exist. they don't furnish excuses." "nor am i making them. i am merely stating facts which you seem inclined to confuse. i grant the failure but i also claim the partial success." harrison seated himself, and as the interview stretched spurrier's nerves stretched with it under the placid surface of his plunger's camouflage. he had, as yet, no way of guessing how the verdict would go, and now the capitalist's face was hardened in discouragement. it was a face of merciless inflexibility. the sentence had been prepared in the judge's mind. there remained only its enunciation. "nothing is to be gained by mincing my words, spurrier," declared spurrier's chief. "we know precisely where you stand." harrison extended his hand with its fingers spread and closed it slowly into a clenched fist. "i hold you--there! i can crush you to a pulp of absolute ruin. you know that. the only question is whether i want, or not, to do it." "and whether, or not, you can afford to do it," amended the other with an audacity that he by no means felt. "you must decide whether you can afford to accept tamely and as a final defeat, a mere reversal, which i--and no one else--can turn into eventual victory." "i have duly considered that. i had implicit confidence in your abilities. you have struck at my personal feeling for you by a silence that was not frank. you have allied yourself with the mountain people by marriage, and we stand on opposite sides of the line of interest. you have all the while been watched by our enemies, and i regard you as a defeated man. if i choose to cast you aside, you go to the scrap heap. you will never recover." that was an assertion which there was neither health nor wisdom in contradicting and spurrier waited. his last card was played. "and i am going to cast you aside--bankrupt you--ruin you!" blazed out harrison, "unless you absolutely meet my requirements during a period of probation. that period will engage you in a very different matter. for the present you are through with the kentucky mountains. the new task will be a difficult one, and it should put you on your mettle. it is one that can't be accomplished at all unless you can do it. you have that one chance to retrieve yourself. take it or leave it." "what are your terms?" "you will sail to-morrow for liverpool. i will give you explicit instructions to-night. go prepared for an extended stay abroad." for the first time spurrier's face paled and insurrection flared in his pupils. "sail for europe to-morrow!" he exclaimed vehemently. "i'll see you damned first! doesn't it occur to you that a man has his human side? i have a wife and a home and when i am ordered to leave them for an indefinite time i'm entitled to a breathing space in which to set my own affairs in shape. i am willing enough to undertake your bidding--but not to-morrow." spurrier paused at the end of his outbreak and stood looking down at the seated figure, which to all intents and purposes might have been the god that held, for him, life and death in his hand. and as he looked spurrier thought he had never seen such glacial coldness and merciless indifference in any human face. he had known this man in the thundering of passion before which the walls about him seemed to tremble, but this manifestation of adamant implacability was new, and he realized that he had invited destruction in defying it. "as you please," replied harrison crisply, "but it's to-morrow or not at all. i've already outlined the alternative and since you refuse, our business seems concluded. next time you feel disposed to talk or think of what you're entitled to, remember that my view is different. all your claims stand forfeit in my judgment. you are entitled to just what i choose to offer--and no more." the chief glanced toward the door with a glance of dismissal, and the door became to spurrier the emblem of finality. yet he did not at once move toward it. "i appreciate the need of prompt obedience, where there is an urge of haste," he persisted, "but if a few days wouldn't imperil results, i want those days to make a flying trip to kentucky and to my wife." the face of the seated man remained obdurately set but his eyes blazed again with a note of personal anger. "at a time when i was reasonably interested, you chose to leave me unenlightened about your domestic arrangements. now i can claim no concern in them. most wives, however, permit their husbands such latitude of movement as business requires. if yours does not it is your own misfortune. i think that's all." spurrier knew that the jaws of the trap were closing on him. he had been too hasty in his outburst and he turned toward the door, but as his hand fell on the bronze knob harrison spoke again. "think it over, spurrier. i can--and will ruin you--unless you yield. it is no time for maudlin sentiment, but until five-thirty this afternoon, i shall not consider your answer final. up to that hour you may reconsider it, if you wish." "i will notify you at five," responded the lieutenant as he let himself out and closed the door behind him. that day the opportunity hound spent in an agony of conflicting emotions. that the other held a bolt of destruction and was in the mood to launch it he did not pretend to doubt. if it were launched even the land upon which his cottage stood would no longer be his own. he must either return to glory empty-handed and bankrupt, or strain with a new tax, the confidence he had asked of her, with the pledge that he would return soon and for good. but if, even at the cost of humbled pride and glory's hurt, he maintained his business relations, the path to eventual success remained open. as long as the cards were being shuffled chance beckoned and at five o'clock spurrier went into a cigar-store booth and called a downtown telephone number. "you hold the whip hand, sir," he announced curtly when a secretary had put harrison on the wire. "when do i report for final instructions?" "come to my house this evening," ordered the master. most of the hours of that evening, except the two in harrison's study, spurrier spent in writing to glory, tearing up letter after letter while the nervous moisture bedewed his brow. it was so impossible to give her any true or comprehensive explanation of the pressing weight of compulsion. his messages must have the limp of unreason. he was crossing the ocean without her and she would read into it a sort of abandonment that would hurt and wound her. he had taxed everything else in life, and now he was overtaxing her loyalty. yet he believed that if in his depleted treasury of life there was one thing left upon which he could draw prodigally and with faith, it was that love; a love that would stand staunch though he were forced to hurt it once again. so spurrier sailed and, having arrived on european soil, took up the work that threw him into relations with men of large caliber in capel court and threadneedle street. his mission carried him to the continent as well; from paris to brussels and from brussels to hamburg and berlin, where the quaint customs of the kentucky cumberlands seemed as remote as the life of mars--remote but, to spurrier, as alluring as the thought of salvation to a recluse who has foresworn the things of earth. in terms of dead reckoning, berlin is as far from hemlock mountain as hemlock mountain is from berlin, but in terms of human relations glory felt the distance as infinitely greater than did her husband. to him the atlantic was only an ocean three thousand miles wide; often crossed and discounted by familiarity. to her it was a measureless waste separating all she knew from another world. to him continental dimensions were reckoned in hours of commonplace railway journeying, but to her the "measured mile" was both lengthwise and perpendicular, and when she passed old friends she fancied that she detected in their glances either pity for her desertion or the smirk of "i-told-you-so" malevolence. it even crept to her ears that "some folks" spoke of her as "the widder spurrier" and that tassie plumford had chuckled, "i reckon he's done gone off an' left her fer good an' all this time. folks says he's fled away cl'ar acrost ther ocean-sea." glory told herself that she had promised faith and that she was in no danger of faltering, but as the weeks lengthened into months and the months followed each other, her waiting became bitter. in berlin john spurrier passed as a british subject, bearing british passports. that had been part of the careful plan to prevent discovery of what american interests he represented and it had proven effective. he had almost accomplished the difficult task of self-redemption, set him by the man whose confidence he had strained. then came the bolt out of heaven. the inconceivable suddenness of the war cloud belched and broke, but he remained confident that he would have a chance to finish up before the paralysis cramped bourse and exchange. england would not come in, and he, the seeming british subject, would have safe conduct out of germany. now he must get back. this would mean the soaring of oil prices, and along new lines the battle must be pitched back there at home, before it was too late. so spurrier finished his packing. he was going out onto the streets to watch the upflame of the war spirit and to make railway reservations. there was a knock at the door and the man opened it. stiffly erect, stood a squad of military police and stiffly their lieutenant saluted. "you are herr john spurrier?" he inquired. the man nodded. "it is, perhaps, in the nature of a formality, which you will be able to arrange," said the officer. "but i am directed to place you under arrest. england is in the war. you are said to be a former soldier." chapter xx over the ragged lands that lay on the "nigh side" of hemlock mountain breathed a spirit of excitement and mighty hope. it had been two years since john spurrier had left the field he had planned to develop, and in those years had come the transition of rebirth. along muddy streets the hogs still wallowed, but now they were deeply rutted by the teaming of ponderous oil gear, and one saw young men in pith helmets and pig-skin puttees; keen-faced engineers and oil prospectors drawn in by the challenge of wealth from the far trails of mexico and the west. one heard the jargon of that single business and the new vocabulary of its devotees. "wild-catters" following surface indications or hunches were testing and well-driving. gushers rewarded some and "dry holes" and "dusters" disappointed others. into the mediæval life of hills that had stood age-long unaltered and aloof came the infusion of hot-blooded enterprise, the eager questing after quick and miraculous wealth. in lexington and winchester oil exchanges carried the activity of small bourses. in newspapers a new form of advertisement proclaimed itself. oil was king. oil and its by-product, gasoline, that the armies needed and that the thousands of engines on the earth and in the air so greedily devoured. but over on the far side of the ridge men only fretted and chafed as yet. they had the oil under their feet, but for it there was no outlet. like a land without a seaport, they looked over at neighbors growing rich while they themselves still "hurted fer needcessities." american oil and gas had locked them in while it milked the other cow. it had its needed charters for piping both fields, but a man who was either dead or somewhere across the world held the way barred in a stalemate of controlled rights of way. glory thought less about the wonderful things that were going forward than did others about her, because she had a broken heart. no letters came from spurrier, and the faith that she struggled to hold high like a banner nailed to the masthead of her life, hung drooping. in the end her colors had been struck. if john spurrier returned in search of her now she would go into hiding from him, but it was most unlikely that he would return. he had married her on impulse and under a pressure of excitement. he had loved her passionately--but not with a strong enough fidelity to hold him true--and now she believed he had turned back again to his old idols. she was repudiated, and she ought to hate him with the bitterness of her mountain blood, yet in her heart's core, though she would never forgive him and never return to him, she knew that she still loved him and would always love him. she no longer feared that she would have hampered him in the society of his more finished world. she had visited helen merriwell and had come to know that other world for herself. she found that the gentle blood in her veins could claim its own rights and respond graciously. hers had been a submerged aristocracy, but it had come out of its chrysalis, bright-winged. then one day something happened that turned glory's little personal world upside down and brought a readjustment of all its ideas. sim colby owned a little patch of land beside his homestead place, over cross the mountain, and he was among those who became rich. he was not so rich as local repute declared him, but rich enough to set stirring the avarice of an erstwhile friend, who owned no land at all. so ex-private severance came over to the deserter's house with a scheme conceived in envy and born of greed. he was bent on blackmail. when he first arrived, the talk ran along general lines, because "blind joe," the fiddler, was at the house, and the real object of the visit was confidential. blind joe had also been an oil beneficiary, and he and sim colby had become partners in a fashion. during that relationship blind joe had told sim some things that he told few others. but when joe left and the pipes were lighted severance settled himself in a back-tilted chair and gazed reflectively at the crest of the timber line. "you an' me's been partners for a right long spell, bud grant, ain't we?" colby started. the use of that discarded name brought back the past with its ghosts of fear. he had almost forgotten that once he had been bud grant, and a deserter from the army. it was all part of a bygone and walled-in long ago. though they were quite alone he looked furtively about him and spoke in a lowered voice: "don't call me by thet name. thar ain't no man but you knows erbout--what i used to be." "thet's what i've been studyin' erbout. nobody else but me." severance sat silent for a while after that announcement, but there was a meaning smile on his lips, and colby paled a shade whiter. "_i_ reckon i kin trust ye; i always hev," he declared with a specious confidence. severance nodded. "i was on guard duty an' i suffered ye ter escape," he went reminiscently on. "i knows thet ye kilt captain comyn, an' i've done kept a close mouth all these years. now ye're a rich man an' i'm a pore one. hit looks like ter me ye owes me a debt an' ye'd ought ter do a leetle something for me." so that was it! colby knew that if he yielded at all, this man's avarice and his importunities would feed on themselves increasingly and endlessly. yet he dared not refuse, so he sought to temporize. "i reckon thar's right smart jestice in what ye says," he conceded, "but i don't know jest yit how i stands or how much money i'm wuth. ye'll have ter give me a leetle time ter find out." but when severance mounted his mule and rode away, sim colby gave him only a short start and then hurried on foot through the hill tangles by a short cut that would intercept his visitor's course. he knew that severance would have to ride through the same gorge in which sim had waylaid spurrier, and he meant to get there first, rifle-armed. it was sunset when, quite unsuspecting of danger, at least for the moment, severance turned his mule into the gorge. he was felicitating himself, since without an acre of land or a drop of oil he had "declared himself in" on another's wealth. his mule was a laggard in pace, and the rider did not urge him. he was content to amble. back of the rock walls of the great cleft, the woods lay hushed and dense in the closing shadows. an owl quavered softly, and the water among the ferns whispered. all else was quiet. but from just a little way back, a figure hitched forward as it lay belly-down in the "laurel hell." it sighted a rifle and pressed a finger. the mule snorted and stopped dead with a flirt of ears and tail and with no word, without even a groan, the rider toppled sidewise and slid from the saddle. the man back in the brush peered out. he noted how still the crumpled figure lay between the feet of the patient, mouse-colored beast, that switched at flies with its tail. it lay twisted almost double with one arm bent beneath its chest. so colby crept closer. it would be as well to haul the body back into the tangle where it would not be so soon discovered, and to start the beast along its way with a slap on the flank. but just as the assassin stooped, severance's right hand darted out and, as it did so, there was a quick glint of blue steel, and three instantly successive reports. colby staggered backward with a sense of betrayal and a horrible realization of physical pain. his rifle dropped from a shattered hand and jets of blood broke out through his rent clothing. each of those three pistol balls had taken effect at a range so close that he had been powder-burned. he knew he was mortally hurt, and that the other would soon be dead if he was not so already. colby began crawling. he was mangled as if by an explosion, but instinct drove him. twice he fainted and recovered dim consciousness and still dragged himself tediously along. * * * * * glory was alone in her house. her father, who had been living with her of late, had gone to the county seat overnight. the young woman sat in silence, and the sewing upon which she had been busied lay in her lap forgotten. in her eyes was the far-away look of one who eats out one's heart in thoughts that can neither be solved nor banished. then she heard a faint call. it was hardly more than a gasped whisper, and as she rose, startled, and went to the door she saw striving to reach it a shape of terrible human wreckage. sim colby's clothes were almost torn from him and blood, dried brown, and blood freshly flowing, mingled their ugly smears upon him. his lips were livid and his face gray. glory ran to him with a horrified scream. she did not yet recognize him, and he gasped out a plea for whisky. with the utmost effort of her young strength she got him in, and managed to straighten out the mutilated body with pillows under its head. but after a little the stimulant brought a slight reviving, and he talked in broken and disjointed phrases. "hit war severance," he mumbled. "i fought back--i reckon i kilt him, too." glory gazed in bewildered alarm about the house. brother bud hawkins was at uncle jimmy litchfield's place, and she must get medical help, though she feared that the wounded man would be dead before her return. when she came back with the preacher, who also "healed human bodies some," colby was still alive but near his passing. "ef thar's aught on your conscience, sim," said the old preacher gently, "hit's time ter make yore peace with almighty god, fer ye're goin' ter stand afore him in an hour more. air ye ready ter face him?" the dying man looked up, and above the weakness and the suffering that filled his eyes, showed a dominating expression of terror. if ever a human being needed to be shriven he thought it was himself. they had to bend close to catch his feeble syllables, as he said: "git paper--write this down." the preacher obeyed, kneeling on the floor, and though the words were few, their utterance required dragging minutes, punctuated with breaks of silence and gasping. "hit warn't john spurrier--thet kilt captain comyn back tha'r in the philippines.... i knows who done hit----" he broke off there, and the girl closed her hands over her face. "i sought ter kill spurrier--but i warn't with them--thet attackted him hyar--an' wounded ther woman." once more a long hiatus interrupted the recital and then the mangled creature went on: "hit was ther oil folks thet deevised thet murder scheme." the preacher was busily writing the record of this death-bed statement and glory stood pale and distraught. the words "oil people" were ringing in her ears. what connection could spurrier have had with them: what enmity could they have had for him? but out of the confusion of her thoughts another thing stood forth with the sudden glare of revelation. this man might die before he finished and if he could not tell all he knew, he must first tell that which would clear her husband's name. though that husband had turned his back on her, her duty to him in this matter must take precedence over the rest. "joe givins--" began colby once more in laborious syllables, but peremptorily the girl halted him. "never mind joe givins just now," she commanded with as sharp a finality as though to her had been delegated the responsibility of his judgment. "you said you knew who killed captain comyn. who was it?" the eyes in the wounded and stricken face gazed up at her in mute appeal as a sinner might look at a father confessor, pleading that he be spared the bitterest dregs of his admission. glory read that glance and her own delicate features hardened. she leaned forward. "i brought you in here and succored you," she asserted with a sternness which she could not have commanded in her own behalf. "you're going before almighty god--and unless you answer that question honestly--no prayers shall go with you for forgiveness." "glory!" the name broke in shocked horror from the bearded lips of the preacher. "glory, the mercy of god hain't ter be interfered with by mortals. ther man's dying!" upon him the young woman wheeled with blazing eyes. "god calls on his servants for justice to the living as well as mercy to the dying," she declared. "sim colby, who killed captain comyn?" "i done hit," came the unwillingly wrung confession. "my real name's grant.... severance aided me.... thet's why i sought to kill spurrier. i deemed he war a huntin' me down." "now," ordered the young woman, "what about joe givins?" again a long pause, then: "blind joe givins--only he ain't no blinder than me--read papers hyar--he diskivered thet spurrier was atter oil rights--he tipped off ther oil folks--he war their spy all ther time--shammin' ter be blind----" there the speaker struggled to breathe and let his head fall back with the utterance incomplete. five minutes later he was dead. "hit don't seem ter me," said brother hawkins a short time later, while glory still stood in dazed and trance-like wonderment, "es ef what he said kin be true. why ef hit be, john spurrier was aimin' ter plunder us hyar all ther time! he was counselin' us ter sell out--an' he was buyin'. i kain't believe that." but glory had drawn back to the wall of the room and into her eyes had come a new expression. the expression of one who must tear aside a veil and know the truth, and who dreads what that truth may be. she had said that justice, no less than mercy, was god's command laid upon mortals. she had, almost by the extremity of withholding from colby his hope of salvation until he spoke, won from him the declaration which would give back to john spurrier an unsmirched name. once spurrier had said that was his strongest wish in life. but now justice called again: this time justice to her own people and perhaps it meant the unveiling of duplicity in the man she had married. "brother hawkins," she declared in a low but fervent voice, "if it's not true, it's a slander that i can't let stand. if it _is_ true, i must undo the wrong he's sought to do--if i can. please wait." then she was tearing at the bit of paneling that gave access to the secret cabinet, and poring over papers from a broken and rifled strong box. there was the uncontrovertible record, clear writ, and at length her pale face came up resolutely. "i don't understand it all yet," she told the preacher. "but he was buying. he bought everything that's been sold this side the ridge. he was seeking to influence the legislature, too. i've got to talk to my father." * * * * * it was the next night, when old dyke cappeze had ridden back from the county seat, that he sat under the lamp in the room where sim colby had died, and on the table before him were spread the papers that had lain unread so long in john spurrier's secret cabinet. across from him sat glory with her fingers spasmodically clutched and her eyes riveted on his face as he read and studied the documents, which at first he had been loath to inspect without the permission of their owner. he had been convinced, however, when glory had told the story of the dying confession and had appealed to him for counsel. "by what you tell me," the old lawyer had summarized at the end of her recital, "you forced from this man his admission which cleared john spurrier of the charge that's been hanging over him. you set out to serve him and refused to be turned aside when colby balked.... but that confession didn't end there. it went on and besides clearing jack in that respect it seems to have involved him in another way. you can't use a part of a confession and discard the balance. perhaps we can serve him as well as others best by going into the whole of the affair." so now glory interrupted by no word or question, despite her anxiety to understand and her hoping against hope for a verdict which should leave john spurrier clean of record. but if she refrained from breaking in on the study that engrossed her father and wrinkled his parchment-like forehead, she could not help reading the expression of his eyes, the growing sternness and indignation of his stiffening lips--and of drawing the moral that when he spoke his words must be those of condemnation. the strident song of the katydids came in through the windows and the moon dropped behind the hill crests before dyke cappeze spoke, and brother hawkins, who was spending the night at that house, smoked alone on the porch, unwilling to intrude on the confidences that these two might wish to exchange. finally the lawyer folded the last paper and looked up. "do you want the whole truth, little gal?" he inquired bluntly. "how much do you still love this man?" glory flushed then paled. "i guess," she said and her words were very low and soft, "i'll love him so long as i live--though i hate myself for doing it. he wearied of me and forgot me--but i can't do likewise." then her chin came up and her voice rang with a quiet finality. "but i want the truth ... the whole truth without any softening." "then as i see it, it's simply this. a war was on between two groups of financiers. american oil and gas had held a monopoly and maintained a corrupt control in the legislature that stifled competition. that's why the other oil boom failed. the second group was trying to slip up on these corruptionists and gain the control by a campaign of surprise. jack spurrier appears to have been the ambassador of that second group--and he seems to have failed." the wife nodded. even yet she unconsciously held a brief for his defense. "so far as you've gone," she reminded her father, "you show him to have been what is commonly called a 'practical business man'--but no worse than the men he fought." cappeze bowed his head gravely and his next words came reluctantly. "so far, yes. of course he could have done none of the things he did had he not first won the confidence of those poor ignorant folk that are our neighbors and our friends. of course it was because they believed in him and followed his counsel that they sold their birthrights to men with whom he pretended to have no connection--and yet who took their orders from him." "then," glory started, halted and leaned forward with her hands against her breast and her utterance was the monotone of a voice forced to a hard question: "then what i feared was true? he lived among us and made friends of us--only to rob us?" "if by 'us' you mean the mountain people, i fear me that's precisely what he did. i can see no other explanation. which ever of these two groups won meant to exploit and plunder us." for a little she made no answer, but the delicate color of her cheeks was gone to an ivory whiteness and the violet eyes were hardening. "perhaps we oughtn't to judge him too harshly for these things," said the father comfortingly. "the scroll of my bitterness against him is already heavy enough and to spare. he has broken your heart and that's enough for me. as to the rest there are many so-called honorable gentlemen who are no more scrupulous. we demand clean conduct here in these hills," a fierce bitterness came into his words, "but then we are ignorant, backwoods folk! there are many intricate ins and outs to this business and i don't presume to speak with absolute conclusiveness yet." outside the katydids sang their prophecies of frost to come and an owl hooted. glory spurrier sat staring ahead of her and at last she said aloud, in that tone which one uses when a thought finds expression, unconscious that it has been vocal: "so he won our faith--with his clear eyes and his honest smile--only to swindle and rob us!" "my god, if i were a younger man," broke out the father passionately, rising from his chair and clenching the damaging papers in his talon-like fingers, "i'd learn the oil game. i'd take this information and use it against both their gangs--and i believe i could force them both to their knees." he paused and the momentary fire died out of his eyes. "i'm too old a dog for new tricks though," he added dejectedly, "and there's no one else to do it." "how could it be done?" demanded glory rousing herself from her trance. "between them they hold all the power, don't they?" "as far as i can make out," cappeze explained with the interest of the legalistic mind for tackling an abstruse problem, "spurrier had completed his arch as to one of his two purposes--all except its keystone. he had yet to gain a passage way through brother hawkins' land. with that he would have held the completed right-of-way--and it's the only one. the other gang of pirates hold the ability to get a charter but no right of way over which to use it. now the man who could deliver brother hawkins' concession would have a key. he could force spurrier's crowd to agree to almost anything, and with spurrier's crowd he could wring a compromise from the others. bud hawkins is like the delegate at a convention who can break a deadlock. god knows i'd love to tackle it--but it's too late for me." glory had come to her feet, and stood an incarnation of combat. "it's not too late for me," she said quietly. "perhaps i'm too crude to go into john spurrier's world of cultivated people but i'm shrewd enough to go into his world of business!" "you!" exclaimed the father in astonishment, then after a moment an eager light slowly dawned in his eyes and he broke out vehemently: "by god in heaven, girl, i believe you're the man for the job!" "call brother hawkins in," commanded glory. "we need his help." before he reached the door old cappeze turned on his heel. "glory," he said, "we've need to move out of this house and go back to my place. here we're dwelling under a dishonest roof." "i'm going to leave it," she responded quickly, "but i'm going farther away than that. i'm going to study oil and i'm going to do it in the bluegrass lowlands." chapter xxi john spurrier stepped from the train at carnettsville into a life that had been revolutionized. at last he had succeeded in leaving his german exile. his own country was in the war but he, with the equipment of a soldier, bore a dishonored name, which would bar him from a commission. here he found the development of his dreams realized, but by other hands than his own. above all, he must see glory. he had cabled her and written her, so she would be expecting him. now he gazed about streets through which teemed the new activity. here was the thing he had seen in his dreams when he stood on wooded hills and thought in the terms of the future. here it stood vivid and actual before the eyes that had visioned it. with a groan he turned into the road homeward on a hired horse. he still meant to fight, and unless the bud hawkins property had escaped him, he would still have to be accounted with--but great prizes had slipped away. at the gate of his house, his heart rose into his throat. the power of his emotion almost stifled him. never had his love for glory flickered. never had he thought or dreamed of anything else or any one else so dearly and so constantly as of her. he stood at the fence with half-closed eyes for a moment, steadying himself against the surges of up-welling emotion, then, raising his eyes, he saw that the windows and the door were nailed up. the chimney stood dead and smokeless. panic clutched at his throat as with a physical grasp. before him trooped a hundred associations unaccountably dear. they were all memories of little things, mostly foolish little things that went into the sacred intimacy of his life with glory. now there was no glory there. he rode at the best speed left in his tired horse over to old cappeze's house, and, as he dismounted, saw the lawyer, greatly aged and broken, standing in the door. one glance at that face confirmed all the fears with which he had been battling. it was a face as stern as those on the frieze of the prophets. in it there was no ghost of the old welcome, no hope of any relenting. this old man saw in him an enemy. "where is glory?" demanded spurrier as he hurried up to the doorstep, and the other looked accusingly back into his eyes and answered in cold and bitterly clipped syllables. "wherever she is, sir, it's her wish to be there alone." suddenly the old eyes flamed and the old voice rose thin and passionate. "if i burned in hell for it to the end of eternity, i would give you no other word of her." "she--she is not dead, then?" "no--but dead to you." "mr. cappeze," said spurrier steadily, "are you sure that i may not have explanations that may change her view of me?" "we know," said the lawyer in a voice out of which the passion had passed, but which had the dead quality of an opinion inflexibly solidified, "that since your marriage, you never made her the companion of any hour that was not a backwoods hour. we know that you never told us the truth about yourself or your enterprises--that you came to us as a friend, won our confidence, and sought to exploit us. your record is one of lies and unfaithfulness, and we have cast you out. that is her decision and with me her wish is sacred." the returned exile stood meeting the relentless eyes of the old man who had been his first friend in these hills and for a few moments he did not trust himself to speak. the shock of those shuttered windows and that blankly staring front at the house where he had looked for welcome; the collapse of all the dreams that had sustained him while a prisoner in an internment camp and a refugee hounded across the german border were visiting upon him a prostration that left him trembling and shaken. finally he commanded his voice. "to me, too, her wish is sacred--but not until i hear it from her own lips. she alone has the right to condemn me and not even she until i have made my plea to her. great god, man, my silence hasn't been voluntary. i've been cut off in a hun prison-camp. i've kept life in me only because i could dream of her and because though it was easier to die, i couldn't die without seeing her and explaining." "it was from her own lips that i took my orders," came the unmoved response. "those orders were that through me you should learn nothing. you had the friendship of every man here until you abused it--now i think you'll encounter no sympathy. i told you once how the wolf-bitch would feel toward the man who robbed her of her young. you chose to disregard my warning--and i'll ask you to leave my house." john spurrier bowed his head. he had lost her! if that were her final conclusion, he could hardly seek to dissuade her. at least he could lose the final happiness out of his life--from which so much else had already been lost--as a gentleman should lose. and he knew that however old cappeze might feel, he would not lie. if he said that was glory's deliberately formed decision, that statement must be accepted as true. "i have never loved any one else," said spurrier slowly. "i shall never love any one else. i have been faithful despite appearances. the rest of your charges are true, and i make no denial. i gambled about as fairly as most men gamble. that is all." a stiffening pride, made flinty by the old man's hostility, shut into silence some things that spurrier might have said. he scorned the seeming of whine that might have lain in explanations, even though the explanations should lighten the shadow of his old friend's disapproval. he offered no extenuation and breathed nothing of the changes that had been wrought in himself by the tedious alchemy of time and reflection. he had begun under the spur of greedy ambition, but changes had been wrought in him by glory's love. he was still ambitious, but in a different way. he wanted to salvage something for the equitable beneficiaries. he wanted to stand, not among the predatory millionaires, but to be his own man, with a clean name and solvent. before he could attain that condition he must render unto harrison the things that were harrison's and wipe out his own tremendous liabilities--but his heart was in the hills. john spurrier went slowly and heavy heartedly back to the house which he had refashioned for his bride; the house that had become to him a shrine to all the dear, lost things of life. the sun fell in mottled luminousness across its face of tempered gray and from the orchard where the lush grass grew knee-high came the cheery whistle of a bob-white. at the sound the man groaned with a wrench of his heart and throat, and his thoughts raced back to that day when the same note had come from the voices of hidden assassins and when glory had exposed her breast to rifle-fire to send out the pigeon with its call for help. the splendid oak that had shaded their stile had grown broader of girth and more majestic in the spread of its head-growth since he had stood here before, and in the flower beds, in which glory had delighted, a few forlorn survivors, sprung up as volunteers from neglected roots, struggled through a choke of dusty weeds. the man looked about the empty yard and his breath came like that of a torture victim on the rack. the desolation and ache of a life deprived of all that made it sweet struck in upon him with a blight beside which his prison loneliness had been nothing. "if she knew the whole truth--instead of only half the truth," he groaned, "she might forgive me." he ripped the padlock from the door and let himself in. he flung wide a shutter and let the afternoon sun flood the room, and once inside a score of little things worked the magic of memory upon him and tore afresh every wound that was festering. there hung the landscapes that he and she had loved and as he looked at them her voice seemed to sound again in his ears like forgotten music. from somewhere came the heavy fragrance of honeysuckle and old nights with her in the moonlight rushed back upon him. then he saw an apron on a peg--hanging limp and empty, and again he saw her in it. he went and opened a drawer in which his own clothes had been kept--and there neatly folded by her hand were things of his. john spurrier, whose iron nerve had once been café talk in the orient, sat down on a quilted bed and tearless sobs racked him. "no," he said to himself at last. "no, if she wants her freedom i can't pursue her. i've hurt her enough--and god knows i'm punished enough." unless he were tamely to surrender to the despair that beset him, john spurrier had one other thing to do before he left the hills. he must come to such an agreement with bud hawkins as would give him a right of way over that single tract and complete his chain of holdings. thus fortified the field beyond the ridge would be safe against invasion by his enemies and even the other field would have readier outlet to market by that route. in the hawkins property lay the keystone of the arch. with it the position was impregnable. without it all the rest fell apart like an inarticulated skeleton. it happened that spurrier met hawkins as he went away from his lonely house, and forcing his own miseries into the background, he sought to become the business man once more. he began with a frank statement of the facts and offered fair and substantial terms of trade. both because his affection for the old preacher would have tolerated nothing less and because it would have been folly now to play the cheaper game, he spoke in the terms of generosity. but to his surprise and discomfiture, brother hawkins shook a stubborn head. "thar ain't skeercely no power on 'arth, mr. spurrier," he declared, "thet could fo'ce me inter doin' no business with ye." "but, brother hawkins," argued the opportunity hound, "you are cutting your own throat. you and i standing together are invincible. separate, we are lost. i'm almost willing to let you name the terms of agreement--to write the contract for yourself." "i've done been pore a right long while already," the preacher reminded him as his eyes kindled with the zealot's fire. "long afore my day jesus christ was pore an' ther apostle paul, an' other righteous men. i ain't skeered ter go on in likewise ter what i've always done." he paused and laid a kindly hand on the shoulder of the man who offered him wealth. "i ain't seekin' ter fault ye unduly, john spurrier. mebby ye've done follered yore lights--but we don't see with no common eye, ner no mutual disc'arnment. ye've done misled folk thet swore by ye, ef i sees hit a'right. now ye offers me wealth, much ther same as satan offered hit ter jesus on a high place, an' we kain't trade--no more then what they could trade." the old preacher's attitude held the trace of kindliness that sought to drape reproof in gentleness and to him, as had been impossible with cappeze, spurrier poured out his confidence. at the outset, he confessed, he had deliberately dedicated himself to the development of wealth for himself and his employers, with no thought of others. later, in a fight between wary capitalists where vigilance had to be met with vigilance, the seal of secrecy had been imperative. frankness with the mountain men would have been a warning to his enemies. now, however, his sense of responsibility was awake. now he wanted to win back his status of confidence in this land where he had known his only home. now what weight he had left to throw into the scales would be righteously thrown. even yet he must move with strict, guarded secrecy. but the old circuit rider shook his head. "hit's too late, now, ter rouse faith in me, john," he reiterated. "albeit i'd love ter credit ye, ef so-be i could. what's come ter pass kain't be washed out with words." he paused before he added the simple edict against which there was no arguing. "mebby i mout stand convinced even yit ef i didn't know thet ther devil was urgin' me on with prospects of riches." one thing remained to him; the pride that should stiffen him in the presence of his accusers and judges. when he went into the eclipse of ruin, at least he would go with unflinching gallantry. and it was in that mood that spurrier reached his club in new york and prepared himself for the ordeal of the next day's interview. he had wired harrison of his coming, but not of his hopelessness, and when his telephone jangled and he heard the voice of the financier, he recognized in it an undercurrent of exasperation, which carried omen of a difficult interview. "that you, spurrier? this is harrison. be at my office at eleven to-morrow morning. perhaps you can construe certain riddles." "of what nature, sir?" "of a nature that won't bear full discussion over the wire. we have had an anonymous letter from some mysterious person who claims to come with the situation in a sling. it may be a crank whom we'll have to throw out--or some one we dare not ignore. at all events, it's up to you to dispose of him. he's in your province. if you fail, we lose out and, as i said once before, you go to the scrap heap." spurrier hung up the phone and sat in a nerveless trepidation which was new and foreign to his nature. this interview of to-morrow morning would call for the tallest bluffing he had ever attempted, and the chances would, perhaps, turn on hair-trigger elements of personal force. he must depend on his coolness, audacity, and adroitness to win a decision, and, except by guesswork, he could not hope to formulate in advance the terrain of battle or the nature of counter-attack with which he must meet his adversary. that evening he strolled along broadway and found himself yielding to a dangerous and whimsical mood. he wondered how many other men outwardly as self-assured and prosperous as himself were covertly confessing suicide as one of to-morrow's probabilities. over longacre square the incandescent billboards flamed and flared. the darning-wool kitten disported itself with mechanical abandon. the woman who advertised a well-known corset and the man who exploited a brand of underwear brilliantly made and unmade their toilets far above the sidewalk level. motors shrieked and droned and crowds drifted. before a moving-picture theater, his introspective eye was momentarily challenged by a gaudy three-sheet. the poster proclaimed a popular screen star in a "fight fuller of punch than that of 'the wreckers.'" what caused spurrier to pause was the composition of the picture--and the mental comparison which it evoked. a man crouched behind a heavy table, overthrown for a barricade--as he had once done. fallen enemies lay on the floor of a crude western cabin. others still stood, and fought with flashing guns and faces "registering" desperation, frenzy, and maniac fury. the hero only, though alone and outnumbered, was grimly calm. the stress of that inferno had not interfered with the theatric pose of head and shoulders--the grace and effect of gesture that was conveyed in the two hands wielding two smoking pistols. spurrier smiled. it occurred to him that had a director stood by while he himself had knelt behind a table he would have bawled out many amendments which fact had overlooked. apparently he and his attackers had, by these exacting standards of art, missed the drama of the situation. over him swept a fresh flood of memory, and it brought a cold and nervous dampness to his temples. again he saw glory rising at the broken window with a pigeon to release--and a life to sacrifice, if need be. on her face had been no theatric expression which would have warranted a close-up. spurrier hastened on, turning into a side street where he could put the glare at his back and find a more mercifully dark way. he was seeing, instead of dark house fronts, the tops of pine trees etched against an afterglow, and glory standing silhouetted against a hilltop. above the grind of the elevated and the traffic, he was hearing her voice in thrushlike song, happy because he loved her. the agony of loss overwhelmed him, and he actually longed, as for a better thing, for that moment to come back when behind an overturned table he had endured the suspense which death had promised to end in an instant filled and paid for with revenge. then through his disturbed brain once more flashed lines of verse: "i was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, the best and the last! i should hate that death bandaged my eyes and forebore, and bade me creep past." at all events he would, in the figurative sense, die fighting to-morrow. he knew his mistakes now. if he lived on he hoped to atone for them, but if he died he would go out without a whine. and if he must die, there was one way that seemed preferable to others. the army would have none of him, as an officer, because he stood besmirched of honor. but he knew the stern temper of the mountaineers. they would rise in unanimous response to the call of arms. he could go with them, not with any insignia on his collar, but marching shoulder against shoulder into that red hell of flanders and france, where a man might baptize himself, shrive himself, and die. and in dying they would leave a record behind them! chapter xxii down along the creekbeds back of hemlock mountain young jimmy litchfield, a son of old uncle jimmy, had been teaming with a well-boring outfit and his wagon had bogged down in deep mud. he had failed to extricate himself so he tramped three hard, steep miles and telephoned for an extra team. while he awaited deliverance he found himself irked and, to while away the time, set his drill down haphazard and began to bore. it would be some hours before help arrived, and when he had worked a while he had forgotten all about help. his drill had struck through soft gravel to an oil pool lying close to the surface, and the black tide gushed crazily. young jimmy sat back watching the dark jet that he had no means of stemming or containing, and through his simple soul flowed all the intoxication of triumph. he was the discoverer of a new--and palpably a rich field! hereafter oil men would speak of the snake creek field as copper men spoke of anaconda or gold men of the yukon. and that night word went by wire to the opportunity hound who had just gone east, that the "fur" side was to the "nigh" side as gold is to silver. * * * * * "what do you make of it?" demanded harrison, when spurrier, secure in his seeming of undaunted assurance, arrived at his office and the response came smilingly: "i think it means a bluff." "read that," snapped the financier as he flung a letter across his desk. spurrier took the sheet of paper and read in a hand, evidently disguised! you find yourself in a cul-de-sac. i hold the key to a way out. my terms are definite and determined in advance. i shall be at your office at noon, tuesday. we will do business at that time, or not at all. "i repeat," said spurrier, "that this seems to me a brass-bound bluff. i make only the request that i be permitted to talk with this brigand alone; to sound him out with no interference and to shape my policy by the circumstances. i'm not at all frightened." harrison answered snappily: "i agree to that--but if you fail you fail finally." so on tuesday forenoon spurrier sat cross-legged in harrison's office and their discussion had come to its end. now, he had only to await the unknown person who was to arrive at noon bearing alleged terms, a person who claimed to be armed for battle if battle were needed. at harrison's left and right sat his favored lieutenants, but spurrier himself occupied a chair a little bit apart, relegated to a zone of probation. then a rap sounded on the door, and spurrier smiled with a ghost of triumph as he noted that he alone of the small group did not start at the signal. for all their great caliber and standing, these men were keyed to expectancy and exasperated nervousness. the clerk who appeared made his announcement with the calculated evenness of routine: "a lady is waiting. she says her name doesn't matter. she has an appointment for twelve." "a lady!" exclaimed harrison in amazement. "my god, do we have to fight this thing out with a woman?" the tableau of astonishment held, until spurrier broke it: "what matter personalities to us?" he blandly inquired. "we are interested in facts." the chief lifted his hand and gave curt direction. "show her in." then through the door came a woman whose beauty would have arrested attention in any gathering. just now what these men, rising grudgingly from their chairs, noted first, was the self-possession, the poise, and the convincing evidence of good breeding and competency which characterized her. she was elegantly but plainly dressed, and her manner conveyed a self-assurance in nowise flustered by the prospect of impending storm. no one there, save spurrier, recognized her, for to martin harrison carrying the one disapproving impression of a mountain girl in patched gingham, the transformation was complete. and as for spurrier himself, after coming to his feet, he stood as a man might be expected to stand if a specter of death had suddenly materialized before him. for the one time in his life all the assumption of boldness, worn for other eyes, broke and fell away from him, leaving him nakedly and starkly dumbfounded. he presented the pale and distressed aspect of a whipped prize fighter, reeling groggily against the ropes, and defenseless against attack. it was a swift transformation from audacious boldness to something which seemed abject, or that at least was the aspect which presented itself to martin harrison and his aides, but back of it all lay reasons into which they could not see. it was no crumbling and softening of battle metal that had wrought this astonishing metamorphosis but a thing much nearer to the man's heart. at that moment there departed from his mind the whole urgent call of the duel between business enemies--and he saw only the woman for whom he had sought and whom he had not found. in the cumulative force and impact of their heart-breaking sequence there rushed back on him all the memories that had been haunting him, intensified to unspeakable degree at the sight of her face--and if he thought of the business awaiting them at all, it was only with a stabbing pain of realization that he had met glory again only in the guise of an enemy. harrison gave him one contemptuous glance and remarked brutally: "madam, this gentleman was to talk with you, but he seems scarcely able to conduct any affair of moment." glory was looking at the broken man, too, and into her splendid eyes stole a pity that had tenderness back of it. old memories came in potent waves, and she closed her lids for a moment as though against a painful glare, but with quick recovery she spoke. "it is imperative, gentlemen, that i have a few words first--and alone--with mr. spurrier." "if you insist, but----" harrison's shoulders stiffened. "but we do not guarantee that we shall abide by his declarations." "i do insist--and i think you will find that it is i who am in the position to dictate terms." harrison gave a sharply imperative gesture toward the door through which the others filed out, followed by the chief himself, leaving the two alone. then john spurrier rose, and supported himself by hands pressed upon the table top. he stood unsteadily at first and failed in his effort to speak. then, with difficulty, he straightened and swept his two hands out in a gesture of surrender. "i'm through," he said. "i thought there was still one fight left in me--but i can't fight you." she did not answer and, after a little, with a slight regaining of his self-command, he went on again: "glory! what a name and what a fulfillment! you have always been glory to me." out of his eyes slowly went the apathy of despair and another look of even stronger feeling preëmpted its place: a look of worship and adoration. "i didn't know," admitted glory softly, "that i was to meet you here. i didn't know that the fight was to be between us." "you have ruined me," he answered. "i'm a sinking ship now, and those rats out there will leave me--but it's worth ruin to see you again. i want you to take this message with you and remember it. all my life i've gambled hard and fought hard. now i fail hard. i lost you and deserved to lose you, but i've always loved you and always shall." her eyes grew stern, repressing the tenderness and pity that sought to hold them soft. "you abandoned me," she said. "you sought to plunder my people. i took up their fight, and i shall win it." spurrier came a step toward her and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender, but he had recovered from the shock that had so unnerved him a few minutes ago and there was now a certain dignity in his acceptance of defeat. "i break my sword across my knee," he declared, "and since i must do it, i'm glad you are the victor. i won't ask for mercy even from you--but when you say i abandoned you, you are grievously wrong. "when you say i sought to plunder your people, you speak the truth about me--as i was before i came to love you. from that time on i sought to serve your people." "sought to serve them?" she repeated in perplexity, "the record shows nothing of that." "and since the record doesn't," he answered steadily, "any assertions and protestations would be without proof. i've told you, because my heart compelled me. i won't try to convince you. at all events, since i failed, my motives don't matter." "your motives are everything. i took up the fight," she said, "because i thought a spurrier had wronged them. i wanted a spurrier to make restitution." "at first i saw only the game, dear heart," he confessed, "never the unfairness. i'm ready to pay the price. ruin me--but in god's name, believe that i love you." her hand came out waveringly at that, and for a moment rested on his shoulder with a little gesture of tenderness. "i thought i hated you," she said. "i tried to hate you. i've dedicated myself to my people and their rights--but if you trust me enough, call them in and let me talk with them." "trust you enough!" he exclaimed passionately, then he caught her to him, and, when he let her go, he stood again transformed and revivified into the man he had seemed before she appeared in the doorway. it was as though the touch of her lips had given him the fire from which he rose phoenixlike. with an unhesitant step he went to the door and opened it, and the men who had gone out trooped back and ranged themselves again about the table. "mr. spurrier did all in your interests that a man could do," said glory. "he failed to secure your charter and he failed to secure the one tract that serves as the key. i am a mountain woman seeking only to protect my people. i hold that tract as trustee for bud hawkins. i mean to do business, but only at a fair price. it's for you to determine whether i deal with you or your competitors." a look of consternation spread over the faces of the lesser men, but harrison inquired with a grim smile: "madam, haven't i seen you somewhere before to-day?" "once before--down in the hills." "then you are this man's wife! was this dramatic incident prearranged between you?" she raised an imperative hand, and her voice admitted no question of sincerity. "make no such mistake. mr. spurrier knew nothing of this. he was loyal enough--to you. from him i never even learned the nature of his business. without his knowledge _i_ was loyal to my people." then for ten minutes she talked clearly, forcefully, and with the ring of indubitable sincerity giving fire to voice and manner. she told of the fight she and her father had made to keep heart in mountain folk, enraged by what they believed to be the betrayal by a man they had trusted and attacked by every means of coercion at the disposal of american oil and gas. she told of small local reservoirs, mysteriously burned by unknown incendiaries; of neighborhood pipe lines cut until they spilled out their wealth again into the earth; of how she herself had walked these lines at night, watching against sabotage. as she talked with simple directness and without self-vaunting, they saw her growing in the trust of these men whose wrath had been, in the words of old cappeze, "like that of the wolf-bitch robbed a second time of her whelps." they recognized the faith that had commissioned her to speak as trustee, and to act with carte-blanche powers. harrison and his subordinates were not susceptible men, easily swayed by a dramatic circumstance, so they cross-examined and heckled her with shrewd and tripping inquiries, until she reminded them that she had not come as a supplicant, but to lay before them terms, which they would, at their peril, decline to accept. the realization was strong in them that she had spoken only the truth when she declared that she held the key. when they were convinced that she realized, in full, the strength of her position, they had no wish to antagonize longer. the group of financiers drew apart, but after a brief consultation harrison came forward and offered his hand. "mrs. spurrier," he announced crisply, "we have gone too far to draw back. after all, i think you come rather as a rescue party than an attacker. spurrier, you have married a damned brilliant woman." glory accepted the extended hand of peace, and harrison, with a jerk of his head to the door, led his followers out, leaving them alone again. then glory held out her arms, and into the bright depths of her eyes flashed the old bewitching merriment. "thar's a lavish of things i needs ter know, jack," she said. "you've got to l'arn 'em all ter me." "i come now, not as teacher but as pupil, dear heart," he declared, "and i come humbly." then her face grew serious and her voice vibrant with tenderness. "i have another gift for you, jack, besides myself, i can give you back an untarnished name." the end * * * * * transcribers note typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are listed below. hyphenation standardized. other archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation is preserved, including the author's use of eying and eyeing, quizote, otello, and langour. passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. transcriber changes the following changes were made to the original text: page : was sterterously (he sat there breathing =stertorously= while the untended fire died away) page : was plausiblity (one explanation only presented itself with any color of =plausibility=) page : was mistly (there was a dreamy violet where it merged =mistily= with the skyline ridges) page : was there ("it is well established by the evidence befo' =ther= co'te") page : was impusively (the girl broke out =impulsively=) page : removed extra quote (still spurrier cursed himself for a careless =fool=) page : was it's (you'll recall that =its= longer name is _datura stramonium_) page : was inperceptible (pair of shoulders that hunched slowly forward with almost =imperceptible= movement) page : guessed at missing text (the latter inquired gravely: ="did they play one= of them royalty games") page : was single quote (i ain't playin' no more of them royalty =games"=) page : was pacink ("before god," cried harrison, =pacing= his floor like a lion) page : was personalties ("what matter =personalities= to us?") [illustration: "'warn't you-uns apologizin' ter me fur not bein' a nephew?'"] the phantoms of the foot-bridge and other stories by charles egbert craddock author of "in the 'stranger people's' country" etc. illustrated new york harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by harper & brothers _all rights reserved._ contents the phantoms of the foot-bridge his "day in court" 'way down in lonesome cove the moonshiners at hoho-hebee falls the riddle of the rocks illustrations "'warn't you-uns apologizin' ter me fur not bein' a nephew?'" the phantom of the foot-bridge old joel quimbey "'why'n't ye gin dad them messages?'" "she flung her apron over her head" "he stole noiselessly in the soft snow" old quimbey and his grandson "yet this was christmas eve" "he had had an active day, inducing a keen thirst" "'look out! somebody's thar!'" "she smiled upon the baby" the blacksmith's shop "the tables of the law" "'what word did he send ter--_me_?'" the phantoms of the foot-bridge across the narrow gorge the little foot-bridge stretched--a brace of logs, the upper surface hewn, and a slight hand-rail formed of a cedar pole. a flimsy structure, one might think, looking down at the dark and rocky depths beneath, through which flowed the mountain stream, swift and strong, but it was doubtless substantial enough for all ordinary usage, and certainly sufficient for the imponderable and elusive travellers who by common report frequented it. "we ain't likely ter meet nobody. few folks kem this way nowadays, 'thout it air jes' ter ford the creek down along hyar a piece, sence harnts an' sech onlikely critters hev been viewed a-crossin' the foot-bredge. an' it hev got the name o' bein' toler'ble onlucky, too," said roxby. his interlocutor drew back slightly. he had his own reasons to recoil from the subject of death. for him it was invested with a more immediate terror than is usual to many of the living, with that flattering persuasion of immortality in every strong pulsation repudiating all possibility of cessation. then, lifting his gloomy, long-lashed eyes to the bridge far up the stream, he asked, "whose 'harnts'?" his voice had a low, repressed cadence, as of one who speaks seldom, grave, even melancholy, and little indicative of the averse interest that had kindled in his sombre eyes. in comparison the drawl of the mountaineer, who had found him heavy company by the way, seemed imbued with an abnormal vivacity, and keyed a tone or two higher than was its wont. "thar ain't a few," he replied, with a sudden glow of the pride of the cicerone. "thar's a graveyard t'other side o' the gorge, an' not more than a haffen-mile off, an' a cornsider'ble passel o' folks hev been buried thar off an' on, an' the foot-bredge ain't in nowise ill-convenient ter them." thus demonstrating the spectral resources of the locality, he rode his horse well into the stream as he spoke, and dropped the reins that the animal's impatient lips might reach the water. he sat facing the foot-bridge, flecked with the alternate shifting of the sunshine and the shadows of the tremulous firs that grew on either side of the high banks on the ever-ascending slope, thus arching both above and below the haunted bridge. his companion had joined him in the centre of the stream; but while the horses drank, the stranger's eyes were persistently bent on the concentric circles of the water that the movement of the animals had set astir in the current, as if he feared that too close or curious a gaze might discern some pilgrim, whom he cared not to see, traversing that shadowy quivering foot-bridge. he was mounted on a strong, handsome chestnut, as marked a contrast to his guide's lank and trace-galled sorrel as were the two riders. a slender gloved hand had fallen with the reins to the pommel of the saddle. his soft felt hat, like a sombrero, shadowed his clear-cut face. he was carefully shaven, save for a long drooping dark mustache and imperial. his suit of dark cloth was much concealed by a black cloak, one end of which thrown back across his shoulder showed a bright blue lining, the color giving a sudden heightening touch to his attire, as if he were "in costume." it was a fleeting fashion of the day, but it added a certain picturesqueness to a horseman, and seemed far enough from the times that produced the square-tailed frock-coat which the mountaineer wore, constructed of brown jeans, the skirts of which stood stiffly out on each side of the saddle, and gave him, with his broad-brimmed hat, a certain quakerish aspect. "i dun'no' why folks be so 'feared of 'em," roxby remarked, speculatively. "the dead ain't so oncommon, nohow. them ez hev been in the war, like you an' me done, oughter be in an' 'bout used ter corpses--though i never seen none o' 'em afoot agin. lookin' at a smit field o' battle, arter the rage is jes' passed, oughter gin a body a realizin' sense how easy the sperit kin flee, an' what pore vessels fur holdin' the spark o' life human clay be." simeon roxby had a keen, not unkindly face, and he had that look of extreme intelligence which is entirely distinct from intellectuality, and which one sometimes sees in a minor degree in a very clever dog or a fine horse. one might rely on him to understand instinctively everything one might say to him, even in its subtler æsthetic values, although he had consciously learned little. he was of the endowed natures to whom much is given, rather than of those who are set to acquire. he had many lines in his face--even his simple life had gone hard with him, its sorrows unassuaged by its simplicity. his hair was grizzled, and hung long and straight on his collar. he wore a grizzled beard cut broad and short. his boots had big spurs, although the lank old sorrel had never felt them. he sat his horse like the cavalryman he had been for four years of hard riding and raiding, but his face had a certain gentleness that accented the quaker-like suggestion of his garb, a look of communing with the higher things. "i never blamed 'em," he went on, evidently reverting to the spectres of the bridge--"i never blamed 'em for comin' back wunst in a while. it 'pears ter me 'twould take me a long time ter git familiar with heaven, an' sociable with them ez hev gone before. an', my lord, jes' think what the good green yearth is! leastwise the mountings. i ain't settin' store on the valley lands i seen whenst i went ter the wars. i kin remember yit what them streets in the valley towns smelt like." he lifted his head, drawing a long breath to inhale the exquisite fragrance of the fir, the freshness of the pellucid water, the aroma of the autumn wind, blowing through the sere leaves still clinging red and yellow to the boughs of the forest. "naw, i ain't blamin' 'em, though i don't hanker ter view 'em," he resumed. "one of 'em i wouldn't be afeard of, though. i feel mighty sorry fur her. the old folks used ter tell about her. a young 'oman she war, a-crossin' this bredge with her child in her arms. she war young, an' mus' have been keerless, i reckon; though ez 'twar her fust baby, she moughtn't hev been practised in holdin' it an' sech, an' somehows it slipped through her arms an' fell inter the ruver, an' war killed in a minit, dashin' agin the rocks. she jes' stood fur a second a-screamin' like a wild painter, an' jumped off'n the bredge arter it. she got it agin; for when they dragged her body out'n the ruver she hed it in her arms too tight fur even death ter onloose. an' thar they air together in the buryin'-ground." he gave a nod toward the slope of the mountain that intercepted the melancholy view of the graveyard. "got it yit!" he continued; "bekase" (he lowered his voice) "on windy nights, whenst the moon is on the wane, she is viewed kerryin' the baby along the bredge--kerryin' it clear over, _safe an' sound_, like she thought she oughter done, i reckon, in that one minute, whilst she stood an' screamed an' surveyed what she hed done. that child would hev been nigh ter my age ef he hed lived." only the sunbeams wavered athwart the bridge now as the firs swayed above, giving glimpses of the sky, and their fibrous shadows flickered back and forth. the wild mountain stream flashed white between the brown bowlders, and plunged down the gorge in a succession of cascades, each seeming more transparently green and amber and brown than the other. the chestnut horse gazed meditatively at these limpid out-gushings, having drunk his fill; then thought better of his moderation, and once more thrust his head down to the water. the hand of his rider, which had made a motion to gather up the reins, dropped leniently on his neck, as simeon roxby spoke again: "several--several others hev been viewed, actin' accordin' ter thar motions in life. now thar war a peddler--some say he slipped one icy evenin', 'bout dusk in winter--some say evil ones waylaid him fur his gear an' his goods in his pack, but the settlemint mostly believes he war alone whenst he fell. his pack 'pears ter be full still, they say--but ye air 'bleeged ter know he hev hed ter set that pack down fur good 'fore this time. we kin take nuthin' out'n this world, no matter what kind o' a line o' goods we kerry in life. heaven's no place fur tradin', i understan', an' i _do_ wonder sometimes how in the worl' them merchants an' sech in the valley towns air goin' ter entertain tharse'fs in the happy land o'canaan. it's goin' ter be sorter bleak fur them, sure's ye air born." with a look of freshened recollection, he suddenly drew a plug of tobacco from his pocket, and he talked on even as he gnawed a piece from it. "durin' the war a cavalry-man got shot out hyar whilst runnin' 'crost that thar foot-bredge. thar hed been a scrimmage an' his horse war kilt, an' he tuk ter the bresh on foot, hopin' ter hide in the laurel. but ez he war crossin' the foot-bredge some o' the pursuin' party war fordin' the ruver over thar, an' thinkin' he'd make out ter escape they fired on him, jes' ez the feller tried ter surrender. he turned this way an' flung up both arms--but thar's mighty leetle truce in a pistol-ball. that minute it tuk him right through the brain. seems toler'ble long range fur a pistol, don't it? he kin be viewed now most enny moonlight night out hyar on the foot-bredge, throwin' up both hands in sign of surrender." the wild-geese were a-wing on the way southward. looking up to that narrow section of the blue sky which the incision of the gorge into the very depths of the woods made visible, he could see the tiny files deploying along the azure or the flecking cirrus, and hear the vague clangor of their leader's cry. he lifted his head to mechanically follow their flight. then, as his eyes came back to earth, they rested again on the old bridge. "strange enough," he said, suddenly, "the skerriest tale i hev ever hearn 'bout that thar old bredge is one that my niece set a-goin'. she _seen_ the harnt _herself_, an' it shakes me wuss 'n the idee o' all the rest." his companion's gloomy gaze was lifted for a moment with an expression of inquiry from the slowly widening circles of the water about the horse's head as he drank. but roxby's eyes, with a certain gleam of excitement, a superstitious dilation, still dwelt upon the bridge at the end of the upward vista. he went on merely from the impetus of the subject. "yes, sir--she _seen_ it a-pacin' of its sorrowful way acrost that bredge, same ez the t'others of the percession o' harnts. 'twar my niece, mill'cent--brother's darter--by name, mill'cent roxby. waal, mill'cent an' a lot o' young fools o' her age--little over fryin' size--they 'tended camp-meetin' down hyar on tomahawk creek--'tain't so long ago--along with the old folks. an' 'bout twenty went huddled up tergether in a road-wagin. an', lo! the wagin it bruk down on the way home, an' what with proppin' it up on a crotch, they made out ter reach the cross-roads over yander at the notch, an' thar the sober old folks called a halt, an' hed the wagin mended at the blacksmith-shop. waal, it tuk some two hours, fur pete rodd ain't a-goin' ter hurry hisself--in my opinion the angel gabriel will hev ter blow his bugle oftener'n wunst at the last day 'fore pete rodd makes up his mind ter rise from the dead an' answer the roll-call--an' this hyar young lot sorter found it tiresome waitin' on thar elders' solemn company. the old folks, whilst waitin', set outside on the porches of the houses at the settlemint, an' repeated some o' the sermons they hed hearn at camp, an' more'n one raised a hyme chune. an' the young fry--they hed hed a steady diet o' sermons an' hyme chunes fur fower days--they tuk ter stragglin' off down the road, two an' two, like the same sorter idjits the world over, leavin' word with the old folks that the wagin would overtake 'em an' pick 'em up on the road when it passed. waal, they walked several mile, an' time they got ter the crest o' the hill over yander the moon hed riz, an' they could look down an' see the mist in the valley. the moon war bright in the buryin'-groun' when they passed it, an' the head-boards stood up white an' stiff, an' a light frost hed fell on the mounds, an' they showed plain, an' shone sorter lonesome an' cold. the young folks begun ter look behind em' fur the wagin. some said--i b'lieve 'twar em'ry keenan--they could read the names on the boards plain, 'twar so light, the moon bein' nigh the full: but em'ry never read nuthin' at night by the moon in his life; he ain't enny too capable o' wrastlin' with the alphabet with a strong daytime on his book ter light him ter knowledge. an' the shadows war black an' still, an' all the yearth looked ez ef nuthin' lived nor ever would agin, an' they hearn a wolf howl. waal, that disaccommodated the gals mightily, an' they hed a heap more interes' in that old wagin, all smellin' rank with wagin-grease an' tar, than they did in thar lovyers; an' they hed ruther hev hearn that old botch of a wheel that pete rodd hed set onto it comin' a-creakin' an' a-complainin' along the road than the sweetest words them boys war able ter make up or remember. so they stood thar in the road--a-stare-gazin' them head-boards, like they expected every grave ter open an' the reveilly ter sound--a-waitin' ter be overtook by the wagin, a-listenin', but hearin' nuthin' in the silence o' the frost--not a dead leaf a-twirlin', nor a frozen blade o' grass astir. an' then two or three o' the gals 'lowed they hed ruther walk back ter meet the wagin, an' whenst the boys 'lowed ter go on--nuthin' war likely ter ketch 'em--one of 'em bust out a-cryin'. waal, thar war the eend o' that much! so the gay party set out on the back track, a-keepin' step ter sobs an' sniffles, an' that's how kem _they_ seen no harnt. but mill'cent an' three or four o' the t'others 'lowed they'd go on. they warn't two mile from home, an' full five from the cross-roads. so em'ry keenan--he hev been waitin' on her sence the year one--so he put his skeer in his pocket an' kem along with her, a-shakin' in his shoes, i'll be bound! so down the hill in the frosty moonlight them few kem--purty nigh beat out, i reckon, mill'cent war, what with the sermonizin' an' the hyme-singin' an' hevin' ter look continual at the sheep's-eyes o' em'ry keenan--he wears my patience ter the bone! so she concluded ter take the short-cut. an' em'ry he agreed. so they tuk the lead, the rest a followin', an' kem down thar through all that black growth"--he lifted his arm and pointed at the great slope, dense with fir and pine and the heavy underbrush--"keepin' the bridle-path--easy enough even at night, fur the bresh is so thick they couldn't lose thar way. but the moonlight war mightily slivered up, fallin' through the needles of the pines an' the skeins of dead vines, an' looked bleached and onnatural, an' holped the dark mighty leetle. an' they seen the water a-shinin' an' a-plungin' down the gorge, an' the glistenin' of the frost on the floor o' the bredge. thar war a few icicles on the hand-rail, an' the branches o' the firs hung ez still ez death; only that cold, racin', shoutin', jouncin' water moved. jes ez they got toler'ble nigh the foot-bredge a sudden cloud kem over the face o' the sky. thar warn't no wind on the yearth, but up above the air war a-stirrin'. an' em'ry he 'lowed mill'cent shouldn't cross the foot-bredge whilst the light warn't clar--i wonder the critter hed that much sense! an' she jes' drapped down on that rock thar ter rest"--he pointed up the slope to a great fragment that had broken off from the ledges and lay near the bank: the bulk of the mass was overgrown with moss and lichen, but the jagged edges of the recent fracture gleamed white and crystalline among the brown and olive-green shadows about it. a tree was close beside it. "agin that thar pine trunk em'ry he stood an' leaned. the rest war behind, a-comin' down the hill. an' all of a suddenty a light fell on the furder eend o' the foot-bredge--a waverin' light, mighty white an' misty in the darksomeness. mill'cent 'lowed ez fust she thunk it war the moon. an' lookin' up, she seen the cloud; it held the moon close kivered. an' lookin' down, she seen the light war movin'--movin' from the furder eend o' the bredge, straight acrost it. sometimes a hand war held afore it, ez ef ter shield it from the draught, an' then mill'cent 'seen twar a candle, an' the white in the mistiness war a 'oman wearin' white an' carryin' it. lookin' ter right an' then ter lef' the 'oman kem, with now her right hand shieldin' the candle she held, an' now layin' it on the hand-rail. the candle shone on the water, fur it didn't flare, an' when the 'oman held her hand before it the light made a bright spot on the foot-bredge an' in the dark air about her, an' on the fir branches over her head. an' a thin mist seemed to hang about her white frock, but not over her face, fur when she reached the middle o' the foot-bredge she laid her hand agin on the rail, an' in the clear light o' the candle mill'cent seen the harnt's face. an' thar she beheld her own face; _her own face_ she looked upon ez she waited thar under the tree watchin' the foot-bredge; _her own face_ pale an' troubled; her own self dressed in white, crossin' the foot-bredge, an' lightin' her steps with a corpse's candle." he drew up the reins abruptly. he seemed in sudden haste to go. [illustration: the phantom of the foot-bridge] his companion looked with deepening interest at the bridge, although he followed his guide's surging pathway to the opposite bank. as the two dripping horses struggled up the steep incline he asked, "did the man with her see the manifestation also?" "he _'lows_ he did," responded roxby, equivocally. "but when mill'cent fust got so she could tell it, 'peared ter me ez em'ry keenan fund it ez much news ez the rest o' we-uns. mill'cent jes' drapped stone-dead, accordin' ter all accounts, an' he an' the t'other young folks flung water in her face till she kem out'n her faint; an' jes' then they hearn the wagin a-rattlin' along the road, an' they stopped it an' fetched her home in it. she never told the tale till she war home, an' it skeered me an' my mother powerful, fur mill'cent is all the kin we hev got. mill'cent is gran'daddy an' gran'mammy, sons an' daughters, uncles an' aunts, cousins, nieces, an' nephews, all in one. the only thing i ain't pervided with is a nephew-in-law, an' i don't need him. leastwise i ain't lookin' fur em'ry keenan jes' at present." the pace was brisker when the two horses, bending their strength sturdily to the task, had pressed up the massive slope from the deep cleft of the gorge. as the road curved about the outer verge of the mountain, the valley far beneath came into view, with intersecting valleys and transverse ranges, dense with the growths of primeval wildernesses, and rugged with the tilted strata of great upheavals, and with chasms cut in the solid rock by centuries of erosion, traces of some remote cataclysmal period, registering thus its throes and turmoils. the blue sky, seen beyond a gaunt profile of one of the farther summits that defined its craggy serrated edge against the ultimate distances of the western heavens, seemed of a singularly suave tint, incongruous with the savagery of the scene, which clouds and portents of storm might better have befitted. the little graveyard, which john dundas discerned with recognizing eyes, albeit they had never before rested upon it, was revealed suddenly, lying high on the opposite side of the gorge. no frost glimmered now on the lowly mounds; the flickering autumnal sunshine loitered unafraid among them, according to its languid wont for many a year. shadows of the gray unpainted head-boards lay on the withered grass, brown and crisp, with never a cicada left to break the deathlike silence. a tuft of red leaves, vagrant in the wind, had been caught on one of the primitive monuments, and swayed there with a decorative effect. the enclosure seemed, to unaccustomed eyes, of small compass, and few the denizens who had found shelter here and a resting-place, but it numbered all the dead of the country-side for many a mile and many a year, and somehow the loneliness was assuaged to a degree by the reflection that they had known each other in life, unlike the great herds of cities, and that it was a common fate which the neighbors, huddled together, encountered in company. it had no discordant effect in the pervasive sense of gloom, of mighty antagonistic forces with which the scene was replete; it fostered a realization of the pitiable minuteness and helplessness of human nature in the midst of the vastness of inanimate nature and the evidences of infinite lengths of forgotten time, of the long reaches of unimagined history, eventful, fateful, which the landscape at once suggested and revealed and concealed. like the sudden flippant clatter of castanets in the pause of some solemn funeral music was the impression given by the first glimpse along the winding woodland way of a great flimsy white building, with its many pillars, its piazzas, its "observatory," its band-stand, its garish intimations of the giddy, gay world of a summer hotel. but, alack! it, too, had its surfeit of woe. "the guerrillas an' bushwhackers tuk it out on the old hotel, sure!" observed sim roxby, by way of introduction. "thar warn't much fightin' hyar-abouts, an' few sure-enough soldiers ever kem along. but wunst in a while a band o' guerrillas went through like a suddint wind-storm, an' i tell ye they made things whurl while they war about it. they made a sorter barracks o' the old place. looks some like lightning hed struck it." he had reined up his horse about one hundred yards in front of the edifice, where the weed-grown gravelled drive--carefully tended ten years agone--had diverged from the straight avenue of poplars, sweeping in a circle around to the broad flight of steps. "though," he qualified abruptly, as if a sudden thought had struck him, "ef ye air countin' on buyin' it, a leetle money spent ter keerful purpose will go a long way toward makin' it ez good ez new." his companion did not reply, and for the first time roxby cast upon him a covert glance charged with the curiosity which would have been earlier and more easily aroused in another man by the manner of the stranger. a letter--infrequent missive in his experience--had come from an ancient companion-in-arms, his former colonel, requesting him in behalf of a friend of the old commander to repair to the railway station, thirty miles distant, to meet and guide this prospective purchaser of the old hotel to the site of the property. and now as roxby looked at him the suspicion which his kind heart had not been quick to entertain was seized upon by his alert brain. "the cunnel's been fooled somehows," he said to himself. for the look with which john dundas contemplated the place was not the gaze of him concerned with possible investment--with the problems of repair, the details of the glazier and the painter and the plasterer. the mind was evidently neither braced for resistance nor resigned to despair, as behooves one smitten by the foreknowledge of the certainty of the excess of the expenditures over the estimates. only with pensive, listless melancholy, void of any intention, his eyes traversed the long rows of open doors, riven by rude hands from their locks, swinging helplessly to and fro in the wind, and giving to the deserted and desolate old place a spurious air of motion and life. many of the shutters had been wrenched from their hinges, and lay rotting on the floors. the ball-room windows caught on their shattered glass the reflection of the clouds, and it seemed as if here and there a wan face looked through at the riders wending along the weed-grown path. where so many faces had been what wonder that a similitude should linger in the loneliness! the pallid face seemed to draw back as they glanced up while slowly pacing around the drive. a rabbit sitting motionless on the front piazza did not draw back, although observing them with sedate eyes as he poised himself upright on his haunches, with his listless fore-paws suspended in the air, and it occurred to dundas that he was probably unfamiliar with the presence of human beings, and had never heard the crack of a gun. a great swirl of swallows came soaring out of the big kitchen chimneys and circled in the sky, darting down again and again upward. through an open passage was a glimpse of a quadrangle, with its weed-grown spaces and litter of yellow leaves. a tawny streak, a red fox, sped through it as dundas looked. a half-moon, all a-tilt, hung above it. he saw the glimmer through the bare boughs of the leafless locust-trees here and there still standing, although outside on the lawn many a stump bore token how ruthlessly the bushwhackers had furnished their fires. "that thar moon's a-hangin' fur rain," said the mountaineer, commenting upon the aspect of the luminary, which he, too, had noticed as they passed. "i ain't s'prised none ef we hev fallin' weather agin 'fore day, an' the man--by name morgan holden--that hev charge o' the hotel property can't git back fur a week an' better." a vague wonder to find himself so suspicious flitted through his mind, with the thought that perhaps the colonel might have reckoned on this delay. "surely the ruvers down yander at knoxville mus' be a-boomin', with all this wet weather," he said to himself. then aloud: "morgan holden he went ter colbury ter 'tend ter some business in court, an' the ruvers hev riz so that, what with the bredges bein' washed away an' the fords so onsartain an' tricky, he'll stay till the ruver falls. he don't know ye war kemin', ye see. the mail-rider hev quit, 'count o' the rise in the ruver, an' thar's no way ter git word ter him. still, ef ye air minded ter wait, i'll be powerful obligated fur yer comp'ny down ter my house till the ruver falls an' holden he gits back." the stranger murmured his obligations, but his eyes dwelt lingeringly upon the old hotel, with its flapping doors and its shattered windows. through the recurrent vistas of these, placed opposite in the rooms, came again broken glimpses of the grassy space within the quadrangle, with its leafless locust-trees, first of all to yield their foliage to the autumn wind, where a tiny owl was shrilling stridulously under the lonely red sky and the melancholy moon. "hed ye 'lowed ter put up at the old hotel?" asked roxby, some inherent quickness supplying the lack of a definite answer. for the first time the stranger turned upon him a look more expressive than the casual fragmentary attention with which he had half heeded, half ignored his talk since their first encounter at the railway station. "a simple fellow, but good as gold," was the phrase with which simeon roxby had been commended as guide and in some sort guard. "not so simple, perhaps," the sophisticated man thought as their eyes met. not so simple but that the truth must serve. "the colonel suggested that it might be best," he replied, more alert to the present moment than his languid preoccupation had heretofore permitted. the answer was good as far as it went. a few days spent in the old hostelry certainly would serve well to acquaint the prospective purchaser with its actual condition and the measures and means needed for its repair; but as sim roxby stood there, with the cry of the owl shrilling in the desert air, the lonely red sky, the ominous tilted moon, the doors drearily flapping to and fro as the wind stole into the forlorn and empty place and sped back affrighted, he marvelled at the refuge contemplated. "i believe there is some of the furniture here yet. we could contrive to set up a bed from what is left. the colonel could make it all right with holden, and i could stay a day or two, as we originally planned." "ye-es. i don't mind holden: a man ain't much in charge of a place ez ain't got a lock or a key ter bless itself with, an' takes the owel an' the fox an' the gopher fur boarders; but, ennyhow, kem with me home ter supper. mill'cent will hev it ready by now ennyhows, an' ye need suthin' hearty an' hot ter stiffen ye up ter move inter sech quarters ez these." dundas hesitated, but the mountaineer had already taken assent for granted, and pushed his horse into a sharp trot. evidently a refusal was not in order. dundas pressed forward, and they rode together along the winding way past the ten-pin alley, its long low roof half hidden in the encroaching undergrowth springing up apace beneath the great trees; past the stables; past a line of summer cottages, strangely staring of aspect out of the yawning doors and windows, giving, instead of an impression of vacancy, a sense of covert watching, of secret occupancy. if one's glances were only quick enough, were there not faces pressed to those shattered panes--scarcely seen--swiftly withdrawn? he was in a desert; he had hardly been so utterly alone in all his life; yet he bore through the empty place a feeling of espionage, and ever and anon he glanced keenly at the overgrown lawns, with their deepening drifts of autumn leaves, at the staring windows and flaring doors, which emitted sometimes sudden creaking wails in the silence, as if he sought to assure himself of the vacancy of which his mind took cognizance and yet all his senses denied. little of his sentiment, although sedulously cloaked, was lost on sim roxby; and he was aware, too, in some subtle way, of the relief his guest experienced when they plunged into the darkening forest and left the forlorn place behind them. the clearing in which it was situated seemed an oasis of light in the desert of night in which the rest of the world lay. from the obscurity of the forest dundas saw, through the vistas of the giant trees, the clustering cottages, the great hotel, gables and chimneys and tower, stark and distinct as in some weird dream-light in the midst of the encircling gloom. the after-glow of sunset was still aflare on the western windows; the whole empty place was alight with a reminiscence of its old aspect--its old gay life. who knows what memories were a-stalk there--what semblance of former times? what might not the darkness foster, the impunity of desertion, the associations that inhabited the place with almost the strength of human occupancy itself? who knows--who knows? he remembered the scene afterward, the impression he received. and from this, he thought, arose his regret for his decision to take up here his abiding-place. the forest shut out the illumined landscape, and the night seemed indeed at hand; the gigantic boles of the trees loomed through the encompassing gloom, that was yet a semi-transparent medium, like some dark but clear fluid through which objects were dimly visible, albeit tinged with its own sombre hue. the lank, rawboned sorrel had set a sharp pace, to which the chestnut, after momentary lagging, as if weary with the day's travel, responded briskly. he had received in some way intimations that his companion's corn-crib was near at hand, and if he had not deduced from these premises the probability of sharing his fare, his mental processes served him quite as well as reason, and brought him to the same result. on and on they sped, neck and neck, through the darkening woods; fire flashed now and again from their iron-shod hoofs; often a splash and a shower of drops told of a swift dashing through the mud-holes that recent rains had fostered in the shallows. the dank odor of dripping boughs came on the clear air. once the chestnut shied from a sudden strange shining point springing up in the darkness close at hand, which the country-bred horse discriminated as fox-fire, and kept steadily on, unmindful of the rotting log where it glowed. far in advance, in the dank depths of the woods, a will-o'-the-wisp danced and flickered and lured the traveller's eye. the stranger was not sure of the different quality of another light, appearing down a vista as the road turned, until the sorrel, making a tremendous spurt, headed for it, uttering a joyous neigh at the sight. the deep-voiced barking of hounds rose melodiously on the silence, and as the horses burst out of the woods into a small clearing, dundas beheld in the brighter light a half-dozen of the animals nimbly afoot in the road, one springing over the fence, another in the act of climbing, his fore-paws on the topmost rail, his long neck stretched, and his head turning about in attitudes of observation. he evidently wished to assure himself whether the excitement of his friends was warranted by the facts before he troubled himself to vault over the fence. three or four still lingered near the door of a log-cabin, fawning about a girl who stood on the porch. her pose was alert, expectant; a fire in the dooryard, where the domestic manufacture of soap had been in progress, cast a red flare on the house, its appurtenances, the great dark forest looming all around, and, more than the glow of the hearth within, lighted up the central figure of the scene. she was tall, straight, and strong; a wealth of fair hair was clustered in a knot at the back of her head, and fleecy tendrils fell over her brow; on it was perched a soldier's cap; and certainly more gallant and fearless eyes had never looked out from under the straight, stiff brim. her chin, firm, round, dimpled, was uplifted as she raised her head, descrying the horsemen's approach. she wore a full dark-red skirt, a dark brown waist, and around her neck was twisted a gray cotton kerchief, faded to a pale ashen hue, the neutrality of which somehow aided the delicate brilliancy of the blended roseate and pearly tints of her face. was this the seer of ghosts--dundas marvelled--this the millicent whose pallid and troubled phantom already paced the foot-bridge? he did not realize that he had drawn up his horse suddenly at the sight of her, nor did he notice that his host had dismounted, until roxby was at the chestnut's head, ready to lead the animal to supper in the barn. his evident surprise, his preoccupation, were not lost upon roxby, however. his hand hesitated on the girth of the chestnut's saddle when he stood between the two horses in the barn. he had half intended to disregard the stranger's declination of his invitation, and stable the creature. then he shook his head slowly; the mystery that hung about the new-comer was not reassuring. "a heap o' wuthless cattle 'mongst them valley men," he said; for the war had been in some sort an education to his simplicity. "let him stay whar the cunnel expected him ter stay. i ain't wantin' no stranger a-hangin' round about mill'cent, nohow. em'ry keenan ain't a pattern o' perfection, but i be toler'ble well acquainted with the cut o' his foolishness, an' i know his daddy an' mammy, an' both sets o' gran'daddies an' gran'mammies, an' i could tell ye exac'ly which one the critter got his nose an' his mouth from, an' them lean sheep's-eyes o' his'n, an' nigh every tone o' his voice. em'ry never thunk afore ez i set store on bein' acquainted with him. he 'lowed i knowed him _too_ well." he laughed as he glanced through the open door into the darkening landscape. horizontal gray clouds were slipping fast across the pearly spaces of the sky. the yellow stubble gleamed among the brown earth of the farther field, still striped with its furrows. the black forest encircled the little cleared space, and a wind was astir among the tree-tops. a white star gleamed through the broken clapboards of the roof, the fire still flared under the soap-kettle in the dooryard, and the silence was suddenly smitten by a high cracked old voice, which told him that his mother had perceived the dismounted stranger at the gate, and was graciously welcoming him. she had come to the door, where the girl still stood, but half withdrawn in the shadow. dundas silently bowed as he passed her, following his aged hostess into the low room, all bedight with the firelight of a huge chimney-place, and comfortable with the realization of a journey's end. the wilderness might stretch its weary miles around, the weird wind wander in the solitudes, the star look coldly on unmoved by aught it beheld, the moon show sad portents, but at the door they all failed, for here waited rest and peace and human companionship and the sense of home. "take a cheer, stranger, an' make yerself at home. powerful glad ter see ye--war 'feard night would overtake ye. ye fund the water toler'ble high in all the creeks an' sech, i reckon, an' fords shifty an' onsartain. yes, sir. fall rains kem on earlier'n common, an' more'n we need. wisht we could divide it with that thar drought we had in the summer. craps war cut toler'ble short, sir--toler'ble short." mrs. roxby's spectacles beamed upon him with an expression of the utmost benignity as the firelight played on the lenses, but her eyes peering over them seemed endowed in some sort with independence of outlook. it was as if from behind some bland mask a critical observation was poised for unbiased judgment. he felt in some degree under surveillance. but when a light step heralded an approach he looked up, regardless of the betrayal of interest, and bent a steady gaze upon millicent as she paused in the doorway. and as she stood there, distinct in the firelight and outlined against the black background of the night, she seemed some modern half-military ideal of diana, with her two gaunt hounds beside her, the rest of the pack vaguely glimpsed at her heels outside, the perfect outline and chiselling of her features, her fine, strong, supple figure, the look of steady courage in her eyes, and the soldier's cap on her fair hair. her face so impressed itself upon his mind that he seemed to have seen her often. it was some resemblance to a picture of a vivandière, doubtless, in a foreign gallery--he could not say when or where; a remnant of a tourist's overcrowded impressions; a half-realized reminiscence, he thought, with an uneasy sense of recognition. "hello, mill'cent! home agin!" roxby cried, in cheery greeting as he entered at the back door opposite. "what sorter topknot is that ye got on?" he demanded, looking jocosely at her head-gear. the girl put up her hand with an expression of horror. a deep red flush dyed her cheek as she touched the cap. "i forgot 'twar thar," she murmured, contritely. then, with a sudden rush of anger as she tore it off: "'twar granny's fault. she axed me ter put it on, so ez ter see which one i looked most like." "stranger," quavered the old woman, with a painful break in her voice, "i los' fower sons in the war, an' mill'cent hev got the fambly favor." "ye _mought_ hev let me know ez i war a-perlitin' round in this hyar men's gear yit," the girl muttered, as she hung the cap on a prong of the deer antlers on which rested the rifle of the master of the house. roxby's face had clouded at the mention of the four sons who had gone out from the mountains never to return, leaving to their mother's aching heart only the vague comfort of an elusive resemblance in a girl's face; but as he noted millicent's pettish manner, and divined her mortification because of her unseemly head-gear in the stranger's presence, he addressed her again in that jocose tone without which he seldom spoke to her. "warn't you-uns apologizin' ter me t'other day fur not bein' a nephew 'stiddier a niece? looked sorter like a nephew ter-night." she shook her head, covered now only with its own charming tresses waving in thick undulations to the coil at the nape of her neck--a trifle dishevelled from the rude haste with which the cap had been torn off. roxby had seated himself, and with his elbows on his knees he looked up at her with a teasing jocularity, such as one might assume toward a child. "_ye war_," he declared, with affected solemnity--"ye war 'pologizin' fur not bein' a nephew, an' 'lowed ef ye war a nephew we could go a-huntin' tergether, an' ye could holp me in all my quar'ls an' fights. i been aging some lately, an' ef i war ter go ter the settlemint an' git inter a fight i mought not be able ter hold my own. think what 'twould be ter a pore old man ter hev a dutiful nephew step up an'"--he doubled his fists and squared off--"jes' let daylight through some o' them cusses. an' didn't _ye say_"--he dropped his belligerent attitude and pointed an insistent finger at her, as if to fix the matter in her recollection--"ef ye war a nephew 'stiddier a niece ye could fire a gun 'thout shettin' yer eyes? an' i told ye then ez that would mend yer aim mightily. i told ye that i'd be powerful mortified ef i hed a nephew ez hed ter shet his eyes ter keep the noise out'n his ears whenst he fired a rifle. the tale would go mighty hard with me at the settlemint." the girl's eyes glowed upon him with the fixity and the lustre of those of a child who is entertained and absorbed by an elder's jovial wiles. a flash of laughter broke over her face, and the low, gurgling, half-dreamy sound was pleasant to hear. she was evidently no more than a child to these bereft old people, and by them cherished as naught else on earth. "an' didn't _i_ tell _you-uns_," he went on, affecting to warm to the discussion, and in reality oblivious of the presence of the guest--"didn't i tell ye ez how ef ye war a nephew 'stiddier a niece ye wouldn't hev sech cattle ez em'ry keenan a-danglin' round underfoot, like a puppy ye can't gin away, an' that _won't_ git lost, an' ye ain't got the heart ter kill?" the girl's lip suddenly curled with scorn. "yer nephew would be obligated ter make a ch'ice fur marryin' 'mongst these hyar mounting gals--parmely lepstone, or belindy m'ria matthews, or one o' the windrow gals. waal, sir, i'd ruther be yer niece--even ef em'ry keenan _air_ like a puppy underfoot, that ye can't gin away, an' won't git lost, an' ye ain't got the heart ter kill." she laughed again, showing her white teeth. she evidently relished the description of the persistent adherence of poor emory keenan. "but which one o' these hyar gals would ye recommend ter yer nephew ter marry--ef ye hed a nephew?" she looked at him with flashing eyes, conscious of having propounded a poser. he hesitated for a moment. then--"i'm surrounded," he said, with a laugh. "ez i couldn't find a wife fur myself, i can't ondertake ter recommend one ter my nephew. mighty fine boy he'd hev been, an' saaft-spoken an' perlite ter aged men--not sassy an' makin' game o' old uncles like a niece. mighty fine boy!" "ye air welcome ter him," she said, with a simulation of scorn, as she turned away to the table. whether it were the military cap she had worn, or the fancied resemblance to the young soldiers, never to grow old, who had gone forth from this humble abode to return no more, there was still to the guest's mind the suggestion of the vivandière about her as she set the table and spread upon it the simple fare. to and from the fireplace she was followed by two or three of the younger dogs, their callowness expressed in their lack of manners and perfervid interest in the approaching meal. this induced their brief journeys back and forth, albeit embarrassed by their physical conformation, short turns on four legs not being apparently the easy thing it would seem from so much youthful suppleness. the dignity of the elder hounds did not suffer them to move, but they looked on from erect postures about the hearth with glistening eyes and slobbering jaws. ever and anon the deep blue eyes of millicent were lifted to the outer gloom, as if she took note of its sinister aspect. she showed scant interest in the stranger, whose gaze seldom left her as he sat beside the fire. he was a handsome man, his face and figure illumined by the firelight, and it might have been that he felt a certain pique, an unaccustomed slight, in that his presence was so indifferent an element in the estimation of any young and comely specimen of the feminine sex. certainly he had rarely encountered such absolute preoccupation as her smiling far-away look betokened as she went back and forth with her young canine friends at her heels, or stood at the table deftly slicing the salt-rising bread, the dogs poised skilfully upon their hind-legs to better view the appetizing performance; whenever she turned her face toward them they laid their heads languishingly askew, as if to remind her that supper could not be more fitly bestowed than on them. one, to steady himself, placed unobserved his fore-paw on the edge of the table, his well-padded toes leaving a vague imprint as of fingers upon the coarse white cloth; but john dundas was a sportsman, and could the better relax an exacting nicety where so pleasant-featured and affable a beggar was concerned. he forgot the turmoils of his own troubles as he gazed at millicent, the dreary aspect of the solitudes without, the exile from his accustomed sphere of culture and comfort, the poverty and coarseness of her surroundings. he was sorry that he had declined a longer lease of roxby's hospitality, and it was in his mind to reconsider when it should be again proffered. her attitude, her gesture, her face, her environment, all appealed to his sense of beauty, his interest, his curiosity, as little ever had done heretofore. slice after slice of the firm fragrant bread was deftly cut and laid on the plate, as again and again she lifted her eyes with a look that might seem to expect to rest on summer in the full flush of a june noontide without, rather than on the wan, wintry night sky and the plundered, quaking woods, while the robber wind sped on his raids hither and thither so swiftly that none might follow, so stealthily that none might hinder. a sudden radiance broke upon her face, a sudden shadow fell on the firelit floor, and there was entering at the doorway a tall, lithe young mountaineer, whose first glance, animated with a responsive brightness, was for the girl, but whose punctilious greeting was addressed to the old woman. "howdy, mis' roxby--howdy? air yer rheumatics mendin' enny?" he demanded, with the condolent suavity of the would-be son-in-law, or grandson-in-law, as the case may be. and he hung with a transfixed interest upon her reply, prolix and discursive according to the wont of those who cultivate "rheumatics," as if each separate twinge racked his own sympathetic and filial sensibilities. not until the tale was ended did he set his gun against the wall and advance to the seat which roxby had indicated with the end of the stick he was whittling. he observed the stranger with only slight interest, till dundas drew up his chair opposite at the table. there the light from the tallow dip, guttering in the centre, fell upon his handsome face and eyes, his carefully tended beard and hair, his immaculate cuffs and delicate hand, the seal-ring on his taper finger. "like a gal, by gum!" thought emory keenan. "rings on his fingers--yit six feet high!" he looked at his elders, marvelling that they so hospitably repressed the disgust which this effeminate adornment must occasion, forgetting that it was possible that they did not even observe it. in the gala-days of the old hotel, before the war, they had seen much "finicking finery" in garb and equipage and habits affected by the _jeunesse dorée_ who frequented the place in those halcyon times, and were accustomed to such details. it might be that they and millicent approved such flimsy daintiness. he began to fume inwardly with a sense of inferiority in her estimation. one of his fingers had been frosted last winter, and with the first twinge of cold weather it was beginning to look very red and sad and clumsy, as if it had just remembered its ancient woe; he glanced from it once more at the delicate ringed hand of the stranger. dundas was looking up with a slow, deferential, decorous smile that nevertheless lightened and transfigured his expression. it seemed somehow communicated to millicent's face as she looked down at him from beneath her white eyelids and long, thick, dark lashes, for she was standing beside him, handing him the plate of bread. then, still smiling, she passed noiselessly on to the others. emory was indeed clumsy, for he had stretched his hand downward to offer a morsel to a friend of his under the table--he was on terms of exceeding amity with the four-footed members of the house hold--and in his absorption not withdrawing it as swiftly as one accustomed to canine manners should do, he had his frosted finger well mumbled before he could, as it were, repossess himself of it. "i wonder what they charge fur iron over yander at the settlemint, em'ry?" observed sim roxby presently. "dun'no', sir," responded emory, glumly, his sullen black eyes full of smouldering fire--"hevin' no call ter know, ez i ain't no blacksmith." "i war jes' wonderin' ef tenpenny nails didn't cost toler'ble high ez reg'lar feed," observed roxby, gravely. but his mother laughed out with a gleeful cracked treble, always a ready sequence of her son's rustic sallies. "he got ye that time, em'ry," she cried. a forced smile crossed emory's face. he tossed back his tangled dark hair with a gasp that was like the snort of an unruly horse submitting to the inevitable, but with restive projects in his brain. "i let the dog hyar ketch my finger whilst feedin' him," he said. his plausible excuse for the tenpenny expression was complete; but he added, his darker mood recurring instantly, "an', mis' roxby, i hev put a stop ter them ez hev tuk ter callin' me em'ly, i hev." the old woman looked up, her small wrinkled mouth round and amazed. "_i_ never called ye emily," she declared. swift repentance seized him. "naw, 'm," he said, with hurried propitiation. "i 'lowed ye did." "i didn't," said the old woman. "but ef i war ter find it toothsome ter call ye 'emily,' i dun'no' how ye air goin' ter pervent it. ye can't go gunnin' fur me, like ye done fur the men at the mill, fur callin' ye 'emily.'" "law, mis' roxby!" he could only exclaim, in his horror and contrition at this picture he had thus conjured up. "ye air welcome ter call me ennything ye air a mind ter," he protested. and then he gasped once more. the eyes of the guest, contemptuous, amused, seeing through him, were fixed upon him. and he himself had furnished the lily-handed stranger with the information that he had been stigmatized "em'ly" in the banter of his associates, until he had taken up arms, as it were, to repress this derision. "it takes powerful little ter put ye down, em'ry," said roxby, with rallying laughter. "mam hev sent ye skedaddlin' in no time at all. i don't b'lieve the lord made woman out'n the man's rib. he made her out'n the man's backbone; fur the man ain't hed none ter speak of sence." millicent, with a low gurgle of laughter, sat down beside emory at the table, and fixed her eyes, softly lighted with mirth, upon him. the others too had laughed, the stranger with a flattering intonation, but young keenan looked at her with a dumb appealing humility that did not altogether fail of its effect, for she busied herself to help his plate with an air of proprietorship as if he were a child, and returned it with a smile very radiant and sufficient at close range. she then addressed herself to her own meal. the young dogs under the table ceased to beg, and gambolled and gnawed and tugged at her stout little shoes, the sound of their callow mirthful growls rising occasionally above the talk. sometimes she rose again to wait on the table, when they came leaping out after her, jumping and catching at her skirts, now and then casting themselves on the ground prone before her feet, and rolling over and over in the sheer joy of existence. the stranger took little part in the talk at the table. never a question was asked him as to his mission in the mountains, or the length of his stay, his vocation, or his home. that extreme courtesy of the mountaineers, exemplified in their singular abstinence from any expressions of curiosity, accepted such account of himself as he had volunteered, and asked for no more. in the face of this standard of manners any inquisitiveness on his part, such as might have elicited points of interest for his merely momentary entertainment, was tabooed. nevertheless, silent though he was for the most part, the relish with which he listened, his half-covert interest in the girl, his quick observation of the others, the sudden very apparent enlivening of his mental atmosphere, betokened that his quarters were not displeasing to him. it seemed only a short time before the meal was ended and the circle all, save millicent, with pipes alight before the fire again. the dogs, well fed, had ranged themselves on the glowing hearth, lying prone on the hot stones; one old hound, however, who conserved the air of listening to the conversation, sat upright and nodded from time to time, now and again losing his balance and tipping forward in a truly human fashion, then gazing round on the circle with an open luminous eye, as who should say he had not slept. it was all very cheerful within, but outside the wind still blared mournfully. once more dundas was sorry that he had declined the invitation to remain, and it was with a somewhat tentative intention that he made a motion to return to the hotel. but his host seemed to regard his resolution as final, and rose with a regret, not an insistence. the two women stared in silent amazement at the mere idea of his camping out, as it were, in the old hotel. the ascendency of masculine government here, notwithstanding roxby's assertion that eve was made of adam's backbone, was very apparent in their mute acquiescence and the alacrity with which they began to collect various articles, according to his directions, to make the stranger's stay more comfortable. "em'ry kin go along an' holp," he said, heartlessly; for poor emory's joy in perceiving that the guest was not a fixture, and that his presence was not to be an embargo on any word between himself and millicent during the entire evening, was pitiably manifest. but the situation was still not without its comforts, since dundas was to go too. hence he was not poor company when once in the saddle, and was civil to a degree of which his former dismayed surliness had given no promise. night had become a definite element. the twilight had fled. above their heads, as they galloped through the dank woods, the bare boughs of the trees clashed together--so high above their heads that to the town man, unaccustomed to these great growths, the sound seemed not of the vicinage, but unfamiliar, uncanny, and more than once he checked his horse to listen. as they approached the mountain's verge and overlooked the valley and beheld the sky, the sense of the predominance of darkness was redoubled. the ranges gloomed against the clearer spaces, but a cloud, deep gray with curling white edges, was coming up from the west, with an invisible convoy of vague films, beneath which the stars, glimmering white points, disappeared one by one. the swift motion of this aerial fleet sailing with the wind might be inferred from the seemingly hurried pace of the moon making hard for the west. still bright was the illumined segment, but despite its glitter the shadowy space of the full disk was distinctly visible, its dusky field spangled with myriads of minute, dully golden points. down, down it took its way in haste--in disordered fright, it seemed, as if it had no heart to witness the storm which the wind and the clouds foreboded--to fairer skies somewhere behind those western mountains. soon even its vague light would encroach no more upon the darkness. the great hotel would be invisible, annihilated as it were in the gloom, and not even thus dimly exist, glimmering, alone, forlorn, so incongruous to the wilderness that it seemed even now some mere figment of the brain, as the two horsemen came with a freshened burst of speed along the deserted avenue and reined up beside a small gate at the side. "no use ter ride all the way around," observed emory keenan. "mought jes ez well 'light an' hitch hyar." the moon gave him the escort of a great grotesque shadow as he threw himself from his horse and passed the reins over a decrepit hitching-post near at hand. then he essayed the latch of the small gate. he glanced up at dundas, the moonlight in his dark eyes, with a smile as it resisted his strength. he was a fairly good-looking fellow when rid of the self-consciousness of jealousy. his eyes, mouth, chin, and nose, acquired from reliable and recognizable sources, were good features, and statuesque in their immobility beneath the drooping curves of his broad soft hat. he was tall, with the slenderness of youth, despite his evident weight and strength. he was long-waisted and lithe and small of girth, with broad square shoulders, whose play of muscles as he strove with the gate was not altogether concealed by the butternut jeans coat belted in with his pistols by a broad leathern belt. his boots reached high on his long legs, and jingled with a pair of huge cavalry spurs. his stalwart strength seemed as if it must break the obdurate gate rather than open it, but finally, with a rasping creak, dismally loud in the silence, it swung slowly back. the young mountaineer stood gazing for a moment at the red rust on the hinges. "how long sence this gate must hev been opened afore?" he said, again looking up at dundas with a smile. somehow the words struck a chill to the stranger's heart. the sense of the loneliness of the place, of isolation, filled him with a sort of awe. the night-bound wilderness itself was not more daunting than these solitary tiers of piazzas, these vacant series of rooms and corridors, all instinct with vanished human presence, all alert with echoes of human voices. a step, a laugh, a rustle of garments--he could have sworn he heard them at any open doorway as he followed his guide along the dim moonlit piazza, with its pillars duplicated at regular intervals by the shadows on the floor. how their tread echoed down these lonely ways! from the opposite side of the house he heard keenan's spurs jangling, his soldierly stride sounding back as if their entrance had roused barracks. he winced once to see his own shadow with its stealthier movement. it seemed painfully furtive. for the first time during the evening his jaded mind, that had instinctively sought the solace of contemplating trifles, reverted to its own tormented processes. "am i not hiding?" he said to himself, in a sort of sarcastic pity of his plight. the idea seemed never to enter the mind of the transparent keenan. he laughed out gayly as they turned into the weed-grown quadrangle, and the red fox that dundas had earlier observed slipped past him with affrighted speed and dashed among the shadows of the dense shrubbery of the old lawn without. again and again the sound rang back from wall to wall, first with the jollity of seeming imitation, then with an appalled effect sinking to silence, and suddenly rising again in a grewsome _staccato_ that suggested some terrible unearthly laughter, and bore but scant resemblance to the hearty mirth which had evoked it. keenan paused and looked back with friendly gleaming eyes. "oughter been a leetle handier with these hyar consarns," he said, touching the pistols in his belt. it vaguely occurred to dundas that the young man went strangely heavily armed for an evening visit at a neighbor's house. but it was a lawless country and lawless times, and the sub-current of suggestion did not definitely fix itself in his mind until he remembered it later. he was looking into each vacant open doorway, seeing the still moonlight starkly white upon the floor; the cobwebbed and broken window-panes, through which a section of leafless trees beyond was visible; bits of furniture here and there, broken by the vandalism of the guerillas. now and then a scurrying movement told of a gopher, hiding too, and on one mantel-piece, the black fireplace yawning below, sat a tiny tawny-tinted owl, whose motionless bead-like eyes met his with a stare of stolid surprise. after he had passed, its sudden ill-omened cry set the silence to shuddering. keenan, leading the way, paused in displeasure. "i wisht i hed viewed that critter," he said, glumly. "i'd hev purvented that screechin' ter call the devil, sure. it's jes a certain sign o' death." he was about to turn, to wreak his vengeance, perchance. but the bird, sufficiently fortunate itself, whatever woe it presaged for others, suddenly took its awkward flight through sheen and shadow across the quadrangle, and when they heard its cry again it came from some remote section of the building, with a doleful echo as a refrain. the circumstance was soon forgotten by keenan. he seemed a happy, mercurial, lucid nature, and he began presently to dwell with interest on the availability of the old music-stand in the centre of the square as a manger. "hyar," he said, striking the rotten old structure with a heavy hand, which sent a quiver and a thrill through all the timbers--"hyar's whar the guerillas always hitched thar beastises. thar feed an' forage war piled up thar on the fiddlers' seats. ye can't do no better'n ter pattern arter them, till ye git ready ter hev fiddlers an' sech a-sawin' away in hyar agin." and he sauntered away from the little pavilion, followed by dundas, who had not accepted his suggestion of a room on the first floor as being less liable to leakage, but finally made choice of an inner apartment in the second story. he looked hard at keenan, when he stood in the doorway surveying the selection. the room opened into a cross-hall which gave upon a broad piazza that was latticed; tiny squares of moonlight were all sharply drawn on the floor, and, seen through a vista of gray shadow, seemed truly of a gilded lustre. from the windows of this room on a court-yard no light could be visible to any passer-by without. another door gave on an inner gallery, and through its floor a staircase came up from the quadrangle close to the threshold. dundas wondered if these features were of possible significance in keenan's estimation. the young mountaineer turned suddenly, and snatching up a handful of slats broken from the shutters, remarked: "let's see how the chimbly draws--that's the main p'int." there was no defect in the chimney's constitution. it drew admirably, and with the white and red flames dancing in the fireplace, two or three chairs, more or less disabled, a table, and an upholstered lounge gathered at random from the rooms near at hand, the possibility of sojourning comfortably for a few days in the deserted hostelry seemed amply assured. once more dundas gazed fixedly at the face of the young mountaineer, who still bent on one knee on the hearth, watching with smiling eyes the triumphs of his fire-making. it seemed to him afterwards that his judgment was strangely at fault; he perceived naught of import in the shallow brightness of the young man's eyes, like the polished surface of jet; in the instability of his jealousy, his anger; in his hap-hazard, mercurial temperament. once he might have noted how flat were the spaces beneath the eyes, how few were the lines that defined the lid, the socket, the curve of the cheekbone, the bridge of the nose, and how expressionless. it was doubtless the warmth and glow of the fire, the clinging desire of companionship, the earnest determination to be content, pathetic in one who had but little reason for optimism, that caused him to ignore the vacillating glancing moods that successively swayed keenan, strong while they lasted, but with scanty augury because of their evanescence. he was like some newly discovered property in physics of untried potentialities, of which nothing is ascertained but its uncertainties. and yet he seemed to dundas a simple country fellow, good-natured in the main, unsuspicious, and helpful. so, giving a long sigh of relief and fatigue, dundas sank down in one of the large arm-chairs that had once done duty for the summer loungers on the piazza. in the light of the fire emory was once more looking at him. a certain air of distinction, a grace and ease of movement, an indescribable quality of bearing which he could not discriminate, yet which he instinctively recognized as superior, offended him in some sort. he noticed again the ring on the stranger's hand as he drew off his glove. gloves! emory keenan would as soon have thought of wearing a petticoat. once more the fear that these effeminate graces found favor in millicent's estimation smote upon his heart. it made the surface of his opaque eyes glisten as dundas rose and took up a pipe and tobacco pouch which he had laid on the mantel-piece, his full height and fine figure shown in the changed posture. "ez tall ez me, ef not taller, an', by gum! a good thirty pound heavier," emory reflected, with a growing dismay that he had not those stalwart claims to precedence in height and weight as an offset to the smoother fascinations of the stranger's polish. he had risen hastily to his feet. he would not linger to smoke fraternally over the fire, and thus cement friendly relations. "i guided him hyar, like old sim roxby axed me ter do, an' that's all. i ain't keerin' ef i never lay eyes on him again," he said to himself. "going?" said dundas, pleasantly, noticing the motion. "you'll look in again, won't you?" "wunst in a while, i reckon," drawled keenan, a trifle thrown off his balance by this courtesy. he paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder for a moment at the illumined room, then stepped out into the night, leaving the tenant of the lonely old house filling his pipe by the fire. his tread rang along the deserted gallery, and sudden echoes came tramping down the vacant halls as if many a denizen of the once populous place was once more astir within its walls. long after dundas had heard him spring from the lower piazza to the ground, and the rusty gate clang behind him, vague footfalls were audible far away, and were still again, and once more a pattering tread in some gaunt and empty apartment near at hand, faint and fainter yet, till he hardly knew whether it were the reverberations of sound or fancy that held his senses in thrall. and when all was still and silent at last he felt less solitary than when these elusive tokens of human presence were astir. late, late he sat over the dwindling embers. his mind, no longer diverted by the events of the day, recurred with melancholy persistence to a theme which even they, although fraught with novelty and presage of danger, had not altogether crowded out. and as the sense of peril dulled, the craft of sophistry grew clumsy. remorse laid hold upon him in these dim watches of the night. self-reproach had found him out here, defenceless so far from the specious wiles and ways of men. all the line of provocations seemed slight, seemed naught, as he reviewed them and balanced them against a human life. true, it was not in some mad quarrel that his skill had taken it and had served to keep his own--a duel, a fair fight, strictly regular according to the code of "honorable men" for ages past--and he sought to argue that it was doubtless but the morbid sense of the wild fastnesses without, the illimitable vastness of the black night, the unutterable indurability of nature to the influences of civilization, which made it taste like murder. he had brought away even from the scene of action, to which he had gone with decorous deliberation--his worldly affairs arranged for the possibility of death, his will made, his volition surrendered, and his sacred honor in the hands of his seconds--a humiliating recollection of the sudden revulsion of the aspect of all things; the criminal sense of haste with which he was hurried away after that first straight shot; the agitation, nay, the fright of his seconds; their eagerness to be swiftly rid of him, their insistence that he should go away for a time, get out of the country, out of the embarrassing purview of the law, which was prone to regard the matter as he himself saw it now, and which had an ugly trick of calling things by their right names in the sincere phraseology of an indictment. and thus it was that he was here, remote from all the usual lines of flight, with his affectation of being a possible purchaser for the old hotel, far from the railroad, the telegraph, even the postal service. some time--soon, indeed, it might be, when the first flush of excitement and indignation should be overpast, and the law, like a barking dog that will not bite, should have noisily exhausted the gamut of its devoirs--he would go back and live according to his habit in his wonted place, as did other men whom he had known to be "called out," and who had survived their opponents. meantime he heard the ash crumble; he saw the lighted room wane from glancing yellow to a dull steady red, and so to dusky brown; he marked the wind rise, and die away, and come again, banging the doors of the empty rooms, and setting timbers all strangely to creaking as under sudden trampling feet; then lift into the air with a rustling sound like the stir of garments and the flutter of wings, calling out weirdly in the great voids of the upper atmosphere. he had welcomed the sense of fatigue earlier in the evening, for it promised sleep. now it had slipped away from him. he was strong and young, and the burning sensation that the frosty air had left on his face was the only token of the long journey. it seemed as if he would never sleep again as he lay on the lounge watching the gray ash gradually overgrow the embers, till presently only a vague dull glow gave intimation of the position of the hearth in the room. and then, bereft of this dim sense of companionship, he stared wide-eyed in the darkness, feeling the only creature alive and awake in all the world. no; the fox was suddenly barking within the quadrangle--a strangely wild and alien tone. and presently he heard the animal trot past his door on the piazza, the cushioned footfalls like those of a swift dog. he thought with a certain anxiety of the tawny tiny owl that had sat like a stuffed ornament on the mantel-piece of a neighboring room, and he listened with a quaking vicarious presentiment of woe for the sounds of capture and despair. he was sensible of waiting and hoping for the fox's bootless return, when he suddenly lost consciousness. how long he slept he did not know, but it seemed only a momentary respite from the torture of memory, when, still in the darkness, thousands of tremulous penetrating sounds were astir, and with a great start he recognized the rain on the roof. it was coming down in steady torrents that made the house rock before the tumult of his plunging heart was still, and he was longing again for the forgetfulness of sleep. in vain. the hours dragged by; the windows slowly, slowly defined their dull gray squares against the dull gray day dawning without. the walls that had been left with only the first dark coat of plaster, awaiting another season for the final decoration, showed their drapings of cobweb, and the names and pencilled scribblings with which the fancy of transient bushwhackers had chosen to deface them. the locust-trees within the quadrangle drearily tossed their branches to and fro in the wind, the bark very black and distinct against the persistent gray lines of rain and the white walls of the galleried buildings opposite; the gutters were brimming, roaring along like miniature torrents; nowhere was the fox or the owl to be seen. somehow their presence would have been a relief--the sight of any living thing reassuring. as he walked slowly along the deserted piazzas, in turning sudden corners, again and again he paused, expecting that something, some one, was approaching to meet him. when at last he mounted his horse, that had neighed gleefully to see him, and rode away through the avenue and along the empty ways among the untenanted summer cottages, all the drearier and more forlorn because of the rain, he felt as if he had left an aberration, some hideous dream, behind, instead of the stark reality of the gaunt and vacant and dilapidated old house. the transition to the glow and cheer of sim roxby's fireside was like a rescue, a restoration. the smiling welcome in the women's eyes, their soft drawling voices, with mellifluous intonations that gave a value to each commonplace simple word, braced his nerves like a tonic. it might have been only the contrast with the recollections of the night, with the prospect visible through the open door--the serried lines of rain dropping aslant from the gray sky and elusively outlined against the dark masses of leafless woods that encircled the clearing; the dooryard half submerged with puddles of a clay-brown tint, embossed always with myriads of protruding drops of rain, for however they melted away the downpour renewed them, and to the eye they were stationary, albeit pervaded with a continual tremor--but somehow he was cognizant of a certain coddling tenderness in the old woman's manner that might have been relished by a petted child, an unaffected friendliness in the girl's clear eyes. they made him sit close to the great wood fire; the blue and yellow flames gushed out from the piles of hickory logs, and the bed of coals gleamed at red and white heat beneath. they took his hat to carefully dry it, and they spread out his cloak on two chairs at one side of the room, where it dismally dripped. when he ventured to sneeze, mrs. roxby compounded and administered a "yerb tea," a sovereign remedy against colds, which he tasted on compulsion and in great doubt, and swallowed with alacrity and confidence, finding its basis the easily recognizable "toddy." he had little knowledge how white and troubled his face had looked as he came in from the gray day, how strongly marked were those lines of sharp mental distress, how piteously apparent was his mute appeal for sympathy and comfort. "mill'cent," said the old woman in the shed-room, as they washed and wiped the dishes after the cozy breakfast of venison and corn-dodgers and honey and milk, "that thar man hev run agin the law, sure's ye air born." millicent turned her reflective fair face, that seemed whiter and more delicate in the damp dark day, and looked doubtfully out over the fields, where the water ran in steely lines in the furrows. "mus' hev been by accident or suthin'. _he_ ain't no hardened sinner." "shucks!" the old woman commented upon her reluctant acquiescence. "i ain't keerin' for the law! 'tain't none o' my job. the tomfool men make an' break it. ennybody ez hev seen this war air obleeged to take note o' the wickedness o' men in gineral. this hyer man air a sorter pitiful sinner, an' he hev got a look in his eyes that plumb teches my heart. i 'ain't got no call ter know nuthin' 'bout the law, bein' a 'oman an' naterally ignorunt. i dun'no' ez he hev run agin it." "mus' hev been by accident," said millicent, dreamily, still gazing over the sodden fields. the suspicion did nothing to diminish his comfort or their cordiality. the morning dragged by without change in the outer aspects. the noontide dinner came and went without roxby's return, for the report of the washing away of a bridge some miles distant down the river had early called him out to the scene of the disaster, to verify in his own interests the rumor, since he had expected to haul his wheat to the settlement the ensuing day. the afternoon found the desultory talk still in progress about the fire, the old woman alternately carding cotton and nodding in her chair in the corner; the dogs eying the stranger, listening much of the time with the air of children taking instruction, only occasionally wandering out-of-doors, the floor here and there bearing the damp imprint of their feet; and millicent on her knees in the other corner, the firelight on her bright hair, her delicate cheek, her quickly glancing eyes, as she deftly moulded bullets. "uncle sim hed ter s'render his shootin'-irons," she explained, "an' he 'ain't got no ca'tridge-loadin' ones lef'. so he makes out with his old muzzle-loadin' rifle that he hed afore the war, an' i moulds his bullets for him rainy days." as she held up a moulded ball and dexterously clipped off the surplus lead, the gesture was so culinary in its delicacy that one of the dogs in front of the fire extended his head, making a long neck, with a tentative sniff and a glistening gluttonous eye. "ef i swallered enny mo' lead, i wouldn't take it hot, towse," she said, holding out the bullet for canine inspection. "'tain't healthy!" but the dog, perceiving the nature of the commodity, drew back with a look of deep reproach, rose precipitately, and with a drooping tail went out skulkingly into the wet gray day. "towse can't abide a bullet," she observed, "nor nuthin' 'bout a gun. he got shot wunst a-huntin', an' he never furgot it. jes show him a gun an' he ain't nowhar ter be seen--like he war cotch up in the clouds." "good watch-dog, i suppose," suggested dundas, striving to enter into the spirit of her talk. "naw; too sp'ilt for a gyard-dog--granny coddled him so whenst he got shot. he's jest vally'ble fur his conversation, i reckon," she continued, with a smile in her eyes. "i dun'no' what else, but he is toler'ble good company." the other dogs pressed about her, the heads of the great hounds as high as her own as she sat among them on the floor. with bright eyes and knitted brows they followed the motions of pouring in the melted metal, the lifting of the bullets from the mould, the clipping off of the surplus lead, and the flash of the keen knife. outside the sad light waned; the wind sighed and sighed; the dreary rain fell; the trees clashed their boughs dolorously together, and their turbulence deadened the sound of galloping horses. as dundas sat and gazed at the girl's intent head, with its fleecy tendrils and its massive coil, the great hounds beside her, all emblazoned by the firelight upon the brown wall near by, with the vast fireplace at hand, the whole less like reality than some artist's pictured fancy, he knew naught of a sudden entrance, until she moved, breaking the spell, and looked up to meet the displeasure in roxby's eyes and the dark scowl on emory keenan's face. * * * * * that night the wind shifted to the north. morning found the chilled world still, ice where the water had lodged, all the trees incased in glittering garb that followed the symmetry alike of every bough and the tiniest twig, and made splendid the splintered remnants of the lightning-riven. the fields were laced across from furrow to furrow, in which the frozen water still stood gleaming, with white arabesques which had known a more humble identity as stubble and crab-grass; the sky was slate-colored, and from its sad tint this white splendor gained added values of contrast. when the sun should shine abroad much of the effect would be lost in the too dazzling glister; but the sun did not shine. all day the gray mood held unchanged. night was imperceptibly sifting down upon all this whiteness, that seemed as if it would not be obscured, as if it held within itself some property of luminosity, when millicent, a white apron tied over her golden head, improvising a hood, its superfluous fulness gathered in many folds and pleats around her neck, fichu-wise, stood beside the ice-draped fodder-stack and essayed with half-numbed hands to insert a tallow dip into the socket of a lantern, all incrusted and clumsy with previous drippings. "i dun'no' whether i be a-goin' ter need this hyar consarn whilst milkin' or no," she observed, half to herself, half to emory, who, chewing a straw, somewhat surlily had followed her out for a word apart. "the dusk 'pears slow ter-night, but spot's mighty late comin' home, an' old sue air fractious an' contrairy-minded, and feels mighty anxious an' oneasy 'boutn her calf, that's ez tall ez she is nowadays, an' don't keer no mo' 'bout her mammy 'n a half-grown human does. i tell her she oughtn't ter be mad with me, but with the way she brung up her chile, ez won't notice her now." she looked up with a laugh, her eyes and teeth gleaming; her golden hair still showed its color beneath the spotless whiteness of her voluminous headgear, and the clear tints of her complexion seemed all the more delicate and fresh in the snowy pallor of the surroundings and the grayness of the evening. "i reckon i'd better take it along," and once more she addressed herself to the effort to insert the dip into the lantern. emory hardly heard. his pulse was quick. his eye glittered. he breathed hard as, with both hands in his pockets, he came close to her. "mill'cent," he said, "i told ye the t'other day ez ye thunk a heap too much o' that thar stranger--" "an' i tole ye, bubby, that i didn't think nuthin' o' nobody but you-uns," she interrupted, with an effort to placate his jealousy. the little jocularity which she affected dwindled and died before the steady glow of his gaze, and she falteringly looked at him, her unguided hands futilely fumbling with the lantern. "ye can't fool me," he stoutly asseverated. "ye think mo' o' him 'n o' me, kase ye 'low he air rich, an' book-larned, an' smooth-fingered, an' finified ez a gal, an' goin' ter buy the hotel. i say, _hotel_! now _i'll_ tell ye what he is--i'll tell ye! he's a criminal. he's runnin' from the law. he's hidin' in the old hotel that he's purtendin' ter buy." she stared wide-eyed and pallid, breathless and waiting. he interpreted her expression as doubt, denial. "it's gospel sure," he cried. "fur this very evenin' i met a gang o' men an' the sheriff's deputy down yander by the sulphur spring 'bout sundown, an' he 'lowed ez they war a-sarchin' fur a criminal ez war skulkin' round hyarabout lately--ez they wanted a man fur hevin' c'mitted murder." "but ye didn't accuse _him_, surely; ye hed no right ter s'picion _him_. uncle sim! oh, my lord! ye surely wouldn't! oh, uncle sim!" her tremulous words broke into a quavering cry as she caught his arm convulsively, for his face confirmed her fears. she thrust him wildly away, and started toward the house. "ye needn't go tattlin' on me," he said, roughly pushing her aside. "i'll tell mr. roxby myself. i ain't 'shamed o' what i done. i'll tell him. i'll tell him myself." and animated with this intention to forestall her disclosure, his long strides bore him swiftly past and into the house. it seemed to him that he lingered there only a moment or two, for roxby was not at the cabin, and he said nothing of the quarrel to the old woman. already his heart had revolted against his treachery, and then there came to him the further reflection that he did not know enough to justify suspicion. was not the stranger furnished with the fullest credentials--a letter to roxby from the colonel? perhaps he had allowed his jealousy to endanger the man, to place him in jeopardy even of his life should he resist arrest. keenan tarried at the house merely long enough to devise a plausible excuse for his sudden excited entrance, and then took his way back to the barnyard. it was vacant. the cows still stood lowing at the bars; the sheep cowered together in their shed; the great whitened cone of the fodder-stack gleamed icily in the purple air; beside it lay the lantern where millicent had cast it aside. she was gone! he would not believe it till he had run to the barn, calling her name in the shadowy place, while the horse at his manger left his corn to look over the walls of his stall with inquisitive surprised eyes, luminous in the dusk. he searched the hen-house, where the fowls on their perches crowded close because of the chill of the evening. he even ran to the bars and looked down across the narrow ravine to which the clearing sloped. beyond the chasm-like gorge he saw presently on the high ascent opposite footprints that had broken the light frost-like coating of ice on the dead leaves and moss--climbing footprints, swift, disordered. he looked back again at the lantern where millicent had flung it in her haste. her mission was plain now. she had gone to warn dundas. she had taken a direct line through the woods. she hoped to forestall the deputy sheriff and his posse, following the circuitous mountain road. keenan's lip curled in triumph. his heart burned hot with scornful anger and contempt of the futility of her effort. "they're there afore she started!" he said, looking up at the aspects of the hour shown by the sky, and judging of the interval since the encounter by the spring. through a rift in the gray cloud a star looked down with an icy scintillation and disappeared again. he heard a branch in the woods snap beneath the weight of ice. a light sprang into the window of the cabin hard by, and came in a great gush of orange-tinted glow out into the snowy bleak wintry space. he suddenly leaped over the fence and ran like a deer through the woods. millicent too had been swift. he had thought to overtake her before he emerged from the woods into the more open space where the hotel stood. in this quarter the cloud-break had been greater. toward the west a fading amber glow still lingered in long horizontal bars upon the opaque gray sky. the white mountains opposite were hung with purple shadows borrowed from a glimpse of sunset somewhere far away over the valley of east tennessee; one distant lofty range was drawn in elusive snowy suggestions, rather than lines, against a green space of intense yet pale tint. the moon, now nearing the full, hung over the wooded valley, and aided the ice and the crust of snow to show its bleak, wan, wintry aspect; a tiny spark glowed in its depths from some open door of an isolated home. over it all a mist was rising from the east, drawing its fleecy but opaque curtain. already it had climbed the mountain-side and advanced, windless, soundless, overwhelming, annihilating all before and beneath it. the old hotel had disappeared, save that here and there a gaunt gable protruded and was withdrawn, showed once more, and once more was submerged. a horse's head suddenly looking out of the enveloping mist close to his shoulder gave him the first intimation of the arrival, the secret silent waiting, of those whom he had directed hither. that the saddles were empty he saw a moment later. the animals stood together in a row, hitched to the rack. no disturbance sounded from the silent building. the event was in abeyance. the fugitive in hiding was doubtless at ease, unsuspecting, while the noiseless search of the officers for his quarters was under way. with a thrill of excitement keenan crept stealthily through an open passage and into the old grass-grown spaces of the quadrangle. night possessed the place, but the cloud seemed denser than the darkness. he was somehow sensible of its convolutions as he stood against the wall and strained his eyes into the dusk. suddenly it was penetrated by a milky-white glimmer, a glimmer duplicated at equidistant points, each fading as its successor sprang into brilliance. the next moment he understood its significance. it had come from the blurred windows of the old ball-room. millicent had lighted her candle as she searched for the fugitive's quarters; she was passing down the length of the old house on the second story, and suddenly she emerged upon the gallery. she shielded the feeble flicker with her hand; her white-hooded head gleamed as with an aureola as the divergent rays rested on the opaque mist; and now and again she clutched the baluster and walked with tremulous care, for the flooring was rotten here and there, and ready to crumble away. her face was pallid, troubled; and dundas, who had been warned by the tramp of horses and the tread of men, and who had descended the stairs, revolver in hand, ready to slip away if he might under cover of the mist, paused appalled, gazing across the quadrangle as on an apparition--the sight so familiar to his senses, so strange to his experience. he saw in an abrupt shifting of the mist that there were other figures skulking in doorways, watching her progress. the next moment she leaned forward to clutch the baluster, and the light of the candle fell full on emory keenan, lurking in the open passage. a sudden sharp cry of "surrender!" the young mountaineer, confused, swiftly drew his pistol. others were swifter still. a sharp report rang out into the chill crisp air, rousing all the affrighted echoes--a few faltering steps, a heavy fall, and for a long time emory keenan's life-blood stained the floor of the promenade. even when it had faded, the rustic gossips came often and gazed at the spot with morbid interest, until, a decade later, an enterprising proprietor removed the floor and altered the shape of that section of the building out of recognition. the escape of dundas was easily effected. the deputy sheriff, confronted with the problem of satisfactorily accounting for the death of a man who had committed no offence against public polity, was no longer formidable. his errand had been the arrest of a horse-thief, well-known to him, and he had no interest in pursuing a fugitive, however obnoxious to the law, whose personal description was so different from that of the object of his search. time restored to dundas his former place in life and the esteem of his fellow-citizens. his stay in the mountains was an episode which he will not often recall, but sometimes volition fails, and he marvels at the strange fulfilment of the girl's vision; he winces to think that her solicitude for his safety should have cost her her lover; he wonders whether she yet lives, and whether that tender troubled phantom, on nights when the wind is still and the moon is low and the mists rise, again joins the strange, elusive, woful company crossing the quaking foot-bridge. his "day in court" it had been a hard winter along the slopes of the great smoky mountains, and still the towering treeless domes were covered with snow, and the vagrant winds were abroad, rioting among the clifty heights where they held their tryst, or raiding down into the sheltered depths of the cove, where they seldom intruded. nevertheless, on this turbulent rush was borne in the fair spring of the year. the fragrance of the budding wild-cherry was to be discerned amidst the keen slanting javelins of the rain. a cognition of the renewal and the expanding of the forces of nature pervaded the senses as distinctly as if one might hear the grass growing, or feel along the chill currents of the air the vernal pulses thrill. night after night in the rifts of the breaking clouds close to the horizon was glimpsed the stately sidereal virgo, prefiguring and promising the harvest, holding in her hand a gleaming ear of corn. but it was not the constellation which the tumultuous torrent at the mountain's base reflected in a starry glitter. from the hill-side above a light cast its broken image among the ripples, as it shone for an instant through the bosky laurel, white, stellular, splendid--only a tallow dip suddenly placed in the window of a log-cabin, and as suddenly withdrawn. for a gruff voice within growled out a remonstrance: "what ye doin' that fur, steve? hev that thar candle got enny call ter bide in that thar winder?" the interior, contrary to the customary aspect of the humble homes of the region, was in great disarray. cooking utensils stood uncleaned about the hearth; dishes and bowls of earthen-ware were assembled upon the table in such numbers as to suggest that several meals had been eaten without the ceremony of laying the cloth anew, and that in default of washing the crockery it had been re-enforced from the shelf so far as the limited store might admit. saddles and spinning-wheels, an ox-yoke and trace-chains, reels and wash-tubs, were incongruously pushed together in the corners. only one of the three men in the room made any effort to reduce the confusion to order. this was the square-faced, black-bearded, thick-set young fellow who took the candle from the window, and now advanced with it toward the hearth, holding it at an angle that caused the flame to swiftly melt the tallow, which dripped generously upon the floor. "i hev seen eveliny do it," he said, excitedly justifying himself. "i noticed her sot the candle in the winder jes' las' night arter supper." he glanced about uncertainly, and his patience seemed to give way suddenly. "dad-burn the old candle! i dunno _whar_ ter set it," he cried, desperately, as he flung it from him, and it fell upon the floor close to the wall. the dogs lifted their heads to look, and one soft-stepping old hound got up with the nimbleness of expectation, and, with a prescient gratitude astir in his tail, went and sniffed at it. his aspect drooped suddenly, and he looked around in reproach at stephen quimbey, as if suspecting a practical joke. but there was no merriment in the young mountaineer's face. he threw himself into his chair with a heavy sigh, and desisted for a time from the unaccustomed duty of clearing away the dishes after supper. "an' 'ain't ye got the gumption ter sense what eveliny sot the candle in the winder fur?" his brother timothy demanded, abruptly--"ez a sign ter that thar durned abs'lom kittredge." the other two men turned their heads and looked at the speaker with a poignant intensity of interest. "i 'lowed ez much when i seen that light ez i war a-kemin' home las' night," he continued; "it shined spang down the slope acrost the ruver an' through all the laurel; it looked plumb like a star that hed fell ter yearth in that pitch-black night. i dunno how i s'picioned it, but ez i stood thar an' gazed i knowed somebody war a-standin' an' gazin' too on the foot-bredge a mite ahead o' me. i couldn't see him, an' he couldn't turn back an' pass me, the bredge bein' too narrer. he war jes obligated ter go on. i hearn him breathe quick; then--pit-pat, pit-pat, ez he walked straight toward that light. an' he be 'bleeged ter hev hearn me, fur arter i crost i stopped. nuthin'. jes' a whisper o' wind, an' jes' a swishin' from the ruver. i knowed then he hed turned off inter the laurel. an' i went on, a-whistlin' ter make him 'low ez i never s'picioned nuthin'. an' i kem inter the house an' tole dad ez he'd better be a-lookin' arter eveliny, fur i b'lieved she war a-settin' her head ter run away an' marry abs'lom kittredge." "waal, i ain't right up an' down sati'fied we oughter done what we done," exclaimed stephen, fretfully. "it don't 'pear edzacly right fur three men ter fire on one." old joel quimbey, in his arm-chair in the chimney-corner, suddenly lifted his head--a thin head with fine white hair, short and sparse, upon it. his thin, lined face was clear-cut, with a pointed chin and an aquiline nose. he maintained an air of indignant and rebellious grief, and had hitherto sat silent, a gnarled and knotted hand on either arm of his chair. his eyes gleamed keenly from under his heavy brows as he turned his face upon his sons. "how could we know thar warn't but one, eh?" he had not been a candidate for justice of the peace for nothing; he had absorbed something of the methods and spirit of the law through sheer propinquity to the office. "we-uns wouldn't be persumed ter _know_." and he ungrudgingly gave himself all the benefit of the doubt that the law accords. "that's a true word!" exclaimed stephen, quick to console his conscience. "jes' look at the fac's, now. we-uns in a plumb black midnight hear a man a-gittin' over our fence; we git our rifles; a-peekin' through the chinkin' we ketch a glimge o' him--" "ha!" cried out timothy, with savage satisfaction, "we seen him by the light she set ter lead him on!" [illustration: "old joel quimbey"] he was tall and lank, with a delicately hooked nose, high cheek-bones, fierce dark eyes, and dark eyebrows, which were continually elevated, corrugating his forehead. his hair was black, short and straight, and he was clad in brown jeans, as were the others, with great cowhide boots reaching to the knee. he fixed his fiery intent gaze on his brother as the slower stephen continued, "an' so we blaze away--" "an' one durned fool's so onlucky ez ter hit him an' not kill him," growled timothy, again interrupting. "an' so whilst eveliny runs out a-screamin', 'he's dead! he's dead!--ye hev shot him dead!' we-uns make no doubt but he _is_ dead, an' load up agin, lest his frien's mought rush in on we-uns whilst we hedn't no use o' our shootin'-irons. an' suddint--ye can't hear nuthin' but jes' a owel hootin' in the woods, or old pa'son bates's dogs a-howlin' acrost the cove. an' we go out with a lantern, an' thar's jes' a pool o' blood in the dooryard, an' bloody tracks down ter the laurel." "eveliny gone!" cried the old man, smiting his hands together; "my leetle darter! the only one ez never gin me enny trouble. i couldn't hev made out ter put up with this hyar worl' no longer when my wife died ef it hedn't been fur eveliny. boys war wild an' mischeevious, an' folks outside don't keer nuthin' 'bout ye--ef they _war_ ter 'lect ye ter office 'twould be ter keep some other feller from hevin' it, 'kase they 'spise him more'n ye. an' hyar she's runned off an' married old tom kittredge's gran'son, josiah kittredge's son--when our folks 'ain't spoke ter none o' 'em fur fifty year--josiah kittredge's son--ha! ha! ha!" he laughed aloud in tuneless scorn of himself and of this freak of froward destiny and then fell to wringing his hands and calling upon evelina. the flare from the great chimney place genially played over the huddled confusion of the room and the brown logs of the wall, where the gigantic shadows of the three men mimicked their every gesture with grotesque exaggeration. the rainbow yarn on the warping bars, the strings of red-pepper hanging from the ceiling, the burnished metallic flash from the guns on their racks of deer antlers, served as incidents in the monotony of the alternate yellow flicker and brown shadow. deep under the blaze the red coals pulsated, and in the farthest vistas of the fire quivered a white heat. "old tom kittredge," the father resumed, after a time, "he jes' branded yer gran'dad's cattle with his mark; he jes' cheated yer gran'dad, my dad, out'n six head o' cattle." "but then," said the warlike timothy, not willing to lose sight of reprisal even in vague reminiscence, "he hed only one hand ter rob with arter that, fur i hev hearn ez how when gran'dad got through with him the doctor hed ter take his arm off." "sartainly, sartainly," admitted the old man, in quiet assent "an' josiah kittredge he put out the eyes of a horse critter o' mine right thar at the court-house door--" "waal, arterward, we-uns fired his house over his head," put in tim. "an' josiah kittredge an' me," the old man went on, "we-uns clinched every time we met in this mortal life. every time i go past the graveyard whar he be buried i kin feel his fingers on my throat. he had a nervy grip, but no variation; he always tuk holt the same way." "'pears like ter me ez 'twar a fust-rate time ter fetch out the rifles again," remarked tim, "this mornin', when old pa'son bates kem up hyar an' 'lowed ez he hed married eveliny ter abs'lom kittredge on his death-bed; 'so be, pa'son,' i say. an' he tuk off his hat an' say, 'thank the lord, this will heal the breach an' make ye frien's!' an' i say, 'edzacly, pa'son, ef it _air_ abs'lom's death-bed; but them kittredges air so smilin' an' deceivin' i be powerful feared he'll cheat the king o' terrors himself. i'll forgive 'em ennything--_over his grave_.'" "pa'son war tuk toler'ble suddint in his temper," said the literal steve. "i hearn him call yer talk onchristian, cussed sentiments, ez he put out." "ye mus' keep up a christian sperit, boys; that's the main thing," said the old man, who was esteemed very religious, and a pious mentor in his own family. he gazed meditatively into the fire. "what ailed eveliny ter git so tuk up with this hyar abs'lom? what made her like him?" he propounded. "his big eyes, edzacly like a buck's, an' his long yaller hair," sneered the discerning timothy, with the valid scorn of a big ugly man for a slim pretty one. "'twar jes 'count o' his long yaller hair his mother called him abs'lom. he war named pete or bob, i disremember what--suthin' common--till his hair got so long an' curly, an' he sot out ter be so plumb all-fired beautiful, an' his mother named him agin; this time abs'lom, arter the king's son, 'count o' his yaller hair." "git hung by his hair some o' these days in the woods, like him the bible tells about; that happened ter the sure-enough abs'lom," suggested stephen, hopefully. "naw, sir," said tim; "when abs'lom kittredge gits hung it'll be with suthin' stronger'n hair; he'll stretch hemp." he exchanged a glance of triumphant prediction with his brother, and anon gazed ruefully into the fire. "ye talk like ez ef he war goin' ter live, boys," said old joel quimbey, irritably. "pa'son 'lowed he war powerful low." "pa'son said he'd never hev got home alive 'thout she'd holped him," said stephen. "she jes' tuk him an' drug him plumb ter the bars, though i don't see how she done it, slim leetle critter ez she be; an' thar she holped him git on his beastis; an' then--i declar' i feel ez ef i could kill her fur a-demeanin' of herself so--she led that thar horse, him a-ridin' an' a-leanin' on the neck o' the beastis, two mile up the mountain, through the night." "waal, let her bide thar. i'll look on her face no mo'," declared the old man, his toothless jaw shaking. "kittredge she be now, an' none o' the name kin come a-nigh me. how be i ever a-goin' 'bout 'mongst the folks at the settlement agin with my darter married ter a kittredge? how josiah an' his dad mus' be a-grinnin' in thar graves at me this night! an' i 'low they hev got suthin' ter grin about." and suddenly his grim face relaxed, and once more he began to smite his hands together and to call aloud for evelina. timothy could offer no consolation, but stared dismally into the fire, and stephen rose with a sigh and addressed himself to pushing the spinning-wheels and tubs and tables into the opposite corner of the room, in the hope of solving the enigma of its wonted order. * * * * * it seemed to evelina afterward that when she climbed the rugged ways of the mountain slope in that momentous night she left forever in the depths of the cove that free and careless young identity which she had been. she did not accurately discriminate the moment in which she began to realize that she was among her hereditary enemies, encompassed by a hatred nourished to full proportions and to a savage strength long before she drew her first breath. the fact only gradually claimed its share in her consciousness as the tension of anxiety for absalom's sake relaxed, for the young mountaineer's strength and vitality were promptly reasserted, and he rallied from the wound and his pallid and forlorn estate with the recuperative power of the primitive man. by degrees she came to expect the covert unfriendly glances his brother cast upon her, the lowering averted mien of her sister-in-law, and now and again she surprised a long, lingering, curious gaze in his mother's eyes. they were all kittredges! and she wondered how she could ever have dreamed that she might live happily among them--one of them, for her name was theirs. and then perhaps the young husband would stroll languidly in, with his long hair curling on his blue jeans coat-collar, and an assured smile in his dark brown eyes, and some lazy jest on his lips, certain of a welcoming laugh, for he had been so near to death that they all had a sense of acquisition in that he had been led back. for his sake they had said little; his mother would busy herself in brewing his "yerb" tea, and his brother would offer to saddle the mare if he felt that he could ride, and they would all be very friendly together; and his alien wife would presently slip out unnoticed into the "gyarden spot," where the rows of vegetables grew as they did in the cove, turning upon her the same neighborly looks they wore of yore, and showing not a strange leaf among them. the sunshine wrapped itself in its old fine gilded gossamer haze and drowsed upon the verdant slopes; the green jewelled "juny-bugs" whirred in the soft air; the mould was as richly brown as in joel quimbey's own enclosure; the flag-lilies bloomed beside the onion bed; and the woolly green leaves of the sage wore their old delicate tint and gave out a familiar odor. among this quaint company of the garden borders she spent much of her time, now hoeing in a desultory fashion, now leaning on the long handle of the implement and looking away upon the far reaches of the purple mountains. as they stretched to vague distances they became blue, and farther on the great azure domes merged into a still more tender hue, and this in turn melted into a soft indeterminate tint that embellished the faint horizon. her dreaming eyes would grow bright and wistful; her rich brown curling hair, set free by the yellow sun-bonnet that slipped off her head and upon her shoulders, would airily float backward in the wind; there was a lithe grace in the slender figure, albeit clad in a yellow homespun of a deep dye, and the faded purplish neckerchief was caught about a throat fairer even than the fair face, which was delicately flushed. absalom's mother, standing beside peter, the eldest son, in the doorway, watched her long one day. "it all kem about from that thar bran dance," said peter, a homely man, with a sterling, narrow-minded wife and an ascetic sense of religion. "thar satan waits, an' he gits nimbler every time ye shake yer foot. the fiddler gin out the figger ter change partners, an' this hyar gal war dancin' opposite abs'lom, ez hed never looked nigh her till that day. the gal didn't know _what_ ter do; she jes' stood still; but abs'lom he jes' danced up ter her ez keerless an' gay ez he always war, jes' like she war ennybody else, an' when he held out his han' she gin him hern, all a-trembly, an' lookin' up at him, plumb skeered ter death, her eyes all wide an' sorter wishful, like some wild thing trapped in the woods. an' then the durned fiddler, moved by the devil, i'll be bound, plumb furgot ter change 'em back. so they danced haff'n the day tergether. an' arter that they war forever a-stealin' off an' accidentally meetin' at the spring, an' whenst he war a-huntin' or she drivin' up the cow, an' a-courtin' ginerally, till they war promised ter marry." "'twarn't the bran dance; 'twar suthin' ez fleetin' an' ez useless," said his mother, standing in the door and gazing at the unconscious girl, who was leaning upon the hoe, half in the shadow of the blooming laurel that crowded about the enclosure and bent over the rail fence, and half in the burnished sunshine; "she's plumb beautiful--thar's the snare ez tangled abs'lom's steps. i never 'lowed ter see the day ez could show enny comfort fur his dad bein' dead, but we hev been spared some o' the tallest cavortin' that ever war seen sence the big smoky war built. sometimes it plumb skeers me ter think ez we-uns hev got a quimbey abidin' up hyar along o' we-uns in _his_ house an' a-callin' o' herse'f kittredge. i looks ter see him a-stalkin' roun' hyar some night, too outdone an' aggervated ter rest in his grave." but the nights continued spectreless and peaceful on the great smoky, and the same serene stars shone above the mountain as over the cove. evelina could watch here, as often before, the rising moon ascending through a rugged gap in the range, suffusing the dusky purple slopes and the black crags on either hand with a pensive glamour, and revealing the river below by the amber reflection its light evoked. she often sat on the step of the porch, her elbow on her knees, her chin in her hand, following with her shining eyes the pearly white mists loitering among the ranges. hear! a dog barks in the cove, a cock crows, a horn is wound, far, far away; it echoes faintly. and once more only the sounds of the night--that vague stir in the windless woods, as if the forest breathes, the far-away tinkle of water hidden in the darkness--and the moon is among the summits. the men remained within, for absalom avoided the chill night air, and crouched over the smouldering fire. peter's wife sedulously held aloof from the ostracized quimbey woman. but her mother-in-law had fallen into the habit of sitting upon the porch these moonlit nights. the sparse, newly-leafed hop and gourd vines clambering to its roof were all delicately imaged on the floor, and the old woman's clumsy figure, her grotesque sun-bonnet, her awkward arm-chair, were faithfully reproduced in her shadow on the log wall of the cabin--even to the up-curling smoke from her pipe. once she suddenly took the stem from her mouth. "eveliny," she said, "'pears like ter me ye talk mighty little. thar ain't no use in gittin' tongue-tied up hyar on the mounting." evelina started and raised her eyes, dilated with a stare of amazement at this unexpected overture. "i ain't keerin'," said the old woman, recklessly, to herself, although consciously recreant to the traditions of the family, and sacrificing with a pang her distorted sense of loyalty and duty to her kindlier impulse. "i warn't born a kittredge nohow." "yes,'m," said evelina, meekly; "but i don't feel much like talkin' noways; i never talked much, bein' nobody but men-folks ter our house. i'd ruther hear ye talk 'n talk myself." "listen at ye now! the headin' young folks o' this kentry 'll never rest till they make thar elders shoulder _all_ the burdens. an' what air ye wantin' a pore ole 'oman like me ter talk about?" evelina hesitated a moment, then looked up, with a face radiant in the moonbeams. "tell all 'bout abs'lom--afore i ever seen him." his mother laughed. "ye air a powerful fool, eveliny." the girl laughed a little, too. "i dunno ez i want ter be no wiser," she said. but one was his wife, and the other was his mother, and as they talked of him daily and long, the bond between them was complete. * * * * * "i hev got 'em both plumb fooled," the handsome absalom boasted at the settlement, when the gossips wondered once more, as they had often done, that there should be such unity of interest between old joel quimbey's daughter and old josiah kittredge's widow. as time went on many rumors of great peace on the mountain-side came to the father's ears, and he grew more testy daily as he grew visibly older. these rumors multiplied with the discovery that they were as wormwood and gall to him. not that he wished his daughter to be unhappy, but the joy which was his grief and humiliation was needlessly flaunted into his face; the idlers about the county town had invariably a new budget of details, being supplied, somewhat maliciously, it must be confessed, by the kittredges themselves. the ceremony of planting one foot on the neck of the vanquished was in their minds one of the essential concomitants of victory. the bold absalom, not thoroughly known to either of the women who adored him, was ingenious in expedients, and had applied the knowledge gleaned from his wife's reminiscences of her home, her father, and her brothers to more accurately aim his darts. sometimes old quimbey would fairly flee the town, and betake himself in a towering rage to his deserted hearth, to brood futilely over the ashes, and devise impotent schemes of vengeance. he often wondered afterward in dreary retrospection how he had survived that first troublous year after his daughter's elopement, when he was so lonely, so heavy-hearted at home, so harried and angered abroad. his comforts, it is true, were amply insured: a widowed sister had come to preside over his household--a deaf old woman, who had much to be thankful for in her infirmity, for joel quimbey in his youth, before he acquired religion, had been known as a singularly profane man--"a mos' survigrus cusser"--and something of his old proficiency had returned to him. perhaps public sympathy for his troubles strengthened his hold upon the regard of the community. for it was in the second year of evelina's marriage, in the splendid midsummer, when all the gifts of nature climax to a gorgeous perfection, and candidates become incumbents, that he unexpectedly attained the great ambition of his life. he was said to have made the race for justice of the peace from sheer force of habit, but by some unexplained freak of popularity the oft-defeated candidate was successful by a large majority at the august election. "laws-a-massy, boys," he said, tremulously, to his triumphant sons, when the result was announced, the excited flush on his thin old face suffusing his hollow veinous temples, and rising into his fine white hair, "how glad eveliny would hev been ef--ef--" he was about to say if she had lived, for he often spoke of her as if she were dead. he turned suddenly back, and began to eagerly absorb the details of the race, as if he had often before been elected, with calm superiority canvassing the relative strength, or rather the relative weakness, of the defeated aspirants. he could scarcely have measured the joy which the news gave to evelina. she was eminently susceptible of the elation of pride, the fervid glow of success, but her tender heart melted in sympathetic divination of all that this was to him who had sought it so long, and so unabashed by defeat. she pined to see his triumph in his eyes, to hear it in his voice. she wondered--nay, she knew that he longed to tell it to her. as the year rolled around again to summer, and she heard from time to time of his quarterly visits to the town as a member of the worshipful quarterly county court, she began to hope that, softened by his prosperity, lifted so high by his honors above all the cavillings of the kittredges, he might be more leniently disposed toward her, might pity her, might even go so far as to forgive. but none of her filial messages reached her father's fiery old heart. "ye'll be sure, abs'lom, ef ye see joe boyd in town, ye'll tell him ter gin dad my respec's, an' the word ez how the baby air a-thrivin', an' i wants ter fotch him ter see the fambly at home, ef they'll lemme." then she would watch absalom with all the confidence of happy anticipation, as he rode off down the mountain with his hair flaunting, and his spurs jingling, and his shy young horse curveting. but no word ever came in response; and sometimes she would take the child in her arms and carry him down a path, worn smooth by her own feet, to a jagged shoulder thrust out by the mountain where all the slopes fell away, and a crag beetled over the depths of the cove. thence she could discern certain vague lines marking the enclosure, and a tiny cluster of foliage hardly recognizable as the orchard, in the midst of which the cabin nestled. she could not distinguish them, but she knew that the cows were coming to be milked, lowing and clanking their bells tunefully, fording the river that had the sunset emblazoned upon it, or standing flank deep amidst its ripples, the chickens might be going to roost among the althea bushes; the lazy old dogs were astir on the porch. she could picture her brothers at work about the barn; most often a white-haired man who walked with a stick--alack! she did not fancy how feebly, nor that his white hair had grown long and venerable, and tossed in the breeze. "ef he would jes lemme kem fur one haff'n hour!" she would cry. but all her griefs were bewept on the crag, that there might be no tears to distress the tenderhearted absalom when she should return to the house. the election of squire quimbey was a sad blow to the arrogant spirit of the kittredges. they had easily accustomed themselves to ascendency, and they hotly resented the fact that fate had forborne the opportunity to hit joel quimbey when he was down. they had used their utmost influence to defeat him in the race, and had openly avowed their desire to see him bite the dust. the inimical feeling between the families culminated one rainy autumnal day in the town where the quarterly county court was in session. a fire had been kindled in the great rusty stove, and crackled away with grudging merriment inside, imparting no sentiment of cheer to the gaunt bare room, with its dusty window-panes streaked with rain, its shutters drearily flapping in the wind, and the floor bearing the imprint of many boots burdened with the red clay of the region. the sound of slow strolling feet in the brick-paved hall was monotonous and somnolent. squire quimbey sat in his place among the justices. despite his pride of office, he had not the heart for business that might formerly have been his. more than once his attention wandered. he looked absently out of the nearest window at the neighboring dwelling--a little frame-house with a green yard; a well-sweep was defined against the gray sky, and about the curb a file of geese followed with swaying gait the wise old gander. "what a hand for fow-_els_ eveliny war!" he muttered to himself; "an' she hed luck with sech critters." he used the obituary tense, for evelina had in some sort passed away. he rubbed his hand across his corrugated brow, and suddenly he became aware that her husband was in the room, speaking to the chairman of the county court, and claiming a certificate in the sum of two dollars each for the scalps of one wolf, "an' one painter," he continued, laying the small furry repulsive objects upon the desk, "an' one dollar fur the skelp of one wild-cat." he was ready to take his oath that these animals were killed by him running at large in this county. he had stooped a little in making the transfer. he came suddenly to his full height, and stood with one hand in his leather belt, the other shouldering his rifle. the old man scanned him curiously. the crude light from the long windows was full upon his tall slim figure; his yellow hair curled down upon the collar of his blue jeans coat; his great miry boots were drawn high over the trousers to the knee; his pensive deer-like eyes brightened with a touch of arrogance and enmity as, turning slowly to see who was present, his glance encountered his father-in-law's fiery gaze. "mr. cheerman! mr. cheerman!" exclaimed the old man, tremulously, "lemme examinate that thar wild-cat skelp. thanky, sir; thanky, sir; i wanter see ef 'tain't off'n the head o' some old tame tomcat. an' this air a painter's"--affecting to scan it by the window--"two ears 'cordin' to law; yes, sir, two; and this"--his keen old face had all the white light of the sad gray day on its bleaching hair and its many lines, and his eager old hands trembled with the excitement of the significant satire he enacted--"an' this air a wolf's, ye say? yes; it's a kittredge's; same thing, mr. cheerman, by a diff'ent name; nuthin' in the code 'bout'n a premium fur a kittredge's skelp; but same natur'; coward, bully, thief--_thief_!" the words in the high cracked voice rang from the bare walls and bare floors as he tossed the scalps from him, and sat down, laughing silently in painful, mirthless fashion, his toothless jaw quivering, and his shaking hands groping for the arms of his chair. "who says a kittredge air a thief says a lie!" cried out the young man, recovering from his tense surprise. "i don't keer how old he be," he stipulated--for he had not thought to see her father so aged--"he lies." the old man fixed him with a steady gaze and a sudden alternation of calmness. "ye air a kittredge; ye stole my daughter from me." "i never. she kem of her own accord." "damn ye!" the old man retorted to the unwelcome truth. there was nothing else for him to say. "damn the whole tribe of ye; everything that goes by the accursed name of kittredge, that's got a drop o' yer blood, or a bone o' yer bones, or a puff o' yer breath--" "squair! squair!" interposed an officious old colleague, taking him by the elbow, "jes' quiet down now; ye air a-cussin' yer own gran'son." "so be! so be!" cried the old man, in a frenzy of rage. "damn 'em all--all the kittredge tribe!" he gasped for breath; his lips still moved speechlessly as he fell back in his chair. kittredge let his gun slip from his shoulder, the butt ringing heavily as it struck upon the floor. "i ain't a-goin' ter take sech ez that off'n ye, old man," he cried, pallid with fury, for be it remembered this grandson was that august institution, a first baby. "he sha'n't sit up thar an' cuss the baby, mr. cheerman." he appealed to the presiding justice, holding up his right arm as tremulous as old quimbey's own. "i want the law! i ain't a-goin' ter tech a old man like him, an' my wife's father, so i ax in the name o' peace fur the law. don't deny it"--with a warning glance--"'kase i ain't school-larned, an' dunno how ter get it. don't ye deny me the law! i _know_ the law don't 'low a magistrate an' a jestice ter cuss in his high office, in the presence of the county court. i want the law! i want the law!" the chairman of the court, who had risen in his excitement, turning eagerly first to one and then to the other of the speakers, striving to silence the colloquy, and in the sudden surprise of it at a momentary loss how to take action, sat down abruptly, and with a face of consternation. profanity seemed to him so usual and necessary an incident of conversation that it had never occurred to him until this moment that by some strange aberration from the rational estimate of essentials it was entered in the code as a violation of law. he would fain have overlooked it, but the room was crowded with spectators. the chairman would be a candidate for re-election as justice of the peace at the expiration of his term. and after all what was old quimbey to him, or he to old quimbey, that, with practically the whole town looking on, he should destroy his political prospects and disregard the dignity of his office. he had a certain twinge of conscience, and a recollection of the choice and fluent oaths of his own repertory, but as he turned over the pages of the code in search of the section he deftly argued that they were uttered in his own presence as a person, not as a justice. and so for the first time old joel quimbey appeared as a law-breaker, and was duly fined by the worshipful county court fifty cents for each oath, that being the price at which the state rates the expensive and impious luxury of swearing in the hearing of a justice of the peace, and which in its discretion the court saw fit to adopt in this instance. the old man offered no remonstrance; he said not a word in his own defence. he silently drew out his worn wallet, with much contortion of his thin old anatomy in getting to his pocket, and paid his fines on the spot. absalom had already left the room, the clerk having made out the certificates, the chairman of the court casting the scalps into the open door of the stove, that they might be consumed by fire according to law. the young mountaineer wore a heavy frown, and his heart was ill at ease. he sought some satisfaction in the evident opinion of the crowd which now streamed out, for the excitements within were over, that he had done a fine thing; a very clever thought, they considered it, to demand the law of mr. chairman, that one of their worships should be dragged from the bench and arraigned before the quarterly county court of which he was a member. the result gave general satisfaction, although there were those who found fault with the court's moderation, and complained that the least possible cognizance had been taken of the offence. "ho! ho! ho!" laughed an old codger in the street. "i jes knowed that hurt old joel quimbey wuss 'n ef a body hed druv a knife through him; he's been so proud o' bein' jestice 'mongst his betters, an' bein' 'lected at las', many times ez he hev run. waal, abs'lom, ye hev proved thar's law fur jestices too. i tell ye ye hev got sense in yer skull-i-bone." but absalom hung his head before these congratulations; he found no relish in the old man's humbled pride. yet had he not cursed the baby, lumping him among the kittredges? absalom went about for a time, with a hopeful anxiety in his eyes, searching for one of the younger quimbeys, in order to involve him in a fight that might have a provocation and a result more to his mind. somehow the recollection of the quivering and aged figure of his wife's father, of the smitten look on his old face, of his abashed and humbled demeanor before the court, was a reproach to him, vivid and continuously present with his repetitious thoughts forever re-enacting the scene. his hands trembled; he wanted to lay hold on a younger man, to replace this æsthetic revenge with a quarrel more wholesome in the estimation of his own conscience. but the quimbey sons were not in town to-day. he could only stroll about and hear himself praised for this thing that he had done, and wonder how he should meet evelina with his conscience thus arrayed against himself for her father's sake. "plumb turned quimbey, i swear," he said, in helpless reproach to this independent and coercive moral force within. his dejection, he supposed, had reached its lowest limits, when a rumor pervaded the town, so wild that he thought it could be only fantasy. it proved to be fact. joel quimbey, aggrieved, humbled, and indignant, had resigned his office, and as absalom rode out of town toward the mountains, he saw the old man in his crumpled brown jeans suit, mounted on his white mare, jogging down the red clay road, his head bowed before the slanting lines of rain, on his way to his cheerless fireside. he turned off presently, for the road to the levels of the cove was not the shorter cut that absalom travelled to the mountains. but all the way the young man fancied that he saw from time to time, as the bridle-path curved in the intricacies of the laurel, the bowed old figure among the mists, jogging along, his proud head and his stiff neck bent to the slanting rain and the buffets of his unkind fate. and yet, pressing the young horse to overtake him, absalom could find naught but the fleecy mists drifting down the bridle-path as the wind might will, or lurking in the darkling nooks of the laurel when the wind would. * * * * * the sun was shining on the mountains, and absalom went up from the sad gray rain and through the gloomy clouds of autumn hanging over the cove into a soft brilliant upper atmosphere--a generous after-thought of summer--and the warm brightness of evelina's smile. she stood in the doorway as she saw him dismounting, with her finger on her lips, for the baby was sleeping: he put much of his time into that occupation. the tiny gourds hung yellow among the vines that clambered over the roof of the porch, and a brave jack-bean--a friend of the sheltering eaves--made shift to bloom purple and white, though others of the kind hung crisp and sere, and rattled their dry bones in every gust. the "gyarden spot" at the side of the house was full of brown and withered skeletons of the summer growths; among the crisp blades of the indian-corn a sibilant voice was forever whispering; down the tawny-colored vistas the pumpkins glowed. the sky was blue; the yellow hickory flaming against it and hanging over the roof of the cabin was a fine color to see. the red sour-wood tree in the fence corner shook out a myriad of white tassels; the rolling tumult of the gray clouds below thickened, and he could hear the rain a-falling--falling into the dreary depths of the cove. all this for him: why should he disquiet himself for the storm that burst upon others? evelina seemed a part of the brightness; her dark eyes so softly alight, her curving red lips, the faint flush in her cheeks, her rich brown hair, and the purplish kerchief about the neck of her yellow dress. once more she looked smilingly at him, and shook her head and laid her finger on her lip. "i oughter been sati'fied with all i got, stiddier hectorin' other folks till they 'ain't got no heart ter hold on ter what they been at sech trouble ter git," he said, as he turned out the horse and strode gloomily toward the house with the saddle over his arm. "hev ennybody been spiteful ter you-uns ter-day?" she asked, in an almost maternal solicitude, and with a flash of partisan anger in her eyes. "git out'n my road, eveliny," he said, fretfully, pushing by, and throwing the saddle on the floor. there was no one in the room but the occupant of the rude box on rockers which served as cradle. absalom had a swift, prescient fear. "she'll git it all out'n me ef i don't look sharp," he said to himself. then aloud, "whar's mam?" he demanded, flinging himself into a chair and looking loweringly about. "topknot hev jes kem off'n her nest with fourteen deedies, an' she an' 'melia hev gone ter the barn ter see 'bout'n 'em." "whar's pete?" "a-huntin'." a pause. the fire smouldered audibly; a hickory-nut fell with a sharp thwack on the clapboards of the roof, and rolled down and bounded to the ground. suddenly: "i seen yer dad ter-day," he began, without coercion. "he gin me a cussin', in the court-room, 'fore all the folks. he cussed all the kittredges, _all_ o' 'em; him too"--he glanced in the direction of the cradle--"cussed 'em black an' blue, an' called me a _thief_ fur marryin' ye an kerry-in' ye off." her face turned scarlet, then pale. she sat down, her trembling hands reaching out to rock the cradle, as if the youthful kittredge might be disturbed by the malediction hurled upon his tribe. but he slept sturdily on. "waal, now," she said, making a great effort at self-control, "ye oughtn't ter mind it. ye know he war powerful tried. i never purtended ter be ez sweet an' pritty ez the baby air, but how would you-uns feel ef somebody ye despised war ter kem hyar an' tote him off from we-uns forever?" "i'd cut thar hearts out," he said, with prompt barbarity. "thar, now!" exclaimed his wife, in triumphant logic. he gloomily eyed the smouldering coals. he was beginning to understand the paternal sentiment. by his own heart he was learning the heart of his wife's father. "i'd chop 'em inter minch-meat," he continued, carrying his just reprisals a step further. "waal, don't do it right now," said his wife, trying to laugh, yet vaguely frightened by his vehemence. "eveliny," he cried, springing to his feet, "i be a-goin' ter tell ye all 'bout'n it. i jes called on the cheerman fur the law agin him." "agin _dad_!--the law!" her voice dropped as she contemplated aghast this terrible uncomprehended force brought to oppress old joel quimbey; she felt a sudden poignant pang for his forlorn and lonely estate. "never mind, never mind, eveliny," absalom said, hastily, repenting of his frantic candor and seeking to soothe her. "i _will_ mind," she said, sternly. "what hev ye done ter dad?" "nuthin'," he replied, sulkily--"nuthin'." "ye needn't try ter fool me, abs'lom kittredge. ef ye ain't minded ter tell me, i'll foot it down ter town an' find out. what did the law do ter him?" "jes fined him," he said, striving to make light of it. "an' ye done that fur--_spite_!" she cried. "a-settin' the law ter chouse a old man out'n money, fur gittin' mad an' sayin' ye stole his only darter. oh, i'll answer fur him"--she too had risen; her hand trembled on the back of the chair, but her face was scornfully smiling--"he don't mind the _money_; he'll never git you-uns _fined_ ter pay back the gredge. he don't take his wrath out on folkses' _wallets_; he grips thar throats, or teches the trigger o' his rifle. laws-a-massy! takin' out yer gredge that-a-way! it's _ye_ poorer fur them dollars, abs'lom--'tain't him." she laughed satirically, and turned to rock the cradle. "what d'ye want me ter do? fight a old man?" he exclaimed, angrily. she kept silence, only looking at him with a flushed cheek and a scornful laughing eye. he went on, resentfully: "i ain't 'shamed," he stoutly asserted. "nobody 'lowed i oughter be. it's him, plumb bowed down with shame." "the shoe's on the t'other foot," she cried. "it's ye that oughter be 'shamed, an' ef ye ain't, it's more shame ter ye. what hev he got ter be 'shamed of?" "'kase," he retorted, "he war fetched up afore a court on a crim'nal offence--a-cussin' afore the court! ye may think it's no shame, but he do; he war so 'shamed he gin up his office ez jestice o' the peace, what he hev run fur four or five times, an' always got beat 'ceptin' wunst." "dad!" but for the whisper she seemed turning to stone; her dilated eyes were fixed as she stared into his face. "an' i seen him a-ridin' off from town in the rain arterward, his head hangin' plumb down ter the saddle-bow." her amazed eyes were still fastened upon his face, but her hand no longer trembled on the back of the chair. he suddenly held out his own hand to her, his sympathy and regret returning as he recalled the picture of the lonely wayfarer in the rain that had touched him so. "oh, eveliny!" he cried, "i never war so beset an' sorry an'--" she struck his hand down; her eyes blazed. her aspect was all instinct with anger. "i do declar' i'll never furgive ye--ter spite him so--an' kem an' tell _me_! an' shame him so ez he can't hold his place--an' kem an' tell _me_! an' bow him down so ez he can't show his face whar he hev been so respected by all--an' kem an' tell _me_! an' all fur spite, fur he hev got nuthin' ye want now. an' i gin him up an' lef him lonely, an' all fur you-uns. ye air mean, abs'lom kittredge, an' i'm the mos' fursaken fool on the face o' the yearth!" he tried to speak, but she held up her hand in expostulation. "nare word--fur i won't answer. i do declar' i'll never speak ter ye agin ez long ez i live." he flung away with a laugh and a jeer. "that's right," he said, encouragingly; "plenty o' men would be powerful glad ef thar wives would take pattern by that." he caught up his hat and strode out of the room. he busied himself in stabling his horse, and in looking after the stock. he could hear the women's voices from the loft of the barn as they disputed about the best methods of tending the newly hatched chickens, that had chipped the shell so late in the fall as to be embarrassed by the frosts and the coming cold weather. the last bee had ceased to drone about the great crimson prince's-feather by the door-step, worn purplish through long flaunting, and gone to seed. the clouds were creeping up and up the slope, and others were journeying hither from over the mountains. a sense of moisture was in the air, although a great column of dust sprang up from the dry corn-field, with panic-stricken suggestions, and went whirling away, carrying off withered blades in the rush. the first drops of rain were pattering, with a resonant timbre in the midst, when pete came home with a newly killed deer on his horse, and the women, with fluttering skirts and sun-bonnets, ran swiftly across from the barn to the back door of the shed-room. then the heavy downpour made the cabin rock. "why, eveliny an' the baby oughtn't ter be out in this hyar rain--they'll be drenched," said the old woman, when they were all safely housed except the two. "whar be she?" "a-foolin' in the gyarden spot a-getherin' seed an' sech, like she always be," said the sister-in-law, tartly. absalom ran out into the rain without his hat, his heart in the clutch of a prescient terror. no; the summer was over for the garden as well as for him; all forlorn and rifled, its few swaying shrubs tossed wildly about, a mockery of the grace and bloom that had once embellished it. his wet hair streaming backward in the wind caught on the laurel boughs as he went down and down the tangled path that her homesick feet had worn to the crag which overlooked the cove. not there! he stood, himself enveloped in the mist, and gazed blankly into the folds of the dun-colored clouds that with tumultuous involutions surged above the valley and baffled his vision. he realized it with a sinking heart. she was gone. * * * * * that afternoon--it was close upon nightfall--stephen quimbey, letting down the bars for the cows, noticed through the slanting lines of rain, serried against the masses of sober-hued vapors which hid the great mountain towering above the cove, a woman crossing the foot-bridge. he turned and lifted down another bar, and then looked again. something was familiar in her aspect, certainly. he stood gravely staring. her sun-bonnet had fallen back upon her shoulders, and was hanging loosely there by the strings tied beneath her chin; her brown hair, dishevelled by the storm, tossed back and forth in heavy wave-less locks, wet through and through. when the wind freshened they lashed, thong-like, her pallid oval face; more than once she put up her hand and tried to gather them together, or to press them back--only one hand, for she clasped a heavy bundle in her arms, and as she toiled along slowly up the rocky slope, stephen suddenly held his palm above his eyes. the recognition was becoming definite, and yet he could scarcely believe his senses: was it indeed evelina, wind-tossed, tempest-beaten, and with as many tears as rain-drops on her pale cheek? evelina, forlorn and sorry, and with swollen sad dark eyes, and listless exhausted step--here again at the bars, where she had not stood since she dragged her wounded lover thence on that eventful night two years and more ago. resentment for the domestic treachery was uppermost in his mind, and he demanded surlily, when she had advanced within the sound of his words, "what hev ye kem hyar fur?" "ter stay," she responded, briefly. his hand in an uncertain gesture laid hold upon his tuft of beard. "fur good?" he faltered, amazed. she nodded silently. he stooped to lift down the lowest bar that she might pass. suddenly the bundle she clasped gave a dexterous twist; a small head, with yellow downy hair, was thrust forth; a pair of fawn-like eyes fixed an inquiring stare upon him; the pink face distended with a grin, to which the two small teeth in the red mouth, otherwise empty, lent a singularly merry expression; and with a manner that was a challenge to pursuit, the head disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, tucked with affected shyness under evelina's arm. she left stephen standing with the bar in his hand, staring blankly after her, and ran into the cabin. her father had no questions to ask--nor she. as he caught her in his arms he gave a great cry of joy that rang through the house, and brought timothy from the barn, in astonishment, to the scene. "eveliny's _home_!" he cried out to tim, who, with the ox-yoke in his hand, paused in the doorway. "kem ter stay! eveliny's _home_! i knowed she'd kem back to her old daddy. eveliny's kem ter stay fur good." "they tole me they'd hectored ye plumb out'n the town an' out'n yer office. they hed the insurance ter tell _me_ that word!" she cried, sobbing on his breast. "what d'ye reckon i keer fur enny jestice's cheer when i hev got ye agin ter set alongside o' me by the fire?" he exclaimed, his cracked old voice shrill with triumphant gladness. he pushed her into her rocking-chair in the chimney-corner, and laughed again with the supreme pleasure of the moment, although she had leaned her head against the logs of the wall, and was sobbing aloud with the contending emotions that tore her heart. "didn't ye ever want ter kem afore, eveliny?" he demanded. "i hev been a-pinin' fur a glimge o' ye." he was in his own place now, his hands trembling as they lay on the arms of his chair, a pathetic reproach was in his voice. "though old folks oughtn't ter expec' too much o' young ones, ez be all tuk up naterally with tharse'fs," he added, bravely. he would not let his past lonely griefs mar the bright present. "old folks air mos'ly cumberers--mos'ly cumberers o' the yearth, ennyhow." her weeping had ceased; she was looking at him with dismayed surprise in her eyes, still lustrous with unshed tears. "why, dad i sent ye a hundred messages ef i mought kem. i tole abs'lom ter tell joe boyd--bein' as ye liked joe--i wanted ter see ye." she leaned forward and looked up at him with frowning intensity. "they never gin ye that word?" he laughed aloud in sorry scorn. "we can't teach our chil'n nuthin'," he philosophized. "they hev got ter hurt tharse'fs with all the thorns an' the stings o' the yearth. our sperience with the sharp things an' bitter ones don't do them no sarvice. naw, leetle darter--naw! ye mought ez well gin a message o' kindness ter a wolf, an' expec' him ter kerry it ter some lonesome, helpless thing a-wounded by the way-side, ez gin it ter a kittredge." "i never will speak ter one o' 'em agin ez long ez i live," she cried, with a fresh gust of tears. "waal," exclaimed the old man, reassuringly, and chirping high, "hyar we all be agin, jes' the same ez we war afore. don't cry, eveliny; it's jes' the same." a sudden babbling intruded upon the conversation. the youthful kittredge, as he sat upon the wide flat stones of the hearth, was as unwelcome here in the cove as a quimbey had been in the cabin on the mountain. the great hickory fire called for his unmixed approval, coming in, as he had done, from the gray wet day. he shuffled his bare pink feet--exceedingly elastic and agile members they seemed to be, and he had a remarkable "purchase" upon their use--and brought them smartly down upon their heels as if this were one of the accepted gestures of applause. then he looked up at the dark frowning faces of his mother's brothers, and gurgled with laughter, showing the fascinating spectacle of his two front teeth. perhaps it was the only kittredge eye that they were not willing to meet. they solemnly gazed beyond him and into the fire, ignoring his very existence. he sustained the slight with an admirable cheerfulness, and babbled and sputtered and flounced about with his hands. he grew pinker in the generous firelight, and he looked very fat as he sat in a heap on the floor. he seemed to have threads tightly tied about his bolster-shaped limbs in places where elder people prefer joints--in his ankles and wrists and elbows--for his arms were bare, and although his frock of pink calico hung decorously high on one shoulder, it drooped quite off from the other, showing a sturdy chest. his mother took slight notice of him; she was beginning to look about the room with a certain critical disfavor at the different arrangement of the household furniture adopted by her father's deaf and widowed old sister who presided here now, and who, it chanced, had been called away by the illness of a relative. evelina got up presently, and shifted the position of the spinning-wheels, placing the flax-wheel where the large wheel had been. she then pushed out the table from the corner. "what ailed her ter sot it hyar?" she grumbled, in a disaffected undertone, and shoved it to the centre of the floor, where it had always stood during her own sway. she cast a discerning glance up among the strings of herbs and peppers hanging from above, and examined the shelves where the simple stores for table use were arranged in earthen-ware bowls or gourds--all with an air of vague dissatisfaction. she presently stepped into the shed-room, and there looked over the piles of quilts. they were in order, certainly, but placed in a different method from her own; another woman's hand had been at work, and she was jealous of its very touch among these familiar old things to which she seemed positively akin. "i wonder how i made out ter bide so long on the mounting," she said; and with the recollection of the long-haired absalom there was another gush of tears and sobs, which she stifled as she could in one of the old quilts that held many of her own stitches and was soothing to touch. the infantile kittredge, who was evidently not born to blush unseen, seemed to realize that he had failed to attract the attention of the three absorbed quimbeys who sat about the fire. he blithely addressed himself to another effort. he suddenly whisked himself over on all-fours, and with a certain ursine aspect went nimbly across the hearth, still holding up his downy yellow head, his pink face agrin, and alluringly displaying his two facetious teeth. he caught the rung of tim's chair, and lifted himself tremulously to an upright posture. and then it became evident that he was about to give an exhibition of the thrilling feat of walking around a chair. with a truly kittredge perversity he had selected the one that had the savage timothy seated in it. for an instant the dark-browed face scowled down into his unaffrighted eyes: it seemed as if tim might kick him into the fire. the next moment he had set out to circumnavigate, as it were. what a prodigious force he expended upon it! how he gurgled and grinned and twisted his head to observe the effect upon the men, all sedulously gazing into the fire! how he bounced, and anon how he sank with sudden genuflections! how limber his feet seemed, and what free agents! surely he never intended to put them down at that extravagant angle. more than once one foot was placed on top of the other--an attitude that impeded locomotion and resulted in his sitting down in an involuntary manner and with some emphasis. with an appalling temerity he clutched tim's great miry boots to help him up and on his way round. occasionally he swayed to and fro, with his teeth on exhibition, laughing and babbling and shrilly exclaiming, inarticulately bragging of his agile prowess, as if he were able to defy all the quimbeys, who would not notice him. and when it was all over he went in his wriggling ursine gait back to the hearth-stone, and there he was sitting, demurely enough, and as if he had never moved, when his mother returned and found him. there was no indication that he had attracted a moment's attention. she looked gravely down at him; then took her chair. a pair of blue yarn socks was in her hand. "i never see sech darnin' ez aunt sairy ann do fur ye, dad; i hev jes tuk my shears an' cut this heel smang out, an' i be goin' ter do it over." she slipped a tiny gourd into the heel, and began to draw the slow threads to and fro across it. the blaze, red and yellow, and with elusive purple gleams, leaped up the chimney. the sap was still in the wood; it sang a summer-tide song. but an autumn wind was blowing shrilly down the chimney; one could hear the sibilant rush of the dead leaves on the blast. the window and the door shook, and were still, and once more rattled as if a hand were on the latch. suddenly--"ever weigh him?" her father asked. she sat upright with a nervous start. it was a moment before she understood that it was of the kittredge scion he spoke. with his high cracked laugh the old man leaned over, his outspread hand hovering about the plump baby, uncertain where, in so much soft fatness, it might be practicable to clutch him. there were some large horn buttons on the back of his frock, a half-dozen of which, gathered together, afforded a grasp. he lifted the child by them, laughing in undisguised pleasure to feel the substantial strain upon the garment. "toler'ble survigrus," he declared, with his high chirp. his daughter suddenly sprang up with a pallid face and a pointing hand. "the winder!" she huskily cried--"suthin's at the winder!" but when they looked they saw only the dark square of tiny panes, with the fireside scene genially reflected on it. and then she fell to declaring that she had been dreaming, and besought them not to take down their guns nor to search, and would not be still until they had all seemed to concede the point; it was she who fastened the doors and shutters, and she did not lie down to rest till they were all asleep and hours had passed. none of them doubted that it was absalom's face that she had seen at the window, where the light had once lured him before, and she knew that she had dreamed no dream like this. * * * * * it soon became evident that whenever joe boyd was intrusted with a message he would find means to deliver it. for upon him presently devolved the difficult duties of ambassador. the first time that his honest square face appeared at the rail fence, and the sound of his voice roused evelina as she stood feeding the poultry close by, she returned his question with a counter-question hard to answer. "i hev been up the mounting," he said, smiling, as he hooked his arms over the rail fence. "abs'lom he say he wanter know when ye'll git yer visit out an' kem home." she leaned her elbow against the ash-hopper, balancing the wooden bowl of corn-meal batter on its edge and trembling a little; the geese and chickens and turkeys crowded, a noisy rout, about her feet. "joe," she said, irrelevantly, "ye air one o' the few men on this yearth ez ain't a liar." he stared at her gravely for a moment, then burst into a forced laugh. "ho! ho! i tell a bushel o' 'em a day, eveliny!" he wagged his head in an anxious affectation of mirth. "why'n't ye gin dad them messages ez abs'lom gin ye from me?" joe received this in blank amaze; then, with sudden comprehension, his lower jaw dropped. he looked at her with a plea for pity in his eyes. and yet his ready tact strove to reassert itself. "i mus' hev furgot 'em," he faltered. "did abs'lom ever gin 'em ter ye?" she persisted. "_ef he did_, i mus' hev furgot 'em," he repeated, crestfallen and hopeless. she laughed and turned jauntily away, once more throwing the corn-meal batter to the greedily jostling poultry. "tell abs'lom i hev f'und him out," she said. "he can't sot me agin dad no sech way. this be my home, an' hyar i be goin' ter 'bide." and so she left the good joe boyd hooked on by the elbows to the fence. the quimbeys, who had heard this conversation from within, derived from it no small elation. "she hev gin 'em the go-by fur good," timothy said, confidently, to his father, who laughed in triumph, and pulled calmly at his pipe, and looked ten years younger. but steve was surlily anxious. "i'd place heap mo' dependence in eveliny ef she didn't hev this hyar way o' cryin' all the time. she 'lows she's glad she kem--_so glad_ she hev lef' abs'lom fur good an' all--an' then she busts out a-cryin' agin. i ain't able ter argufy on sech." "shucks! wimmen air always a-cryin', an' they don't mean _nuthin_' by it," exclaimed the old man, in the plenitude of his wisdom. "it air jes' one o' thar most contrarious ways. i hev seen 'em set down an' cry fur joy an' pleasure." [illustration: "'why'n't ye gin dad them messages?'"] but steve was doubtful. "it be a powerful low-sperited gift fur them ez hev ter 'bide along of 'em. eveliny never useter be tearful in nowise. now she cries a heap mo' 'n that thar shoat"--his lips curled in contempt as he glanced toward the door, through which was visible a small rotund figure in pink calico, seated upon the lowest log of the wood-pile--"ez she fotched down hyar with her. _he_ never hev hed a reg'lar blate but two or three times sence he hev been hyar, an' them war when that thar old tur-rkey gobbler teetered up ter him an' tuk his corn-dodger that he war a-eatin' on plumb out'n his hand. _he_ hed suthin' to holler fur--hed los' his breakfus." "don't he 'pear ter you-uns to be powerful peegeon-toed?" asked tim, anxiously, turning to his father. "the gawbbler?" faltered the amazed old man. "naw; him, _him_--_kittredge_," said tim, jerking his big thumb in the direction of the small boy. "law-dy gawd a'mighty! _naw! naw!_" the grandfather indignantly repudiated the imputation of the infirmity. one would have imagined that he would deem it meet that a kittredge should be pigeon-toed. "it's jes the way _all_ babies hev got a-walkin'; he ain't right handy yit with his feet--jes a-beginnin' ter walk, an' sech. peegeon-toed! i say it, ye fool!" he cast a glance of contempt on his eldest-born, and arrogantly puffed his pipe. again joe boyd came, and yet again. he brought messages contrite and promissory from absalom; he brought commands stern and insistent. he came into the house at last, and sat and talked at the fireside in the presence of the men of the family, who bore themselves in a manner calculated to impress the kittredge emissary with their triumph and contempt for his mission, although they studiously kept silence, leaving it to evelina to answer. at last the old man, leaning forward, tapped joe on the knee. "see hyar, joe. ye hev always been a good frien' o' mine. this hyar man he stole my darter from me, an' whenst she wanted ter be frien's, an' not let her old dad die unforgivin', he wouldn't let her send the word ter me. an' then he sot himself ter spite an' hector me, an' fairly run me out'n the town, an' harried me out'n my office, an' when she f'und out--she wouldn't take my word fur it--the deceivin' natur' o' the kittredge tribe, she hed hed enough o' 'em. i hev let ye argufy 'bout'n it; ye hev hed yer fill of words. an' now i be tired out. ye ain't 'lowin' she'll ever go back ter her husband, air ye?" joe dolorously shook his head. "waal, ef ever ye kem hyar talkin' 'bout'n it agin, i'll be 'bleeged ter take down my rifle ter ye." joe gazed, unmoved, into the fire. "an' that would be mighty hard on me, joe, 'kase ye be so pop'lar 'mongst all, i dunno _what_ the kentry-side would do ter me ef i war ter put a bullet inter ye. ye air a young man, joe. ye oughter spare a old man sech a danger ez that." and so it happened that joe boyd's offices as mediator ceased. a week went by in silence and without result. evelina's tears seemed to keep count of the minutes. the brothers indignantly noted it, and even the old man was roused from the placid securities of his theories concerning lachrymose womankind, and remonstrated sometimes, and sometimes grew angry and exhorted her to go back. what did it matter to her how her father was treated? he was a cumberer of the ground, and many people besides her husband had thought he had no right to sit in a justice's chair. and then she would burst into tears once more, and declare again that she would never go back. the only thoroughly cheerful soul about the place was the intruding kittredge. he sat continuously--for the weather was fine--on the lowest log of the wood-pile, and swung his bare pink feet among the chips and bark, and seemed to have given up all ambition to walk. occasionally red and yellow leaves whisked past his astonished eyes, although these were few now, for november was on the wane. he babbled to the chickens, who pecked about him with as much indifference as if he were made of wood. his two teeth came glittering out whenever the rooster crowed, and his gleeful laugh--he rejoiced so in this handsomely endowed bird--could be heard to the barn. the dogs seemed never to have known that he was a kittredge, and wagged their tails at the very sound of his voice, and seized surreptitious opportunities to lick his face. of all his underfoot world only the gobbler awed him into gravity and silence; he would gaze in dismay as the marauding fowl irresolutely approached from around the wood-pile, with long neck out-stretched and undulating gait, applying first one eye and then the other to the pink hands, for the gobbler seemed to consider them a perpetual repository of corn-dodgers, which indeed they were. then the head and the wabbling red wattles would dart forth with a sudden peck, and the shriek that ensued proved that nothing could be much amiss with the kittredge lungs. one fine day he sat thus in the red november sunset. the sky, seen through the interlacing black boughs above his head, was all amber and crimson, save for a wide space of pure and pallid green, against which the purplish-garnet wintry mountains darkly gloomed. beyond the rail fence the avenues of the bare woods were carpeted with the sere yellowish leaves that gave back the sunlight with a responsive illuminating effect, and thus the sylvan vistas glowed. the long slanting beams elongated his squatty little shadow till it was hardly a caricature. he heard the cow lowing as she came to be milked, fording the river where the clouds were so splendidly reflected. the chickens were going to roost. the odor of the wood, the newly-hewn chips, imparted a fresh and fragrant aroma to the air. he had found among them a sweet-gum ball and a pine cone, and was applying them to the invariable test of taste. suddenly he dropped them with a nervous start, his lips trembled, his lower jaw fell, he was aware of a stealthy approach. something was creeping behind the wood-pile. he hardly had time to bethink himself of his enemy the gobbler when he was clutched under the arm, swung through the air with a swiftness that caused the scream to evaporate in his throat, and the next moment he looked quakingly up into his father's face with unrecognizing eyes; for he had forgotten absalom in these few weeks. he squirmed and wriggled as he was held on the pommel of the saddle, winking and catching his breath and spluttering, as preliminary proceedings to an outcry. there was a sudden sound of heavily shod feet running across the puncheon floor within, a wild, incoherent exclamation smote the air, an interval of significant silence ensued. "get up!" cried absalom, not waiting for tim's rifle, but spurring the young horse, and putting him at the fence. the animal rose with the elasticity and lightness of an uprearing ocean wave. the baby once more twisted his soft neck, and looked anxiously into the rider's face. this was not the gobbler. the gobbler did not ride horseback. then the affinity of the male infant for the noble equine animal suddenly overbore all else. in elation he smote with his soft pink hand the glossy arched neck before him. "dul-lup!" he arrogantly echoed absalom's words. and thus father and son at a single bound disappeared into woods, and so out of sight. * * * * * the savage tim was leaning upon his rifle in the doorway, his eyes dilated, his breath short, his whole frame trembling with excitement, as the other men, alarmed by evelina's screams, rushed down from the barn. "what ails ye, tim? why'n't ye fire?" demanded his father. tim turned an agitated, baffled look upon him. "i--i mought hev hit the baby," he faltered. "hain't ye got no aim, ye durned sinner?" asked stephen, furiously. "bullet mought hev gone through him and struck inter the baby," expostulated tim. "an' then agin it moughtn't!" cried stephen. "lawd, ef _i_ hed hed the chance!" "ye wouldn't hev done no differ," declared tim. "hyar!" steve caught his brother's gun and presented it to tim's lips. "suck the bar'l. it's 'bout all ye air good fur." the horses had been turned out. by the time they were caught and saddled pursuit was evidently hopeless. the men strode in one by one, dashing the saddles and bridles on the floor, and finding in angry expletives a vent for their grief. and indeed it might have seemed that the quimbeys must have long sought a choice kittredge infant for adoption, so far did their bewailings discount rachel's mourning. "don't cry, eveliny," they said, ever and anon. "we-uns'll git him back fur ye." but she had not shed a tear. she sat speechless, motionless, as if turned to stone. "laws-a-massy, child, ef ye would jes hev b'lieved _me_ 'bout'n them kittredges--abs'lom in partic'lar--ye'd be happy an' free now," said the old man, his imagination somewhat extending his experience, for he had had no knowledge of his son-in-law until their relationship began. the evening wore drearily on. now and then the men roused themselves, and with lowering faces discussed the opportunities of reprisal, and the best means of rescuing the child. and whether they schemed to burn the kittredge cabin, or to arm themselves, burst in upon their enemies, shooting and killing all who resisted, evelina said nothing, but stared into the fire with unnaturally dilated eyes, her white lined face all drawn and somehow unrecognizable. "never mind," her father said at intervals, taking her cold hand, "we-uns 'll git him back, eveliny. the lord hed a mother wunst, an' i'll be bound he keeps a special pity for a woman an' her child." "oh, great gosh! who'd hev dreamt we'd hev missed him so!" cried tim, shifting his position, and slipping his left arm over the back of his chair. "jes ter think o' the leetle size o' him, an' the great big gap he hev lef' roun' this hyar ha'th-stone!" "an' yit he jes sot underfoot, 'mongst the cat an' the dogs, jes ez humble!" said stephen. "i'd git him back even ef he warn't no kin ter me, eveliny," declared tim, and he spoke advisedly, remembering that the youth was a kittredge. still evelina said not a word. all that night she silently walked the puncheon floor, while the rest of the household slept. the dogs, in vague disturbance, because of the unprecedented vigil and stir in the midnight, wheezed uneasily from time to time, and crept restlessly about under the cabin, now and again thumping their backs or heads against the floor; but at last they betook themselves to slumber. the hickory logs broke in twain as they burned, and fell on either side, and presently there was only the dull red glow of the embers on her pale face, and the room was full of brown shadows, motionless, now that the flames flared no more. once when the red glow, growing ever dimmer, seemed almost submerged beneath the gray ashes, she paused and stirred the coals. the renewed glimmer showed a fixed expression in her eyes, becoming momently more resolute. at intervals she knelt at the window and placed her hands about her face to shut out the light from the hearth, and looked out upon the night. how the chill stars loitered! how the dawn delayed! the great mountain gloomed darkling above the cove. the waning moon, all melancholy and mystic, swung in the purple sky. the bare, stark boughs of the trees gave out here and there a glimmer of hoar-frost. there was no wind; when she heard the dry leaves whisk she caught a sudden glimpse of a fox that, with his crafty shadow pursuing him, leaped upon the wood-pile, nimbly ran along its length, and so, noiselessly, away--while the dogs snored beneath the house. a cock crew from the chicken-roost; the mountain echoed the resonant strain. she saw a mist come stealing softly along a precipitous gorge; the gauzy web hung shimmering in the moon; presently the trees were invisible; anon they showed rigid among the soft enmeshment of the vapor, and again were lost to view. she rose; there was a new energy in her step; she walked quickly across the floor and unbarred the door. the little cabin on the mountain was lost among the clouds. it was not yet day, but the old woman, with that proclivity to early rising characteristic of advancing years, was already astir. it was in the principal room of the cabin that she slept, and it contained another bed, in which, placed crosswise, were five billet-shaped objects under the quilts, which when awake identified themselves as peter kittredge's children. she had dressed and uncovered the embers, and put on a few of the chips which had been spread out on the hearth to dry, and had sat down in the chimney corner. a timid blaze began to steal up, and again was quenched, and only the smoke ascended in its form; then the light flickered out once more, casting a gigantic shadow of her sun-bonnet--for she had donned it thus early--half upon the brown and yellow daubed wall, and half upon the dark ceiling, making a specious stir amidst the peltry and strings of pop-corn hanging motionless thence. she sighed heavily once or twice, and with an aged manner, and leaned her elbows on her knees and gazed contemplatively at the fire. all at once the ashes were whisked about the hearth as in a sudden draught, and then were still. in momentary surprise she pushed her chair back, hesitated, then replaced it, and calmly settled again her elbows on her knees. suddenly once more a whisking of the ashes; a cold shiver ran through her, and she turned to see a hand fumbling at the batten shutter close by. she stared for a moment as if paralyzed; her spectacles fell to the floor from her nerveless hand, shattering the lenses on the hearth. she rose trembling to her feet, and her lips parted as if to cry out. they emitted no sound, and she turned with a terrified fascination and looked back. the shutter had opened, there was no glass, the small square of the window showed the nebulous gray mist without, and defined upon it was evelina's head, her dark hair streaming over the red shawl held about it, her fair oval face pallid and pensive, and with a great wistfulness upon it; her lustrous dark eyes glittered. "mother," her red lips quivered out. the old crone recognized no treachery in her heart. she laid a warning finger upon her lips. all the men were asleep. evelina stretched out her yearning arms. "gin him ter me!" "naw, naw, eveliny," huskily whispered absalom's mother. "ye oughter kem hyar an' 'bide with yer husband--ye know ye ought." evelina still held out her insistent arms. "gin him ter me!" she pleaded. the old woman shook her head sternly. "ye kem in, an' 'bide whar ye b'long." evelina took a step nearer the window. she laid her hand on the sill. "spos'n 'twar abs'lom whenst he war a baby," she said, her eyes softly brightening, "an' another woman hed him an' kep' him, 'kase ye an' his dad fell out--would ye hev 'lowed she war right ter treat ye like ye treat me--whenst abs'lom war a baby?" once more she held out her arms. there was a step in the inner shed-room; then silence. "ye hain't got no excuse," the soft voice urged; "ye know jes how i feel, how ye'd hev felt, whenst abs'lom war a baby." the shawl had fallen back from her tender face; her eyes glowed, her cheek was softly flushed. a sudden terror thrilled through her as she again heard the heavy step approaching in the shed-room. "whenst abs'lom war a baby," she reiterated, her whole pleading heart in the tones. a sudden radiance seemed to illumine the sad, dun-colored folds of the encompassing cloud; her face shone with a transfiguring happiness, for the hustling old crone had handed out to her a warm, somnolent bundle, and the shutter closed upon the mists with a bang. "the wind's riz powerful suddint," peter said, noticing the noise as he came stumbling in, rubbing his eyes. he went and fastened the shutter, while his mother tremulously mended the fire. the absence of the baby was not noticed for some time, and when the father's hasty and angry questions elicited the reluctant facts, the outcry for his loss was hardly less bitter among the kittredges than among the quimbeys. the fugitives were shielded from capture by the enveloping mist, and when absalom returned from the search he could do naught but indignantly upbraid his mother. she was terrified by her own deed, and cowered under absalom's wrath. it was in a moral collapse, she felt, that she could have done this thing. she flung her apron over her head, and sat still and silent--a monumental figure--among them. once, roused by absalom's reproaches, she made some effort to defend and exculpate herself, speaking from behind the enveloping apron. "i ain't born no kittredge nohow," she irrelevantly asseverated, "an' i never war. an' when eveliny axed me how i'd hev liked ter hev another 'oman take abs'lom whenst he war a baby, i couldn't hold out no longer." "shucks!" cried absalom, unfilially; "ye'd a heap better be a-studyin' 'bout'n my good now 'n whenst i war a baby--a-givin' away _my_ child ter them quimbeys; a-h'istin' him out'n the winder!" she was glad to retort that he was "impident," and to take refuge in an aggrieved silence, as many another mother has done when outmatched by logic. after this there was more cheerfulness in her hidden face than might have been argued from her port of important sorrow. "bes' ter hev no jawin', though," she said to herself, as she sat thus inscrutably veiled. and deep in her repentant heart she was contradictorily glad that evelina and the baby were safe together down in the cove. * * * * * old joel quimbey, putting on his spectacles, with a look of keenest curiosity, to read a paper which the deputy-sheriff of the county presented when he drew rein by the wood-pile one afternoon some three weeks later, had some difficulty in identifying a certain elnathan daniel kittredge specified therein. he took off his spectacles, rubbed them smartly, and put them on again. the writing was unchanged. surely it must mean the baby. that was the only kittredge whose body they could be summoned to produce on the th of december before the judge of the circuit court, now in session. he turned the paper about and looked at it, his natural interest as a man augmented by his recognition as an ex-magistrate of its high important legal character. [illustration: "she flung her apron over her head"] "eveliny," he quavered, at once flattered and furious, "dad-burned ef abs'lom hain't gone an' got out a _habeas corpus_ fur the baby!" the phrase had a sound so deadly that there was much ado to satisfactorily explain the writ and its functions to evelina, who had felt at ease again since the baby was at home, and so effectually guarded that to kidnap him was necessarily to murder two or three of the vigilant and stalwart quimbey men. so much joy did it afford the old man to air his learning and consult his code--a relic of his justiceship--that he belittled the danger of losing the said elnathan daniel kittredge in the interest with which he looked forward to the day for him to be produced before the court. there was a gathering of the clans on that day. quimbeys and kittredges who had not visited the town for twenty years were jogging thither betimes that morning on the red clay roads, all unimpeded by the deep mud which, frozen into stiff ruts and ridges here and there, made the way hazardous to the running-gear. the lagging winter had come, and the ground was half covered with a light fall of snow. the windows of the court-house were white with frost; the weighted doors clanged continuously. an old codger, slowly ascending the steps, and pushing into the semi-obscurity of the hall, paused as the door slammed behind him, stared at the sheriff in surprise, then fixed him with a bantering leer. the light that slanted through the open court-room door fell upon the official's burly figure, his long red beard, his big broad-brimmed hat pushed back from his laughing red face, consciously ludicrous and abashed just now. "hev ye made a find?" demanded the new-comer. for in the strong arms of the law sat, bolt-upright, elnathan daniel kittredge, his yellow head actively turning about, his face decorated with a grin, and on most congenial terms with the sheriff. "they're lawin' 'bout'n him in thar"--the sheriff jerked his thumb toward the door. "_habeas corpus_ perceedin's. dunno ez i ever see a friskier leetle cuss. durned ef i 'ain't got a good mind ter run off with him myself." the said elnathan daniel kittredge once more squirmed round and settled himself comfortably in the hollow of the sheriff's elbow, who marvelled to find himself so deft in holding him, for it was twenty years since his son--a gawky youth who now affected the company at the saloon, and was none too filial--was the age and about the build of this infant kittredge. "they hed a reg'lar scrimmage hyar in the hall--them fool men--quimbey an' kittredge. old man quimbey said suthin' ter abs'lom kittredge--i dunno what all. abs'lom never jawed back none. he jes made a dart an' snatched this hyar leetle critter out'n his mother's arms, stiddier waitin' fur the law, what he summonsed himself. blest ef i didn't hev ter hold my revolver ter his head, an' then crack him over the knuckles, ter make him let go the child. i didn't want ter arrest him--mighty clever boy, abs'lom kittredge! i promised that young woman i'd keep holt o' the child till the law gins its say-so. i feel sorry fur her; she's been through a heap." "waal, ye look mighty pritty, totin' him around hyar," his friend encouraged him with a grin. "i'll say that fur ye--ye look mighty pritty." and in fact the merriment in the hall at the sheriff's expense began to grow so exhilarating as to make him feel that the proceedings within were too interesting to lose. his broad red face with its big red beard reappeared in the doorway--slightly embarrassed because of the sprightly manners of his charge, who challenged to mirth every eye that glanced at him by his toothful grin and his gurgles and bounces; he was evidently enjoying the excitement and his conspicuous position. he manfully gnawed at his corn-dodger from time to time, and from the manner in which he fraternized with his new acquaintance, the sheriff, he seemed old enough to dispense with maternal care, and, but for his incomplete methods of locomotion, able to knock about town with the boys. the quimbeys took note of his mature demeanor with sinking hearts; they looked anxiously at the judge, wondering if he had ever before seen such precocity--anything so young to be so old: "he 'ain't never afore 'peared so survigrus--so _durned_ survigrus ez he do ter-day," they whispered to each other. "yes, sir," his father was saying, on examination, "year old. eats anything he kin git--cabbage an' fat meat an' anything. _could_ walk if he wanted ter. but he 'ain't been raised right"--he glanced at his wife to observe the effect of this statement. he felt a pang as he noted her pensive, downcast face, all tremulous and agitated, overwhelmed as she was by the crowd and the infinite moment of the decision. but absalom, too, had his griefs, and they expressed themselves perversely. "he hev been pompered an' fattened by bein' let ter eat an' sleep so much, till he be so heavy ter his self he don't wanter take the trouble ter git about. he _could_ walk ennywhar. he's plumb survigrus." and as if in confirmation, the youthful kittredge lifted his voice to display his lung power. he hilariously babbled, and suddenly roared out a stentorian whoop, elicited by nothing in particular, then caught the sheriff's beard, and buried in it his conscious pink face. the judge looked gravely up over his spectacles. he had a bronzed complexion, a serious, pondering expression, a bald head, and a gray beard. he wore a black broadcloth suit, somewhat old-fashioned in cut, and his black velvet waist-coat had suffered an eruption of tiny red satin spots. he had great respect for judicial decorums, and no kittredge, however youthful, or survigrus, or exalted in importance by _habeas corpus_ proceedings, could "holler" unmolested where he presided. "mr. sheriff," he said, solemnly, "remove that child from the presence of the court." and the said elnathan daniel kittredge went out gleefully kicking in the arms of the law. the hundred or so grinning faces in the court-room relapsed quickly into gravity and excited interest. the rows of jeans-clad countrymen seated upon the long benches on either side of the bar leaned forward with intent attitudes. for this was a rich feast of local gossip, such as had not been so bountifully spread within their recollection. all the ancient quimbey and kittredge feuds contrived to be detailed anew in offering to the judge reasons why father or mother was the more fit custodian of the child in litigation. as absalom sat listening to all this, his eyes were suddenly arrested by his wife's face--half draped it was, half shadowed by her sun-bonnet, its fine and delicate profile distinctly outlined against the crystalline and frosted pane of the window near which she sat. the snow without threw a white reflection upon it; its rich coloring in contrast was the more intense; it was very pensive, with the heavy lids drooping over the lustrous eyes, and with a pathetic appeal in its expression. and suddenly his thoughts wandered far afield. he wondered that it had come to this; that she could have misunderstood him so; that he had thought her hard and perverse and unforgiving. his heart was all at once melting within him; somehow he was reminded how slight a thing she was, and how strong was the power that nerved her slender hand to drag his heavy weight, in his dead and helpless unconsciousness, down to the bars and into the safety of the sheltering laurel that night, when he lay wounded and bleeding under the lighted window of the cabin in the cove. a deep tenderness, an irresistible yearning had come upon him; he was about to rise, he was about to speak he knew not what, when suddenly her face was irradiated as one who sees a blessed vision; a happy light sprang into her eyes; her lips curved with a smile; the quick tears dropped one by one on her hands, nervously clasping and unclasping each other. he was bewildered for a moment. then he heard peter gruffly growling a half-whispered curse, and the voice of the judge, in the exercise of his discretion, methodically droning out his reasons for leaving so young a child in the custody of its mother, disregarding the paramount rights of the father. the judge concluded by dispassionately recommending the young couple to betake themselves home, and to try to live in peace together, or, at any rate, like sane people. then he thrust his spectacles up on his forehead, drew a long sigh of dismissal, and said, with a freshened look of interest, "mr. clerk, call the next case." the quimbey and kittredge factions poured into the hall; what cared they for the disputed claims of jenkins _versus_ jones? the lovers of sensation cherished a hope that there might be a lawless effort to rescue the infant kittredge from the custody to which he had been committed by the court. the quimbeys watchfully kept about him in a close squad, his pink sun-bonnet, in which his head was eclipsed, visible among their brawny jeans shoulders, as his mother carried him in her arms. the sheriff looked smilingly after him from the court-house steps, then inhaled a long breath, and began to roar out to the icy air the name of a witness wanted within. instead of a gate there was a flight of steps on each side of the fence, surmounted by a small platform. evelina suddenly shrank back as she stood on the platform, for beside the fence absalom was waiting. timothy hastily vaulted over the fence, drew his "shooting-iron" from his boot-leg, and cocked it with a metallic click, sharp and peremptory in the keen wintry air. for a moment absalom said not a word. he looked up at evelina with as much reproach as bitterness in his dark eyes. they were bright with the anger that fired his blood; it was hot in his bronzed cheek; it quivered in his hands. the dry and cold atmosphere amplified the graces of his long curling yellow hair that she and his mother loved. his hat was pushed back from his face. he had not spoken to her since the day of his ill-starred confidence, but he would not be denied now. "ye'll repent it," he said, threateningly. "i'll take special pains fur that." she bestowed on him one defiant glance, and laughed--a bitter little laugh. "ye air ekal ter it; ye have a special gift fur makin' folks repent they ever seen ye." "the jedge jes gin him ter ye 'kase ye made him out sech a fibble little pusson," he sneered. "but it's jes fur a time." she held the baby closer. he busied himself in taking off his sun-bonnet and putting it on hind part before, gurgling with smothered laughter to find himself thus queerly masked, and he made futile efforts to play "peep-eye" with anybody jovially disposed in the crowd. but they were all gravely absorbed in the conjugal quarrel at which they were privileged to assist. "it's jes fur a time," he reiterated. "wait an' see!" she retorted, triumphantly. "i won't wait," he declared, goaded; "i'll take him yit; an' when i do i'll clar out'n the state o' tennessee--see ef i don't!" she turned white and trembled. "ye dassent," she cried out shrilly. "ye'll be 'feared o' the law." "wait an' see!" he mockingly echoed her words, and turned in his old confident manner, and strode out of the crowd. faint and trembling, she crept into the old canvas-covered wagon, and as it jogged along down the road stiff with its frozen ruts and ever nearing the mountains, she clasped the cheerful kittredge with a yearning sense of loss, and declared that the judge had made him no safer than before. it was in vain that her father, speaking from the legal lore of the code, detailed the contempt of court that the kittredges would commit should they undertake to interfere with the judicial decision--it might be even considered kidnapping. "but what good would that do me--an' the baby whisked plumb out'n the state? ef abs'lom ain't 'feared o' tim's rifle, what's he goin' ter keer fur the pore jedge with nare weepon but his leetle contempt o' court--ter jail abs'lom, ef he kin make out ter ketch him!" she leaned against the swaying hoop of the cover of the wagon and burst into tears. "oh, none o' ye'll do nuthin' fur me!" she exclaimed, in frantic reproach. "nuthin'!" "ye talk like 'twar we-uns ez made up sech foolishness ez _habeas corpus_ out'n our own heads," said timothy. "i 'ain't never looked ter the law fur pertection. hyar's the pertecter." he touched the trigger of his rifle and glanced reassuringly at his sister as he sat beside her on the plank laid as a seat from side to side of the wagon. she calmed herself for a moment; then suddenly looked aghast at the rifle, and with some occult and hideous thought, burst anew into tears. "waal, sir," exclaimed stephen, outdone, "what with all this hyar daily weepin' an' nightly mournin', i 'ain't got spunk enough lef' ter stan' up agin the leetlest kittredge a-goin'. i ain't man enough ter sight a rifle. kittredges kin kem enny time an' take my hide, horns, an' tallow ef they air minded so ter do." "i 'lowed i hearn suthin' a-gallopin' down the road," said tim, abruptly. her tears suddenly ceased. she clutched the baby closer, and turned and lifted the flap of the white curtain at the back of the wagon, and looked out with a wild and terror-stricken eye. the red clay road stretched curveless, a long way visible and vacant. the black bare trees stood shivering in the chilly blast on either side; among them was an occasional clump of funereal cedars. away off the brown wooded hills rose; snow lay in thin crust-like patches here and there, and again the earth wore the pallid gray of the crab-grass or the ochreous red of the gully-washed clay. "i don't see nuthin'," she said, in the bated voice of affrighted suspense. while she still looked out flakes suddenly began to fly, hardly falling at first, but poised tentatively, fluctuating athwart the scene, presently thickening, quickening, obscuring it all, isolating the woods with an added sense of solitude since the sight of the world and the sound of it were so speedily annulled. even the creak of the wagon-wheels was muffled. through the semicircular aperture in the front of the wagon-cover the horns of the oxen were dimly seen amidst the serried flakes; the snow whitened the backs of the beasts and added its burden to their yoke. once as they jogged on she fancied again that she heard hoof-beats--this time a long way ahead, thundering over a little bridge high above a swirling torrent, that reverberated with a hollow tone to the faintest footfall. "jes somebody ez hev passed we-uns, takin' the short-cut by the bridle-path," she ruminated. no pursuer, evidently. everything was deeply submerged in the snow before they reached the dark little cabin nestling in the cove. motionless and dreary it was; not even a blue and gauzy wreath curled out of the chimney, for the fire had died on the hearth in their absence. no living creature was to be seen. the fowls were huddled together in the hen-house, and the dogs had accompanied the family to town, trotting beneath the wagon with lolling tongues and smoking breath; when they nimbly climbed the fence their circular footprints were the first traces to mar the level expanse of the door-yard. the bare limbs of the trees were laden; the cedars bore great flower-like tufts amidst the interlacing fibrous foliage. the eaves were heavily thatched; the drifts lay in the fence corners. [illustration: "he stole noiselessly in the soft snow"] everything was covered except, indeed, one side of the fodder-stack that stood close to the barn. evelina, going out to milk the cow, gazed at it for a moment in surprise. the snow had slipped down from it, and lay in rolls and piles about the base, intermixed with the sere husks and blades that seemed torn out of the great cone. "waal, sir, spot mus' hev been hongry fur true, ter kem a-foragin' this wise. looks ez ef she hev been fairly a-burrowin'." she turned and glanced over her shoulder at tracks in the snow--shapeless holes, and filling fast--which she did not doubt were the footprints of the big red cow, standing half in and half out of the wide door, slowly chewing her cud, her breath visibly curling out on the chill air, her great lips opening to emit a muttered low. she moved forward suddenly into the shelter as evelina started anew toward it, holding the piggin in one hand and clasping the baby in the other arm. evelina noted the sound of her brothers' two axes, busy at the wood-pile, their regular cleavage splitting the air with a sharp stroke and bringing a crystalline shivering echo from the icy mountain. she did not see the crouching figure that came cautiously burrowing out from the stack. absalom rose to his full height, looking keenly about him the while, and stole noiselessly in the soft snow to the stable, and peered in through a crevice in the wall. evelina had placed the piggin upon the straw-covered ground, and stood among the horned cattle and the huddling sheep, her soft melancholy face half shaded by the red shawl thrown over her head and shoulders. a tress of her brown hair escaped and curled about her white neck, and hung down over the bosom of her dark-blue homespun dress. against her shoulder the dun-colored cow rubbed her horned head. the baby was in a pensive mood, and scarcely babbled. the reflection of the snow was on his face, heightening the exquisite purity of the tints of his infantile complexion. his gentle, fawn-like eyes were full of soft and lustrous languors. his long lashes drooped over them now, and again were lifted. his short down of yellow hair glimmered golden against the red shawl over his mother's shoulders. one of the beasts sank slowly upon the ground--a tired creature doubtless, and night was at hand; then another, and still another. their posture reminded absalom, as he looked, that this was christmas eve, and of the old superstition that the cattle of the barns spend the night upon their knees, in memory of the wondrous presence that once graced their lowly place. the boughs rattled suddenly in the chill blast above his head; the drifts fell about him. he glanced up mechanically to see in the zenith a star of gracious glister, tremulous and tender, in the rifts of the breaking clouds. "i wonder ef it air the same star o' bethlehem?" he said, thinking of the great sidereal torch heralding the light of the world. he had a vague sense that this star has never set, however the wandering planets may come and go in their wide journeys as the seasons roll. he looked again into the glooming place, at the mother and her child, remembering that the lord of heaven and earth had once lain in a manger, and clung to a humble earthly mother. the man shook with a sudden affright. he had intended to wrest the child from her grasp, and mount and ride away; he was roused from his reverie by the thrusting upon him of his opportunity, facilitated a hundredfold. evelina had evidently forgotten something. she hesitated for a moment; then put the baby down upon a great pile of straw among the horned creatures, and, catching her shawl about her head, ran swiftly to the house. absalom moved mechanically into the doorway. the child, still pensive and silent, and looking tenderly infantile, lay upon the straw. a sudden pang of pity for her pierced his heart: how her own would be desolated! his horse, hitched in a clump of cedars, awaited him ten steps away. it was his only chance--his last chance. and he had been hardly entreated. the child's eyes rested, startled and dilated, upon him; he must be quick. the next instant he turned suddenly, ran hastily through the snow, crashed among the cedars, mounted his horse, and galloped away. it was only a moment that evelina expected to be at the house, but the gourd of salt which she sought was not in its place. she hurried out with it at last, unprescient of any danger until all at once she saw the footprints of a man in the snow, otherwise untrodden, about the fodder-stack. she still heard the two axes at the wood-pile. her father, she knew, was at the house. a smothered scream escaped her lips. the steps had evidently gone into the stable, and had come out thence. her faltering strength could scarcely support her to the door. and then she saw lying in the straw elnathan daniel, beginning to babble and gurgle again, and to grow very pink with joy over a new toy--a man's glove, a red woollen glove, accidentally dropped in the straw. she caught it from his hands, and turned it about curiously. she had knit it herself--for absalom! when she came into the house, beaming with joy, the baby holding the glove in his hands, the men listened to her in dumfounded amaze, and with significant side glances at each other. "he wouldn't take the baby whenst he hed the chance, 'kase he knowed 'twould hurt me so. an' he never wanted ter torment me--i reckon he never _did_ mean ter torment me. an' he did 'low wunst he war sorry he spited dad. oh! i hev been a heap too quick an' spiteful myself. i hev been so terrible wrong! look a-hyar; he lef this glove ter show me he hed been hyar, an' could hev tuk the baby ef he hed hed the heart ter do it. oh! i'm goin' right up the mounting an' tell him how sorry i be." "toler'ble cheap!" grumbled stephen--"one old glove. an' he'll git elnathan daniel an' ye too. a smart fox he be." they could not dissuade her. and after a time it came to pass that the quimbey and kittredge feuds were healed, for how could the heart of a grandfather withstand a toddling spectacle in pink calico that ran away one day some two years later, in company with an adventurous dog, and came down the mountain to the cabin in the cove, squeezing through the fence rails after the manner of his underfoot world, proceeding thence to the house, where he made himself very merry and very welcome? and when tim mounted his horse and rode up the mountain with the youngster on the pommel of the saddle, lest evelina should be out of her mind with fright because of his absence, how should he and old mrs. kittredge differ in their respective opinions of his vigorous growth, and grace of countenance, and peartness of manner? on the strength of this concurrence tim was induced to "'light an' hitch," and he even sat on the cabin porch and talked over the crops with absalom, who, the next time he went to town, stopped at the cabin in the cove to bring word how elnathan daniel was "thrivin'." the path that evelina had worn to the crag in those first homesick days on the mountain rapidly extended itself into the cove, and widened and grew smooth, as the grandfather went up and the grandson came down. [illustration: old quimbey and his grandson] 'way down in lonesome cove one memorable night in lonesome cove the ranger of the county entered upon a momentous crisis in his life. what hour it was he could hardly have said, for the primitive household reckoned time by the sun when it shone, by the domestic routine when no better might be. it was late. the old crone in the chimney-corner nodded over her knitting. in the trundle-bed at the farther end of the shadowy room were transverse billows under the quilts, which intimated that the small children were numerous enough for the necessity of sleeping crosswise. he had smoked out many pipes, and at last knocked the cinder from the bowl. the great hickory logs had burned asunder and fallen from the stones that served as andirons. he began to slowly cover the embers with ashes, that the fire might keep till morning. his wife, a faded woman, grown early old, was bringing the stone jar of yeast to place close by the hearth, that it might not "take a chill" in some sudden change of the night. it was heavy, and she bent in carrying it. awkward, and perhaps nervous, she brought it sharply against the shovel in his hands. the clash roused the old crone in the corner. she recognized the situation instantly, and the features that sleep had relaxed into inexpressiveness took on a weary apprehension, which they wore like a habit. the man barely raised his surly black eyes, but his wife drew back humbly with a mutter of apology. the next moment the shovel was almost thrust out of his grasp. a tiny barefooted girl, in a straight unbleached cotton night-gown and a quaint little cotton night-cap, cavalierly pushed him aside, that she might cover in the hot ashes a burly sweet-potato, destined to slowly roast by morning. a long and careful job she made of it, and unconcernedly kept him waiting while she pottered back and forth about the hearth. she looked up once with an authoritative eye, and he hastily helped to adjust the potato with the end of the shovel. and then he glanced at her, incongruously enough, as if waiting for her autocratic nod of approval. she gravely accorded it, and pattered nimbly across the puncheon floor to the bed. "now," he drawled, in gruff accents, "ef you-uns hev all had yer fill o' foolin' with this hyar fire, i'll kiver it, like i hev started out ter do." at this moment there was a loud trampling upon the porch without. the batten door shook violently. the ranger sprang up. as he frowned the hair on his scalp, drawn forward, seemed to rise like bristles. "dad-burn that thar fresky filly!" he cried, angrily. "jes' brung her noisy bones up on that thar porch agin, an' her huffs will bust spang through the planks o' the floor the fust thing ye know." the narrow aperture, as he held the door ajar, showed outlined against the darkness the graceful head of a young mare, and once more hoof-beats resounded on the rotten planks of the porch. clouds were adrift in the sky. no star gleamed in the wide space high above the sombre mountains. on every side they encompassed lonesome cove, which seemed to have importunately thrust itself into the darkling solemnities of their intimacy. all at once the ranger let the door fly from his hand, and stood gazing in blank amazement. for there was a strange motion in the void vastnesses of the wilderness. they were creeping into view. how, he could not say, but the summit of the great mountain opposite was marvellously distinct against the sky. he saw the naked, gaunt, december woods. he saw the grim, gray crags. and yet lonesome cove below and the spurs on the other side were all benighted. a pale, flickering light was dawning in the clouds; it brightened, faded, glowed again, and their sad, gray folds assumed a vivid vermilion reflection, for there was a fire in the forest below. only these reactions of color on the clouds betokened its presence and its progress. sometimes a fluctuation of orange crossed them, then a glancing line of blue, and once more that living red hue which only a pulsating flame can bestow. "air it the comin' o' the jedgmint day, tobe?" asked his wife, in a meek whisper. "i'd be afraid so if i war ez big a sinner ez you-uns," he returned. "the woods air afire," the old woman declared, in a shrill voice. "they be a-soakin' with las' night's rain," he retorted, gruffly. the mare was standing near the porch. suddenly he mounted her and rode hastily off, without a word of his intention to the staring women in the doorway. he left freedom of speech behind him. "take yer bones along, then, ye tongue-tied catamount!" his wife's mother apostrophized him, with all the acrimony of long repression. "got no mo' politeness 'n a settin' hen," she muttered, as she turned back into the room. the young woman lingered wistfully. "i wisht he wouldn't go a-ridin' off that thar way 'thout lettin' we-uns know whar he air bound fur, an' when he'll kem back. he mought git hurt some ways roun' that thar fire--git overtook by it, mebbe." "ef he war roasted 'twould be mighty peaceful round in lonesome," the old crone exclaimed, rancorously. her daughter stood for a moment with the bar of the door in her hand, still gazing out at the flare in the sky. the unwonted emotion had conjured a change in the stereotyped patience in her face--even anxiety, even the acuteness of fear, seemed a less pathetic expression than that meek monotony bespeaking a broken spirit. as she lifted her eyes to the mountain one might wonder to see that they were so blue. in the many haggard lines drawn upon her face the effect of the straight lineaments was lost; but just now, embellished with a flush, she looked young--as young as her years. as she buttoned the door and put up the bar her mother's attention was caught by the change. peering at her critically, and shading her eyes with her hand from the uncertain flicker of the tallow dip, she broke out, passionately: "wa'al, 'genie, who would ever hev thought ez yer cake would be _all_ dough? sech a laffin', plump, spry gal ez ye useter be--fur all the worl' like a fresky young deer! an' sech a pack o' men ez ye hed the choice amongst! an' ter pick out tobe gryce an' marry him, an' kem 'way down hyar ter live along o' him in lonesome cove!" she chuckled aloud, not that she relished her mirth, but the harlequinade of fate constrained a laugh for its antics. the words recalled the past to eugenia; it rose visibly before her. she had had scant leisure to reflect that her life might have been ordered differently. in her widening eyes were new depths, a vague terror, a wild speculation, all struck aghast by its own temerity. "ye never said nuthin ter hender," she faltered. "i never knowed tobe, sca'cely. how's ennybody goin' ter know a man ez lived 'way off down hyar in lonesome cove?" her mother retorted, acridly, on the defensive. "he never courted _me_, nohows. all the word he gin me war, 'howdy,' an' i gin him no less." there was a pause. eugenia knelt on the hearth. she placed together the broken chunks, and fanned the flames with a turkey wing. "i won't kiver the fire yit," she said, thoughtfully. "he mought be chilled when he gits home." the feathery flakes of the ashes flew; they caught here and there in her brown hair. the blaze flared up, and flickered over her flushed, pensive face, and glowed in her large and brilliant eyes. "tobe said 'howdy,'" her mother bickered on. "i knowed by that ez he hed the gift o' speech, but he spent no mo' words on me." then, suddenly, with a change of tone: "i war a fool, though, ter gin my cornsent ter yer marryin' him, bein' ez ye war the only child i hed, an' i knowed i'd hev ter live with ye 'way down hyar in lonesome cove. i wish now ez ye bed abided by yer fust choice, an' married luke todd." eugenia looked up with a gathering frown. "i hev no call ter spen' words 'bout luke todd," she said, with dignity, "ez me an' him are both married ter other folks." "i never said ye hed," hastily replied the old woman, rebuked and embarrassed. presently, however, her vagrant speculation went recklessly on. "though ez ter luke's marryin', 'tain't wuth while ter set store on sech. the gal he found over thar in big fox valley favors ye ez close ez two black-eyed peas. that's why he married her. she looks precisely like ye useter look. an' she laffs the same. an' i reckon _she_ 'ain't hed no call ter quit laffin', 'kase he air a powerful easy-goin' man. leastways, he useter be when we-uns knowed him." "that ain't no sign," said eugenia. "a saafter-spoken body i never seen than tobe war when he fust kem a-courtin' round the settlemint." "sech ez that ain't goin' ter las' noways," dryly remarked the philosopher of the chimney-corner. this might seem rather a reflection upon the courting gentry in general than a personal observation. but eugenia's consciousness lent it point. "laws-a-massy," she said, "tobe ain't so rampagious, nohows, ez folks make him out. he air toler'ble peaceable, cornsiderin' ez nobody hev ever hed grit enough ter make a stand agin him, 'thout 'twar the cunnel thar." she glanced around at the little girl's face framed in the frill of her night-cap, and peaceful and infantile as it lay on the pillow. "whenst the cunnel war born," eugenia went on, languidly reminiscent, "tobe war powerful outed 'kase she war a gal. i reckon ye 'members ez how he said he hed no use for sech cattle ez that. an' when she tuk sick he 'lowed he seen no differ. 'jes ez well die ez live,' he said. an' bein' ailin', the cunnel tuk it inter her head ter holler. sech hollerin' we-uns hed never hearn with none o' the t'other chil'ren. the boys war nowhar. but a-fust it never 'sturbed tobe. he jes spoke out same ez he useter do at the t'others, 'shet up, ye pop-eyed buzzard!' wa'al, sir, the cunnel jes blinked at him, an' braced herself ez stiff, an' _yelled_! i 'lowed 'twould take off the roof. an' tobe said he'd wring her neck ef she warn't so mewlin'-lookin' an' peakèd. an' he tuk her up an' walked across the floor with her, an' she shet up; an' he walked back agin, an' she stayed shet up. ef he sot down fur a minit, she yelled so ez ye'd think ye'd be deef fur life, an' ye 'most hoped ye would be. so tobe war obleeged ter tote her agin ter git shet o' the noise. he got started on that thar 'forced march,' ez he calls it, an' he never could git off'n it. trot he must when the cunnel pleased. he 'lowed she reminded him o' that thar old cunnel that he sarved under in the wars. ef it killed the regiment, he got thar on time. sence then the cunnel jes gins tobe her orders, an' he moseys ter do 'em quick, jes like he war obleeged ter obey. i b'lieve he air, somehows." "wa'al, some day," said the disaffected old woman, assuming a port of prophetic wisdom, "tobe will find a differ. thar ain't no man so headin' ez don't git treated with perslimness by somebody some time. i knowed a man wunst ez owned fower horses an' cattle-critters quarryspondin', an' he couldn't prove ez he war too old ter be summonsed ter work on the road, an' war fined by the overseer 'cordin' ter law. tobe will git his wheel scotched yit, sure ez ye air born. somebody besides the cunnel will skeer up grit enough ter make a stand agin him. i dunno how other men kin sleep o' night, knowin' how he be always darin' folks ter differ with him, an' how brigaty he be. the bible 'pears ter me ter hev tobe in special mind when it gits ter mournin' 'bout'n the stiff-necked ones." * * * * * the spirited young mare that the ranger rode strove to assert herself against him now and then, as she went at a breakneck speed along the sandy bridle-path through the woods. how was she to know that the white-wanded young willow by the way-side was not some spiritual manifestation as it suddenly materialized in a broken beam from a rift in the clouds? but as she reared and plunged she felt his heavy hand and his heavy heel, and so forward again at a steady pace. the forests served to screen the strange light in the sky, and the lonely road was dark, save where the moonbeam was splintered and the mists loitered. presently there were cinders flying in the breeze, a smell of smoke pervaded the air, and the ranger forgot to curse the mare when she stumbled. "i wonder," he muttered, "what them no 'count half-livers o' town folks hev hed the shiftlessness ter let ketch afire thar!" as he neared the brink of the mountain he saw a dense column of smoke against the sky, and a break in the woods showed the little town--the few log houses, the "gyarden spots" about them, and in the centre of the square a great mass of coals, a flame flickering here and there, and two gaunt and tottering chimneys where once the court-house had stood. at some distance--for the heat was still intense--were grouped the slouching, spiritless figures of the mountaineers. on the porches of the houses, plainly visible in the unwonted red glow, were knots of women and children--ever and anon a brat in the scantiest of raiment ran nimbly in and out. the clouds still borrowed the light from below, and the solemn, leafless woods on one side were outlined distinctly against the reflection in the sky. the flare showed, too, the abrupt precipice on the other side, the abysmal gloom of the valley, the austere summit-line of the mountain beyond, and gave the dark mysteries of the night a sombre revelation, as in visible blackness it filled the illimitable space. the little mare was badly blown as the ranger sprang to the ground. he himself was panting with amazement and eagerness. "the stray-book!" he cried. "whar's the stray-book?" one by one the slow group turned, all looking at him with a peering expression as he loomed distorted through the shimmer of the heat above the bed of live coals and the hovering smoke. "whar's the stray-book?" he reiterated, imperiously. "whar's the court-house, i reckon ye mean to say," replied the sheriff--a burly mountaineer in brown jeans and high boots, on which the spurs jingled; for in his excitement he had put them on as mechanically as his clothes, as if they were an essential part of his attire. "naw, i _ain't_ meanin' ter say whar's the court-house," said the ranger, coming up close, with the red glow of the fire on his face, and his eyes flashing under the broad brim of his wool hat. he had a threatening aspect, and his elongated shadow, following him and repeating the menace of his attitude, seemed to back him up. "ye air sech a triflin', slack-twisted tribe hyar in town, ez ennybody would know ef a spark cotched fire ter suthin, ye'd set an' suck yer paws, an' eye it till it bodaciously burnt up the court-house--sech a dad-burned lazy set o' half-livers ye be! i never axed 'bout'n the court-house. i want ter know whar's that thar stray-book," he concluded, inconsequently. "tobe gryce, ye air fairly demented," exclaimed the register--a chin-whiskered, grizzled old fellow, sitting on a stump and hugging his knee with a desolate, bereaved look--"talkin' 'bout the _stray-book_, an' all the records gone! what will folks do 'bout thar deeds, an' mortgages, an' sech? an' that thar keerful index ez i had made--ez straight ez a string--all cinders!" he shook his head, mourning alike for the party of the first part and the party of the second part, and the vestiges of all that they had agreed together. "an' ye ter kem mopin' hyar this time o' night arter the _stray-book_," said the sheriff. "shucks!" and he turned aside and spat disdainfully on the ground. "i want that thar stray-book!" cried gryce, indignantly. "ain't nobody seen it?" then realizing the futility of the question, he yielded to a fresh burst of anger, and turned upon the bereaved register. "an' did ye jes set thar an' say, 'good mister fire, don't burn the records; what'll folks do 'bout thar deeds an' sech?' an' hold them claws o' yourn, an' see the court-house burn up, with that thar stray-book in it?" half a dozen men spoke up. "the fire tuk inside, an' the court-house war haffen gone 'fore 'twar seen," said one, in sulky extenuation. "leave tobe be--let him jaw!" said another, cavalierly. "tobe 'pears ter be sp'ilin' fur a fight," said a third, impersonally, as if to direct the attention of any belligerent in the group to the opportunity. the register had an expression of slow cunning as he cast a glance up at the overbearing ranger. "what ailed the stray-book ter bide hyar in the court-house all night, tobe? couldn't ye gin it house-room? thar warn't no special need fur it to be hyar." tobe gryce's face showed that for once he was at a loss. he glowered down at the register and said nothing. "ez ter me," resumed that worthy, "by the law o' the land my books war obligated ter be thar." he quoted, mournfully, "'shall at all times be and remain in his office.'" he gathered up his knee again and subsided into silence. all the freakish spirits of the air were a-loose in the wind. in fitful gusts they rushed up the gorge, then suddenly the boughs would fall still again, and one could hear the eerie rout a-rioting far off down the valley. now and then the glow of the fire would deepen, the coals tremble, and with a gleaming, fibrous swirl, like a garment of flames, a sudden animation would sweep over it, as if an apparition had passed, leaving a line of flying sparks to mark its trail. "i'm goin' home," drawled tobe gryce, presently. "i don't keer a frog's toe-nail ef the whole settlemint burns bodaciously up; 'tain't nuthin ter me. i hev never hankered ter live in towns an' git tuk up with town ways, an' set an' view the court-house like the apple o' my eye. we-uns don't ketch fire down in the cove, though mebbe we ain't so peart ez folks ez herd tergether like sheep an' sech." the footfalls of the little black mare annotated the silence of the place as he rode away into the darkling woods. the groups gradually disappeared from the porches. the few voices that sounded at long intervals were low and drowsy. the red fire smouldered in the centre of the place, and sometimes about it appeared so doubtful a shadow that it could hardly argue substance. far away a dog barked, and then all was still. presently the great mountains loom aggressively along the horizon. the black abysses, the valleys and coves, show duncolored verges and grow gradually distinct, and on the slopes the ash and the pine and the oak are all lustrous with a silver rime. the mists are rising, the wind springs up anew, the clouds set sail, and a beam slants high. * * * * * "what i want ter know," said a mountaineer newly arrived on the scene, sitting on the verge of the precipice, and dangling his long legs over the depths beneath, "air how do folks ez live 'way down in lonesome cove, an' who nobody knowed nuthin about noways, ever git 'lected ranger o' the county, ennyhow. i ain't s'prised none ter hear 'bout tobe gryce's goin's-on hyar las' night. i hev looked fur more'n that." "wa'al, i'll tell ye," replied the register. "nuthin' but favoritism in the county court. ranger air 'lected by the jestices. ye know," he added, vainglorious of his own tenure of office by the acclaiming voice of the sovereign people, "ranger ain't 'lected, like the register, by pop'lar vote." a slow smoke still wreathed upward from the charred ruins of the court-house. gossiping groups stood here and there, mostly the jeans-clad mountaineers, but there were a few who wore "store clothes," being lawyers from more sophisticated regions of the circuit. court had been in session the previous day. the jury, serving in a criminal case--still strictly segregated, and in charge of an officer--were walking about wearily in double file, waiting with what patience they might their formal discharge. the sheriff's dog, a great yellow cur, trotted in the rear. when the officer was first elected, this animal, observing the change in his master's habits, deduced his own conclusions. he seemed to think the court-house belonged to the sheriff, and thence-forward guarded the door with snaps and growls; being a formidable brute, his idiosyncrasies invested the getting into and getting out of law with abnormal difficulties. now, as he followed the disconsolate jury, he bore the vigilant mien with which he formerly drove up the cows, and if a juror loitered or stepped aside from the path, the dog made a slow detour as if to round him in, and the melancholy cortége wandered on as before. more than one looked wistfully at the group on the crag, for it was distinguished by that sprightly interest which scandal excites so readily. "ter my way of thinkin'," drawled sam peters, swinging his feet over the giddy depths of the valley, "tobe ain't sech ez oughter be set over the county ez a ranger, noways. 'pears not ter me, an' i hev been keepin' my eye on him mighty sharp." a shadow fell among the group, and a man sat down on a bowlder hard by. he, too, had just arrived, being lured to the town by the news of the fire. his slide had been left at the verge of the clearing, and one of the oxen had already lain down; the other, although hampered by the yoke thus diagonally displaced, stood meditatively gazing at the distant blue mountains. their master nodded a slow, grave salutation to the group, produced a plug of tobacco, gnawed a fragment from it, and restored it to his pocket. he had a pensive face, with an expression which in a man of wider culture we should discriminate as denoting sensibility. he had long yellow hair that hung down to his shoulders, and a tangled yellow beard. there was something at once wistful and searching in his gray eyes, dull enough, too, at times. he lifted them heavily, and they had a drooping lid and lash. there seemed an odd incongruity between this sensitive, weary face and his stalwart physique. he was tall and well proportioned. a leather belt girded his brown jeans coat. his great cowhide boots were drawn to the knee over his trousers. his pose, as he leaned on the rock, had a muscular picturesqueness. "who be ye a-talkin' about?" he drawled. peters relished his opportunity. he laughed in a distorted fashion, his pipe-stem held between his teeth. "_you-uns_ ain't wantin' ter swop lies 'bout sech ez him, luke! we war a-talkin' 'bout tobe gryce." the color flared into the new-comer's face. a sudden animation fired his eye. "tobe gryce air jes the man i'm always wantin' ter hear a word about. jes perceed with yer rat-killin'. i'm with ye." and luke todd placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward with an air of attention. peters looked at him, hardly comprehending this ebullition. it was not what he had expected to elicit. no one laughed. his fleer was wide of the mark. "wa'al"--he made another effort--"tobe, we war jes sayin', ain't fitten fur ter be ranger o' the county. he be ez peart in gittin' ter own other folkses' stray cattle ez he war in courtin' other folkses' sweetheart, an', ef the truth mus' be knowed, in marryin' her." he suddenly twisted round, in some danger of falling from his perch. "i want ter ax one o' them thar big-headed lawyers a question on a p'int o' law," he broke off, abruptly. "what be tobe gryce a-doin' of now?" asked luke todd, with eager interest in the subject. "wa'al," resumed peters, nowise loath to return to the gossip, "tobe, ye see, air the ranger o' this hyar county, an' by law all the stray horses ez air tuk up by folks hev ter be reported ter him, an' appraised by two householders, an' swore to afore the magistrate an' be advertised by the ranger, an' ef they ain't claimed 'fore twelve months, the taker-up kin pay into the county treasury one-haffen the appraisement an' hev the critter fur his'n. an' the owner can't prove it away arter that." "thanky," said luke todd, dryly. "s'pose ye teach yer gran'mammy ter suck aigs. i knowed all that afore." peters was abashed, and with some difficulty collected himself. "an' i knowed ye knowed it, luke," he hastily conceded. "but hyar be what i'm a-lookin' at--the law 'ain't got no pervision fur a stray horse ez kem of a dark night, 'thout nobody's percuremint, ter the ranger's own house. now, the p'int o' law ez i wanted ter ax the lawyers 'bout air this--kin the ranger be the ranger an' the taker-up too?" he turned his eyes upon the great landscape lying beneath, flooded with the chill matutinal sunshine, and flecked here and there with the elusive shadows of the fleecy drifting clouds. far away the long horizontal lines of the wooded spurs, converging on either side of the valley and rising one behind the other, wore a subdued azure, all unlike the burning blue of summer, and lay along the calm, passionless sky, that itself was of a dim, repressed tone. on the slopes nearer, the leafless boughs, massed together, had purplish-garnet depths of color wherever the sunshine struck aslant, and showed richly against the faintly tinted horizon. here and there among the boldly jutting gray crags hung an evergreen-vine, and from a gorge on the opposite mountain gleamed a continuous flash, like the waving of a silver plume, where a cataract sprang down the rocks. in the depths of the valley, a field in which crab-grass had grown in the place of the harvested wheat showed a tiny square of palest yellow, and beside it a red clay road, running over a hill, was visible. above all a hawk was flying. "afore the winter fairly set in las' year," peters resumed, presently, "a stray kem ter tobe's house. he 'lowed ter me ez he fund her a-standin' by the fodder-stack a-pullin' off'n it. an' he 'quired round, an' he never hearn o' no owner. i reckon he never axed outside o' lonesome," he added, cynically. he puffed industriously at his pipe for a few moments; then continued: "wa'al, he 'lowed he couldn't feed the critter fur fun. an' he couldn't work her till she war appraised an' sech, that bein' agin the law fur strays. so he jes ondertook ter be ranger an' taker-up too--the bangedest consarn in the kentry! ef the leetle mare hed been wall-eyed, or lame, or ennything, he wouldn't hev wanted ter be ranger an' taker-up too. but she air the peartest little beastis--she war jes bridle-wise when she fust kem--young an' spry!" luke todd was about to ask a question, but peters, disregarding him, persisted: "wa'al, tobe tuk up the beastis, an' i reckon he reported her ter hisself, bein' the ranger--the critter makes me laff--an' he hed that thar old haffen-blind uncle o' his'n an' perkins bates, ez be never sober, ter appraise the vally o' the mare, an' i s'pose he delivered thar certificate ter hisself, an' i reckon he tuk oath that she kem 'thout his procure_mint_ ter his place, in the presence o' the ranger." "i reckon thar ain't no law agin the ranger's bein' a ranger an' a taker-up too," put in one of the bystanders. "'tain't like a sher'ff's buyin' at his own sale. an' he hed ter pay haffen her vally into the treasury o' the county arter twelve months, ef the owner never proved her away." "thar ain't no sign he ever paid a cent," said peters, with a malicious grin, pointing at the charred remains of the court-house, "an' the treasurer air jes dead." "wa'al, tobe hed ter make a report ter the jedge o' the county court every six months." "the papers of his office air cinders," retorted peters. "wa'al, then," argued the optimist, "the stray-book will show ez she war reported an' sech." "the ranger took mighty partic'lar pains ter hev his stray-book in that thar court-house when 'twar burnt." there was a long pause while the party sat ruminating upon the suspicions thus suggested. luke todd heard them, not without a thrill of satisfaction. he found them easy to adopt. and he, too, had a disposition to theorize. "it takes a mighty mean man ter steal a horse," he said. "stealin' a horse air powerful close ter murder. folkses' lives fairly depend on a horse ter work thar corn an' sech, an' make a support fur em. i hev knowed folks ter kem mighty close ter starvin' through hevin thar horse stole. why, even that thar leetle filly of our'n, though she hedn't been fairly bruk ter the plough, war mightily missed. we-uns hed ter make out with the old sorrel, ez air nigh fourteen year old, ter work the crap, an' we war powerful disapp'inted. but we ain't never fund no trace o' the filly sence she war tolled off one night las' fall a year ago." the hawk floating above the valley and its winged shadow disappeared together in the dense glooms of a deep gorge. luke todd watched them as they vanished. suddenly he lifted his eyes. they were wide with a new speculation. an angry flare blazed in them. "what sort'n beastis is this hyar mare ez the ranger tuk up?" he asked. peters looked at him, hardly comprehending his tremor of excitement. "seems sorter sizable," he replied, sibilantly, sucking his pipe-stem. todd nodded meditatively several times, leaning his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the landscape. "hev she got enny partic'lar marks, ez ye knows on?" he drawled. "wa'al, she be ez black ez a crow, with the nigh fore-foot white. an' she hev got a white star spang in the middle o' her forehead, an' the left side o' her nose is white too." todd rose suddenly to his feet. "by gum!" he cried, with a burst of passion, "she air _my_ filly! an' 'twar that thar durned horse-thief of a ranger ez tolled her off!" * * * * * deep among the wooded spurs lonesome cove nestles, sequestered from the world. naught emigrates thence except an importunate stream that forces its way through a rocky gap, and so to freedom beyond. no stranger intrudes; only the moon looks in once in a while. the roaming wind may explore its solitudes; and it is but the vertical sunbeams that strike to the heart of the little basin, because of the massive mountains that wall it round and serve to isolate it. so nearly do they meet at the gap that one great assertive crag, beetling far above, intercepts the view of the wide landscape beyond, leaving its substituted profile jaggedly serrating the changing sky. above it, when the weather is fair, appear vague blue lines, distant mountain summits, cloud strata, visions. below its jutting verge may be caught glimpses of the widening valley without. but pre-eminent, gaunt, sombre, it sternly dominates "lonesome," and is the salient feature of the little world it limits. tobe gryce's house, gray, weather-beaten, moss-grown, had in comparison an ephemeral, modern aspect. for a hundred years its inmates had come and gone and lived and died. they took no heed of the crag, but never a sound was lost upon it. their drawling iterative speech the iterative echoes conned. the ringing blast of a horn set astir some phantom chase in the air. when the cows came lowing home, there were lowing herds in viewless company. even if one of the children sat on a rotting log crooning a vague, fragmentary ditty, some faint-voiced spirit in the rock would sing. lonesome cove?--home of invisible throngs! as the ranger trotted down the winding road, multitudinous hoof-beats, as of a troop of cavalry, heralded his approach to the little girl who stood on the porch of the log-cabin and watched for him. "hy're, cunnel!" he cried, cordially. but the little "colonel" took no heed. she looked beyond him at the vague blue mountains, against which the great grim rock was heavily imposed, every ledge, every waving dead crisp weed, distinct. he noticed the smoke curling briskly up in the sunshine from the clay and stick chimney. he strode past her into the house, as eugenia, with all semblance of youth faded from her countenance, haggard and hollow-eyed in the morning light, was hurrying the corn-dodgers and venison steak on the table. perhaps he did not appreciate that the women were pining with curiosity, for he vouchsafed no word of the excitements in the little town; and he himself was ill at ease. "what ails the cunnel, 'genie?" he asked, presently, glancing up sharply from under his hat brim, and speaking with his mouth full. "the cat 'pears ter hev got her tongue," said eugenia, intending that the "colonel" should hear, and perhaps profit. "she ain't able ter talk none this mornin'." the little body cast so frowning a glance upon them as she stood in the doorway that her expression was but slightly less lowering than her father's. it was an incongruous demonstration, with her infantile features, her little yellow head, and the slight physical force she represented. she wore a blue cotton frock, fastened up the back with great horn buttons; she had on shoes laced with leather strings; one of her blue woollen stockings fell over her ankle, disclosing the pinkest of plump calves; the other stocking was held in place by an unabashed cotton string. she had a light in her dark eyes and a color in her cheek, and albeit so slight a thing, she wielded a strong coercion. "laws-a-massy, cunnel!" said tobe, in a harried manner, "couldn't ye find me nowhar? i'm powerful sorry. i couldn't git back hyar no sooner." but not in this wise was she to be placated. she fixed her eyes upon him, but made no sign. he suddenly rose from his half-finished breakfast. "look-a-hyar, cunnel," he cried, joyously, "don't ye want ter ride the filly?--ye knew ye hanker ter ride the filly." even then she tried to frown, but the bliss of the prospect overbore her. her cheek and chin dimpled, and there was a gurgling display of two rows of jagged little teeth as the doughty "colonel" was swung to his shoulder and he stepped out of the door. he laughed as he stood by the glossy black mare and lifted the child to the saddle. the animal arched her neck and turned her head and gazed back at him curiously. "hold on tight, cunnel," he said as he looked up at her, his face strangely softened almost beyond recognition. and she gurgled and laughed and screamed with delight as he began to slowly lead the mare along. the "colonel" had the gift of continuance. some time elapsed before she exhausted the joys of exaltation. more than once she absolutely refused to dismount. tobe patiently led the beast up and down, and the "colonel" rode in state. it was only when the sun had grown high, and occasionally she was fain to lift her chubby hands to her eyes, imperiling her safety on the saddle, that he ventured to seriously remonstrate, and finally she permitted herself to be assisted to the ground. when, with the little girl at his heels, he reached the porch, he took off his hat, and wiped the perspiration from his brow with his great brown hand. "i tell ye, jouncin' round arter the cunnel air powerful hot work," he declared. the next moment he paused. his wife had come to the door, and there was a strange expression of alarm among the anxious lines of her face. "tobe," she said, in a bated voice, "who war them men?" he stared at her, whirled about, surveyed the vacant landscape, and once more turned dumfounded toward her. "what men?" he asked. "them men ez acted so cur'ous," she said. "i couldn't see thar faces plain, an' i dunno who they war." "whar war they?" and he looked over his shoulder once more. "yander along the ledges of the big rock. thar war two of 'em, hidin' ahint that thar jagged aidge. an' ef yer back war turned they'd peep out at ye an' the cunnel ridin'. but whenst ye would face round agin, they'd drap down ahint the aidge o' the rock. i 'lowed wunst ez i'd holler ter ye, but i war feared ye moughtn't keer ter know." her voice fell in its deprecatory cadence. he stood in silent perplexity. "ye air a fool, 'genie, an' ye never seen nuthin'. nobody hev got enny call ter spy on me." he stepped in-doors, took down his rifle from the rack, and went out frowning into the sunlight. the suggestion of mystery angered him. he had a vague sense of impending danger. as he made his way along the slope toward the great beetling crag all his faculties were on the alert. he saw naught unusual when he stood upon its dark-seamed summit, and he went cautiously to the verge and looked down at the many ledges. they jutted out at irregular intervals, the first only six feet below, and all accessible enough to an expert climber. a bush grew in a niche. an empty nest, riddled by the wind, hung dishevelled from a twig. coarse withered grass tufted the crevices. far below he saw the depths of the cove--the tops of the leafless trees, and, glimpsed through the interlacing boughs, the rush of a mountain rill, and a white flash as a sunbeam slanted on the foam. he was turning away, all incredulous, when with a sudden start he looked back. on one of the ledges was a slight depression. it was filled with sand and earth. imprinted upon it was the shape of a man's foot. the ranger paused and gazed fixedly at it. "wa'al, by the lord!" he exclaimed, under his breath. presently, "but they hev no call!" he argued. then once more, softly, "by the lord!" the mystery baffled him. more than once that day he went up to the crag and stood and stared futilely at the footprint. conjecture had license and limitations, too. as the hours wore on he became harassed by the sense of espionage. he was a bold man before the foes he knew, but this idea of inimical lurking, of furtive scrutiny for unknown purposes, preyed upon him. he brooded over it as he sat idle by the fire. once he went to the door and stared speculatively at the great profile of the cliff. the sky above it was all a lustrous amber, for the early sunset of the shortest days of the year was at hand. the mountains, seen partly above and partly below it, wore a glamourous purple. there were clouds, and from their rifts long divergent lines of light slanted down upon the valley, distinct among their shadows. the sun was not visible--only in the western heavens was a half-veiled effulgence too dazzlingly white to be gazed upon. the ranger shaded his eyes with his hand. no motion, no sound; for the first time in his life the unutterable loneliness of the place impressed him. "'genie," he said, suddenly, looking over his shoulder within the cabin, "be you-uns _sure_ ez they war--_folks_?" "i dunno what you mean," she faltered, her eyes dilated. "they _looked_ like folks." "i reckon they war," he said, reassuring himself. "the lord knows i hope they war." * * * * * that night the wind rose. the stars all seemed to have burst from their moorings, and were wildly adrift in the sky. there was a broken tumult of billowy clouds, and the moon tossed hopelessly amongst them, a lunar wreck, sometimes on her beam ends, sometimes half submerged, once more gallantly struggling to the surface, and again sunk. the bare boughs of the trees beat together in a dirge-like monotone. now and again a leaf went sibilantly whistling past. the wild commotion of the heavens and earth was visible, for the night was not dark. the ranger, standing within the rude stable of unhewn logs, all undaubed, noted how pale were the horizontal bars of gray light alternating with the black logs of the wall. he was giving the mare a feed of corn, but he had not brought his lantern, as was his custom. that mysterious espionage had in some sort shaken his courage, and he felt the obscurity a shield. he had brought, instead, his rifle. the equine form was barely visible among the glooms. now and then, as the mare noisily munched, she lifted a hoof and struck it upon the ground with a dull thud. how the gusts outside were swirling up the gorge! the pines swayed and sighed. again the boughs of the chestnut-oak above the roof crashed together. did a fitful blast stir the door? he lifted his eyes mechanically. a cold thrill ran through every fibre. for there, close by the door, somebody--something--was peering through the space between the logs of the wall. the face was invisible, but the shape of a man's head was distinctly defined. he realized that it was no supernatural manifestation when a husky voice began to call the mare, in a hoarse whisper, "cobe! cobe! cobe!" with a galvanic start he was about to spring forward to hold the door. a hand from without was laid upon it. he placed the muzzle of his gun between the logs, a jet of red light was suddenly projected into the darkness, the mare was rearing and plunging violently, the little shanty was surcharged with roar and reverberation, and far and wide the crags and chasms echoed the report of the rifle. there was a vague clamor outside, an oath, a cry of pain. hasty footfalls sounded among the dead leaves and died in the distance. when the ranger ventured out he saw the door of his house wide open, and the firelight flickering out among the leafless bushes. his wife met him halfway down the hill. "air ye hurt, tobe?" she cried. "did yer gun go off suddint?" "mighty suddint," he replied, savagely. "ye didn't fire it a-purpose?" she faltered. "edzactly so," he declared. "ye never hurt nobody, did ye, tobe?" she had turned very pale. "i 'lowed it couldn't be the wind ez i hearn a-hollerin'." "i hopes an' prays i hurt 'em," he said, as he replaced the rifle in the rack. he was shaking the other hand, which had been jarred in some way by the hasty discharge of the weapon. "some dad-burned horse-thief war arter the mare. jedgin' from the sound o' thar runnin', 'peared like to me ez thar mought be two o' 'em." the next day the mare disappeared from the stable. yet she could not be far off, for tobe was about the house most of the time, and when he and the "colonel" came in-doors in the evening the little girl held in her hand a half-munched ear of corn, evidently abstracted from the mare's supper. "whar be the filly hid, tobe?" eugenia asked, curiosity overpowering her. "ax me no questions an' i'll tell ye no lies," he replied, gruffly. in the morning there was a fall of snow, and she had some doubt whether her mother, who had gone several days before to a neighbor's on the summit of the range, would return; but presently the creak of unoiled axles heralded the approach of a wagon, and soon the old woman, bundled in shawls, was sitting by the fire. she wore heavy woollen socks over her shoes as protection against the snow. the incompatibility of the shape of the hose with the human foot was rather marked, and as they were somewhat inelastic as well, there was a muscular struggle to get them off only exceeded by the effort which had been required to get them on. she shook her head again and again, with a red face, as she bent over the socks, but plainly more than this discomfort vexed her. "laws-a-massy, 'genie! i hearn a awful tale over yander 'mongst them jenkins folks. ye oughter hev married luke todd, an' so i tole ye an' fairly beset ye ter do ten year ago. _he_ keered fur ye. an' tobe--shucks! wa'al, laws-a-massy, child! i hearn a awful tale 'bout tobe up yander at jenkinses'." eugenia colored. "folks hed better take keer how they talk 'bout tobe," she said, with a touch of pride. "they be powerful keerful ter do it out'n rifle range." with one more mighty tug the sock came off, the red face was lifted, and mrs. pearce shook her head ruefully. "the bible say 'words air foolishness.' ye dunno what ye air talkin' 'bout, child." with this melancholy preamble she detailed the gossip that had arisen at the county town and pervaded the country-side. eugenia commented, denied, flashed into rage, then lapsed into silence. although it did not constrain credulity, there was something that made her afraid when her mother said: "ye hed better not be talkin' 'bout rifle range so brash, 'genie, nohows. they 'lowed ez luke todd an' sam peters kem hyar--'twar jes night before las'--aimin' ter take the mare away 'thout no words an' no lawin', 'kase they didn't want ter wait. luke hed got a chance ter view the mare, an' knowed ez she war his'n. an' tobe war hid in the dark beside the mare, an' fired at 'em, an' the rifle-ball tuk sam right through the beam o' his arm. i reckon, though, ez that warn't true, else ye would hev knowed it." she looked up anxiously over her spectacles at her daughter. "i hearn tobe shoot," faltered eugenia. "i seen blood on the leaves." "laws-a-massy!" exclaimed the old woman, irritably. "i be fairly feared ter bide hyar; 'twouldn't s'prise me none ef they kem hyar an' hauled tobe out an' lynched him an' sech, an' who knows who mought git hurt in the scrimmage?" they both fell silent as the ranger strode in. they would need a braver heart than either bore to reveal to him the suspicions of horse-stealing sown broadcast over the mountain. eugenia felt that this in itself was coercive evidence of his innocence. who dared so much as say a word to his face? the weight of the secret asserted itself, however. as she went about her accustomed tasks, all bereft of their wonted interest, vapid and burdensome, she carried so woe-begone a face that it caught his attention, and he demanded, angrily, "what ails ye ter look so durned peakèd?" this did not abide long in his memory, however, and it cost her a pang to see him so unconscious. she went out upon the porch late that afternoon to judge of the weather. snow was falling again. the distant summits had disappeared. the mountains near at hand loomed through the myriads of serried white flakes. a crow flew across the cove in its midst. it heavily thatched the cabin, and tufts dislodged by the opening of the door fell down upon her hair. drifts lay about the porch. each rail of the fence was laden. the ground, the rocks, were deeply covered. she reflected with satisfaction that the red splotch of blood on the dead leaves was no longer visible. then a sudden idea struck her that took her breath away. she came in, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, with an excited dubitation. her husband commented on the change. "ye air a powerful cur'ous critter, 'genie," he said: "a while ago ye looked some fower or five hundred year old--now ye favors yerself when i fust kem a-courtin' round the settlemint." she hardly knew whether the dull stir in her heart were pleasure or pain. her eyes filled with tears, and the irradiated iris shone through them with a liquid lustre. she could not speak. her mother took ephemeral advantage of his softening mood. "ye useter be mighty perlite and saaft-spoken in them days, tobe," she ventured. "i hed ter be," he admitted, frankly, "'kase thar war sech a many o' them mealy-mouthed cusses a-waitin' on 'genie. the kentry 'peared ter me ter bristle with luke todd; he 'minded me o' brumsaidge--_everywhar_ ye seen his yaller head, ez homely an' ez onwelcome." "i never wunst gin luke a thought arter ye tuk ter comin' round the settlemint," eugenia said, softly. "i wisht i hed knowed that then," he replied; "else i wouldn't hev been so all-fired oneasy an' beset. i wasted mo' time a-studyin' 'bout ye an' luke todd 'n ye war both wuth, an' went 'thout my vittles an' sot up o' nights. ef i hed spent that time a-moanin' fur my sins an' settin' my soul at peace, i'd be 'quirin' roun' the throne o' grace now! young folks air powerful fursaken fools." somehow her heart was warmer for this allusion. she was more hopeful. her resolve grew stronger and stronger as she sat and knitted, and looked at the fire and saw among the coals all her old life at the settlement newly aglow. she was remembering now that luke todd had been as wax in her hands. she recalled that when she was married there was a gleeful "sayin'" going the rounds of the mountain that he had taken to the woods with grief, and he was heard of no more for weeks. the gossips relished his despair as the corollary of the happy bridal. he had had no reproaches for her. he had only looked the other way when they met, and she had not spoken to him since. "he set store by my word in them days," she said to herself, her lips vaguely moving. "i misdoubts ef he hev furgot." all through the long hours of the winter night she silently canvassed her plan. the house was still noiseless and dark when she softly opened the door and softly closed it behind her. it had ceased to snow, and the sky had cleared. the trees, all the limbs whitened, were outlined distinctly upon it, and through the boughs overhead a brilliant star, aloof and splendid, looked coldly down. along dark spaces orion had drawn his glittering blade. above the snowy mountains a melancholy waning moon was swinging. the valley was full of mist, white and shining where the light fell upon it, a vaporous purple where the shadows held sway. so still it was! the only motion in all the world the throbbing stars and her palpitating heart. so solemnly silent! it was a relief, as she trudged on and on, to note a gradual change; to watch the sky withdraw, seeming fainter; to see the moon grow filmy, like some figment of the frost; to mark the gray mist steal on apace, wrap mountain, valley, and heaven with mystic folds, shut out all vision of things familiar. through it only the sense of dawn could creep. * * * * * she recognized the locality; her breath was short; her step quickened. she appeared, like an apparition out of the mists, close to a fence, and peered through the snow-laden rails. a sudden pang pierced her heart. for there, within the enclosure, milking the cow, she saw, all blooming in the snow--herself; the azalea-like girl she had been! she had not known how dear to her was that bright young identity she remembered. she had not realized how far it had gone from her. she felt a forlorn changeling looking upon her own estranged estate. a faint cry escaped her. the cow, with lifted head and a muttered low of surprise, moved out of reach of the milker, who, half kneeling upon the ground, stared with wide blue eyes at her ghost in the mist. there was a pause. it was only a moment before eugenia spoke; it seemed years, so charged it was with retrospect. "i kem over hyar ter hev a word with ye," she said. at the sound of a human voice luke todd's wife struggled to her feet. she held the piggin with one arm encircled about it, and with the other hand she clutched the plaid shawl around her throat. her bright hair was tossed by the rising wind. "i 'lowed i'd find ye hyar a-milkin' 'bout now." the homely allusion reassured the younger woman. "i hev ter begin toler'ble early," she said. "spot gins 'bout a gallon a milkin' now." spot's calf, which subsisted on what was left over, seemed to find it cruel that delay should be added to his hardships, and he lifted up his voice in a plaintive remonstrance. this reminded mrs. todd of his existence; she turned and let down the bars that served to exclude him. the stranger was staring at her very hard. somehow she quailed under that look. though it was fixed upon her in unvarying intensity, it had a strange impersonality. this woman was not seeing her, despite that wide, wistful, yearning gaze; she was thinking of something else, seeing some one else. and suddenly luke todd's wife began to stare at the visitor very hard, and to think of something that was not before her. "i be the ranger's wife," said eugenia. "i kem over hyar ter tell ye he never tuk yer black mare nowise but honest, bein' the ranger." she found it difficult to say more. under that speculative, unseeing look she too faltered. "they tell me ez luke todd air powerful outed 'bout'n it. an' i 'lowed ef he knowed from me ez 'twar tuk fair, he'd b'lieve me." she hesitated. her courage was flagging; her hope had fled. the eyes of the man's wife burned upon her face. "we-uns useter be toler'ble well 'quainted 'fore he ever seen ye, an' i 'lowed he'd b'lieve my word," eugenia continued. another silence. the sun was rising; long liquescent lines of light of purest amber-color were streaming through the snowy woods; the shadows of the fence rails alternated with bars of dazzling glister; elusive prismatic gleams of rose and lilac and blue shimmered on every slope--thus the winter flowered. tiny snow-birds were hopping about; a great dog came down from the little snow-thatched cabin, and was stretching himself elastically and yawning most portentously. "an' i 'lowed i'd see ye an' git you-uns ter tell him that word from me, an' then he'd b'lieve it," said eugenia. the younger woman nodded mechanically, still gazing at her. and was this her mission! somehow it had lost its urgency. where was its potency, her enthusiasm? eugenia realized that her feet were wet, her skirts draggled; that she was chilled to the bone and trembling violently. she looked about her doubtfully. then her eyes came back to the face of the woman before her. "ye'll tell him, i s'pose?" once more luke todd's wife nodded mechanically, still staring. there was nothing further to be said. a vacant interval ensued. then, "i 'lowed i'd tell ye," eugenia reiterated, vaguely, and turned away, vanishing with the vanishing mists. luke todd's wife stood gazing at the fence through which the apparition had peered. she could see yet her own face there, grown old and worn. the dog wagged his tail and pressed against her, looking up and claiming her notice. once more he stretched himself elastically and yawned widely, with shrill variations of tone. the calf was frisking about in awkward bovine elation, and now and then the cow affectionately licked its coat with the air of making its toilet. an assertive chanticleer was proclaiming the dawn within the hen-house, whence came too an impatient clamor, for the door, which served to exclude any marauding fox, was still closed upon the imprisoned poultry. still she looked steadily at the fence where the ranger's wife had stood. "that thar woman favors me," she said, presently. and suddenly she burst into tears. perhaps it was well that eugenia could not see luke todd's expression as his wife recounted the scene. she gave it truly, but without, alas! the glamour of sympathy. "she 'lowed ez ye'd b'lieve her, bein' ez ye useter be 'quainted." his face flushed. "wa'al, sir! the insurance o' that thar woman!" he exclaimed. "i war 'quainted with her; i war mighty well 'quainted with her." he had a casual remembrance of those days when "he tuk ter the woods ter wear out his grief." "she never gin me no promise, but me an' her war courtin' some. sech dependence ez i put on her war mightily wasted. i dunno what ails the critter ter 'low ez i set store by her word." poor eugenia! there is nothing so dead as ashes. his flame had clean burned out. so far afield were all his thoughts that he stood amazed when his wife, with a sudden burst of tears, declared passionately that she knew it--she saw it--she favored eugenia gryce. she had found out that he had married her because she looked like another woman. "'genie gryce hev got powerful little ter do ter kem a-jouncin' through the snow over hyar ter try ter set ye an' me agin one another," he exclaimed, angrily. "stealin' the filly ain't enough ter sati'fy her!" his wife was in some sort mollified. she sought to reassure herself. "air we-uns of a favor?" "i dunno," he replied, sulkily. "i 'ain't seen the critter fur nigh on ter ten year. i hev furgot the looks of her. 'pears like ter me," he went on, ruminating, "ez 'twar in my mind when i fust seen ye ez thar war a favor 'twixt ye. but i misdoubts now. do she 'low ez i hev hed nuthin ter study 'bout sence?" perhaps eugenia is not the only woman who overrates the strength of a sentimental attachment. a gloomy intuition of failure kept her company all the lengthening way home. the chill splendors of the wintry day grated upon her dreary mood. how should she care for the depth and richness of the blue deepening toward the zenith in those vast skies? what was it to her that the dead vines, climbing the grim rugged crags, were laden with tufts and corollated shapes wherever these fantasies of flowers might cling, or that the snow flashed with crystalline scintillations? she only knew that they glimmered and dazzled upon the tears in her eyes, and she was moved to shed them afresh. she did not wonder whether her venture had resulted amiss. she only wondered that she had tried aught. and she was humbled. when she reached lonesome cove she found the piggin where she had hid it, and milked the cow in haste. it was no great task, for the animal was going dry. "their'n gins a gallon a milkin'," she said, in rueful comparison. as she came up the slope with the piggin on her head, her husband was looking down from the porch with a lowering brow. "why n't ye spen' the day a-milkin' the cow?" he drawled. "dawdlin' yander in the cow-pen till this time in the mornin'! an' ter-morrer's chrismus!" the word smote upon her weary heart with a dull pain. she had no cultured phrase to characterize the sensation as a presentiment, but she was conscious of the prophetic process. to-night "all the mounting" would be riotous with that dubious hilarity known as "chrismus in the bones," and there was no telling what might come from the combined orgy and an inflamed public spirit. she remembered the familiar doom of the mountain horse-thief, the men lurking on the cliff, the inimical feeling against the ranger. she furtively watched him with forebodings as he came and went at intervals throughout the day. dusk had fallen when he suddenly looked in and beckoned to the "colonel," who required him to take her with him whenever he fed the mare. "let me tie this hyar comforter over the cunnel's head," eugenia said, as he bundled the child in a shawl and lifted her in his arms. "'tain't no use," he declared. "the cunnel ain't travellin' fur." she heard him step from the creaking porch. she heard the dreary wind without. within, the clumsy shadows of the warping-bars, the spinning-wheel, and the churn were dancing in the firelight on the wall. the supper was cooking on the live coals. the children, popping corn in the ashes, were laughing; as her eye fell upon the "colonel's" vacant little chair her mind returned to the child's excursion with her father, and again she wondered futilely where the mare could be hid. the next moment she was heartily glad that she did not know. it was like the fulfillment of some dreadful dream when the door opened. a man entered softly, slowly; the flickering fire showed his shadow--was it?--nay, another man, and still another, and another. the old crone in the corner sprang up, screaming in a shrill, tremulous, cracked voice. for they were masked. over the face of each dangled a bit of homespun, with great empty sockets through which eyes vaguely glanced. even the coarse fibre of the intruders responded to that quavering, thrilling appeal. one spoke instantly: "laws-a-massy! mis' pearce, don't ye feel interrupted none--nor mis' gryce nuther. we-uns ain't harmful noways--jes want ter know whar that thar black mare hev disappeared to. she ain't in the barn." he turned his great eye-sockets on eugenia. the plaid homespun mask dangling about his face was grotesquely incongruous with his intent, serious gaze. "i dunno," she faltered; "i dunno." she had caught at the spinning-wheel for support. the fire crackled. the baby was counting aloud the grains of corn popping from the ashes. "six, two, free," he babbled. the kettle merrily sang. the man still stared silently at the ranger's wife. the expression in his eyes changed suddenly. he chuckled derisively. the others echoed his mocking mirth. "ha! ha! ha!" they laughed aloud; and the eye-sockets in the homespun masks all glared significantly at each other. even the dog detected something sinister in this laughter. he had been sniffing about the heels of the strangers; he bristled now, showed his teeth, and growled. the spokesman hastily kicked him in the ribs, and the animal fled yelping to the farther side of the fireplace behind the baby, where he stood and barked defiance. the rafters rang with the sound. some one on the porch without spoke to the leader in a low voice. this man, who seemed to have a desire to conceal his identity which could not be served by a mask, held the door with one hand that the wind might not blow it wide open. the draught fanned the fire. once the great bowing, waving white blaze sent a long, quivering line of light through the narrow aperture, and eugenia saw the dark lurking figure outside. he had one arm in a sling. she needed no confirmation to assure her that this was sam peters, whom her husband had shot at the stable door. the leader instantly accepted his suggestion. "wa'al, mis' gryce, i reckon ye dunno whar tobe be, nuther?" "naw, i dunno," she said, in a tremor. the homespun mask swayed with the distortions of his face as he sneered: "ye mean ter say ye don't 'low ter tell us." "i dunno whar he be." her voice had sunk to a whisper. another exchange of glances. "wa'al, ma'am, jes gin us the favor of a light by yer fire, an' we-uns 'll find him." he stepped swiftly forward, thrust a pine torch into the coals, and with it all whitely flaring ran out into the night; the others followed his example; and the terror-stricken women, hastily barring up the door, peered after them through the little batten shutter of the window. * * * * * the torches were already scattered about the slopes of lonesome cove like a fallen constellation. what shafts of white light they cast upon the snow in the midst of the dense blackness of the night! somehow they seemed endowed with volition, as they moved hither and thither, for their brilliancy almost cancelled the figures of the men that bore them--only an occasional erratic shapeless shadow was visible. now and then a flare pierced the icicle-tipped holly bushes, and again there was a fibrous glimmer in the fringed pines. the search was terribly silent. the snow deadened the tread. only the wind was loud among the muffled trees, and sometimes a dull thud sounded when the weight of snow fell from the evergreen laurel as the men thrashed through its dense growth. they separated after a time, and only here and there an isolated stellular light illumined the snow, and conjured white mystic circles into the wide spaces of the darkness. the effort flagged at last, and its futility sharpened the sense of injury in luke todd's heart. he was alone now, close upon the great rock, and looking at its jagged ledges all cloaked with snow. above those soft white outlines drawn against the deep clear sky the frosty stars scintillated. beneath were the abysmal depths of the valley masked by the darkness. his pride was touched. in the old quarrel his revenge had been hampered, for it was the girl's privilege to choose, and she had chosen. he cared nothing for that now, but he felt it indeed a reproach to tamely let this man take his horse when he had all the mountain at his back. there was a sharp humiliation in his position. he felt the pressure of public opinion. "dad-burn him!" he exclaimed. "ef i kin make out ter git a glimge o' him, i'll shoot him dead--dead!" he leaned the rifle against the rock. it struck upon a ledge. a metallic vibration rang out. again and again the sound was repeated--now loud, still clanging; now faint, but clear; now soft and away to a doubtful murmur which he hardly was sure that he heard. never before had he known such an echo. and suddenly he recollected that this was the great "talking rock," famed beyond the limits of lonesome. it had traditions as well as echoes. he remembered vaguely that beneath this cliff there was said to be a cave which was utilized in the manufacture of saltpetre for gunpowder in the war of . as he looked down the slope below he thought the snow seemed broken--by footprints, was it? with the expectation of a discovery strong upon him, he crept along a wide ledge of the crag, now and then stumbling and sending an avalanche of snow and ice and stones thundering to the foot of the cliff. he missed his way more than once. then he would turn about, laboriously retracing his steps, and try another level of the ledges. suddenly before him was the dark opening he sought. no creature had lately been here. it was filled with growing bushes and dead leaves and brambles. looking again down upon the slope beneath, he felt very sure that he saw footprints. "the old folks useter 'low ez thar war two openings ter this hyar cave," he said. "tobe gryce mought hev hid hyar through a opening down yander on the slope. but _i'll_ go the way ez i hev hearn tell on, an' peek in, an' ef i kin git a glimge o' him, i'll make him tell me whar that thar filly air, or i'll let daylight through him, sure!" he paused only to bend aside the brambles, then he crept in and took his way along a low, narrow passage. it had many windings, but was without intersections or intricacy. he heard his own steps echoed like a pursuing footfall. his labored breathing returned in sighs from the inanimate rocks. it was an uncanny place, with strange, sepulchral, solemn effects. he shivered with the cold. a draught stole in from some secret crevice known only to the wild mountain winds. the torch flared, crouched before the gust, flared again, then darkness. he hesitated, took one step forward, and suddenly--a miracle! a soft aureola with gleaming radiations, a low, shadowy chamber, a beast feeding from a manger, and within it a child's golden head. his heart gave a great throb. somehow he was smitten to his knees. christmas eve! he remembered the day with a rush of emotion. he stared again at the vouchsafed vision. he rubbed his eyes. it had changed. only hallucination caused by an abrupt transition from darkness to light; only the most mundane facts of the old troughs and ash-hoppers, relics of the industry that had served the hideous carnage of battle; only the yellow head of the ranger's brat, who had climbed into one of them, from which the mare was calmly munching her corn. yet this was christmas eve. and the child did lie in a manger. perhaps it was well for him that his ignorant faith could accept the illusion as a vision charged with all the benignities of peace on earth, good-will toward men. with a keen thrill in his heart, on his knees he drew the charge from his rifle, and flung it down a rift in the rocks. "chrismus eve," he murmured. [illustration: "yet this was christmas eve"] he leaned his empty weapon against the wall, and strode out to the little girl who was perched up on the trough. "chrismus gift, cunnel!" he cried, cheerily. "ter-morrer's chrismus." the echoes caught the word. in vibratory jubilance they repeated it. "chrismus!" rang from the roof, scintillating with calc-spar; "chrismus!" sounded from the colonnade of stalactites that hung down to meet the uprising stalagmites; "chrismus!" repeated the walls incrusted with roses that, shut in from the light and the fresh air of heaven, bloomed forever in the stone. was ever chorus so sweet as this? it reached tobe gryce, who stood at his improvised corn-bin. with a bundle of fodder still in his arms he stepped forward. there beside the little colonel and the black mare he beheld a man seated upon an inverted half-bushel measure, peacefully lighting his pipe with a bunch of straws which he kindled at the lantern on the ash-hopper. the ranger's black eyes were wide with wonder at this intrusion, and angrily flashed. he connected it at once with the attack on the stable. the hair on his low forehead rose bristlingly as he frowned. yet he realized with a quaking heart that he was helpless. he, although the crack shot of the county, would not have fired while the colonel was within two yards of his mark for the state of tennessee. he stood his ground with stolid courage--a target. then, with a start of surprise, he perceived that the intruder was unarmed. twenty feet away his rifle stood against the wall. tobe gryce was strangely shaken. he experienced a sudden revolt of credulity. this was surely a dream. "ain't that thar luke todd? why air ye a-waitin' thar?" he called out in a husky undertone. todd glanced up, and took his pipe from his mouth; it was now fairly alight. "kase it be chrismus eve, tobe," he said, gravely. the ranger stared for a moment; then came forward and gave the fodder to the mare, pausing now and then and looking with oblique distrust down upon luke todd as he smoked his pipe. "i want ter tell ye, tobe, ez some o' the mounting boys air a-sarchin fur ye outside." "who air they?" asked the ranger, calmly. his tone was so natural, his manner so unsuspecting, that a new doubt began to stir in luke todd's mind. "what ails ye ter keep the mare down hyar, tobe?" he asked, suddenly. "'pears like ter me ez that be powerful comical." "kase," said tobe, reasonably, "some durned horse-thieves kem arter her one night. i fired at 'em. i hain't hearn on 'em sence. an' so i jes hid the mare." todd was puzzled. he shifted his pipe in his mouth. finally he said: "some folks 'lowed ez ye hed no right ter take up that mare, bein' ez ye war the ranger." tobe gryce whirled round abruptly. "what war i a-goin' ter do, then? feed the critter fur nuthin till the triflin' scamp ez owned her kem arter her? i couldn't work her 'thout takin' her up an' hevin her appraised. thar's a law agin sech. an' i couldn't git somebody ter toll her off an' take her up. that ain't fair. what ought i ter hev done?" "wa'al," said luke, drifting into argument, "the town-folks 'low ez ye hev got nuthin ter prove it by, the stray-book an' records bein' burnt. the town-folks 'low ez ye can't prove by writin' an' sech ez ye ever tried ter find the owner." "the town-folks air fairly sodden in foolishness," exclaimed the ranger, indignantly. he drew from his ample pocket a roll of ragged newspapers, and pointed with his great thumb at a paragraph. and luke todd read by the light of the lantern the advertisement and description of the estray printed according to law in the nearest newspaper. the newspaper was so infrequent a factor in the lives of the mountain gossips that this refutation of their theory had never occurred to them. the sheet was trembling in luke todd's hand; his eyes filled. the cavern with its black distances, its walls close at hand sparkling with delicate points of whitest light; the yellow flare of the lantern; the grotesque shadows on the ground; the fair little girl with her golden hair; the sleek black mare; the burly figure of the ranger--all the scene swayed before him. he remembered the gracious vision that had saluted him; he shuddered at the crime from which he was rescued. pity him because he knew naught of the science of optics; of the bewildering effects of a sudden burst of light upon the delicate mechanism of the eye; of the vagaries of illusion. "tobe," he said, in a solemn voice--all the echoes were bated to awed whispers--"i hev been gin ter view a vision this night, bein' 'twar chrismus eve. an' now i want ter shake hands on it fur peace." then he told the whole story, regardless of the ranger's demonstrations, albeit they were sometimes violent enough. tobe sprang up with a snort of rage, his eyes flashing, his thick tongue stumbling with the curses crowding upon it, when he realized the suspicions rife against him at the county town. but he stood with his clinched hand slowly relaxing, and with the vague expression which one wears who looks into the past, as he listened to the recital of eugenia's pilgrimage in the snowy wintry dawn. "mighty few folks hev got a wife ez set store by 'em like that," luke remarked, impersonally. the ranger's rejoinder seemed irrelevant. "'genie be a-goin' ter see a powerful differ arter this," he said, and fell to musing. snow, fatigue, and futility destroyed the ardor of the lynching party after a time, and they dispersed to their homes. little was said of this expedition afterward, and it became quite impossible to find a man who would admit having joined it. for the story went the rounds of the mountain that there had been a mistake as to unfair dealing on the part of the ranger, and luke todd was quite content to accept from the county treasury half the sum of the mare's appraisement--with the deduction of the stipulated per cent.--which tobe gryce had paid, the receipt for which he produced. the gossips complained, however, that after all this was settled according to law, tobe wouldn't keep the mare, and insisted that luke should return to him the money he had paid into the treasury, half her value, "bein' so brigaty he wouldn't own luke todd's beast. an' luke agreed ter so do; but he didn't want ter be outdone, so fur the keep o' the filly he gin the cunnel a heifer. an' tobe war mighty nigh tickled ter death fur the cunnel ter hev a cow o' her own." and now when december skies darken above lonesome cove, and the snow in dizzying whirls sifts softly down, and the gaunt brown leafless heights are clothed with white as with a garment, and the wind whistles and shouts shrilly, and above the great crag loom the distant mountains, and below are glimpsed the long stretches of the valley, the two men remember the vision that illumined the cavernous solitudes that night, and bless the gracious power that sent salvation 'way down to lonesome cove, and cherish peace and good-will for the sake of a little child that lay in a manger. the moonshiners at hoho-hebee falls i if the mission of the little school-house in holly cove was to impress upon the youthful mind a comprehension and appreciation of the eternal verities of nature, its site could hardly have been better chosen. all along the eastern horizon deployed the endless files of the great smoky mountains--blue and sunlit, with now and again the apparition of an unfamiliar peak, hovering like a straggler in the far-distant rear, and made visible for the nonce by some exceptional clarification of the atmosphere; or lowering, gray, stern; or with ranks of clouds hanging on their flanks, while all the artillery of heaven whirled about them, and the whole world quaked beneath the flash and roar of its volleys. the seasons successively painted the great landscape--spring, with its timorous touch, its illumined haze, its tender, tentative green and gray and yellow; summer, with its flush of completion, its deep, luscious, definite verdure, and the golden richness of fruition; autumn, with a full brush and all chromatic splendors; winter, in melancholy sepia tones, black and brown and many sad variations of the pallors of white. so high was the little structure on the side of a transverse ridge that it commanded a vast field of sky above the wooded ranges; and in the immediate foreground, down between the slopes which were cleft to the heart, was the river, resplendent with the reflected moods of the heavens. in this deep gorge the winds and the pines chanted like a greek chorus; the waves continuously murmured an intricate rune, as if conning it by frequent repetition; a bird would call out from the upper air some joyous apothegm in a language which no creature of the earth has learned enough of happiness to translate. but the precepts which prevailed in the little school-house were to the effect that rivers, except as they flowed as they listed to confusing points of the compass, rising among names difficult to remember, and emptying into the least anticipated body of water, were chiefly to be avoided for their proclivity to drown small boys intent on swimming or angling. mountains, aside from the desirability of their recognition as forming one of the divisions of land somewhat easily distinguishable by the more erudite youth from plains, valleys, and capes, were full of crags and chasms, rattlesnakes and vegetable poisons, and a further familiarity with them was liable to result in the total loss of the adventurous--to see friends, family, and home no more. these dicta, promulgated from the professorial chair, served to keep the small body of callow humanity, with whose instruction abner sage was intrusted by the state, well within call and out of harm's way during the short recesses, while under his guidance they toddled along the rough road that leads up the steeps to knowledge. but one there was who either bore a charmed life or possessed an unequalled craft in successfully defying danger; who fished and swam with impunity; who was ragged and torn from much climbing of crags; whose freckled face bore frequent red tokens of an indiscriminate sampling of berries. it is too much to say that abner sage would have been glad to have his warnings made terrible by some bodily disaster to the juvenile dare-devil of the school, but leander yerby's disobedient incredulity as to the terrors that menaced him, and his triumphant immunity, fostered a certain grudge against him. covert though it was, unrecognized even by sage himself, it was very definitely apparent to tyler sudley when sometimes, often, indeed, on his way home from hunting, he would pause at the school-house window, pulling open the shutter from the outside, and gravely watch his protégé, who stood spelling at the head of the class. for leander yerby's exploits were not altogether those of a physical prowess. he was a mighty wrestler with the multiplication table. he had met and overthrown the nine line in single-handed combat. he had attained unto some interesting knowledge of the earth on which he lived, and could fluently bound countries with neatness and precision, and was on terms of intimacy with sundry seas, volcanoes, islands, and other sizable objects. the glib certainty of his contemptuous familiarity with the alphabet and its untoward combinations, as he flung off words in four syllables in his impudent chirping treble, seemed something uncanny, almost appalling, to tyler sudley, who could not have done the like to save his stalwart life. he would stare dumfounded at the erudite personage at the head of the class; leander's bare feet were always carefully adjusted to a crack between the puncheons of the floor, literally "toeing the mark"; his broad trousers, frayed out liberally at the hem, revealed his skinny and scarred little ankles, for his out-door adventures were not without a record upon the more impressionable portions of his anatomy; his waistband was drawn high up under his shoulder-blades and his ribs, and girt over the shoulders of his unbleached cotton shirt by braces, which all his learning did not prevent him from calling "galluses"; his cut, scratched, calloused hands were held stiffly down at the side seams in his nether garments in strict accordance with the regulations. but rules could not control the twinkle in his big blue eyes, the mingled effrontery and affection on his freckled face as he perceived the on-looking visitor, nor hinder the wink, the swiftly thrust-out tongue, as swiftly withdrawn, the egregious display of two rows of dishevelled jagged squirrel teeth, when once more, with an offhand toss of his tangled brown hair, he nimbly spelled a long twisted-tailed word, and leered capably at the grave intent face framed in the window. "why, abner!" tyler sudley would break out, addressing the teacher, all unmindful of scholastic etiquette, a flush of pleasure rising to his swarthy cheek as he thrust back his wide black hat on his long dark hair and turned his candid gray eyes, all aglow, upon the cadaverous, ascetic preceptor, "ain't lee-yander a-gittin' on powerful, _powerful_ fas' with his book?" "not in enny ways so special," sage would reply in cavalier discouragement, his disaffected gaze resting upon the champion scholar, who stood elated, confident, needing no commendation to assure him of his pre-eminence; "but he air disobejient, an' turr'ble, turr'ble bad." the nonchalance with which leander yerby hearkened to this criticism intimated a persuasion that there were many obedient people in this world, but few who could so disport themselves in the intricacies of the english language; and sudley, as he plodded homeward with his rifle on his shoulder, his dog running on in advance, and leander pattering along behind, was often moved to add the weight of his admonition to the teacher's reproof. "lee-yander," he would gently drawl, "ye mustn't be so bad, honey; ye _mustn't_ be so turr'ble bad." "naw, ma'am, i won't," leander would cheerily pipe out, and so the procession would wend its way along. for he still confused the gender in titles of respect, and from force of habit he continued to do so in addressing tyler sudley for many a year after he had learned better. these lapses were pathetic rather than ridiculous in the hunter's ears. it was he who had taught leander every observance of verbal humility toward his wife, in the forlorn hope of propitiating her in the interest of the child, who, however, with his quick understanding that the words sought to do honor and express respect, had of his own accord transferred them to his one true friend in the household. the only friend he had in the world, sudley often felt, with a sigh over the happy child's forlorn estate. and, with the morbid sensitiveness peculiar to a tender conscience, he winced under the knowledge that it was he who, through wrongheadedness or wrongheartedness, had contrived to make all the world besides the boy's enemy. both wrongheaded and wronghearted he was, he sometimes told himself. for even now it still seemed to him that he had not judged amiss, that only the perversity of fate had thwarted him. was it so fantastically improbable, so hopeless a solace that he had planned, that he should have thought his wife might take comfort for the death of their own child in making for its sake a home for another, orphaned, forlorn, a burden, and a glad riddance to those into whose grudging charge it had been thrown? this bounty of hope and affection and comfort had seemed to him a free gift from the dead baby's hands, who had no need of it since coming into its infinite heritage of immortality, to the living waif, to whom it was like life itself, since it held all the essential values of existence. the idea smote him like an inspiration. he had ridden twenty miles in a snowy night to beg the unwelcome mite from the custody of its father's half-brothers, who were on the eve of moving to a neighboring county with all their kin and belongings. tyler sudley was a slow man, and tenacious of impressions. he could remember every detail of the events as they had happened--the palpable surprise, the moment of hesitation, the feint of denial which successively ensued on his arrival. it mattered not what the season or the hour--he could behold at will the wintry dawn, the deserted cabin, the glow of embers dying on the hearth within; the white-covered wagon slowly a-creak along the frozen road beneath the gaunt, bare, overhanging trees, the pots and pans as they swung at the rear, the bucket for water swaying beneath, the mounted men beside it, the few head of swine and cattle driven before them. years had passed, but he could feel anew the vague stir of the living bundle which he held on the pommel of his saddle, the sudden twist it gave to bring its inquiring, apprehensive eyes, so large in its thin, lank-jawed, piteous little countenance, to bear on his face, as if it understood its transfer of custody, and trembled lest a worse thing befall it. one of the women stopped the wagon and ran back to pin about its neck an additional wrapping, an old red-flannel petticoat, lest it should suffer in its long, cold ride. his heart glowed with vicarious gratitude for her forethought, and he shook her hand warmly and wished her well, and hoped that she might prosper in her new home, and stood still to watch the white wagon out of sight in the avenue of the snow-laden trees, above which the moon was visible, a-journeying too, swinging down the western sky. laurelia sudley sat in stunned amazement when, half-frozen, but triumphant and flushed and full of his story, he burst into the warm home atmosphere, and put the animated bundle down upon the hearth-stone in front of the glowing fire. for one moment she met its forlorn gaze out of its peakèd and pinched little face with a vague hesitation in her own worn, tremulous, sorrow-stricken eyes. then she burst into a tumult of tears, upbraiding her husband that he could think that another child could take the place of her dead child--all the dearer because it was dead; that she could play the traitor to its memory and forget her sacred grief; that she could do aught as long as she should live but sit her down to bewail her loss, every tear a tribute, every pang its inalienable right, her whole smitten existence a testimony to her love. it was in vain that he expostulated. the idea of substitution had never entered his mind. but he was ignorant, and clumsy of speech, and unaccustomed to analyze his motives. he could not put into words his feeling that to do for the welfare of this orphaned and unwelcome little creature all that they would have done for their own was in some sort a memorial to him, and brought them nearer to him--that she might find in it a satisfaction, an occupation--that it might serve to fill her empty life, her empty arms. but no! she thought, and the neighbors thought, and after a time tyler sudley came to think also, that he had failed in the essential duty to the dead--that of affectionate remembrance; that he was recreant, strangely callous. they all said that he had seemed to esteem one baby as good as another, and that he was surprised that his wife was not consoled for the loss of her own child because he took it into his head to go and toll off the yerby baby from his father's half-brothers "ez war movin' away an' war glad enough ter get rid o' one head o' human stock ter kerry, though, _bein' human_, they oughter been ashamed ter gin him away like a puppy-dog, or an extry cat, all hands consarned." from the standpoint she had taken laurelia had never wavered. it was an added and a continual reproach to her husband that all the labor and care of the ill-advised acquisition fell to her share. she it was who must feed and clothe and tend the gaunt little usurper; he needs must be accorded all the infantile prerogatives, and he exacted much time and attention. despite the grudging spirit in which her care was given she failed in no essential, and presently the interloper was no longer gaunt or pallid or apprehensive, but grew pink and cherubic of build, and arrogant of mind. he had no sensitive sub-current of suspicion as to his welcome; he filled the house with his gay babbling, and if no maternal chirpings encouraged the development of his ideas and his powers of speech, his cheerful spirits seemed strong enough to thrive on their own stalwart endowments. his hair began to curl, and a neighbor, remarking on it to laurelia, and forgetting for the moment his parentage, said, in admiring glee, twining the soft tendrils over her finger, that mrs. sudley had never before had a child so well-favored as this one. from this time forth was infused a certain rancor into his foster-mother's spirit toward him. her sense of martyrdom was complete when another infant was born and died, leaving her bereaved once more to watch this stranger grow up in her house, strong and hearty, and handsomer than any child of hers had been. the mountain gossips had their own estimate of her attitude. "i ain't denyin' but what she hed nat'ral feelin' fur her own chil'ren, bein' dead," said the dame who had made the unfortunate remark about the curling hair, "but laurelia sudley war always a contrary-minded, lackadaisical kind o' gal afore she war married, sorter set in opposition, an' now ez she ain't purty like she useter was, through cryin' her eyes out, an' gittin' sallow-complected an' bony, i kin notice her contrariousness more. ef tyler hedn't brung that chile home, like ez not she'd hev sot her heart on borryin' one herself from somebody. lee-yander ain't in nowise abused, ez i kin see--ain't acquainted with the rod, like the bible say he oughter be, an' ennybody kin see ez laurelia don't like the name he gin her, yit she puts up with it. she larnt him ter call ty 'cap'n,' bein' she's sorter proud of it, 'kase ty war a cap'n of a critter company in the war: 'twarn't sech a mighty matter nohow; he jes got ter be cap'n through the other off'cers bein' killed off. an' the leetle boy got it twisted somehows, an' calls _her_ 'cap'n' an' ty 'neighbor,' from hearin' old man jeemes, ez comes in constant, givin' him that old-fashioned name. 'cap'n' 'bout fits laurelia, though, an' that's a fac'." laurelia's melancholy ascendency in the household was very complete. it was characterized by no turbulence, no rages, no long-drawn argument or objurgation; it expressed itself only in a settled spirit of disaffection, a pervasive suggestion of martyrdom, silence or sighs, or sometimes a depressing singing of hymn tunes. for her husband had long ago ceased to remonstrate, or to seek to justify himself. it was with a spirit of making amends that he hastened to concede every point of question, to defer to her preference in all matters, and laurelia's sway grew more and more absolute as the years wore on. leander yerby could remember no other surroundings than the ascetic atmosphere of his home. it had done naught apparently to quell the innate cheerfulness of his spirit. he evidently took note, however, of the different standpoint of the "captain" and his "neighbor," for although he was instant in the little manifestations of respect toward her which he had been taught, his childish craft could not conceal their spuriousness. "that thar boy treats me ez ef i war a plumb idjit," laurelia said one day, moved to her infrequent anger. "tells me, 'yes, ma'am, cap'n,' an' 'naw, ma'am, cap'n,' jes ter quiet me--like folks useter do ter old ed'ard green, ez war in his dotage--an' then goes along an' does the very thing i tell him not ter do." sudley looked up as he sat smoking his pipe by the fire, a shade of constraint in his manner, and a contraction of anxiety in his slow, dark eyes, never quite absent when she spoke to him aside of leander. she paused, setting her gaunt arms akimbo, and wearing the manner of one whose kindly patience is beyond limit abused. "kems in hyar, he do, a-totin' a fiddle. an' i says, 'lee-yander yerby, don't ye know that thar thing's the devil's snare?' 'naw, ma'am, cap'n,' he says, grinnin' like a imp; 'it's _my_ snare, fur i hev bought it from peter teazely fur two rabbits what i cotch in my trap, an' my big red rooster, an' a bag o' seed pop-corn, an' the only hat i hev got in the worl'.' an' with that the consarn gin sech a yawp, it plumb went through my haid. an' then the critter jes tuk ter a-bowin' it back an' forth, a-playin' 'the chicken in the bread-trough' like demented, a-dancin' off on fust one foot an' then on t'other till the puncheons shuck. an' i druv him out the house. i won't stan' none o' satan's devices hyar! i tole him he couldn't fetch that fiddle hyar whenst he kems home ter-night, an' i be a-goin' ter make him a sun-bonnet or a nightcap ter wear stiddier his hat that he traded off." she paused. her husband had risen, the glow of his pipe fading in his unheeding hand, his excited eyes fixed upon her. "laurely," he exclaimed, "ye ain't meanin' ez that thar leetle critter could play a chune fust off on a fiddle 'thout no larnin'!" she nodded her head in reluctant admission. he opened his mouth once or twice, emitting no sound. she saw how his elation, his spirit of commendation, his pride, set at naught her displeasure, albeit in self-defence, perchance, he dared not say a word. with an eye alight and an absorbed face, he laid his pipe on the mantel-piece, and silently took his way out of the house in search of the youthful musician. easily found! the racked and tortured echoes were all aquake within half a mile of the spot where, bareheaded, heedless of the threatened ignominy alike of sun-bonnet or nightcap, leander sat in the flickering sunshine and shadow upon a rock beside the spring, and blissfully experimented with all the capacities of catgut to produce sound. "listen, neighbor!" he cried out, descrying tyler sudley, who, indeed, could do naught else--"_listen_! ye won't hear much better fiddlin' this side o' kingdom come!" and with glad assurance he capered up and down, the bow elongating the sound to a cadence of frenzied glee, as his arms sought to accommodate the nimbler motions of his legs. thus it was the mountaineers later said that leander fell into bad company. for, the fiddle being forbidden in the sober laurelia's house, he must needs go elsewhere to show his gift and his growing skill, and he found a welcome fast enough. before he had advanced beyond his stripling youth, his untutored facility had gained a rude mastery over the instrument; he played with a sort of fascination and spontaneity that endeared his art to his uncritical audiences, and his endowment was held as something wonderful. and now it was that laurelia, hearing him, far away in the open air, play once a plaintive, melodic strain, fugue-like with the elfin echoes, felt a strange soothing in the sound, found tears in her eyes, not all of pain but of sad pleasure, and assumed thenceforth something of the port of a connoisseur. she said she "couldn't abide a fiddle jes sawed helter-skelter by them ez hedn't larned, but ter play saaft an' slow an' solemn, and no dancin' chune, no frolic song--she warn't set agin that at all." and she desired of leander a repetition of this sunset motive that evening when he had come home late, and she discovered him hiding the obnoxious instrument under the porch. but in vain. he did not remember it. it was some vague impulse, as unconsciously voiced as the dreaming bird's song in the sudden half-awake intervals of the night. over and again, as he stood by the porch, the violin in his arms, he touched the strings tentatively, as if, perchance, being so alive, they might of their own motion recall the strain that had so lately thrilled along them. he had grown tall and slender. he wore boots to his knees now, and pridefully carried a "shootin'-iron" in one of the long legs--to his great discomfort. the freckles of his early days were merged into the warm uniform tint of his tanned complexion. his brown hair still curled; his shirt-collar fell away from his throat, round and full and white--the singer's throat--as he threw his head backward and cast his large roving eyes searchingly along the sky, as if the missing strain had wings. the inspiration returned no more, and laurelia experienced a sense of loss. "some time, lee-yander, ef ye war ter kem acrost that chune agin, try ter set it in yer remembrance, an' play it whenst ye kem home," she said, wistfully, at last, as if this errant melody were afloat somewhere in the vague realms of sound, where one native to those haunts might hope to encounter it anew. "yes, ma'am, cap'n, i will," he said, with his facile assent. but his tone expressed slight intention, and his indifference bespoke a too great wealth of "chunes"; he could feel no lack in some unremembered combination, sport of the moment, when another strain would come at will, as sweet perchance, and new. she winced as from undeserved reproach when presently leander's proclivities for the society of the gay young blades about the countryside, sometimes reputed "evil men," were attributed to this exile of the violin from the hearth-stone. she roused herself to disputation, to indignant repudiation. "they talk ez ef it war _me_ ez led the drinkin', an' the gamin', an' the dancin', and sech, ez goes on in the cove, 'kase whenst lee-yander war about fryin' size i wouldn't abide ter hev him a-sawin' away on the fiddle in the house enough ter make me deef fur life. at fust the racket of it even skeered towse so he wouldn't come out from under the house fur two days an' better; he jes sot under thar an' growled, an' shivered, an' showed his teeth ef ennybody spoke ter him. nobody don't like lee-yander's performin' better'n i do whenst he plays them saaft, slippin'-away, slow medjures, ez sound plumb religious--ef 'twarn't a sin ter say so. naw, sir, ef ennybody hev sot lee-yander on ter evil ways 'twarn't me. my conscience be clear." nevertheless she was grievously ill at ease when one day there rode up to the fence a tall, gaunt, ill-favored man, whose long, lean, sallow countenance, of a pharisaic cast, was vaguely familiar to her, as one recognizes real lineaments in the contortions of a caricature or the bewilderments of a dream. she felt as if in some long-previous existence she had seen this man as he dismounted at the gate and came up the path with his saddle-bags over his arm. but it was not until he mustered an unready, unwilling smile, that had of good-will and geniality so slight an intimation that it was like a spasmodic grimace, did she perceive how time had deepened tendencies to traits, how the inmost thought and the secret sentiment had been chiselled into the face in the betrayals of the sculpture of fifteen years. "nehemiah yerby!" she exclaimed. "i would hev knowed ye in the happy land o' canaan." "let's pray we may all meet thar, sister sudley," he responded. "let's pray that the good time may find none of us unprofitable servants." mrs. sudley experienced a sudden recoil. not that she did not echo his wish, but somehow his manner savored of an exclusive arrogation of piety and a suggestion of reproach. "that's my prayer," she retorted, aggressively. "day an' night, that's my prayer." "yes'm, fur us an' our households, sister sudley--we mus' think o' them c'mitted ter our charge." she strove to fling off the sense of guilt that oppressed her, the mental attitude of arraignment. he was a young man when he journeyed away in that snowy dawn. she did not know what changes had come in his experience. perchance his effervescent piety was only a habit of speech, and had no significance as far as she was concerned. the suspicion, however, tamed her in some sort. she attempted no retort. with a mechanical, reluctant smile, ill adjusted to her sorrow-lined face, she made an effort to assume that the greeting had been but the conventional phrasings of the day. "kem in, kem in, nehemiah; tyler will be glad ter see ye, an' i reckon ye will be powerful interested ter view how lee-yander hev growed an' prospered." she felt as if she were in some terrible dream as she beheld him slowly wag his head from side to side. he had followed her into the large main room of the cabin, and had laid his saddle-bags down by the side of the chair in which he had seated himself, his elbows on his knees, his hands held out to the flickering blaze in the deep chimney-place, his eyes significantly narrowing as he gazed upon it. "naw, sister sudley," he wagged his head more mournfully still. "i kin but grieve ter hear how my nevy lee-yander hev 'prospered,' ez ye call it, an' i be s'prised ye should gin it such a name. oh-h-h, sister sudley!" in prolonged and dreary vocative, "i 'lowed ye war a godly woman. i knowed yer name 'mongst the church-goers an' the church-members." a faint flush sprang into her delicate faded cheek; a halo encircled this repute of sanctity, she felt with quivering premonition that it was about to be urged as a testimony against her. "elsewise i wouldn't hev gin my cornsent ter hev lef' the leetle lam', lee-yander, in yer fold. precious, precious leetle lam'!" poor laurelia! were it not that she had a sense of fault under the scathing arraignment of her motives, her work, and its result, although she scarcely saw how she was to blame, that she had equally with him esteemed leander's standpoint iniquitous, she might have made a better fight in her own interest. why she did not renounce the true culprit as one on whom all godly teachings were wasted, and, adopting the indisputable vantage-ground of heredity, carry the war into the enemy's country, ascribing leander's shortcomings to his yerby blood, and with stern and superior joy proclaiming that he was neither kith nor kin of hers, she wondered afterward, for this valid ground of defence did not occur to her then. in these long mourning years she had grown dull; her mental processes were either a sad introspection or reminiscence. now she could only take into account her sacrifices of feeling, of time, of care; the illnesses she had nursed, the garments that she had made and mended--ah, how many! laid votive on the altar of leander's vigor and his agility, for as he scrambled about the crags he seemed, she was wont to say, to climb straight out of them. the recollection of all this--the lesser and unspiritual maternal values, perchance, but essential--surged over her with bitterness; she lost her poise, and fell a-bickering. "'precious leetle lam','" she repeated, scornfully. "precious he mus' hev been! fur when ye lef' him he hedn't a whole gyarmint ter his back, an' none but them that kivered him." nehemiah yerby changed color slightly as the taunt struck home, but he was skilled in the more æsthetic methods of argument. "we war pore--mighty pore indeed, sister sudley." now, consciously in the wrong, sister sudley, with true feminine inconsistency, felt better. she retorted with bravado. "needle an' thread ain't 'spensive nowhar ez i knows on, an' the gov'mint hev sot no tax on saaft home-made soap, so far ez hearn from." she briskly placed her chair, a rude rocker, the seat formed of a taut-stretched piece of ox-hide, beside the fire, and took up her knitting. a sock for leander it was--one of many of all sizes. she remembered the first that she had measured for the bare pink toes which he had brought there, forlorn candidates for the comfortable integuments in which they were presently encased, and how she had morbidly felt that every stitch she took was a renunciation of her own children, since a stranger was honored in their place. the tears came into her eyes. it was only this afternoon that she had experienced a pang of self-reproach to realize how near happiness she was--as near as her temperament could approach. but somehow the air was so soft; she could see from where she sat how the white velvet buds of the aspen-trees in the dooryard had lengthened into long, cream-tinted, furry tassels; the maples on the mountain-side lifted their red flowering boughs against the delicate blue sky; the grass was so green; the golden candlesticks bunched along the margin of the path to the rickety gate were all a-blossoming. the sweet appeal of spring had never been more insistent, more coercive. somehow peace, and a placid content, seemed as essential incidents in the inner life as the growth of the grass anew, the bursting of the bud, or the soft awakening of the zephyr. even within the house, the languors of the fire drowsing on the hearth, the broad bar of sunshine across the puncheon floor, so slowly creeping away, the sense of the vernal lengthening of the pensive afternoon, the ever-flitting shadow of the wren building under the eaves, and its iterative gladsome song breaking the fireside stillness, partook of the serene beatitude of the season and the hour. the visitor's drawling voice rose again, and she was not now constrained to reproach herself that she was too happy. "yes'm, pore though we war then--an' we couldn't look forward ter the lord's prosperin' us some sence--we never would hev lef' the precious leetle lam'"--his voice dwelt with unvanquished emphasis upon the obnoxious words--"'mongst enny but them persumed ter be godly folks. tyler war a toler'ble good soldier in the war, an' hed a good name in the church, but _ye_ war persumed to be a plumb special christian with no pledjure in this worl'." laurelia winced anew. this repute of special sanctity was the pride of her ascetic soul. few of the graces of life or of the spirit had she coveted, but her pre-eminence as a religionist she had fostered and cherished, and now through her own deeds of charity it seemed about to be wrested from her. "lee-yander yerby hev larnt nuthin' but good in this house, an' all my neighbors will tell you the same word. the cove 'lows i hev been _too_ strict." nehemiah was glancing composedly about the room. "that thar 'pears ter be a fiddle on the wall, ain't it, mis' sudley?" he said, with an incidental air and the manner of changing the subject. alack, for the æsthetic perversion! since the playing of those melancholy minor strains in that red sunset so long ago, which had touched so responsive a chord in laurelia's grief-worn heart, the crazy old fiddle had been naturalized, as it were, and had exchanged its domicile under the porch for a position on the wall. it was boldly visible, and apparently no more ashamed of itself than was the big earthen jar half full of cream, which was placed close to the fireplace on the hearth in the hope that its contents might become sour enough by to-morrow to be churned. laurelia looked up with a start at the instrument, red and lustrous against the brown log wall, its bow poised jauntily above it, and some glistening yellow reflection from the sun on the floor playing among the strings, elusive, soundless fantasies. her lower jaw dropped. she was driven to her last defences, and sore beset. "it air a fiddle," she said, slowly, at last, and with an air of conscientious admission, as if she had had half a mind to deny it. "a fiddle the thing air." then, as she collected her thoughts, "brother pete vickers 'lows ez he sees no special sin in playin' the fiddle. he 'lows ez in some kentries--i disremember whar--they plays on 'em in church, quirin' an' hymn chunes an' sech." her voice faltered a little; she had never thought to quote this fantasy in her own defence, for she secretly believed that old man vickers must have been humbugged by some worldly brother skilled in drawing the long bow himself. nehemiah yerby seemed specially endowed with a conscience for the guidance of other people, so quick was he to descry and pounce upon their shortcomings. if one's sins are sure to find one out, there is little doubt but that brother nehemiah would be on the ground first. "air you-uns a-settin' under the preachin' o' brother peter vickers?" he demanded in a sepulchral voice. "naw, naw," she was glad to reply. "'twar onderstood ez brother vickers wanted a call ter the church in the cove, bein' ez his relations live hyar-abouts, an' he kem up an' preached a time or two. but he didn't git no call. the brethren 'lowed brother vickers war too slack in his idees o' religion. some said his hell warn't half hot enough. thar air some powerful sinners in the cove, an' nuthin' but good live coals an' a liquid blazin' fire air a-goin' ter deter them from the evil o' thar ways. so brother vickers went back the road he kem." she knit off her needle while, with his head still bent forward, nehemiah yerby sourly eyed her, feeling himself a loser with brother vickers, in that he did not have the reverend man's incumbency as a grievance. "he 'pears ter me ter see mo' pleasure in religion 'n penance, ennyhow," he observed, bitterly. "an' the lord knows the bes' of us air sinners." "an' he laughs loud an' frequent--mightily like a sinner," she agreed. "an' whenst he prays, he prays loud an' hearty, like he jes expected ter git what he axed fur sure's shootin'. some o' the bretherin' sorter taxed him with his sperits, an' he 'lowed he couldn't holp but be cheerful whenst he hed the lord's word fur it ez all things work tergether fur good. an' he laffed same ez ef they hedn't spoke ter him serious." "look at that, now!" exclaimed nehemiah. "an' that thar man ez good ez dead with the heart-disease." laurelia's eyes were suddenly arrested by his keen, pinched, lined face. what there was in it to admonish her she could hardly have said, nor how it served to tutor her innocent craft. "i ain't so sure 'bout brother vickers bein' so wrong," she said, slowly. "he 'lowed ter me ez i hed spent too much o' my life a-sorrowin', 'stiddier a-praisin' the lord for his mercies." her face twitched suddenly; she could not yet look upon her bereavements as mercies. "he 'lowed i would hev been a happier an' a better 'oman ef i hed took the evil ez good from the lord's hand, fur in his sendin' it's the same. an' i know that air a true word. an' that's what makes me 'low what he said war true 'bout'n that fiddle; that i ought never ter hev pervented the boy from playin' 'round home an' sech, an' 'twarn't no sin but powerful comfortable an' pleasurable ter set roun' of a cold winter night an' hear him play them slow, sweet, dyin'-away chunes--" she dropped her hands, and gazed with the rapt eyes of remembrance through the window at the sunset clouds which, gathering red and purple and gold on the mountain's brow, were reflected roseate and amethyst and amber at the mountain's base on the steely surface of the river. "brother vickers 'lowed he never hearn sech in all his life. it brung the tears ter his eyes--it surely did." "he'd a heap better be weepin' fur them black sheep o' his congregation an' fur lee-yander's shortcomin's, fur ez fur ez i kin hear he air about ez black a sheep ez most pastors want ter wrestle with fur the turnin' away from thar sins. yes'm, sister sudley, that's jes what p'inted out my jewty plain afore my eyes, an' i riz up an' kem ter be instant in a-doin' of it. 'i'll not leave my own nevy in the tents o' sin,' i sez. 'i hev chil'n o' my own, hearty feeders an' hard on shoe-leather, ter support, but i'll not grudge my brother's son a home.' yes, laurely sudley, i hev kem ter kerry him back with me. yer jewty ain't been done by him, an' i'll leave him a dweller in the tents o' sin no longer." his enthusiasm had carried him too far. laurelia's face, which at first seemed turning to stone as she gradually apprehended his meaning and his mission, changed from motionless white to a tremulous scarlet while he spoke, and when he ceased she retorted herself as one of the ungodly. "ye mus' be mighty ambitious ter kerry away a skin full o' broken bones! jes let tyler sudley hear ez ye called his house the tents o' the ungodly, an' that ye kem hyar a-faultin' me, an' tellin' me ez i 'ain't done my jewty ennywhar or ennyhow!" she exclaimed, with a pride which, as a pious saint, she had never expected to feel in her husband's reputation as a high-tempered man and a "mighty handy fighter," and with implicit reliance upon both endowments in her quarrel. "only in a speritchual sense, sister sudley," nehemiah gasped, as he made haste to qualify his asseveration. "i only charge you with havin' sp'iled the boy; ye hev sp'iled him through kindness ter him, an' not _ye_ so much ez ty. ty never hed so much ez a dog that would mind him! his dog wouldn't answer call nor whistle 'thout he war so disposed. _i_ never faulted ye, sister sudley; 'twar jes ty i faulted. i know ty." he knew, too, that it was safer to call ty and his doings in question, big and formidable and belligerent though he was, than his meek-mannered, melancholy, forlorn, and diminutive wife. nehemiah rose up and walked back and forth for a moment with an excited face and a bent back, and a sort of rabbit-like action. "now, i put it to you, sister sudley, air ty a-makin' that thar boy plough ter-day--jes _be-you-ti-ful_ field weather!" sister sudley, victorious, having regained her normal position by one single natural impulse of self-assertion, not as a religionist, but as tyler sudley's wife, and hence entitled to all the show of respect which that fact unaided could command, sat looking at him with a changed face--a face that seemed twenty years younger; it had the expression it wore before it had grown pinched and ascetic and insistently sorrowful; one might guess how she had looked when tyler sudley first went up the mountain "a-courtin'." she sought to assume no other stand-point. here she was intrenched. she shook her head in negation. the affair was none of hers. ty sudley could take ample care of it. nehemiah gave a little skip that might suggest a degree of triumph. "aha, not ploughin'! but _ty_ is ploughin'. i seen him in the field. an' lee-yander ain't ploughin'! an' how did i know? ez i war a-ridin' along through the woods this mornin' i kem acrost a striplin' lad a-walkin' through the undergrowth ez onconsarned ez a killdee an' ez nimble. an' under his chin war a fiddle, an' his head war craned down ter it." he mimicked the attitude as he stood on the hearth. "he never looked up wunst. away he walked, light ez a plover, an' _a-ping_, _pang_, _ping_, _pang_," in a high falsetto, "went that fiddle! i war plumb 'shamed fur the critters in the woods ter view sech idle sinfulness, a ole ow_el_, a-blinkin' down out'n a hollow tree, kem ter see what _ping_, _pang_, _ping_, _pang_ meant, an' thar war a rabbit settin' up on two legs in the bresh, an' a few stray razor-back hawgs; i tell ye i war mortified 'fore even sech citizens ez them, an' a lazy, impident-lookin' dog ez followed him." "how did ye know 'twar lee-yander?" demanded mrs. sudley, recognizing the description perfectly, but after judicial methods requiring strict proof. "oh-h! by the fambly favor," protested the gaunt and hard-featured nehemiah, capably. "i knowed the yerby eye." "he hev got his mother's eyes." mrs. sudley had certainly changed her stand-point with a vengeance. "he hev got his mother's _be-you-ti-ful_ _blue_ eyes and her curling, silken brown hair--sorter red; little yerby in _that_, mebbe; but sech eyes, an' sech lashes, an' sech fine curling hair ez none o' yer fambly ever hed, or ever will." "mebbe so. i never seen him more'n a minit. but he might ez well hev a _be-you-ti-ful_ curlin' nose, like the elephint in the show, for all the use he air, or i be afeard air ever likely ter be." * * * * * tyler sudley's face turned gray, despite his belligerent efficiencies, when his wife, hearing the clank of the ox-yoke as it was flung down in the shed outside, divined the home-coming of the ploughman and his team, and slipped out to the barn with her news. she realized, with a strange enlightenment as to her own mental processes, what angry jealousy the look on his face would have roused in her only so short a time ago--jealousy for the sake of her own children, that any loss, any grief, should be poignant and pierce his heart save for them. now she was sorry for him; she felt with him. but as he continued silent, and only stared at her dumfounded and piteous, she grew frightened--she knew not of what. "shucks, ty!" she exclaimed, catching him by the sleeve with the impulse to rouse him, to awaken him, as it were, to his own old familiar identity; "ye ain't 'feared o' that thar snaggle-toothed skeer-crow in yander; he would be plumb comical ef he didn't look so mean-natured an' sech a hypercrite." he gazed at her, his eyes eloquent with pain. "laurely!" he gasped, "this hyar thing plumb knocks me down; it jes takes the breath o' life out'n me!" she hesitated for a moment. any anxiety, any trouble, seemed so incongruous with the sweet spring-tide peace in the air, that one did not readily take it home to heart. hope was in the atmosphere like an essential element; one might call it oxygen or caloric or vitality, according to the tendency of mind and the habit of speech. but the heart knew it, and the pulses beat strongly responsive to it. faith ruled the world. some tiny bulbous thing at her feet that had impeded her step caught her attention. it was coming up from the black earth, and the buried darkness, and the chill winter's torpor, with all the impulses of confidence in the light without, and the warmth of the sun, and the fresh showers that were aggregating in the clouds somewhere for its nurture--a blind inanimate thing like that! but tyler sudley felt none of it; the blow had fallen upon him, stunning him. he stood silent, looking gropingly into the purple dusk, veined with silver glintings of the moon, as if he sought to view in the future some event which he dreaded, and yet shrank to see. she had rarely played the consoler, so heavily had she and all her griefs leaned on his supporting arm. it was powerless now. she perceived this, all dismayed at the responsibility that had fallen upon her. she made an effort to rally his courage. she had more faith in it than in her own. "'feard o' _him_!" she exclaimed, with a sharp tonic note of satire. "kem in an' view him." "laurely," he quavered, "i oughter hev got it down in writin' from him; i oughter made him sign papers agreein' fur me ter keep the boy till he growed ter be his own man." she, too, grew pale. "ye ain't meanin' ter let him take the boy sure enough!" she gasped. "i moughtn't be able ter holp it; i dun'no' how the law stands. he air kin ter lee-yander, an' mebbe hev got the bes' right ter him." she shivered slightly; the dew was falling, and all the budding herbage was glossed with a silver glister. the shadows were sparse. the white branches of the aspens cast only the symmetrical outline of the tree form on the illumined grass, and seemed scarcely less bare than in winter, but on one swaying bough the mocking-bird sang all the joyous prophecies of the spring to the great silver moon that made his gladsome day so long. she was quick to notice the sudden cessation of his song, the alert, downward poise of his beautiful head, his tense critical attitude. a mimicking whistle rose on the air, now soft, now keen, with swift changes and intricate successions of tones, ending in a brilliant borrowed roulade, delivered with a wonderful velocity and _élan_. the long tail feathers, all standing stiffly upward, once more drooped; the mocking-bird turned his head from side to side, then lifting his full throat he poured forth again his incomparable, superb, infinitely versatile melody, fixing his glittering eye on the moon, and heeding the futilely ambitious worldling no more. the mimicking sound heralded the approach of leander. laurelia's heart, full of bitterness for his sake, throbbed tenderly for him. ah, what was to be his fate! what unkind lot did the future hold for him in the clutches of a man like this! suddenly she was pitying his mother--her own children, how safe! she winced to tell him what had happened, but she it was who, bracing her nerves, made the disclosure, for sudley remained silent, the end of the ox-yoke in his trembling hands, his head bare to the moon and the dew, his face grown lined and old. leander stood staring at her out of his moonlit blue eyes, his hat far back on the brown curls she had so vaunted, damp and crisp and clinging, the low limp collar of his unbleached shirt showing his round full throat, one hand resting on the high curb of the well, the other holding a great brown gourd full of the clear water which he had busied himself in securing while she sought to prepare him to hear the worst. his lips, like a bent bow as she thought, were red and still moist as he now and then took the gourd from them, and held it motionless in the interest of her narration, that indeed touched him so nearly. then, as she made point after point clear to his comprehension, he would once more lift the gourd and drink deeply, for he had had an active day, inducing a keen thirst. she had been preparing herself for the piteous spectacle of his frantic fright, his futile reliance on them who had always befriended him, his callow forlorn helplessness, his tears, his reproaches; she dreaded them. he was silent for a reflective moment when she had paused. "but what's he want with me, cap'n?" he suddenly demanded. "mought know i warn't industrious in the field, ez he seen me off a-fiddlin' in the woods whilst neighbor war a-ploughin'." [illustration: "he had had an active day, inducing a keen thirst"] "mebbe he 'lows he mought _make_ ye industrious an' git cornsider'ble work out'n ye," she faltered, flinching for him. after another refreshing gulp from the gourd he canvassed this dispassionately. "say his own chil'n air 'hearty feeders an' hard on shoe-leather?' takes a good deal o' goadin' ter git ploughin' enough fur the wuth o' feed out'n a toler'ble beastis like old blaze-face thar, don't it, neighbor?--an' how is it a-goin' ter be with a human ez mebbe will hold back an' air sot agin ploughin' ennyhow, an' air sorter idle by profession? 'twould gin him a heap o' trouble--more'n the ploughin' an' sech would be wuth--a heap o' trouble." once more he bowed his head to the gourd. "he 'lowed ye shouldn't dwell no mo' in the tents o' sin. he seen the fiddle, lee; it's all complicated with the fiddle," she quavered, very near tears of vexation. he lifted a smiling moonlit face; his half-suppressed laugh echoed gurglingly in the gourd. "cap'n," he said, reassuringly, "jes let's hear uncle nehemiah talk some mo', an' ef i can't see no mo' likely work fur me 'n ploughin', i'll think myself mighty safe." they felt like three conspirators as after supper they drew their chairs around the fire with the unsuspicious uncle nehemiah. however, nehemiah yerby could hardly be esteemed unsuspicious in any point of view, so full of vigilant craft was his intention in every anticipation, so slyly sanctimonious was his long countenance. there could hardly have been a greater contrast than tyler sudley's aspect presented. his candid face seemed a mirror for his thought; he had had scant experience in deception, and he proved a most unlikely novice in the art. his features were heavy and set; his manner was brooding and depressed; he did not alertly follow the conversation; on the contrary, he seemed oblivious of it as his full dark eyes rested absently on the fire. more than once he passed his hand across them with a troubled, harassed manner, and he sighed heavily. for which his co-conspirators could have fallen upon him. how could he be so dull, so forgetful of all save the fear of separation from the boy whom he had reared, whom he loved as his own son; how could he fail to know that a jaunty, assured mien might best serve his interests until at any rate the blow had fallen; why should he wear the insignia of defeat before the strength of his claim was tested? assuredly his manner was calculated to greatly reinforce nehemiah yerby's confidence, and to assist in eliminating difficulties in the urging of his superior rights and the carrying out of his scheme. mrs. sudley's heart sank as she caught a significant gleam from the boy's eyes; he too appreciated this disastrous policy, this virtual surrender before a blow was struck. "an' ty ain't afeard o' bars," she silently commented, "nor wolves, nor wind, nor lightning, nor man in enny kind o' a free fight; but bekase he dun'no' how the _law_ stands, an' air afeard the law _mought_ be able ter take lee-yander, he jes sets thar ez pitiful ez a lost kid, fairly ready ter blate aloud." she descried the covert triumph twinkling among the sparse light lashes and "crow-feet" about nehemiah's eyes as he droned on an ever-lengthening account of his experiences since leaving the county. "it's a mighty satisfyin' thing ter be well off in yearthly goods an' chattels," said laurelia, with sudden inspiration. "ty, thar, is in debt." for uncle nehemiah had been dwelling unctuously upon the extent to which it had pleased the lord to prosper him. his countenance fell suddenly. his discomfiture in her unexpected disclosure was twofold, in that it furnished a reason for tyler's evident depression of spirits, demolishing the augury that his manner had afforded as to the success of the guest's mission, and furthermore, to nehemiah's trafficking soul, it suggested that a money consideration might be exacted to mollify the rigors of parting. for nehemiah yerby had risen to the dignities, solvencies, and responsibilities of opening a store at the cross-roads in kildeer county. it was a new and darling enterprise with him, and his mind and speech could not long be wiled away from the subject. this abrupt interjection of a new element into his cogitations gave him pause, and he did not observe the sudden rousing of tyler sudley from his revery, and the glance of indignant reproach which he cast on his wife. no man, however meek, or however bowed down with sorrow, will bear unmoved a gratuitous mention of his debts; it seems to wound him with all the rancor of insult, and to enrage him with the hopelessness of adequate retort or reprisal. it is an indignity, like taunting a ghost with cock-crow, or exhorting a clergyman to repentance. he flung himself all at once into the conversation, to bar and baffle any renewed allusion to that subject, and it was accident rather than intention which made him grasp nehemiah in the vise of a quandary also. "ye say ye got a store an' a stock o' truck, nehemiah. air ye ekal ter keepin' store an' sech?" he demanded, speculatively, with an inquiring and doubtful corrugation of his brows, from which a restive lock of hair was flung backward like the toss of a horse's mane. "i reckon so," nehemiah sparely responded, blinking at him across the fireplace. "an' ye say ye hev applied fur the place o' postmaster?" tyler prosed on. "all that takes a power o' knowledge--readin' an' writin' an' cipherin' an' sech. how air ye expectin' to hold out, 'kase i know ye never hed no mo' larnin' than me, an' i war acquainted with ye till ye war thirty years old an' better?" the tenor of this discourse did not comport with his customary suavity and tactful courtesy toward a guest, but he was much harassed and had lost his balance. he had a vague idea that mrs. sudley hung upon the flank of the conversation with a complete summary of amounts, dates, and names of creditors, and he sought to balk this in its inception. moreover, his forbearance with nehemiah, with his presence, his personality, his mission, had begun to wane. bitter reflections might suffice to fill the time were he suffered to be silent; but since a part in the conversation had been made necessary, he had for it no honeyed words. "i'd make about ez fit a postmaster, i know, ez that thar old ow_el_ a-hootin' out yander. i could look smart an' sober like him, but that's 'bout all the fur my school-larnin' kerried me, an' yourn didn't reach ter the nex' mile-post--an' that i know." nehemiah's thin lips seemed dry. more than once his tongue appeared along their verges as he nervously moistened them. his small eyes had brightened with an excited look, but he spoke very slowly, and to laurelia it seemed guardedly. "i tuk ter my book arterward, brother sudley. i applied myself ter larnin' vigorous. bein' ez i seen the lord's hand war liberal with the gifts o' this worl', i wanted ter stir myself ter desarve the good things." sudley brought down the fore-legs of his chair to the floor with a thump. despite his anxiety a slow light of ridicule began to kindle on his face; his curling lip showed his strong white teeth. "waal, by gum! ye mus' hev been a sight ter be seen! ye, forty or fifty years old, a-settin' on the same seat with the chil'n at the deestric' school, an' a-competin' with the leetle tadpoles fur 'baker an' shady' an sech!" he was about to break forth with a guffaw of great relish when nehemiah spoke hastily, forestalling the laughter. "naw; abner sage war thar fur a good while las' winter a-visitin' his sister, an' he kem an' gin me lessons an' set me copies thar at my house, an' i larnt a heap." leander lifted his head suddenly. the amount of progress possible to this desultory and limited application he understood only too well. he had not learned so much himself to be unaware how much in time and labor learning costs. the others perceived no incongruity. sudley's face was florid with pride and pleasure, and his wife's reflected the glow. "ab sage at the cross-roads! then he mus' hev tole ye 'bout lee-yander hyar, an' his larnin'. ab tole, i know." nehemiah drew his breath in quickly. his twinkling eyes sent out the keenest glance of suspicion, but the gay, affectionate, vaunting laugh, as tyler sudley turned around and clapped the boy a ringing blow on his slender shoulder, expressed only the plenitude of his simple vainglory. "lee-yander hyar _knows it all_!" he boasted. "old ab himself don't know no mo'! i'll be bound old ab went a-braggin'--hey, lee-yander?" but the boy shrank away a trifle, and his smile was mechanical as he silently eyed his relative. "ab 'lowed he war tur'ble disobejient," said nehemiah, after a pause, and cautiously allowing himself to follow in the talk, "an' gi'n over ter playin' the fiddle." he hesitated for a moment, longing to stigmatize its ungodliness; but the recollection of tyler sudley's uncertain temper decided him, and he left it unmolested. "but ab 'lowed ye war middlin' quick at figgers, lee-yander--middlin' quick at figgers!" leander, still silent and listening, flushed slightly. this measured praise was an offence to him; but he looked up brightly and obediently when his uncle wagged an uncouthly sportive head (nehemiah's anatomy lent itself to the gay and graceful with much reluctance), thrust his hands into his pockets, and, tilting himself back in his chair, continued: "i'll try ye, sonny--i'll try ye. how much air nine times seven?--nine times seven?" "forty-two!" replied the boy, with a bright, docile countenance fixed upon his relative. there was a pause. "right!" exclaimed nehemiah, to the relief of sudley and his wife, who had trembled during the pause, for it seemed so threatening. they smiled at each other, unconscious that the examination meant aught more serious than a display of their prodigy's learning. "an', now, how much air twelve times eight?" demanded nehemiah. "sixty-six!" came the answer, quick as lightning. "right, sir, every time!" cried nehemiah with a glow of genuine exultation, as he brought down the fore-legs of the chair to the floor, and the two sudleys laughed aloud with pleasure. leander saw them all distorted and grimacing while the room swam round. the scheme was clear enough to him now. the illiterate nehemiah, whose worldly prosperity had outstripped his mental qualifications, had bethought himself of filling the breach with his nephew, given away as surplusage in his burdensome infancy, but transformed into a unique utility under the tutelage of abner sage. it was his boasting of his froward pupil, doubtless, that had suggested the idea, and leander understood now that he was to do the work of the store and the post-office under the nominal incumbency of this unlettered lout. had the whole transaction been open and acknowledged, leander would have had scant appetite for the work under this master; but he revolted at the flimsy, contemptible sham; he bitterly resented the innuendoes against the piety of the sudleys, not that he cared for piety, save in the abstract; he was daunted by the brutal ignorance, the doltish inefficiency of the imposture that had so readily accepted his patently false answers to the simple questions. he had a sort of crude reverence for education, and it had seemed to him a very serious matter to take such liberties with the multiplication table. he valued, too, with a boy's stalwart vanity, his reputation for great learning, and he would not have lightly jeopardized it did he not esteem the crisis momentous. he knew not what he feared. the fraud of the intention, the groundless claim to knowledge, made nehemiah's scheme seem multifariously guilty in some sort; while tyler sudley and his wife, albeit no wiser mathematically, had all the sanctions of probity in their calm, unpretending ignorance. "ef cap'n or neighbor wanted ter run a post-office on my larnin', or ter keep store, they'd be welcome; but i won't play stalkin'-horse fur that thar man's still-hunt, sure ez shootin'," he said to himself. the attention which he bent upon the conversation thenceforth was an observation of its effect rather than its matter. he saw that he was alone in his discovery. neither sudley nor his wife had perceived any connection between the store, the prospective post-office, and the desire of the illiterate would-be postmaster to have his erudite nephew restored to his care. it may be that the methods of his "neighbor" and the "captain" in the rearing of leander, the one with unbridled leniency, the other with spurious severity and affected indifference, had combined to foster self-reliance and decision of character, or it may be that these qualities were inherent traits. at all events, he encountered the emergency without an instant's hesitation. he felt no need of counsel. he had no doubts. he carried to his pallet in the roof-room no vacillations and no problems. his resolve was taken. for a time, as he listened to the movements below-stairs, the sound of voices still rose, drowsy as the hour waxed late; the light that flickered through the cracks in the puncheon flooring gradually dulled, and presently a harsh grating noise acquainted him with the fact that sudley was shovelling the ashes over the embers; then the tent-like attic was illumined only by the moonlight admitted through the little square window at the gable end--so silent, so still, it seemed that it too slept like the silent house. the winds slumbered amidst the mute woods; a bank of cloud that he could see from his lowly couch lay in the south becalmed. the bird's song had ceased. it seemed to him as he lifted himself on his elbow that he had never known the world so hushed. the rustle of the quilt of gay glazed calico was of note in the quietude; the impact of his bare foot on the floor was hardly a sound, rather an annotation of his weight and his movement; yet in default of all else the sense of hearing marked it. his scheme seemed impracticable as for an instant he wavered at the head of the ladder that served as a stairway; the next moment his foot was upon the rungs, his light, lithe figure slipping down it like a shadow. the room below, all eclipsed in a brown and dusky-red medium, the compromise between light and darkness that the presence of the embers fostered, was vaguely revealed to him. he was hardly sure whether he saw the furniture all in place, or whether he knew its arrangement so well that he seemed to see. suddenly, as he laid his hand on the violin on the wall, it became visible, its dark red wood richly glowing against the brown logs and the tawny clay daubing. a tiny white flame had shot up in the midst of the gray ashes, as he stood with the cherished object in his cautious hand, his excited eyes, dilated and expectant, searching the room apprehensively, while a vague thrill of a murmur issued from the instrument, as if the spirit of music within it had been wakened by his touch--too vague, too faintly elusive for the dormant and somewhat dull perceptions of nehemiah yerby, calmly slumbering in state in the best room. the faint jet of flame was withdrawn in the ashes as suddenly as it had shot forth, and in the ensuing darkness, deeper for the contrast with that momentary illumination, it was not even a shadow that deftly mounted the ladder again and emerged into the sheeny twilight of the moonlit roof-room. leander was somehow withheld for a moment motionless at the window; it may have been by compunction; it may have been by regret, if it be possible to the very young to definitely feel either. there was an intimation of pensive farewell in his large illumined eyes as they rested on the circle of familiar things about him--the budding trees, the well, with its great angular sweep against the sky, the still sward, the rail-fences glistening with the dew, the river with the moonlight in a silver blazonry on its lustrous dark surface, the encompassing shadows of the gloomy mountains. there was no sound, not even among the rippling shallows; he could hear naught but the pain of parting throbbing in his heart, and from the violin a faint continuous susurrus, as if it murmured half-asleep memories of the melodies that had thrilled its waking moments. it necessitated careful handling as he deftly let himself out of the window, the bow held in his mouth, the instrument in one arm, while the other hand clutched the boughs of a great holly-tree close beside the house. it was only the moonlight on those smooth, lustrous leaves, but it seemed as if smiling white faces looked suddenly down from among the shadows: at this lonely hour, with none awake to see, what strange things may there not be astir in the world, what unmeasured, unknown forces, sometimes felt through the dulling sleep of mortals, and then called dreams! as he stood breathless upon the ground the wind awoke. he heard it race around the corner of the house, bending the lilac bushes, and then it softly buffeted him full in the face and twirled his hat on the ground. as he stooped to pick it up he heard whispers and laughter in the lustrous boughs of the holly, and the gleaming faces shifted with the shadows. he looked fearfully over his shoulder; the rising wind might waken some one of the household. his "neighbor" was, he knew, solicitous about the weather, and suspicious of its intentions lest it not hold fine till all the oats be sown. a pang wrung his heart; he remembered the long line of seasons when, planting corn in the pleasant spring days, his "neighbor" had opened the furrow with the plough, and the "captain" had followed, dropping the grains, and he had brought up the rear with his hoe, covering them over, while the clouds floated high in the air, and the mild sun shone, and the wind kept the shadows a-flicker, and the blackbird and the crow, complacently and craftily watching them from afar, seemed the only possible threatening of evil in all the world. he hastened to stiffen his resolve. he had need of it. tyler sudley had said that he did not know how the law stood, and for himself, he was not willing to risk his liberty on it. he gazed apprehensively upon the little batten shutter of the window of the room where nehemiah yerby slept, expecting to see it slowly swing open and disclose him there. it did not stir, and gathering resolution from the terrors that had beset him when he fancied his opportunity threatened, he ran like a frightened deer fleetly down the road, and plunged into the dense forest. the wind kept him company, rollicking, quickening, coming and going in fitful gusts. he heard it die away, but now and again it was rustling among a double file of beech-trees all up the mountain-side. he saw the commotion in their midst, the effect of swift movement as the scant foliage fluttered, then the white branches of the trees all a-swaying like glistening arms flung upward, as if some bevy of dryads sped up the hill in elusive rout through the fastnesses. * * * * * the next day ushered in a tumult and excitement unparalleled in the history of the little log-cabin. when leander's absence was discovered, and inquiry of the few neighbors and search of the vicinity proved fruitless, the fact of his flight and its motive were persistently forced upon nehemiah yerby's reluctant perceptions, with the destruction of his cherished scheme as a necessary sequence. with some wild craving for vengeance he sought to implicate sudley as accessory to the mysterious disappearance. he found some small measure of solace in stumping up and down the floor before the hearth, furiously railing at the absent host, for sudley had not yet relinquished the bootless quest, and indignantly upbraiding the forlorn, white-faced, grief-stricken laurelia, who sat silent and stony, her faded eyes on the fire, heedless of his words. she held in her lap sundry closely-rolled knitted balls--the boy's socks that she had so carefully made and darned. a pile of his clothing lay at her feet. he had carried nothing but his fiddle and the clothes he stood in, and if she had had more tears she could have wept for his improvidence, for the prospective tatters and rents that must needs befall him in that unknown patchless life to which he had betaken himself. nehemiah yerby argued that it was sudley who had prompted the whole thing; he had put the boy up to it, for leander was not so lacking in feeling as to flee from his own blood-relation. but he would set the law to spy them out. he would be back again, and soon. he may have thought better of this presently, for he was in great haste to be gone when tyler sudley returned, and to his amazement in a counterpart frame of mind, charging nehemiah with the responsibility of the disaster. it was strange to laurelia that she, who habitually strove to fix her mind on religious things, should so relish the aspect of ty sudley in his secular rage on this occasion. "ye let we-uns hev him whilst so leetle an' helpless, but now that he air so fine growed an' robustious ye want ter git some work out'n him, an' he hev runned away an' tuk ter the woods tarrified by the very sight of ye," he averred. "he'll never kem back; no, he'll never kem back; fur he'll 'low ez ye would kem an' take him home with you; an' now the lord only knows whar he is, an' what will become of him." his anger and his tumultuous grief, his wild, irrepressible anxiety for leander's safety, convinced the crafty nehemiah that he was no party to the boy's scheme. sudley's sorrow was not of the kind that renders the temper pliable, and when nehemiah sought to point a moral in the absence of the violin, and for the first time in sudley's presence protested that he desired to save leander from that device of the devil, the master of the house shook his inhospitable fist very close indeed to his guest's nose, and yerby was glad enough to follow that feature unimpaired out to his horse at the bars, saying little more. he aired his views, however, at each house where he made it convenient to stop on his way home, and took what comfort there might be in the rôle of martyr. leander was unpopular in several localities, and was esteemed a poor specimen of the skill of the sudleys in rearing children. he had been pampered and spoiled, according to general report, and more than one of his successive interlocutors were polite enough to opine that the change to nehemiah's charge would have been a beneficent opportunity for much-needed discipline. nehemiah was not devoid of some skill in interrogatory. he contrived to elicit speculations without giving an intimation of unduly valuing the answer. "he's 'mongst the moonshiners, i reckon," was the universal surmise. "he'll be hid mighty safe 'mongst them." for where the still might be, or who was engaged in the illicit business, was even a greater mystery than leander's refuge. nothing more definite could be elicited than a vague rumor that some such work was in progress somewhere along the many windings of hide-and-seek creek. nehemiah yerby had never been attached to temperance principles, and, commercially speaking, he had thought it possible that whiskey on which no tax had been paid might be more profitably dispensed at his store than that sold under the sanctions of the government. these considerations, however, were as naught in view of the paralysis which his interests and schemes had suffered in leander's flight. he dwelt with dismay upon the possibility that he might secure the postmastership without the capable assistant whose services were essential. in this perverse sequence of events disaster to his application was more to be desired than success. he foresaw himself browbeaten, humiliated, detected, a butt for the ridicule of the community, his pretensions in the dust, his pitiful imposture unmasked. and beyond these æsthetic misfortunes, the substantial emoluments of "keepin' store," with a gallant sufficiency of arithmetic to regulate prices and profits, were vanishing like the elusive matutinal haze before the noontide sun. nehemiah yerby groaned aloud, for the financial stress upon his spirit was very like physical pain. and in this inauspicious moment he bethought himself of the penalties of violating the internal revenue laws of the united states. now it has been held by those initiated into such mysteries that there is scant affinity between whiskey and water. nevertheless, in this connection, nehemiah yerby developed an absorbing interest in the watercourses of the coves and adjacent mountains, especially their more remote and sequestered tributaries. he shortly made occasion to meet the county surveyor and ply him with questions touching the topography of the vicinity, cloaking the real motive under the pretence of an interest in water-power sufficient and permanent enough for the sawing of lumber, and professing to contemplate the erection of a saw-mill at the most eligible point. the surveyor had his especial vanity, and it was expressed in his frequent boast that he carried a complete map of the county graven upon his brain; he was wont to esteem it a gracious opportunity when a casual question in a group of loungers enabled him to display his familiarity with every portion of his rugged and mountainous region, which was indeed astonishing, even taking into consideration his incumbency for a number of terms, aided by a strong head for locality. nehemiah yerby's scheme was incalculably favored by this circumstance, but he found it unexpectedly difficult to support the figment which he had propounded as to his intentions. fiction is one of the fine arts, and a mere amateur like nehemiah is apt to fail in point of consistency. he was inattentive while the surveyor dilated on the probable value, the accessibility, and the relative height of the "fall" of the various sites, and their available water-power, and he put irrelevant queries concerning ineligible streams in other localities. no man comfortably mounted upon his hobby relishes an interruption. the surveyor would stop with a sort of bovine surprise, and break out in irritable parenthesis. "that branch on the t'other side o' panther ridge? why, man alive, that thread o' water wouldn't turn a spider web." nehemiah, quaking under the glance of his keen questioning eye, would once more lapse into silence, while the surveyor, loving to do what he could do well, was lured on in his favorite subject by the renewed appearance of receptivity in his listener. "waal, ez i war a-sayin', i know every furlong o' the creeks once down in the cove, an' all their meanderings, an' the best part o' them in the hills amongst the laurel and the wildernesses. but now the ways of sech a stream ez hide-an'-seek creek are past finding out. it's a 'sinking creek,' you know; goes along with a good volume and a swift current for a while to the west, then disappears into the earth, an' ain't seen fur five mile, then comes out agin running due north, makes a tremenjious jump--the hoho-hebee falls--then pops into the ground agin, an' ain't seen no more forever," he concluded, dramatically. "how d'ye know it's the same creek?" demanded nehemiah, sceptically, and with a wrinkling brow. "by settin' somethin' afloat on it before it sinks into the ground--a piece of marked bark or a shingle or the like--an' finding it agin after the stream comes out of the caves," promptly replied the man of the compass, with a triumphant snap of the eye, as if he entertained a certain pride in the vagaries of his untamed mountain friend. "nobody knows how often it disappears, nor where it rises, nor where it goes at last. it's got dozens of fust-rate millin' sites, but then it's too fur off fur you ter think about." "oh no 'tain't!" exclaimed nehemiah, suddenly. the surveyor stared. "why, you ain't thinkin' 'bout movin' up inter the wilderness ter live, an' ye jes applied fur the post-office down at the cross-roads? ye can't run the post-office thar an' a saw-mill thirty mile away at the same time." nehemiah was visibly disconcerted. his wrinkled face showed the flush of discomfiture, but his craft rallied to the emergency. "moughtn't git the post-office, arter all's come an' gone. nothin' is sartin in this vale o' tears." "an' ye air goin' ter take ter the woods ef ye don't?" demanded the surveyor, incredulously. "thought ye war goin' ter keep store?" "waal, i dun'no'; jes talkin' round," said nehemiah, posed beyond recuperation. "i mus' be a-joggin', ennyhow. time's a-wastin'." as he made off hastily in the direction of his house, for this conversation had taken place at the blacksmith's shop at the cross-roads, the surveyor gazed after him much mystified. "what is that old fox slyin' round after? he ain't studyin' 'bout no saw-mill, inquirin' round about all the out-o'-the-way water-power in the kentry fifty mile from where he b'longs. he's a heap likelier to be goin' ter start a wild cat still in them wild places--git his whiskey cheap ter sell in his store." he shook his head sagely once for all, for the surveyor's mind was of the type prompt in reaching conclusions, and he was difficult to divert from his convictions. a feature of the development of craft to a certain degree is the persuasion that this endowment is not shared. a fine world it would be if the nehemiah yerbys were as clever as they think themselves, and their neighbors as dull. he readily convinced himself that he had given no intimation that his objects and motives were other than he professed, and with unimpaired energy he went to work upon the lines which he had marked out for himself. a fine chase hide-and-seek creek led him, to be sure, and it tried his enthusiasms to the uttermost. what affinity this brawling vagrant had for the briers and the rocks and the tangled fastnesses! seldom, indeed, could he press in to its banks and look down upon its dimpled, laughing, heedless face without the sacrifice of fragments of flesh and garments left impaled upon the sharp spikes of the budding shrubs. often it so intrenched itself amidst the dense woods, and the rocks and chasms of its craggy banks, that approach was impossible, and he followed it for miles only by the sound of its wild, sweet, woodland voice. and this, too, was of a wayward fancy; now, in turbulent glee among the rocks, riotously chanting aloud, challenging the echoes, and waking far and near the forest quiet; and again it was merely a low, restful murmur, intimating deep, serene pools and a dallying of the currents, lapsed in the fulness of content. then nehemiah yerby would be beset with fears that he would lose this whisper, and his progress was slight; he would pause to listen, hearing nothing; would turn to right, to left; would take his way back through the labyrinth of the laurel to catch a thread of sound, a mere crystalline tremor, and once more follow this transient lure. as the stream came down a gorge at a swifter pace and in a succession of leaps--a glassy cataract visible here and there, airily sporting with rainbows, affiliating with ferns and moss and marshy growths, the bounding spray glittering in the sunshine--it flung forth continuously tinkling harmonies in clear crystal tones, so penetrating, so definitely melodic, that more than once, as he paced along on his jaded horse, he heard in their midst, without disassociating the sounds, the _ping, pang, ping, pang_, of the violin he so condemned. he drew up at last, and strained his ear to listen. it did not become more distinct, always intermingled with the recurrent rhythm of the falling water, but always vibrating in subdued throbbings, now more acute, now less, as the undiscriminated melody ascended or descended the scale. it came from the earth, of this he was sure, and thus he was reminded anew of the caves which hide-and-seek creek threaded in its long course. there was some opening near by, doubtless, that led to subterranean passages, dry enough here, since it was the stream's whim to flow in the open sunshine instead of underground. he would have given much to search for it had he dared. his leathery, lean, loose cheek had a glow of excitement upon it; his small eyes glistened; for the first time in his life, possibly, he looked young. but he did not doubt that this was the stronghold of the illicit distillers, of whom one heard so much in the cove and saw so little. a lapse of caution, an inconsiderate movement, and he might be captured and dealt with as a spy and informer. nevertheless his discovery was of scant value unless he utilized it further. he had always believed that his nephew had fled to the secret haunts of the moonshiners. now he only knew it the more surely; and what did this avail him, and how aid in the capture of the recusant clerk and assistant postmaster? he hesitated a moment; then fixing the spot in his mind by the falling of a broad crystal sheet of water from a ledge some forty feet high, by a rotting log at its base that seemed to rise continually, although the moving cataract appeared motionless, by certain trees and their relative position, and the blue peaks on a distant skyey background of a faint cameo yellow, he slowly turned his horse's rein and took his way out of danger. it was chiefly some demonstration on the animal's part that he had feared. a snort, a hoof-beat, a whinny would betray him, and very liable was the animal to any of these expressions. one realizes how unnecessary is speech for the exposition of opinion when brought into contradictory relations with the horse which one rides or drives. all day had this animal snorted his doubts of his master's sanity; all day had he protested against these aimless, fruitless rambles; all day had he held back with a high head and a hard mouth, while whip and spur pressed him through laurel almost impenetrable, and through crevices of crags almost impassable. for were there not all the fair roads of the county to pace and gallop upon if one must needs be out and jogging! unseen objects, vaguely discerned to be moving in the undergrowth affrighted the old plough-horse of the levels--infinitely reassured and whinnying with joyful relief when the head of horned cattle showed presently as the cause of the commotion. he would have given much a hundred times that day, and he almost said so a hundred times, too, to be at home, with the old bull-tongue plough behind him, running the straight rational furrow in the good bare open field, so mellow for corn, lying in the sunshine, inviting planting. "ef i git ye home wunst more, i'll be bound i'll leave ye thar," nehemiah said, ungratefully, as they wended their way along; for without the horse he could not have traversed the long distances of his search, however unwillingly the aid was given. he annotated his displeasure by a kick in the ribs; and when the old equine farmer perceived that they were absolutely bound binward, and that their aberrations were over for the present, he struck a sharp gait that would have done honor to his youthful days, for he had worn out several pairs of legs in nehemiah's fields, and was often spoken of as being upon the last of those useful extremities. he stolidly shook his head, which he thought so much better than his master's, and bedtime found them twenty miles away and at home. nehemiah felt scant fatigue. he was elated with his project. he scented success in the air. it smelled like the season. it too was suffused with the urgent pungency of the rising sap, with the fragrance of the wild-cherry, with the vinous promise of the orchard, with the richness of the mould, with the vagrant perfume of the early flowers. he lighted a tallow dip, and he sat him down with writing materials at the bare table to indite a letter while all his household slept. the windows stood open to the dark night, and spring hovered about outside, and lounged with her elbows on the sill, and looked in. he constantly saw something pale and elusive against the blackness, for there was no moon, but he thought it only the timid irradiation with which his tallow dip suffused the blossoming wands of an azalea, growing lithe and tall hard by. with this witness only he wrote the letter--an anonymous letter, and therefore he was indifferent to the inadequacies of his penmanship and his spelling. he labored heavily in its composition, now and then perpetrating portentous blots. he grew warm, although the fire that had served to cook supper had long languished under the bank of ashes. the tallow dip seemed full of caloric, and melted rapidly in pendulous drippings. he now and again mopped his red face, usually so bloodless, with his big bandanna handkerchief, while all the zephyrs were fanning the flying tresses of spring at the window, and the soft, sweet, delicately attuned vernal chorus of the marshes were tentatively running over _sotto voce_ their allotted melodies for the season. oh, it was a fine night outside, and why should a moth, soft-winged and cream-tinted and silken-textured, come whisking in from the dark, as silently as a spirit, to supervise nehemiah yerby's letter, and travel up and down the page all befouled with the ink? and as he sought to save the sense of those significant sentences from its trailing silken draperies, why should it rise suddenly, circling again and again about the candle, pass through the flame, and fall in quivering agonies once more upon the page? he looked at it, dead now, with satisfaction. it had come so very near ruining his letter--an important letter, describing the lair of the illicit distillers to a deputy marshal of the revenue force, who was known to be in a neighboring town. he had good reason to withhold his signature, for the name of the informer in the ruthless vengeance of the region would be as much as his life was worth. the moth had not spoiled the letter--the laborious letter; he was so glad of that! he saw no analogies, he received not even a subtle warning, as he sealed and addressed the envelope and affixed the postage-stamp. then he snuffed out the candle with great satisfaction. the next morning the missive was posted, and all nehemiah yerby's plans took a new lease of life. the information he had given would result in an immediate raid upon the place. leander would be captured among the moonshiners, but his youth and his uncle's representations--for he would give the officers an inkling of the true state of the case--would doubtless insure the boy's release, and his restoration to those attractive commercial prospects which had been devised for him. ii the ordering of events is an intricate process, and to its successful exploitation a certain degree of sagacious prescience is a prerequisite, as well as a thorough mastery of the lessons of experience. for a day or so all went well in the inner consciousness of nehemiah yerby. the letter had satisfied his restless craving for some action toward the consummation of his ambition, and he had not the foresight to realize how soon the necessity of following it up would supervene. he first grew uneasy lest his letter had not reached its destination; then, when the illimitable field of speculation was thus opened out, he developed an ingenuity of imagination in projecting possible disaster. day after day passed, and he heard naught of his cherished scheme. the revenuers--craven wretches he deemed them, and he ground his teeth with rage because of their seeming cowardice in their duty, since their duty could serve his interests--might not have felt exactly disposed to risk their lives in these sweet spring days, when perhaps even a man whose life belongs to the government might be presumed to take some pleasure in it, by attempting to raid the den of a gang of moonshiners on the scanty faith of an informer's word, tenuous guaranty at best, and now couched in an anonymous letter, itself synonym for a lie. oh, what fine eulogies rose in his mind upon the manly virtue of courage! how enthusing it is at all times to contemplate the courage of others!--and how safe! then a revulsion of belief ensued, and he began to fear that they might already have descended upon their quarry, and with all their captives have returned to the county town by the road by which they came--nearer than the route through the cross-roads, though far more rugged. why had not this possibility before occurred to him! he had so often prefigured their triumphant advent into the hamlet with all their guarded and shackled prisoners, the callow leander in the midst, and his own gracefully enacted rôle of virtuous, grief-stricken, pleading relative, that it seemed a recollection--something that had really happened--rather than the figment of anticipation. but no word, no breath of intimation, had ruffled the serenity of the cross-roads. the calm, still, yellow sunshine day by day suffused the land like the benignities of a dream--almost too good to be true. every man with the heart of a farmer within him was at the plough-handles, and making the most of the fair weather. the cloudless sky and the auspicious forecast of fine days still to come did more to prove to the farmer the existence of an all-wise, overruling providence than all the polemics of the world might accomplish. the furrows multiplied everywhere save in nehemiah's own fields, where he often stood so long in the turn-row that the old horse would desist from twisting his head backward in surprise, and start at last of his own motion, dragging the plough, the share still unanchored in the ground, half across the field before he could be stopped. the vagaries of these "lands" that the absent-minded nehemiah laid off attracted some attention. "what ails yer furrows ter run so crooked, nehemiah?" observed a passer-by, a neighbor who had been to the blacksmith-shop to get his plough-point sharpened; he looked over the fence critically. "yer eyesight mus' be failin' some." "i dun'no'," rejoined nehemiah, hastily. then reverting to his own absorption. "war it you-uns ez i hearn say thar war word kem ter the cross-roads 'bout some revenuers raidin' 'round somewhar in the woods?" the look of surprise cast upon him seemed to his alert anxiety to betoken suspicion. "laws-a-massy, naw!" exclaimed his interlocutor. "ye air the fust one that hev named sech ez that in these diggin's, fur i'd hev hearn tell on it, sure, ef thar hed been enny sech word goin' the rounds." nehemiah recoiled into silence, and presently his neighbor went whistling on his way. he stood motionless for a time, until the man was well out of sight, then he began to hastily unhitch the plough-gear. his resolution was taken. he could wait no longer. for aught he knew the raiders might have come and gone, and be now a hundred miles away with their prisoners to stand their trial in the federal court. his schemes might have all gone amiss, leaving him in naught the gainer. he could rest in uncertainty no more. he feared to venture further questions when no rumor stirred the air. they rendered him doubly liable to suspicion--to the law-abiding as a possible moonshiner, to any sympathizer with the distillers as a probable informer. he determined to visit the spot, and there judge how the enterprise had fared. when next he heard that fine sylvan symphony of the sound of the falling water--the tinkling bell-like tremors of its lighter tones mingling with the sonorous, continuous, deeper theme rising from its weight and volume and movement; with the surging of the wind in the pines; with the occasional cry of a wild bird deep in the new verdure of the forests striking through the whole with a brilliant, incidental, detached effect--no faint vibration was in its midst of the violin's string, listen as he might. more than once he sought to assure himself that he heard it, but his fancy failed to respond to his bidding, although again and again he took up his position where it had before struck his ear. the wild minstrelsy of the woods felt no lack, and stream and wind and harping pine and vagrant bird lifted their voices in their wonted strains. he could hardly accept the fact; he would verify anew the landmarks he had made and again return to the spot, his hat in his hand, his head bent low, his face lined with anxiety and suspense. no sound, no word, no intimation of human presence. the moonshiners were doubtless all gone long ago, betrayed into captivity, and leander with them. he had so hardened his heart toward his recalcitrant young kinsman and his sudley friends, he felt so entirely that in being among the moonshiners leander had met only his deserts in coming to the bar of federal justice, that he would have experienced scant sorrow if the nephew had not carried off with his own personality his uncle's book-keeper and postmaster's clerk. and so--alas, for leander! as he meditated on the untoward manner in which he had overshot his target, this marksman of fate forgot the caution which had distinguished his approach, for hitherto it had been as heedful as if he fully believed the lion still in his den. he slowly patrolled the bank below the broad, thin, crystal sheet, seeing naught but its rainbow hovering elusively in the sun, and its green and white skein-like draperies pendulous before the great dark arch over which the cataract fell. the log caught among the rocks in the spray at the base was still there, seeming always to rise while the restless water seemed motionless. no trace that human beings had ever invaded these solitudes could he discover. no vague, faint suggestion of the well-hidden lair of the moonshiners did the wild covert show forth. "the revenuers war smarter'n me; i'll say that fur 'em," he muttered at last as he came to a stand-still, his chin in his hand, his perplexed eyes on the ground. and suddenly--a footprint on a marshy spot; only the heel of a boot, for the craggy ledges hid all the ground but this, a mere sediment of sand in a tiny hollow in the rock from which the water had evaporated. it was a key to the mystery. instantly the rugged edges of the cliff took on the similitude of a path. once furnished with this idea, he could perceive adequate footing all adown the precipitous way. he was not young; his habits had been inactive, and were older even than his age. he could not account for it afterward, but he followed for a few paces this suggestion of a path down the precipitous sides of the stream. he had a sort of triumph in finding it so practicable, and he essayed it still farther, although the sound of the water had grown tumultuous at closer approach, and seemed to foster a sort of responsive turmoil of the senses; he felt his head whirl as he looked at the bounding, frothing spray, then at the long swirls of the current at the base of the fall as they swept on their way down the gorge. as he sought to lift his fascinated eyes, the smooth glitter of the crystal sheet of falling water so close before him dazzled his sight. he wondered afterward how his confused senses and trembling limbs sustained him along the narrow, rugged path, here and there covered with oozing green moss, and slippery with the continual moisture. it evidently was wending to a ledge. all at once the contour of the place was plain to him; the ledge led behind the cataract that fell from the beetling heights above. and within were doubtless further recesses, where perchance the moonshiners had worked their still. as he reached the ledge he could see behind the falling water and into the great concave space which it screened beneath the beetling cliff. it was as he had expected--an arched portal of jagged brown rocks, all dripping with moisture and oozing moss, behind the semi-translucent green-and-white drapery of the cascade. but he had not expected to see, standing quietly in the great vaulted entrance, a man with his left hand on a pistol in his belt, the mate of which his more formidable right hand held up with a steady finger on the trigger. this much nehemiah beheld, and naught else, for the glittering profile of the falls, visible now only aslant, the dark, cool recess beyond, that menacing motionless figure at the vanishing-point of the perspective, all blended together in an indistinguishable whirl as his senses reeled. he barely retained consciousness enough to throw up both his hands in token of complete submission. and then for a moment he knew no more. he was still leaning motionless against the wall of rock when he became aware that the man was sternly beckoning to him to continue his approach. his dumb lips moved mechanically in response, but any sound must needs have been futile indeed in the pervasive roar of the waters. he felt that he had hardly strength for another step along the precipitous way, but there is much tonic influence in a beckoning revolver, and few men are so weak as to be unable to obey its behests. poor nehemiah tottered along as behooved him, leaving all the world, liberty, volition, behind him as the descending sheet of water fell between him and the rest of life and shut him off. "that's it, my leetle man! i thought you could make it!" were the first words he could distinguish as he joined the mountaineer beneath the crag. nehemiah yerby had never before seen this man. that in itself was alarming, since in the scanty population of the region few of its denizens are unknown to each other, at least by sight. the tone of satire, the gleam of enjoyment in his keen blue eye, were not reassuring to the object of his ridicule. he was tall and somewhat portly, and he had a bluff and offhand manner, which, however, served not so much to intimate his good-will toward you as his abounding good-humor with himself. he was a man of most arbitrary temper, one could readily judge, not only from his own aspect and manner, but from the docile, reliant, approving cast of countenance of his reserve force--a half-dozen men, who were somewhat in the background, lounging on the rocks about a huge copper still. they wore an attentive aspect, but offered to take no active part in the scene enacted before them. one of them--even at this crucial moment yerby noticed it with a pang of regretful despair--held noiseless on his knee a violin, and more than once addressed himself seriously to rubbing rosin over the bow. there was scant music in his face--a square physiognomy, with thick features, and a shock of hay-colored hair striped somewhat with an effect of darker shades like a weathering stack. he handled the bow with a blunt, clumsy hand that augured little of delicate skill, and he seemed from his diligence to think that rosin is what makes a fiddle play. he was evidently one of those unhappy creatures furnished with some vague inner attraction to the charms of music, with no gift, no sentiment, no discrimination. something faintly sonorous there was in his soul, and it vibrated to the twanging of the strings. he was far less alert to the conversation than the others, whose listening attitudes attested their appreciation of the importance of the moment. "waal," observed the moonshiner, impatiently, eying the tremulous and tongue-tied yerby, "hev ye fund what ye war a-huntin' fur?" so tenacious of impressions was nehemiah that it was the violin in those alien hands which still focussed his attention as he stared gaspingly about. leander was not here; probably had never been here; and the twanging of those strings had lured him to his fate. well might he contemn the festive malevolence of the violin's influence! his letter had failed; no raider had intimidated these bluff, unafraid, burly law-breakers, and he had put his life in jeopardy in his persistent prosecution of his scheme. he gasped again at the thought. "_waal_," said the moonshiner, evidently a man of short patience, and with a definite air of spurring on the visitor's account of himself, "we 'ain't been lookin' fur any spy lately, but i'm 'lowin' ez we hev fund him." his fear thus put into words so served to realize to yerby his immediate danger that it stood him in the stead of courage, of brains, of invention; his flaccid muscles were suddenly again under control; he wreathed his features with his smug artificial smile, that was like a grimace in its best estate, and now hardly seemed more than a contortion. but beauty in any sense was not what the observer was prepared to expect in nehemiah, and the moonshiner seemed to accept the smile at its face value, and to respect its intention. "spies don't kem climbin' down that thar path o' yourn in full view through the water"--for the landscape was as visible through the thin falling sheet as if it had been the slightly corrugated glass of a window--"do they?" yerby asked, with a jocose intonation. "that thar shootin'-iron o' yourn liked ter hev skeered me ter death whenst i fust seen it." his interlocutor pondered on this answer for a moment. he had an adviser among his corps whose opinion he evidently valued; he exchanged a quick glance with one of the men who was but dimly visible in the shadows beyond the still, where there seemed to be a series of troughs leading a rill of running water down from some farther spring and through the tub in which the spiral worm was coiled. this man had a keen, white, lean face, with an ascetic, abstemious expression, and he looked less like a distiller than some sort of divine--some rustic pietist, with strange theories and unhappy speculations and unsettled mind. it was a face of subtle influences, and the very sight of it roused in nehemiah a more heedful fear than the "shootin'-iron" in the bluff moonshiner's hand had induced. he was silent, while the other resumed the office of spokesman. "ye ain't 'quainted hyar"--he waved his hand with the pistol in it around at the circle of uncowering men, although the mere movement made nehemiah cringe with the thought that an accidental discharge might as effectually settle his case as premeditated and deliberate murder. "ye dun'no' none o' us. what air ye a-doin' hyar?" "why, that thar war the very trouble," yerby hastily explained. "_i didn't know none o' ye!_ i hed hearn ez thar war a still somewhars on hide-an'-seek creek"--once more there ensued a swift exchange of glances among the party--"but nobody knew who run it nor whar 'twar. an' one day, consider'ble time ago, i war a-passin' nigh 'bouts an' i hearn that fiddle, an' that revealed the spot ter me. an' i kem ter-day 'lowin' ye an' me could strike a trade." once more the bluff man of force turned an anxious look of inquiry to the pale, thoughtful face in the brown and dark green shadows beyond the copper gleam of the still. if policy had required that nehemiah should be despatched, his was the hand to do the deed, and his the stomach to support his conscience afterward. but his brain revolted from the discriminating analysis of nehemiah's discourse and a decision on its merits. "trade fur what?" he demanded at last, on his own responsibility, for no aid had radiated from the face which his looks had interrogated. "fur whiskey, o' course." nehemiah made the final plunge boldly. "i be goin' ter open a store at the cross-roads, an' i 'lowed i could git cheaper whiskey untaxed than taxed. i 'lowed ye wouldn't make it ef ye didn't expec' ter sell it. i didn't know none o' you-uns, an' none o' yer customers. an' ez i expec' ter git mo' profit on sellin' whiskey 'n ennything else in the store, i jes took foot in hand an' kem ter see 'boutn it mysef. i never 'lowed, though, ez it mought look cur'ous ter you-uns, or like a spy, ter kem ez bold ez brass down the path in full sight." the logic of the seeming security of his approach, and the apparent value of his scheme, had their full weight. he saw credulity gradually overpowering doubt and distrust, and his heart grew light with relief. even their cautious demur, intimating a reserve of opinion to the effect that they would think about it, did not daunt him now. he believed, in the simplicity of his faith in his own craft, now once more in the ascendant, that if they should accept his proposition he would be free to go without further complication of his relations with wild-cat whiskey. he could not sufficiently applaud his wits for the happy termination of the adventure to which they had led him. he had gone no further in the matter than he had always intended. brush whiskey was the commodity that addressed itself most to his sense of speculation. for this he had always expected to ferret out some way of safely negotiating. he had gone no further than he should have done, at all events, a little later. he even began mentally to "figger on the price" down to which he should be able to bring the distillers, as he accepted a proffered seat in the circle about the still. he could neither divide nor multiply by fractions, and it is not too much to say that he might have been throttled on the spot if the moonshiners could have had a mental vision of the liberties the stalwart integers were taking with their price-current, so to speak, and the preternatural discount that was making so free with their profits. so absorbed in this pleasing intellectual exercise was nehemiah that he did not observe that any one had left the coterie; but when a stir without on the rocks intimated an approach he was suddenly ill at ease, and this discomfort increased when the new-comer proved to be a man who knew him. "waal, nehemiah yerby!" he exclaimed, shaking his friend's hand, "i never knowed you-uns ter be consarned in sech ez moonshinin'. i hev been a-neighborin' isham hyar," he laid his heavy hand on the tall moonshiner's shoulder, "fur ten year an' better, but i won't hev nuthin' ter do with bresh whiskey or aidin' or abettin' in illicit 'stillin'. i like isham, an' isham he likes me, an' we hev jes agreed ter disagree." nehemiah dared not protest nor seek to explain. he could invent no story that would not give the lie direct to his representations to the moonshiners. he felt that their eyes were upon him. he could only hope that his silence did not seem to them like denial--and yet was not tantamount to confession in the esteem of his upbraider. "yes, sir," his interlocutor continued, "it's a mighty bad government ter run agin." then he turned to the moonshiner, evidently taking up the business that had brought him here. "lemme see what sorter brand ye hev registered fur yer cattle, isham." yerby's heart sank when the suspicion percolated through his brain that this man had been induced to come here for the purpose of recognizing him. more fixed in this opinion was he when no description of the brand of the cattle could be found, and the visitor finally went away, his errand bootless. from time to time during the afternoon other men went out and returned with recruits on various pretexts, all of which nehemiah believed masked the marshalling of witnesses to incriminate him as one of themselves, in order to better secure his constancy to the common interests, and in case he was playing false to put others into possession of the facts as to the identity of the informer. his liability to the law for aiding and abetting in moonshining was very complete before the day darkened, and his jeopardy as to the information he had given made him shake in his shoes. for at any moment, he reflected, in despair, the laggard raiders might swoop down upon them, and the choice of rôles offered to him was to seem to them a moonshiner, or to the moonshiners an informer. the first was far the safer, for the clutches of the law were indeed feeble as contrasted with the popular fury that would pursue him unwearied for years until its vengeance was accomplished. from the one, escape was to the last degree improbable; from the other, impossible. any pretext to seek to quit the place before the definite arrangements of his negotiation were consummated seemed even to him, despite his eagerness to be off, too tenuous, too transparent, to be essayed, although he devised several as he sat meditative and silent amongst the group about the still. the prospect grew less and less inviting as the lingering day waned, and the evening shadows, dank and chill, perceptibly approached. the brown and green recesses of the grotto were at once murkier, and yet more distinctly visible, for the glow of the fire, flickering through the crevices of the metal door of the furnace, had begun to assert its luminous quality, which was hardly perceptible in the full light of day, and brought out the depth of the shadows. the figures and faces of the moonshiners showed against the deepening gloom. the sunset clouds were still red without; a vague roseate suffusion was visible through the falling water. the sun itself had not yet sunk, for an oblique and almost level ray, piercing the cataract, painted a series of faint prismatic tints on one side of the rugged arch. but while the outer world was still in touch with the clear-eyed day, night was presently here, with mystery and doubt and dark presage. the voice of hoho-hebee falls seemed to him louder, full of strange, uncomprehended meanings, and insistent iteration. vague echoes were elicited. sometimes in a seeming pause he could catch their lisping sibilant tones repeating, repeating--what? as the darkness encroached yet more heavily upon the cataract, the sense of its unseen motion so close at hand oppressed his very soul; it gave an idea of the swift gathering of shifting invisible multitudes, coming and going--who could say whence or whither? so did this impression master his nerves that he was glad indeed when the furnace door was opened for fuel, and he could see only the inanimate, ever-descending sheet of water--the reverse interior aspect of hoho-hebee falls--all suffused with the uncanny tawny light, but showing white and green tints like its diurnal outer aspect, instead of the colorless outlines, resembling a drawing of a cataract, which the cave knew by day. he did not pause to wonder whether the sudden transient illumination was visible without, or how it might mystify the untutored denizens of the woods, bear, or deer, or wolf, perceiving it aglow in the midst of the waters like a great topaz, and anon lost in the gloom. he pined to see it; the momentary cessation of darkness, of the effect of the sounds, so strange in the obscurity, and of the chill, pervasive mystery of the invisible, was so grateful that its influence was tonic to his nerves, and he came to watch for its occasion and to welcome it. he did not grudge it even when it gave the opportunity for a close, unfriendly, calculating scrutiny of his face by the latest comer to the still. this was the neighboring miller, also liable to the revenue laws, the distillers being valued patrons of the mill, and since he ground the corn for the mash he thereby aided and abetted in the illicit manufacture of the whiskey. his life was more out in the world than that of his underground _confrères_, and perhaps, as he had a thriving legitimate business, and did not live by brush whiskey, he had more to lose by detection than they, and deprecated even more any unnecessary risk. he evidently took great umbrage at the introduction of nehemiah amongst them. "oh yes," he observed, in response to the cordial greeting which he met; "an' i'm glad ter see ye all too. i'm powerful glad ter kem ter the still enny time. it's ekal ter goin' ter the settlemint, or plumb ter town on a county court day. ye see _everybody_, an' hear _all_ the news, an' meet up with _interestin' strangers_. i tell ye, now, the mill's plumb lonesome compared ter the still, an' the mill's always hed the name of a place whar a heap o' cronies gathered ter swap lies, an' sech." the irony of this description of the social delights and hospitable accessibilities of a place esteemed the very stronghold of secrecy itself--the liberty of every man in it jeopardized by the slightest lapse of vigilance or judgment--was very readily to be appreciated by the group, who were invited by this fair show of words to look down the vista of the future to possible years of captivity in the jails of far-away states as federal prisoners. the men gazed heavily and anxiously from one to another as the visitor sank down on the rocks in a relaxed attitude, his elbow on a higher ledge behind him, supporting his head on his hand; his other hand was on his hip, his arm stiffly akimbo, while he looked with an expression of lowering exasperation at yerby. it was impossible to distinguish the color of his garb, so dusted with flour was he from head to foot; but his long boots drawn over his trousers to the knee, and his great spurs, and a brace of pistols in his belt, seemed incongruous accessories to the habiliments of a miller. his large, dark hat was thrust far back on his head; his hair, rising straight in a sort of elastic wave from his brow, was powdered white; the effect of his florid color and his dark eyes was accented by the contrast; his pointed beard revealed its natural tints because of his habit of frequently brushing his hand over it, and was distinctly red. he was lithe and lean and nervous, and had the impatient temper characteristic of mercurial natures. it mattered not to him what was the coercion of the circumstances which had led to the reception of the stranger here, nor what was the will of the majority; he disapproved of the step; he feared it; he esteemed it a grievance done him in his absence; and he could not conceal his feelings nor wait a more fitting time to express them in private. his irritation and objection evidently caused some solicitude amongst the others. he was important to them, and they deprecated his displeasure. isham beaton listened to the half-covert sneers of his words with perturbation plainly depicted on his face, and the man whom nehemiah had at first noticed as one whose character seemed that of adviser, and whose opinion was valued, now spoke for the first time. he handed over a broken-nosed pitcher with the remark, "try the flavor of this hyar whiskey, alfred; 'pears like ter me the bes' we-uns hev ever hed." his voice was singularly smooth; it had all the qualities of culture; every syllable, every lapse of his rude dialect, was as distinct as if he had been taught to speak in this way; his tones were low and even, and modulated to suave cadences; the ear experienced a sense of relief after the loud, strident voice of the miller, poignantly penetrating and pitched high. "naw, hilary, i don't want nuthin' ter drink. 'bleeged ter ye, but i ain't wantin' nuthin' ter drink," reiterated the miller, plaintively. isham beaton cast a glance of alarm at the dimly seen, monastic face of his adviser in the gloom. it was unchanged. its pallor and its keen outline enabled its expression to be discerned as he himself went through the motions of sampling the rejected liquor, shook his head discerningly, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and deposited the pitcher near by on a shelf of the rock. a pause ensued. nehemiah, with every desire to be agreeable, hardly knew how to commend himself to the irate miller, who would have none of his very existence. no one could more eagerly desire him to be away than he himself. but his absence would not satisfy the miller; nothing less than that the intruder should never have been here. every perceptible lapse of the moonshiners into anxiety, every recurrent intimation of their most pertinent reason for this anxiety, set nehemiah a-shaking in his shoes. should it be esteemed the greatest good to the greatest number to make safely away with him, his fate would forever remain unknown, so cautious had he been to leave no trace by which he might be followed. he gazed with deprecating urbanity, and with his lips distended into a propitiating smile, at the troubled face powdered so white and with its lowering eyes so dark and petulant. he noted that the small-talk amongst the others, mere unindividualized lumpish fellows with scant voice in the government of their common enterprise, had ceased, and that they no longer busied themselves with the necessary work about the still, nor with the snickering interludes and horse-play with which they were wont to beguile their labors. they had all seated themselves, and were looking from one to the other of the more important members of the guild with an air which betokened the momentary expectation of a crisis. the only exception was the man who had the violin; with the persistent, untimely industry of incapacity, he twanged the strings, and tuned and retuned the instrument, each time producing a result more astonishingly off the key than before. he was evidently unaware of this till some one with senses ajar would suggest that all was not as it should be in the drunken reeling catch he sought to play, when he would desist in surprise, and once more diligently rub the bow with rosin, as if that mended the matter. the miller's lowering eyes rested on his shadowy outline as he sat thus engaged, for a moment, and then he broke out suddenly: "yes, this hyar still is the place fur news, an' the place ter look out fur what ye don't expec' ter happen. it's powerful pleasant ter be a-meetin' of folks hyar--this hyar stranger this evenin'"--his gleaming teeth in the semi-obscurity notified yerby that a smile of spurious politeness was bent upon him, and he made haste to grin very widely in response--"an' that thar fiddle 'minds me o' how onexpected 'twar whenst i met up with lee-yander hyar--'pears ter me, bob, ez ye air goin' ter diddle the life out'n his fiddle--an' hilary jes begged an' beseeched me ter take the boy with me ter help 'round the mill, ez he war a-runnin' away. ye want me ter 'commodate this stranger too, ez mebbe air runnin' from them ez wants him, hey hilary?" the grin was petrified on nehemiah's face. he felt his blood rush quickly to his head in the excitement of the moment. so here was the bird very close at hand! and here was his enterprise complete and successful. he could go away after the cowardly caution of the moonshiners should have expended itself in dallying and delay, with his negotiation for the "wild-cat" ended, and his accomplished young relative in charge. he drew himself erect with a sense of power. the moonshiners, the miller, would not dare to make an objection. he knew too much! he knew far too much! the door of the furnace was suddenly flung ajar, but he was too much absorbed to perceive the change that came upon the keen face of hilary tarbetts, who knelt beside it, as the guest's portentous triumphant smile was fully revealed. yerby did not lose, however, the glance of reproach which the moonshiner cast upon the miller, nor the miller's air at once triumphant, ashamed, and regretful. he had in petulant pique disclosed the circumstance which he had pledged himself not to disclose. "this man's name is yerby too," hilary said, significantly, gazing steadily at the miller. the miller looked dumfounded for a moment. he stared from one to the other in silence. his conscious expression changed to obvious discomfiture. he had expected no such result as this. he had merely given way to a momentary spite in the disclosure, thinking it entirely insignificant, only calculated to slightly annoy hilary, who had made the affair his own. he would not in any essential have thwarted his comrade's plans intentionally, nor in his habitual adherence to the principles of fair play would he have assisted in the boy's capture. he drew himself up from his relaxed posture; his spurred feet shuffled heavily on the stone floor of the grotto. a bright red spot appeared on each cheek; his eyes had become anxious and subdued in the quick shiftings of temper common to the red-haired gentry; his face of helpless appeal was bent on hilary tarbetts, as if relying on his resources to mend the matter; but ever and anon he turned his eyes, animated with a suspicious dislike, on yerby, who, however, could have snapped his fingers in the faces of them all, so confident, so hilariously triumphant was he. "yerby, i b'lieve ye said yer name war, an' so did peter green," said tarbetts, still kneeling by the open furnace door, his pale cheek reddening in the glow of the fire. thus reminded of the testimony of his acquaintance, yerby did not venture to repudiate his cognomen. "an' what did ye kem hyar fur?" blustered the miller. "a-sarchin' fur the boy?" yerby's lips had parted to acknowledge this fact, but tarbetts suddenly anticipated his response, and answered for him: "oh no, alfred. nobody ain't sech a fool ez ter kem hyar ter this hyar still, a stranger an' mebbe suspected ez a spy, ter hunt up stray children, an' git thar heads shot off, or mebbe drownded in a mighty handy water-fall, or sech. this hyar man air one o' we-uns. he air a-tradin' fur our liquor, an' he'll kerry a barrel away whenst he goes." yerby winced at the suggestion conveyed so definitely in this crafty speech; he was glad when the door of the furnace closed, so that his face might not tell too much of the shifting thoughts and fears that possessed him. the miller's fickle mind wavered once more. if yerby had not come for the boy, he himself had done no damage in disclosing leander's whereabouts. once more his quickly illumined anger was kindled against tarbetts, who had caused him a passing but poignant self-reproach. "waal, then, hilary," he demanded, "what air ye a-raisin' sech a row fur? lee-yander ain't noways so special precious ez i knows on. toler'ble lazy an' triflin', an' mightily gi'n over ter moonin' over a readin'-book he hev got. that thar mill war a-grindin' o' nuthin' at all more'n haffen ter-day, through me bein' a-nappin', and lee-yander plumb demented by his book so ez he furgot ter pour enny grist inter the hopper. shucks! his kin is welcome ter enny sech critter ez that, though i ain't denyin' ez he'd be toler'ble spry ef he could keep his nose out'n his book," he qualified, relenting, "or his fiddle out'n his hands. i made him leave his fiddle hyar ter the still, an' i be goin' ter hide his book." "no need," thought nehemiah, scornfully. book and scholar and it might be fiddle too, so indulgent had the prospect of success made him, would by to-morrow be on the return route to the cross-roads. he even ventured to differ with the overbearing miller. "i dun'no' 'bout that; books an' edication in gin'ral air toler'ble useful wunst in a while;" he was thinking of the dark art of dividing and multiplying by fractions. "the yerbys hev always hed the name o' bein' quick at thar book." now the democratic sentiment in this country is bred in the bone, and few of its denizens have so diluted it with christian grace as to willingly acknowledge a superior. in such a coterie as this "eating humble-pie" is done only at the muzzle of a "shootin'-iron." "never hearn afore ez enny o' the yerbys knowed b from bull-foot," remarked one of the unindividualized lumpish moonshiners, shadowy, indistinguishable in the circle about the rotund figure of the still. he yet retained acrid recollections of unavailing struggles with the alphabet, and was secretly of the opinion that education was a painful thing, and, like the yellow-fever or other deadly disease, not worth having. nevertheless, since it was valued by others, the yerbys should scathless make no unfounded claims. "ef the truth war knowed, nare one of 'em afore could tell a book from a bear-trap." nehemiah's flush the darkness concealed; he moistened his thin lips, and then gave a little cackling laugh, as if he regarded this as pleasantry. but the demolition of the literary pretensions of his family once begun went bravely on. "abner sage larnt this hyar boy all he knows," another voice took up the testimony. "ab 'lows ez his mother war quick at school, but his dad--law! i knowed ebenezer yerby! he war a frien'ly sorter cuss, good-nachured an' kind-spoken, but ye could put all the larnin' he hed in the corner o' yer eye." "an' lee-yander don't favor none o' ye," observed another of the undiscriminated, unimportant members of the group, who seemed to the groping scrutiny of nehemiah to be only endowed with sufficient identity to do the rough work of the still, and to become liable to the federal law. "thar's hil'ry--he seen it right off. hil'ry he tuk a look at lee-yander whenst he wanted ter kem an' work along o' we-uns, 'kase his folks wanted ter take him away from the sudleys. hil'ry opened the furnace door--jes so; an' he cotch the boy by the arm"--the great brawny fellow, unconsciously dramatic, suited the action to the word, his face and figure illumined by the sudden red glow--"an' hil'ry, he say, 'naw, by god--ye hev got yer mother's eyes in yer head, an' i'll swear ye sha'n't larn ter be a sot!' an' that's how kem hil'ry made alf bixby take lee-yander ter work in the mill. ef ennybody tuk arter him he war convenient ter disappear down hyar with we-uns. so he went ter the mill." "an' i wisht i hed put him in the hopper an' ground him up," said the miller, in a blood-curdling tone, but with a look of plaintive anxiety in his eyes. "he hev made a heap o' trouble 'twixt hil'ry an' me fust an' last. whar's hil'ry disappeared to, ennyways?" for the flare from the furnace showed that this leading spirit amongst the moonshiners had gone softly out. nehemiah, whose courage was dissipated by some subtle influence of his presence, now made bold to ask, "an' what made him ter set store on lee-yander's mother's eyes?" his tone was as bluffly sarcastic as he dared. "shucks--ye mus' hev hearn that old tale," said the miller, cavalierly. "this hyar malviny hixon--ez lived down in tanglefoot cove then--her an' hil'ry war promised ter marry, but the revenuers captured him--he war a-runnin' a still in tanglefoot then--an' they kep' him in jail somewhar in the north fur five year. waal, she waited toler'ble constant fur two or three year, but ebenezer yerby he kem a-visitin' his kin down in tanglefoot cove, an' she an' him met at a bran dance, an' the fust thing i hearn they war married, an' 'fore hil'ry got back she war dead an' buried, an' so war ebenezer." there was a pause while the flames roared in the furnace, and the falling water desperately dashed upon the rocks, and its tumultuous voice continuously pervaded the silent void wildernesses without, and the sibilant undertone, the lisping whisperings, smote the senses anew. "he met up with cornsider'ble changes fur five year," remarked one of the men, regarding the matter in its chronological aspect. nehemiah said nothing. he had heard the story before, but it had been forgotten. a worldly mind like his is not apt to burden itself with the sentimental details of an antenuptial romance of the woman whom his half-brother had married many years ago. a persuasion that it was somewhat unduly long-lived impressed others of the party. "it's plumb cur'us hil'ry ain't never furgot her," observed one of them. "he hev never married at all. my wife says it's jes contrariousness. ef malviny hed been his wife an' died, he'd hev married agin 'fore the year war out. an' i tell my wife that he'd hev been better acquainted with her then, an' would hev fund out ez no woman war wuth mournin' 'bout fur nigh twenty year. my wife says she can't make out ez how hil'ry 'ain't got pride enough not ter furgive her fur givin' him the mitten like she done. an' i tell my wife that holdin' a gredge agin a woman fur bein' fickle is like holdin' a gredge agin her fur bein' a woman." he paused with an air, perceived somehow in the brown dusk, of having made a very neat point. a stir of assent was vaguely suggested when some chivalric impulse roused a champion at the farther side of the worm, whose voice rang out brusquely: "jes listen at tom! a body ter hear them tales he tells 'bout argufyin' with his wife would 'low he war a mighty smart, apt man, an' the pore foolish 'oman skeercely hed a sensible word ter bless herself with. when everybody that knows tom knows he sings mighty small round home. ye stopped too soon, tom. tell what yer wife said to that." tom's embarrassed feet shuffled heavily on the rocks, apparently in search of subterfuge. the dazzling glintings from the crevices of the furnace door showed here and there gleaming teeth broadly agrin. "jes called me a fool in gineral," admitted the man skilled in argument. "an' didn't she 'low ez men folks war fickle too, an' remind ye o' yer young days whenst ye went a-courtin' hyar an' thar, an' tell over a string o' gals' names till she sounded like an off'cer callin' the roll?" "ye-es," admitted tom, thrown off his balance by this preternatural insight, "but all them gals war a-tryin' ter marry me--not me tryin' ter marry them." there was a guffaw at this modest assertion, but the disaffected miller's tones dominated the rude merriment. "whenst a feller takes ter drink folks kin spell out a heap o' reasons but the true one--an' that's 'kase he likes it. hil'ry 'ain't never named that 'oman's name ter me, an' i hev knowed him ez well ez ennybody hyar. jes t'other day whenst that boy kem, bein' foolish an' maudlin, he seen suthin' oncommon in lee-yander's eyes--they'll be mighty oncommon ef he keeps on readin' his tomfool book, ez he knows by heart, by the firelight when it's dim. ef folks air so sot agin strong drink, let 'em drink less tharsefs. hear brother peter vickers preach agin liquor, an' ye'd know ez all wine-bibbers air bound fur hell." "but the bible don't name 'whiskey' once," said the man called tom, in an argumentative tone. "low wines i'll gin ye up;" he made the discrimination in accents betokening much reasonable admission; "but nare time does the bible name whiskey, nor yit peach brandy, nor apple-jack." "nor cider nor beer," put in an unexpected recruit from the darkness. the miller was silent for a moment, and gave token of succumbing to this unexpected polemic strength. then, taking thought and courage together, "ye can't say the bible ain't down on 'strong drink'?" there was no answer from the vanquished, and he went on in the overwhelming miller's voice: "hil'ry hed better be purtectin' hisself from strong drink, 'stiddier the boy--by makin' him stay up thar at the mill whar he knows thar's no drinkin' goin' on--ez will git chances at it other ways, ef not through him, in the long life he hev got ter live. the las' time the revenuers got hil'ry 'twar through bein' ez drunk ez a fraish-biled owl. it makes me powerful oneasy whenever i know ye air all drunk an' a-gallopadin' down hyar, an' no mo' able to act reasonable in case o' need an' purtect yersefs agin spies an' revenuers an' sech 'n nuthin' in this worl'. the las' raid, ye 'member, we hed the still over yander;" he jerked his thumb in the direction present to his thoughts, but unseen by his coadjutors; "a man war wounded, an' we dun'no' but what killed in the scuffle, an' it mought be a hangin' matter ter git caught now. ye oughter keep sober; an' ye know, isham, ye oughter keep hil'ry sober. i dun'no' why ye can't. i never could abide the nasty stuff--it's enough ter turn a bullfrog's stomach. whiskey is good ter sell--not ter drink. let them consarned idjits in the flat woods buy it, an' drink it. whiskey is good ter sell--not ter drink." this peculiar temperance argument was received in thoughtful silence, the reason of all the mountaineers commending it, while certain of them knew themselves and were known to be incapable of profiting by it. nehemiah had scant interest in this conversation. he was conscious of the strain on his attention as he followed it, that every point of the situation should be noted, and its utility canvassed at a leisure moment. he marked the allusion to the man supposed to have been killed in the skirmish with the raiders, and he appraised its value as coercion in any altercation that he might have in seeking to take leander from his present guardians. but he felt in elation that this was likely to be of the slightest; the miller evidently found himself hampered rather than helped by the employment of the boy; and as to the moonshiner's sentimental partisanship, for the sake of an old attachment to the dead-and-gone mountain girl, there was hardly anything in the universe so tenuous as to bear comparison with its fragility. "a few drinks ahead," he said to himself, with a sneer, "an' he won't remember who malviny hixon was, ef thar is ennything in the old tale--which it's more'n apt thar ain't." he began, after the fashion of successful people, to cavil because his success was not more complete. how the time was wasting here in this uncomfortable interlude! why could he not have discovered leander's whereabouts earlier, and by now be jogging along the road home with the boy by his side? why had he not bethought himself of the mill in the first instance--that focus of gossip where all the news of the countryside is mysteriously garnered and thence dispensed bounteously to all comers? it was useless, as he fretted and chafed at these untoward omissions, to urge in his own behalf that he did not know of the existence of the mill, and that the miller, being an ungenial and choleric man, might have perversely lent himself to resisting his demand for the custody of the young runaway. no, he told himself emphatically, and with good logic, too, the miller's acrimony rose from the fact of a stranger's discovery of the still and the danger of his introduction into its charmed circle. and that reflection reminded him anew of his own danger here--not from the lawless denizens of the place, but from the forces which he himself had evoked, and again he glanced out toward the water-fall as fearful of the raiders as any moonshiner of them all. but what sudden glory was on the waters, mystic, white, an opaque brilliance upon the swirling foam and the bounding spray, a crystalline glitter upon the smooth expanse of the swift cataract! the moon was in the sky, and its light, with noiseless tread, sought out strange, lonely places, and illusions were astir in the solitudes. pensive peace, thoughts too subtle for speech to shape, spiritual yearnings, were familiars of the hour and of this melancholy splendor; but he knew none of them, and the sight gave him no joy. he only thought that this was a night for the saddle, for the quiet invasion of the woods, when the few dwellers by the way-side were lost in slumber. he trembled anew at the thought of the raiders whom he himself had summoned; he forgot his curses on their laggard service; he upbraided himself again that he had not earlier made shift to depart by some means--by any means--before the night came with this great emblazoning bold-faced moon that but prolonged the day; and he started to his feet with a galvanic jerk and a sharp exclamation when swift steps were heard on the rocks outside, and a man with the lightness of a deer sprang down the ledges and into the great arched opening of the place. "'tain't nobody but hil'ry," observed isham beaton, half in reproach, half in reassurance. the pervasive light without dissipated in some degree the gloom within the grotto; a sort of gray visibility was on the appurtenances and the figures about the still, not strong enough to suggest color, but giving contour. his fright had been marked, he knew; a sort of surprised reflectiveness was in the manner of several of the moonshiners, and nehemiah, with his ready fears, fancied that this inopportune show of terror had revived their suspicions of him. it required some effort to steady his nerves after this, and when footfalls were again audible outside, and all the denizens of the place sat calmly smoking their pipes without so much as a movement toward investigating the sound, he, knowing whose steps he had invited thither, had great ado with the coward within to keep still, as if he had no more reason to fear an approach than they. a great jargon in the tone of ecstasy broke suddenly on the air upon this new entrance, shattering what little composure nehemiah had been able to muster; a wide-mouthed exaggeration of welcome in superlative phrases and ready chorus. swiftly turning, he saw nothing for a moment, for he looked at the height which a man's head might reach, and the new-comer measured hardly two feet in stature, waddled with a very uncertain gait, and although he bore himself with manifest complacence, he had evidently heard the like before, as he was jovially hailed by every ingratiating epithet presumed to be acceptable to his infant mind. he was attended by a tall, gaunt boy of fifteen, barefooted, with snaggled teeth and a shock of tow hair, wearing a shirt of unbleached cotton, and a pair of trousers supported by a single suspender drawn across a sharp, protuberant shoulder-blade behind and a very narrow chest in front. but his face was proud and happy and gleeful, as if he occupied some post of honor and worldly emolument in attending upon the waddling wonder on the floor in front of him, instead of being assigned the ungrateful task of seeing to it that a very ugly baby closely related to him did not, with the wiliness and ingenuity of infant nature, invent some method of making away with himself. for he _was_ an ugly baby as he stood revealed in the flare of the furnace door, thrown open that his admirers and friends might feast their eyes upon him. his short wisps of red hair stood straight up in front; his cheeks were puffy and round, but very rosy; his eyes were small and dark, but blandly roguish; his mouth was wide and damp, and had in it a small selection of sample teeth, as it were; he wore a blue checked homespun dress garnished down the back with big horn buttons, sparsely set on; he clasped his chubby hands upon a somewhat pompous stomach; he sidled first to the right, then to the left, in doubt as to which of the various invitations he should accept. "kem hyar, snooks!" "right hyar, toodles!" "me hyar, monkey doodle!" "hurrah fur the leetle-est moonshiner on record!" resounded fulsomely about him. many were the compliments showered upon him, and if his flatterers told lies, they had told more wicked ones. the pipes all went out, and the broken-nosed pitcher languished in disuse as he trotted from one pair of outstretched arms to another to give an exhibition of his progress in the noble art of locomotion; and if he now and again sat down, unexpectedly to himself and to the spectator, he was promptly put upon his feet again with spurious applause and encouragement. he gave an exhibition of his dancing--a funny little shuffle of exceeding temerity, considering the facilities at his command for that agile amusement, but he was made reckless by praise--and they all lied valiantly in chorus. he repeated all the words he knew, which were few, and for the most part unintelligible, crowed like a cock, barked like a dog, mewed like a cat, and finally went away, his red cheeks yet more ruddily aglow, grave and excited and with quickly beating pulses, like one who has achieved some great public success and led captive the hearts of thousands. the turmoils of his visit and his departure were great indeed. it all irked nehemiah yerby, who had scant toleration of infancy and little perception of the jocosity of the aspect of callow human nature, and it seemed strange to him that these men, all with their liberty, even their existence, jeopardized upon the chances that a moment might bring forth, could so relax their sense of danger, so disregard the mandates of stolid common-sense, and give themselves over to the puerile beguilements of the visitor. the little animal was the son of one of them, he knew, but he hardly guessed whom until he marked the paternal pride and content that had made unwontedly placid the brow of the irate miller while the ovation was in progress. nehemiah greatly preferred the adult specimen of the race, and looked upon youth as an infirmity which would mend only with time. he was easily confused by a stir; the gurglings, the ticklings, the loud laughter both in the deep bass of the hosts and the keen treble of the guest had a befuddling effect upon him; his powers of observation were numbed. as the great, burly forms shifted to and fro, resuming their former places, the red light from the open door of the furnace illumining their laughing, bearded countenances, casting a roseate suffusion upon the white turmoils of the cataract, and showing the rugged interior of the place with its damp and dripping ledges, he saw for the first time among them leander's slight figure and smiling face; the violin was in his hand, one end resting on a rock as he tightened a string; his eyes were bent upon the instrument, while his every motion was earnestly watched by the would-be fiddler. nehemiah started hastily to his feet. he had not expected that the boy would see him here. to share with one of his own household a secret like this of aiding in illicit distilling was more than his hardihood could well contemplate. as once more the contemned "ping-pang" of the process of tuning fell upon the air, leander chanced to lift his eyes. they smilingly swept the circle until they rested upon his uncle. they suddenly dilated with astonishment, and the violin fell from his nerveless hand upon the floor. the surprise, the fear, the repulsion his face expressed suddenly emboldened nehemiah. the boy evidently had not been prepared for the encounter with his relative here. its only significance to his mind was the imminence of capture and of being constrained to accompany his uncle home. he cast a glance of indignant reproach upon hilary tarbetts, who was not even looking at him. the moonshiner stood filling his pipe with tobacco, and as he deftly extracted a coal from the furnace to set it alight, he shut the door with a clash, and for a moment the whole place sunk into invisibility, the vague radiance vouchsafed to the recesses of the grotto by the moonbeams on the water without annihilated for the time by the contrast with the red furnace glare. nehemiah had a swift fear that in this sudden eclipse leander might slip softly out and thus be again lost to him, but as the dull gray light gradually reasserted itself, and the figures and surroundings emerged from the gloom, resuming shape and consistency, he saw leander still standing where he had disappeared in the darkness; he could even distinguish his pale face and lustrous eyes. leander at least had no intention to shirk explanations. "why, uncle nehemiah!" he said, his boyish voice ringing out tense and excited above the tones of the men, once more absorbed in their wonted interests. a sudden silence ensued amongst them. "what air ye a-doin' hyar?" "waal, ah, lee-yander, boy--" nehemiah hesitated. a half-suppressed chuckle among the men, whom he had observed to be addicted to horse-play, attested their relish of the situation. ridicule is always of unfriendly intimations, and the sound served to put nehemiah on his guard anew. he noticed that the glow in hilary's pipe was still and dull: the smoker did not even draw his breath as he looked and listened. yerby did not dare avow the true purpose of his presence after his representations to the moonshiners, and yet he could not, he would not in set phrase align himself with the illicit vocation. the boy was too young, too irresponsible, too inimical to his uncle, he reflected in a sudden panic, to be intrusted with this secret. if in his hap-hazard, callow folly he should turn informer, he was almost too young to be amenable to the popular sense of justice. he might, too, by some accident rather than intention, divulge the important knowledge so unsuitable to his years and his capacity for guarding it. he began to share the miller's aversion to the introduction of outsiders to the still. he felt a glow of indignation, as if he had always been a party in interest, that the common safety should not be more jealously guarded. the danger which leander's youth and inexperience threatened had not been so apparent to him when he first heard that the boy had been here, and the menace was merely for the others. as he felt the young fellow's eyes upon him he recalled the effusive piety of his conversation at tyler sudley's house, his animadversions on violin-playing and liquor-drinking, and brother peter vickers's mild and merciful attitude toward sinners in those unspiced sermons of his, that held out such affluence of hope to the repentant rather than to the self-righteous. the blood surged unseen into nehemiah's face. for shame, for very shame he could not confess himself one with these outcasts. he made a feint of searching in the semi-obscurity for the rickety chair on which he had been seated, and resumed his former attitude as leander's voice once more rang out: "what air ye a-doin' hyar, uncle nehemiah?" "jes a-visitin', sonny; jes a-visitin'." there was a momentary pause, and the felicity of the answer was demonstrated by another chuckle from the group. his senses, alert to the emergency, discriminated a difference in the tone. this time the laugh was with him rather than at him. he noted, too, leander's dumfounded pause, and the suggestion of discomfiture in the boy's lustrous eyes, still widely fixed upon him. as leander stooped to pick up the violin he remarked with an incidental accent, and evidently in default of retort, "i be powerful s'prised ter view ye hyar." nehemiah smarted under the sense of unmerited reproach; so definitely aware was he of being out of the character which he had assumed and worn until it seemed even to him his own, that he felt as if he were constrained to some ghastly masquerade. even the society of the moonshiners as their guest was a reproach to one who had always piously, and in such involuted and redundant verbiage, spurned the ways and haunts of the evil-doer. according to the dictates of policy he should have rested content with his advantage over the silenced lad. but his sense of injury engendered a desire of reprisal, and he impulsively carried the war into the enemy's country. "i ain't in no ways s'prised ter view you-uns hyar, lee-yander," he said. "from the ways, lee-yander, ez ye hev been brung up by them slack-twisted sudleys--ungodly folks 'ceptin' what little regeneration they kin git from the sermons of brother peter vickers, who air onsartain in his mind whether folks ez ain't church-members air goin' ter be damned or no--i ain't s'prised none ter view ye hyar." he suddenly remembered poor laurelia's arrogations of special piety, and it was with exceeding ill will that he added: "an' mis' sudley in partic'lar. ty ain't no great shakes ez a shoutin' christian. i dun'no' ez i ever hearn him shout once, but his wife air one o' the reg'lar, mournful, unrejicing members, always questioning the decrees of providence, an' what ain't no nigher salvation, ef the truth war knowed, 'n a sinner with the throne o' grace yit ter find." leander had not picked up the violin; this disquisition had arrested his hand until his intention was forgotten. he came slowly to the perpendicular, and his eyes gleamed in the dusk. a vibration of anger was in his voice as he retorted: "mebbe so--mebbe they air sinners; but they'd look powerful comical 'visitin' hyar!" "ty sudley ain't one o' the drinkin' kind," interpolated the miller, who evidently had the makings of a temperance man. "he never sot foot hyar in his life." "them ez kem a-visitin' hyar," blustered the boy, full of the significance of his observations and experience, "air either wantin' a drink or two 'thout payin' fur it, or else air tradin' fur liquor ter sell, an' that's the same ez moonshinin' in the law." there was a roar of delight from the circle of lumpish figures about the still which told the boy that he had hit very near to the mark. nehemiah hardly waited for it to subside before he made an effort to divert leander's attention. "an' what air _you-uns_ doin' hyar?" he demanded. "tit for tat." "why," bluffly declared leander, "i be a-runnin' away from you-uns. an' i 'lowed the still war one place whar i'd be sure o' not meetin' ye. not ez i hev got ennything agin moonshinin' nuther," he added, hastily, mindful of a seeming reflection on his refuge. "moonshinin' _is business_, though the united states don't seem ter know it. but i hev hearn ye carry on so pious 'bout not lookin' on the wine whenst it be red, that i 'lowed ye wouldn't like ter look on the still whenst--whenst it's yaller." he pointed with a burst of callow merriment at the big copper vessel, and once more the easily excited mirth of the circle burst forth irrepressibly. encouraged by this applause, leander resumed: "why, _i_ even turns my back on the still myself out'n respec' ter the family--cap'n an' neighbor bein' so set agin liquor. cap'n's ekal ter preachin' on it ef ennything onexpected war ter happen ter brother vickers. an' when i _hev_ ter view it, i look at it sorter cross-eyed." the flickering line of light from the crevice of the furnace door showed that he was squinting frightfully, with the much-admired eyes his mother had bequeathed to him, at the rotund shadow, with the yellow gleams of the metal barely suggested in the brown dusk. "so i tuk ter workin' at the mill. an' _i_ hev got nuthin' ter do with the still." there was a pause. then, with a strained tone of appeal in his voice, for a future with uncle nehemiah had seemed very terrible to him, "so ye warn't a-sarchin' hyar fur me, war ye, uncle nehemiah?" nehemiah was at a loss. there is a peculiar glutinous quality in the resolve of a certain type of character which is not allied to steadfastness of purpose, nor has it the enlightened persistence of obstinacy. in view of his earlier account of his purpose he could not avow his errand; it bereft him of naught to disavow it, for uncle nehemiah was one of those gifted people who, in common parlance, do not mind what they say. yet his reluctance to assure leander that he was not the quarry that had led him into these wilds so mastered him, the spurious relinquishment had so the aspect of renunciation, that he hesitated, started to speak, again hesitated, so palpably that hilary tarbetts felt impelled to take a hand in the game. "why don't ye sati'fy the boy, yerby?" he said, brusquely. he took his pipe out of his mouth and turned to leander. "naw, bub. he's jes tradin' fur bresh whiskey, that's all; he's sorter skeery 'bout bein' a wild-catter, an' he didn't want ye ter know it." the point of red light, the glow of his pipe, the only exponent of his presence in the dusky recess where he sat, shifted with a quick, decisive motion as he restored it to his lips. the blood rushed to nehemiah's head; he was dizzy for a moment; he heard his heart thump heavily; he saw, or he fancied he saw, the luminous distention of leander's eyes as this goliath of his battles was thus delivered into his hands. to meet him here proved nothing; the law was not violated by nehemiah in the mere knowledge that illicit whiskey was in process of manufacture; a dozen different errands might have brought him. but this statement put a sword, as it were, into the boy's hands, and he dared not deny it. "'pears ter me," he blurted out at last, "ez ye air powerful slack with yer jaw." "lee-yander ain't," coolly returned tarbetts. "he knows all thar is ter know 'bout we-uns--an' why air ye not ter share our per'ls?" "i ain't likely ter tell," leander jocosely reassured him. "but i can't help thinkin' how it would rejice that good christian 'oman, cap'n sudley, ez war made ter set on sech a low stool 'bout my pore old fiddle." and thus reminded of the instrument, he picked it up, and once more, with the bow held aloft in his hand, he dexterously twanged the strings, and with his deft fingers rapidly and discriminatingly turned the screws, this one up and that one down. the earnest would-be musician, who had languished while the discussion was in progress, now plucked up a freshened interest, and begged that the furnace door might be set ajar to enable him to watch the process of tuning and perchance to detect its subtle secret. no objection was made, for the still was nearly empty, and arrangements tending to replenishment were beginning to be inaugurated by several of the men, who were examining the mash in tubs in the further recesses of the place. they were lighted by a lantern which, swinging to and fro as they moved, sometimes so swiftly as to induce a temporary fluctuation threatening eclipse, suggested in the dusk the erratic orbit of an abnormally magnified fire-fly. it barely glimmered, the dullest point of white light, when the rich flare from the opening door of the furnace gushed forth and the whole rugged interior was illumined with its color. the inadequate moonlight fell away; the chastened white splendor on the foam of the cataract, the crystalline glitter, timorously and elusively shifting, were annihilated; the swiftly descending water showed from within only a continuously moving glow of yellow light, all the brighter from the dark-seeming background of the world glimpsed without. a wind had risen, unfelt in these recesses and on the weighty volume of the main sheet of falling water, but at its verge the fitful gusts diverted its downward course, tossing slender jets aslant, and sending now and again a shower of spray into the cavern. nehemiah remembered his rheumatism with a shiver. the shadows of the men, instead of an unintelligible comminglement with the dusk, were now sharp and distinct, and the light grotesquely duplicated them till the cave seemed full of beings who were not there a moment before--strange gnomes, clumsy and burly, slow of movement, but swift and mysterious of appearance and disappearance. the beetling ledges here and there imprinted strong black similitudes of their jagged contours on the floor; with the glowing, weird illumination the place seemed far more uncanny than before, and leander, with his face pensive once more in response to the gentle strains slowly elicited by the bow trembling with responsive ecstasy, his large eyes full of dreamy lights, his curling hair falling about his cheek as it rested upon the violin, his figure, tall and slender and of an adolescent grace, might have suggested to the imagination a reminiscence of orpheus in hades. they all listened in languid pleasure, without the effort to appraise the music or to compare it with other performances--the bane of more cultured audiences; only the ardent amateur, seated close at hand on a bowlder, watched the bowing with a scrutiny which betokened earnest anxiety that no mechanical trick might elude him. the miller's half-grown son, whose ear for any fine distinctions in sound might be presumed to have been destroyed by the clamors of the mill, sat a trifle in the background, and sawed away on an imaginary violin with many flourishes and all the exaggerations of mimicry; he thus furnished the zest of burlesque relished by the devotees of horse-play and simple jests, and was altogether unaware that he had a caricature in his shadow just behind him, and was doing double duty in making both leander and himself ridiculous. sometimes he paused in excess of interest when the music elicited an amusement more to his mind than the long-drawn, pathetic cadences which the violinist so much affected. for in sudden changes of mood and in effective contrast the tones came showering forth in keen, quick staccato, every one as round and distinct as a globule, but as unindividualized in the swift exuberance of the whole as a drop in a summer's rain; the bow was but a glancing line of light in its rapidity, and the bounding movement of the theme set many a foot astir marking time. at last one young fellow, an artist too in his way, laid aside his pipe and came out to dance. a queer _pas seul_ it might have been esteemed, but he was light and agile and not ungraceful, and he danced with an air of elation--albeit with a grave face--which added to the enjoyment of the spectator, for it seemed so slight an effort. he was long-winded, and was still bounding about in the double-shuffle and the pigeon-wing, his shadow on the wall nimbly following every motion, when the violin's cadence quavered off in a discordant wail, and leander, the bow pointed at the water-fall, exclaimed: "look out! somebody's thar! out thar on the rocks!" it was upon the instant, with the evident intention of a surprise, that a dozen armed men rushed precipitately into the place. nehemiah, his head awhirl, hardly distinguished the events as they were confusedly enacted before him. there were loud, excited calls, unintelligible, mouthing back in the turbulent echoes of the place, the repeated word "surrender!" alone conveying meaning to his mind. the sharp, succinct note of a pistol-shot was a short answer. some quick hand closed the door of the furnace and threw the place into protective gloom. he was vaguely aware that a prolonged struggle that took place amongst a group of men near him was the effort of the intruders to reopen it. all unavailing. he presently saw figures drawing back to the doorway out of the _mêlée_, for moonshiner and raider were alike indistinguishable, and he became aware that both parties were equally desirous to gain the outer air. once more pistol-shots--outside this time--then a tumult of frenzied voices. struck by a pistol-ball, tarbetts had fallen from the ledge under the weight of the cataract and into the deep abysses below. the raiders were swiftly getting to saddle again. now and then a crack mountain shot drew a bead upon them from the bushes; but mists were gathering, the moon was uncertain, and the flickering beams deflected the aim. two or three of the horses lay dead on the river-bank, and others carried double, ridden by men with riddled hats. they were in full retreat, for the catastrophe on the ledge of the cliff struck dismay to their hearts. had the man been shot, according to the expectation of those who resist arrest, this would be merely the logical sequence of events. but to be hurled from a crag into a cataract savored of atrocity, and they dreaded the reprisals of capture. [illustration: "'look out! somebody's thar!'"] it was soon over. the whole occurrence, charged with all the definitiveness of fate, was scant ten minutes in transition. a laggard hoof-beat, a faint echo amidst the silent gathering of the moonlit mists, and the loud plaint of hoho-hebee falls were the only sounds that caught nehemiah's anxious ear when he crept out from behind the empty barrels and tremulously took his way along the solitary ledges, ever and anon looking askance at his shadow, that more than once startled him with a sense of unwelcome companionship. the mists, ever thickening, received him into their midst. however threatening to the retreat of the raiders, they were friendly to him. once, indeed, they parted, showing through the gauzy involutions of their illumined folds the pale moon high in the sky, and close at hand a horse's head just above his own, with wild, dilated eyes and quivering nostrils. its effect was as detached as if it were only drawn upon a canvas; the mists rolled over anew, and but that he heard the subdued voice of the rider urging the animal on, and the thud of the hoofs farther away, he might have thought this straggler from the revenue party some wild illusion born of his terrors. the fate of hilary tarbetts remained a mystery. when the stream was dragged for his body it was deemed strange that it should not be found, since the bowlders that lay all adown the rocky gorge so interrupted the sweep of the current that so heavy a weight seemed likely to be caught amongst them. others commented on the strength and great momentum of the flow, and for this reason it was thought that in some dark underground channel of hide-and-seek creek the moonshiner had found his sepulchre. a story of his capture was circulated after a time; it was supposed that he dived and swam ashore after his fall, and that the raiders overtook him on their retreat, and that he was now immured, a federal prisoner. the still and all the effects of the brush-whiskey trade disappeared as mysteriously, and doubtless this silent flitting gave rise to the hopeful rumor that tarbetts had been seen alive and well since that fateful night, and that in some farther recesses of the wilderness, undiscovered by the law, he and like comrades continue their chosen vocation. however that may be, the vicinity of hoho-hebee falls, always a lonely place, is now even a deeper solitude. the beavers, unmolested, haunt the ledges; along their precipitous ways the deer come down to drink; on bright days the rainbow hovers about the falls; on bright nights they glimmer in the moon; but never again have they glowed with the shoaling orange light of the furnace, intensifying to the deep tawny tints of its hot heart, like the rich glamours of some great topaz. this alien glow it was thought had betrayed the place to the raiders, and nehemiah's instrumentality was never discovered. the post-office appointment was bestowed upon his rival for the position, and it was thought somewhat strange that he should endure the defeat with such exemplary resignation. no one seemed to connect his candidacy with his bootless search for his nephew. when leander chanced to be mentioned, however, he observed with some rancor that he reckoned it was just as well he didn't come up with lee-yander; there was generally mighty little good in a runaway boy, and lee-yander had the name of being disobejent an' turr'ble bad. leander found a warm welcome at home. his violin had been broken in the _mêlée_, and the miller, though ardently urged, never could remember the spot where he had hidden the book--such havoc had the confusion of that momentous night wrought in his mental processes. therefore, unhampered by music or literature, leander addressed himself to the plough-handles, and together that season he and "neighbor" made the best crop of their lives. laurelia sighed for the violin and leander's music, though, as she always made haste to say, some pious people misdoubted whether it were not a sinful pastime. on such occasions it went hard with leander not to divulge his late experiences and the connection of the pious uncle nehemiah therewith. but he always remembered in time laurelia's disability to receive confidences, being a woman, and consequently unable to keep a secret, and he desisted. one day, however, when he and ty sudley, ploughing the corn, now knee-high, were pausing to rest in the turn-row, a few furrows apart, in an ebullition of filial feeling he told all that had befallen him in his absence. ty sudley, divided between wrath toward nehemiah and quaking anxiety for the dangers that leander had been constrained to run--_ex post facto_ tremors, but none the less acute--felt moved now and then to complacence in his prodigy. "so 'twar _you-uns_ ez war smart enough ter slam the furnace door an' throw the whole place inter darkness! that saved them moonshiners and raiders from killin' each other. it saved a deal o' bloodshed--ez sure ez shootin'. 'twar mighty smart in ye. but"--suddenly bethinking himself of sundry unfilial gibes at uncle nehemiah and the facetious account of his plight--"lee-yander, ye mustn't be so turr'ble bad, sonny; ye _mustn't_ be so _turr'ble_ bad." "naw, ma'am, neighbor, i won't," leander protested. and he went on following the plough down the furrow and singing loud and clear. the riddle of the rocks upon the steep slope of a certain "bald" among the great smoky mountains there lie, just at the verge of the strange stunted woods from which the treeless dome emerges to touch the clouds, two great tilted blocks of sandstone. they are of marked regularity of shape, as square as if hewn with a chisel. both are splintered and fissured; one is broken in twain. no other rock is near. the earth in which they are embedded is the rich black soil not unfrequently found upon the summits. nevertheless no great significance might seem to attach to their isolation--an outcropping of ledges, perhaps; a fracture of the freeze; a trace of ancient denudation by the waters of the spring in the gap, flowing now down the trough of the gorge in a silvery braid of currents, and with a murmur that is earnest of a song. it may have been some distortion of the story heard only from the lips of the circuit rider, some fantasy of tradition invested with the urgency of fact, but roger purdee could not remember the time when he did not believe that these were the stone tables of the law that moses flung down from the mountain-top in his wrath. in the dense ignorance of the mountaineer, and his secluded life, he knew of no foreign countries, no land holier than the land of his home. there was no incongruity to his mind that it should have been in the solemn silence and austere solitude of the "bald," in the magnificent ascendency of the great smoky, that the law-giver had met the lord and spoken with him. often as he lay at length on the strange barren place, veiled with the clouds that frequented it, a sudden sunburst in their midst would suggest anew what supernal splendors had once been here vouchsafed to the faltering eye of man. the illusion had come to be very dear to him; in this insistent localization of his faith it was all very near. and so he would go down to the slope below, among the weird, stunted trees, and look once more upon the broken tables, and ponder upon the strange signs written by time thereon. the insistent fall of the rain, the incisive blasts of the wind, coming again and again, though the centuries went, were registered here in mystic runes. the surface had weathered to a whitish-gray, but still in tiny depressions its pristine dark color showed in rugose characters. a splintered fissure held delicate fucoid impressions in fine script full of meaning. a series of worm-holes traced erratic hieroglyphics across a scaling corner; all the varied texts were illuminated by quartzose particles glittering in the sun, and here and there fine green grains of glauconite. he knew no names like these, and naught of meteorological potency. he had studied no other rock. his casual notice had been arrested nowhere by similar signs. under the influence of his ignorant superstition, his cherished illusion, the lonely wilderness, what wonder that, as he pondered upon the rocks, strange mysteries seemed revealed to him? he found significance in these cabalistic scriptures--nay, he read inspired words! with the ramrod of his gun he sought to follow the fine tracings of the letters writ by the finger of the lord on the stone tables that moses flung down from the mountain-top in his wrath. with a devout thankfulness purdee realized that he owned the land where they lay. it was worth, perhaps, a few cents an acre; it was utterly untillable, almost inaccessible, and his gratulation owed its fervor only to its spiritual values. he was an idle and shiftless fellow, and had known no glow of acquisition, no other pride of possession. he herded cattle much of the time in the summer, and he hunted in the winter--wolves chiefly, their hair being long and finer at this season, and the smaller furry gentry; for he dealt in peltry. and so, despite the vastness of the mountain wilds, he often came and knelt beside the rocks with his rifle in his hand, and sought anew to decipher the mystic legends. his face, bending over the tables of the law with the earnest research of a student, with the chastened subduement of devotion, with all the calm sentiments of reverie, lacked something of its normal aspect. when a sudden stir of the leaves or the breaking of a twig recalled him to the world, and he would lift his head, it might hardly seem the same face, so heavy was the lower jaw, so insistent and coercive his eye. but if he took off his hat to place therein his cotton bandana handkerchief or (if he were in luck and burdened with game) the scalp of a wild-cat--valuable for the bounty offered by the state--he showed a broad, massive forehead that added the complement of expression, and suggested a doubt if it were ferocity his countenance bespoke or force. his long black hair hung to his shoulders, and he wore a tangled black beard; his deep-set dark blue eyes were kindled with the fires of imagination. he was tall, and of a commanding presence but for his stoop and his slouch. his garments seemed a trifle less well ordered than those of his class, and bore here and there the traces of the blood of beasts; on his trousers were grass stains deeply grounded, for he knelt often to get a shot, and in meditation beside the rocks. he spent little time otherwise upon his knees, and perhaps it was some intuition of this fact that roused the wrath of certain brethren of the camp-meeting when he suddenly appeared among them, arrogating to himself peculiar spiritual experiences, proclaiming that his mind had been opened to strange lore, repeating thrilling, quickening words that he declared he had read on the dead rocks whereon were graven the commandments of the lord. the tumultuous tide of his rude eloquence, his wild imagery, his ecstasy of faith, rolled over the assembly and awoke it anew to enthusiasms. much that he said was accepted by the more intelligent ministers who led the meeting as figurative, as the finer fervors of truth, and they felt the responsive glow of emotion and quiver of sympathy. he intended it in its simple, literal significance. and to the more local members of the congregation the fact was patent. "sech a pack o' lies hev seldom been tole in the hearin' o' almighty gawd," said job grinnell, a few days after the breaking up of camp. he was rehearsing the proceedings at the meeting partly for the joy of hearing himself talk, and partly at the instance of his wife, who had been prevented from attending by the inopportune illness of one of the children. "ez i loant my ear ter the words o' that thar brazen buzzard i eyed him constant. fur i looked ter see the jedgmint o' the lord descend upon him like s'phira an' an'ias." "_who?_" asked his wife, pausing in her task of picking up chips. he had spoken of them so familiarly that one might imagine they lived close by in the cove. "an'ias an' s'phira--them in the bible ez war streck by lightnin' fur lyin'," he explained. "i 'member _her_," she said. "s'phia, i calls her." "waal, a'gusta, _s'phira_ do me jes ez well," he said, with the momentary sulkiness of one corrected. "thar war a man along, though. an' 'pears ter me thar war powerful leetle jestice in thar takin' off, ef roger purdee be 'lowed ter stan' up thar in the face o' the meetin' an' lie so ez no yearthly critter in the worl' could b'lieve him--'ceptin' brother jacob page, ez 'peared plumb out'n his head with religion, an' got ter shoutin' when this purdee tuk ter tellin' the law he read on them rocks--moses' tables, folks calls 'em--up yander in the mounting." he nodded upward toward the great looming range above them. his house was on a spur of the mountain, overshadowed by it; shielded. it was to him the almoner of fate. one by one it doled out the days, dawning from its summit; and thence, too, came the darkness and the glooms of night. one by one it liberated from the enmeshments of its tangled wooded heights the constellations to gladden the eye and lure the fancy. its largess of silver torrents flung down its slopes made fertile the little fields, and bestowed a lilting song on the silence, and took a turn at the mill-wheel, and did not disdain the thirst of the humble cattle. it gave pasturage in summer, and shelter from the winds of the winter. it was the assertive feature of his life; he could hardly have imagined existence without "the mounting." "tole what he read on them rocks--yes, sir, ez glib ez swallerin' a persimmon. 'twarn't the reg'lar ten comman'ments--some cur'ous new texts--jes a-rollin' 'em out ez sanctified ez ef he hed been called ter preach the gospel! an' thar war brother eden bates a-answerin' 'amen' ter every one. an' brother jacob page: 'glory, brother! ye hev received the outpourin' of the sperit! shake hands, brother!' an' sech ez that. ter hev hearn the commotion they raised about that thar derned lyin' sinner ye'd hev 'lowed the meetin' war held ter glorify him stiddier the lord." job grinnell himself was a most notorious christian. renown, however, with him could never be a superfluity, or even a sufficiency, and he grudged the fame that these strange spiritual utterances were acquiring. he had long enjoyed the distinction of being considered a miraculous convert; his rescue from the wily enticements of satan had been celebrated with much shaking and clapping of hands, and cries of "glory," and muscular ecstasy. his religious experiences thenceforth, his vacillations of hope and despair, had been often elaborated amongst the brethren. but his was a conventional soul; its expression was in the formulas and platitudes of the camp-meeting. they sank into oblivion in the excitement attendant upon purdee's wild utterances from the mystic script of the rocks. as grinnell talked, he often paused in his work to imitate the gesticulatory enthusiasms of the saints at the camp-meeting. he was a thickset fellow of only medium height, and was called, somewhat invidiously, "a chunky man." his face was broad, prosaic, good-natured, incapable of any fine gradations of expression. it indicated an elementary rage or a sluggish placidity. he had a ragged beard of a reddish hue, and hair a shade lighter. he wore blue jeans trousers and an unbleached cotton shirt, and the whole system depended on one suspender. he was engaged in skimming a great kettle of boiling sorghum with a perforated gourd, which caught the scum and strained the liquor. the process was primitive, instead of the usual sorghum boiler and furnace, the kettle was propped upon stones laid together so as to concentrate the heat of the fire. his wife was continually feeding the flames with chips which she brought in her apron from the wood-pile. her countenance was half hidden in her faded pink sun-bonnet, which, however, did not obscure an expression responsive to that on the man's face. she did not grudge purdee the salvation he had found; she only grudged him the prestige he had derived from its unique method. "why can't the critter elude satan with less n'ise?" she asked, acrimoniously. "edzackly," her husband chimed in. now and then both turned a supervisory glance at the sorghum mill down the slope at some little distance, and close to the river. it had been a long day for the old white mare, still trudging round and round the mill; perhaps a long day as well for the two half-grown boys, one of whom fed the machine, thrusting into it a stalk at a time, while the other brought in his arms fresh supplies from the great pile of sorghum cane hard by. all the door-yard of the little log cabin was bedaubed with the scum of the sorghum which job grinnell flung from his perforated gourd upon the ground. the idle dogs--and there were many--would find, when at last disposed to move, a clog upon their nimble feet. they often sat down with a wrinkling of brows and a puzzled expression of muzzle to investigate their gelatinous paws with their tongues, not without certain indications of pleasure, for the sorghum was very sweet; some of them, that had acquired the taste for it from imitating the children, openly begged. one, a gaunt hound, hardly seemed so idle; he had a purpose in life, if it might not be called a profession. he lay at length, his paws stretched out before him, his head upon them; his big brown eyes were closed only at intervals; ever and again they opened watchfully at the movement of a small child, ten months old, perhaps, dressed in pink calico, who sat in the shadow formed by the protruding clay and stick chimney, and played by bouncing up and down and waving her fat hands, which seemed a perpetual joy and delight of possession to her. take her altogether, she was a person of prepossessing appearance, despite her frank display of toothless gums, and around her wide mouth the unseemly traces of sorghum. she had the plumpest graces of dimples in every direction, big blue eyes with long lashes, the whitest possible skin, and an extraordinary pair of pink feet, which she rubbed together in moments of joy as if she had mistaken them for her hands. although she sputtered a good deal, she had a charming, unaffected laugh, with the giggle attachment natural to the young of her sex. suddenly there sounded an echo of it, as it were--a shrill, nervous little whinny; the boys whirled round to see whence it came. the persistent rasping noise of the sorghum mill and the bubbling of the caldron had prevented them from hearing an approach. there, quite close at hand, peering through the rails of the fence, was a little girl of seven or eight years of age. "i wanter kem in an' see you-uns's baby!" she exclaimed, in a high, shrill voice. "i want to pat it on the head." she was a forlorn little specimen, very thin and sharp-featured. her homespun dress was short enough to show how fragile were the long lean legs that supported her. the curtain of her sun-bonnet, which was evidently made for a much larger person, hung down nearly to the hem of her skirt; as she turned and glanced anxiously down the road, evidently suspecting a pursuer, she looked like an erratic sun-bonnet out for a stroll on a pair of borrowed legs. she turned again suddenly and applied her thin, freckled little face to the crack between the rails. she smiled upon the baby, who smiled in response, and gave a little bounce that might be accounted a courtesy. the younger of the boys left the cane pile and ran up to his brother at the mill, which was close to the fence. "don't ye let her do it," he said, venomously. "that thar gal is one of the purdee fambly. i know her. don't let her in." and he ran back to the cane. grinnell had seemed pleased by this homage at the shrine of the family idol; but at the very mention of the "purdee fambly" his face hardened, an angry light sprang into his eyes, and his gesture in skimming with the perforated gourd the scum from the boiling sorghum was as energetic as if with the action he were dashing the "purdee fambly" from off the face of the earth. it was an ancient feud; his grandfather and some contemporary purdee had fallen out about the ownership of certain vagrant cattle; there had been blows and bloodshed, other members of the connection had been dragged into the controversy; summary reprisals were followed by counter-reprisals. barns were mysteriously fired, hen-roosts robbed, horses unaccountably lamed, sheep feloniously sheared by unknown parties; the feeling widened and deepened, and had been handed down to the present generation with now and then a fresh provocation, on the part of one or the other, to renew and continue the rankling old grudges. [illustration: "she smiled upon the baby"] and here stood the hereditary enemy, wanting to pat their baby on the head. "naw, sir, ye won't!" exclaimed the boy at the mill, greatly incensed at the boldness of this proposition, glaring at the lean, tender, wistful little face between the rails of the fence. but the baby, who had not sense enough to know anything about hereditary enemies, bounced and laughed and gurgled and sputtered with glee, and waved her hands, and had never looked fatter or more beguiling. "i jes wanter pat it wunst," sighed the hereditary enemy, with a lithe writhing of her thin little anatomy in the anguish of denial--"_jes wunst!_" "naw, sir!" exclaimed the youthful grinnell, more insistently than before. he did not continue, for suddenly there came running down the road a boy of his own size, out of breath, and red and angry--the pursuer, evidently, that the hereditary enemy had feared, for she crouched up against the fence with a whimper. "kem along away from thar, ye miser'ble little stack o' bones!" he cried, seizing his sister by one hand and giving her a jerk--"a-foolin' round them grinnells' fence an' a-hankerin' arter thar old baby!" he felt that the pride of the purdee family was involved in this admission of envy. "i jes wanter pat it on the head _wunst_," she sighed. "waal, ye won't now," said the grinnell boys in chorus. the purdee grasp was gentler on the little girl's arm. this was due not to fraternal feeling so much as to loyalty to the clan; "stack o' bones" though she was, they were purdee bones. "kem along," ab purdee exhorted her. "a baby ain't nuthin' extry, nohow"--he glanced scoffingly at the infantile grinnell. "the mountings air fairly a-roamin' with 'em." "we-uns 'ain't got none at our house," whined the sun-bonnet, droopingly, moving off slowly on its legs, which, indeed, seemed borrowed, so unsteady and loath to go they were. the grinnell boys laughed aloud, jeeringly and ostentatiously, and the purdee blood was moved to retort: "we-uns don't want none sech ez that. nary tooth in her head!" and indeed the widely stretched babbling lips displayed a vast vacuity of gum. job grinnell, who had listened with an attentive ear to the talk of the children, had nevertheless continued his constant skimming of the scum. now he rose from his bent posture, tossed the scum upon the ground, and with the perforated gourd in his hand turned and looked at his wife. augusta had dropped her apron and chips, and stood with folded arms across her breast, her face wearing an expression of exasperated expectancy. the grinnell boys were humbled and abashed. the wicked scion of the purdee house, joying to note how true his shaft had sped, was again fitting his bow. "an' ez bald-headed ez the mounting." the baby had a big precedent, but although no peculiar shame attaches to the bare pinnacle of the summit, she--despite the difference in size and age--was expected to show up more fully furnished, and in keeping with the rule of humanity and the gentilities of life. no teeth, no hair, no sign of any: the fact that she was so backward was a sore point with all the family. job grinnell suddenly dropped the perforated gourd, and started down toward the fence. the acrimony of the old feud was as a trait bred in the bone. such hatred as was inherent in him was evoked by his religious jealousies, and the pious sense that he was following the traditions of his elders and upholding the family honor blended in gentlest satisfaction with his personal animosity toward roger purdee as he noticed the boy edging off from the fence to a safe distance. he eyed him derisively for a moment. "kin ye kerry a message straight?" the boy looked up with an expression of sullen acquiescence, but said nothing. "ax yer dad--an' ye kin tell him the word kems from me--whether he hev read sech ez this on the lawgiver's stone tables yander in the mounting: 'an' ye shall claim sech ez be yourn, an' yer neighbor's belongings shall ye in no wise boastfully medjure fur yourn, nor look upon it fur covetiousness, nor yit git up a big name in the kentry fur ownin' sech ez be another's.'" he laughed silently--a twinkling, wrinkling demonstration over all his broad face--a laugh that was younger than the man, and would have befitted a square-faced boy. the youthful purdee, expectant of a cuffing, stood his ground more doubtfully still under the insidious thrusts of this strange weapon, sarcasm. he knew that they were intended to hurt; he was wounded primarily in the intention, but the exact lesion he could not locate. he could meet a threat with a bold face, and return a blow with the best. but he was mortified in this failure of understanding, and perplexity cowed him as contention could not. he hung his head with its sullen questioning eyes, and he found great solace in a jagged bit of cloth on the torn bosom of his shirt, which he could turn in his embarrassed fingers. "whar be yer dad?" grinnell asked. "up yander in the mounting," replied the subdued purdee. "a-readin' of mighty s'prisin' matter writ on the rocks o' the yearth!" exclaimed grinnell, with a laugh. "waal, jes keep that sayin' o' mine in yer head, an' tell him when he kems home. an' look a-hyar, ef enny mo' o' his stray shoats kem about hyar, i'll snip thar ears an' gin 'em my mark." the youth of the purdee clan meditated on this for a moment. he could not remember that they had missed any shoats. then the full meaning of the phrase dawned upon him--it was he and the wiry little sister thus demeaned with a porcine appellation, and whose ears were threatened. he looked up at the fence, the little low house, the barn close by, the sorghum mill, the drying leaves of tobacco on the scaffold, the saltatory baby; his eyes filled with helpless tears, that could not conceal the burning hatred he was born to bear them all. he was hot and cold by turns; he stood staring, silent and defiant, motionless, sullen. he heard the melodic measure of the river, with its crystalline, keen vibrations against the rocks; the munching teeth of the old mare--allowed to come to a stand-still that the noise of the sorghum mill might not impinge upon the privileges of the quarrel; and the high, ecstatic whinny of the little sister waiting on the opposite bank of the river, having crossed the foot-bridge. there the grinnell baby had chanced to spy her, and had bounced and grinned and sputtered affably. it was she who had made all the trouble yearning after the grinnell baby. he would not stay, however, to be ignominiously beaten, for grinnell had turned away, and was looking about the ground as if in search of a thick stick. he accounted himself no craven, thus numerically at a disadvantage, to turn shortly about, take his way down the rocky slope, cross the foot-bridge, jerk the little girl by one hand and lead her whimpering off, while the round-eyed grinnell baby stared gravely after her with inconceivable emotions. these presently resulted in rendering her cross; she whined a little and rubbed her eyes, and, smarting from her own ill-treatment of them, gave a sharp yelp of dismay. the old dog arose and went and sat close by her, eying her solemnly and wagging his tail, as if begging her to observe how content he was. his dignity was somewhat impaired by sudden abrupt snaps at flies, which caused her to wink, stare, and be silent in astonishment. "waal, job grinnell," exclaimed augusta, as her husband came back and took the perforated gourd from her hand--for she had been skimming the sorghum in his absence--"ye air the longest-tongued man, ter be so short-legged, i ever see!" he looked a trifle discomfited. he had deported himself with unwonted decision, conscious that augusta was looking on, and in truth somewhat supported by the expectation of her approval. "what ails ye ter say words ye can't abide by--ye 'low ye 'pear so graceful on the back track?" she asked. he bent over the sorghum, silently skimming. his composure was somewhat ruffled, and in throwing away the scum his gesture was of negligent and discursive aim; the boiling fluid bespattered the foot of one of the omnipresent dogs, whose shrieks rent the sky and whose activity on three legs amazed the earth. he ran yelping to mrs. grinnell, nearly overturning her in his turbulent demand for sympathy; then scampered across to the boys, who readily enough stopped their work to examine the wounded member and condole with its wheezing proprietor. "what ye mean, a'gusta?" grinnell said at length. "kase i 'lowed i'd cut thar ears? i ain't foolin'. kem meddlin' about remarkin' on our chill'n agin, i'll show 'em." augusta looked at him in exasperation. "i ain't keerin' ef all the purdees war deef," she remarked, inhumanly, "but what war them words ye sent fur a message ter purdee?--'bout pridin' on what ain't theirn." grinnell in his turn looked at her--but dubiously. however much a man is under the domination of his wife, he is seldom wholly frank. it is in this wise that his individuality is preserved to him. "i war jes wantin' ter know ef them words war on the rocks," he said with a disingenuousness worthy of a higher culture. she received this with distrust. "i kin tell ye now--they ain't," she said, discriminatingly; "purdee's words don't sound like _them_." "waal, now, what's the differ?" he demanded, with an indignation natural enough to aspiring humanity detecting a slur upon one's literary style. "waal--" she paused as she knelt down to feed the fire, holding the fragrant chips in her hand; the flame flickered out and lighted up her reflective eyes while she endeavored to express the distinction she felt: "purdee's words don't sound ter me like the words of a man sech ez men be." grinnell wrinkled his brows, trying to follow her here. "they sound ter me like the words spoke in a dream--the pernouncings of a vision." mrs. grinnell fancied that she too had a gift of biblical phraseology. "they sound ter me like things i hearn whenst i war a-hungered arter righteousness an' seekin' religion, an' bided alone in the wilderness a-waitin' o' the sperit." "'gusta!" suddenly exclaimed her husband, with the cadence of amazed conviction, "ye b'lieve the lie o' that critter, an' that he reads the words o' the lord on the rock!" she looked up a little startled. she had been unconscious of the circuitous approaches of credence, and shared his astonishment in the conclusion. "waal, sir!" he said, more hurt and cast down than one would have deemed possible. "i'm willin' ter hev it so. i'm jes nuthin' but a sinner an' a fool, ripenin' fur damnation, an' he air a saint o' the yearth!" now such sayings as this were frequent upon job grinnell's tongue. he did not believe them; their utility was in their challenge to contradiction. thus they often promoted an increased cordiality of the domestic relations and an accession of self-esteem. augusta, however, was tired; the boiling sorghum and the september sun were debilitating in their effects. there was something in the scene with the youthful purdee that grated upon her half-developed sensibilities. the baby was whimpering outright, and the cow was lowing at the bars. she gave her irritation the luxury of withholding the salve to grinnell's wounded vanity. she said nothing. the tribute to purdee went for what it was worth, and he was forced to swallow the humble-pie he had taken into his mouth, albeit it stuck in his throat. a shadow seemed to have fallen into the moral atmosphere as the gentle dusk came early on. one had a sense as if bereft, remembering that so short a time ago at this hour the sun was still high, and that the full-pulsed summer day throbbed to a climax of color and bloom and redundant life. now, the scent of harvests was on the air; in the stubble of the sorghum patch she saw a quail's brood more than half-grown, now afoot, and again taking to wing with a loud whirring sound. the perfume of ripening muscadines came from the bank of the river. the papaws hung globular among the leaves of the bushes, and the persimmons were reddening. the vermilion sun was low in the sky above the purpling mountains; the stream had changed from a crystalline brown to red, to gold, and now it was beginning to be purple and silver. and this reminded her that the full-moon was up, and she turned to look at it--so pearly and luminous above the jagged ridge-pole of the dark little house on the rise. the sky about it was blue, refining into an exquisitely delicate and ethereal neutrality near the horizon. the baby had fallen asleep, with its bald head on the old dog's shoulder. after the supper was over, the sorghum fire still burned beneath the great kettle, for the syrup was not yet made, and sorghum-boiling is an industry that cannot be intermitted. the fire in the midst of the gentle shadow and sheen of the night had a certain profane, discordant effect. pete's ill-defined figure slouching over it while he skimmed the syrup was grimly suggestive of the distillations of strange elixirs and unhallowed liquors, and his simple face, lighted by a sudden darting red flame, had unrecognizable significance and was of sinister intent. for pete was detailed to attend to the boiling; the grinding was done, and the old white mare stood still in the midst of the sorghum stubble and the moonlight, as motionless and white as if she were carved in marble. job grinnell sat and smoked on the porch. presently he got up suddenly, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and looked at it carefully before he stuck it into his pocket. he went, without a word, down the rocky slope, past the old drowsing mare, and across the foot-bridge. two or three of the dogs, watching him as he reappeared on the opposite bank, affected a mistake in identity. they growled, then barked outright, and at last ran down and climbed the fence and bounded about it, baying the vista where he had vanished, until the sleepy old mare turned her head and gazed in mild surprise at them. augusta sat alone on the step of the porch. she had various regrets in her mind, incipient even before he had quite gone, and now defining themselves momently with added poignancy. a woman who, in her retirement at home, charges herself with the control of a man's conduct abroad, is never likely to be devoid of speculation upon probable disasters to ensue upon any abatement of the activities of her discretion. she was sorry that she had allowed so trifling a matter to mar the serenity of the family; her conscience upbraided her that she had not besought him to avoid the blacksmith's shop, where certain men of the neighborhood were wont to congregate and drink deep into the night. above all, her mind went back to the enigmatical message, and she wondered that she could have been so forgetful as to fail to urge him to forbear angering purdee, for this would have a cumulative effect upon all the rancors of the old quarrels, and inaugurate perhaps a new series of reprisals. "i ain't afeard o' no purdee ez ever stepped," she said to herself, defining her position. "but i'm fur peace. an' ef the purdees will leave we-uns be, i ain't a-goin' ter meddle along o' them." she remembered an old barn-burning, in the days when she and her husband were newly married, at his father's house. she looked up at the barn hard by, on a line with the dwelling, with that tenderness which one feels for a thing, not because of its value, but for the sake of possession, for the kinship with the objects that belong to the home. a cat was sitting high in a crevice in the logs where the daubing had fallen out; the moon glittered in its great yellow eyes. a frog was leaping along the open space about the rude step at augusta's feet. a clump of mullein leaves, silvered by the light, spangled by the dew, hid him presently. what an elusive glistening gauze hung over the valley far below, where the sense of distance was limited by the sense of sight!--for it was here only that the night, though so brilliant, must attest the incomparable lucidity of daylight. she could not even distinguish, amidst those soft sheens of the moon and the dew, the lombardy poplar that grew above the door of old squire grove's house down in the cove; in the daytime it was visible like a tiny finger pointing upward. how drowsy was the sound of the katydid, now loudening, now falling, now fainting away! and the tree-toad shrilled in the dog-wood tree. the frogs, too, by the river in iterative fugue sent forth a song as suggestive of the margins as the scent of the fern, and the mint, and the fragrant weeds. a convulsive start! she did not know that she slept until she was again awake. the moon had travelled many a mile along the highways of the skies. it hung over the purple mountains, over the farthest valley. the cicada had grown dumb. the stars were few and faint. the air was chill. she started to her feet; her garments were heavy with dew. the fire beneath the sorghum kettle had died to a coal, flaring or fading as the faint fluctuations of the wind might will. near it pete slumbered where he too had sat down to rest. and job--job had never returned. * * * * * he had found it a lightsome enough scene at the blacksmith's shop, where it was understood that the neighboring politicians collogued at times, or brethren in the church discussed matters of discipline or more spiritual affairs. in which of these interests a certain corpulent jug was most active it would be difficult perhaps to accurately judge. the great barn-like doors were flung wide open, and there was a group of men half within the shelter and half without; the shoeing-stool, a broken plough, an empty keg, a log, and a rickety chair sufficed to seat the company. the moonlight falling into the door showed the great slouching, darkling figures, the anvil, the fire of the forge (a dim ashy coal), and the shadowy hood merging indistinguishably into the deep duskiness of the interior. in contrast, the scene glimpsed through the low window at the back of the shop had a certain vivid illuminated effect. a spider web, revealing its geometric perfection, hung half across one corner of the rude casement; the moonbeams without were individualized in fine filar delicacy, like the ravellings of a silver skein. the boughs of a tree which grew on a slope close below almost touched the lintel; the leaves seemed a translucent green; a bird slept on a twig, its head beneath its wing. [illustration: the blacksmith's shop] back of the cabin, which was situated on a limited terrace, the great altitudes of the mountain rose into the infinity of the night. the drawling conversation was beset, as it were, by faint fleckings of sound, lightly drawn from a crazy old fiddle under the chin of a gaunt, yellow-haired young giant, one ephraim blinks, who lolled on a log, and who by these vague harmonies unconsciously gave to the talk of his comrades a certain theatrical effect. grinnell slouched up and sat down among them, responding with a nod to the unceremonious "hy're, job?" of the blacksmith, who seemed thus to do the abbreviated honors of the occasion. the others did not so formally notice his coming. the subject of conversation was the same that had pervaded his own thoughts. he was irritated to observe how purdee had usurped public attention, and yet he himself listened with keenest interest. "waal," said the ponderous blacksmith, "i kin onderstan' mighty well ez moses would hev been mighty mad ter see them folks a-worshippin' o' a calf--senseless critters they be! 'twarn't no use flingin' down them rocks, though, an' gittin' 'em bruk. sandstone ain't like metal; ye can't heat it an' draw it down an' weld it agin." his round black head shone in the moonlight, glistening because of his habit of plunging it, by way of making his toilet, into the barrel of water where he tempered his steel. he crossed his huge folded bare arms over his breast, and leaned back against the door on two legs of the rickety chair. "naw, sir," another chimed in. "he mought hev knowed he'd jes hev ter go ter quarryin' agin." "they air always a-crackin' up them folks in the bible ez sech powerful wise men," said another, whose untrained mind evidently held the germs of advanced thinking. "'pears ter me ez some of 'em conducted tharselves ez foolish ez enny folks i know--this hyar very moses one o' 'em. throwin' down them rocks 'minds me o' old man pinner's tantrums. sher'ff kem ter his house 'bout a jedgmint debt, an' levied on his craps. an' arter he war gone old man tuk a axe an' gashed bodaciously inter the loom an' hacked it up. ez ef that war goin' ter do enny good! his wife war the mos' outed woman i ever see. they 'ain't got nare nother loom nuther, an' hain't hearn no advices from the lord." the violinist paused in his playing. "they 'lowed moses war a meek man too," he said. "he killed a man with a brick-badge an' buried him in the sand. mighty meek ways"--with a satirical grimace. the others, divining that this was urged in justification and precedent for devious modern ways that were not meek, did not pursue this branch of the subject. "s'prised me some," remarked the advanced thinker, "ter hear ez them tables o' stone war up on the bald o' the mounting thar. i hed drawed the idee ez 'twar in some other kentry somewhar--i dunno--" he stopped blankly. he could not formulate his geographical ignorance. "an' i never knowed," he resumed, presently, "ez thar war enough gold in tennessee ter make a gold calf; they fund gold hyar, but 'twar mighty leetle." "mebbe 'twar a mighty leetle calf," suggested the blacksmith. "mebbe so," assented the other. "mebbe 'twar a silver one," speculated a third; "plenty o' silver they 'low thar air in the mountings." the violinist spoke up suddenly. "git one o' them injuns over yander ter quallatown right seasonable drunk, an' he'll tell ye a power o' places whar the old folks said thar war silver." he bowed his chin once more upon the instrument, and again the slow drawling conversation proceeded to soft music. "ef ye'll b'lieve me," said the advanced thinker, "i never war so conflusticated in my life ez i war when he stood up in meetin' an' told 'bout'n the tables o' the law bein' on the bald! i 'lowed 'twar somewhar 'mongst some sort'n people named 'gyptians." "mebbe some o' them injuns air named 'gyptians," suggested spears, the blacksmith. "naw, sir," spoke up the fiddler, who had been to quallatown, and was the ethnographic authority of the meeting. "tennessee injuns be named cher'kee, an' chick'saw, an' creeks." there was a silence. the moonlight sifted through the dark little shanty of a shop; the fretting and foaming of a mountain stream arose from far down the steep slope, where there was a series of cascades, a fine water-power, utilized by a mill. the sudden raucous note of a night-hawk jarred upon the air, and a shadow on silent wings sped past. the road was dusty in front of the shop, and for a space there was no shade. into the full radiance of the moonlight a rabbit bounded along, rising erect with a most human look of affright in its great shining eyes as it tremulously gazed at the motionless figures. it too was motionless for a moment. the young musician made a lunge at it with his bow; it sprang away with a violent start--its elongated grotesque shadow bounding kangaroo-like beside it--into the soft gloom of the bushes. there was no other traveller along the road, and the talk was renewed without further interruption. "waal, sir, ef 'twarn't fur the testimony o' the words he reads ez air graven on them rocks, i couldn't git my cornsent ter b'lieve ez moses ever war in tennessee," said the advanced thinker. "i ain't ondertakin' ter say what state he settled in, but i 'lowed 'twarn't hyar. it mus' hev been, though, 'count o' the scripture on them broken tables." "i never knowed a meetin' woke ter sech a pint o' holiness. the saints jes rampaged around till it fairly sounded like the cavortin's o' the ungodly," a retrospective voice chimed in. "i raised thirty-two hyme chunes," said the musician, who had a great gift in quiring, and was the famed possessor of a robust tenor voice. "a leetle mo' gloryin' aroun' an' i'd hev kem ter the eend o' my row, an' hev hed ter begin over agin." he spoke with acrimony, reviewing the jeopardy in which his _répertoire_ had been placed. "waal," said the blacksmith, passing his hand over his black head, as sleek and shining as a beaver's, "i'm a-goin' up ter the bald o' the mounting some day soon, ef so be i kin make out ter shoe that mare o' mine"--for the blacksmith's mount was always barefoot--"i'm afeard ter trest her unshod on them slippery slopes; i want ter read some o' them sayin's on the stone tables myself. i likes ter git a tex' or the eend o' a hyme set a-goin' in my head--seems somehow ter teach itself ter the anvil, an' then it jes says it back an' forth all day. yestiddy i never seen its beat--'christ--war--born--in--bethlehem.' the anvil jes rang with that ez ef the actial metal hed the gift o' prayer an' praise." "waal, sir," exclaimed job grinnell, who had been having frequent colloquies aside with the companionable jug, "ye mought jes ez well save yer shoes an' let yer mare go barefoot. thar ain't nare sign o' a word writ on them rocks." they all sat staring at him. even the singing, long-drawn vibrations of the violin were still. "by hokey!" exclaimed the young musician, "i'll take purdee's word ez soon ez yourn." the whiskey which grinnell had drunk had rendered him more plastic still to jealousy. the day was not so long past when purdee's oath would have been esteemed a poor dependence against the word of so zealous a brother as he--a pillar in the church, a shining light of the congregation. he noted the significant fact that it behooved him to justify himself; it irked him that this was exacted as a tribute to purdee's newly acquired sanctity. "purdee's jes a-lyin' an' a-foolin' ye," he declared. "ever been up on the bald?" they had lived in its shadow all their lives. even by the circuitous mountain ways it was not more than five miles from where they sat. but none had chanced to have a call to go, and it was to them as a foreign land to be explored. "waal, i hev, time an' agin," said grinnell. "i dunno who gin them rocks the name of moses' tables o' the law. moses must hev hed a powerful block an' tackle ter lift sech tremenjious rocks. i hev known 'em named sech fur many a year. but i seen 'em not three weeks ago, an' thar ain't nare word writ on 'em. thar's the mounting; thar's the rocks; ye kin go an' stare-gaze 'em an' sati'fy yerse'fs." whether it were by reason of the cumulative influences of the continual references to the jug, or of that sense of reviviscence, that more alert energy, which the cool southern nights always impart after the sultry summer days, the suggestion that they should go now and solve the mystery, and meet the dawn upon the summit of the bald, found instant acceptance, which it might not have secured in the stolid daylight. the moon, splendid, a lustrous white encircled by a great halo of translucent green, swung high above the duskily purple mountains. below in the valleys its progress was followed by an opalescent gossamer presence that was like the overflowing fulness, the surplusage, of light rather than mist. the shadows of the great trees were interlaced with dazzling silver gleams. the night was almost as bright as the day, but cool and dank, full of sylvan fragrance and restful silence and a romantic liberty. the blacksmith carried his rifle, for wolves were often abroad in the wilderness. two or three others were similarly armed; the advanced thinker had a hunting-knife, job grinnell a pistol that went by the name of "shootin'-iron." the musician carried no weapon. "i ain't 'feared o' no wolf," he said; "i'll play 'em a chune." he went on in the vanguard, his tousled yellow hair idealized with many a shimmer in the moonlight as it hung curling down on his blue jeans coat, his cheek laid softly on the violin, the bow glancing back and forth as if strung with moonbeams as he played. the men woke the solemn silences with their loud mirthful voices; they startled precipitate echoes; they fell into disputes and wrangled loudly, and would have turned back if sure of the way home, but job grinnell led steadily on, and they were fain to follow. they lagged to look at a spot where some man, unheeded even by tradition, had dug his heart's grave in a vain search for precious metal. a deep excavation in the midst of the wilderness told the story; how long ago it was might be guessed from the age of a stalwart oak that had sunk roots into its depths; the shadows were heavy about it; a sense of despair brooded in the loneliness. and so up and up the endless ascent; sometimes great chasms were at one side, stretching further and further, and crowding the narrow path--the herder's trail--against the sheer ascent, till it seemed that the treacherous mountains were yawning to engulf them. the air was growing colder, but was exquisitely clear and exhilarating; the great dewy ferns flung silvery fronds athwart the way; vines in stupendous lengths swung from the tops of gigantic trees to the roots. hark! among them birds chirp; a matutinal impulse seems astir in the woods; the moon is undimmed; the stars faint only because of her splendors; but one can feel that the earth has roused itself to a sense of a new day. and there, with such feathery flashes of white foam, such brilliant straight lengths of translucent water, such a leaping grace of impetuous motion, the currents of the mountain stream, like the arrows of diana, shoot down the slopes. and now a vague mist is among the trees, and when it clears away they seem shrunken, as under a spell, to half their size. they grow smaller and smaller still, oak and chestnut and beech, but dwarfed and gnarled like some old orchard. and suddenly they cease, and the vast grassy dome uprises against the sky, in which the moon is paling into a dull similitude of itself; no longer wondrous, transcendent, but like some lily of opaque whiteness, fair and fading. beneath is a purple, deeply serious, and sombre earth, to which mists minister, silent and solemn; myriads of mountains loom on every hand; the half-seen mysteries of the river, which, charged with the red clay of its banks, is of a tawny color, gleams as it winds in and out among the white vapors that reach in fantastic forms from heaven above to the valley below. there is a certain relief in the mist--it veils the infinities of the scene, on which the mind can lay but a trembling hold. "folks tell all sort'n cur'ous tales 'bout'n this hyar spot," said job grinnell, his square face, his red hair hanging about his ears, and his ragged red beard visible in the dull light of the coming day. "i hev hearn folks 'low ez a pa'tridge up hyar will look ez big ez a dominicky rooster. an' ef ye listens ye kin hear words from somewhar. an' sometimes in the cattle-herdin' season the beastises will kem an' crowd tergether, an' stan' on the bald in the moonlight all night." "i dunno," said the advanced thinker, "ez i be s'prised enny ef purdee, ez be huntin' up hyar so constant, hev got sorter teched in the head, ter take up sech a cur'ous notion 'bout'n them rocks." he glanced along the slope at the spot, visible now, where moses flung the stone tables and they broke in twain. and there, standing beside them, was a man of great height, dressed in blue jeans, his broad-brimmed hat pushed from his brow, and his meditative dark eyes fixed upon the rocks; a deer, all gray and antlered, lay dead at his feet, and his rifle rested on the ground as he leaned on the muzzle. a glance was interchanged between the others. their intention, the promptings of curiosity, had flagged during the long tramp and the gradual waning of the influence of the jug. the coincidence of meeting purdee here revived their interest. grinnell, remembering the ancient feud, held back, being unlikely to elicit purdee's views in the face of their contradiction. the blacksmith and the young fiddler took their way down toward him. he looked up with a start, seeing them at some little distance. his full, contemplative eyes rested upon them for a moment almost devoid of questioning. it was not the face of a man who finds himself confronted with the discovery of his duplicity and his hypocrisy. there was a strange doubt stirring in the blacksmith's heart. as he approached he looked upon the storied rocks with a sort of solemn awe, as if they had indeed been given by the hand of the lord to his servant, who broke them here in his wrath. he knew that the step of the musician slackened as he followed. what holy mysteries were they not rushing in upon? he spoke in a bated voice. "roger," he said, "we'uns hearn ye tell 'bout the scriptures graven on these hyar tables ez moses flung down, an' we'uns 'lowed we'uns would kem an' read some fur ourselves." purdee did not speak nor hesitate; he moved aside that the blacksmith might stand where he had been--as it were at the foot of the page. but what transcendent glories thronged the heavens--what august splendors of dawn! had the sun ever before risen like this, with the sky an emblazonment of red, of gold, of darting gleams of light; with the mountains most royally purple or most radiantly blue; with the prismatic mists in flight; with the slow climax of the dazzling sphere ascending to dominate it all? the blacksmith knelt down to read. the musician, his silent violin under his chin, leaned over his comrade's shoulder. the hunter stood still, expectant. alas! the corrugations of time, the fissile results of the frost; the wavering line of ripple-marks of seas that shall ebb no more; growth of lichen; an army of ants in full march; a passion-flower trailing from a crevice, its purple blooms lying upon the gray stone near where it is stamped with the fossil imprint of a sea-weed, faded long ago and forgotten. or is it, alas! for the eyes that can see only this? [illustration: "the tables of the law"] the blacksmith looked up with a twinkling leer; the violinist recovered his full height, and drew the bow dashingly across the strings; then let his arm fall. "roger," the blacksmith said, "dad-burned ef i kin read ennything hyar." the young musician looked over his brawny shoulder in silence. "whar d'ye make out enny letters, roger?" persisted spears. purdee leaned over and eagerly pointed with his ramrod to a curious corrugation of the surface of the rock. again the blacksmith bent down; the musician craned forward, his yellow hair hanging about his bronzed face. "i hev been toler'ble well acquainted with the alphabit," said spears, "fur goin' on thirty year an' better, an' i'll swar ter heaven thar ain't nare sign of a letter thar." purdee stared at him in wild-eyed amazement for a moment. then he flung himself upon his knees beside the great rock, and guiding his ramrod over the surface, he exclaimed, "hyar, spears; right hyar!" the blacksmith was all incredulous as he lent himself to a new posture, and leaned forward to look with the languid indulgence of one who will not again entertain doubt. "nare a, nor b, nor c, nor none o' the fambly," he declared. "these hyar rocks ain't no moses' tables sure enough; moses never war in tennessee. they be jes like enny other rock, an' thar ain't a word o' writin' on 'em." he looked up with a curious questioning at purdee's face--a strange face for a man detected in a falsehood, a trick. the deep-set eyes were wide as if straining for perception denied them. despite the chill, rare air, great drops had started on his brow, and were falling upon his beard, and upon his hands. these strong hands were quivering; they hovered above the signs on the rocks. the mystic letters, the inspired words, where were they? grope as he might, he could not find them. alas! doubt and denial had climbed the mountain--the awful limitations of the more finite human creature--and his inspiration and the finer enthusiasms of the truth were dead. dead with a throe that was almost like a literal death. this--on this he had lived; the ether of ecstasy was the breath of his life. he clutched at the stained red handkerchief knotted about his throat as if he were suffocating; he tore it open as he swayed backward on his knees. he did not hear--or he did not heed--the laugh among the little crowd on the bald--satirical, rallying, zestful. he was deaf to the strains of the violin, jeeringly and jerkingly playing a foolish tune. it was growing fainter, for they had all turned about to betake themselves once more to the world below. he could have seen, had he cared to see, their bearded grinning faces peering through the stunted trees, as descending they came near the spot where he had lavished the spiritual graces of his feeling, his enthusiasm, his devotion, his earnest reaching for something higher, for something holy, which had refreshed his famished soul; had given to its dumbness words; had erased the values of the years, of the nations; had made him friends with moses on the "bald"; had revealed to him the finger of the lord on the stone. he took no heed of his gestures, of which, indeed, he was unconscious. they were fine dramatically, and of great power, as he alternately rose to his full height, beating his breast in despair, and again sank upon his knees, with a pondering brow and a searching eye, and a hovering, trembling hand, striving to find the clew he had lost. they might have impressed a more appreciative audience, but not one more entertained than the cluster of men who looked and paused and leered in amusement at one another, and thrust out satirical tongues. long after they had disappeared, the strains of the violin could be heard, filling the solemn, stricken, strangely stunted woods with a grotesquely merry presence, hilarious and jeering. * * * * * purdee found it possible to survive the destruction of illusions. most of us do. it wrought in him, however, the saturnine changes natural upon the relinquishment of a dear and dead fantasy. this ethereal entity is a more essential component of happiness than one might imagine from the extreme tenuity of the conditions of its existence. purdee's fantasy may have been a poor thing, but, although he could calmly enough close its eyes, and straighten its limbs, and bury it decently from out the offended view of fact, he felt that he should mourn it in his heart as long as he should live. and he was bereaved. there is a certain stage in every sorrow when it rejects sympathy. purdee, always taciturn, grave, uncommunicative, was invested with an austere aloofness, and was hardly to be approached as he sat, silent and absent, brooding over the fire at his own home. when roused by some circumstance of the domestic routine, and it became apparent that his mood was not sullenness or anger, but simple and complete introversion, it added a dignity and suggested a remoteness that were yet less reassuring. his son, who stood in awe of him--not because of paternal severity, but because no boy could refrain from a worshipping respect for so miraculous a shot, a woodsman so subtly equipped with all elusive sylvan instincts and knowledge--forbore to break upon his meditations by the delivery of grinnell's message. nevertheless the consciousness of withholding it weighed heavily upon him. he only pretermitted it for a time, until a more receptive state of mind should warrant it. day by day, however, he looked with eagerness when he came into the cabin in the evening to ascertain if his father were still seated in the chimney-corner silently smoking his pipe. purdee had seldom remained at home so long at a time, and the boy had a daily fear that the gun on the primitive rack of deer antlers would be missing, and word left in the family that he had taken the trail up the mountain, and would return "'cordin' ter luck with the varmints." and thus job grinnell's enigmatical message, that had the ring of defiance, might remain indefinitely postponed. abner had not realized how long a time it had been delayed, until one evening at the wood-pile, in tossing off a great stick to hew into lengths for the chimney-place, he noticed that thin ice had formed in the moss and the dank cool shadows of the interstices. "i tell ye now, winter air a-comin'," he observed. he stood leaning on his axe-handle and looking down upon the scene so far below; for purdee's house was perched half-way up on the mountain-side, and he could see over the world how it fared as the sun went down. far away upon the levels of the valley of east tennessee a golden haze glittered resplendent, lying close upon an irradiated earth, and ever brightening toward the horizon, and it seemed as if the sun in sinking might hope to fall in fairer spheres than the skies he had left, for they were of a dun-color and an opaque consistency. only one horizontal rift gave glimpses of a dazzling ochreous tint of indescribable brilliancy, from the focus of which the divergent light was shed upon the western limits of the land. chilhowee, near at hand, was dark enough--a purplish garnet hue; but the scarlet of the sour-wood gleamed in the cove; the hickory still flared gallantly yellow; the receding ranges to the north and south were blue and more faintly azure. the little log cabin stood with small fields about it, for purdee barely subsisted on the fruits of the soil, and did not seek to profit. it had only one room, with a loft above; the barn was a makeshift of poles, badly chinked, and showing through the crevices what scanty store there was of corn and pumpkins. a black-and-white work-ox, that had evidently no deficiency of ribs, stood outside of the fence and gazed, a forlorn tantalus, at these unattainable dainties; now and then a muttered low escaped his lips. nobody noticed him or sympathized with him, except perhaps the little girl, who had come out in her sun-bonnet to help her brother bring in the fuel. he gruffly accepted her company, a little ashamed of her because she was a girl; since, however, there was no other boy by to laugh, he permitted her the delusion that she was of assistance. as he paused to rest he reiterated, "winter air a-comin', i tell ye." "d'ye reckon, ab," she asked, in her high, thin little voice, her hands full of chips and the basket at her feet, "ez grinnell's baby knows chris'mus air a-comin'?" he glowered at her as he leaned on the axe. "i reckon grinnell's old baby dunno b from bull-foot," he declared, gruffly. the recollection of the message came over him. he had a pang of regret, remembering all the old grudges against the grinnells. they were re-enforced by this irrepressible yearning after their baby, this admission that they had aught which was not essentially despicable. nevertheless, he suddenly saw a reason for the grinnell baby's existence; he loaded up both arms with the sticks of wood, and, followed by the peripatetic sun-bonnet, conscientiously weighed down with one billet, he strode into the house, and let his burden fall with a mighty clatter in the corner of the chimney. the sun-bonnet staggered up and threw her stick on the top of the pile of wood. purdee, sitting silently smoking, glanced up at the noise. abner took advantage of the momentary notice to claim, too, the attention of his mother. "i wish ye'd make eunice quit talkin' 'bout the grinnell's old baby, like she war actially demented--uglies' bald-headed, slab-sided, slobbery old baby i ever see--nare tooth in its head! i do despise them grinnells." as he anticipated, his father spoke suddenly: "ye jes keep away from thar," he said, sternly. "i trest them folks no furder 'n a rattlesnake." "_i_ ain't consortin' along o' 'em," declared the boy. "but i actially hed ter take eunice by the scalp o' her head an' lug her off one day when she hung on thar fence a-stare-gazin' grinnell's baby like 'twar fitten ter eat." the child's mother, a cadaverous, pale woman, was listlessly stringing the warping-bars with hanks of variegated yarn. the grandmother, who conserved a much more active and youthful interest in life, took down a brown gourd used as a scrap-basket that was on a protruding lath of the clay-and-stick chimney, and hunted among the scraps of homespun and bits of yarn stowed within it. the room was much like the gourd in its aged brown tint; its indigenous aspect, as if it had not been made with hands, but was some spontaneous production of the soil; with its bits of bright color--the peppers hanging from the rafters, the rainbow-hued yarn festooning the warping-bars, the red coals of the fire, the blue and yellow ware ranged on the shelf, the brown puncheon floor and walls and ceiling and chimney--it might have seemed the interior of a similar gourd of gigantic proportions. she dressed a twig from the pile of wood in a gay scrap of cloth, casting glances the while at the little girl, and handed it to her. "i hain't never seen ez good a baby ez this," she said, with the convincing coercive mendacity of a grandmother. the little girl accepted it humbly; it was a good baby doubtless of its sort, but it was not alive, which could not be denied of the grinnell baby, grinnell though it was. "an' job grinnell he kem down ter the fence, an' 'lowed he'd slit our ears, an' named us shoats," continued her brother. purdee lifted his head. "an' sent a word ter dad," said the boy, tremulously. "what word did he send ter--_me_?" cried purdee. the boy quailed to tell him. "he tole me ter ax ye ef ye ever read sech ez this on moses' tables in the mountings--'an' ye shell claim sech ez be yer own, an' yer neighbors' belongings shell ye in no wise boastfully medjure fur yourn, nor look upon it fur covetiousness, nor yit git a big name up in the kentry fur ownin' sech ez be another's,'" faltered the sturdy abner. the next moment he felt an infinite relief. he suddenly recognized the fact that he had been chiefly restrained from repeating the words by an unrealized terror lest they prove true--lest something his father claimed was not his, indeed. [illustration: "'what word did he send ter--_me_?'"] but the expression of anger on purdee's face was merged first in blank astonishment, then in perplexed cogitation, then in renewed and overpowering amazement. the wife turned from the warping-bars with a vague stare of surprise, one hand poised uncertainly upon a peg of the frame, the other holding a hank of "spun truck." the grandmother looked over her spectacles with eyes sharp enough to seem subsidized to see through the mystery. "in the name o' reason and religion, roger purdee," she adjured him, "what air that thar perverted philistine talkin' 'bout?" "it air more'n i kin jedge of," said purdee, still vainly cogitating. he sat for a time silent, his dark eyes bent on the fire, his broad, high forehead covered by his hat pulled down over it, his long, tangled, dark locks hanging on his collar. suddenly he rose, took down his gun, and started toward the door. "roger," cried his wife, shrilly, "i'd leave the critter be. lord knows thar's been enough blood spilt an' good shelter burned along o' them purdees' an' grinnells' quar'ls in times gone. laws-a-massy!"--she wrung her hands, all hampered though they were in the "spun truck"--"i'd ruther be a sheep 'thout a soul, an' live in peace." "a sca'ce ch'ice," commented her mother. "sheep's got ter be butchered. i'd ruther be the butcher, myself--healthier." purdee was gone. he had glanced absently at his wife as if he hardly heard. he waited till she paused; then, without answer, he stepped hastily out of the door and walked away. * * * * * the cronies at the blacksmith's shop latterly gathered within the great flaring door, for the frost lay on the dead leaves without, the stars scintillated with chill suggestions, and the wind was abroad on nights like these. on shrill pipes it played; so weird, so wild, so prophetic were its tones that it found only a shrinking in the heart of him whose ear it constrained to listen. the sound of the torrent far below was accelerated to an agitated, tumultuous plaint, all unknown when its pulses were bated by summer languors. the moon was in the turmoil of the clouds, which, routed in some wild combat with the winds, were streaming westward. and although the rigors of the winter were in abeyance, and the late purple aster called the christmas-flower bloomed in the sheltered grass at the door, the forge fire, flaring or dully glowing, overhung with its dusky hood, was a friendly thing to see, and in its vague illumination the rude interior of the shanty--the walls, the implements of the trade, the bearded faces grouped about, the shadowy figures seated on whatever might serve, a block of wood, the shoeing-stool, a plough, or perched on the anvil--became visible to roger purdee from far down the road as he approached. even the head of a horse could be seen thrust in at the window, while the brute, hitched outside, beguiled the dreary waiting by watching with a luminous, intelligent eye the gossips within, as if he understood the drawling colloquy. they were suffering some dearth of timely topics, supplying the deficiency with reminiscences more or less stale, and had expected no such sensation as they experienced when a long shadow fell athwart the doorway,--the broad aperture glimmering a silvery gray contrasted with the brown duskiness of the interior and the purple darkness of the distance; the forge fire showed purdee's tall figure leaning on the door-frame, and lighted up his serious face beneath his great broad-brimmed hat, his intent, earnest eyes, his tangled black beard and locks. he gave no greeting, and silence fell upon them as his searching gaze scanned them one by one. "whar's job grinnell?" he demanded, abruptly. there was a shuffling of feet, as if those members most experienced relief from the constraint that silence had imposed upon the party. a vibration from the violin--a sigh as if the instrument had been suddenly moved rather than a touch upon the strings--intimated that the young musician was astir. but it was spears, the blacksmith, who spoke. "kem in, roger," he called out, cordially, as he rose, his massive figure and his sleek head showing in the dull red light on the other side of the anvil, his bare arms folded across his chest. "naw, job ain't hyar; hain't been hyar for a right smart while." there was a suggestion of disappointment in the attitude of the motionless figure at the door. the deeply earnest, pondering face, visible albeit the red light from the forge-fire was so dull, was keenly watched. for the inquiry was fraught with peculiar meaning to those cognizant of the long and bitter feud. "i ax," said purdee, presently, "kase grinnell sent me a mighty cur'ous word the t'other day." he lifted his head. "hev enny o' you-uns hearn him 'low lately ez i claim ennything ez ain't mine?" there was silence for a moment. then the forge was suddenly throbbing with the zigzagging of the bow of the violin jauntily dandering along the strings. his keen sensibility apprehended the sudden jocosity as a jeer, but before he could say aught the blacksmith had undertaken to reply. "waal, purdee, ef ye hedn't axed me, i warn't layin' off ter say nuthin 'bout'n it. 'tain't no consarn o' mine ez i knows on. but sence ye _hev_ axed me, i hold my jaw fur the fear o' no man. the words ain't writ ez i be feared ter pernounce. an' ez all the kentry hev hearn 'bout'n it 'ceptin' you-uns, i dunno ez i hev enny call ter hold my jaw. the lord 'ain't set no seal on my lips ez i knows on." "naw, sir!" said purdee, his great eyes glooming through the dusk and flashing with impatience. "he 'ain't set no seal on yer lips, ter jedge by the way ye wallop yer tongue about inside o' 'em with fool words. whyn't ye bite off what ye air tryin' ter chaw?" "waal, then," said the admonished orator, bluntly, "grinnell 'lows ye don't own that thar lan' around them rocks on the bald, no more'n ye read enny writin' on 'em." "not them rocks!" cried purdee, standing suddenly erect--"the tables o' the law, writ with the finger o' the lord--an' moses flung 'em down thar an' bruk 'em. all the kentry knows they air moses' tables. an' the groun' whar they lie air mine." "'tain't, grinnell say 'tain't." "naw, sir," chimed in the young musician, his violin silent. "job grinnell declars he owns it hisself, an' ef he war willin' ter stan' the expense he'd set up his rights, but the lan' ain't wuth it. he 'lows his line runs spang over them rocks, an' a heap furder." purdee was silent; one or two of the gossips laughed jeeringly; he had been proved a liar once. it was well that he did not deny; he was put to open shame among them. "an' grinnell say," continued blinks, "ez ye hev gone an' tole big tales 'mongst the brethren fur ownin' sech ez ain't yourn, an' readin' of s'prisin' sayin's on the rocks." he bent his head to a series of laughing harmonics, and when he raised it, hearing no retort, the silvery gray square of the door was empty. he saw the moon glimmer on the clumps of grass outside where the christmas-flower bloomed. the group sat staring in amaze; the blacksmith strode to the door and looked out, himself a massive, dark silhouette upon the shimmering neutrality of the background. there was no figure in sight; no faint foot-fall was audible, no rustle of the sere leaves; only the voice of the mountain torrent, far below, challenged the stillness with its insistent cry. he looked back for a moment, with a vague, strange doubt if he had seen aught, heard aught, in the scene just past. "hain't purdee been hyar?" he asked, passing his hand across his eyes. the sense of having dreamed was so strong upon him that he stretched his arms and yawned. the gleaming teeth of the grouped shadows demonstrated the merriment evoked by the query. the chuckle was arrested midway. "ye 'pear ter 'low ez suthin' hev happened ter purdee, an' that thar war his harnt," suggested one. the bold young musician laid down his violin suddenly. the instrument struck upon a keg of nails, and gave out an abrupt, discordant jangle, startling to the nerves. "shet up, ye durned squeech-owl!" he exclaimed, irritably. then, lowering his voice, he asked: "didn't they 'low down yander in the cove ez widder peters, the day her husband war killed by the landslide up in the mounting, heard a hoe a-scrapin' mightily on the gravel in the gyarden-spot, an' went ter the door, an' seen him thar a-workin', an' axed him when he kem home? an' he never lifted his head, but hoed on. an' she went down thar 'mongst the corn, an' she couldn't find nobody. an' jes then the johns boys rid up an' 'lowed ez jim peters war dead, an' hed been fund in the mounting, an' they war a-fetchin' of him then." the horse's head within the window nodded violently among the shadows, and the stones rolled beneath his hoof as he pawed the ground. "mis' peters she knowed suthin' were a-goin' ter happen when she seen that harnt a-hoein'." "i reckon she did," said the blacksmith, stretching himself, his nerves still under the delusion of recent awakening. "jim never hoed none when he war alive. she mought hev knowed he war dead ef she seen him hoein'." "waal, sir," exclaimed the violinist, "i'm a-goin' up yander ter purdee's ter-morrer ter find out what he died of, an' when." that he was alive was proved the next day, to the astonishment of the smith and his friends. the forge was the voting-place of the district, and there, while the fire was flaring, the bellows blowing, the anvil ringing, the echo vibrating, now loud, now faint, with the antiphonal chant of the hammer and the sledge, a notice was posted to inform the adjacent owners that roger purdee's land, held under an original grant from the state, would be processioned according to law some twenty days after date, and the boundaries thereof defined and established. the fac-simile of the notice, too, was posted on the court-house door in the county town twenty miles away, for there were those who journeyed so far to see it. "i wonder," said the blacksmith, as he stood in the unfamiliar street and gazed at it, his big arms, usually bare, now hampered with his coat sleeves and folded upon his chest--"i wonder ef he footed it all the way ter town at the gait he tuk when he lit out from the forge?" it was a momentous day when the county surveyor planted his jacob's-staff upon the state line on the summit of the bald. his sworn chain-bearers, two tall young fellows clad in jeans, with broad-brimmed wool hats, their heavy boots drawn high over their trousers, stood ready and waiting, with the sticks and clanking chain, on the margin of the ice-cold spring gushing out on this bleak height, and signifying more than a fountain in the wilderness, since it served to define the southeast corner of purdee's land. the two enemies were perceptibly conscious of each other. grinnell's broad face and small eyes laden with fat lids were persistently averted. purdee often glanced toward him gloweringly, his head held, nevertheless, a little askance, as if he rejected the very sight. there was the fire of a desperate intention in his eyes. looking at his face, shaded by his broad-brimmed hat, one could hardly have doubted now whether it expressed most ferocity or force. his breath came quick--the bated breath of a man who watches and waits for a supreme moment. his blue jeans coat was buttoned close about his sun-burned throat, where the stained red handkerchief was knotted. he wore a belt with his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and carried his rifle on his shoulder; the hand that held it trembled, and he tried to quell the quiver. "i'll prove it fust, an' kill him arterward--kill him arterward," he muttered. in the other hand he held a yellowed old paper. now and then he bent his earnest dark eyes upon the grant, made many a year ago by the state of tennessee to his grandfather; for there had been no subsequent conveyances. the blacksmith had come begirt with his leather apron, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and with his hammer in his hand, an inopportune customer having jeopardized his chance of sharing in the sensation of the day. the other neighbors all wore their coats closely buttoned. blinks carried his violin hung upon his back; the sharp timbre of the wind, cutting through the leafless boughs of the stunted woods, had a kindred fibrous resonance. clouds hung low far beneath them; here and there, as they looked, the trees on the slopes showed above and again below the masses of clinging vapors. sometimes close at hand a peak would reveal itself, asserting the solemn vicinage of the place, then draw its veil slowly about it, and stand invisible and in austere silence. the surveyor, a stalwart figure, his closely buttoned coat giving him a military aspect, looked disconsolately downward. "i hoped i'd die before this," he remarked. "i'm equal to getting over anything in nature that's flat or oblique, but the vertical beats me." he bent to take sight for a moment, the group silently watching him. suddenly he came to the perpendicular, and strode off down the rugged slope over gullies and bowlders, through rills and briery tangles, his eyes distended and eager as if he were led into the sylvan depths by the lure of a vision. the chain-bearers followed, continually bending and rising, the recurrent genuflections resembling the fervors of some religious rite. the chain rustled sibilantly among the dead leaves, and was ever and anon drawn out to its extremest length. then the dull clank of the links was silent. "stick!" called out the young mountaineer in the rear. "stuck!" responded his comrade ahead. and once more the writhing and jingling among the withered leaves. the surveyor strode on, turning his face neither to the right nor to the left, with his jacob's-staff held upright before him. the other men trooped along scatteringly, dodging under the low boughs of the stunted trees. they pressed hastily together when the great square rocks--moses' tables of the law--came into view, lying where it was said the man of god flung them upon the sere slope below, both splintered and fissured, and one broken in twain. the surveyor was bearing straight down upon them. the men running on either side could not determine whether the line would fall within the spot or just beyond. they broke into wild exclamations. "ye may hammer me out ez flat ez a skene," cried the blacksmith, "ef i don't b'lieve ez purdee hev got 'em." "naw, sir, naw!" cried another fervent amateur; "thar's the north. i jes now viewed grinnell's dad's deed; the line ondertakes ter run with purdee's line; he hev got seven hunderd poles ter the north; ef they air a-goin' ter the north, them tables o' the law air grinnell's." a wild chorus ensued. "naw!" "yes!" "thar they go!" "a-bearin' off that-a-way!" "beats my time!" as they stumbled and scuttled alongside the acolytes of the compass, who bowed down and rose up at every length of the chain. suddenly a cry from the chain-bearers. "out!" stillness ensued. the surveyor stopped to register the "out." it was a moment of thrilling suspense; the rocks lay only a few chains further; grinnell, into whose confidence doubt had begun to be instilled, said to himself, all a-tremble, that he would hardly have staked his veracity, his standing with the brethren, if he had realized that it was so close a matter as this. he had long known that his father owned the greater part of the unproductive wilderness lying between the two ravines; the land was almost worthless by reason of the steep slants which rendered it utterly untillable. he was sure that by the terms of his deed, which his father had from its vendor, squire bates, his line included the moses' tables on which purdee had built so fallacious a repute of holiness. he looked once more at the paper--"thence from crystal spring with purdee's line north seven hundred poles to a stake in the middle of the river." purdee too was all a-quiver with eagerness. he had not beheld those rocks since that terrible day when all the fine values of his gifted vision had been withdrawn from him, and he could read no more with eyes blinded by the limitations of what other men could see--the infinitely petty purlieus of the average sense. he had a vague idea that should they say this was his land where those strange rocks lay, he would see again, he would read undreamed-of words, writ with a pen of fire. he started toward them, and then with a conscious effort he held back. the surveyor took no heed of the sentiments involved in processioning purdee's land. he stood leaning on his jacob's-staff, as interesting to him as moses' rocks, and in his view infinitely more useful, and wiped his brow, and looked about, and yawned. to him it was merely the surveying for a foolish cause of a very impracticable and steep tract of land, and the only reason it should be countenanced by heaven or earth was the fees involved. and this was what he saw at the end of purdee's line. suddenly he took up his jacob's-staff and marched on with a long stride, bearing straight down upon the rocks. the whole _cortége_ started anew--the genuflecting chain-bearers, the dodging, scrambling, running spectators. on one of the strange stunted leafless trees a colony of vagrant crows had perched, eerie enough to seem the denizens of those weird forests; they broke into raucous laughter--haw! haw! haw!--rising to a wild commotion of harsh, derisive discord as the men once more gave vent to loud, excited cries. for the surveyor, stalking ahead, had passed beyond the great tables of the law; the chain-bearers were drawing purdee's line on the other side of them, and they had fallen, if ever they fell here from moses' hand and broke in twain, upon purdee's land, granted to his ancestor by the state of tennessee. he could not speak for joy, for pride. his dark eyes were illumined by a glancing, amber light. he took off his hat and smoothed with his rough hand his long black hair, falling from his massive forehead. he leaned against one of the stunted oaks, shouldering his rifle that he had loaded for grinnell--he could hardly believe this, although he remembered it. he did not want to shoot grinnell; he would not waste the good lead! and indeed grinnell had much ado to defend himself against the sneers and rebukes with which the party beguiled the way through the wintry woods. "ter go a-claimin' another man's land, an' put him ter the expense o' processionin' it, an' git his line run!" exclaimed the blacksmith, indignantly. "an' ye 'ain't got nare sign o' a show at moses' tables!" "i dunno how this hyar line air a-runnin'," declared grinnell, sorely beset. "i don't b'lieve it air a-runnin' north." the surveyor was hard by. he had planted his staff again, and was once more taking his bearings. he looked up for a second. "north_west_," he said. grinnell stared for a moment; then strode up to the surveyor, and pointed with his stubby finger at a word on his deed. the official looked with interest at it; he held up suddenly purdee's grant and read aloud, "from crystal spring seven hundred poles north_west_ to a stake in the middle of the river." he examined, too, the original plat of survey which he had taken to guide him, and also the plat made when squire bates sold to grinnell's father; "north_west_" they all agreed. there was evidently a clerical error on the part of the scrivener who had written grinnell's deed. in a moment the harassed man saw that through the processioning of purdee's land he had lost heavily in the extent of his supposed possessions. he it was who had claimed what was rightfully another's. and because of the charge purdee was the richer by a huge slice of mountain land--how large he could not say, as he ruefully followed the line of survey. but for this discovery the interest of processioning purdee's land would have subsided with the determination of the ownership of the limited environment of the stone tables of the law. now, as they followed the ever-diverging line to the northwest, the group was pervaded by a subdued and tremulous excitement, in which even the surveyor shared. two or three whispered apart now and then, and grinnell, struggling to suppress his dismay, was keenly conscious of the glances that sought him again and again in the effort to judge how he was taking it. only purdee himself was withdrawn from the interest that swayed them all. he had loitered at first, dallying with a temptation to slip silently from the party and retrace his way to the tables and ascertain, perchance, if some vestige of that mystic scripture might not reveal itself to him anew, or if it had been only some morbid fancy, some futile influence of solitude, some fevered condition of the blood or the brain, that had traced on the stone those gracious words, the mere echo of which--his stuttered, vague recollections--had roused the camp-meeting to fervid enthusiasms undreamed of before. and then he put from him the project--some other time, perhaps, for doubts lurked in his heart, hesitation chilled his resolve--some other time, when his companions and their prosaic influence were all far away. he was roused abruptly, as he stalked along, to the perception of the deepening excitement among them. they had emerged from the dense growths of the mountain to the lower slope, where pastures and fields--whence the grain had been harvested--and a garden and a dwelling, with barns and fences, lay before them all. and as purdee stopped and stared, the realization of a certain significant fact struck him so suddenly that it seemed to take his breath away. that divergent line stretching to the northwest had left within his boundaries the land on which his enemy had built his home. he looked; then he smote his thigh and laughed aloud. the rocks on the river-bank caught the sound, and echoed it again and again, till the air seemed full of derisive voices. under their stings of jeering clamor, and under the anguish of the calamity which his reeling senses could scarcely measure, job grinnell's composure suddenly gave way. he threw up his arms and called upon heaven; he turned and glared furiously at his enemy. then, as purdee's laughter still jarred the air, he drew a "shooting-iron" from his pocket. the blacksmith closed with him, struggling to disarm him. the weapon was discharged in the turmoil, the ball glancing away in the first quiver of sunshine that had reached the earth to-day, and falling spent across the river. grinnell wrested himself from the restraining grasp, and rushed down the slope to his gate to hide himself from the gaze of the world--his world, that little group. then remembering that it was no longer his gate, he turned from it in an agony of loathing. and knowing that earth held no shelter for him but the sufferance of another man's roof, he plunged into the leafless woods as if he heavily dragged himself by a power which warred within him with other strong motives, and disappeared among the myriads of holly bushes all aglow with their red berries. the spectators still followed the surveyor and his jacob's-staff, but purdee lingered. he walked around the fence with a fierce, gloating eye, a panther-like, loping tread, as a beast might patrol a fold before he plunders it. all the venom of the old feud had risen to the opportunity. here was his enemy at his mercy. he knew that it was less than seven years since the enclosures had been made, acres and acres of tillable land cleared, the houses built--all achieved which converted the worthlessness of a wilderness into the sterling values of a farm. he--he, roger purdee--was a rich man for the "mountings," joining his little to this competence. all the cruelties, all the insults, all the traditions of the old vendetta came thronging into his mind, as distinctly presented as if they were a series of hideous pictures; for he was not used to think in detail, but in the full portrayal of scenes. the purdee wrongs were all avenged. this result was so complete, so baffling, so ruinous temporally, so humiliating spiritually! it was the fullest replication of revenge for all that had challenged it. "how uncle ezra would hev rej'iced ter hev lived ter see this day!" he thought, with a pious regret that the dead might not know. the next moment his attention was suddenly attracted by a movement in the door-yard. a woman had been hanging out clothes to dry, and she turned to go in, without seeing the striding figure patrolling the enclosure. a baby--a small bundle of a red dress--was seated on the pile of sorghum-cane where the mill had worked in the autumn; the stalks were broken, and flimsy with frost and decay, and washed by the rains to a pallid hue, yet more marked in contrast with the brown ground. the baby's dress made a bright bit of color amidst the dreary tones. as purdee caught sight of it he remembered that this was "grinnell's old baby," who had been the cause of the renewal of the ancient quarrel, which had resulted so benignantly for him. "i owe you a good turn, sis," he murmured, satirically, glaring at the child as the unconscious mother lifted her to go in the house. the baby, looking over the maternal shoulder, encountered the stern eyes staring at her. she stared gravely too. then with a bounce and a gurgle she beamed upon him from out the retirement of her flapping sun-bonnet; she smiled radiantly, and finally laughed outright, and waved her hands and again bounced beguilingly, and thus toothlessly coquetting, disappeared within the door. before purdee reached home, flakes of snow, the first of the season, were whirling through the gray dusk noiselessly, ceaselessly, always falling, yet never seeming to fall, rather to restlessly pervade the air with a vacillating alienation from all the laws of gravitation. elusive fascinations of thought were liberated with the shining crystalline aerial pulsation; some mysterious attraction dwelt down long vistas amongst the bare trees; their fine fibrous grace of branch and twig was accented by the snow, which lay upon them with exquisite lightness, despite the aggregated bulk, not the densely packed effect which the boughs would show to-morrow. the crags were crowned; their grim faces looked frowningly out like a warrior's from beneath a wreath. nowhere could the brown ground be seen; already the pine boughs bent, the needles failing to pierce the drifts. on the banks of the stream, on the slopes of the mountain, in wildest jungles, in the niches and crevices of bare cliffs, the holly-berries glowed red in the midst of the ever-green snow-laden leaves and ice-barbed twigs. when his house at last came into view, the roof was deeply covered; the dizzying whirl had followed every line of the rail-fence; scurrying away along the furthest zigzags there was a vanishing glimpse of a squirrel; the boles of the trees were embedded in drifts; the chickens had gone to roost; the sheep were huddling in the broad door of the rude stable; he saw their heads lifted against the dark background within, where the ox was vaguely glimpsed. he caught their mild glance despite the snow that in-starred with its ever-shifting crystals the dark space of the aperture, and intervened as a veil. they suddenly reminded him of the season--that it was christmas eve; of the sheep which so many years ago beheld the angel of the lord and the glory of the great light that shone about the shepherds abiding in the fields. did they follow, he wondered, the shepherds who went to seek for christ? ah, as he paused meditatively beside the rail-fence--what matter how long ago it was, how far away!--he saw those sheep lying about the fields under the vast midnight sky. they lift their sleepy heads. dawn? not yet, surely; and they lay them down again. and one must bleat aloud, turning to see the quickening sky; and one, woolly, white, white as snow, with eyes illumined by the heralding heavens, struggles to its feet, and another, and the flock is astir; and the shepherds, drowsing doubtless, are awakened to good tidings of great joy. what a night that was!--this night--christmas eve. he wondered he had not thought of it before. and the light still shines, and the angel waits, and the eternal hosts proclaim peace on earth, good-will toward men, and summon us all to go and follow the shepherds and see--what? a little child cradled in a manger. the mountaineer, leaning on his gun by the rail-fence, looked through the driving snow with the lights of divination kindling in his eyes, seeing it all, feeling its meaning as never before. christ came thus, he knew, for a purpose. he could have come in the chariots of the sun or on the wings of the wind. but he was cradled as a little child, that men might revere humanity for the sake of him who had graced it; that they, thinking on him, might be good to one another and to all little children. as he burst into the door of his house the elations of his high religious mood were rudely dispelled by shrill cries of congratulation from his wife and her mother. for the news had preceded him. ephraim blinks with his fiddle had stopped there on his way to play at some neighboring merry-making, and had acquainted them with the result of processioning purdee's land. "we'll go down thar an' live!" cried his wife, with a gush of joyful tears. "arter all our scratchin' along like ten-toed chickens all this time, we'll hev comfort an' plenty! we'll live in grinnell's good house! but ter think o' our trials, an' how pore we hev been!" "this air the purdees' day!" cried the grandmother, her face flushed with the semblance of youth. "arter all ez hev kem an' gone, the jedgmint o' the lord hev descended on grinnell, an' he air cast out. an' his fields, an' house, an' bin, an' barn, air purdee's!" the fire flared and faded; shadows of the night gloomed thick in the room--this night of nights that bestowed so much, that imposed so much on man and on his fellow-man! "ain't the grinnell baby got _no_ home?" whimpered the hereditary enemy. the mountaineer remembered the lord of heaven and earth cradled, a little child, in the manger. he remembered, too, the humble child smiling its guileless good-will at the fence. he broke out suddenly. "how kem the fields purdee's," he cried, leaning his back against the door and striking the puncheon floor with the butt of the gun till it rang again and again, "or the house, or the bin, or the barn? did he plant 'em? did he build 'em? who made 'em his'n?" "the law!" exclaimed both women in a breath. "thar ain't no law in heaven or yearth ez kin gin an honest man what ain't his'n by rights," he declared. an insistent feminine clamor arose, protesting the sovereign power of the law. he quaked for a moment; dominant though he was in his own house, he could not face them, but he could flee. he suddenly stepped out of the door, and when they opened it and looked after him in the snowy dusk and the whitened woods, he was gone. and popular opinion coincided with them when it became known that he had formally relinquished his right to that portion of the land improved by grinnell. he said to the old squire who drew up the quit-claim deed, which he executed that christmas eve, that he was not willing to profit by his enemy's mistake, and thus the consideration expressed in the conveyance was the value of the land, considered not as a farm, but as so many acres of wilderness before an axe was laid to the trunk of a tree or the soil upturned by a plough. it was the minimum of value, and grinnell came cheaply off. the blacksmith, the mountain fiddler, and the advanced thinker, who had been active in the survey, balked of the expected excitement attendant upon the ousting of grinnell, and some sensational culmination of the ancient feud, were not in sympathy with the pacific result, and spoke as if they had given themselves to unrequited labors. "thar ain't no way o' settlin' what that thar critter purdee owns 'ceptin' ez consarns moses' tables o' the law. he clings ter them," they said, in conclave about the forge fire when the big doors were closed and the snow, banking up the crevices, kept out the wind. "there ain't no use in percessionin' purdee's land." and indeed purdee's possessions were wider far than even that divergent line which the county surveyor ran out might seem to warrant; for on the mountain-tops largest realms of solemn thought were open to him. he levied tribute upon the liberties of an enthused imagination. he exulted in the freedom of the expanding spaces of a spiritual perception of the spiritual things. when the snow slipped away from the tables of the law, the man who had read strange scripture engraven thereon took his way one day, doubtful, but faltering with hope, up and up to the vast dome of the mountain, and knelt beside the rocks to see if perchance he might trace anew those mystic runes which he once had some fine instinct to decipher. and as he pondered long he found, or thought he found, here a familiar character, and there a slowly developing word, and anon--did he see it aright?--a phrase; and suddenly it was discovered to him that, whether their origin were a sacred mystery or the fantastic scroll-work of time as the rock weathered, high thoughts, evoking thrilling emotions, bear scant import to one who apprehends only in mental acceptance. and he realized that the multiform texts which he had read in the fine and curious script were but paraphrases of the simple mandate to be good to one another for the sake of that holy child cradled in manger, and to all little children. the end in the "stranger people's" country. by charles egbert craddock. illustrated. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . in this strong story miss murfree has shown better art than in any of her other long novels. it is a romance of the tennessee mountains, told with singular effect. the mystery and the picturesqueness of it make it notable. we have enjoyed it, and we recommend it to those who are hungry and thirsty for a genuinely entertaining story.--_independent_, n. y. miss murfree has never had a more fascinating field for a story.... she continues to be a romancist of strong imagination and sustained dramatic power.--_literary world_, boston. the extraordinary freshness and reality of the picture of the hill-people's life in the mountainous regions of tennessee make this one of the most readable of the many readable american stories which abound just now.--_saturday review_, london. a brilliant story, full of power, remarkably picturesque and vigorous in the telling.... the author writes in the spirit of a thorough literary artist, and this book in plot, character, drawing, vividness, and interest is an advance even on the admirable stories that brought her into notice and established her reputation.--_saturday evening gazette_, boston. the author delineates the natural scenery of the region with graphic power, and the actors in her stories are drawn to the life. this book is equal to any of its predecessors in dramatic power.--_observer_, n. y. this is, perhaps, the best story which miss murfree has published.... though miss murfree's pen has described the wonderful mountain scenery over and over again in her previous volumes, yet here are found new, fresh touches that are charmingly beautiful, strange, and weird.--_zion's herald_, boston. published by harper & brothers, new york _for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ r. d. blackmore's novels. perlycross. a novel. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . told with delicate and delightful art. its pictures of rural english scenes and characters will woo and solace the reader.... it is charming company in charming surroundings. its pathos, its humor, and its array of natural incidents are all satisfying. one must feel thankful for so finished and exquisite a story.... not often do we find a more impressive piece of work.--_n. y. sun._ springhaven. illustrated. mo, cloth, $ ; to, paper, cents. lorna doone. illustrated. mo, cloth, $ ; vo, paper, cents. kit and kitty. mo, cloth, $ ; paper, cents christowell. to, paper, cents. cradock nowell. vo, paper, cents. erema; or, my father's sin. vo, paper, cents. mary anerley. mo, cloth, $ ; to, paper, cents. tommy upmore. mo, cloth, cents; paper, cts.; to, paper, cents. his tales, all of them, are pre-eminently meritorious. they are remarkable for their careful elaboration, the conscientious finish of their workmanship, their affluence of striking dramatic and narrative incident, their close observation and general interpretation of nature, their profusion of picturesque description, and their quiet and sustained humor.--_christian intelligencer_, n. y. published by harper & brothers, new york. _the above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ by george du maurier trilby. a novel. illustrated by the author. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ ; three-quarter calf, $ ; three-quarter crushed levant, $ . certainly, if it were not for its predecessor, we should assign to "trilby" a place in fiction absolutely companionless.... it is one of the most unconventional and charming of novels.--_saturday review_, london. it is a charming story told with exquisite grace and tenderness.--_n. y. tribune_. mr. du maurier has written his tale with such originality, unconventionality, and eloquence, such rollicking humor and tender pathos, and delightful play of every lively fancy, all running so briskly in exquisite english and with such vivid dramatic picturing, that it is only comparable ... to the freshness and beauty of a spring morning at the end of a dragging winter.... it is a thoroughly unique story.--_n. y. sun_. peter ibbetson. with an introduction by his cousin, lady * * * * * ("madge plunket"). edited and illustrated by george du maurier. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . that it is one of the most remarkable books that have appeared for a long time is, however, indisputable.--_n. y. tribune_. there are no suggestions of mediocrity. the pathos is true, the irony delicate, the satire severe when its subject is unworthy, the comedy sparkling, and the tragedy, as we have said, inevitable. one or two more such books, and the fame of the artist would be dim beside that of the novelist.--_n. y. evening post_. published by harper & brothers, new york. _the above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ by mary e. wilkins. pembroke. a novel. illustrated. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . jane field. a novel. illustrated. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . young lucretia, and other stories. illustrated. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . a new england nun, and other stories. l mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . a humble romance, and other stories. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . giles corey, yeoman. illustrated. mo, cloth, ornamental, cents. we have long admired miss wilkins as one of the most powerful, original, and profound writers of america; but we are bound to say that "pembroke" is entitled to a higher distinction than the critics have awarded to miss wilkins's earlier productions. as a picture of new england life and character, as a story of such surpassing interest that he who begins is compelled to finish it, as a work of art without a fault or a deficiency, we cannot see how it could possibly be improved.--_n.y. sun_. the simplicity, purity, and quaintness of these stories set them apart in a niche of distinction where they have no rivals.--_literary world_, boston. nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn, sympathetic, tenderly humorous pictures.--_n. y. tribune_. the charm of miss wilkins's stories is in her intimate acquaintance and comprehension of humble life, and the sweet human interest she feels and makes her readers partake of, in the simple, common, homely people she draws.--_springfield republican_. published by harper & brothers, new york. _the above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price_.